Not long ago one of my granddaughters came over to spend the night and do fun stuff with Grandma. I’ve called her Li’l Gleegirl since she was tiny because it fits her so well, but one of her family’s nicknames for her is Moo.

My usual birthday gift for my grands is a card with a note in it, giving them the choice between some money so they can buy something they like for themselves, or a date to spend the night at my house and go out to dinner together. The older kids lean toward the money now (sniff) but the younger ones still think being with Grandma is fun, and that’s what Moo chose.

She chose a local Italian restaurant down by the lake, and it was a thoroughly delightful meal. Moo is cheerful, chatty, energetic, diligent in her academic and dance endeavors, and is a really wonderful companion.

Here’s a picture of this ten year-old with her birthday dessert:

There are many traditions my grandchildren take part in when they spend the night. There is always a book to be read aloud, a tubby to be taken in the deep and fancy tub, snacks to be munched, games to be played, snuggles to be had. When Moo was here we finished reading the book Treasures of the Snow by Patricia St. John, which I have read out loud to my children and six of my nine grands so far. It’s one of the best books a child could hear. The new edition has been terribly revised, so I don’t recommend it, but if you ever want to buy a book that will profoundly bless you and those you read it to, you can find used copies online. The cover of the best edition looks like this.

As I read the last two chapters out loud, Moo listened intently with her eyes wide, anxious to hear how the hearts of the Swiss children Annette and Lucien were so dramatically changed by “letting the Savior come in.” I have read Treasures of the Snow at least nine times, and it always makes me weep at its beauty. It never grows old.

I keep soft footed sleepers in various sizes here for my grandchildren, so they don’t have to pack jammies when they come over. I know this might sound sappy, but I want even what they sleep in when they’re here to make them feel warm and safe and comforted. I know they will have memories to unearth someday, and I want them to recall even the colorful soft one-piece sleepers at Grandma’s. After a tubby full of mountains of bubbles, Moo put on the bright pink sleeper with the black print, and then sat patiently in front of me while I carefully brushed and detangled her long hair, and then put it in a French braid. I tell the girls that even loosely braiding their hair at night before they go to bed will save some tears the next morning from trying to brush out the knots.

Moo loves games and can be competitive, so we played Farkle, three games of Backgammon, and Gin. I love sitting across a table from her and watching her expressive face and listen to her near-constant chatter as we make our way through a game.

Moo takes weekly dance lessons and showed me the tap routine she’s working on. Her older sister Mrs. Nisky takes lessons at the same studio and is graceful as she learns ballet. I will attend their recital in May and will sit in the darkened auditorium with hundreds of other grandparents and parents, keeping a secret from them all: my granddaughters are the sweetest, most talented, radiant and lovely dancers in the world. I’m content to hold that truth close to my heart and wipe tears as I watch them perform, and send up prayers for their tender lives.

If Moo has homework she likes to get to that right away, and she asks me to check it. She might have a snack of peanuts and raisins or a cut up apple with string cheese. We might watch a kid’s show in the evening. She loves for me to make her a cup of hot chai tea.

When it was time for bed, we brushed our teeth together, turned on some pretty music in my bedroom, and read books. Moo sang a couple of songs for me, and she has a clear and lovely voice for a ten year old. She told me she thinks her name will be on the Hollywood Walk of Fame someday, and while that wouldn’t be one of my dreams for her, I can’t say I doubt it could happen.

When we got up on Saturday morning, I gave her choices for breakfast and she chose her usual: two fried eggs over easy, toast with butter, and an orange or clementine.

When our time together is drawing to a close, I always ask my grands to name with me the things we enjoyed together in the last sixteen hours or so. We take turns, and say simple things like, “We had dinner at Valentini’s.” Then, “We played two games of Farkle.” And “I took a tubby and you braided my hair.” And “We finished Treasures of the Snow.”

I realize Moo already knows everything we did, but somehow going through every little thing, the snacks, the songs, the games and books and conversations, the bath, seems like we’re making an altar of sorts, as happened often in the Old Testament. I’ve read about how sometimes God’s people built altars of remembrance by piling up stones at certain important locations (one example is in the book of Joshua when God parted the Jordan so His people could cross over on dry land). Moo might not realize it, but in my mind I’m ever piling up stones of memories, altars of remembrance and thanksgiving for the precious times I have with my grandchildren.

My most fervent hope and prayer is that when they’re drawing baths and reading aloud and braiding hair and frying eggs for their own precious grandchildren, they’ll remember old times with me and begin to build altars of their own, marking and acknowledging the unfathomable kindness and faithfulness of our God.

One of the kindest things He has ever done for me was to give me a granddaughter like Moo.

I think that sounds like a tongue twister, don’t you? Instead of “She sells seashells down by the seashore,” or “Peter Piper picked a peck of pickled peppers,” we could add “An Ocular Arc and the ER,” to our tongue-twisting repertoire. No, not really. That would be silly, because “An Ocular Arc and the ER” are not that hard to say.

Before I talk about the ocular arc I want to mention something a whole lot more fun. Last night one of my grandchildren spent the night. Miss Louiser was apparently so excited when I texted her mama to see if Friday happened to be open on her calendar. It’s so nice when a grandchild loves you so much she can hardly contain herself! I feel the same way about my grands, but some of them are teenagers now, and as my friend Sue mentioned to me the other day, we grandmothers are about as interesting and important as lamps to our teenaged grands now. Sigh.

I picked up Weezer from preschool yesterday around 2:45, and she was so happy when I peeked through the classroom door at her, she started jumping up and down and squealing. After we gathered her things we walked down the outside steps of the school, down the sidewalk to Grandma’s blue car. I strapped her in the back seat and she chattered happily at me the whole three miles home.

