Blue Skies

 

 

A friend asked if I’d ever participated in any of the Journal-based photo challenges and I replied that I never thought my work was good enough to expose any more widely than I already have.  But I took a look at the suggested sites again and found a topic I particularly liked in light of all the grey that’s descended in my life lately.  The topic was ‘Blue Skies’ and the ‘assignment’ was to post a picture dominated by cloudless expanses of blue.  You can find links to others who have posted entries here: Your Monday Photo Shoot: Blue Skies.

 

 

I’ve always liked the subject of this photo because its always made me smile.  Another photographer also captured a less-than-flattering image of me in the process of taking this shot (lying flat on my back in a wet parking lot in order to get the perspective I wanted)  - and that helps keep me humble in case I ever need it.  To any and all who read this, I wish you blue skies - regardless of the weather.

 

 

 

 

My sincere thanks to all who took the time to read my last entry and for the wonderful, supportive comments you left.  I intended it to be a celebration of the life dad led and the inspiration he has been to me - and not a maudlin lament of loss.  I truly hope that you found it as uplifting to read as I found it cathartic to write.  I know without doubt that he has received the rest he sought and so richly deserved.  And that’s one of the reasons I chose this topic – because for him the skies will now always be blue.

 

A Tribute

 

 

As you may or may not have noticed, I’ve been away from J-Land for quite some time.  Not only have I not written in my own journal, but I have been remiss in reading those of others - and for that my own life has been all the less rich.

 

When I began this journal, I wanted it to not just be a record of my existence but a record of the small blessings we encounter in life yet do not take the time to appreciate.  My feeling was that my life was not so remarkable that it needed recording, but that I had encountered frequent brushes with bits of wisdom and reminders of the beauty of the world that I wanted to keep and remember.

 

My journal has always been written to help me hold those moments, but when others began to read I found that perhaps those experiences could help others find their own small blessings as well. If you have taken something from these pages that has caused you to smile or to better appreciate wildflowers along the roadside, then that is all the more reward to me – and those who have then shared their own experiences have helped to  enrich my life as well.

 

This entry will differ from some of what I’ve written in the past.  It is again primarily a reminder for me and it is a celebration of sorts, although different from what you have read here previously.  It is personal and I apologize if it brings back memories for anyone who, for whatever reason,  wishes to keep them suppressed.

 

 

Last Friday, as I held his hand, my father very quietly slipped away from me and into the arms of God.

 

 

I’ve introduced my dad here before – the struggles with which he’s dealt with such grace and dignity, and all the things he’s taught me about inner strength and faith.  And while I’ve cried enough tears in the last few days to fill a small pond, in the end I only celebrate the life he led and his release from the burdens and indignities that life has heaped upon his frail shoulders these past three-plus years.

 

There have been times in life when my faith has faltered.  But all I have seen and felt in these past several days has again strengthened my belief that there is more to this life than we know or control. 

 

When I visited his hospital room last Thursday, I could hear dad talking from all the way down the hall.  When I turned the corner, I found him sitting in the chair beside his bed, oxygen mask in place, telling a long and detailed story to no one in particular.  I took a seat across from him and listened carefully to understand what he was so insistently conveying and slowly the realization came that he was providing a litany – in exacting detail – of how he spent a typical day.

 

Carefully he explained how he used the pitcher of thickened milk to make his oatmeal, how he took small bites and swallowed carefully as the doctors had directed, how he was so careful to maintain his balance during those brief periods when he rose from the wheelchair and relied upon the walker.  When he finally paused, I touched his hand and he looked toward me for the first time – so intent had been his presentation that he had not noticed my presence.  I asked if he knew who I was and he replied ‘my one and only son’ – and then proceeded to explain all the routines I followed during my visits with him – the grocery shopping, pill sorting and jar opening that had become a part of our ritual.  As he talked, the mask bounced about his face and I touched his hand again, quietly reminding him that it would stay in place and allow him to breathe easier if he didn’t talk so much.  But he looked at me and said with a hint of a smile in his weary eyes ‘but you know that’s what I do’ – and he was right, for dad was never at a loss for words and no visit could ever be long enough.

 

Finally, he stopped and looked at me, and in a very serious voice asked me a question that was obviously troubling him.  ‘When they ask my name, what do I tell them?’  Flustered, I asked him to repeat the question and he was more forceful in his reply.  ‘When who asks your name?’ I asked.  ‘The judge,’ he replied.  Confused, I asked him if he knew his name, and he replied clearly and deliberately.  Not understanding, but knowing it was important to him, I could only tell him ‘Then that’s the name you tell him’.  After that, he fell into silence and the rest of the evening was peaceful.

