Surgery and Romans 8:28

Surgery and Romans 8:28

I’m having major surgery this coming Monday. A hysterectomy, to be exact.

Not too long ago, I had a minor procedure that involved a biopsy and they found some abnormal cells. Not cancer, but precancerous. For any cancer survivor, the word precancerous is actually code for Cut. It. Out. Of. Me. Now.

So I may not be blogging, writing, geeking out, tweeting, Plussing (is that what we’re calling it?) or Facebooking for a week or so. Or I might. It depends on which is more painful: the pressure of an electronic device on a fresh abdominal incision or the horrifying prospect of tech withdrawal (I’m predicting the latter).

My phone and iPad will go with me to the hospital, as they did last time. After all, it’s difficult to freak out when your mind is focused on 38 Down in The New York Times Thursday crossword puzzle. Or level 5-7 of Angry Birds, which I still can’t beat, dangit. And I think there’s wifi, which means there will probably also be tweets. At least until they take my phone away. This is cool because it gives my family something to laugh at me about so they won’t worry so much.

I won’t say I’m looking forward to it, but I’m not really scared either. I’m anxious in the same way we all are when we get a shot — you know that moment just before the nurse jabs the needle in? That, but worse — this is going to freakin’ hurt a lot. And I really don’t like pain meds because they make me itch.

I know I’ll be frustrated at all the things I can’t do. I’ll miss going to church. And tech coffee. And driving for a couple of weeks.

Even so, I’m blessed far beyond what I deserve by a community of awesome friends and family. I know right now that there will be people praying for me Monday morning and four very dear colleagues have already offered to bring me dinner in the coming weeks. I have an incredible online community as well, made up of folks I’d never have met without these here Interwebs.

I’m convinced that something good will come of this, as one of my favorite Bible verses promises:

And we know that in all things God works for the good of those who love him, who have been called according to his purpose. Romans 8:28 (NIV)

Emphasis mine. In all things. Not just good things and fun things, but painful things too. Surgery will hurt in the short term but it will make me healthier in the long run. So it’s all good.

For those of you who are so inclined, please pray for me and for my family. If you’re not the praying sort, your good thoughts will do nicely, thanks.

Catch ya on the flip side.

Naked

Naked

You know that dream where you’re naked in front of a room full of people?

Yeah, I do too. A few nights ago. Even in the dream, I wasn’t really naked in the literal sense. But it was that feeling.

I often have weird dreams. Usually I can’t tell whether they mean anything or not. But this dream just has to mean something.

So, the dream.

I had been chosen to be on a reality show. Somehow my somnolent mind conflated Cake Boss, Cupcake Wars and maybe a little bit of Iron Chef into one very big deal of a TV show competition. One that I was very excited about the possibility of winning on national television.

We were to bake and decorate a fabulous cake, the theme of which was not revealed beforehand. That’s the Iron Chef part. The theme of my cake was New York. Not bad. I still have a mental picture from the dream of how I wanted it to look. Maybe I’ll bake it someday. But probably not.

First, I had trouble finding the studio where the show was taped. You know that feeling of panic, where you’re late for something important and you don’t know where you’re supposed to be? Yeah, that.

Then, when I got there, I was unprepared. Everyone else had it all together, but I was a mess. I had none of the decorations, no ingredients, no clue how to proceed. And no idea how to bake a cake without a recipe. Everyone else was rocking along and I felt the time slipping away, headed toward my eventual abject, miserable and very public failure.

I woke up, panicked, at the point in the dream where I was lost in a building and unable to find my way back to the studio after shopping for edible sliver glitter (do they even make such a thing?) for the skyscrapers that were to go on my cake.

It was one of those dreams that’s disturbing even after you wake up and realize it was a dream. It’s easy to figure that maybe I don’t have as much confidence in my abilities as I should. That a lot of times I get to the party and realize I have worn exactly the wrong thing. That I’m scared of falling short, of being exposed for what I can’t do and don’t know — naked in front of the room.

One of these days I’m going to try to bake a New York cake, complete with 3D skyscrapers and silver glitter. But don’t hold your breath.

What’s your weirdest/most disturbing dream?

