On Ideas

Since writing the other day about dumb ideas and the perils of sharing them, I’ve been thinking more about it. Thomas Edison said, “To have a great idea, have a lot of them.” If that’s true, I am on my way to having a great idea.

Many of my ideas are like silverfish — fast, uncatchable, mostly harmless,  and/or slightly annoying.

My kids roll their eyes when I say I have an idea. “Most of your ideas involve us cleaning,” Laurel told me once. That’s not true. If it was, I’m pretty sure the house would look better than it does.

Most ideas are flawed but contain a kernel of good. Unfortunately, I fail to see the flaw until I share the idea with someone else and they point it out, or I actually carry out the idea and end up regretting it.

A lot of my ideas involve games — like Otter Island, which my friend Katy and I still talk about even though neither of us can remember all the rules. About 10 years ago, I had come up with this idea for a swim camp called Swim Like a Beast (<– hare-brained, I know) where instead of focusing on a different stroke each day, we used a different animal to springboard into our activities. On Dog day we had the little swimmers swim-morph from dog paddle to people paddle (as I called Freestyle that day) and on Frog day we worked on breaststroke kick, etc. Of course, we did other goofy things — like on Otter day playing this game that involved a floating mat (the island), foam noodles (predatory eagles), and lots of swimming either underwater or on the back. It was chaotic, slightly dangerous, and fun.

Chaos, danger, and fun were also ingredients in King of the Log, a variation on King of the Hill, that I made up for the high school girls swim team to play once — until someone got hurt — right before a big meet. Oops. But then, Oscar Wilde said, “An idea that is not dangerous is unworthy of being called an idea at all.”

The Ping-Pong Ball in the Compartmental Vegetable Tray game was a disaster one Christmas when I invented the game for our gift card exchange. Chaotic – yes, but no danger, and far more frustration than fun.

Then there was the art contest I came up with for Covid. The germ of the idea was good — get my kids to create refrigerator art for me during quarantine. Low on chaos, high in danger because sharing art is a scary thing, but the fun was questionable. Plus it dragged on way too long. However, here are my two of my favorite pieces from the 6 rounds (a new round every 3 weeks — using C-O-V-I-D-19 for inspiration):

O — for ocean (it’s a magnet)
V — for vacation (quintessential photoshopped postcard)

Idea people need sounding boards and guinea pigs. I am blessed to have both in my life.

If you’re an idea person, share your ideas — even the bad ones.

If you’re friends with an idea person, be a safe haven.

 

The Bad Ones, Too

My sister, my father, and me
Taken on Father’s Day 2012 at Jerry’s Place

The other morning, when I was praying for my sister during my quiet time, I thought about the text she had recently sent.

“Heat index of 113. No wonder I’m dripping.”

She lives in Florida. Heat index must be like the wind chill — one of those weather statistics you look at and groan. I have no idea of what the heat index has ever been in Cooperstown.

Anyway, I was praying for my sister, and the heat in Florida, and thought, The good thing is that she doesn’t have to go outside and she has air conditioning. 

I stopped myself. She DOES have to go outside. She recently got a dog, and a young active dog at that.

Oh, the things we do when we are responsible for another living being! Dog owners must take their dogs out in all kinds of weather. Cat owners scoop kitty litter. New parents get up in the middle of the night. Parents of older kids make that awful trip to the Emergency Room for one reason or another.

I remember the first time the parent-child paradigm shifted with my father. I was staying with my parents off and on over the summer probably 10 or 11 years ago because some of my kids had jobs in Cooperstown. In the middle of one night, I heard my father heading down the hall to use the bathroom. I was only half-awake until I heard the thud of his body hitting the floor. I ran to find him collapsed in the hallway and unresponsive.

One of my kids called 9-1-1 for me and watched for the ambulance to arrive, while I tended to my father. As he came around, I told him to lie still and that we had called the ambulance. He was distressed, though, not because he had passed out but because he had wet himself.

“I need you to get me some dry clothes,” he said.

