All week I’m republishing the seven posts from a year ago, during the week Michael began his journey away from us and on toward heaven.

I love this picture of him which was taken in January of 2007, in the actual car that was driven in the series we loved called All Creatures Great and Small. This was in the Yorkshire village of Thirsk, where James Herriot (real name Alf Wight) practiced veterinary medicine and eventually chronicled his life in his wonderful books.

Tuesday, February 3, 2015

On Monday night when I got home from the hospital, I sent out a few texts and emails updating people about Michael, and mostly asking for prayer.

When the sun came up Tuesday morning it was fourteen degrees below zero, which seemed apt to me. Our Foster women were of course concerned about Michael and I told them what I knew, and that we were all praying that he would wake up from this seizure-induced unconsciousness. All three of us exchanged hugs before they went out the door heading to their jobs, and I was touched when they both told me they’d be praying all day for Michael.

I was anxious to get the necessary morning tasks done — dogs out, dogs in, dishwasher loaded and started, and then off to St. Luke’s Hospital I went, leaning forward over the steering wheel I’m sure, trying to get there as fast as legally possible.

Has ever a woman been so excited to see her beloved? I can’t imagine even wives long separated from their imprisoned husbands, or the ones thousands of miles apart from their deployed servicemen, feeling any more anticipation than I felt that morning as I rode the elevator up to the fourth floor of the hospital, even though I had been with Michael just ten hours before.

I stopped at the nurses’ station on my way to his room and asked how he had done during the night. His nurse told me he had coughed and moaned off and on, and that his left hand had been so active they had put a rolled wash cloth in it to prevent him from rubbing his skin raw. But other than that there had been no change. He was being given the anti-seizure medication Keppra through his IV, because everyone was operating on the assumption that this almost comatose state was from a seizure.

I felt a rush of joy just to see my Michael. I hugged and kissed him and said all the things over and over I wanted him to know, and believed he could hear and feel everything, even if he couldn’t respond. I stroked his face, massaged his shoulders and legs occasionally, and sat with him all day. I was also happy to see that he could chew the small ice chips I placed in his mouth, and easily swallow.

I was so grateful for the family and friends who were there that day, sharing their hugs and prayers, tears and laughter.  Everyone was encouraged by the possibility that with Todd’s Paralysis, Michael could wake up at any time, but in the meantime it was like all my people had come to help me keep vigil.

This photo is of our youngest daughter Sara cuddled up to her daddy.

Late Tuesday afternoon I spoke to Dr. McKee and he told me he had seen this kind of episode before in seizure patients, especially in older folks, and said he wasn’t particularly surprised by Michael’s lack of response. When I asked him directly if he had seen people be this unresponsive and still wake up days later, he answered kindly, “Oh yes. We’ll give it another day or two and he could definitely come out of this yet. If he doesn’t, I will order another CAT scan for Thursday morning to see if there’s something going on in his brain that the first scan didn’t show.”

I mostly just heard the first part of his answer, and when our conversation was over I put my hands over my face and burst into tears. I was so relieved that Dr. McKee had seen all of this before and that he wasn’t worried yet. I kept sobbing, “Thank you Lord, thank you Jesus! Thank you thank you thank you!”

I really think in hindsight, I was in sort of a fog during the early days following Michael’s hospitalization. Today I asked my daughters to help me remember some details I might not be recalling, and Carolyn reminded me that on Tuesday, February 3rd when she and her family were there, she played the song “If I Were a Rich Man” from the movie soundtrack of Fiddler on the Roof, one of Michael’s longtime favorites. Oh, he loved that movie. We chuckled as we all listened, commenting on how Michael probably thought deep down inside he was Tevye, the bearded, hard-working father of five daughters and the husband of a strong-willed wife, who wanted to please God and also wouldn’t have minded a little extra money in his pouch. *Grin*

Another thing Carolyn reminded me about was that her husband Jeremy, Michael’s son of the heart, his hunting companion, and a skilled and compassionate nurse, tended to Michael so beautifully when he was there visiting that day. Even though Jeremy works at another hospital, he changed Michael, kissed him and cried as he did, expressing his devotion to this man he loved like a second father.