She asks for snacks every thirty minutes or so, and here’s a list of what she had while she was here:

*Babybel cheese
*Peanuts and raisins in a little custard cup (did you know you can squish a raisin between two peanut halves and it looks like a hamburger for a Barbie doll? My grandkids have done this for years.)
*One half of an orange
*One carrot stick
*Three apple slices

Then for dinner we tried a new Papa Murphy’s about a block from my house. You walk in, order your pizza, they make it immediately and wrap it up, and you bring it home and bake it yourself. It’s not like you all didn’t know about places like this before, but it’s the first time we’ve been there. So I thought it was semi-newsworthy. (Pause and feel sorry for me here.) We liked the pizza all right, and then Auntie Sara brought home a Red Box movie, Pete’s Dragon, which made me cry. I would so have a pet dragon if I could. I wouldn’t want a mean dragon like Tolkien’s Smaug, but a humble dragon like Elliot would be welcome in my home if he took me on regular flights out across Lake Superior. Please watch this very brief clip and tell me if you would do this if given the opportunity.

Louiser loves to take a tubby at my house. Bubbles galore, water that comes out of the ceiling instead of a regular spigot, bath toys, and some warm snuggles with books afterward always make her happy. Her hair needed a trim and Mama said I could even things up a little, so I cut about an inch from the ends and shortened her bangs a bit while she sat quietly. Then she requested a French braid, which I gladly did.

By the time the movie was over, our little four-year old was almost nodding off in the plaid wing back chair, so we decided to brush our teeth and get ready for bed, even though it wasn’t even 7:30 yet. In less than fifteen minutes this happened:

I picked up a little after I made sure she was sound asleep, then let Millie the Schnauzer out for the last time. I read a while and then after I turned off the lamp on my nightstand, I listened to Weezer’s breathing, which is so precious. Breath is precious in a precious life, isn’t it?

Around 1:45 a.m. I woke up and couldn’t get back to sleep for almost two hours. Gah. I am not a fan of that kind of night. I listened to some music on my iPhone, turned down low so as not to disturb Louiser, and when I heard my alarm go off at 7:00 it seemed like I had just shut my eyes. Little Miss slept pretty well, except for one time in the night when she turned over with the teensiest little whine and said clearly, “Nevermind!”

Today she asked for a fried egg for breakfast, and all the snack requests commenced after that, but they were all healthy ones so I just handed them out every hour or so. She wanted to watch a couple Saturday morning cartoons and explained to me that the flying lions on Elena of Avalor were not called flying lions, but Jackwins. At least that’s how I heard it. I later looked it up out of curiosity and saw that the creatures are called Jaquins; children’s programming has changed considerably since I was Louiser’s age. I watched Felix the Cat, Mighty Mouse and later, The Archies. Do any of you remember those shows?

Around noon, Mama and big sister Mrs. Nisky came to pick up Mrs. Baby. That’s another nickname Weezer has had since birth. And often her family shortens that one to just Mrs., which she happily answer to. Sara cleaned the kitchen, I did a little foster paperwork, and then I decided to move the furniture in my bedroom around. It was time for a little change, and I always enjoy the fresh, new feel a room takes on with a bit of rearranging.

We put sliders under the big mahogany dresser and that was easy. Then I decided to move the king-size bed by myself, and I realized three things immediately: 1. I am weak, 2. My carpet is thick, and 3. I can grunt very loud. I had to move it a couple of inches at a time, and finally Sara must have heard my vocal commotion so she came in and helped me finish. We moved the chairs, nightstands and lamps, and I sat down to rest and look around with a pleased expression on my face, when all of a sudden something got my attention.

On the left periphery of my left eye, I saw an arc of multi-colored, flashing bright lights. It was as if a miniscule mirror was broken, and tiny triangular shards were arranged around a half circle in my field of vision. I saw the arc, the kaleidoscope of blue and pink and silver flashes, and very pointed and geometric shapes clinging to the arc.

It looked sort of like this, but mine was more colorful, and the triangles were smaller:

No matter where I looked, the flashing arc was there, and I thought to myself, weeelllll, THIS can’t be good, so I googled something like “flashing arc with triangles in eye,” and saw several sites that said I should see my ophthalmologist without delay. I knew Dr. Treacy’s office would be closed on a Saturday, but called for the answering service, and the doctor on call telephoned within five minutes. Since this happened right after I had physically exerted myself moving my bed, I felt sure I had done something bad to the retina. I was already mentally calculating how things would be taken care of at home with my foster gals while I was having eye surgery.

But the ophthalmologist felt certain that what I was describing to her was an ocular migraine. I had never heard of an ocular migraine and I doubted her right away since I have never had a migraine in my life, and I had just moved furniture. She was very matter of fact and said to rest a bit and she would call me back in 25 minutes to see if there was any change. When I talked to my daughter Sharon, she had just read of a case like this on Facebook, and the delay had been a bad thing for the patient. The ER folks told him he should have come in immediately. With that information, I decided to go to the Emergency Room, and Sharon offered to drive me. I am legally blind in my right eye, corrected to 20/40 with glasses. This ominous arc was in my good left eye. I didn’t want to take any chances.

So to bypass all the things like registration, sitting and waiting, vitals being taken, and seeing a doctor, the verdict was that he also believed I was having an ocular migraine. Since I didn’t have a dark curtain come down in my vision, or splatters of floaters, he didn’t believe it was a retinal detachment. But since the ER didn’t have the right equipment to examine my eyes, I will make an appointment with my ophthalmologist first thing on Monday morning. While I was at the hospital the flashing arc with the mirror-like triangle shards resolved itself, and I felt okay about going home. Sharon dropped me off, and I decided to rest for a couple of hours.

Here was my view as I began this blog post, and the new way my room is arranged:

The picture is distorted since I was using the panoramic feature of my iPhone and my hand wasn’t steady, but it’s good enough. Millie is at the left, worn out by the bath Sara gave her this morning.