I ran down the hall to his room where my mother slept through this whole thing, grabbed some clean clothes, and ran back to him lying on the hall floor. While children slept in nearby rooms and another child waited at the front door for the EMTs, I helped him slide off the wet articles of clothing. I cleaned him with a washcloth, and then helped slide the clean clothes on. The whole time, he kept saying, “I’m so sorry. This is terrible. You shouldn’t have to do this. I’m so sorry.”

His dignity was important to him so I made sure he arrived at the Emergency Room clean. I never said a word about it to him, or anyone else for that matter.

Andrew Peterson, in his book Adorning the Dark, tells the story of a woman asking him to write a bit of song-writing advice for her when he was signing a CD. “Don’t write bad songs,” he wrote. She then took the CD to one of the other musicians who performed on it and asked him to write his advice. He saw what Andrew had written and wrote, “Write the bad ones, too.”

I was thinking about that the other day when I shared one of my hair-brained ideas with some friends. They gently pointed out the flaw in the idea, and I felt bad, but only for a moment. Because my heart was saying, “Don’t share dumb ideas” but God was whispering, “Share the dumb ones, too.”

It’s so easy to be crippled by the bad, whatever shape that may take — a bad song, a bad idea, a bad moment in time.

With that bad moment, it’s important to remember them. Not to dwell on them, but to remember.

Remember the time you walked the dog in 103 degree weather.

Remember the trip to the ER.

Remember sharing bad advice or a dumb idea.

Some day, you’ll be able to use that precise moment to encourage someone else.

Some day, you’ll remember how much you loved that somebody and doing that thing wasn’t a chore but an expression of love.

The Little Free Library

For Mother’s Day 2019, my husband built a Little Free Library for me and set it up across the street. (If you aren’t familiar with Little Free Libraries, they are free book exchanges.)

Choosing a book from the Little Free Library

Yesterday, my husband and I were in the living room when a car pulled up across the street. A young couple got out and went to the Little Free Library. They spent a looooooong time there.

I should back up and say that my Little Free Library has a romance novel problem. A group of locals uses my library as their exchange place — and those fat well-worn romance novels take up too much space. I limit the romance novels to one half of one shelf which means that I must regularly remove some just so I have room for other books.

Back to the couple at the library — I really wasn’t staring at them the whole time, but would occasionally check to see if they were still there.

I saw her take a romance novel. I whispered a little thank you.

He took books off the shelf, leafed through them, and put them back.

Over.

And over.

Finally he selected a book — a history of the Boston Red Sox that had been there a while..

The two walked to their car and I thought they were done, but then I saw them walking back with different books in their hands.

She marched over and placed a new romance novel in the right spot. I sighed.

He paused between the car and library. He held his book out and looking at it. I watched him pull it close to his chest in a tender embrace, then lift it to his lips and kiss the cover before placing it in the library.

(As I was telling Mary this story, she said, “Ewww…… COVID.” Yes, I suppose, but there’s hand-sanitizer in the library and I can wipe down his book.)

At this point, I imagine you are as intrigued as I was. What was the book?

I do know the answer.

But I’m not going to tell you.

Instead, I’ll leave you with the question I’ve been thinking about for days — what book would I kiss before giving it away to an unknown person? What book would you?

On Ravi Zacharias

Ravi Zacharias passed away yesterday.

For him, it was going home. But for us, it’s a time to remember how he touched our lives.

In 1982 (or thereabouts) Ravi Zacharias came to Syracuse and spoke to the college-and-career group at the Christian & Missionary Alliance Church where Bud and I were members. Using the creation story, he spoke about the two different types of thinkers — collative and creative.

A collative thinker, he said, gathers information and puts it in order, while a creative thinker gathers information and uses it to create something “new”.

My sister collates. She sat one day last fall in the family room with a box that contained a mish-mash of papers from my mother’s desk. Patiently she sorted through the whole thing, making neat little piles and clipping like things togethers.

“This is what I do,” she said to me when I poked my head in. “I bring order.”

And she does. Really well.