That evening I went home a little earlier since my friend Ginny had texted and told me she was bringing dinner for us. She delivered a delicious feast, and I was struck by what a lavish gift a meal is for a family in crisis. I have taken many a dinner over the years to couples with new babies, people recovering from surgery, those who were grieving, and it always felt so minimal and not as helpful as I wished it could be. Being on the receiving end though, I felt differently. What a help it was to sit down to a delicious meal with our Fosters, who were exclaiming about how good it all tasted…so much so that it made me cry with relief and gratitude.

When I went to bed on Tuesday night, I felt a little niggling worry in my chest. I kept praying and thanking God for all He had done for us, for the ways He poured His love out on us through our family and friends. I truly felt so loved and supported. But I wanted to hurry up and go to sleep so I could wake up the next morning, head right down to St. Luke’s, and hear from the nurses that Michael had shown signs of coming out of his unconscious state during the night.

But that isn’t what happened.

One year ago today my beloved husband Michael suffered the massive ischemic stroke that would take his life a week later. Monday, February 2nd through Monday, February 9th, 2015 was a week my family will never forget of course, but uppermost in our minds even now is how sacred and beautiful the week was in all its sorrow. In his cherished memory, I’ll be republishing the posts from each day of Michael’s journey to heaven for the next week.

Thank you friends, for stopping by…

Monday, February 2, 2015:

Does anyone ever wake up on a given morning and sense that what will happen on that day will change everything, forever? I would imagine there are some people who have experienced that, but I can’t say I’m one of them.

Oh, I knew the day I walked my teary, twelve year-old self down the center aisle of the First Baptist Church in Covina, California to ask Jesus to come into my life that it would change everything, and it did. I knew the days I gave birth to my three wonderful daughters, my life would never be the same, and of course it hasn’t been. When I married Michael on June 28, 1981 and prepared to move with my two little girls to his home in American Siberia (Duluth, MN) to be with this man who had swept me off my feet before we’d ever met, I knew a new life was beginning, and I was so happy and expectant about the changes the future would bring.

But when I got out of bed while it was still dark on the bitterly cold first Monday in February of 2015, I had no idea what the day would bring. As I always do, I put on my slippers, clicked up the heat, fed the dogs and let them out, turned on a little music and began getting medications and breakfasts ready for our two sweet Foster residents. After seeing them off to their jobs, after getting dressed and throwing in a load of laundry, I was planning to meet my dear friend Su later that morning for a little cup of tea at a newer tea shop in our area called The Snooty Fox. When Su and I got there we learned it wasn’t open on Mondays, so we decided to have lunch at the nearest eatery, The Chester Creek Cafe.

As nice as The Snooty Fox and The Chester Creek Cafe are, I don’t think I’ll ever be able to bring myself to visit them again. Because as I was driving the short distance from one business to the other, my cell phone rang and the charge nurse at the veterans home where my husband Michael had been receiving care for the past 214 days told me that it appeared that Michael had had a seizure. (Later I learned that around 10:30 a.m., Michael had been helping Josh, one of the fantastic recreation staff people there, bake a cake. As he was sitting in his wheelchair, Josh told me later, Michael slowly and slightly arched his back and quietly moaned. “Michael, are you okay?” Josh asked right away, and Michael replied that he was. In less than a minute it happened again, and this time Michael slowly slumped and lost consciousness and was rushed back to his room where the nursing staff began taking his vitals and assessing him.) When I took the call from Tim, the nurse, he said that Michael’s vitals were stable but that he wasn’t very responsive.

Here’s the part that I still can’t fathom, as I look back on this fateful morning. Instead of driving the 60 miles up the north shore of Lake Superior immediately, I went ahead and met Su at the cafe and we had a quick lunch. I told her about the call and of course we were concerned, but I have no idea why I didn’t just drop everything and peel rubber that very moment to go to my husband. Was it because he had had a seizure like this before, a couple of years ago, and came out of it in less than an hour? I don’t know. Did I go ahead and eat my soup because I knew Michael was in good hands and there wasn’t much that could be done anyway? No clue. Was I numb with the news because we’ve been through so much with Michael’s health these past many years, and it just didn’t sink in how grim things could be? I hope so. But the fact of the matter is, I did not feel the sharp stab of worry and the adrenaline rush one would expect with serious news, and so I waited an hour before driving north. All the way there I expected I would see Michael on his bed when I arrived, nursing staff tending to him, and he would greet me with that one-in-a-million smile I love, and after a few hours, he would be back to his level of normal. At least as normal as one can be with advanced Parkinson’s Disease and Lewy Body Dementia.

