Beauty all around us

I grew up in the Pacific Northwest, where upon landing at SeaTac or Portland after far too long away, one’s senses are almost overwhelmed, assaulted, by beauty, whether it be Mount Rainier bathed in pinkish hues of the setting sun, or majestic Mount Hood rising above an ever-burgeoning cityscape.

Evergreens, pungent in an array of adjectives, give rise to any number of emotions and memories of a childhood spent among them. Hillsides are cloaked, not in bougainvillea gone wild or sprawling ice plant, but the vibrant colors of rhododendrons and azaleas, the dozens of shades of spring green, meadows covered in tiny purple iris “flags“ or golden daffodils. In fall, Oregon’s autumnal splendor rivals that of the highly touted Northeast.

Instead of a broad canal delivering water to an arid valley, rivers -- among them the mighty Columbia, meandering Willamette and capricious Umpquas (there are two, after all, before merging into the one that empties into the Pacific) -- descend at times abruptly and others incrementally toward a final destination.

Even today, and it’s been awhile since the last visit and decades since I lived there, the feeling of “I’m home” sets in when we cross the invisible line in the Siskiyous between Northern California and Oregon.

One of my favorite views, though, is not of the mountains and rivers of the PNW, but that of rounding a curve in Colorado as Estes Park unfolds, framed by the icy blue of the lake that shares its name and towering peaks, well over 10,000 feet and cloaked in white against an azure sky. Breath-taking. In its most, albeit temporary, meaning.

But the majority of my life has been spent in the Desert Southwest, where beauty is much more subtle, and the eruption of color, while momentary, is, for lack of a better word, stunning.

And that is part of its charm. One can go along for months tolerating the triple digits of summer, enduring the steering wheel that singes until the A/C kicks in, or the oppressive blanket of humidity when monsoons sweep northward from the Sea of Cortez, wondering why on Earth we stay here. Those who can, escape west to San Diego or head toward the hills, somewhere, until summer eases or vacation ends.

Then the west winds sweep in, cool, dry winds that scrub the air of any debris and leave it crisp and clean. Or the skies fill with clouds saturated with moisture, cumulonimbus towering high into the atmosphere, a study in contrasts of white and grey against that blue, blue sky and green fields below.

The sun, in its rising and setting, flings a palette of colors across the horizon, desert to the east and mountains in all other directions.

It’s a landscape far from bland, with mountains, canyons and dunes that are at turns purple majesty and gilded titian. Rain on the desert nurtures dormant seeds, giving promise to a splendid wildflower season. It transforms prickly ocotillo branches into leafy, scarlet architectural statements, and evokes exotic fragrances. Rainbows, often two at a time, stretch from one pot of gold to the other against a blackened sky.

Temperatures cool. Windows are flung open and spirits lift. There’s an “aha!” moment, one of, yes, we can do this. Especially with this kind of payoff.

Path of no return

Yesterday after church I watched a scene that vividly reminded me of my dad. A gentleman -- and he truly is a gentleman -- and his wife have been coming to church regularly after a few years away; she welcomes the companionship as her husband sinks ever deeper into the world of dementia.

At the potluck afterward, the pastor called for “women and children first” in line, and the wife was among those who headed out of sight to get in line. The husband went looking for her, and a friend gently guided him back to their table.

The momentary disappearance of his “anchor” and his frantic reaction were oh so reminiscent of our experience with Dad, and at once I ached for my Dad and rejoiced that he is with his Savior.

It seems more and more of our friends and loved ones are dealing with dementia in varying forms, and the watching is painful because we have been where they are, and it is a terrifying place to be.

You brace yourself for daily confrontation, for conversations that defy logic and demand extreme patience, for that panicked call for help from Mom, and the need to drop everything and race to their aid.

A couple of days ago a colleague shared that he was traveling to San Diego a lot to visit his parents because his dad had Alzheimer’s. Yesterday at the office we had a chance to talk about that before he clocked out.

My brothers, sisters and I have been in his shoes. We’ve listened to Dad ask the same question 45 seconds apart, for 15 minutes before he moved on to another subject.

My husband and I have listened with growing anxiety to Dad accuse his son-in-law of stealing his license, stealing his car, and argue why yes, he CAN drive, and no one can tell him otherwise. Over. And over. And over.

