Loss

Last night I happened to spend approximately 2 hours reading through one of my old travel blogs. The process of revisiting perspectives, struggles and lessons from the past was an awakening. A sense of gratitude welled over me as I realized that the documentation of my mind's wrestling matches is a gift. Not only is there evidence of maturity, but a diminishing sense of injustice.

One of the passages I wrote while on a trip to Door County, WI caught my attention. I have no idea about the source of the sage advice. From my perspective I am not this profound. However, reading the message reminded me of how I can better touch the hearts of those I encounter who are negotiating road blocks and obstacles along their journey. Since it revived an alertness within me, I thought it might be beneficial to someone else.

June 2011

This afternoon I read a posting on a friend's blog that revealed she and her spouse have experienced their second miscarriage in less than a year. Her poetic prose makes it all seem so real. The reader feels the edge of the pain to a very small degree in relation to the pain they are facing. I know the grief will be an arduous process to negotiate. I am sure that God has a vision for what life will look like for the couple on the other side of the grief, but living in it has to be an all consuming event.

I cannot claim to feel what my sister in Christ is feeling, but hearing her suffering in her written voice brings back memories of walking through the fire of grief.

It was a nightmare.

It was lonely.

It was overwhelming.

It seemed pointless.

Life was gray and listless.

Fair did not exist.

Peace was a fallacy.

Justice was illusive.

In reality, the list is endless.

But one thing comes to mind as I witness my dear friend's trek through the confusion and fog. My role and that of all who love her is to purely love her. Platitudes, reasoning, acting normal, "praying for yous," "move ons," "let me know if I can do anything," and avoidances are not so helpful.

Having become an introvert throughout my marriage, I thought being alone was all I wanted so I could pray, read my Bible, and journal. However, the reality was I needed people to love me deeply so I would start to learn that I am loveable no matter what might happen in life. I needed people not to judge and offer advice, I just needed them to let me be silent or rail at God and the betrayers in my situation. I didn't need people to show me how to be strong, I needed them to let me cry until I could cry no more. And then I needed all of that the next day and the next day and the next day, until the need started to dwindle.

Over the past four years, acquaintances and friends have expressed that I should share my story. In fact, several stated that in the midst of all my turmoil and nothing offended more. Why would someone think it would be helpful to a freshly grieving divorcee that someday my story will help others. What about "today"? What is going to help "ME today"? is what I would scream in my head.

So, the advice I would like to offer to those of us who have grieving loved ones is as follows.

1. Do not avoid contact!

2. Love deeply and show it as often as possible.

-hugs

-a single flower

-bring a meal

-listen

-send notes

-send a favorite song

-go for a walk together

-do a hobby together

-cry together

-look in the eyes and say, "I love you!"

3. Do not offer advice unless asked or you know God is instructing you to do so.

4. Do not wait for the griever to ask for help because it won't happen. Try stepping into the griever's shoes and take the risk to offer something. (Clean house, pay bills, take the kids, cook dinner, wash clothes, etc...)

5. Do not be perpetually present. The griever does need time to process.

So, there you have it. Advice I try to live by now that I have experienced a heart-wrenching loss of my own.

Much love to all of you who have guided me through my fire-walk!

Preparing for Growth

I have never claimed to have any kind of yard work talent. Passing subdivisions with immaculate curb appeal make my eyes water. Viewing a walkway plush with colorful faces gravitating towards the sun brings about visions of living in an English cottage overrun with wildflowers. Being surrounded by vibrant evidence of life is so refreshing and rejuvenating. But, creating such an inspiring environment has never been a gift I have successfully cultivated.

When living in Texas, I would frequently go to a home supply store on a whim with visions of orchestrating a glorious outdoor escape. Soil, plants and pots would strain the shocks of the vehicle and eventually be unloaded on the driveway. Sometimes, the Lone Start State defeated the young buds while they awaited their destination. Other times their root systems would find their way into a plot of land. Whether things were planted or not, the end result was usually a sparse representation of the blueprint my mind had envisioned. For the flowers that actually resided in the newly plopped soil, their life span rarely extended beyond a month.

You know that phrase people attribute to Albert Einstein about insanity? I am the poster child for one who expects different outcomes despite the reality that doing things the same way will never offer a more rewarding result. Especially with outdoor maintenance and renewal.