But that’s not how it happened. When I walked into Michael’s room, the doctor who’d been summoned and the main nurse were there, and they told me he was paralyzed on his right side, and had not been able to answer them, even though one of his eyes was open and obviously seeing. They suspected a stroke. I sat by my beloved husband’s side and leaned down to kiss him, hug him and whisper to him. He could look at me with one eye, and at one point he did try very hard to speak to me, but only a few stuttered consonants came out. I was thrilled he could return my kiss. I was relieved when he could chew and swallow some tiny ice chips and I kept feeding him those. I prayed that God would help Michael and allow His presence to be felt, that He would bring His peace, and I sang quietly to him, held his good hand, and leaned in to kiss him every minute or so, and thanked God with each responsive pucker of his lips.

The doctor told me that there are two kinds of strokes, one caused by a bleed and one caused by a blockage, but either of these, especially with all of Michael’s health/brain factors, could potentially be very serious. She gently said she thought it was appropriate that nothing heroic be done and that we let nature take its course. And indeed, Michael had clearly stated years before that if something catastrophic health-wise should ever happen to him (as if Parkinson’s and Lewy Body Dementia don’t rock one’s world enough), he wanted no heroic measures taken, but wanted to be made comfortable and allowed to exit this earth and move to heaven with Jesus, where his heart had been set on since he was thirty years old. Of course I would honor his wishes, and had no desire to put him through anything grueling like a brain surgery, but the longer I sat there with him, the longer I looked at this beautiful man I have loved for almost 34 years, the more I realized I had to know. Even if what was happening to him was a devastating stroke, I needed to know exactly what we were dealing with. I knew I’d have regrets if I didn’t find out what was going on with Michael.

So I told the nurses and doctor I wanted an ambulance ordered so Michael could be transported to a large Duluth hospital, one hour south of the veterans home in Silver Bay. Everyone graciously and quickly responded to my decision, and many staff people I’d grown to respect and even love began getting Michael ready. Paperwork was printed out for me to take to St. Luke’s Hospital, a hoyer lift was used to place him on the gurney when the ambulance attendants arrived, and a quiet, concerned circle of people made up of staff and other veterans’ wives were there to hug me goodbye and wish us well. Their eyes told me how much they cared for Michael.

I followed the ambulance for the 65 mile drive to the hospital, and by the time I parked and hurried in, there was a flurry of medical personnel tending to Michael in the Emergency Room, they had an IV in him, had taken blood, noted that his blood pressure was uncharacteristically high, and were preparing him for a chest x-ray and a CAT scan. Two of our daughters were there with us, and Michael’s sister Patty and her husband Joe arrived too. By this time Michael’s eyes were closed and he couldn’t seem to open them on command, but he was squeezing our hands hard with his good left hand. His right side was completely paralyzed, although there was no droop in any part of his face that you sometimes hear about with a stroke.

The CAT scan only took about ten minutes, and it wasn’t long before the doctor came in to tell us it was clear. No sign of brain tumor, no evidence of a bleed in the brain, which meant no hemorrhagic stroke, and this was good news, and also puzzling. Then what was going on? The doctor said they were going to admit him to the neurology floor, and that they suspected Michael had experienced a seizure with resulting Todd’s Paralysis. You better be sure I googled that as soon as he left the room. And I was encouraged by what I read. Apparently after someone has a seizure (and why the seizure in the first place? perhaps some abnormal brain activity near an old, mild stroke site), they can be paralyzed on one side and fairly unresponsive for up to 48 hours afterward. This doctor had actually seen this. Oh happy day! I grabbed onto that hope and went with it, praying that Michael would come out of this in the next day or two, and that he had Todd’s Paralysis from the seizure he’d so clearly had that morning while baking a cake with Josh.