I’m so grateful my vision seems to be okay now! I’m grateful for medical insurance. And for my time with Louiser… her hugs and giggles and sweetness. I will try not to think about how lamp-like I will be to her in less than a decade. That will be terrible.

I’m also giving thanks that even though I still have no idea what I’ll be speaking on, I know by the time March 14th rolls around, the Lord will have helped me write the opening I’ll be doing at Community Bible Study. I have been praying, taking notes, trying to discern what the Holy Spirit might want to say to the beautiful women in our class, and so far, I’m in the dark. It seems like this is the pattern every single time I’m ever asked to share, and I don’t get why it works this way. I’m thanking Him in advance for His faithfulness, and trying to learn to rest while feeling so uncertain.

Well, it’s time for bed. I’ll bet your Saturday night was a bit more lively than mine. After my post-ER rest, I made dinner, watched part of the Lawrence Welk Show, took a bath, brushed my teeth, and cleaned my Invisalign trays.

I’m glad you stopped in… God’s peace to you all,

“This is what the past is for! Every experience God gives us, every person he puts in our lives is the perfect preparation for the future that only he can see.”   — Corrie ten Boom

Yesterday I had three of my nine grands with me for a few hours. Mrs. Nisky had a cello lesson, so we drove up just north of Duluth and dropped her off for that. Then Li’l Gleegirl and Louiser and I drove to one of the larger grocery stores called Super One. We picked up a watermelon, some bananas, organic half and half, lean ground beef, and a rotisserie chicken, among other things. They both sat in front of one of those shopping carts with a kiddie car attached to the front of it, and by the time we were halfway through the produce section I leaned down and whispered to them to please limit the beeping of the squeaky horns in the little pretend steering wheels to once every aisle or so. Shopping in a fairly crowded store while maneuvering the wide turns of a forty-foot long shopping cart with two little hands continuously sounding the beep-beep-beep-beep-beeps made me realize how very alive I am.

When we were ready to check out, I unloaded our groceries onto the conveyor belt, reached for my wallet in the depths of my Vera Bradley purse, and my heart sank. My wallet was gone. I knew right away it had been stolen. The reason I thought this was because everything to do with my purse is large and intentional. I always buy a big purse (usually a pretty Vera Bradley fabric tote) so I don’t have to rummage. I look at other women with these tiny little clutches only big enough for cash and credit cards and I think, “How can you possibly fit your computer in that?” My Macbook Air will fit in my purse, a large library book will easily fit, and the other things I carry are pretty well organized. The pens are together in one side pocket of the purse, my cell phone in another, and my lip glosses are kept in a zipped pouch that’s easy to find. My keys are on a huge jailer’s key ring and I have never lost them in my life.

I also like a large wallet, so I can fit every wallety thing in it — cash, credit cards, my driver’s license, rewards cards for Great Harvest Bread Company, Qdoba and Walgreen’s, band aids, pictures of my loved ones, etc. I can reach into my purse without looking and grab the large key ring or the large padded checkbook or the large pouch of lip gloss or the large book or the large wallet, and this system has served me well for years. I don’t lose things, I don’t rummage around in frustration, and I hardly ever have to give my purse or its contents a thought.

But sometimes intentional and organized women can be idiots.

Like when they’re shopping in a crowded grocery store with their granddaughters and they don’t zip the top of their well-considered and spacious purse. My wallet was at the bottom of my purse, so whoever decided to just slip their hand in yesterday saw the unzipped opportunity, watched me very carefully and did it within about 2.5 seconds. Thankfully the woman at the cash register let me write a check without showing ID.

We picked up Mrs. Nisky from her lesson and drove home. Of course I looked for the wallet at home, but I knew it had been with me, so looking in trash cans and in the garage and under paperwork was fruitless. I called Super One and nothing had been turned in.

I spent the next hour calling my credit card companies and canceling my cards, and I texted a few friends and asked them to pray. My prayer is that whoever stole the pretty padded blue and green wallet took the cash and then discarded the wallet in a public place. I’m hoping its bright colors will draw someone’s eyes to it, and they will find it and contact me from the information on my license. I want my pictures back.

I fretted quietly for about an hour, I really did. But then I thought of the quote above by Corrie ten Boom, and I decided to believe that my wallet was in God’s possession, no matter whose human hands it was in. I praised the Lord out loud while I was emptying the dishwasher, thanking Him that my checkbook wasn’t taken. I thanked Him for my grandchildren, for my home, for the things I still have. I asked Him to give me His perspective on this little tiny thing that had happened, and I think He began to do just that.

I started thinking about all the people I know who have lost things, or are lost themselves. And I was ashamed to realize once again that I don’t always pray for the most important things with the care, passion and focus I was feeling as I was praying about my wallet. Gahh.

So I prayed for my friend whose relationship with her daughter and grandchildren has literally been stolen from her. I prayed for my friend who has lost the marriage and family life she cherished. I prayed for my friend whose son has lost his way and isn’t reaching out to the hand Christ offers him. I prayed for my friend who lost her beloved husband this year, also to a disease caused by Agent Orange, like my Michael.

This morning I woke up and was thankful to tell the Lord again that I knew my wallet was in His control, and that I would wait on Him for it to be returned to me. Not the money, but the other contents, especially the pictures of my human treasures. I asked Him again to smite my soul so that I care about lost people like He does.

But I also remembered the parable Jesus told about the lost coin. Even though He was teaching people how wonderful it is when someone repents and turns to the Lord, I think He was also acknowledging how even a lost possession can bring distress, and interrupts everything in our lives until it’s found.