Memstorm Tree Damage

Update: 1:31 p.m.
I just made it to the other side of the house. Wow. This is our neighbor to the south.
Damage in Germantown from today's thunderstorms #memstorm

more damage from today's storm #memstorm

more damage from today's storms #memstorm
I wasn’t home at the time, but today’s storm did a bit of a number on our backyard. Our neighbors got it a little worse, as this large tree fell on their roof.

All in all, it’s more of a nuisance than anything, and I’m glad the damage isn’t worse — and I haven’t heard of any injuries related to the storm.

Storm damage from today's severe weather #memstorm

Words and Memories

Words and Memories

As much as I love writing, there is writing, and there is … writing. I was asked to write an obituary for my beloved 95-year-old grandmother, who passed away a few days ago. I consider it an honor to have known her, to have loved her and to offer this final tribute.

I wish I’d had more time to find the words that would do justice to her memory, but words aren’t enough anyway. Here’s my effort:

Virginia R. Dohogne, 95, of Jonesboro, died Friday morning, January 28, 2011, at NEA Baptist Hospital in Jonesboro. She died peacefully, surrounded by loved ones, who celebrate a long life well-lived and a legacy of love, grace and dignity.

Born in Cape Girardeau, Missouri, Mrs. Dohogne lived much of her life in Paragould before moving to St. Bernards Village in Jonesboro 11 years ago. She was a homemaker and a member of Blessed Sacrament Church. Mrs. Dohogne was a member of the Arkansas Methodist Hospital Auxiliary while living in Paragould.

She was preceded in death by her husband, Linus E. Dohogne, her brother, Robert C. Ranney, and by her son-in-law, Dr. James Gramling.

Survivors include one daughter, Martha Gramling of Jonesboro; one daughter-in-law and son, Sallie and Ranney and Dohogne of St. Louis; five grandchildren, Beth Sanders, Sara VanScoy, James F. Gramling, Jr., Carrie Croy and Greg Dohogne; and seven great-grandchildren: Elizabeth Sanders, Will VanScoy, Sara Ann Sanders, Joseph VanScoy, Sam Vancoy and twins Madeline and Annabel Gramling.

She was wise through age and experience, yet blessed with a youthful spirit that resisted the indignities of advancing years. An expert bridge player with a colorful, coordinated fashion sense well into her nineties, her sharp mind, sense of humor and compassionate concern for others made her a blessing to all. She led a full and active earthly life filled with loving friends and family who miss her profoundly, yet are comforted in the confidence of eternal life.

Merry Christmas and Hallelujah!

Merry Christmas and Hallelujah!

I’m a fan of tradition, especially at Christmas. Some of our traditions are warm, loving and spiritual. And some are downright … um, quirky.

  • Candlelight and Carol service at the church we grew up in
  • Mass family sleepover on Christmas Eve at my mom’s; all the kids (loosely defined these days, as we have a 22-year-old) camp out on the floor of my mom’s room
  • The Christmas morning line; no one can come out of my mom’s room until all cameras are charged, ready and trained on the door where the kids will soon burst through to see what Santa has brought.
  • Christmas lunch, gourmet-style at my sister’s. Free-range turkey, smoked salmon, exotic cheeses, enough appetizers for a Food Network special; an amazing spread
  • Baking Christmas cookies; actually mostly just icing and decorating the cookies.
  • My sister and I shop for stocking stuffers for my mom. Among the essentials each year is the trashiest pair of thong underwear we can find. Tassels, feathers … the more outrageous the better. She rolls her eyes and acts horrified, but we think secretly she kind of likes it.

Some of these traditions are recent, some are long-standing; the thong began as a joke to make my mom laugh instead of cry because she missed my daddy at Christmas. The Christmas cookies and church service we’ve done all my life. But the one family Christmas tradition I miss the most is my daddy’s Christmas prayer.

When my daddy prayed, as we stood in a circle holding hands, he always began by thanking God for the gift of family and he always ended the prayer by talking about the Cross. And in between he reminded us all of the real meaning of love and the real meaning of Christmas. He was thoughtful, wise and eloquent and there was rarely a prayer that did not move us to tears.

I miss crying at my daddy’s prayers.