 

In the morning, the nurses called and told me he was having a great deal of difficulty breathing.  He was receiving 100% oxygen by mask and if his condition worsened the only available next step would be to place him on a ventilator – in violation of the terms of his Living Will.  I knew his wishes clearly and we had discussed them many times, but my decision was complicated by the fact that he had pneumonia and the antibiotics had just started to work - and I didn’t know if a day or two of help might pull him through.  I called his doctor and gathered more information, but then sought a place of silence and asked for guidance for perhaps the most important decision of my life.

 

And in a moment, the answer was clear.  Already yesterday, dad knew.  His faith was strong and sometimes literal – and the story I had heard the previous day was practice for when he stood at the Gate and needed to state his case that he had done all he could to help himself during this prolonged test of his faith.  And when the Judge asked his name, he wanted to make sure that he got it exactly right.  I let his DNR instructions stand and went to the hospital – knowing in my heart that when I left that day I would be a 52 year-old orphan.

 

We sat together most of the day and I held his hand - without acknowledgement, but squeezing tight regardless.  For all his struggles in life, his passing was the kindest possible.  He left so quietly and peacefully that I never really knew exactly when – and for that I will be eternally grateful.

 

 

 

So many times following his stroke he would ask me why he had been chosen for this particular burden.  It was not asked in the context of ‘why me?’ – for it was obvious that he was really struggling with understanding what God was asking of him and what he was expected to do.  And now in the quiet days after the uplifting visitation and service, I begin to understand that perhaps at least some of that task was to teach me grace and humor and faith in the face of adversity, to dig deep and keep going no matter the odds, to treasure life and all it holds despite the darkness of the clouds.  Much of what you have read in these pages has stemmed from the appreciation of life that I have gained from his example – and I will only hope to make all of his struggles worthwhile by holding those lessons in my heart and remembering them always.

 

At his service, the following words were read.  Although written thousands of years before and applicable also to countless who have passed before him, they ring true to the life he led and the man he was:

 

“I am now ready to be offered and the time of my departure is at hand.  I have fought the good fight, I have finished my course, I have kept the faith.”  II Timothy 4, 6-7.

 

 

As for me, my life remains blessed by friends and by people I love – and now also by a brand new angel who will now always rest upon my shoulder.

 

 

 

 

A Day to Remember

 

 

I’ve always believed that life tends to balance itself out – sometimes over days, sometimes over a lifetime.  I never correct anyone who falsely blames me for something I didn’t do unless its particularly egregious, because I know that there will also be times when I’ll get credit for something I had little or no control over.  Sometimes its best just to smile and move on and let the natural order of things take care of itself.

 

Yesterday, nature created its own balance – and in record time.  Tuesday was cold and blustery, leaving 8 inches of wet snow in the driveway by the time it was over.  But yesterday more than balanced the scales – bright sunshine and clear blue skies framed the new-fallen snow, and there are few combinations in nature’s vista that can match that spectacle.

 

I had already decided to venture forth, camera in hand, to see what wonders I could record.  But before I even had the chance to leave the house, nature served up a bounty of visual riches just outside the window.

 

It began asa blur of movement caught my eye, drawing me to three deer foraging in the woods only a few feet from the house.  I watched as they nuzzled the foliage, gently brushing the snow away from the evergreens in search of a morsel to nibble upon – and leaving a white powdery moustache upon their fur in the process.  Methodically they moved through the woods, oblivious to the cars passing on the road just down the hill, the morning sun casting painterly shadows - dappling their coats and the snowy ground around them with random shades of light and dark.

 

As they slowly moved down into the valley and away from the house, a woodpecker began noisily pounding away on the suet feeder and the chickadees and nuthatches began swarming the seed feeder nearby.  I parked with my lens close to the window glass and waited to see what nature had in store for me.

 

Only moments later, I smiled widely – and knew the day was destined to be memorable.  For there, framed perfectly in my lens, was a brilliant red cardinal – an eternal symbol that on the greyest days of winter there is always the promise of the color of summer to come.  He lingered for but a moment, but time enough for me to capture his image.