After he was moved into the San Diego facility, he would call, begging to come home, to come pay the bill at this “hotel” and take him to Mom. He wouldn’t accept ‘No” for an answer, and often the conversation ended with him angry, frustrated, and me in tears. I finally learned to say that I would come get him the minute the doctor released him. And I wasn’t lying. If the doctor had said he was cured, I’d have been there in a heartbeat, or as fast as the car would take me.

Living with dementia is heartbreaking. You learn not to argue, not to fight back, not to try to reason, because there is no reasoning, and you fight to learn not to take it personally, because this isn’t your dad speaking to you like this.

The brakes are off on their self-control. Dad and others like him would say things in the fog of dementia that they never would have even thought to say before.

So when my colleague said he and his family were looking at options of places to put their dad, I told him about the place my sister found for our dad, and how the stability of such a place seemed to help Dad’s mentality, but it also sent him into depression not to be with Mom.

I can think of nothing more terrifying than to be losing your mind and know it, and know there’s nothing you can do about it, and then to be separated from your life partner.

And I can think of nothing sadder than being the family member watching this happen, knowing the release only comes with death. For Dad, that end meant he went home to his Savior, and there is enormous joy knowing that.

My prayers are with my colleague, my friends who now travel this path.

Living differently

In a few hours, one year ago, we said goodbye to a precious friend.

We stood by her bedside, tears dripping onto the blanket covering her tiny frame, not wanting to leave. I think she knew we were there. She just couldn't express it.
We couldn't stay for long. This was a time for her family, as they gathered for her final hours.

The doctors were preparing to take her off the steroid that was staving off the tumors in her brain, and we steeled ourselves for what was to come.

I don't remember much about those moments after we left the hospital. All I remember is praying continuously: "God, you are the Healer. Please wipe those tumors away. Just erase them. Please show us, show Leslie's friends, her family, that you are the Miracle-worker. Please. God. Please."

Mike and Mickey have been friends for decades, since grade school. Put those two together and you will laugh for hours. Laugh until your sides hurt. Laugh until you have to get up and run to the bathroom, or else.

I met Leslie the summer we moved to Imperial from Bremerton, Wash. I was 19. She was 16. She had a crush on my little brother, for awhile. When she met Mike a few short years later, that was it. He was the man for her and she the woman for him.

Each adored the other, that was plain to see. Just look at their dating pictures. Their wedding pictures. Of first Jenna, then Jeff, making their family complete. Of their 25th anniversary photos. Of shots of Mike tenderly looking at her, wracked by chemo or looking fully healed. Of them with Tyler, their eldest grandson, who will turn 3 in October.

When our Jonathan was learning to talk, he couldn't say Leslie. She became Sassy. And so she stayed. Mike and Sassy.

Our family responsibilities and work intervened, and our regular get-togethers with Mike and Sassy became farther apart, and eventually came to a pause. We'd run into each other and it was as if time stood still. We'd laugh till we cried. And say, let's do this again. Soon.

And then, shortly after our husbands' 30-year high school reunion, Leslie was diagnosed with Stage 4 melanoma. There were tumors in her lymph nodes and a bleak diagnosis. Talk about putting on the brakes. Things that seemed so important became trivial.

She was determined to beat this terrible disease. We were determined to pray her through it.

She began writing a blog chronicling her life with cancer. She and Mike found an oncologist developing a vaccine for her type of cancer, and she was accepted into his trial. One round of chemo. Radiation. Another round of chemo. Surgery.

She blogged constantly, and when she was too weak or too sick to her stomach to blog, her sister or her husband would.

Her blog went viral. She made friends around the world, people she never otherwise would have met. She was determined to keep a cheery demeanor on that blog, never complaining, never letting discouragement set in.

She became a prayer warrior, keeping an organized file of people and things to pray for. And I became her prayer warrior. We prayed without ceasing.

We made a pact to get together for dinner once a month. And so we did. We laughed until we cried. We sat in the back seat listening to our husbands and their antics, and treasured the closeness a car's interior brings.

