Peace That Upholds - and Holds Up

Jesus promised us peace.  He was very specific about it.  "My peace I give you."  He said he would share his own kind of peace with us.

What kind of peace would Jesus have, do you think?  My guess is that it would be the kind that reflected his relationship with his Father, the kind that knew the beginning from the end, and the kind that understood momentary afflictions work a far greater "weight of glory."

That kind of peace upholds us when we are weak, and holds up even during the tough trials.

Today, I was aware of "that kind of peace" as I waited for them to do another procedure on my son at the hospital.  And I was aware that many of you were praying for us.  It was a special kind of awareness that I have not encountered too many times during my Christian walk.

There is no specific way to describe that kind of God-given peace in a tough situation; but my best try would be that it feels a bit like resting after a hard day's work.

I felt like I was resting even in the middle of the process.  No, the day did not go particularly smoothly.  The medical transport was a bit late arriving, and every minute counted as the necessary personnel were not available in the afternoon, so the morning hours were precious.

Then the admitting personnel did not have our doctor's orders, could not find them, and did not expect us (this despite the fact that I had called to confirm both yesterday and again this morning .)

So, no, this peace was not about "smooth sailing."

And his PICC line could not be salvaged as we and the doctor had hoped.  It had migrated too far from the desired location and needed to be removed, and a new one place in his other arm.

So, no, this peace was not about preferred outcomes.

I do believe it was about answered prayer though.  While we did encounter confusion, and to be honest some incompetence, when it really counted the technician who placed the new PICC line was extremely competent.  God knows when competence really matters.

And the sense of peace just grew.
                                          * * * * *
K. is tired, I am tired.  It has been an exhausting two days.

But the peace that passes understanding keeps holding up.  That is because of the Prince of Peace. 

Blessings to you tonight, and may you have peaceful rest.
...until next time ...Marsha

Short Fuse - Long Day

Living in the midst of a long-term family illness is always a challenge.  Every daily detail, whether significant or not, must be planned and scheduled around the issues to do with the medical situation.  Many of you also experience this, or have in the past.

Yesterday Murphy's Law (everything that can go wrong, will go wrong) was working just fine, thank you very much.  IV supplies were in short supply, thanks to another nurse who used the last of the a) syringes, b) saline bottles, c) heparin, d) dispensing picks, e) take your pick.  And, of course, she did not tell us.  So, surprise!  As we prepare to do his infusion.

This necessitated another call to the IV infusion pharmacy alerting them to add "whatever" to the order they were delivering later in the day.  Then the UPS driver arrived, unexpectedly (he was the due the day before, so we were grateful he came, but still) with wound vac supplies.

Then the PICC line to his heart, that delivers the high-powered antibiotics to fight the infection in his bone marrow, "migrated" - that is, moved an inch or two and now here we are today, facing a long day in the hospital ER.  While it will be a non-emergency visit, it is Saturday and that means any regular appointments are not possible and we must wait, for however long the powers-that-be decide to let him lay in the lobby on a gurney, until someone can do an ex-ray of the placement of the line to determine whether it must be removed and a new one placed in his other arm.

He is definitely running out of body parts to puncture.

Called the medical transport people yesterday to schedule this unanticipated ride to the hospital via gurney, only to be informed that they had no vehicle available at the time we were requesting.  They could come two hours later, and warned us that we will likely have to wait two hours from the time he is finished at the hospital, before they can pick him up.  Oh, goody.

And on and on it goes.......  and where it stops, only God knows.  But He does know.  That is all that keeps us going.

I am not the energizer bunny, much as I try to imitate one.  And K. has been battling various medical emergencies for over 25 years.  I have tried to be there with him through each one.  This time, I have a front-row seat for each and every day for the past three months, and for the next three also, as we have been informed that it will be at least that long.  That was the news for this week.

I have often said, "The years may fly by, but the days can be very long."  Today may seem interminable, but it is not.  It will end, and God will still be God, and we will still be depending upon Him.