But new traditions have taken root; yesterday we went to the mall so my one-year-old nieces could sit on Santa’s lap. It’s been more than 10 years since I’ve done the mall Santa. Today we’ll all visit my grandmother in the hospital at various times and take her a plate of food. We’ll still do the thong shopping, but now my sister and I take my grown daughters (18 and 22) with us.

Our family celebration of Christmas has always rightfully begun with the candlelight and carol service. Like all human tradition, the service changes from year to year but the Reason and the focus remain the same. Time and circumstance may change the way we mark this day, but the birth of Christ marks us anew each year.

The kingdom of this world
Is become the kingdom of our Lord,
And of His Christ, and of His Christ;
And He shall reign for ever and ever,
For ever and ever, forever and ever.
Hallelujah!

Advent Prayer: Knocking for Opportunity

Advent Prayer: Knocking for Opportunity

This morning as my husband, Jim, and I got ready to leave for church, I put on my coat, scarf and gloves to stay warm in the 20-degree weather and single-digit windchill. I had to decide between brown gloves to go with my pants or black gloves to go with my coat; cloth or leather, solid or pattern …

I thought of those who have no warm home to turn on the heat, no hot water to make a cup of tea, no hat, gloves, scarves or coat against this bitter cold. So on a whim, I threw an extra pair of gloves in the car. We had bought them last year and they still had the tags. As we left for church, I said a prayer that I’d find someone who needs those gloves.

We go to church in a wealthy neighborhood in east Memphis and we live in Germantown, an affluent suburb. So the likelihood of seeing a needy or homeless person between our home and our church … almost nil. In fact, I’m not sure I ever have.

Until this morning. As we drove home from church, a man was walking down the street wrapped up in a blanket. There was no place to pull over, so we had to circle a block or two, then come back around and find him again. As we turned back onto a major street, there was a homeless man at the intersection holding a sign. Jim and I gave the man what cash we had in our wallets. He already had gloves, so we kept going and found the first man in a parking lot, wrapped up in that ratty blanket — with no gloves and very cold hands. It occurred to me that if the first man had been at any other point on our route, we’d have been able to easily pull over and would never have seen the second man. Coincidence? I’m going with no.

Beginning with the rest of Advent, I’ll commit to pray this prayer every day: Help me to keep my eyes open for those in need. To go looking instead of just waiting for them to come to me. I’m going out today to buy some gloves, hats, scarves and maybe a blanket or two to keep in my car. I’ll pray that God will show me someone in need, that I will not just give and serve when it’s convenient, but that I’ll go looking for opportunities.

Because if He can place two needy persons in our path between Laurelwood and Germantown at that moment in time … what greater impact can we have if we actively seek to serve?

I’m not waiting for opportunity — I’m going knocking. Come with me.

Give me your ideas/stories in the comments.

Empty Nest Countdown: One. Week.

Empty Nest Countdown: One. Week.

This countdown is getting serious. She leaves in One. Week.

What do you do the last week before your last child leaves for college?

It’s busy for her as she says goodbye to her friends, packs and cleans her trash pit dumping zone room. Busy for me as I plan the send-off dinner, try to enjoy every minute with her without smothering her to death and cry. A lot.

In some ways, the anticipation has been worse than the actual event. At least it seems so now — ask me again next week after she leaves.

She’s ready.

  • My dining room is full of dorm and her room is full of boxes and suitcases.
  • She’s excited about the challenge and ready to prepare for her future.
  • Over the weekend I got to hear her share insights on faith that were deep, thoughtful and meaningful, which gives me such peace.

I’m ready.

  • Yes, it’s hard. Hard as crap. But my Daddy taught me that few worthwhile things are easy. So that means this is very worthwhile.
  • I’ve got lots of exciting projects of my own to work on and that is going to be so much fun.
  • I can’t wait to watch how she’s going to use her gifts, talents and passions to work for good in the world.

At this point, I’ve either prepared her for adulthood or I have failed, so, in a way, the pressure is off. Now I get to just enjoy her last week at home. And try not to cry. Much.

Yeah, right.

