Five Minute Friday: BOTH

 

 

Two weeks ago today my dad died. Now both of my parents are gone.

Dad lived in a nursing home in Charlottetown for the past two and a half years.  He had advanced kidney failure, so it was just a matter of a slow decline over the last year. I saw him in July 2021 when my brother Errol and I went to PEI for a week, and at that time he was still up in his chair every day, a little confused at times but still eager to see people. In March of this year he got Covid when an outbreak occurred at the nursing home. He wasn't terribly sick with it, but it may have added to his already weakening state. My brother Alan was with him and said Dad just slipped away quietly without distress or discomfort -- just the way he would have wanted to go.

The funeral was this past Friday. We spoke about the constancy of Dad's life -- his faith, his hard work, his humour, his devotion to his family. It seemed fitting to have both laughter and tears intermingled in the same moment. Dad had had a good life. He had loved and been loved. None of us had left anything unsaid or regretted.

At the funeral I read aloud this poem called "The House by the Side of the Road" by Sam Walter Foss. I can't remember when I first read it, but it has always made me think of Dad and of his patient acceptance of both the good and bad of life. 

The House by the Side of the Road

by Sam Walter Foss (1858-1911)

There are hermit souls that live withdrawn
In the place of their self-content;
There are souls, like stars, that dwell apart,
In a fellowless firmament;
There are pioneer souls that blaze their paths
Where highways never ran;
But let me live by the side of the road
And be a friend to man.

Let me live in a house by the side of the road,
Where the race of men go by –
The men who are good and the men who are bad,
As good and as bad as I.
I would not sit in the scorner’s seat,
Or hurl the cynic’s ban;
Let me live in a house by the side of the road
And be a friend to man.

I see from my house by the side of the road,
By the side of the highway of life,
The men who press with the ardor of hope,
The men who are faint with the strife.
But I turn not away from their smiles nor their tears –
Both parts of an infinite plan;
Let me live in my house by the side of the road
And be a friend to man.

I know there are brook-gladdened meadows ahead
And mountains of wearisome height;
That the road passes on through the long afternoon
And stretches away to the night.
But still I rejoice when the travelers rejoice,
And weep with the strangers that moan,
Nor live in my house by the side of the road
Like a man who dwells alone.

Let me live in my house by the side of the road
Where the race of men go by –
They are good, they are bad, they are weak, they are strong,
Wise, foolish – so am I.
Then why should I sit in the scorner’s seat
Or hurl the cynic’s ban?
Let me live in my house by the side of the road
And be a friend to man.

 _____________________________________ 

 

Linking up today with the Five Minute Friday writing community, writing about the word BOTH. 

2020 Christmas Greetings from our home to yours

2020 is drawing to a close, and I think most of us will be glad to see the end of it. The Covid-19 pandemic has changed our lives and routines in ... what's the word I'm looking for ... unprecedented ways, and we hope for good things in 2021 with a vaccine and eventually a return to some semblance of normal life again. I say "some semblance" because of course for so many of us there is no real return to normal: many have lost loved ones and been ill themselves. And for those who have not been personally touched by Covid-19 I think there is a general realization (though this should not have been news to us) that life is not something we can control and capture.

Perhaps Advent and Christmas are also good reminders of this truth, as we ponder God's faithfulness, his Emmanuel-God-With-Us presence, no matter what the circumstances of life bring.

When school shut down in March, our family had to adapt to new routines and rhythms. This was perhaps hardest for Jonathan, who suddenly lost all his favourite activities: school, camp, church, Circle of Friends, sports events with Dad, and the library. We found enjoyment in many, many, MANY family walks: on the K&P Trail, at Lake Ontario Park and Fort Henry and Lemoine Point.

Jonathan sprouted up in height, past me and then past Allison, lost about 15 pounds, and wore his sneaker soles smooth with all the walking. He did amazingly well all those months at home, but was glad when school started again. Now in mid-December the newly built Kingston Secondary School has just opened up, so he and everyone else at KCVI has moved over there. It will be an adjustment for him in the new space, but we know that if he has his familiar people around him, he will adapt.

 

After taking her first on-campus course in Linguistics last year, Allison moved back to remote study along with most other students. This fall she took three third-year Linguistics courses (attending around 9 hours of Zoom lectures most weeks) and has worked very hard. She'll continue this area of study in January; she really seems interested in this subject, perhaps because it combines her interest in language with a sense of structure and order.