She’s also creative. She once wrote a series of articles for her church newsletter from the perspective of the church’s cat.  I think she would agree with me though that on the spectrum that runs from Collative to Creative, she falls on the Collative end of things.

Andrew Peterson is first person I think on the Creative side. Singer, songwriter, author, artist. The man has creativity oozing out his pores.

But he’s also collative in the sense of learning from others. In the Wingfeather Saga (his book series for young and old alike), I see bits and pieces of Tolkien and C. S. Lewis, two of his literary heroes. In his songs, I sometimes hear shades of Rich Mullins.

I have pondered the collative-creative spectrum for years.

When I heard Ravi Zacharias speak the second time, some 14 years after the first, I talked to him about his collative-creative talk. I said, “I’ve been trying to figure out since then what kind of thinker I am.”

He smiled at me and said, “One thing is clear — you are a thinker.”

We were at Sandy Cove (or was is Harvey Cedars?), a Christian retreat center, when I heard him that second time. As clearly as I remember the collative-creative talk, I remember him standing on a stage reciting Percy Shelley’s poem, Ozymandias.  It was part recitation and part performance.  I remember the timbre of his voice enhanced by his accent as he raised and lowered the volume at which he spoke, his gestures perfectly marking these words:

…And on the pedestal, these words appear:
My name is Ozymandias, King of Kings;
Look on my Works, ye Mighty, and despair!
Nothing beside remains. Round the decay
Of that colossal Wreck, boundless and bare
The lone and level sands stretch far away.

I can still hear it.

In that same talk, he read a prayer.

“Who wrote that prayer?” I later asked him.

He told me her name (which I don’t remember), and then said, “She’s a French mystic.”

It was the first time I had ever heard of Christian mysticism. I felt like a door that I didn’t know existed had been opened for me.

Since then Christian mysticism has been a growing interest. I have an ever-expanding collection of prayer books and books about prayer. My ears perk up when I hear (or read) about any Christian mystic. Because I long to experience the presence of God in my small life, reading about others’ encounters with Him thrills me — and mystics have the most interesting stories.

That tiny spark started by a few words from Ravi Zacharias has since been fanned into flame.

Today, I remember Ravi Zacharias. I remember his warmth, his intellect, his sincerity, and how my brief encounters with him have helped me in my personal walk with God.

No Crying in Baseball

A few days before everything shut down, we went to dinner at the Doubleday Cafe to remember my father on his birthday.  It had been his favorite restaurant.

My son’s girlfriend works with a tourism group in Cooperstown. She told us that night, “They said if the Dreams Park closes, it will kill Cooperstown.” The Dreams Park hosts over 100 Little League teams every week over the summer for tournaments and a Cooperstown experience.

Two days after our dinner, the Baseball Hall of Fame announced they were closing until further notice due to the pandemic.

The next week, Governor Cuomo put the state on “pause.” All non-essential businesses closed.

A week later, the Dreams Park announced that they were closing for the summer of 2020.

Last week the Baseball Hall of Fame announced that the Induction Ceremony for Derek Jeter would be postponed until 2021.

On the day before the announcement, USA Today ran this headline:

Baseball Hall of Fame induction ceremony expected to be postponed, as Cooperstown weeps

Without downplaying the economic hardship — and it IS a HUGE economic hardship on the community — can I show you what Cooperstown is REALLY doing? It isn’t weeping.

1. Cooperstown is working. More than baseball, the backbone of this community is medicine. Bassett Medical Center is a teaching hospital that has received national recognition for its care to rural communities. What started in a fieldstone building in Cooperstown is now the Bassett Healthcare Network: six hospitals and a large number of smaller clinics covering eight counties. The people at Bassett worked hard to prepare for this pandemic and have worked hard throughout.

2. Cooperstown is showing appreciation. Signs like this one started showing up in yards around the village.

The flip side thanks our first responders.

And people haven’t stopped there. People have made their own signs. They leave their front porch lights on during the night as a thank-you to all the essential workers who haven’t “paused” but have been working harder than ever.