Two summers ago, I had a landscaper revamp my yard completely. It was beautiful, lush and enticing. I even had a bubbling rock installed so that I could hear water running throughout the summer.(Admittedly, this was jab at my ex. I had always wanted a water feature in my yard, but the desire was denied throughout our 21 years together. So, I had one installed. As far as I know, the ex has no idea and the jab remains unreceived, but I love the sound of water outside my bedroom window.) The contractor assured me the final product would be low maintenance and return with a flourish each year. I forgot to tell the guy that I do not even rake or mow faithfully. So, for the third summer, the perennials are returning with a little less luster. The new sod of three years ago is in dire need of nutrients and the dead remnants of last summer's growth is vying for space along with the spring rising. It is visibly disappointing. I am sure my neighbors and the HOA are poised to slap me with an infraction if I do not revive my little postage stamp piece of nature.

Today, I set a goal of trimming back the dead growth from two ornamental grasses in my front yard and sweeping the front stoop. It seemed a reasonable plan as I prepared for the day. I even told a colleague about the plan around 11:00. It still reflected an image of manageability at 1:30, but then the respiratory battle of the past two and half weeks began to escalate and the energy level plummeted. While returning home from a productive work day and making a grocery run, the body's message was, "Are you kidding me?" A definitive choice was made at the final stop light. Take the Scarlett O'Hara philosophy and just relax. There was no shaking the drive to plop on the couch for the evening.

Then...
the garage door ascended, the car rolled into its cozy abode, eyes landed on the dead ornamental grass, hands recycled the junk mail and feet led to the clippers, garden gloves and trash can. Groceries remained in the trunk, purse perched on the passenger's seat and car keys jangled in the pants' pocket as I began to clip away. The minor surge of determination that possessed my body was not of my own efforts or design. Holy Spirit?

I know, that is rather crass. However, more frequent little interventions such as this are leading to a sneaking suspicion that God is in everything if the believer is willing to release control.

To what end?

Is there a larger lesson to consider?

Is there a correlation between my midnight black thumbs and life?

I think there might be.

The work completed today in no way keeps the HOA yard police from my door, nor does it offer the little spring warriors sufficient space to spread and delight. Yet, the work is a sign of culling and nurturing. Growth does not occur instantaneously, whether it is within nature or a human. Neither does the process of preparation.

In working out a potential take away, I think God is showing me that MY philosophy of "big picture or nothing" is not working for me. Remember Einstein? My forward motion towards who He designs me to be is more about the journey than the destination. Skipping any leg could lead to regression or a sense of defeat. I have been there before. With each minute intervention to help me obey His minor prodding, He is preparing me for growth. And growth does not mean awaking one morning with an aura and glow that confirms that I am finally complete and perfect. I am beginning to realize it is about observing the infinitesimal modifications and praising my Savior for them.

So, tomorrow I have set another goal.

1. Trim back the dead growth from the ornamental grass plant in the front. (Yup, there is a forgotten third plant that requires tending. I tried to convince myself to go the extra mile, but my mind began to rebel. So, I decided to honor my plan and celebrate the doing of it. Small steps lead to big accomplishments.)

2. Trim back the dead remains of the butterfly plants in the front yard.

3. Be present and watch for His proddings.

I think it might be manageable. Yet, I will still plead that my Father will take control should old habits and mindsets raise their very ugly and determined heads.

Chopped, Amateur Style

Risk taking...

not my strong suit.

Stepping out of a comfort zone that is more like a hermit zone is really my style.

Yesterday, my principal reached out to the staff looking for a sixth team member to participate in a district version of Chopped. I volunteered. 

Now, if you know me, I tend to hibernate whenever I am not a work. I can spend the entire weekend in my house without regretting it. Some feel I am just rejuvenating. I think I am lazy. Either way, I am ready to face another week. But, I volunteered. Go figure.

Around 10 PM, I was accepted as a team member and received a list of parameters as well and pantry items. Then I obsessed over potential recipes for about an hour and a half. 

Dessert was the real trick. Never being a cook prone to create sweet dishes and now living in a high altitude environment, this brought about visions of gooey baked goods or hockey pucks. I perused instructions for cobblers, fools, brownies and cookies and then made the weak effort of memorizing portions of baking products. 