“Or what woman, having ten silver coins, if she loses one coin, does not light a lamp and sweep the house and seek diligently until she finds it?  And when she has found it, she calls together her friends and neighbors, saying, ‘Rejoice with me, for I have found the coin that I had lost.’ Just so, I tell you, there is joy before the angels of God over one sinner who repents.”
— Luke 15:8-10  ESV

So when my wallet is returned to me, will you rejoice with me? Thank you! I think I heard a yes out there somewhere.

And until that happens, I will ask the Lord to give me His heart for things and people who need to be found and rejoiced over.

Is there someone or something lost to you? I will pray for you today, if you leave a comment. (You can remain anonymous when you leave a comment if you like too.)

In anticipation,

This beautiful picture was taken of Michael and one of our granddaughters, Mrs. Nisky. 🙂 As we approach the one year anniversary of Michael’s death, I’m republishing the posts from that fateful week last February. Below are my thoughts and some photos I took as we prepared to bring Michael home from the hospital for his last few days.

Friday, February 6, 2015:

Monday through Wednesday I had hoped and prayed that Michael would wake up and come back to me. Thursday’s CAT scan results closed a dark curtain over that hope, and changed my prayers. And early Friday morning I couldn’t believe that I was making breakfast, letting the dogs out, getting dressed, and brushing my teeth, after hearing the news that Michael was very close to leaving this earth and going to heaven. It’s odd to do normal, mundane things after receiving news that makes one feel like life can never, ever be normal again.

I knew from what Dr. McKee had explained that the massive stroke would continue to cause progressive tissue death in Michael’s brain, taking him further and further away from us and ultimately shutting down all the systems of his body. As I drove to the hospital on Friday morning, I knew now not to expect to see improvement, but I sobbed out the most fervent prayer anyway. I cried out to the Lord to give me one final connection with Michael before He took him home. I prayed that God would let Michael respond to me in some personal, obvious way, so that I could know without a doubt that it was real and not just a reflex.

(And may I just insert here that I believe God still heals people today? I believe Jesus is the great physician and I know He can do anything — He can make the blind to see, the deaf to hear and the lame to walk. He can raise the dead! He holds this universe together! My acceptance of Michael’s illness and subsequent journey toward heaven were not because I didn’t believe God could heal him. Over the years I’m pretty certain he was prayed for hundreds of times. He believed God could heal him. We have dear friends who had great faith that Michael would be healed. Our pastor anointed him with oil weekly for many months, and we prayed with faith that Parkinson’s would be healed in the mighty name of Jesus. He even flew with friends once to a healing conference and felt the strong presence of God there. So why wasn’t Michael healed of PD and Lewy Body Dementia? I don’t know. I will trust God with that.

Some would say that God’s will was thwarted and Michael should have walked in the healing that Christ died to give us. I’m not sure how to answer that, except to say that every single person on this earth will die someday, and most of them will die from some kind of illness. God does take His people home, and He often uses an illness or tragedy to do it. When it became apparent that Michael’s health was rapidly failing these last two years, I still prayed out loud for him often. I prayed that Jesus would heal him from the top of his head to the soles of his feet, and Michael would whisper, “Amen, amen” as I prayed and the tears fell. But…I have known about families who have lost loved ones too early, and some of them weren’t able to enjoy the blessedness of a good and peaceful death because they refused to believe that their loved one’s passing could be God’s will. [Psalm 116:15 — “Precious in the sight of the LORD is the death of His saints.”] So I believe in a healing God, and also in a sovereign Father who can be trusted when His answer is no.)

Just like I had for the past three days, I arrived at the hospital so anxious to see my Michael. I had my iPhone in my right hand, ready to take a picture because I knew there weren’t many days left to do that. With each step down the hallway toward his room, my prayer was, “Lord, please let him respond to me, please….one more time…one more time….” When I got to his bedside he seemed to be so deeply unconscious, because his jaw was open so much more than on Thursday. I bent down, rubbed his chest a little and greeted him, “Michael…I’m here. It’s me, Julie. I love you Michael! I love you, love you, love you…”

And will you just take a moment to try to imagine what joy and wonder I felt when my husband roused a bit, slowly moved his head back and forth, and did this:

Yes.

He smiled.

He couldn’t open his eyes and of course couldn’t speak, but for about twenty seconds Michael moved his head and grinned at me like this, while I kissed his face and tried not to let him hear me sob.

I am still thanking God for this gift. An answered prayer.

I know I’m biased, but I think this is one of the most beautiful pictures I have ever seen.

The rest of the day was filled with dear people coming in and out of Michael’s room, either friends or family who learned the news that Michael would be meeting Jesus soon, or hospital and hospice staff, doing all the things needed to bring Michael home. Two of our dearests, Steve and Diane, drove three hours to come and be with us.

I received many texts and emails on Friday as the news traveled. I honestly treasured them all, but I think the one that touched me the most was an email from my friend Sue P. She wrote:

Hi Julie…..Please excuse my words if they appear clumsy for it is so hard to put into print how the heart aches. Dave and I are in prayer for all of you. My mind keeps going back to Michael as a true worshiper. Soon he will be free of the body encasing his spirit. I had a vivid picture in the early morning hours today of two very large angels on both sides of his bed, sitting at the ready to usher him home. Oh, the glory that awaits him on the other side of the thin veil that separates us from heaven. I love you my dear friend. Take courage today. xxooo Sue

Even now the thought of powerful angelic escorts waiting to take Michael to meet and worship His Savior makes me cry. Oh, the things we cannot yet see!

I met with the hospice nurse in the early afternoon and she had much to explain to me. She gave me instructions and some liquid morphine, liquid Ativan, oral syringes, and a compassionate hug. Since Michael was not exhibiting any discomfort at all I wondered about the morphine. She explained that as he neared death his breathing would most likely become labored and the morphine was to help with that. The Ativan was in case he became restless.