More tumors grew in her brain, and she was flown to San Diego for surgery. As she was healing she wasn't up to going somewhere for dinner, so we brought it to her. She was hungry for In 'N Out. Mickey convinced her to try it his way -- animal style -- and she loved it.

But those tumors kept surfacing. And it became clear they would never go away.

So when, late that afternoon of Aug. 18, 2011, Mickey called to tell me Leslie was gone, tears welled and fell onto my keyboard. My lap. My desk. Words on the screen blurred. There was work to do, and it got done. But my heart wasn't in it. I was disappointed. Emptied. We had become a pretty good team, Mike and Sassy, Mick and I. And now we were three. And I felt lost.

Daddy had died just a few weeks before, and two days later our newborn grandson would face his own life-threatening episode that put him into the NICU for a week or so. I needed Leslie. I missed Leslie. I knew she was in heaven, with our God, but there was -- is -- a void that can never be filled. I could feel the absence of her prayers.

I felt for awhile that I had let Leslie down, that my prayers hadn't worked, as if it were up to me. Until that gentle nudge came telling me, "Oh yes, they did. She IS fully healed."

Sometimes, sitting in church, we sing precious words and images of Daddy and Leslie singing praises to our King spring to mind, and I'm thankful for the little packets of tissues in the pews.

Her daughter, today, while visiting her grave, said it best: "One year later and life is not any easier without you...it's just different. We are learning to live life differently."

And so we are.

To the beach! To the beach!

We're heading to the beach today, and my heart lifts at the thought.

You see, it's hot where I live. Pretty much six months of hot, we get (that's the Yoda influence). And right now it's blazingly hot. Hellishly (although nowhere nearly as horrendously as, well, aitch-e-double-toothpicks) hot. At 6:30 in the a.m., it's already well on the way to the 115 or so degrees predicted as a high. It's been day after day after day of that kind of external oppression that transforms one's car into an oven, the steering wheel just waiting to singe away fingerprints. Turn on the shower and you don't need the "H" part. "C" is tepid enough.

We live in a place where even plunging into the swimming pool isn't refreshing this time of year, potted plants shrivel and a mid-afternoon walk is at your own risk. And you can never get enough water. Or iced tea. With lemon. Over a full glass of Sonic ice.

So to the beach we go, where adventure awaits the day before our girl flies away for her junior year in college.

Sitting underneath the ceiling fan above our dining room table, I can close my eyes and already feel the breeze, the sun burning through 50-proof sunscreen, my toes sinking into damp sand, gripping as the surf tries to drag them outward.

The ocean is my healing place. That enormous ebbing and flowing body of water, a living, breathing organism, if you will, that soothes the soul. It teems with life, above and below. Pelicans are my favorite, skimming the surface in military formation and, spotting something delectable, putting on the brakes and plunging toward breakfast. Or lunch. Or dinner. Or a mid-afternoon snack.

Stand with your back to the beach and the surf that entices you to step deeper and deeper erases the chatter of thousands of people behind you.

Yes, I love the beach, because it frames that big, beautiful, blue ocean, the enormity of it an affirmation of a Love that is deeper and wider and more vast than any other.

For My Father

This is being published in the Sunday edition of our local paper, where I've worked for nearly 25 years, and is my tribute to my Dad, who passed away on July 21, 2011.

“The summer’s gone, and all the flowers are dying; ‘Tis you, ‘tis you must go and I must bide,” sang the tenor who the year before was with the San Diego Opera and this day was singing “Danny Boy” at a home for people with dementia. This time, he too was a “resident,” called upon to entertain at a Father’s Day celebration last year, reaching notes effortlessly in a melodic, soothing timbre that needed no microphone.

Dad and I were at a table in the home’s courtyard, enjoying hot dogs and burgers with a decorated Marine colonel who had served in the Pacific Theater in World War II, and his wife. As we ate and talked, the wife prompted her husband to remember some of his war exploits, but time and disease had done their damage, and his voice faltered and stopped in its retelling. He had forgotten, for now.

The hustle and bustle of the day seemed to have worn on Dad, too, and as he went to his room he asked if I would be waiting when he came out. Then he forgot I was there. Visits to Dad often were followed by walks on the beach, letting the sounds of waves wash away the melancholy.