Checklist for K.
His health insurance and ID cards
His water bottle
An extra sheet to help with gurney transfer
Small blanket - hospitals are COLD
Call ahead to assure they are expecting a gurney arrival
Confirm PICC line nurse available
Assure Wound Vac battery viability for length of stay
Call medi-transport to confirm vehicle available

Checklist for me:
Water bottle
Crossword puzzle book & pencil
Reading material
Cell phone
Snack bars
Ibuprofen (those hospital waiting room chairs kill my back)

Okay - we are "good to go" - may the force be with us!  :)  Actually the only true force in the universe - Our Heavenly Father - is with us.  Thankfully!

Until next time - hope your "to do list" is more fun than ours.  :)
...Marsha

Paradise Found

We are now officially living on "our half-acre of Paradise".  No, really, that is the name of the town we moved to last week, and we did buy a house on a half-acre lot.

I'll bet some of you thought I was kidding when I wrote about our half-acre of Paradise a few blogs back.

The town welcome sign says:  May you find Paradise to be all the name implies.

Yes, it is rustic.  So much so that it does not even have a Wal-Mart.  It is only a little mountain village.  It has no Red Lobster, but it has the ComeBack Diner.  It has no Olive Garden, but it has Annie's Country Kitchen. It does, however, have the Paradise Symphony which is playing next Saturday evening. How I wish I could attend.

If only I could, or rather if only the *LOC had time to show me how to get the pictures I have taken of our new surroundings onto this blog, I would be glad to share the view with you.  But alas, he is buried up to his neck in his office.  Poor man found a stapler and a pen yesterday and I could hear his "whoop" of elation all the way down the hall. (*Lovable Old Coot)

If that sounds a bit odd, you must remember that others helped us move; and when you do not pack and label and unload your own stuff, well, it can be a challenge finding things.  You may run across an egg timer, but hunt in vain for an entire box full of silverware.

The LOC gave Holly (she is an "only dog" and knows it) a bath yesterday in our handy-dandy new laundry room sink.  But then realized he had no idea where her brushes were - so she had to just air-dry and now she will have Lhaso-tangles until we can either: a) find the brushes or, b) get her to the groomer.  We have an appointment for her, but they could not fit her in until next week.  Holly is not best pleased.

The movers got a kick out of her "attitude" - basically she runs the household - and one of them commented with amusement, "But she pulls it off."  She does, indeed, and woe be to those of us with only two legs who try to interfere. A princess of the realm knows her prerogatives.

                                        * * * * *
Breaking news: (but no pictures at eleven, until I can get some instruction on that USB port/import/thingie)

A friend stayed with my son at his house the other night, so that I could go spend a night in our new home.  Oh joy!  As we sat in the living room with the patio door open late in the evening, I could hear the frogs and crickets chirping and singing away.  It was the most peaceful sound in the world and I smiled all the way to my toes.  I cannot remember the last time I could hear that sound at night.  In the city where we lived for the past twenty years, "night sounds" ran to sirens and helicopters circling overhead.

Next, I had the pleasure of waking up in my own bed for the first time in months, and the view from our master bedroom window ... well, words fail me, and that does not happen too often.

The sun breaking through the pine forest right outside our window.  Deer wandering around next door. Pinch me, I must be dreaming.

And then to top it all off, we received a call from the doctor's office telling us that ALL K.'s lab tests came back with good improvement this week!  Thankful, thankful, thankful ! 
                                           * * * * *
God is good - when we know it, when we forget it;
when we believe it and when we doubt it;
when we hope for it, when we lose hope;
when we succeed, when we fail;
when we laugh, when we cry;
when we love, when we fail to love;
when we remember to thank him and when we forget to thank him - God is good all the time.  All the time, God is good.

My understanding, or lack thereof, has no influence upon his goodness.  His goodness, however, has every influence upon my understanding.

God bless you, until next time ... your friend in Paradise - Marsha

Heaven Help Us - In Other Words

When you have no helpers,
                    see your helpers in God.
When you have many helpers,
                   see God in all your helpers.
When you have nothing but God,
                   see all in God.
When you have everything,
                  see God in everything.
Under all conditions, stay thy heart only on the Lord.
                                ~Charles Spurgeon

My daughter once shared with me something her pastor had used in his sermon one Sunday morning.  It has stuck with me for years. He said,
            You don't know that God is all you need,
              until God is all you have.