I was a little surprised to learn that hospice would only come to visit two times per week. I think my perception of hospice was that they were more present to do a lot of care taking. Maybe that’s the way it is elsewhere. I didn’t need to worry about that, though, because my family encircled me and for the next couple of momentous days I never had to care for Michael all by myself. My daughters each took time off from their jobs and all but moved in with us…such a blessing I will never forget.

Next, the hospital social worker came in to tell us that he was having difficulty securing a medical transport to bring Michael home. Apparently when the available companies learned we have semi-steep stairs without railings leading up to our front door, they became unwilling to move him. Too much of a risk. The social worker told me that our only remaining option was to call a Gold Cross Ambulance for transport, and he apologetically told me the cost would be $1200. I immediately responded, “Okay!” and knew this significant amount was something I wasn’t to be concerned about. My singular goal was to get Michael home quickly, safely and comfortably, and I suppose if the cost had been $5000 I would have said okay to that too.

The hospice folks had made the speedy arrangements to have a hospital bed delivered to our home, and I was called on my cell phone with the news that it would be delivered within the hour. Sara left the hospital right away to let the delivery people in, and to set things up in our bedroom for Michael. (Have you ever seen our bedroom and how spacious it is? If not, click here and you’ll be able to see.) She texted me a picture of what she had done, and it was beautiful. The hospital bed was placed close to my side of our king-sized bed, and Sara had made it, fluffed pillows, put a pretty comforter on the bed, gathered chairs all around the area, put flowers on a nightstand nearby, and made everything lovely and welcoming. Somehow I knew that even if Michael never opened his eyes to see he was home in his own bedroom, he would know that he was in a room of love, surrounded by people who adored him, and that this would be the sacred place from which he would depart this earth.

Right before the two ambulance attendants arrived at St. Luke’s, one of Michael’s neurology nurses gave me a quick demonstration on how to turn him every two hours and prop pillows up under him to prevent skin breakdown. She showed me how to make sure there was a “draw sheet” under him at all times, completely wrinkle free to protect his skin, and how to keep his mouth moist and his briefs changed. Plus about fifty other things. She reminded me to keep the hospital bed at 45 degrees for his breathing comfort, and I learned later what she meant by that.

The sun was beginning to set and it was finally, finally time. I drove home several minutes before the ambulance arrived. A light snow was falling. I knew the angels my friend Sue had envisioned were guarding Michael and would grace our home while we waited for the end to come.

The two ambulance attendants quickly assessed our home. There are two ways in: up the outside front steps which I mentioned before, and through the garage and into the basement, then up our basement steps which go up one way to a landing, then turn sharply before coming up through a door into our kitchen. They decided to back the ambulance up to the garage and bring Michael in that way, but they told me they were concerned enough to call for assistance.

Our city’s fire department was summoned, and four firemen helped the two ambulance gals carry Michael very slowly up the stairs in a sort of body sling, like a heavy vinyl sleeping bag with handles.

They surely must have been informed that this man they were carrying was coming home to die, because all six of them were extremely quiet, very measured and deliberate in their movements, and so respectful. (I took this photo from our bedroom window when I heard the fire truck arrive, and Sara ran down to move our car out of the driveway.)

They made it up the basement stairs, went slowly through our kitchen, the dining room, down the hall past the office and laundry room, and into our bedroom, where they gently placed my treasure on the waiting hospital bed.

I didn’t know then that a few weeks later the Gold Cross Ambulance bill I received would not be $1200, but only $197. Our wonderful friends Pete and Ginny had been in the hospital room when the social worker originally informed me about the considerable cost, and had decided between the two of them that they would bless us by paying for a huge part of Michael’s transport home. To say I was humbled and stunned when I received their generous check in the mail is an understatement. In the end, a smaller check covered it, but Ginny and Pete’s gift to us is one of the countless memories of God’s loving care through His people I will always carry with me.

Sharon brought her stuff over and informed me she was staying, and I was so thankful. It didn’t take long for us all to learn how challenging it is to care for every physical need of a 185-pound person who is dying. Just to turn Michael every two hours and prop three pillows behind him took a minimum of two people.

By the time we went to bed that night, Michael’s breathing had become loud and labored, and he looked like a man very close to slipping away. We took turns all through the night, turning him, changing him, moistening the inside and outside of his mouth, giving him liquid morphine to ease his breathing, whispering our love to him, and trying to take in all that we were feeling. This was tragic. This was holy. This was impossible. This was inevitable. This was a privilege. This was glorious. This was God’s mercy. This was wondrous.

And this was heartbreaking.

Even our little Schnauzers, Edith and Mildred, acted like they knew something solemn and momentous was happening to their daddy. Both were very subdued and stayed close to Michael’s bed the whole time he was home. Animals know things.

And so, with the unseen angelic guard I believe was in that room, and with the comforting presence of the Holy Spirit nearer than our breath, our vigil began.

My granddaughter Mrs. Nisky made her daddy a special present for Christmas, because he has read The Lord of the Rings over fifteen times. I guess that makes him a fan of J.R.R. Tolkien.

Here’s how her project turned out:

She walked to Grandma’s house after school several times in the last three months, and worked on it little by little. When everything was finally modeled and baked, she glued it together and gently put it in a box for wrapping. It even has Gandalf’s secret mark on it.

Isn’t it fantastic?

I’ve been awake since about 5:10 this morning because of Edith. Now that she’s a post-menopausal Schnauzer, I’m pretty sure she has bladder control issues, and she noisily jumps off the bed every morning when it’s still blackdark, needing to go out. I dare not ignore her, because if I turn over and go back to sleep she could eventually just pick a place in my bedroom to go. I would never see it because I have an acre of thick, Swedish shag carpet, but in a few days I might detect a whiff in the air when I walk into my bedroom. I could search and search this big room, even enlisting grandchildren to crawl around on their hands and knees to see if they can find the offending invisible spot so I can scrub it, and might not ever find where Edith found her relief.