3. Cooperstown is maintaining a sense of humor. Andrew Solomon in his book about depression said, “A sense of humor is the best indicator that you will recover.” I know this isn’t depression, but a sense of humor has a way of steadying the boat in any storm.

The other evening I was feeling a little grumpy and irritable. Mary asked about going for a walk and I reluctantly agreed to “just a short one.”

Two blocks in and we were at Lakefront Park where I saw this:

I burst out laughing. “Let’s go see if James Fenimore Cooper is wearing one, too,” I said, and we raced to Cooper Park.

There he was, wearing a mask and holding a bottle of hand sanitizer on his lap.

“Let’s go check The Sandlot Kid,” Mary said, and we hurried up Main Street to Doubleday parking lot.

He, too, was protected — as was the WWI Doughboy statue:
My short walk turned out to be longer than intended, but my spirits were so much lighter having seen Cooperstown lean into the new face mask mandate.

4. Cooperstown is mourning. I first noticed the flag at half-staff at the empty high school one cold rainy morning when I dropped off school work for my daughter.

The flag on Main Street is at half-staff as well. Cooperstown recognizes the deep sadness and loss that people are experiencing.

While Cooperstown itself has not suffered many deaths from coronavirus (4 according to the Johns Hopkins map today 5/6/2020), the entire population of Cooperstown has been lost at least twelve times over in the state. The number of deaths in the country couldn’t fit into Yankee Stadium. It’s a sobering thought. I think that’s why it was a unanimous decision at the Hall of Fame to postpone the induction ceremony this year. In addition to all the safety concerns, Derek Jeter played for the New York Yankees. His fans have lost family, neighbors, co-workers, and friends to this terrible pandemic. It’s no time for celebration. Today we mourn. Next year we will celebrate.

5. Cooperstown is pulling together. “Support local business!” is the rallying cry. I know I’m not alone. As a family we have chosen to spend our stimulus check at local businesses. We “dine out” — aka take-out — from local restaurants once a week. The waiting area at the restaurant we ordered from last night was hopping — spread out, of course, but hopping.

At Easter, I called the local chocolatier and arranged to purchase homemade fudge from her for our Easter baskets. It was a luxury, I know, but if my buying fudge can help one woman stay in business until business-as-usual returns, I’ll buy fudge.

Some businesses have signs in their windows offering video-shopping. Other businesses have simply chosen not to reopen this summer.

It’s going to be a tough year.

But I’m confident we’ll get through.

The other signs that have sprung up around town are these:

Cooperstown will pull together for them, too. Whether it’s a graduation parade in cars down Main Street or some other way to honor and recognize them, we’ll do it.

Safely, of course.

***

All these closures, cancellations, and postponements won’t kill Cooperstown.

In the wake of the Great Depression, the idea for a baseball museum in Cooperstown was born. At the time no one could imagine where that would take this little village.

It makes me curious as to what could be around the next corner.

 

Blessed are those who Understand

The sympathy cards have slowed to a trickle. In the beginning it was a deluge.

Many of the cards said things like this:

Your dad was an amazing man, and I consider myself very lucky to have worked with him.

What a class act!

Don was a wonderful person: friendly, compassionate, smart and extremely generous…

I felt privileged to know him.

Here’s a sampling from his church:

Don and Elinor were two of the first people I met at church and I’ll never forget how welcome they made me feel.

His church will miss him much. I think he held at least every position twice and always took on the most challenging parts.

And a few of the many from the hospital:

He was one of the “Old Guard” at Bassett and embodied all of the wonderful good things of a medical career.

He was the one who recruited me to Cooperstown. He looked after me at work and worked so hard to make sure that our department ran smoothly. I’ll always remember how much he cared about the patients and making my early years there successful.

The more specific people were in what they wrote about my father, the more it touched me. For example, this story made me laugh because it captured his frugality:

Many years ago he asked me (chairman of building and grounds) to help him dig a trench across the driveway from the church house to the manse. If we put in the wires to connect a new manse computer to the one in the secretary office ourselves, we could save a lot of money. Although he was much older than I was, he outworked me with his pick and shovel!