Later that night as they were getting Michael all settled in to his private room right across from the nurse’s station on the neurology wing, I waited for Dr. McKee the neurologist to arrive. Michael had consulted with him years before and we trusted him. Dr. McKee was kind enough to come in at 10:00 that night, and after doing many tests he confirmed his agreement with the original ER doctor, that this could be Todd’s Paralysis from the seizure that morning. There were several things that were not presenting, if it were a large stroke, like the facial droop. Michael’s face never had the look of a man who’d had a serious stroke. Dr. McKee explained a lot to me that I won’t put here for the sake of time and space, but when I drove home on Monday night after speaking with him, I was much more hopeful than I had been earlier in the day, and ever so grateful I’d made the decision to have Michael transported to the hospital.

My prayer request became that God would bring Michael out of this Todd’s Paralysis and that he and I would have time together again. And our daughters and friends were joining me in this prayer. Now I, possibly more than any other person in Michael’s life, knew that Parkinson’s and Lewy Body Dementia were nothing wonderful to come back to. I wasn’t asking the Lord to bring him back to what he’d been before so he could go on suffering for the predicted seven horror-filled years an average LBD patient experiences. Selfishly, I wanted to look into those big, expressive, kind eyes again, even if just for a short time. I wanted to feel his super strong hands squeeze mine again. I wanted to smell his neck, which has been the best smelling neck I’ve ever encountered in my 57 years. I wanted to hear his almost-gone voice whisper the things into my ear that he had the day before: “I love you so much… I would marry you all over again in a minute… You are still so beautiful to me… I think about you all the time Julie…”  For my own selfish reasons, I couldn’t bear to even think of never having these times with Michael again.

I guess the quandary was, I didn’t want Michael to suffer anymore, but I didn’t want to be without him either.

Thankfully, yes, oh sooooo thankfully, God is the One who makes those decisions, not me. But I get ahead of myself a bit.

After Dr. McKee and I finished talking, he went out to the nurse’s station to work on Michael’s chart and orders, and I knew it was time for me to go home. I only had three miles to drive. I would have stayed the night in Michael’s room if I didn’t have Fosters who would need me early the next morning, and two little dogs who probably wanted to go out. I left around 11:00 p.m., and I gently laid myself against Michael’s chest as I bent over him. He could still squeeze with his left hand, although not on command. When I kissed him, he kissed me back. We puckered and pecked like that for a good minute, and I told him what a phenomenal man he was and how in the world had God ever tricked him into loving me was beyond my comprehension. 🙂 I prayed aloud softly that Jesus and many powerful angels would stay close with him all night long, that he would feel the peace that passes all understanding, and that he would rest well and not be afraid. I told him I was going home but would be back first thing bright and early the next morning.

I drove home in a fairly numb state, reached up to the visor of the car to hit the garage door opener, and as the door was closing behind me, I shut the car off and sat there a minute in the dark garage, thinking about all that had happened that day.

Because of the clear CAT scan and because Dr. McKee had seen people go through Todd’s Paralysis before and then come out of it, I wasn’t terribly worried. Concerned, yes.

But when I pulled on my plaid nightgown and slid between our soft red and black buffalo plaid flannel sheets, I went to sleep hopeful for what the next day, Tuesday, would bring.

Yesterday at CBS our Teaching Director Laurel gave an excellent lecture after our core group discussions. We’re spending thirty weeks in the book of Isaiah this year, and it’s a challenging and beautiful study. As Laurel was bringing her teaching time to a close, she shared something about Johann Sebastian Bach (1685-1750) I’d never heard before.

Above is a familiar work of his for your listening pleasure while you read. 🙂

Apparently when Bach began work on a composition, he wrote the letters “J.J.” at the top of the page before he started recording all the musical notations. These letters stand for “Jesu juva,” which is Latin for “Jesus help me.”

See the example below, in the upper left corner?

When Bach finished a piece, he wrote “S. D. G.” at the end, which is “Soli Deo gloria” and means “Only God Gets the Glory” or “To God Alone be the Glory.”

Laurel encouraged us (a varied group of women ranging in age from the 20s to the 80s) to practice something similar. What if each morning before we got out of bed we breathed the prayer, “Jesus, help me”? (I say this very prayer so often it has become almost like my heartbeat.)

And before we drop off to sleep each night, what if we were to turn our hearts and minds to Him and whisper a variant of Bach’s declaration, something like “I want to glorify you, Lord Jesus”? And if anything praiseworthy happened in our lives on that day, we could say honestly to Him, “You alone get the glory for that, Lord.”