It’s the nature of advancing dementia to alter reality, blur memories, strip victims and their families of normalcy. But there are also moments, minutes, hours of clarity. A couple more visits later, we saw that clarity in what would be our last conversation before he left us within the next two weeks. It was a “gift,” an Alzheimer’s Association official told me, and one my husband and I treasure, especially today, the first Father’s Day my four brothers, two sisters and I will mark without Dad.

It’s the first time I won’t be standing in front of a wall of cards looking for just the right one, or shopping for a shirt for my impeccably groomed father. My teens, 20s, 30s had me sifting through ties. He liked the ties I picked out. Or so he said. Later it would have been a gift card to a home improvement store. Dad had taken up carpentry as retirement approached, and many finely crafted cutting boards, knife holders and benches were gifted at Christmastime, or just because.

Dad’s story is like many others of his generation. Born in Texas to farmers, his family moved to Oklahoma and then, when the Dust Bowl stripped away soil and dreams, came to California. They built a life, and later a welding business, in Imperial. Dad apprenticed for a butcher in his teens and excelled on the ball fields, if not the classrooms, of Imperial High.

World War II was in its waning years and, before Dad could graduate, Uncle Sam drafted him. He returned from training in San Diego to receive his diploma, but instead of cap and gown wore his Navy blues. The war would end as his ship reached Hawaii, where he spent the next year or so finishing his service.

He had become a committed follower of Jesus Christ during those years, and after the Navy went to the Bible Institute of Los Angeles, now Biola University, where he met Mom, daughter of Scottish immigrants.

Many years later, Dad would become a pastor, moving his family first to Oregon, then to Washington, returning with Mom to be pastor of Imperial Community for 22 years.

Today likely will not be tear-free for me, sitting in a pew of the church we attend, listening to our pastor at the same pulpit Dad stood behind those many years. But it will be filled with memories of a Dad who loved his children passionately, who encouraged us in the things at which we naturally excelled and in the ways we didn’t.

He would be the first to admit he wasn’t perfect, a sinner needing a Savior, a man who made his share of mistakes, but he was more than humble enough to admit it. That, for me, is the best example he could have set.

The month of l.o.v.e.

The month of November is all about giving thanks and in December, it’s giving, or receiving, depending on your priorities.

In February, it’s all about the l.o.v.e.

I don’t write much any more, but not because I don‘t want to. Rather, it is an all-consuming passion that consumes passion. An emotional experience that depletes emotion. It wipes me out, but in the process it wipes out those thoughts hiding in the corners of my mind. You know, the ones that gnaw on you in the wee hours of the night or surface when you’re in the middle of something else and make you FORGET WHAT YOU WERE DOING. But it also helps me remember all that is good and perfect.
Cathartic. Cleansing. Uplifting. Inevitably, up come the tears and the computer screen gets fuzzy.

It’s a hard thing to do and try to do well, for me anyway. And it’s been a couple of years of hard things, so everything -- happy as well as sad -- gets shoved to the corners of the mind.

I try to explain that to Mickey. His biggest wish is that I write something to him, besides those few words that cover a card. That would be the biggest emotional upheaval and emotion-depleter of all.

But, because this is the month of l.o.v.e. And because he’ll be bowling on that special night of l.o.v.e. (i.e. Valentine’s Day) and I’ll be working, I’m going to give this a shot and hope one of us survives.

To my Mickey Charles, here are some things I l.o.v.e. about you:
First of all, that face. Or those eyes. Those dark eyes that light up when you’re pleased with something. Or think of something funny. Or something slightly naughty. Or of joy that brings you to the brink of tears.

Like when you see your granddaughter and your grandsons coming toward you. Or when talking to your sons. Or when your daughter texts you something … charming.
I l.o.v.e. sitting across from you in the silence of our home, silence broken by the tap-tap-tapping of your keyboard, and mine. Like now.

I l.o.v.e. listening to you tell stories, about what happened at work. Or on the track or ballfield decades or a few minutes ago.

I l.o.v.e. pulling weeds while you perch on the ladder, snipping away at the sleeping limbs of the fruitless mulberry, and both of us stopping everything to watch our favorite jets slice through the sky above us.