 

Knowing that the best part of any show I could hope for from this vantage point had already come in the opening act, I packed the camera and headed out for the rest of the day – knowing, no matter what I might find, that nature had already more than repaid any debt from yesterday’s snow with a brilliant day to treasure and remember.

 

 

Hope is Born Again

 

 

I wasn’t going to make a Christmas entry this year.  I’ve been remiss in my Journal entries as it is and in many ways its been tough to capture the holiday spirit, so I’d decided to let things go and try to start fresh again in January.

 

This past year has been difficult on many levels, and while I enjoyed shopping for special ones in my life, most other aspects of holiday planning were much more chore than delight for the first time in almost as long as I can remember.  So I went to dad’s tonight with more a sense of obligation than anticipation.  The early part of the evening did nothing to dispel my mood – he was difficult and frustrating and I was reminded once again that my role is now so much more that of parent to him than child.  And when we arrived at church for the candlelight service, it seemed the remainder of the evening would only hold more of the same.

 

But then the carols started and I found my voice, joining in the celebration of the season and allowing myself to be reminded once more of what Christmas is truly about.  And a sense of hope – one missing for too long now – began to creep back in, a warm feeling that was instantly familiar and welcome once more.

 

Now please do not think that I do not know that my life is blessed – more than many if not most, and far more than I deserve.  There are people in my life who love me, and without whose strength and support I would find it close to impossible to face some days – and for that I am and will be eternally grateful.  Yet there have still been days of self-doubt and darkness, of questioning and of concern for what the future may hold that also take their toll sometimes.

 

Christmas is always a difficult time of year for me anyway – because it was my mother’s favorite holiday and because therefore most memories have a bittersweet tinge to them.  But tonight the opposite was true.  As the lights dimmed and the candles were lit in the quiet sanctuary, as Silent Night began softly and wafted through the congregation as if borne on the tip of each flickering light, gaining strength from each new flame, the darkness began to slip away.  My voice wavered and the tears began to flow - and hope grew anew.

 

Late tonight, I walked in the quiet of the moonlight – and my heart was very full.  There was a spring to my step and light in my soul – gifts beyond measure that helped me once again to savor each word shared with those important in my life, to treasure each small gift of kindness and to cherish each star in the sky.

 

I know that there will be more dark days – they are an inevitable part of life.  But for tonight, hope is born again – as far away as in a distant manger, but also as close as the beating of my heart. And what better way to start another Christmas day?

 

 

 

To those in my life who give reason and purpose to my days – thank you.  To friends and acquaintances – thank you.  To anyone who may happen upon these words – thank you.  No matter how you celebrate, may your holiday season bring hope to your own lives – and may each new candle lit bring fresh light to your soul.  Merry Christmas!

Simple Thanks

 

Its been almost two months since I’ve written here – and I have no idea whether anyone will read these words.  But I have always written in this Journal what my heart directs me to say.  Whether it is read or not is secondary, but I do hope that at least a few will see.

 

When I began this Journal, I had no expectations or plans for it.  It was a way to record events in my life that I wished to remember – special places, people and events that touched my life and that I wanted to retain.  But in ways that still amaze and impress me, others found me and read my words – some anonymously but, to my amazement and gratitude, several who took the time to leave a kind word or a note of encouragement.

 

And that’s the subject of this entry – in keeping with the day and in prelude to my favorite time of the year:  Simple Thanks.

 

There are those who have read and commented here who live in places where today is but another Thursday in a long line of Thursdays, but it matters not whether you celebrate Thanksgiving today or not.  Because Thanksgiving, like most holidays, is really just a codified time to allow us to stop and reflect, to remember the things and the blessings and the people in our lives who have touched us in a positive way – regardless of whether it was within the hour or decades ago.

 

Soto those of you I truly know – thank you.  For those of you who have shared a thought or expressed a kindness – thank you.  For those who may read but leave no footprints behind – thank you.  You have all made this experience far richer for me than I could have dreamed, and for each and every one of you I am grateful.

 

And whether this is a holiday of note or just another Thursday to you, my wish is the same:  may you share and appreciate time with those you hold dear, may you remember those who have gone before, may your smiles be many and may happiness fill your heart.  Thank you.

Keeping the Glow Alive - Part 2

 

 

(The picture above is not meant to impress.  In fact, it’s a retread from a journal entry I made in early January.  Its meant to invoke a feeling that I referenced in that entry – a feeling I experienced today.)