The Empty Nest Countdown: 20 Days

The Empty Nest Countdown: 20 Days

In 20 days, my youngest daughter, Sara Ann, leaves for college. It’s the most significant life change since I first became a mother in 1988. I’ve been counting down the days, not to be morbid, but because it’s easier for me to process if I’m aware of what is happening.

We spent this past weekend at my family’s lake house on Greers Ferry Lake in Arkansas — the setting for some of the best times of our lives. It was our last lake weekend before The Empty Nest and my first inclination was, don’t think think about the fact that it is the last, just enjoy the time.

Except … while thinking about it certainly brings tears, do I really want to look back on these days and remember nothing special about them? No — I want to savor every moment; I want to be fully there. Tears are a small price to pay for the memory of:

  • The last dinner at the table at the lake. Steak, baked potatoes, garlic bread and peach cobbler. A nice bottle of Cabernet.
  • The last day on the lake. An idyllic sunny day with a pleasant breeze, screams of joy on the inner tube and time to relax and enjoy the clear water and unspoiled beauty of the foothills of the Ozarks.
  • The drawer. As we packed to leave, she showed me “her drawer” in the master bedroom. I hadn’t known about this drawer. It contains things she has kept there since she’s been old enough to open a drawer. Books, markers, hair clips, coloring books, rubber bands, some small toys, pencils. Little girl things, not college girl things.

The drawer took me back to a time when college would happen someday, not in 20 days; when many more dinners, sunny days, skinned knees, broken bones and broken hearts lie ahead.

I’ve never believed that to display emotion is to show weakness, that it’s necessary to deny what we feel in order to be strong. In my experience, it requires more strength to face that which is painful; to walk through rather than try to walk around and pretend to be unaffected.

So in 20 days, when I leave my youngest three hours away in Conway, Arkansas, I will feel it. I won’t distract myself with busyness, or try to take my mind to a happy place. I’ll curl up in a ball and cry if I need to and I’ll remember every thought, every feeling, every moment. And I know there will be a time when it hurts just a little less.

But for now, I’m going to count down the last 20 days and treasure each one. Even if it costs me a tear or two.

In Permanent Ink

In Permanent Ink

What is the one thing you are least likely to do? Jump out of an airplane? Go camping? Run a marathon?

There is no skydive, no tent and definitely no 26.2 in my future, but if you had asked me this time last year what I’d be less likely to do than any of those … it would be get a tattoo.

So nearly a year ago, when my youngest daughter started talking about getting a tattoo for her 18th birthday, I tried to pretend I didn’t hear her. She already has about six ear piercings, so I’ve grown accustomed to her unconventional look and am far less concerned about her outer appearance that who she is on the inside. But a tattoo is so … permanent. And she’s only 18.

As I listened to her, I realized that she didn’t want it for the purpose of rebellion; she’s a lot of things, but rebellious isn’t one of them. She wasn’t interested in the impression it would make on others. She wanted a tattoo because she wanted a visible symbol of her faith in a place where she, and others, would see it every day.

So I began to warm to the idea, accept that her preferences and tastes may be just different than mine and respect the fact that her faith is something she wishes to carry with her in a visible way for the rest of her life.

sran.tat_
Sara Ann’s dove, on her right wrist

Then the other shoe dropped.

“Mom,” she said. “For my 18th birthday, I want to get a tattoo and I want you to get one with me. I want it to be a mother-daughter thing. I want us to do it together.”

What? No way. You have got to be kidding.

But …

She kept asking. She was not joking.

And I realized something. This was not another hole in her ear. This was forever. Visible to all. For her, it was a profound moment. The moment she would put a symbol of her faith on her body in a way that all would see. Irrevocably. And she invited me into that moment.

One thing I’ve learned in 21 years of parenting: When your teenager asks you to be a part of a significant moment in their life, it’s a high honor, not to be taken lightly or scoffed at. So, at 51, this suburban housewife got inked.