I l.o.v.e. bowling with you on our days off, turning around to see you watching me. With that l.o.o.k. in your dark brown eyes, that erases the almost-31 years we’ve been husband and wife. The same l.o.o.k. that greeted me when I walked down the aisle on Dad’s arm. That l.o.o.k. that looks past everything wrong I see in myself, and every wrong thing I’ve ever said or done in all those years.

I l.o.v.e. the way you play with the kids. When our sons and daughter were little … and our nieces and nephews … and the neighborhood children … you were their jungle gym. And now, when you sit down on the lawn or the floor, our grandchildren take over. That’s their signal that it’s time to p.l.a.y.

I l.o.v.e. the way you love your parents, those tender-teasing-boisterous conversations about O.U. football. Or how ‘bout those Chargers.

And I l.o.v.e. the son-in-law you are to my Mom, and the patience you had with my Dad. You were at nearly every doctor’s appointment with us in the first six months. You could make him laugh, and convinced him to stick with it when the waiting got tough. “Mary, let‘s get out of here,” he‘d say as we waited for his name to be called. And somehow you’d get him to stay.

I l.o.v.e. the friend you are to people of all walks and thoughts of life. That before the sun peeks through our east windows you are sitting in your chair, head bowed, praying for every person in your life.

You are patient. And kind. And long-suffering.

I wouldn’t be who I am without you.
Happy early V-Day, Mickey Charles!

Sometimes, it is all about me

“Crucified
Laid behind a stone
You lived to die
Rejected and alone
Like a rose
Trampled on the ground
You took the fall
And thought of me
Above all”

Those words always bring me to my knees, whether mentally or literally, whether sung in church or through tears with just me and the earbuds.

The months after Dad’s first hospitalization meant many appointments. His GP. Mom’s GP. His urologist. His visits by the home health worker. His kidney specialist. My OBGYN. His procedure. My surgeries. Aly’s senior year events.

On my birthday that fall, the wrapping paper fell away to reveal an iPod Touch. It became the date book Mickey meant it to be, and we put it to use right away as we sat throughout that morning and into early afternoon in Dad’s urologist’s office. Waiting. If I were truly a patient person, that day would have put an end to it. But there would be many more days just like that one, and patience never became mine. Mindless endurance, well, that’s another matter.

But eventually that iPod Touch became my electronic spiritual savior. On the days when it was just me and an empty house, that little chrome device was my best friend. It sat in my left pocket, white strands linking it to my ears while I worked at the computer or scrubbed toilets or pulled weeds or read my Bible or prayed for friends like Leslie or mentally sorted through the hard things at work. And into my ears flowed melodies and lyrics that delivered perspective.

During weeks, months, of seemingly one hardship after another, it helped keep me sane.

Some months ago that little friend went missing. I rifled through the messes in the desk drawers at work, sifted through piles of clutter in our bedroom and in Aly's, poked and prodded between and under the car seats, looked behind and inside furniture -- all to no avail. I missed it terribly, not only because it helped keep me organized but because it helped tune my brain to the things that matter most.

Finally I gave up. It’ll turn up … someday ... I thought.

Well, months later it did. Aly discovered it somewhere I’d never thought of looking and presented her mom with it, all charged up and ready to go. Yet there it sat for the next couple of weeks, beside my laptop, unused.

Until yesterday morning. As I struggled with some oppressingly negative feelings and thoughts, I didn’t even want to go to church -- felt I didn’t belong there with the thoughts overwhelming my mind, that I didn’t deserve even an ounce of what my Saviour has to offer. So I skipped Sunday school, loaded the sink full of dishes and started scrubbing.

But first, that little device started “calling” my name -- a gentle nudge grew increasingly sharper until, before I knew it, the earbuds were in, Pandora was tuned in and the music began to flow.

“Crucified
Laid behind a stone
You lived to die
Rejected and alone
Like a rose
Trampled on the ground
You took the fall
And thought of me
Above all”

And behind the music came the tears. And the prayers. And the gratitude.

It’s not about me, I have to remind myself over and over, when discouragement gets the upper hand.

But in this case, it is. And I’m eternally grateful.

To top it off, on this Sunday, especially, I'm glad I made it to church.