So basically I’m saying my life revolves around the weakening bladder tone of a deaf and elderly Schnauzer.

This early morning jingle-jangle of the name tag on her collar, and her restless snuffling and pacing is about as active as she gets. It’s downhill from there as the day progresses, because Edith sleeps so much now. She’ll be fourteen in March.

This is how Edith can be seen most any hour of the day.

I will be seeing four of my grandchildren today. Later this morning, Vivienne and Audrey will be performing in a play at our local community playhouse. They’re in Little Red Riding Hood and Vivie plays the lead. Audrey has a secondary part I never knew was in this story, but I’m sure they will both stun me with their acting debuts and I will probably sit in the audience and sob quietly. I do that a lot when observing the wonder I find in my grands. They overwhelm me with their lives and humor and tenderness and beauty.

Then I’ll come home and set to cookie baking. I’m trying to figure out if I want to lug the unwieldy but efficient Kitchen Aid mixer up from the basement to mix the dough for my Spicy Molasses Cookies. Tomorrow is our mother/daughter cookie exchange and my three daughters and I will all be having lunch at a local Japanese restaurant before exchanging what we baked.

Then later this afternoon, Li’l Gleegirl and Louiser will be coming to spend a couple of hours with Grandma. Their daddy is at a Lego Robotics conference with older sister Mrs. Nisky, and big brother Mr. McBoy is at a boy scout leadership weekend. Their mama has a photography session. I’m not sure what the girls and I will do, but I’m fairly sure it will involve books, peanuts and raisins, Magformers, lots of conversation and some good snuggles.

The Christmas CD we have playing almost non-stop in our dining room stereo right now is Rick Steves’ European Christmas. I also watched his TV special recently about Christmas in Europe and found it utterly transporting. My favorite was the segment on Christmas in Switzerland, and if you would like to see the short clip, click here. 

At the two minute mark, you can see them slide down the mountain toward Gimmelwald after having cut down their tree in the snowy forest. I don’t know what those bicycle/sled contraptions are called, but I want one, and I want to ride it down the mountain into Gimmelwald at dusk just like they did. I want the torches, I want the goats, I want the snow (for a month anyway), I want the Swiss cowbells, the fondue around small carved Swiss tables, and I want to feel a part of something ancient and traditional.

I’d love to know which of you reading this post would like to ride one of those dealy-bobs too?

Well, the sun is rising and it’s time to get dressed and start my day. I have a standing date with my gratitude journal, two devotionals, and my Bible and CBS lesson.

Have a blessed weekend!

Hello friends….I hope you’re all finding some time to rest and experience the peace and wonder of this season.

Each year around Christmas, Sara fills our three outdoor flower boxes with assorted evergreens, branches, and large ornaments. This year she added some pampas grass too. These planters are each almost five feet long and they hang on our front deck. The ornaments nestled amongst the greenery are about the size of honeydew melons. Even though I love the flowers she plants in these boxes each spring, I think the winter arrangements are my favorite. Here’s a photo of one…you can click to enlarge if you like…clicking twice makes the photos large enough to see more details:

We always say the various pine branches and the blue and silver ornaments look best with a lovely coating of fresh snow, so we’re waiting for a good storm. Apparently El Niño is going to bring us a mild winter in Minnesota; indeed everyone in our area is talking about how we haven’t had much snowfall this season, and how unseasonably warm our temperatures have been. Our balmy forecast for the coming week is for the low forties…in Decembers past we’ve expected below-zero temps at night and have had two feet of snow on the ground.

In a little over a week my three daughters and I will have our annual cookie exchange. We’ll go out to lunch together and then come back to my house to pick up the two dozen cookies each of us will have made, so we end up with six dozen, plus whatever we keep from our own batches. I just CANNOT figure out what I’m going to do with six dozen various Christmas cookies! Hahaha. I’m making my favorite Christmas recipe, Soft and Spicy Molasses Cookies. Michael used to love to dip these in his coffee.

I always wear slippers in the house from around September until April of each year, and I’ve come to appreciate certain characteristics in the ones I gravitate toward buying. They have to be slip-ons, they should have enclosed heels, and I prefer if they are loafer-like and don’t cover my ankles. I also like for them to have a rubber sole of some sort, since I often step out onto the front deck to call the dogs in, to fetch the mail, or to gaze at the stars at night before I go to bed. Even better are when my slippers are machine washable. Rarely do I care how they look.

Well, I was searching the Acorn slipper website last week, and lo and behold, here’s what I found:

I’ve never added “must have many brightly appliqued cardinals” to my list of slipper prerequisites, but from now on I just might. When I opened these up and slipped them on my feet I had the fleeting thought that I may now be approaching Cardinal Overload. The second fleeting thought I had was… “I don’t care.” These make me smile and they keep my feet warm, so who am I to impose a cardinal limitation on myself?

This morning before driving to the mall area to look for a plaid scarf/shawl, I drove up to the cemetery. I live very close to Lake Superior, and that huge body of water has a warming effect on the weather close to its shores, hence our lack of snow. However, if I drive one mile away from the Lake, up over the hill that leads inland, there’s snow on the ground. There was close to three inches at the cemetery and I took a picture of Michael’s grave, looking toward the morning sun. The distant pond in the photo is where I saw two men on ice skates playing hockey last week.

Sara will also be making a wreath this week to hang on the cross-shaped wreath hanger in front of his grave.