After I graduated from high school I learned that my father had followed each one of his little league players all the way through graduation and had given each one a baseball necktie as a graduation gift. Apparently, he continued that baseball-themed gift-giving pattern into his later years as this person mentioned:

Our son loved baseball and Don often gave him baseball-accented gifts.

The words and stories people shared became a salve for my grieving heart. I read stories of him making housecalls,  of mentoring, of swapping “sappy stories,” of his Red Sox fanaticism, of his sweet tooth.

I also received cards from people who had never met my father but who only knew him through me. People who read this blog but that I never met in person. People I met at Hutchmoot or on other travels. Even people here in Cooperstown who know me through my church or my involvement with the swim team, but never met my father. I was so grateful. I felt so loved.

Two cards that especially touched me were from people who had also recently suffered loss:

Deepest sympathies and equally deep gratitude for all the love and care you shared with your dad. I know firsthand that is a gift that goes both ways and lives in memory always. (from another caregiver whose father had recently died)

We have a wonderful hope of  resurrection, but the grief is still so real right now. (from a grieving spouse)

Blessed are those who understand for God will give them words to ease another’s pain.

Blessed are Too and To

The hardest thing about swimming laps is —

1.) Leaving the house. Walking out into the real world is cold.

2.) Getting in the water. If leaving the house is cold, getting into the water is doubly so. Changing in the locker room. Taking a shower.  Walking, dripping wet, out onto the deck. Cold. Really cold. Finally sitting on the edge and sliding into the water.

3.) Counting the laps. I’ll come back to this one.

4.) Leaky goggles. It’s annoying to have one side fill with water so that you swim like Popeye the Sailor — with one eye closed.

I asked Laurel what was the hardest thing about swimming laps. She said, “when you can’t see where the wall is because you’re crying because it hurts so bad knowing you’re not gonna make the interval even though you’re trying so hard and your legs hurt and you can’t move your arms any faster :)” She’s a teenage girl, a little overly dramatic, but speaks from her heart. Swim team workouts are rough.

Back to counting laps, though.

Swimming can be monotonous. It’s also very zen. A lap swimmer — and here I’m talking about the adult lap swimmer who isn’t trying to make the interval and crying and can’t see the wall — can get lost of the rhythm of the thing.

Splash-spalsh-splash-breathe-splash-splash-splash-breathe

I wrote the vast majority of my college papers in the pool. I organized my thoughts, sifted through ideas, tried out sentences, rearranged the words. All the while I was splash-splash-splash-breathing.

Sometimes people would ask me how many yards I did and I would have no idea. I was more worried about words than yards.

When I no longer had papers to write, I tried to count my laps the old fashioned way — with numbers. It was a struggle. I finally settled on my own system: the alphabet plus the Ten Commandments.

You may laugh, but it worked. 36 laps in a 25 yard pool comes out to just over a mile.

Each letter of the alphabet got a whole lap. I would think of words or people that began with that letter. I would pray or think on things that began with that letter. Then I would move on to the next.

I did that for years.

Until, about 15 years ago, life got in the way of my lap-swimming.

Recently, I started lap-swimming again. I was so out of shape that I didn’t try to count laps at first.

The third morning I realized I needed to focus on something other than simply reaching the wall. My mind was overactive, my body tired.

I decided to work on memorizing scripture — Isaiah 61. Each length got a word.

Lap 1: The Lord

Lap 2: has anointed

Lap 3: me to

Me to. Me to. The words rattled around with familiarity because of #metoo.

The #metoo movement had stirred up memories, memories of experiences that gave me common ground with many women.

But #meto — that involves purpose.

The Lord has anointed me to… Isaiah 61 lists seven things.  I found myself pondering instead, what does the Lord want ME to do?

My life is changed. To care for my father had been my purpose — and it was so fulfilling. I confess to being a little lost now.

Blessed is Too — the common ground we share with others through experience.

Blessed also is To — as in an infinitive verb suggesting purpose.