Perhaps you have experienced this very thing; I have, and it made me more grateful than I had ever been before.

Just this last week, we truly needed "helpers" as we were moving for the first time in over twenty years.  Several of our family members were unavailable due to jobs, distance, health issues, etc.  But a family moving in across the street from where we were moving out helped us in surprising ways, and we were grateful.  And they helped despite the fact that they had a brand new, two week old, baby.  Can you imagine?  Talk about heaven sent.

For several reasons, we did not feel we could ask anyone to come help us.  However, without being asked, another family member who had only been to our home twice in several years, suddenly called and said he was on his way to help us pack.  It was a ten hour drive one-way; but he came and spent three days helping pack.  It was a direct answer to prayer, as I had been praying about some "moving help" for weeks.

On another front, though, my son is ill, and all the helpers in the world cannot help.  We need God to give us a genuine "heavenly assist" - because even the doctors can only do so much in this situation.  So I am focusing on "seeing God" in every doctor, every nurse, every day, every hour, while also remembering they are limited, but we serve an unlimited God. For nothing is impossible with God. (Luke 1:37 NIV)

During my life, I have been blessed to be "the helper"  from time to time; but in recent months, I have needed some help. For me it is much harder to receive help than to give it.  And it used to almost choke me to have to ask for it.  Yesterday, it was as simple as needing someone to lift a 35 lb. bag of dog food out of the trunk of my car, where the grocery clerk had placed it.  Ten years ago I could have hoisted it out myself.  Not anymore.  One of my son's friends came by and gladly did it for me.

Thus, whether we are helping, or being helped, we are all limited in what we can do for each other.  But God is able to do all things abundantly above that which we can even ask or think.

I will strengthen you and help you...  (Psalm 41:10 NIV)

Where would we be without Him?  Heaven help us, I don't want to find out.  Blessings to you - until next time .... Marsha
                                          * * * * *
The host for this weeks IOWT is Jennifer at Scraps and Snippets.

It's Hard to Scratch A Knuckle - Wrinkled Brows

Note:  Wrinkled Brows is an occasional Monday series on a word or a quote of interest (perhaps only to me).

Itch:  an uneasy irritating sensation in the upper surface of the skin usually held to result from mild stimulation of the pain receptors.

Have you ever noticed how difficult it is to satisfactorily scratch one of your knuckles when it itches?  It is an odd thing, isn't it?

As I was trying to drift off into slumber land the other evening, I noticed my ring-finger knuckle was itching like crazy.  I turned on the light and checked out my annoying digit.  No welt - so not a mosquito bite - no rash, no nothing.  Just itching.

I tried scratching it, but that just didn't seem to do it.  I tried rubbing it, too.  No joy in that either.

I gave some thought to why it is so hard to scratch a knuckle in such a way that it will actually stop itching, and I decided it is the wrinkles.  They prevent getting to the "root of the itch" if you will.

This is not like the spot between your shoulder blades, which can be scratched effectively, provided your arms are long enough.  Mine are not, so I usually have to enlist the aid of a back-scratcher.

But if you can reach that trouble spot, you can usually alleviate the problem.  Not so with itchy knuckles.  This also holds true for itchy heels, elbows and knees.  None of these areas can be effectively scratched in such a way as to stopping the itching.  It is a nuisance.  Fortunately, for me at least, it is a rarely occurring nuisance, but still.

Finally, it dawned on me what all of these spots have in common.  They all have naturally occurring wrinkles, or little folds in the skin.  (Of course, that could just be me.) Ah ha, that is the answer. 

While I lay and pondered the significance of this discovery, I suddenly thought, "Oh my goodness.  Those poor Shar Peis, how do they ever scratch an itch?"  You know, that odd breed of dog which have so many wrinkles everywhere that they are "so ugly they are cute."           

And as for me, my knuckle finally stopped itching, and I drifted off to sleep still empathizing greatly with those poor wrinkled pooches famous for their folds.
                                        * * * * *      
Life can be like an itchy knuckle.  An ill-defined uneasiness, not quite pain, but not something that can be ignored.  Inchoate hopes and dreams.  Unspoken promises we wish we had kept anyway.  Life is a Shar Pei, with lots of wrinkles built right in.