It has been 298 days since Michael went home to Jesus. It comforts me to think that when I go to the furthest reaches in my mind of what beauty, peace, grandeur and joy must be like in heaven, I can’t even come close to imagining what he’s experiencing. (“But just as it is written, ‘Things that no eye has seen, or ear heard, or mind imagined, are the things God has prepared for those who love him.'” — 1 Corinthians 2:9)

I spent some time today with my granddaughter Mrs. Nisky, Sharon and Chris’s second child. She has been coming over now and then so we can work on her math lessons together, and after those are finished she works on a project she’s making for her daddy for Christmas. I’ll show pictures of it here on the blog after he opens it. We also like to read out loud for a good long while before she goes home, and the book we’re enjoying now is a childhood favorite of mine called The Pink Motel by Carol Ryrie Brink.

As I sit here tonight with my (cardinal decorated) feet up on Michael’s recliner, the tree lights glow nearby and I can hear both Schnauzers breathing deeply as they doze stretched out on their sides. Dinner is done, Phoebe the parakeet’s cage has been covered, and in less than two hours I’ll be turning in for the night myself. I look forward to working tomorrow on the sharing I’ll do on Tuesday morning at Community Bible Study. I have a rough outline completed, but may have to just dive head-first into the mental oatmeal I always encounter when writing what I pray God puts on my heart. I’m planning a short PowerPoint slideshow to go with it, and that’s always a fun thing for me to do.

What are your plans for the weekend? I hope your sleep is deep and love abounds between you and all of your dears….

Blessings,

Hello my friends. You know, I really do consider my faithful blog readers friends. Who but a friend would take time out of their busy life to read a few words and see some pictures on a little rambling blog? I’ve known some of you for decades from my SoCal days (hi Denel! hi Tauni! hi Shari! hi Su!), know some of you from my many years in Minnesota (hi Carey! hi Linda! hi Sue! hi Diane! hi Ginny!), know a few of you because we’ve gone to the same church or are in a group together (hi Gail! hi Lorna! hi Pat! hi Kay J! hi Jodi! hi Kristi!) and I’ve “met” some of you through the internet even though we’ve never been together face to face (hi Kay S! hi Jeannie! hi Ember! hi Helen! hi Roberta! hi Connie! hi Linda!), and some of you are truly family (hi Sharon! hi Carolyn! hi Sara! hi Christy! hi Savannah! hi Dorothy! hi Debbie! hi Lauren!). If I haven’t mentioned your name it’s not because I didn’t care to, it’s because my 56 year-old memory has become sieve-like in the past few years and has officially lost its Steel Trap status.

We are in the midst of a three-day-long winter storm here in Northeastern Minnesota. We received over a foot of snow yesterday, are expecting at least another foot today, and the wind is blowing it all horizontally. You know you’re getting hit when The Weather Channel sends people to your city to stay for a few days so your weather can be featured on cable all over the world.

Edith and Mildred most definitely do not like this weather, and must be coerced out into the deep snow in the yard to go potty. Sometimes I have to go out on the front steps with them and say repeatedly, “Go potty! No, don’t come up these stairs Edith! Get out there and go!” And they understand me and finally give in and leap out into the drifts to squat. They might be outside less than one minute, but when they come back in their little schanuzie backs are wet with snow and they shake off vigorously and act so happy to be in the warm house again.

We’ve had Christmas carols playing ever since Thanksgiving, and this is what can be heard in our home today… click here and the music will open in a new window and you can listen as you read, if you like. I love the whole album.

I wish I could have taken a picture to show how densely the snow is falling. Instead I took this one of our large outdoor ornaments being blown about in one of the flower boxes on our front deck. As always, you can click these to enlarge them if you like.

This photo below was taken from our living room, looking out toward three little crab apple trees in the side yard. Minutes later about a hundred cedar waxwings flew to the trees and gobbled up many of the cherry-sized apples while the snow and wind whipped the branches they were clinging to.

Sara always puts a few live touches to things around the house, and here are some little pines she put in containers for our dining room mantel.

I love this big mug below — Carolyn made that for me when she was in high school.

And oh, when the weather outside is frightful, our fire is so delightful! We light it turn it on every day and I can’t even convey how grateful I am to have a cheery blaze for all our meals. And our in between meal times too.

I decided to string together another simple banner for our living room, and even though it’s not Christmas-themed, the blue jays make me smile and it brings me pleasure to look at it. Banners and garlands are in! If you want to make something simple with the children in your life, google the word banner and/or garland and check out some of the beautiful things people are making. I saw one online last night made from red and silver cording and silver jingle bells! Gorgeous and easy.

This sweet little cardinal scented wax warmer sits on Michael’s dresser in our bedroom. It gives a bit of light, and the scent of the melted wax is “clean and slightly masculine” according to Sara, who gave me the warmer. See the unique wreath behind it? That was a gift from my dear friend Su years ago, made from the pages of a hymnal.

We don’t have our big tree up yet, although a day like today would be perfect for tree trimming. We do have our little bedroom tree up, however. Mrs. Nisky came to spend the night a week ago and she and I worked on it together. Then later that night as she fell asleep on her pallet of blankets close to our bed, the red and white lights on the tree were the perfect night light.

This Friday my dear friend Sue and I will be going out to dinner and then later attending the symphony together. Someone gave me season tickets to the symphony this year and I’m quite excited about it. I took my granddaughter Clara to the November performance, Sue and I will enjoy the Christmas one, and then in January I’ll take Mr. McBoy, who listens to classical music all the time and will love it too.

Things in our home are quickly changing, and I don’t like it one bit. I figure it’s okay to say that since the Lord knows how I feel anyway. I’m praying constantly for help and strength and humility and compassion and grace, so that I’ll be a gentle, gracious caregiver to Michael. We’ve had so many visits from several professionals in the past weeks; a great older man who’s a Physical Therapist, an insightful and patient woman who’s an Occupational Therapist, an efficient and understanding young woman who’s the nurse who will visit twice a month. Eventually a home health aide will come twice a week and I’m still trying to wrap my mind around that, seeing as she’ll be coming to help Michael shower and do exercises, but he has stated more than once that he likes it when his wife does that for him. And I totally understand. I wouldn’t want some stranger coming in to help me shower! So why would he? What to do, what to do…I pray the Lord will smooth this approaching pathway before us and make things straight and clear.

