Don't sweat the small stuff!

I'm a worrier.  I am a planner. And I'm a little bit OCD. I like my house very neat and clean, I vacuum my car every week and I have lists for my lists. My life is very organized. My day planner plays second fiddle in importance only to The Bible. If the laundry begins to pile up or my "to do" list gets too long, I get a little bit crazy. When I am under stress, cleaning and putting things back in order gives me a sense of control again.  I like to live my life skipping merrily down the path with as few yield signs as possible. When I find myself contemplating setting tomorrow's supper table today or making an unnecessary stop at the store because I finished the rice and grocery day is four days away, I know it's time to reign myself in. Sometimes though, I just  get so focused on that merry little path, I fail to see the flowers or trees, the yield signs or even the stop signs. I've set my engine on cruise. That's when God steps in and reminds me what is important. He throws a little speed bump my way to remind me to slow down. Recently though, I think he put my little path under road construction! A little speed bump wasn't going to slow me down. I found myself, along with my husband, at my father's bedside watching him struggle for life. As I sat there quietly holding dad's hand, listening to the rhythmic sounds of the equipment keeping his body functioning, gazing around at all the monitors and tubes, I had a lot of time to think and reflect. More importantly, I had a lot of time to pray. I was in a room I'd never been in before, in a hospital I wasn't familiar with, in a state far from home. I was living out of a suitcase and existing on hurried meals in the hospital cafeteria. I was whispering words of encouragement to my father to fight hard for life and I was praying, begging God to heal him. As I watched my step mom grieve with every setback and rejoice with every victory and  as I watched highly trained doctors and nurses work to save lives and comfort families; my dirty kitchen floor and half completed grocery list at home became so unimportant. The only thing on my mind was seeing my father's body heal. In the last 10 days of my life, I am certain I have talked more to God, than ever before. And He has listened and answered me.  My little path of contentment has been under construction and I don't mind the detour at all. I just want the people I love to be healthy and happy. Nothing else seems to matter anymore.

This past weekend, my husband and I set our sights for home again, facing a 22 hour drive, non-stop. Halfway home, around 3 am on a quiet highway in Tennessee, our truck broke down. We had to call for police assistance then a tow truck and finally, we had to sit for about 8 hours at a car dealership while the parts were obtained and our truck was repaired.  When we finally pulled in our driveway at home, it had been over 40 hours since we'd slept and we were tired and dirty and functioning on auto pilot. My heart and head were still back in that hospital room with my dad, but I was back home. Had I been skipping merrily down my path when the truck broke down, I would've been incredibly upset, frustrated and afraid. I would've complained because it was 50 degrees out and I was cold. I would've obsessed about the cost and the loss of time. I probably would've indulged in a little self pity. But after  the last week , seeing how precious life itself is and realizing how deeply I love and hurt, our experience was just a hiccup.  Rather than focus on the negatives, I realized how blessed we were to encounter such helpful people.There was the police officer who went out of his way to help us and pointed us in the right direction for help on a Saturday morning. There was the night janitor at the dealership who let me in to use the restroom at 4am. There was the service manager who showed up at work an hour before opening, who made us coffee and invited us to wait inside. I took the lemons that I was handed and made lemonade. It quenched my thirst and it was delicious! Maybe tomorrow, I will try a different road from the one I generally travel.

As I write this, I am in Florida, many miles from home. My father is fighting for his life in a hospital bed, attached to more machines and wires and tubes than I have ever seen in my life. He has at least one, sometimes two nurses in his room at all times. These are highly skilled, incredibly gifted nurses who patiently answer all of our questions and show great compassion while remaining dedicated to what is best for my father. The doctors are Christian men who pray for their patients on a daily basis, which gives us great comfort. Yesterday, things looked bleak. Today we have some hope. My father has shown us he wants to continue this fight and God has shown us His power to heal.  People are praying for dad all over the country and indeed other countries. My husband, step mom and I have perfected a system of showering, rushing to the hospital and trading places so that someone is always near dad.We are afraid to be absent when a signature is required or a change takes place. We have become excellent girl scouts and boy scouts, always prepared, carrying snacks, phone chargers and notes in our bags. We have developed a phone triage to keep all our friends and family updated. We are "recovery" warriors. Except this doesn't feel like a recovery quite yet. The expected "recovery" would've seen dad home by now, resting and, well...............recovering. But he's still fighting. The doctor said his body is under the most stress it has ever experienced in it's life of 71 years.

I am sitting at dad's computer, in dad's bedroom, in dad's house and I feel as if this is happening to someone else. This can't be right because dad isn't here. He isn't telling his jokes or reciting trivia.  I'm in sunny Florida, but I cannot appreciate or enjoy it. I can't go to the beach, or go shopping or enjoy my favorite seafood haunt down here because it would feel inappropriate. Those are happy things and I am not happy to be here. I no longer love Florida. I wish I were back home going about my daily routine and my father were here in his home "recovering". Until that wish is granted I will continue to whisper encouragement in my father's ears and I will continue to pray................

