Like Rolling off a Blog

No, thank you. I'd like to decline membership. I've just been admitted to a club I never wanted to join. As a matter of fact, Caroline (my favorite nurse so far) said, "Welcome to the club no one wants to be in." You see, she is also a member. It's called The Breast Cancer Club. Whether you've just been diagnosed (me) or are in treatment or have been cleared for many years, you are part of the club. But I'm choosing to think that's okay. I have friends and acquaintances and friends yet to come who have wisdom and strength I don't yet possess but may be able to share with someone down the road. This morning my loving husband went with me for the initial "results consultation." I was really hoping for, "This was all just a big misunderstanding. You can go home now." But no. The pathologist who read my biopsy results said, "I hate to be the one to relay this kind of news, but I have bad news and I have good news. Yes, yo...

God, You have my attention. But this is an adventure I never wanted to sign up for. I have started the roller coaster of emotions and thoughts, and have to remind myself of the "EVEN IF" clause. On Monday, the 25th of June, I arrived early for my core needle biopsy. Fairly calm, actually. The prayers of my friends were lifting me up, for sure. The staff at Edward mammography is so good at what they do, including caring for the human who is going through some trying times. So, gowned and ready to go, I was covered in a warm blanket by Caroline, while the ultrasound tech circled the trouble spots in purple on my skin. The doctor came in and introduced herself, keeping the conversation friendly and light. Caroline held the hand that wasn't behind my head and patted my arm at various intervals. I think I have a natural aversion for anything that may cause me to get drowsy or resist pain, because they always have to double dose me with the numbing stuff. This was no di...

These words have haunted me most of my life. Nerves and fear follow in their wake. I've turned them to my advantage, as I say it keeps me on my toes and ready for any eventuality. But those words ... what if? ... rob the joy and trust and faith that a believer in Jesus is supposed to have. Next week holds some uncertainties. Tests that could reveal either "benign" or "life threatening." So the "what if" is haunting me once again. God is all powerful. He is all loving. He is all wise. He is everywhere. He is all knowing. God is with me every moment. So why do I fear? Even if ... that's what I need to focus on.

Right now I'm listening to my husband speak to someone on Focus on the Family about what kids remember about dads. The emotional touch points. Not big things. The everyday little things a dad does to make life special. My dad took me on a "date" on my 18th birthday. My mom had to convince me to want to go, because by then it was too little too late. Today I got a sympathy card from someone I knew well when I was in high school and college. This makes the point that my dad was one person to the outside world and another to us as a family. His words are quite complimentary. But they describe the man he knew, not the father I knew. Following are his words: Very sorry to learn yesterday the news of Dale's death. He was a gentle spirit who truly cared about people and their relationships.  While technically he wasn't the first person I met upon arriving at R-G in 11/71 (that distinction belonged to the person staffing the front gate), Dale was my first friend...

Memories ... This past week was full of them, as I leafed through scrapbooks, photo albums, and steamer trunks. As I was part and parcel of two memorial services: one at a national cemetery, and one at a retirement home. It is a shame that all of our earthly life would boil down to scraps in a garage. When our children must go through our possessions, it might be just as well to hire a truck and haul it all away. Sad. To have Father's Day on the heels of the memorials for my dad is just too poignant. The siblings and I heard glowing remembrances from his friends at the retirement center and the church he had chosen to attend. Unfortunately, that was the persona he showed to the outside world. We knew someone totally different. "A great listener." To us ... don't argue with him because he will not listen. "Generous." To us ... all the money spent on strangers and his family forgotten. "A friend to all." To us ... nebulous at best. ...

As I’m reclining and resting after a morning of pre-K Sunday school and an Outback steak, I vaguely recall what Sundays were like when I was a child. My father was a pastor of small rural churches until I was ten years old. On most Sunday mornings, we were up early, dressed in our Sunday best, and eating “dry cereal” before piling into the family station wagon to go get a congregant who had no car. Hymnal page numbers were posted on a wooden sign, big and bold. I sat with my mother until I was old enough to sit alone while she sang in the choir or played the piano. Then after the “children’s sermon” we were dismissed for Sunday School. Off to the church basement we went for Bible stories and songs.  Our family was always the last to leave, of course. Dad had to talk with everyone, and so Mom would wisely pack herself a sandwich just in case her blood sugar dropped too low. Then home for the Sunday dinner, most likely with a singleton, couple, or family who needed a plac...