Simple, yes. But profound enough to make my heart yearn and the tears stream at Community Bible Study yesterday.

I realize that when it snows I mention it and when it’s bitterly cold I mention it and when the trees are ablaze I mention it and when it’s too hot and humid for my delicate constitution I mention it, but I reside in Northeastern Minnesota and life can be dominated by the seasons here. I’ve said before that growing up in Southern California made me completely weather oblivious, and then I moved here in 1981 and I’ve been obsessed with paid attention to the weather ever since.

I looked at the thermometer on the front deck when I got up this morning, and it read a solid -20°.  After Edith and Millie had their respectively slowly-sampled and frantically-inhaled breakfasts, I let them outside to go potty and then moved to the living room so I could keep an eye on them from the window that looks out onto the side yard. Within 45 seconds, Millie was stuck from the intense cold, crouching and vibrating and unable to move, and lifting one paw in pain. I was in slippers and nightgown and knew I didn’t have time to run and get dressed so I could dash out into the snow and cold to rescue her. (Note: the word “dash” is quite optimistic and perhaps even humorous in describing any movement I might make these days, no matter how desperate the need.) I felt a bit of panic as I quickly unlocked the living room window and raised it a couple of inches, bent down and yelled outside in the dark, “Millie come! Come on, come inside!” and clapped my hands over and over. She heard me and started moving, but it was alarming to see. She was hunched over and pitifully hobbling on three paws, moving at a snail’s pace, and I could see it was everything she could do to climb the deck stairs and get into the house. I almost cried in relief. Edith mounted the steps right after Millie, but she didn’t look quite as impaired by the cold. They both trotted around the house for a few minutes and then curled up for their morning naps. A few hours later the temperature had risen a full twenty degrees, to a balmy 1°, and when the dogs had to go out again, they were able to take care of business and return inside without incident. I keep telling Sara we have such high-maintenance little hounds, and they’re so emotionally costly!

As I was doing my CBS lesson this morning, pondering Isaiah chapter 41, I glanced up and looked again at the beautiful little stained glass window of a cardinal I have in my room. My friend Penelope Wilcock’s daughter Alice made it for me over four years ago, and I have gotten so much enjoyment from it. I had originally intended to hang it from a window with chains and solid fasteners, but we use all our windows and I’ve never been able to decide on where to put it. So instead I have it sitting in a sturdy stand on top of one of my dressers:

The back of the stand sort of obscures some of the details of the window, but you can still appreciate its beauty, I hope. Click the photo twice to enlarge if you like. Isn’t it exquisitely done? I love it.

I’m rereading portions of a book I picked up soon after Michael died. It’s called The Undistracted Widow by Carol W. Cornish and has been very helpful and inspiring. In the chapter I read today she quotes a Charles Wesley hymn I’d never heard before, “Thou Hidden Source of Calm Repose” and the lyrics touched my heart:

1. Thou hidden source of calm repose,
thou all-sufficient love divine,
my help and refuge from my foes,
secure I am if thou art mine;
and lo! from sin and grief and shame
I hide me, Jesus, in thy name.

2. Thy mighty name salvation is,
and keeps my happy soul above,
comfort it brings, and power and peace,
and joy and everlasting love;
to me with thy dear name are given
pardon and holiness and heaven.

3. Jesus, my all in all thou art,
my rest in toil, my ease in pain,
the healing of my broken heart,
in war my peace, in loss my gain,
my smile beneath the tyrant’s frown,
in shame my glory and my crown.

4. In want my plentiful supply,
in weakness my almighty power,
in bonds my perfect liberty,
my light in Satan’s darkest hour,
in grief my joy unspeakable,
my life in death, my heaven in hell.

Have you heard or sung this before? Such rich lyrics, and so wonderful to thrill to something written almost three hundred years ago!

Along with the three or four books I’m reading right now, I picked up C.S. Lewis’s Prince Caspian today. Last month I decided to read through The Chronicles of Narnia again, soaking them in during these cold months that keep me inside more. Since December I’ve read The Lion, the Witch and the Wardrobe, The Magician’s Nephew, and The Horse and His Boy, all new and fresh in different ways even though dear old friends. I always manage to sob in different parts of each book. In Lion, I cry when I read almost anything about Lucy Pevensie and her interactions with Aslan. In fact, many years ago I told the Lord I wanted to be more like Lucy Pevensie. She is in awe of Aslan, yet loves Him so deeply she buries her face in His mane, and trusts Him completely when He tells her to climb on his back and hold on before they fly.