Honor thy father

Early tomorrow morning, my father will be wheeled into an operating room, his chest will be opened up and his heart  will be exposed. His physical heart. He's been through this twice before but this time he is older, sicker and the risk is much greater. And while this scene plays out, my heart is aching. My emotional heart. We are separated by hundreds of miles and our only connection is a telephone in my stepmother's hand.  When I heard of this approaching surgery, I wanted to be on the next available flight to my father's side. But he asked that I stay at home where I could pray and wait for a phone call.I am certain there have been many times in my life when I have chosen not to honor my father or his request, but this time I will do so. I don't want to honor his request. I don't want to wait for that precious phone call. I want to be near him, where I can do nothing to help and nothing to change the situation. I know this but "there" is still where I desire to be. I am sure my father's surgeon is top notch and I am confident he will work to the best of his ability as he does for all his patients. I  understand that a surgeon's job is to know his patient with regard to health, to know what his own limitations and talents as a doctor are, with regard to that health. But does he know that the man he will be operating on is someones husband and father and grandfather? Does he understand that his patient is not just someones father, but MY father? Does he know that if things don't go well, a huge void will be left in my life?  Does he know that my father is all I have left of my childhood? When my father is gone from this Earth,there will be no one else to  remember my childhood except me. My mother died much too young and my siblings choose not to have contact with our family. So it's just me and dad and our memories. I'm not ready to cling to those memories all alone just yet. 

I suppose I was always a bit of a "daddy's girl". Maybe it was because my mother and I didn't have a very good relationship or maybe it was just destined. It's entirely possible my father  doesn't even know I consider myself to be "daddy's girl"?!! But  I've always known. When I think back to my childhood, my teens and even adulthood, it's always the memories with my dad that come to mind. He's the one who taught me to ride my bike, drive a car and balance a checkbook. He's the one who taught me to love yard work, picnics, camping and walks in the woods. He's the one who walked me down the aisle. And when I came back to him, he walked me down the aisle a second time and made me promise not to return!! He's the one I get my sense of humor from.

He and I have much in common. It's always been that way. We both love to read, write and talk. We are both poor listeners because we have far too much to say. We both enjoy getting  in a car to drive aimlessly, discovering new places. He and I are very orderly and organized. We each have a "manager" personality as we have been reminded more than once! We both have diabetes. We both sprinkle sugar on our chili ( hence, the diabetes?) And we both love my stepmother, his wife. (She is entitled to a post all her own)

Despite all of our similarities and all of our memories, I had never heard my father say he loved me. I know he loves me but I'd never heard him say it out loud. It was just something we never said in our family, it was always assumed. The last time I spoke to my dad, a couple of days ago, I took that giant leap. I put my heart out there and risked pain or disappointment. Just before I hung up, I  softly said " I love you dad". He softly said " I love you too"!! One more memory to cling to together.......

I believe in God. And I am trusting him to watch over my father and his exposed heart tomorrow. And I am trusting him to watch over mine. I love you dad.

I recently turned 50. It happened. It finally happened. And I am not sure how I feel about it,not that it makes any difference. It’s not as if I could stop it or turn back the clock. I’ve known for most my life that it was coming and it did. No parade, no fireworks, no memorial. The page on the calendar just changed and I was 50. I don’t feel any different, I don’t look any different, but somehow everything has changed. I am a 50 year old woman.I have outlived my mother. I’m no longer a young woman but I’m not yet a senior citizen either. I’m stuck in that place, somewhere in between. I don’t have toddlers anymore but I don’t have an empty nest quite yet either. And I can’t figure out what comes next. Don’t misunderstand. I’m not really one of “those” women, who are hung up on getting old. I believe aging gracefully can be something very beautiful. But I am a little afraid. Of the future. Of poor health. Of dying. My father once said he “wasn’t afraid of being dead, just of dying” and I get that. I’m afraid of dying and turning 50 has deepened that fear. I’m 50 now. Did I mention that? More than half my life is over. Probably a lot more than half my life is over. Where is the stop button? I want off this merry go round. I want a different ride. I want to put on the brakes.I want to start over. I want to turn back time and do almost everything over, differently. I want to be thin and healthy. I want to be soft spoken and graceful. I want to be the Godly woman I was meant to be when I was created. I want to have been married to my husband since high school. I want to have no regrets. I want to be able to say I did everything “right”.  I want my children to worship and respect me and be grateful for the wonderful way I raised them, always selflessly and wisely. I want to have been in the same career for the same employer my entire life. I want to be able to hold my husband’s hand and reminisce about the life we’ve built together since high school. I want my life to be an open book for all to read, knowing it is above reproach.

     But we don’t always get what we want. We get what God wants for us. Better still, what we really get is exactly what we choose for ourselves. And since I didn’t choose to believe in God’s love until I was in my 40’s, I didn’t choose very good things sometimes. 
     Here’s what I know about being 50. I have children. I have grandchildren. I have aging parents and in laws. I have lost people that I loved. I have 50 years of memories and experiences to treasure.  And I have wrinkles. I have pain. And I am tired. And I feel as if I am running out of time. I have to make the rest of my years count. I have to fix what isn’t right and I have to maintain what is. I have to eat better and sleep more. I have to lose weight and exercize more. I have to love more and complain less. And I have to hurry because I am 50 and I have lived more than half my life already. Maybe I am hung up on getting old. Maybe I am one of “those” women.