It brings to mind this:

Love the LORD your God with all your heart and with all your soul and with all your strength. These commandments that I give you today are to be upon your hearts. Impress them on your children. Talk about them when you sit at home and when you walk along the road, when you lie down and when you get up. Tie them as symbols on your hands and bind them on your foreheads.* Write them on the doorframes of your houses and on your gates.
Deuteronomy 6:5-9 (*emphasis mine)

bgs.tat_.close_
My cross, duplicated from a silver cross necklace Jim gave me years ago

In ancient days, observant Jews bound what is believed to be these verses to their bodies in leather boxes called tefilin, translated into Greek as phylactery, so the idea of having a visible reminder of the faith attached to the body is not a new one. Perhaps in the same way, the dove that will now always adorn her wrist will remind her of the Holy Spirit’s constant presence in her life.

I know that the cross on my left shoulder blade, the same side of the body as my heart, will ever remind me of the sacrifice of the Cross, the grace of the Cross and the glory of the Cross.

And a sacred moment between mother and daughter that took place late at night in a funky tattoo shop in downtown Jonesboro, Arkansas.

Never say never.

What’s one thing (you think) you’ll never do?

And the World Will Be Better For This

And the World Will Be Better For This

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The last photo taken of us together – at an Easter egg hunt in my hometown, Jonesboro, Arkansas on April 10, 1993

About 17 years ago (June 13, 1993), my Daddy left this earthly life. Each year at this time I write about him and one or more of the qualities that made him the kind of man I want to write about 17 years after his death. This year, it’s idealism.

His idealism was best understood through the words of his favorite song, The Impossible Dream from his favorite story, Man of LaMancha. He first introduced it to me via the soundtrack recording on eight-track tapes on the way to our farm just outside the Jonesboro city limits.

At the time, I was too young to fully grasp the meaning, but I listened carefully and learned the words because I knew that for Daddy to let me listen to music that contained the words hell and whore, it must be very special.

Based on a book by Dale Wasserman, the play is about Miguel de Cervantes, an imprisoned novelist who defends himself by staging a play. The central character in the play is a country squire named Alonso Quijana, who might have rightly been called an early social justice advocate. His despair about oppression and evil in the world drives him to madness and in his mind he becomes Don Quixote of La Mancha, who fights to rectify society’s wrongs and bring about justice.

After losing a battle with a windmill, which he sees as a four-armed giant, he attributes his inability to conquer to the fact that he has never been properly dubbed a knight. As Don Quixote, he sets out with his servant, Sancho, on a journey in search of glory and knighthood so that he can fulfill his quest to conquer injustice. Along the way he finds himself at a small inn, in his eyes a castle. Here he encounters a band of rough, drunken men and several prostitutes, one of whom he comes to adore and admire as the fair maiden he see when he looks at her. The woman, Aldonza, is initially cynical but is won over as he sings to her of The Impossible Dream and joins him in his quest. (Read a full synopsis of the play here.)

windmills

Regardless of the writer’s intention, the message of the story communicated to me by my Dad was the beauty that Quixote sees in ordinary things and people devalued by society, the importance of fighting for truth and justice even when it seems impossible, and the idea that we are each called to do, sacrificially, what we can to improve the lives of others.

To dream the impossible dream
To fight the unbeatable foe
To bear with unbearable sorrow
To run where the brave dare not go …

And the world will be better for this
That one man, scorned and covered with scars
Still strove with his last ounce of courage
To reach the unreachable star.
— Lyrics by Joe Darion, full lyrics here

And he did.

The Poor Through God’s Eyes

The Poor Through God’s Eyes

poor

Earlier this week, I volunteered at Manna House (more about Manna House here, here and here) as I often do. There is never a time that I leave there without some new insight, but on this day I left with a book in hand as well.

The book, Radical Compassion, Finding Christ in the Heart of the Poor, (Amazon link*) is by Gary Smith, S.J., a Jesuit priest who lived and worked among the poor of Portland, Oregon for nearly 10 years. It is a journal of his ministry to them and their ministry to him, a collection of personal stories about his relationships with people who have been neglected, abused, beaten down and have endured struggles and hardships that are painful to read.

But God chose the foolish things of the world to shame the wise; God chose the weak things of the world to shame* the strong. He chose the lowly things of this world and the despised things — and the things that are not — to nullify the things that are, so that no one may boast before him.
I Corinthians 1:27-29

Note: King James Version uses the word confound — to perplex or amaze, especially by a sudden disturbance or surprise; bewilder; confuse — instead of shame. But I think both are applicable.