Not going to PEI this year was perhaps the biggest disruption to our normal life. When we said goodbye to Dad in his hospital room in August 2019 we never thought we would not be seeing him for well over a year. But he is doing well at the Whisperwood Villa nursing home, staying healthy, and coping patiently with the restrictions Covid has brought. We are hopeful that sometime in 2021 we'll be able to make the trip there and see him and my brother Lincoln and other relatives again.

Richard's work has not changed too much this year besides the need for Covid safety protocols at the hospital. He is missing his volunteer and sports activities: no road races, church softball, or summer soccer. He's done a lot of running on his own, coped with a sciatic nerve flare-up this fall that lasted about a month, and provided regular support to a church friend who has some life challenges.

As an online instructor I have not experienced much day-to-day change in my work. I know our students are stressed and struggling, though, so I need to remind myself that marks and due dates are less important than students' well-being. One student told me in his year-end reflection that he found doing the work in our course "oddly comforting." In 2020, I take that as the highest compliment.

I haven't done a huge amount of creative writing this year (the fact that my writers' group isn't meeting is definitely a factor in that), but I did have three publications:

• My poem "These days" appeared in Dust Poetry in January. (It's interesting to look back at the very real global concerns that preoccupied us in those pre-pandemic days.)
  
• My poem "Leaving home for the last time" appeared in Juniper Poetry this fall.
• My article "Prison farms in a time of global crisis: thinking big, starting small" appeared in Kingstonist.
  

 ***

Ten days from now we celebrate the birth of Jesus. We won't be having an in-person Christmas Eve service or any big family gatherings. But nothing stopped the coming of Jesus into this world as a baby, and nothing can prevent our celebrating that gift, even if it is in new, quieter, simpler ways than in the past. 

But when the fullness of time had come,
God sent forth his Son.
(Galatians 4:4a)

Whatever way you celebrate Christmas this year -- or even if you have different religious observances or none at all -- may you experience peace, contentment, and hope for the future.

Merry Christmas 2019

It's almost Christmas, and we want to wish you the very best during your holiday celebrations and in the coming year. Here's a little of what's been going on in our family's life in 2019. 

Jonathan is 17 and in grade 12 at KCVI. He is still really enjoying himself there; he is so eager to get on the bus and happy to greet his teachers, EA, and friends throughout the school. His love for garbage, recycling, brooms, and shovels continues unabated, and he spends many happy hours on his iPad looking at garbage-truck videos. 

Allison is 21 now and continuing her studies at Queen's. After taking 10 online credits, she decided she wanted to take Linguistics, which isn't offered online -- so in September she enrolled in her first on-campus course. It's gone really well and she'll continue with that course in January. She's also continuing to enjoy her study of psychology; she had Clinical Psychology in the fall and will take Developmental Psychology in the winter. We're really proud of her determination and hard work.

Richard is still working at Kingston General Hospital, volunteering, and participating in various sports. In this picture he's completing the Kingston Half-Marathon.

I (Jeannie) have continued with my online course work at Queen's and my own writing. I had a few publications this year:

My poem "Departures" (about the death of my mom) was published in Juniper Poetry. Link here.

I had two pieces published in Fathom Magazine: a short essay called "When the Time to Weep is the Time to Laugh" (link here) and a poem called "interceding" (link here).

My prose poem "Along King Street" was published on the Kingston Public Library's Poetry Blackboard, curated by Kingston Poet Laureate Jason Heroux (link here). 

"Along King Street" was also one of five poems selected as part of Kingston's Vibrant Spaces Project: in August the poem was printed on a railing along Kingston's waterfront.

In other Jeannie news, I stopped colouring my hair this spring and went back to my natural gray/silver colour. I have no regrets: it's nice not to have the hassle of colouring, and there's something really freeing about just letting my true self be seen!

Speaking of seeing, I also had eye surgery in September. I had been struggling for a few years with double vision and was finally able to have it addressed surgically. The operation -- in which the muscles at the inside of both eyes were detached, repositioned, and stitched back up again -- was successful, and although the doubling has not been completely eliminated, I now see perfectly with my glasses. I'm really happy I had it done.

2019 was a challenging year in family terms. Rich's mom fell and broke her ankle in May; she spent almost three months recovering in a convalescent unit and was able to return home in August. My uncle Charlie in PEI (Dad's brother) died in July after a lengthy illness, leaving a huge void in all our lives. And in August Dad had a fall and had to be hospitalized; he stayed in hospital seven weeks and then moved to a nursing home in Charlottetown in early October. (I went into more detail about that in this post). Overall he seems to be adjusting well to his new home. 