I started occasionally writing down the fictional characters and real-life people I am so inspired by and would love to be more like. In the back of one of my journals I started my list, which isn’t terribly long, and here are a few of the names:

-Lucy Pevensie (from C.S. Lewis’s Narnia books)
-Matthew Cuthbert (from L.M. Montgomery’s Anne of Green Gables)
–Betsie ten Boom (a real Dutch person written about in the book The Hiding Place)
-Matty Jenkyns (a fictional character played by Judi Dench in the British DVD series Cranford)
–Anna, the prophetess in Luke, chapter 2, who was a widow so focused on meeting Jesus she did practically nothing else but fast and pray and watch for Him.

There are other names on my “wish” list too. Mostly I think they all remind me of the traits I long to have…gentleness, mercy, humility, devotion, such inner strength from utter dependence on God, and more. I am not much like any of them, yet as long as there’s life, there’s hope. In some way, all of the people on my list are Christlike to me.

Can you think of anyone you might put on a similar list of your own?

Well, it’s getting close to the time when I need to start thinking about what to make for dinner. If I had my druthers, I’d serve Qdoba burritos with pico de gallo, cilantro lime rice, black beans and homemade guacamole, but the likelihood of me going out in this cold is close to nil. I might whip up some omelets instead, butter some whole grain toast, slice some Honeycrisp apples, and then read a chapter or two of Prince Caspian while I wait for Downton Abbey to come on.

Have a wonderful week, dear friends and family…I’m thankful to know you stop by here.

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?

Have you read Surprised by Joy by C.S. Lewis? I read it again last year and still remember the little blazes of light that came to my understanding as I read. I highly recommend it! Here’s a wonderful quote from the book:

“You must picture me alone in that room in Magdalen (college), night after night, feeling, whenever my mind lifted even for a second from my work, the steady, unrelenting approach of Him of whom I so earnestly desired not to meet. That which I greatly feared had at last come upon me. In the Trinity Term of 1929 I gave in, and admitted that God was God, and knelt and prayed: perhaps, that night, the most dejected and reluctant convert in all England. I did not then see what is now the most shining and obvious thing; the Divine humility which will accept a convert even on such terms. The Prodigal Son at least walked home on his own feet. But who can duly adore that Love which will open the high gates to a prodigal who is brought in kicking, struggling, resentful, and darting his eyes in every direction for a chance of escape? The words compelle intrare, compel them to come in, have been so abused by wicked men that we shudder at them; but, properly understood, they plumb the depth of the Divine mercy. The hardness of God is kinder than the softness of men, and His compulsion is our liberation.”   

— C.S. Lewis, in Surprised by Joy

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Sara and I drove to the cemetery recently but right before we left she decided she wanted to make a heart-shaped wreath to drape over Michael’s headstone. The personalized wreath she made for Christmas is still there on its stand, looking beautiful in the snow, but this one is simpler.

She also decided she wanted long red ribbons attached to the wreath, so they would blow in the wind and look pretty and unique from a distance. Here’s a photo of Sara hanging the wreath. It’s on the other side of the headstone and you can only see the ribbons to the right.

As we drove away, the wind was briskly blowing and when we got to the bottom of the hill and looked back up toward Michael’s grave, you could see the ribbons billowing and streaming as if to say, “Look! Here he is!”

We laughed about how incongruous the ribbons are for Michael, a humble man who didn’t want to call attention to himself and was much too manly for a beribboned grave.

And we also know that actually, he isn’t there. Only what’s left of his earthly tent remains, and that isn’t needed anymore. He has a new body, a new smile, a new voice, new legs to run and leap, new arms to raise in praise to Jesus, and joy of joys, his new body will never die again. I firmly believe he will still be recognizable as our Michael, but he’ll be the most beautiful and vigorous he’s ever been, and I look forward to the day when I can lay eyes on him again.