The entree was less stressful because I tend to gravitate towards savory items. I looked up recipes for chicken, chili, enchiladas and beef.

I finally decided to go to bed and just envision the experience as a time of fun with a couple of knowns and a few strangers. 

The entree mystery items were escarole, rutabaga, savory and turmeric.

Dessert mystery items were pomegranate, mango, mace and and some other obscure spice that is not even on the tip of my tongue.

A guest chef was assigned to each team and the cooking began. We all had different levels of experience and worked at different paces. Some were leaders and others followers. A few were determined to complete things their way no matter what the clock revealed. 

Pressure was on. Cooks and sous chefs dispersed and reunited. Knives chopped. Discussions ensued. Plans changed. Guest chef interceded, a great deal. Something burned. Chicken had to get cooked. What do you do with rutabaga? Got to cook that chicken. Don't cross contaminate! The pomegranate sauce isn't thickening. No oats or pastry cutter. Use almonds for the crumble. We don't have enough fruit. You've got to cook the chicken! Add more pears. Slaw sauce is too lemony. Don't overseer the chicken. Add flour to the pom sauce. Get the chicken in the oven. We forgot the rutabaga! How do we make a pan sauce? Put cream in everything. Don't overcook the chicken. The pom sauce looks gray. Guest chef added flour. UGLY!!! Did we use all the mystery items? Add food coloring. 2 minutes to plate. Wait, it has to be cut perfectly. The plates are dirty. Don't forget the pan sauce. Turn the chicken. We need another plate. Hot and cold on the same plate??? Time! Sweat dripping. Eyes scanning. Plates speckled. Who is going to speak? Guest chefs taste. Judges question. What is our theme? Bright colors. Perfect seer. Ideal seasoning. Combination of textures. Summer!

Roll-up chicken with a stuffing of mixed bell peppers, escarole, spinach, leaks and onions.

Mixed bell peppers, rutabaga, bock choy, carrot slaw with a cream, honey, lemon juice dressing.

Mixed fruit crumble with a pomegranate sauce. 

It was killer. All three dishes were seasoned perfectly. The doneness of the chicken was ideal. The mix of veggie and dressing offered brilliant color and crunch. The sweetness of the fruit, only enhanced by honey, was fresh. The almond crumble had the perfect texture.

Time to present. 

Lets choreograph our service. :)

It was tiring, heated and engaging. We placed 2nd out of 3 teams, but served the best food.

Would I branch out again? 

Maybe.

Am I glad I stepped up to the plate?

Of course, but I am more thankful that I am now in the cave I call home.

Switching Places Without Consent

In this day and age, the dissolution of a marriage is more common than a union that successfully weathers the trials of society. I fall into that statistic now, which is something that I had fought to avoid and have resented for years. He won. I am now a statistic.

RECYCLE
The idea I have contemplated off and on is recycle, reuse and renew. For many a lonely and fearful night, I would wonder why my ex felt it was so easy to recycle me? From my perspective, he traded me in for a slightly different model. As far as I can see, the only difference was that she felt new and thin and I felt familiar and large. I do not wish to speak in unkind tones towards the man I married in my youth. Fortunately and unfortunately, I still love the man. He is the only one I have ever given my mind and body to and I adored everything about him. I am just striving to comprehend why the idea of long-term commitment in marriage is so passe.

At the time of my husband's dalliance and ultimate decision to chase after the thing that seemed to cause his heart to flutter at the time, his mind allowed him to see reason in his decision. It was quite a rollercoaster. He seemed manic and I was nothing but scared and depressed.

My man started to solidify the "break up" with a friendly road trip that included the object of his desire. Being a friend, I never thought the journey of three was unusual. However, his behavior at the destination became quite questionable and the truth eventually came out upon our return home.

His vision...

He could move into the guest room portion of the house and pursue his heart's passion. We would all grow to be great friends, because he does not throw away relationships lightly.

Needless to say, my reaction was less than favorable. Instead, I insisted on marriage counseling and a break from the distraction that had convinced him we had never been compatible. My thought process was that our covenant would never stand a chance of reparation if he continued to feed his obsession.