All these events remind us that life can change quickly, and there isn't always an instruction manual for how to respond. Sometimes we're called to step up and provide help and support in ways we didn't expect; other times we're the ones needing the help and support. In the end, though, family and relationships are the most important thing in life. Some of us may be missing absent loved ones even in the middle of our joyful holiday celebrations. May we experience peace in these bittersweet days and be strengthened by our memories and our faith. 

God bless all of you in 2020.

 

Thanksgiving: gratitude in all life's seasons

It has been a long time since I've written on this blog. There have been many reasons for that. Thanksgiving weekend seems like a good time to get back to it: to provide a few updates of what's been going on and, in the process, give thanks.

Family life has been very, very busy with lots of emotions and details to process. On August 13, five days before our family's trip to PEI, my dad had a fall at home and was taken to the hospital by ambulance. He was admitted and underwent various tests that showed poor heart and kidney functioning. Dad was in hospital the entire time we were in PEI and for several weeks after that. This sudden crisis meant that our PEI vacation had a very different tone to it: I spent several hours in the hospital most days, keeping Dad company, talking to staff, etc. We were glad to be there to support him and help my brother out as well. After consultations with the hospital staff we all concluded it probably was not feasible for my dad to live at home any more, so we had a family meeting at the hospital and submitted an application for a nursing home placement.

In early October, seven weeks after Dad's admission to hospital, he moved to a nursing home in Charlottetown. I haven't been down to see him yet, so I don't know exactly how the transition has gone; but I'm very thankful that this move happened, that he has a place where he can be well cared for. Dad is stoic about all this, as he is about most things. I remember when Mom died and he moved to the apartment, he said, "I'd rather be at the farm, but since I can't be, I'm glad I'm here." There is a lot to be said for that kind of attitude at his time of life. Aging brings so many losses: as a friend said to me the other day, when we're young, change often means an opening up of life and options, whereas when we're older, change often signals a closing down and narrowing. It's not easy. But my dad is a wonderful person and I think he still has a lot to offer the world with his kind, quiet spirit.

Once we returned from PEI at the end of August, it was time for school. Jonathan settled back into high school life like a duck slips into water; he was eager to get on the bus and see his EA, Dylan (who calls Jonathan his "partner in crime"), and to connect with old and new friends. I'm grateful that he likes school so much and is so happy there.

Allison resumed university classes again in September as well. All along she'd been taking exclusively online courses; she'd completed 10 credits after two years of part-time study. But this fall, besides an online course in Clinical Psychology, she's also taking an on-campus course. She decided she wanted to take Linguistics, and that's only offered on campus. So she now goes to campus two days a week for class and tutorial, and is really enjoying the material she's learning. I'm grateful that she chose this new venture all on her own and has been successful with it so far.

On September 9 I had my long-awaited eye surgery (I wrote here about the preparation for that) to correct my double vision, which I've struggled with for a number of years. The surgery was done under general anesthetic and took about two hours. The surgeon detached the eye muscles on the inside corners of both eyes, adjusted their position, and sewed them back up again. I get a little squeamish when I stop and think about that -- but it was actually very straightforward and went well. My eyes were red, runny, and sore for several days, but every day got better. I've had two follow-up appointments and everything is as it should be. The double vision is not (yet) 100% resolved -- it can take a couple of months for the eyes to settle -- but I can now see perfectly with my glasses on, without the stick-on prism I was wearing for six months in preparation for the surgery. I'm thankful. Even if my eyes never reach perfect alignment, the improvement has been amazing.

So it has been a full, stressful few months, but there have been many things to be grateful for along the way. I look out my window at this moment and see multi-coloured trees against a gray sky. A yellow leaf floats to the ground. There is beauty everywhere, in the everyday and in all the seasons of life. 

Because of the Lord’s great love we are not consumed,
    for his compassions never fail.

They are new every morning;
    great is your faithfulness.

~ Lamentations 3:22-23 ~

Happy Thanksgiving. 

Twenty years ago today

Twenty years ago today, this beautiful girl was born. 

In this post I'm going to share Allison's birth story. It's a good story -- and I love hearing other women describe the delivery of their babies, so maybe someone out there is interested in reading this. But if that's not your thing, feel free to scroll on by.

My due date was August 16, 1998. We didn't know if our baby was a boy or a girl -- we had deliberately chosen not to find out in advance -- but we had names ready.