Are you someone who appreciates a little comic relief? I certainly am. Just today I was talking on the phone to my friend Su and we were discussing how important and sometimes difficult it is to always speak words to others that build, help or encourage. I told her how I used to have a printed sign on the kitchen windowsill of our other house, something I got from Ann Voskamp’s blog years ago that said in beautiful lettering, “Only Speak Words That Make Souls Stronger,” and how that is my heart’s desire. And I told her how I have occasional failures with this and how sad and disheartening it is to me. And then our serious conversation took a comic turn when Su said, “I’ll bet there are words you’re saying to Michael that years ago you never dreamed you’d be saying” and I replied without missing a beat, “Yes, like ‘don’t put your cane in the toilet!'” and we cracked up. She knew I meant absolutely no disrespect to Michael and I knew she would understand because she knows and loves him. But she was absolutely right. In 1981 when I married my strong, handsome and hardworking husband and said the words “I do,” I could never have imagined that 30 years later the words I’d be frequently saying to him would be, “Big steps!” and “Don’t put your cane in the toilet.”

Yesterday my son-in-law Jeremy reminded me that even though so much of Michael’s mental and physical abilities are diminishing, the spiritual wisdom, humility and grace he exhibits are decades ahead of other people his age. I was grateful for those words and knew deep in my heart they were truth. I know I would not be bearing the ravages of Parkinson’s with the same patience as Michael does.

We are taking things a day at a time here, sometimes an hour at a time actually. Isn’t that what we’re given anyway? Just the moments that make up the days that comprise the years of our lives? None of us knows what tomorrow will bring, but I do think I can say I know one thing tomorrow will bring — it will bring the faithfulness of God. No matter what happens to any of us, God will be faithful to us.

Psalm 36:5-9 says,

Your love, Lord, reaches to the heavens,
    your faithfulness to the skies.
Your righteousness is like the highest mountains,
    your justice like the great deep.
You, Lord, preserve both people and animals.
How priceless is your unfailing love, O God!
    People take refuge in the shadow of your wings.
They feast on the abundance of your house;
    you give them drink from your river of delights.
For with you is the fountain of life;
    in your light we see light.

How wonderful this passage of Scripture is to me. His love and faithfulness to us reach to the heavens! How many billions and trillions of miles high is that? He is preserving us, and our animals! Edith and Mildred are being preserved by God! We can take refuge in the shadow of His wings, and in the deepest darkness we can see light because He is the Light of the World.

I think I need to meditate on this Psalm today, how about you?

It’s time for me to go make a little lunch for Michael now. The snow continues to fall and the forecast says it will pile up through the night. Then by this Saturday the deep freeze will sweep in and blast us with temperatures that fall to 20 below zero (minus 28 Celsius). I never mind the snow we see in Minnesota, but the older I get the more difficulty I have with the bitter below-zero temps. I guess I should just revel in our 25 degrees above zero winter wonderland today and deal with the plummeting temps when they finally do plummet.

Are there any of you who visit this little blog now and then and have never introduced yourself? I would so love to “meet” you. If you can bring yourself to leave a comment today, I would be blessed to read it and know you are there.

I give a wave to you all, and say a prayer to our Heavenly Father, asking Him to bless, keep, help, and cheer you as you walk out the path in front of you today…

“God’s definition of what matters is pretty straightforward. He measures our lives by how we love.”   ~~Francis Chan

These are four of my eight precious grandchildren — Mr. McBoy (11), Mrs. Nisky (9), Li’l Gleegirl (6) and Baby Shamrock (15 months). If my life is measured by how I love them, I’m probably okay. But if my life is measured, as Francis Chan says above, by how I love everyone, then I’m doomed, at least without the thousands of mercies I need from the Lord each morning.

If I speak with human eloquence and angelic ecstasy but don’t love, I’m nothing but the creaking of a rusty gate.

If I speak God’s Word with power, revealing all his mysteries and making everything plain as day, and if I have faith that says to a mountain, “Jump,” and it jumps, but I don’t love, I’m nothing.

If I give everything I own to the poor and even go to the stake to be burned as a martyr, but I don’t love, I’ve gotten nowhere. So, no matter what I say, what I believe, and what I do, I’m bankrupt without love.

Love never dies.

1 Corinthians 13:1-8, The Message Bible

*       *       *       *       *       *       *       *

How is it even possible to live like this?

It’s not.

But with God, all things are possible. Jesus said so. (Matthew 19:26). So before I walk out the door this morning I will go to my heavenly Father and ask for truly impossible things.

How about you? Are you asking God for impossible things too?

These are a few more favorites from my at least six shelves of childrens’ books. My younger grandchildren go back to these again and again, especially if they know I’ll read them out loud for them. I do the best I can using different voices and gestures as I read to them. They crack up when I read them this book, especially by the last page when I open my mouth wide, throw back my head and bellow, “Whhhhhaaaaaaaatttt?”  🙂

This is always a hit, and I love this quirky family myself:

And this one is funny and ridiculous:

We love almost all the Jan Brett books — have you seen them? Her illustrations are rich and detailed and can keep me poring over the pages for an hour. My granddaughter Mrs. Nisky wants me to read this again and again, and she likes the way I do the trolls’ voices:

I think this is my favorite of the “If you…” books by Laura Numeroff:

And this older book is something Audrey likes to have read to her repeatedly. She doesn’t understand how someone could swallow the sea or grow legs hundreds of feet long…

And I love this book probably more than the grandchildren. My friend Carole told me about it and it’s profound for adults.  🙂

Have you read any of these books to the little ones in your life?

What are some of your favorite books for young children?