Hope you are in a good spot this evening, with nary an itchy wrinkle anywhere. Until next time ... Marsha

Absent - and the Dog Ate My Homework

You were all very kind with your comments and good wishes about our move-in yesterday.  Thanks so much!

By and large the Post-It Notes worked like a charm.  Only one lamp was broken in the mayhem, which I take as something of a minor miracle, compared to other moves I have made.  Did I ever tell you about the time decades ago, when someone who was helping us move grabbed a pot of cooked beans right off the stove and put in on the tailgate of a pickup truck that was pulling out of the driveway to go over to the new place?  If not, we will just save that little cautionary tale for another day.  Talk about gas up and go.

But you know it is always the "little foxes that spoil the vines" and just to double-up on the cliches, the devil is in the details.

My dad hated moving day, even though we moved often, because of the nature of his work.  He was also extremely superstitious and would not allow my mom to move a broom from one house to another, as that was supposed to be bad luck. 

Now everyone knows how irritating new brooms are. They just won't behave; they keep flipping stuff back in the direction you just swept because the bristles are too stiff, and you have to sweep the same area about four times with a new broom, as compared to one that is well broken in.

Poor mom (who did not have a superstitious bone in her body) probably hastened her own demise from over-sweeping because she could hardly ever keep a broom long enough to get it properly broken in.  Once she hid the broom, and thought she would be able to sneak it into the new place.  When dad discovered her deception, he about had a coronary and declared that everything from rickets to world famine was going to ensue all because mom had dared bring the darned used broom to the new place.

Now how did I get from our move to brooms to rickets?  Oh, yes, I was absent for a good part of the day yesterday (at the clinic with my son) and thus the LOC and the movers were left free to do their best....or worst...depending upon your point of view.

When I later returned for a quick walk-through, I found things mostly acceptable, but some details were disturbingly confused.  For example, lamp shades had been screwed onto the wrong lamps.  I politely asked the *LOC why he couldn't tell which went where by looking at the style of the finials?  (*Lovable Old Coot)

He gave me a look that said, "Lady, if you had been here during the last excruciating hours, keeping the dog from chasing her new friends, the squirrels and the three deer walking brazenly down the lane, and keeping the movers from attaching cables, wires and hoses to things that were never designed to accommodate them, you would not be asking me about finials.  What the heck is a finial anyway?"  (The LOC can say more with a look than most people can with a dictionary.)

Well, there you have it folks.  It is not pleasant to be present in the middle of a move, but it really does not pay to be absent either.  In any case, all finials have been restored to their proper location and all is well with the world....or at least the 1/2 acre of it that we now occupy.

Until next time...guard your finials as best you can, and if they get away from you...just chalk it up to experience! ...Marsha

Post-It Note Sofas

When the movers begin to unload our "stuff" tomorrow morning bright and early, I have left a little trail of clues for them.  A kind of 21st Century bread crumbs - Post It Notes.

I cannot be there when they unload, as tomorrow is clinic day for K. and I am needed there.

But the LOC* was not comfortable deciding where to tell the movers to put the larger items, knowing that if he got it wrong, he and I would be huffing and puffing trying to muscle them around by ourselves, long after the movers have departed. Trust me, this would not be a good thing for either of us. (*Lovable Old Coot)

Thus, he suggested that I draw diagrams and leave them where they could find them.  But my artistic skills run to the paint-by-numbers variety, and besides, diagrams can be turned around in the wrong direction and suddenly the sofa is sitting backed up to the bird bath.  You know what I am talking about.

So I decided to place Post-It Notes in each place a major piece of furniture is supposed to be deposited.  Let's hope it works.  Otherwise, the LOC and I have sore backs, frayed tempers, and lots of scuff marks on the new hardwood floors to look forward to.  I just hate scuffed up floors, don't you?

I must say, though, placing little colored squares where you envision the sofa residing isn't very satisfying.  I also tried putting pillows down in approximately the space a chair or sofa would require.  That did not seem to quite do it either.