Like a college paper, I’ll use the pool to sort through my thoughts and figure things out.

First I have to leave the house, though — and sometimes that’s the hardest part of swimming laps.

Blessed are those who Stretch

I once had a pastor who loved to talk about stretching.

Not like downward dog yoga stretching, more like standing-on-tiptoes-and-reaching-a-book-off-the-top-shelf stretching.

Stretching, as in, moving beyond what you thought was possible.

He was generally talking about being uncomfortable in a situation and choosing to do the right thing. That stretches a person.

Or hardships. Those are stretching experiences — when we don’t allow them to make us brittle.

I was thinking about stretching the other day at a swim meet while watching swimmers coming into the wall. The person who won the race — often by a mere fraction of a second — was the one who reached the longest and fastest, stretching their fingers to touch the pad first.

Regular stretching can lead to increased flexibility.

An interesting thing about flexibility is that of all the types of fitness, it takes the longest to gain, but it also stays with a person the longest. A person can build up cardio ability relatively quickly, but, when aerobic exercise is abandoned, cardio gains leave fairly quickly. Flexibility, on the other hand, can take months to years of consistent stretching to improve, but that increased flexibility also lasts a loooooong time.

The other day I read this:

When the monasteries of the Middle Ages lost their fervor, the last observance that ceased to be properly carried out was the choral office. (Thomas Merton, Contemplative Prayer)

Regularly-practiced liturgy sticks.

And yet, liturgy is certainly NOT flexibility.

Liturgy is like the roots of a tree that stretch down, down, down to water in the driest of seasons.

Flexibility is like the tree branches reaching up, up, up, reaching for the sun and sky and rain, moving with the wind.

Blessed are those who stretch both up and down. They gain both flexibility and roots.

*****

Side note: this piece has sat in my draft folder for, um, I don’t know how long. Part of me wants to finish strong — finish these darn beatitudes that sounded like such a good idea at the time, but now feel like a weight.

Golly, it’s been a tough few months!

Perhaps, sometimes, finishing strong simply means finishing. I stare at my drafts and don’t know how to finish them.

I’ll be that girl crawling across the finish line —

So forgive the upcoming half-written beatitudes.

I’m crawling.

But, dog-gone it, I’m going to finish.

It’s a stretching experience, I suppose.

Blessed is Resurrection

When my father passed away at home, I didn’t know what would happen next — so I went for a walk.

That Sunday spent watching him decline, decline, decline — sitting by his bed — pacing — calling hospice and family and hospice again — trying to make the best decisions based on what he had said he wanted — it all made for an incredibly long day.

Yet, at the same time, the day was too short.

Suddenly he was gone.

I cut across the yard when I left the house, walking past the red maples he had planted 40 years before. Their burgundy leaves were half on, half off —  trees caught mid-way through their fall undressing.

The oak tree I passed was barer. Its brown leaves and acorns littered the ground. Many of the acorns were cracked and broken. I wondered if the damage had been done by squirrels or the fat woodchuck I often saw in that corner of the yard or the heavy equipment that had driven through there earlier in the week to replace our septic system.

The acorns held no promise of a mighty oaks, just broken pieces with jagged edges.

The walk refreshed me, but, back at the house, we moved in a thick fog.

While I had been walking others had left, or come and gone, or stayed, waiting to say good-bye to me.

My two grandsons had been in the house when my father passed. When I heard them playing in the other room, I thought about an article I once read about Irish wakes and how healthy they are for children — to be around death and see that it is a part of life.

In the midst of life we are in death.

Book of Common Prayer

I said good-bye to the grandsons and to my oldest son who looked so weary and so grown-up. I wished he was the size of his boys and this hurt was a boo-boo a bandaid could cover.

A knock on the door surprised me. The man identified himself as a hospice nurse. “I’m here to clean the body,” he said.

I showed him to the room where my father lay. My father’s face looked ashen and waxy.

“Do you have some clothes I could dress him in?” the nurse asked.