Eight months later, my man moved into his own apartment with a level of enthusiasm that further broke me. It was as if he was suffering from a duration of imprisonment and the parole board had finally offered his release.

He did not want to hurt me. He claimed to respect me deeply. He wanted to take care of me financially and stay in contact. Now, I believe those statements to be true. He was smitten by hormones and lust and visions that could not be thwarted. In reality, he was not willing to let anything other than his vision succeed.

So, the permanent transition began.

His affair partner was a single school teacher who had lived on her own in an apartment on one salary since college. She was our age and had been an acquaintance for quite a while. She had a cat and loved to travel and was extremely devoted to her alma mater and family.

His wife was a school teacher who had built a home and supported him through all the ups and downs life threw at him. She married right out of college and never had to survive on one income. She had cats, loved to travel and was devoted to her students and education.

Then, we just switched places.

I became the divorced school teacher who lived on her own in an apartment on one salary. She moved into my house and instantly benefited from the double salary and the attentions of the man I met and learned to love 23 years prior.

Both women in his life were short, spunky, passionate and devoted. She just happened to make her self available to my man and had a much hotter body. I was the used car traded in for a better model. And, life went on.

REUSE
I am still working towards finding a way to connect this concept to my journey. One aspect that does support the concept of reuse is the act of changing my life style. For at least three years following the demise of my marriage, I struggled with living as if I was still a part of a double income household. I have never been much for budgets and frugality. That is changing, but it has taken some lessons in humility to start that venture.

Before the divorce, but following my husband's departure, I found myself in a Dollar General shopping for items my students could purchase during an auction. As I perused the wares, I lost control of my emotions and had to run to my car for a deep sob. The potential of having to live hand to mouth really hit home as I walked by aisles of food items priced at a dollar. I feared living in a state of hunger for the rest of my life because my financial situation would be so drastically different.

Hunger is not beating down my door and my single salary is sufficient. I have also been blessed with opportunities to work beyond the school day in order to supplement my income. I have learned to look with intentionality for materials and items needed for work or home. My imagination about how certain items can be used is improving and I find no shame in walking into a second hand store for attire or household goods. Additionally, God has provided me with wise friends who have practiced the art of bargain shopping for years.

Therefore, though I am not the object of the reuse concept, ways of living my life are.

RENEW
This ideology was in place long before I found myself physically alone. In a crisis like this, people have to cling to something. Thankfully, God's arms were extended and I jumped right into them. I cannot claim that comfort and peace were immediate results of that leap, but I am still alive and my future seems hopeful.

The first summer break following the realization of alternate lifestyle explorations on the part of my husband, I decided to take a month long road trip. I had never traveled without a human companion, but I just had to remove myself from the situation. Bizarrely enough, my husband wanted to be a part of the planning process. He was still at home, so conversations often focused on the trip. It was just easier than facing the reality.

I plotted out a path that led to Little Rock, Mt. Rushmore, South Dakota, and back around home through Colorado. All of the stops held a special part of the healing and thinking process. A remarried couple at a hole in the wall barbecue joint shared the pain of their journey and offered to show me the town. The owners of a bed and breakfast hugged me and prayed over me. The monks at several monasteries I used as respites offered solace in their silence and their worship. And God spoke to me through people, scripture, nature and in my head. It was not over and far from fixed, but I knew I was not alone.

God's intervention and renewal was much more prevalent when I was slugging my way through the confusion. However, if I am alert and then choose to follow His prodding, He is still renewing my vision, life and contributions. I am learning that this stage is never complete and I am grateful. If I was at risk of becoming stagnate, I am not sure I could face my Savior in heaven.

Sporadically, I do pray that my ex and his now wife are blessed by God and walking in His light. Sometimes, the prayers are due to a desire to be obedient to God. Other times, my heart truly does wish the best for them. I still have nightmares about the entire experience and might catch my eyes watering when I awake, but the majority of my days are no longer encumbered by the pain of the loss.

I think that is a strong sign of God's renewal in my life.

I just wish our throw-away society found more value in longevity, loyalty and commitment.