Phooey!  Let's hope those beefy young mover-guys are fluent in both pillowese and Post-It Notes, or I may find my sofa on the roof when I get there.  Oh well, if so the LOC and I will just climb up there and sit a spell.  That would be kind of welcome after the chaos of the past few days.   * * * *

Hope your sofa is right where you want it to be this evening.  I'm hoping mine will be by this time tomorrow evening.  Until next time ...Marsha

Jam-Packed: The Move Is On

Tomorrow the big move finally happens.  In some ways it has all come together pretty quickly. 

It is our first move in over twenty years.  Boy, have we accumulated a lot of stuff.  And that is mostly just what it is -  just stuff. 

The fact that I have now been absent from home for three months, living out of one suitcase shows just how little of that "stuff" is really necessary for daily living.  But I do miss some of it.

The LOC* told me that he wrapped my teapots carefully. And I appreciate that.  However, his son, who helped him pack up the kitchen, said he also packed jars - lots of jars.  We don't need jars.  I haven't canned anything since 1978. I don't want those jars, but the LOC* kept them. (*Lovable Old Coot)

J. said, "Dad, you are seventy years old, its time to get rid of the jars."  The LOC just looked at him and said, "But I might need them sometime."  Uh - huh. 

Then there is his mug collection, his DVD collection, his sports memorabilia collection .... need I go on?  I have heard that in every marriage it is likely that one is a collector and one is a tosser.  In our household, I am the tosser.  If I have not used it in the past year, out it goes.  My ideal dresser drawer is one that is only two-thirds full.

I like bare places in the floor space, open areas on the walls, and room to move around in the garage.  The LOC, left untended (which I most certainly do not intend to do) would cover every square inch of every wall in the house with family photos.  Every square foot of the garage would contain a box, a bin, or a piece of equipment.  He has a bicycle with two flat tires that he refuses to get rid of "in case he needs it in an emergency."  Really ?

What's the plan?  Put the emergency on "pause" while he pumps up the bike tires?  I'm just saying.

Tonight, when I called to see how he was holding up, because I cannot be there and he is doing this solo now that J. has returned to Portland, he proudly but tiredly told me he had packed another fifty boxes today.  Another fifty!  Can we say jam-packed?

Thank the lord, the movers come tomorrow and he will be forced to stop and just leave some of it.  And the following day, all our stuff will arrive at the new house, just 15 minutes from where I am staying with K., and I can begin to sort - and toss - and sort - and toss - and .....  until we are no longer jam-packed.  I hope ...
                                          * * * *
Hope whatever you are jamming or tossing tonight, you are doing it with a smile.  Until next time ...Marsha

The Dancing Street Sign Guy

I've been watching this guy for a few weeks now.  He is either really, really desperate to make some money, or just plain happy-go-lucky crazy.  Maybe both.  But he makes me laugh, and right now I take my chuckles anywhere I can find them.  

He has taken what could be, and by all accounts probably should be, a boring, humiliating job and turned it into something else entirely.  Exactly what he has turned it into, well I am not sure, but it is fun to watch.

He stands on a street corner near where my son K. lives, and variously displays, holds, dances with, caresses, and plays with a mobile phone sign - a great big one.  The sign is almost as big as he is tall.  There is an actual name for such a job:  sign spinners.  I have seen the employment ads.  They are also called "live billboards."

I have read, and heard somewhere, that the people who do the street-sign-advertising-dancing-billboard-thing get paid minimum wage; that is, unless they really move around with that thing and call a lot of attention to the sign.  In the latter case, I am told they can make around fifteen dollars an hour, or about double the minimum wage.

So this guy clearly is  motivated to move.  But he has taken it to a whole other level.  He lunges, then freezes in place, then twirls it, stands it straight on end, while balancing it on one palm (and this thing is about six feet long and two feet wide) then whirls it again.  All this action is accompanied by a variety of facial expressions ranging from goofy to faux-menacing.

He makes eye contact as the cars drive by.  He does not wink, or flirt in anyway, but rather he gives direction with his eyes, which seem to say "look at this sign" - "come on into the store" - "oh, come on, you know you want to" - "why not stop in and buy a new cell phone ?".

Then he plays a wildly energetic ditty on his sign-cum-air-guitar.  Some drivers honk encouragement and I have watched others give him a thumbs-up sign as they drive by.  He is just plain fun.