My father was still wearing his old red Fenway shirt. He liked to wear Red Sox apparel when he watched their games, and the last game of the season had been on when he passed away.

I chose a favorite flannel shirt and a pair of corduroy pants that went with it.

Leaving the room, I re-entered the family fog. Pea-soup fog, my mother would have called it, so thick you can’t see your hand in front of your face. People may, or may not, have talked with me. I may, or may not, have responded.

The nurse finished. He ushered us back in the room with my father.

My father’s hands were folded on his abdomen. It was a pose I had never seen him in before. He looked so dead.

I look for the resurrection of the dead and the life of the world to come.

Nicene Creed

*****

It has now been 3 1/2 weeks since my father passed. When I close my eyes, I see that dead body. I see my sister coming out of his room, closing the door behind her, at 2 AM. She had just arrived and wanted to see him. I see the funeral director arriving at 8 AM and using the front door to remove the body.

I close my eyes and see death.

Ah, but the Nicene Creed. “I look for the resurrection…”

When I look for resurrection and life, it’s there.

The new grass pushing through the straw where the lawn was dug up for the septic. The two stubborn Shasta daisies that refuse to give way to fall. The geese flying south, calling my attention to them with their noisy honking.

It’s a beautiful sound.

At the memorial service, my son Owen read Wendell Berry’s poem, Wild Geese.

… Geese appear high over us,
pass, and the sky closes. Abandon,
as in love or sleep, holds
them to their way, clear
in the ancient faith: what we need
is here. …

I am surrounded by life in all its beautiful and terrible stages.

Many trees in the yard are already bare, but I’ve lived long enough to know that, in the spring, new leaves will appear.

I know the geese will return, too.

On my walks I see woolly bears hurrying across the road. Sometimes I help them along — picking them up and watching them curl into a ball in my palm, then gently placing them on the other side of the road. I figure it’s one less death for the day.

And I sort through a few of my father’s things.

Life goes on.

 

 

Blessed is the Quiet

I turned the monitor off Sunday morning not knowing it would be the last time.

For three and a half years I have slept with one ear open, listening to the monitor, learning the sounds of the different creaks of the hospital bed in the room below me.

One creak meant he was getting up. It was followed by the shuffle-thud of him walking with his walker into the bathrooom.

A different creak meant he was getting back into bed. I could hear the soft rustle of the bedding as he rolled onto his side and pulled the blankets up above his shoulders.

If I didn’t hear the back-to-bed creaks but heard the click of the light switch, I knew I needed to go down and redirect. He would be heading to his closet to choose clothes for church — no matter what day of the week it was. Sometimes that happened at 11:30 PM and sometimes in the wee hours of the morning. Sometimes it was every hour throughout night.

The monitor sat on my bedside table where its yellow light showed me it was on and its faint buzz served as a secondary reminder.

Now I hear the deep breathing of my husband sleeping beside me.

Just the other day I had been telling someone that I hadn’t heard the coyotes all summer. With the monitor off and the insomnia on, I could hear them, their long lonesome howls coming from somewhere farther away than previous years, but still there.

I hear a bird I can’t identify.

I hear gentle rain hitting the wide leaves of the hydrangea.

I hear the obnoxious sounds of vehicles driving on wet road. I can identify the milk truck, the speeding pick-ups, the cars. I can tell it’s foggy because everyone drives so much slower.

It’s so quiet, though, without the monitor.

Too quiet.

I want to hear the bed creak and the shuffle-thud.

My father passed away Sunday night.

He had dressed himself Saturday morning and eaten a bowl of cereal. Mid-afternoon he vomited brown-black — a sign of a GI bleed. He went to bed before dinner, and never got out of it again. The next day he was gone.

Thomas Merton said, “Prayer and Love are learned in the hour when prayer has become impossible and your heart has turned to stone.” (Seeds of Contemplation)

Prayer and love are learned in the quiet of a monitor that been turned off.

Merton also said, “The monk faces the worst, and discovers in it the hope of the best.” (Contemplative Prayer)

I’m facing the quiet.

I’m looking for the blessing.