Keys that Soothe the Soul

Through the process of my divorce, I was blessed to walk away with a baby grand piano graciously donated by my in-laws. (Of course, I am far from a 98 pound weakling and might be able to carry the lid, but you get the meaning.) In fact, my mother-in-law insisted that I hold onto the piece once the divorce was finalized. That alone was a gift. Being granted something so valuable despite the separation from her kin really fostered a beginning for the healing process.

So, I took the piano to Colorado, hoping that I would find solace in the playing. I did. In the two bedroom apartment I rented, the beautiful piece of furniture occupied approximately one-fifth of the floor plan. I would play and sing when I was sad or angry. I would sit upon the bench and pluck out melodies and cry or pound out my frustrations. But, I was limited in this therapy. I could only play from 9AM to 7PM since I was sandwiched between two other residents. I appreciated these parameters, since that also protected me from free spirits expressing themselves at times I was attempting to rest.

I got it in my head that I needed to purchase a house. For many a rough night, all I wanted to do was play for hours until the pain subsided, but my location hindered that need. I hunted for three years until the abode I believe God found for me became available and my lofty visions of the amenities that were deal breakers reduced. Not frequently, but there are moments when subtle or boisterous renditions of old favorites can be heard in the wee hours of the morning, with no fear of reprimand.

Moving the beast into a second floor apartment was an ordeal. I hired a professional piano moving company rather than trusting the treasure to the movers who escorted my entire household from Texas to Colorado. Initially, I slept on an air mattress, feeling as if I were in a vacuum of someone else's design. I was thankful when the contents of my 21 years of married life arrived, but the unpacking was quite traumatic. So many triggers and resentments surfaced, leading to almost as much tossing as storing. My generous spirited sister gave so much of her time as I negotiated the process.

One day we decided to take a break and drive up Pikes Peak. Internet research was done in order to ensure safety and preparedness. I was a Texan in a Prius and images of popsicle sisters praying for rescue did cloud my mind. We packed a lunch, layers and had plenty of water. Stories of altitude head aches were quite prevalent. One final acquisition was a pamphlet of historic as well as scientific facts about the jaunt to the top. Not only were we regaled with the construction of the road and the topographical features for which we were to hunt, but the percentage of oxygen available at each pull-out. Maybe it was subconscious, but the ease of breathing definitely decreased as the blue hybrid ascended.

Each stop, we hopped out and tested the temperature. If the view far surpassed the level of chill, pictures were the first course of action. If the shiver might impede the shot, additional layers were donned first. The pavement stopped at one point and we encountered graders along the way. We were on an adventure, two city girls with no real survival skills other than my sister's nursing background. It was such a relief to be away from all the reminders of the home and marriage to which I no longer belonged.

At one pull-out, gloriously meaty snowflakes began to pepper the windshield. Squeals emitted as we wondered at the notion of snow in July. It was as if God was welcoming me to His paradise and the new season of my life. In retrospect, it seems much more profound than at the time since I was still emerged in the idea of loss. Needless to say, we sisters jumped out of the vehicle, added a layer of fleece and jogged towards the retaining wall that revealed a majestic view of the Rockies. Exploration, flashing, exclamations and then my phone rang at about 11,000 feet. I was flabbergasted that my T-Mobile serviced flip phone received a signal. The reception was spotty, but the content was clear. My glossy, black-laquered baby grand was in Colorado. My heart raced, mind relaxed, body skipped as I panted at the lack of oxygen. Within a week, the tool of potential soothing would be at home awaiting my trembling appendages for our therapy sessions.

It has been a while since I have considered this process and the healing this weighty instrument garners. It is difficult to explain, but when the tips of my fingers find their way to the ebony and ivory, my mind is transported to a different dimension. I do not claim to be very talented, but the act of drawing melodies and harmonies from the keyboard releases tension and purges oppressive thoughts. Before I know it, 2 hours have passed and things look a bit clearer. The need to decompress and regurgitate toxic images, opinions and memories is less frequent. In fact, I even catch myself drawn to the musical altar in times of joy in order to express my gratefulness to the One and Only Heavenly Father.

Oh Lord, thank you for the soothing keys of a Kawai. I am healthier and moving forward not in small part due to a keys encased in a curvaceous housing.

Algorithms that Mesmerize

Tonight, students from my Rubik's Cube club participated in a Colorado Regional Rubik's Cube Competition. Neither the team nor the soloists placed, but they really did me proud.