I had a good, uneventful pregnancy. I gained a lot of weight (40+ pounds), and Richard teased me a bit about the fact that for a brief window of time, I weighed more than he did: 172 to his 170. I certainly felt huge, and there was a big "bump" pressing against my rib cage on the left side; my doctor said it was probably the baby's bottom or foot.

In late July, my blood pressure was a bit elevated, so the doctor suggested I go to the clinic at the hospital for some blood work, just so they'd have a baseline in case there were any problems closer to my delivery time. 

So on Tuesday morning, August 4 (the Monday had been a holiday or I would have gone then), I went with Richard to have some blood drawn.

Afterward, as we were walking back down the hall toward the lobby, my water broke and fluid gushed all over the floor. Rich ran to get me a wheelchair, got me to the car and home, and I took a shower and changed clothes.

I was having some contractions, but they were fairly mild at that point. Richard and I had some lunch and then decided to play a game of Scrabble.

Partway through our game -- this was probably around 2:30 or 3 in the afternoon -- I said, "I think we should go to the hospital." The contractions were 5-10 minutes apart by that point, and I was having trouble concentrating on Scrabble words. It's true what they say: as labour progresses, you start to have tunnel vision so that the only things you can focus on are what you're feeling and what your body's doing.

We drove to the hospital and went up to the delivery floor. (Interestingly, this is a different hospital from the one I had to go to for the blood work; the two hospitals handle different clinics and procedures, but they are both a five-minute drive from our house.) 

I told the staff at the nursing station that my water had broken hours earlier and contractions were coming closer together. A nurse -- I remember she had a lovely French accent -- helped me on to a bed so she could check me out. The contractions were beginning to be quite strong by then.

The nurse looked me over and said, "Hmm ... I can really see the outline of the baby. You've lost a lot of fluid. We may have to do an amnioinfusion to replace the fluid so the baby's heart rate is stable during delivery."

"O-kay," I said. (Whoa. They never mentioned THAT in prenatal class.)

Suddenly a huge contraction overwhelmed me. "All right, she's got the urge to push," the nurse called out. A doctor and (I think) a resident came over. 

The doctor was African; he said something to me, and I was embarrassed that I had to ask him to repeat what he'd said because I couldn't understand him. "Has your amniotic sac ruptured?" he said again.

"OH YES," I said, "several hours ago."

The resident did an internal exam. "I feel a small part," she said. "Maybe a hand?"

The doctor checked. "That is a foot," he said.

(No wonder there was so much fluid loss: the baby's head wasn't downward, so there was no cork effect to slow down the flow. And that funny bump that had been knocking against my ribs for the last few weeks: that had been the baby's head.)

After the doctor said that, everything was a blur of activity. Another doctor appeared and they all talked about me and around me. The doctor who had arrived last handed me a clipboard with a release to sign. He told us the baby appeared to be in a footling breech position and that delivering vaginally would likely be quite difficult, and they were recommending an immediate c-section. I signed.

I was wheeled into surgery, contractions coming fast and hard, and was given an epidural. The doctor kept pricking my feet and asking me if I could feel anything -- and just like that, I couldn't. I wasn't able to see anything because of the drape they'd put up, but I felt a lot of pushing and pulling. Richard was sitting by my head with a surgical gown and mask on.

At last the doctor said, "It's a girl!"

"It's Allison!" I said.

At 5:41 p.m. on August 4, 1998 -- twelve days early -- our baby was here.

The details still feel so fresh even after twenty years. Allison's birth wasn't anything like I expected it to be: I didn't listen to calming music or pant through contractions or struggle through exhausting hours of labour. It was intense, fast, and a bit frightening, and the six-week recovery from major surgery was not at all what I had been anticipating. 

But Allison arrived, safe and sound and SO cute with her huge blue eyes.

Today we look back on that day with joy because it was the day a beautiful soul entered this world. She has grown into an intelligent, kind, and gifted young woman. We can't wait to see where the coming years will take her.

Happy 20th Birthday, Allison!

It's always the right time for thanksgiving

As we celebrate Thanksgiving this coming weekend (here in Canada, at least), I thought it would do me good to post a list of things I'm thankful for right now.

I'm very grateful that Jonathan has gotten off to such a wonderful start at high school. He wakes every morning eager to climb on the bus. He has clicked with his new EA, Matt, and talks of him often. He is having new adventures like going to the Food Bank to volunteer once a week, swimming once a week, and taking interesting field trips (yesterday his class rode the Tour Trolley around town to view various Kingston landmarks, ending with lunch from the hot dog vendor in Confederation Park). The whole transition -- new setting, new teacher, new EA, new routine -- has gone more smoothly than we could ever have hoped. 