“But [we are different, because] our citizenship is in heaven. And from there we eagerly await [the coming of] the Savior, the Lord Jesus Christ; who, by exerting that power which enables Him even to subject everything to Himself, will [not only] transform [but completely refashion] our earthly bodies so that they will be like His glorious resurrected body.”   Philippians 3:20-21, Amplified Version

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Last night I took my two Fosters out to dinner and we used an Olive Garden gift card I had received for Christmas. The gals had Chicken Alfredo and Lasagna, and I had the Chicken Marsala. By the time we got home and put our leftovers in the fridge, let the dogs out and turned on a fire in the dining room fireplace, it had begun to snow outside. I stood and watched from the kitchen window, looking toward the streetlight across the street and down aways, and was happy to see big, fluffy flakes blowing around. It snowed about an inch or two, but it’s a light, powdery snow, easy to shovel, and right before I went to bed around 10:00 p.m., I let the dogs out one more time (such high-maintenance pooches — always wanting to potty outside!) and then shoveled off the deck in a couple of minutes.

When I can be outside on a winter night in my flannel nightgown and slippers, with no coat, hat or socks, and it feels brisk and refreshing, then I know it’s at least 26 degrees out. My internal thermometer tells me so. When it’s below 20 degrees, I feel the chill seep deep in less than a minute and don’t watch and wait for the dogs on the deck but from inside the house. If the temperatures are close to zero or even below it (as is predicted for this Sunday — 10 below — gahhh) I might go outside to hurry the dogs down the deck steps so they won’t lollygag and end up with painful feet, but the bitter cold brings aching pain in seconds and I can’t get back inside fast enough.

I’m a homebody anyway, but there’s nothing like a northeastern Minnesota winter to underscore that tendency. Since Michael died on February 9th, I have cocooned myself as much as possible in this home I’m so grateful for, to heal, to ponder, to insulate, to cry, possibly even to prepare. I’m not sure what I’m preparing for, but I feel like there’s something. Maybe a trip abroad? Maybe the writing of a children’s book? Maybe my own death? We never know how long we’ll have, and I think when you lose a loved one, mortality stops being a hunched, shadowy figure darting from bush to bush in your peripheral vision, and instead walks up those front steps, rings the doorbell and offers its hand in a bold hello. And it’s not scary.

Two things make death not scary for me: Michael’s death, and Jesus. The ways the Lord beautifully tended to our family, and to His beloved Michael, during the final week of Michael’s life, forever changed how I think about the process of dying. I do realize that not everyone gets to experience what Michael did, but I hope I learned a deeper level of trust in the Lord for when my own time comes. And pretty much the whole Bible points to how God dealt with the problem of death (and in Genesis it became a huge problem right away) and His answer was, by the time the New Testament was penned, Jesus. Writing this makes me think of Fernando Ortega’s song “Give Me Jesus,” especially the lyrics, “and when I come to die, give me Jesus.” If you haven’t heard it, you’ll be blessed to listen, right here. I asked my friend Lorna to sing this song at Michael’s funeral.

I’m reading a book right now I think I can safely recommend, even though I’m only in the second chapter. One of my eleven readers, Nancy, mentioned it in a recent comment she left. It’s called Evidence Not Seen by Darlene Deibler Rose, and it’s already stirring my soul.

I want my soul to be stirred, yet this past year I have done all I can to hole myself up so my soul is not stirred. Maybe that’s not the most accurate way to put it. Maybe I want my soul to be stirred, but my life to stand still for a while, which of course is foolish. I need to start moving again. My grief and inactivity have added pounds to my already ample frame, and my joints never let me forget it. This thought came to me the other day: I buried my husband and am now trying to bury myself as well. Not literally bury in a grave, but am I trying to wrap and hide myself from all that life still offers? If so, why? I have no idea. If I knew the answer to that I probably wouldn’t have written the last paragraph.

The sun hasn’t come up yet, but I have a hot bath drawn (with my favorite mild bubbles from a splash of Amway’s LOC) and several things on my to-do list today. Grocery shopping, foster report writing and mailing, laundry folding, my Community Bible Study lesson, prescriptions to pick up for my gals, and if I can reach to the depths for a shred of self-control and discipline, a walk.

What do you have planned for today? Or tomorrow? What are you reading right now? Are you preparing for something too?