First, the parameters. 21 teams competed. Each had 8 members and together they were to solve 25 Rubik's Cubes in the shortest time possible. My boys finished the cubes in 6 minutes and 40 seconds. I think that is a stellar accomplishment. It shows growth and increased pace. They worked as a team. They shared cubes. The concentrated harder than any practice round. These cubers were a fine oiled machine!

But, the competition is not the purpose of this recounting. Consider a three dimensional cube constructed of 54 tiles in 6 different colors and the need to manipulate the faces so that each one ends up a solid sea of one of those colors. Who cares? What is the purpose? My students care and I have observed significant personal and social growth in the process.

At the onset of this adventure, I was the lone wolf with the solution guide. I had no confidence in the solution or the process. That lack of confidence had prevented me from introducing Rubik's Cubes to my students over the past 7 years. However, for some reason I decided this was the year to jump in and sink or swim. What a glutton for experiencing failure!

Day one, just teach them how to correctly solve the white cross. Easy, right? Oh my goodness, NO! 24 eager 3rd through 5th graders wanted to know and I had to impart the secret successfully within an hour. Needless to say, about 1/5 of the students got the rhythm for the white cross and waited for more while I wallowed around the room striving to get everyone else to a place of success. Wide-eyed, needy cherubs felt the only way to get to the solution was to have one-on-one instruction, and thus a line quickly formed. There just wasn't enough of me to go around and time vanished.

After reaching out to other coaches, I soon realized that I needed to lean on those visual/spatial thinkers in that club for two reasons. One, they were ready for more now, not next week. Two, they were more adept at speaking the language of kid. So, a second club formed, made up of Rubik's Cube tutors. They got to the completion stage far sooner than I have originally planned and were quite prepared to guide others to the same place.

Then the complaints started rolling in. Rubik's Cubes popped up all over campus. Students who had not signed up for the club found cubes of older siblings and brought them to campus so that the club members could solve them. Instead of reading during instruction, cubes were being manipulated discretely and not so discretely under desks. Crowds formed around solvers in hopes of gaining a bit of know how. And, the click, click, click of the rotation of faces became the background music for learning.

Students borrowed solution manuals. Requests for 2x2, 3x3, 4x4 and other cubes were made for Christmas and birthdays. Internet searches were made to find "gaming" shortcuts for the cube.

Then the magic happened. The first student was able to solve the cube without the assistance of the solution guide. Domino effect set in, leading to more independent solvers. Introverts were asking peers for pointers or offering suggestions to students with whom they had never conversed. The in-crowd sought out the thinkers so they could walk around with a trophy of a solved cube. As soon as a cuber walked into my classroom, s/he gravitated to the open box of cubes and solved multiple cubes by the time the lesson started.

Eventually, the idea of team work became a common thread. Conversations about the best way to decrease the time that was needed to solve a pile of cubes was discussed. Compliments were easily shared. Brainstorming about each other's strengths led to a plan about passing cubes while competing. Did you see, was a common conversation starter.

And, the confidence bloomed. Heads raised. Poetry and word problems about Rubik's Cubes surfaced. Discussions about Rubik's Cube algorithms connected to history, math and science. Transition of the problem solving process carried over into other situations. My students were fascinated by the algorithms and could not stop solving the three dimensional monster that defeated so many of us in the 80s.

They became believers in much more than the cube.
They believed in themselves, in each other, in team dynamics, in tenacity, and in hard work.

Who cares? What is the purpose?

They care.
I care.
It instilled a more ready willingness to strive towards a growth mindset.

I cannot take credit for that amazing outcome, it is just what occurred through the process of taking a risk on my kids.

I am thankful I decided to sink or swim with them.

Life is Precious

I know it is a cliché.
I realize that the value of the words is greatly diminished by the repetitive statement occurring during unwarranted situations.
I acknowledge that I am personally prone to overlook events and experiences that really support the phrase.
This past week I did not ignore proof that Life is Precious.

My father had a heart attack on Thursday, April 2nd.

I'll never forget the gut wrenching phone call from my Mom gasping for breath and sobbing that, "Dad has had a heart attack and it does not look good. They are working on him right now. I can't get ahold of your sister. Your brother and sister-in-law are on their way. Pray. I have to go and call my Prayer Warriors. Pray!"