I come from a long line of control issue folks. My mom, being a Type 1 diabetic, was always super controlled about what she ate and when. My dad, on the other hand, was a food hoarder. We'd often find things hidden in the car or elsewhere. So, you see, I have a history of food swings along with the mood swings. Sometimes I seem to have complete control over what and how much I eat ... other times, total abandon! Long ago, before she became known as a heretic, I was a student of Gwen Shamblin. Initially, her Weigh Down Workshop methodology was all above board. I often wish I had those original VHS tapes. She interspersed physical tips with spiritual ones. The spiritual would always trump the physical, but both were absolutely necessary to stay within certain boundaries. #1 ... Wait for stomach hunger. Some of us don't even remember what that feels or sounds like. The body is fearfully and wonderfully made. When your blood sugar drops to a certain level a signal is sent to ...

Every once in a while I am struck with an almost irresistible urge to call my mom ... or my dad. It makes me a little sad. You know the song, "I Did It My Way"? Those lyrics that begin with, "Regrets, I've had a few ..." I've had a lot! Not the least of which is good, healthy communication with my parents. I do not believe that my parents are looking down on me from heaven. That's not how this works. If I don't want to live eternity praising Jesus, then I'm going to be pretty disappointed with heaven. It seems we really don't know what we've got til it's gone. All those questions left unanswered. All those squandered opportunities to say "I love you." Or to find out where a person stands with God. I hope that SOMEONE somewhere will take the advice of those who have lost loved ones and truly make the most of every moment. We always say we will, until it's too late. Call now, because there are no phones in heaven...

Over the many years of my father's pastorate and chaplaincy, he collected Last Supper memorabilia: tapestries, paintings, etched glass, carved candles, china plates. And when it came time to downsize after my mother's death, Dad had to decide what to retain of these keepsakes, and what to give to family or donate. The final Last Supper in his possession in his single room in the memory care facility was a 2x3 ½ foot tapestry of the DaVinci painting (albeit a poor reproduction). When we "happened" to be in Grass Valley the week that my dad passed away (nothing is unplanned to God), I came home with that final Last Supper tapestry. But what to do with it? I have too much stuff as it is, and I actually have a much larger version of Dad's collection hanging in my dining room. After attending a fundraising banquet for Wayside Cross Rescue Mission (now called Wayside Cross ministries, to cover their full spectrum of service), I determined that donating it to this ...

Don't say I didn't warn you! You could have kept scrolling, but no ... Do you know what today is? Yes, it is MOTHER'S DAY. See that apostrophe? That means it is a possessive noun. The day belongs to MY MOTHER. You see, the original intent was to honor the one who birthed you (or perhaps who adopted you and raised you). It is NOT "women's day." Nor is it a day to celebrate all mothers or motherhood. That may sound strange to you, but no. The day is to honor YOUR MOTHER in whatever way is appropriate. There are women who have lost children to disease or suicide or accident, for whom this day is painful, and it shouldn't be. I hope you take what I just said in the way it was intended. There are also women who cannot conceive or will never marry and have children. This day is also not about that. Do you also know that there are actually women who avoid FB and church today? Because of what this day has become, rather than its original intent. Please, ...

My mother has been gone for a bit more than two years now. I miss her frequently. So, M is for missing. Mom would love to tease about her being self-sacrificing. You know, giving up that last piece of pie. Or going without a new purse so the kids can have shoes. So, O is for others. No matter where we lived or where we visited, Mom was always ready with tidbits of information and fun ways to learn. So, T is for teaching. One of the last times I saw my mom alive, we looked at her baby book. My grandmother had traced around her tiny hand, and I asked my mother to place her 82-year-old hand next to the drawing. Those hands have held mine, shaken hands of great and lowly, and served wherever she was planted. So, H is for her hands. Have you ever seen a mama bear? Watch out if you cross her cubs! Even though my mom was generally soft-spoken, she had no problem standing up for us when she felt we had been wrongfully treated. She was able to feel with us because she had lived ...

Today the sadness hits. I cannot see through the tears. Regret building and filling my eyes to overflowing. Why am I such a coward? Why didn’t I confront him with the truth of a Biblical gospel? Was I more concerned with temporal peace than eternal peace? Lord, have mercy. Was just told that the cremation took place today and the urns of remembrance are ready. Ashes to ashes. That’s depressing.

I can't say that I saw a relationship with Jesus in my Dad's life. I saw religion. I saw "swallowing a camel and straining at a gnat." Rules were many and strict. But the big things called sins in the Bible seemed to be palatable, at least in the dark side of Dad's life.

The catatonic gaze was unsettling. Pupils constricted. Stare drilled to an unseen point on the ceiling. "What are you looking at, Dad? What do you see?" No answer. No movement. "I wish I could put something on the ceiling for you to look at. What would be good to look at up there?" Nothing. "What are you thinking, Dad? Are you thinking about Mom? About heaven?" At this point, I began to weep. We–my two sons, my husband, a daughter-in-law, my sister, and three grandchildren–had been in the room a couple of hours earlier. We had gotten some response from Dad, including his trying to mouth words that seemed to echo our "I love you"s. But now it was just me in the room. I knew I wanted to tell him ... what? "I love you, Dad" as I stroked his cheek. I'm told that even those in comas can sometimes hear when all other input or expressions are void. So I tried again. "Dad, you know I love you. But Jesus loves you more. Yo...