 

 

 

I had a particularly vexing day today.  A home project I have been working on all week – one that I thought was finally complete when I went to bed last night – managed to find a way to take up my entire day today as well.  Gone were the plans I had carefully laid, cast unceremoniously aside by the whims of the project that would not die.

 

As each additional step in the laborious process consumed twice and three times the amount of time I thought it should and the sun literally set on the rest of my plans, I finally reached the absolute final step.

 

There’s something about vacuuming that I loathe. Cleaning bathrooms, laundry, dusting - even windows – I don’t mind as much as dragging the old Kirby around the floors.  Its not particularly difficult or time-consuming, but its my least favorite of household chores – and somehow it seemed fitting that the final step happened to be the thorough vacuuming of the Great Room carpet.

 

My mood was foul and each pass of the sweeper seemed a mockery of my skills and planning abilities.  And then, as I stooped to lift the ember-resistant rug before the hearth, I saw it.  It was peeking out from the corner of the bottom of the fireplace screen – a place I’ve seen dozens of times in the last months.  But today was the day it chose to make its appearance – and I had to shut off the vacuum and simply smile.

 

Last January, as I waxed wistfully in this journal over the end of the Christmas season, I pondered whether we pack the spirit of that season away with the decorations – only bringing it back out for a limited time each year. I hoped that we would find ways in our hearts, once the normal rhythms of everyday life had returned, to keep the peace and the love of the season alive.   I closed the entry by noting that pine needles have a way of turning up at unexpected times no matter how thorough our efforts to remove every one of them – and hoped that at unexpected times during the year we would find a pine needle, and let it take us back to the special peace of the season.

 

And that’s what I found today.  At a time when I was feeling charitable toward few and anger at unspecified gremlins for wasting my day, a tiny, light green and brittle pine needle took me back to the tree and the light and the magic – and my day improved dramatically from there. 

 

When YOU need it most – I wish you a pine needle of your own.

Dance of the squirrels

 

 

I was running late this morning, trying to get out the door to dive into the day’s requirements.  I walked into the kitchen to pour a cup of coffee to go, popped it into the microwave to get it good and piping hot and then turned around – and instantly smiled widely.

 

The deck wraps around the corner of the kitchen and a flurry of activity caught my eye through the sliding glass doors.  Four young squirrels, filled with the carefree exuberance of youth, were scurrying madly up and down the White Oak that sits inches from the deck rail – and using it as a launching pad to hop to the deck and then back again.  They chased each other up and down and around the tree, sometimes moving so fast that they literally ran over the top of each other in their eagerness to reach some imaginary and endlessly changing goal.

 

At about this time, the microwave sounded the end of its cycle – and I was faced with a decision:  grab the coffee and run to the car to stay on schedule or let the pace of life wait a bit while I retrieved the camera and tried to record the frenetic activity of those new to this life and eager to explore all it has to offer.  In a heartbeat, I set the coffee down and ran for the camera.

 

For the next 15 or so minutes, I sat on the deck and quietly enjoyed the tireless play of these athletic creatures - capturing what images I could in the split seconds that they were anything less than a light brown blur.  Of hundreds of missed shots, a few – amazingly – caught a moment in time to illustrate the glorious spectacle they played out for me, and two of those images are shared with you here.

 

When they finally scampered up the tree for good, I set the camera aside, grabbed the coffee cup and hurried out the door.  Would I encounter a more harried pace and additional traffic for my dalliance with nature?  Yes.  If I had the choice to make again, would I do anything differently?  Not on your life.

 

Life constantly presents us with choices – some large, but most small and seemingly insignificant.  And at the end of the day, the choices we make in each of these instances makes the difference between living our lives and having a life.  Sometimes we simply must budget our time according to the schedules of others and the rhythms of the day, but oftentimes we are not really quite as busy as we tell ourselves we are.  In those moments, when you are faced with a choice to adhere to the timetable or to stop and watch the squirrels I hope that you stop and let some carefree joy delight your eye and fill your soul – for your day and your life will be just a little bit brighter if you do.

 

 

 

 

On an unrelated, but very pleasant note: Greg Kiser, a professional photographer in North Carolina has chosen to do a spotlight article on your humble correspondent in his Journal Photo Trek  Take a few moments to visit if you can – and check out the truly wonderful photographs that Greg posts there and on his web site.  Sincere thanks to Greg for his encouraging words and his generosity of spirit – THANK YOU!