Some of the stories are funny, some sad, some are agonizing to read, but the story of a man named Robert is particularly poignant — the kind of poignant that makes it difficult to see the pages through the tears. Father Smith met Robert, 38, depressed, addicted to drugs and HIV positive and for the next two years or so, walked with him through his illness and death. Toward the end of his life, Robert asked to be baptized and during that holy moment, Father Smith shared the story of the good Samaritan. His reflections on that passage are profound:

You are the good Samaritan, Robert, because you have pulled all of us out of the safe trenches of our lives. And your love — so squeezed out of you by life and history — you have claimed again and given back to us a hundredfold. What a grace it is to be present to see you commit your life to the one who is the author of your love. Your faith is healing oil for our wounds.

And so the weak shame, confound — teach, nurture, edify — the strong. May we all know a good Samaritan.

*The only thing I get if you buy and read this book is a bit of satisfaction.

Graduation Days

Graduation Days

My youngest child can now:

  1. Vote,
  2. Buy cigarettes,
  3. Get a tattoo,
  4. Sign a lease,
  5. Get married,
  6. Join the military,
  7. Be prosecuted as an adult.

I hope she does 1 and 5 (but let’s wait a few years for 5), 3 is coming soon, I figure she’ll do 4 in a year or so and hope she’ll never do 2, 6 or 7.

My oldest child graduates from college tomorrow.

I can hope, pray and plead, but the decisions are now theirs. I can influence, advise and guide, but I can no longer control.

A few weeks ago, around the time of her 18th birthday, Sara Ann placed these things on my kitchen table. No more denial about this graduation thing. It is going to happen. It’s now three months and a few days until we move her into the dorm at Hendrix on August 17. Until my life changes more drastically than it has since September 20, 1988, when I became a mom for the first time.

One of my favorite songs, While My Guitar Gently Weeps, by George Harrison, has a line that says,

“with every mistake, we must surely be learning …”

I think that sums up parenting pretty well. And I’ve made my share of mistakes.

What have I learned? I’ve learned that many of the things that I thought were Really Big Things are really … not. Such as:

  • Potty training Really, we make this so much harder than it needs to be. Early potty training does not equal higher intelligence. No toddler who doesn’t want to use the potty is going to do it consistently for little pieces of cereal. I promise by the time they hit puberty, you will have forgotten about the potty.
  • How clean/messy they keep their room When they go to college and get a room of their own, they will either do better at it or learn to live as a slob.
  • Grades in middle school Middle school demands that a family shift into survival mode. It’s the bridge between elementary school playmates with squeaky voices and classmates with facial hair and raging hormones. Boys are icky vs. Ohhhh, he is hott*. It’s a time of transition: socially, academically, emotionally and physically. More than anything, they need a safe environment, free from undue pressure.
  • What they wear Beyond basic decency and modesty, let them express themselves freely. My two girls’ styles are as different as night and day; one can spend an entire day in stilettos on concrete and the other is all about Tom’s and Chacos. And both are absolutely beautiful in their own way. Their style is not an expression of you and it’s not their job to impress your friends with how nice they look.
  • Shaving I’m speaking about girls here; I know next-to-nothing about boys and shaving. Let them shave when they want to shave. The main thing about shaving is talking about it. I shaved, I need to shave, Omigosh it’s been a week since I shaved! This is just not important enough to let them feel excluded about. It’s hair. Let it go.

The most important thing I have learned in 21 years of parenting is savor every moment. From the first step to the first date, there is joy in every milestone. Take a million pictures, even when it seems silly. You’ll be glad when you look back at them and you won’t remember how much they complained.

Be there with your whole heart. Shop for school supplies and prom dresses. Be the one who always drives them places and listen to them laugh with their friends. Let them mess up your house and stay up all night, even if they keep you awake. Watch them fall in love and hold them when their tender heart breaks for the first time.

Welcome each new phase; in every change is a glimpse of the adult that you’ll someday know as friend rather than child. The one who just might give you grandchildren.

*This is not a typo; two ts means he/she is really hot. Which is just like cute, but scarier.

What phases do you look forward to? Dread?