This is hard. Sitting at the computer to start the memory download from decades with Dad. This afternoon I had a flow of thoughts all ready to go, but now ... I'm almost afraid to start. Over the next several weeks, as the thoughts and feelings strike, I'll share the good, the bad, and the ugly ... along with the hopes and promises I trust in spite of the past. It's hard to lose someone. It's hard when you just aren't quite sure where that someone is in eternity. And it's hard to share why you aren't sure. I'm choosing my "hard." I'll share as much as God gives me.

Puzzles are fun! Or they can be frustrating. Especially if you don't know the "trick" of the puzzle. When I tell you the answer for this one, you will be wise to every other puzzle of the same kind from here on out. Hint: watch for blockages! You may THINK that liquid is flowing from glass to glass, but look carefully. Some glasses have no egress. The tube is not open, but closed, either at the top or at the bottom of the tube. Therefore, in this particular puzzle ... The liquid first flows into cup 1. About halfway up, it will start flowing into cup 3. Now, check the tubes "attached" to cup 3. The liquid has nowhere to go! Cup 3 is the answer! You're welcome. ;-)

“Not my president!” Now that Donald Trump is the President-Elect, the nearly 50% of the population that did not vote for him is either making snarky remarks on social media, or they are downright rioting in the streets. To you I say, “GROW UP!” Did you vote? If you did not, to you I say, “SHUT UP!” If you did, good for you. Sometimes our vote turns out the way we want, and sometimes it doesn’t. If Trump wasn’t your choice, guess what? Obama wasn’t my choice for the last eight excruciating years of watching him dismantle our constitution and our country. He was not my president, and yet he was. I was required to be a good citizen and follow policy and if necessary, be civilly disobedient. “CIVILLY” One can lament and say, what has happened to our country? But this is really nothing new. This last election cycle was a circus, to be sure. But history shows that man has not changed. However, his methods for getting his own way certainly have. An acquaintance asked me yesterday wh...

After Mom died on February 26 (2016), Diane had the job of going through most of Mom’s things until the rest of us could get there to help. She found duplicate copies of writings Mom had done for a class she participated in while living in Portland. Today’s blog post is a note she penned about David’s escapades shortly after he was adopted. Enjoy, David! [P.S. David is a Christian and successful IT security guy, husband, and father! Glad you are my brother!] One afternoon David did not come home from school. I asked the children in the neighborhood if they had seen him. They said he told them he was going to Korea. He had taken his little cloth bag, with 28 cents in it, to school that day. His friends all said they would help look for him. Many parents helped also, but no one could find him. I called my husband and the base police. David knew the base had airplanes, so that is probably where he would try to go, but that was a long way to walk and the road had no sidewalks. He...

This was the title of a chapter Mom (Joyce Nelson Sawyer) wrote in her booklet Take Care of My Child…for Awhile. It was forty years ago today that my little brother Ricky died of cancer at the age of 9. How could it be that long? This chapter is longer than most of the blog posts. Primarily for family members. …Then on July 11, at about four Sunday afternoon, Dale came into the living room and said Ricky’s eyes were rolling back and he was having convulsions. Dale was really shaken; it was terrible to watch and we knew death was close now. We planned to have Ricky die at home, but we realized we couldn’t handle this. He needed relief from pain and he couldn’t keep the pills down. He no longer had control of his bodily functions. He needed the help of a doctor and the hospital. Our doctor at McClellan [Air Force Base in northern Sacramento] had moved on Friday, so I called the doctors at Stanford Children’s. Dr. Wilbur was away at a convention and Dr. Long was on vacation. I f...

This particular entry from Mom (Joyce Nelson Sawyer) harkens back to when they were stationed at Hahn Air Force Base in Germany. That would have been the early 1980s. When we lived at Hahn AFB, Germany, I was a Red Cross volunteer, assigned to the hydro pool in the hospital. I manned the desk, emptied the tubs, cleaned them, and filled them again after each patient. One day an alarm went off and all the military personnel ran down the hall, put on protective clothing and gas masks. I asked my supervisor what I was supposed to do. He said I should get to the hospital emergency room and wait until the drill was over. I asked what the school children were doing. He said they all went to the basement of the school. I soon realized that I had nothing to worry about. If the alarm was for real, I would be dead in a short time. As you can see, I’m still here and we had one of those drills once a month. In fact, I got off easier than the military who had to put on heavy, hot gear and ga...