I cannot fathom how difficult it must have been to relay the account.

I was literally paralyzed. My brain just froze. I could not function. Getting into action mode was like dragging my feet through quicksand. Suddenly all that I saw, heard and thought were moving around me like molasses.

First, I have never in my 50 years witnessed or heard my mother cry. She is a strong woman who has faced many potential setbacks. All have been addressed with aplomb and peace. Breast cancer, knee replacement, my divorce, loss of parents, partial loss of sight, broken elbow, etc...

On that frightful night, her typical demeanor was not present. And, I was 900 miles away. The one who has been an anchor of sensibility for the entire race was shaken and I found it to be disconcerting.

My mind raced like a cheetah after its prey. I am a problem solver. I can generate a list of potential solutions faster than one of my fifth graders can solve the Rubik's Cube. That is my modus operandi. But, the list of choices my mind started to generate were not immediate or powerful enough to soothe my mother or revive my father. Other than going through the unwanted collapse of my marriage, I have never felt more helpless and ineffective.

I called my sister and then texted the disturbing news in order to get her in the loop. I booked the first available flight ignoring the astronomical financial obligation. I washed a load of clothes and ran up to school to write at least 3 days of substitute plans. And, I sobbed. Then I sobbed a bit more. The uncontrollable gasping kept taking over my countenance. But, most of all, I prayed and contacted my prayer warriors as well. Of course, what words can one possibly use to petition God's healing hand to take over. I did not want to leave out any possible need. I got so overwhelmed with articulating my requests that I literally fell on Romans 8:26.

...the Spirit also helps our weakness; for we do not know how to pray as we should, but the Spirit Himself intercedes for us with groanings too deep for words;

Upon my return to the house, I realized I had to consider what to pack. Nothing shakes you to the core more than preparing for cheerleader, nurturer or mourner status. It was an endless night.

The morning did not arrive soon enough. I had to get to my mom's side and give her a bear hug and cry on her shoulder. I needed to see my Dad and tell him I love him at least one more time should the tone of mom's voice really predict the outcome. My presence was required. The close proximity of my family was desperately craved. Why did I live so far away? Maybe I should sell my house and move back to Texas this summer. I should be there. Mom should never have to face such a traumatic situation without physical and emotional support.

When someone who has nurtured, supported, challenged, reprimanded, frustrated, loved, encouraged, questioned, angered, thrilled you for your entire life is actually lying at death's door, nothing else in the world matters. You imagine the worst. Scenarios that you have never considered play like "Groundhog Day" on the IMAX screen of your mind. The trek to DIA is not short enough. The check-in, security and boarding lines are not fast enough. The flight is not traveling the speed of light. The baggage claim crew is not strong enough. The conveyor belt does not hold enough bags. The drive to the hospital is too circuitous. The minutes ticking away in the surgical waiting room are creeping sloths. Information regarding medical status is not acquired soon enough.

How can the life of a mental giant dissipate so immediately? Did we take advantage of every possible life experience? Did we show him he was loved deeply? Did I live wisely enough to make his potential passing a smooth journey? Did I value life?

The rest of the story is for another post, but I will eliminate a few cliff hangers.

My brother and his wife are the best support team my parents could ever desire. They were at the hospital by my mom's side almost immediately and generously took over the difficult decisions, ministering to her physically, emotionally and spiritually.

My sister was on the road from Houston within one hour of the text I had sent her. I scared my baby sister to sobs and I regret that immensely. Thankfully, I had not scarred her enough to hinder her gift of medical knowledge, which brought such peace and understanding throughout the entire process.

I arrived safely as Dad was undergoing a procedure in the cath lab. He now has a stint and is working his way through the rehabilitation process.

I am back in Colorado with a mild respiratory struggle keeping me from returning to Texas as soon as I would like. I do not want to risk my father's health in any way. Also, the idea of selling the home is only a remote memory that I am not seriously considering.

God is good. I have no idea what He intends for my Dad to do from this point forward, but the man clearly has more work to do.

And, I am grasping a deeper understanding about the concept of Life Being Precious, for it truly is a gift!