His build suggests he may be an athlete, or a professional dancer - he is muscular but very lithe.  And he varies his "look" from day to day.  One day it is aviator shades, a t-shirt and knee-shorts.  Next day it is a stocking cap, jeans, and combat boots.  He makes each ensemble look like a costume in his own little drama, played out before thousands of cars driving by his corner each day. 

The other day it finally struck me what he had managed to turn this odd gig into:  performance art.  I am not kidding you, he has.  He is entertaining and engaging all in the five seconds it takes to drive by him.

But there is more to him that a hat and a sign.  Here is how I know this.  Last week a mobile phone competitor had put their own street-sign-wielding-guy on the same corner.  He was short, a little chubby and not very well coordinated.  I happened to be stopped by the red signal light, so I got to watch this tableau play out.

The new guy tried a twirl with his sign.  It made one pitiful half circle and fell off his arm.  The "artful" pro clapped him on the shoulder in a friendly manner and showed him how to hold it so that it would whirl around two or three times before coming to rest in the upright position.   The other guy smiled, they exchanged a couple of words, and each went back to their respective sections of the corner.

The show was back on for the pro-guy as he lunged, laughed, and pumped his sign.  The other guy sighed and tried to make sure his was at least held up over his head for a few seconds.  After all there was money on the line here.
                                         * * * *

How many of us would take a job that required us to make foolish looking gyrations on a street corner, make it into an entertainment venue, and then even help out the newcomer as he tried to imitate us?  Not too many, I would venture to guess.

So here is this guy, doing what he can to make the very most of an odd job, and even demonstrating generosity and kindness while doing it.  I was impressed.

Just goes to show you, it doesn't take a large venue in life to make a positive impression.  Just some heart, a sense of humor, and a little kindness.

Until next time .... Marsha

If Looks Could Kill, I'd Be Dead Right Now

Granted I was perhaps a smidge over the exact, precise, middle of the area in the exit of the restaurant driveway allotted to those going out.  Okay, I'll own that. I wanted to get K.'s take-out dinner back to him while it was still hot and was not paying strictest attention.

 In my own defense, there was no center line painted, and my bifocals sometimes interpret the world in their own way, regardless of where I perch them on my nose.

But the lady driving in was not exactly perfectly aligned with her own lane's dead-center; nevertheless, she gave me a look that would have done me severe damage, if not out-right killed me, if looks could do that.  Trust me, hers almost had that effect.  Scary!

I had never met her before, and I sure hope I never have to again.  Oh my, that look was just dreadful.  It was more than sour, more than irritated, more than resentful - but something less than human.  It was bovinely opaque but wolfishly cruel.

Uggghh!  It made me shudder as we slowly passed each other and she shot me daggers as though I had personally, deliberately, with great malice aforethought, just ruined her entire day.

Now bear in mind, I did not in any way impede her progress, nor do her any actual damage, nor even slow her progress.  I simply was "in her way" from her apparent visible reaction.

It was startling, this wildly exaggerated response, to what was not even a minor inconvenience.  And yet there was this expressed hostility to a complete stranger (that would be me - shivering in the Le Sabre's seat).

I drove home contemplating, what causes a person to take something so personally that they feel the need, nay the right, to glare daggers at another human being?

It simply escapes me.  Dear lord, what dwells in a heart that is that angry at the world in general?

You may be wondering, "Why does it matter?"

I would suggest that this kind of unwarranted anger, simmering so frequently just below the surface of our society in general, is what leads to road rage, drive-by random shootings and other unnecessary and yet increasing mayhem.

Now I am not a particularly mild-mannered individual myself.  I can be snarky, and stupid and demanding.  Can't we all?

But anytime I privately find myself muttering under my breath something about another person like "what an idiot" - and I have been known to do that - I immediately stop and ask for forgiveness.  Well, almost always.

I cannot know what provoked them, what burden they carry, what sorrow they bear, what fury they are trying to resist.

What I can do is say a quick prayer for them.  (And stay well on my own side of the driveway.  :) And then say one for myself,  asking the Lord to help me refrain from joining the incivility in today's every day life.  It is a little thing, but even if it is the least I can do, it is something.

Sometimes a "little something" is all we can do.  And occasionally it is even enough.  :)  Until next time ...Marsha