I took some photos of our table as Sara and I were preparing for our Christmas Day family brunch, but they were “in process,” and I forgot to get any shots after the glasses, cups and silverware were added. So these are incomplete, but I thought I’d share anyway. Also, we do have a few pictures of actual people in our home on Christmas rather than just dinnerware, but I’m waiting on those to be sent to me from the person whose camera contains them.  🙂

I used to think my decorating style was simply called “traditional” — I’m drawn to rolled arms on couches and chairs, wingbacks, darker woods. But when we moved into this house on May 31, 2012, it was full of light wood, clean lines, modern hardware and Scandinavian touches, so the two styles had to co-exist together. And I have relaxed a bit and like the meld.

So I’ve taken to calling my odd decorating style “Scottish Traditional Mismatched Ornithological, with hints of French-Scandinavian Eclectic.”

You can see it all here, and the photos can be enlarged by clicking if you like:

Plaid plates, Swedish placemats, wintry woven Norwegian placemats with reindeer on them, brass candlesticks, toile-ish plates, cardinal napkins and salt and pepper shakers (a lovely gift from my dear friend Kristi), and a traditional-yet-slightly-modern centerpiece made by Sara.

Sara also pulled our deacon’s bench to the table, and three little children occupied that spot.  🙂

A closer look at the centerpiece Sara made. For whimsy, she draped some antique glass beads over the branches.

Scottish-Norwegian-Ornithological:

And here’s Vivienne’s little red wax sculpture of a cardinal again, perched on a candlestick. And a closeup of the adorable salt and pepper shakers:

I’ll post some photos of the people who ate off these plates soon — they might all be dressed in various ugly Christmas sweaters.

Have a blessed week,

I have enjoyed Downton Abbey on television ever since it debuted, and I’m looking forward to seeing the sixth and final season which begins here in early January. Sara and I have been watching the episodes straight through on DVD, and we’re almost done with the fifth season.

She and I were talking about it this morning as she was taking down the tree and other Christmas decorations for me, and we each guessed what might happen to the regular characters. I haven’t read any spoilers and don’t plan to, so if you know something about season six please don’t give anything away!

Here are my guesses:

Robert and Cora Crawley: I’m not sure what I think might happen to them, but my guess is that they’ll be happy and stable, enjoying two of their grandchildren (George and Marigold), and accepting of the new ways coming to Downton.

Mary Crawley: Contrary to probability because Mary seems to have so many suitors, I think as season six closes she will remain unmarried. I don’t think anyone can satisfactorily take Matthew’s place. She will transition toward being the Countess of Grantham and she and George will face the future together as she learns how to keep Downton running and hopefully prosperous.

Edith Crawley: I think Michael Gregson will come back from the dead, so to speak, and return to Edith and Marigold. I don’t think his alleged death at the hands of Hitler’s “thugs in brown shirts” really happened, although he was probably severely injured, and I think Edith is going to get her happy ending. If she doesn’t, I might throw a shoe.

Tom Branson: Tom will take his little daughter Sybbie and sail for America, as was mentioned in season five. Hopefully without Miss Bunting.

Bates and Anna: I predict a happy future and a much wanted pregnancy for this couple we’ve all come to care about.

Barrow: I think Thomas will be one of the characters who will walk into the future with sorrow. I’m betting the writers don’t put him in a relationship and will instead focus on the loneliness of his homosexuality, with him having a “well, of course this is the way my life would go” sort of outlook.

Mrs. Patmore: I think she will retire to her newly-purchased little cottage and be a surrogate mother/encourager to Daisy.

Daisy: I think Daisy’s pursuit of education to better herself will pay off and she will be a success, perhaps running the Mason farm and spending time with Mrs. Patmore there.

Carson and Mrs. Hughes: These two will get married and I will cheer.

Rose and her husband: I’m not sure about these two because I never really got into her character. Ho-hum.

Isobel Crawley: She won’t marry Lord Merton and will instead become closer to Dr. Clarkson. She and Mary will have a close relationship due to their deep love for Matthew.

Molesley and Baxter: I think there’s something to their friendship that will deepen as season six draws to a close. I love his kindness toward her, and how she has never failed to take humble responsibility for her former actions.

Violet, the Dowager Countess: I think Violet will die at the end of the series, deeply loved and grieved, especially by Isobel, whose friendship with her was an unexpected blessing to them both.

How about you? If you’re a Downton watcher, what are some of your predictions? No spoilers though! Gahh!  🙂