I'm thankful for friends. This past year I've had a chance to make new connections with several women, mostly from church. Regardless of whether they're older or younger than me, or at a totally different stage of life from mine, every time the connection has been encouraging and inspiring. Although our circumstances may differ, we all struggle with the same issues: using our time wisely, coping with changes and challenges, finding our own unique identity and calling in the midst of the day-to-day demands of life ... oh, and deciding what to order when you go to a cafe that specializes in chocolate. That's definitely a trial that's best faced with the support of a friend. 

I'm thankful for my neighbourhood. As a family we are truly fortunate to live where we do, with neighbours who look out for one another, who lend a hand, who give generously without hesitation. On the first day of school, our neighbours Kenny and Shelley came out with their coffee cups and sat on their front porch to watch Jonathan get on the bus for the first time. And the bus was a half hour late! They didn't have to do that, but they cared enough to show their support; that's just what it's like here on "the circle." 

As I write this post, people in the southern USA are bracing for a massive hurricane. Lives and homes have already been lost in Haiti, an already suffering nation that didn't need more adversity. I sit here and wonder who am I to be grateful for my blessings when others around the world are suffering.

Ann Voskamp, in her bestselling book One Thousand Gifts, helps answer this question for me:

"I know there is poor and hideous suffering, and I've seen the hungry and the guns that go to war.  I have lived pain, and my life can tell:  I only deepen the wound of the world when I neglect to give thanks for early light dappled through leaves and the heavy perfume of wild roses in early July and the song of crickets on humid nights and the rivers that run and the stars that rise and the rain that falls and all the good things that a good God gives.  Why would the world need more anger, more outrage?  How does it save the world to reject unabashed joy when it is joy that saves us? ...

The brave who focus on all things good and all things beautiful and all things true, even in the small, who give thanks for it and discover joy even in the here and now, they are the change agents who bring fullest Light to all the world."

When it comes to being grateful for the good things in our lives, there is never a wrong time. Thanksgiving Day is simply a particularly right time.

Good--but hard. Hard--but good.

Recently I talked to an acquaintance-becoming-a-friend after church. She is so beautiful and joyful. We talked about getting together sometime, which made me happy because one thing I enjoy most about church is connecting with other women. 

There is a certain "chemistry" involved with this process that I've learned not to overthink or worry excessively about. I no longer look specifically for women who are close to me in age or at the same life stage, or involved in the same activities or ministries I'm involved in; I've come to realize that the circumstantial details don't matter as much as that desire (sometimes unspoken, but hopefully eventually spoken!) to connect.

First we talked about a really profound subject: her glasses.

Then, having seen some of her photos on Facebook, I said, "I hope you had a good summer; it looks like you did some nice traveling."

She said, "My summer was good -- but it was hard." She added, with a smile, "I don't share everything on Facebook, you know." I told her that I'm not always sure what or how much to share, either. 

Then she said it again, but differently: "Well, it was hard -- but it was good."

It was good -- but it was hard.

It was hard -- but it was good. 

That sounds a lot like my life, too.

In the last while I've posted about a lot of milestone events in our family: graduations, birthdays, new school adventures. It's great to share these moments and have others join in celebrating them.

But there have been challenges, as well. Our trip out east was good in many ways (we saw my dad and brother and other relatives; Jonathan attended a day camp that kept him busy for much of the time), but it was difficult, too. Jonathan didn't take well to some of the transitions from place to place and had many meltdowns and screaming sessions as a result. Even when he wasn't around I found it hard to relax: it's like my body was tensed up in fight-or-flight mode, anticipating an outburst. There were lots of people I *could* (and maybe *should*) have gotten in touch with, but it was hard to summon up much energy to organize and plan.

So I feel a bit envious when I see other people's photos of relaxing times sitting around campfires, walking on beaches, taking trips that do not (appear to) involve screaming and stress. 

But then I remind myself that there's probably a lot of "good but hard, hard but good" stuff in everybody's lives, stuff that doesn't always show in the pictures they post.

On any given day, either the hard or the good can predominate. Sometimes I fall into bed amazed that I've survived the day. Other times I'm overwhelmed by the sense of being blessed, cared-for, and carried by God and supported by other people -- like friends at church, wonderful family members, awesome neighbours, dedicated school staff, and so many more.

Life is good but hard, hard but good. Maybe it's best to admit and accept that that's true -- for me and for everybody else I meet today.

photo www.pexels.com