It has made me a lot more sensitive to the fact that life is hard.

And I recognize that for most of my life I was not as aware. Not that I wouldn’t know that people were dealing with life issues — cancer, death of a loved one, caring for a parent with Alzheimer’s, etc. But I was not in a position to know the details, to hear their stories. So I didn’t recognize how very hard what they were dealing with was.

You may be one of these people for whom life is hard right now. If so, then you know, and can empathize with others going through similar times.

If you’re not, then just be aware that there are folks all around you every day for whom life is hard. And that a gentle word, a gentle touch, can mean so much, even if you don’t know all the details.

He blames it on the detergents. And the fabric softeners. Over time, he says, they plug the Tygon tubing that connects to the switch that senses when to shut off the water. And when that happens, the floor gets flooded.

His recommendation? Use less detergent, and use a different type. And NEVER run the washing machine when you are not there to watch it and make sure it doesn’t overflow and flood your house.

The washing machines of our world are imperfect. We think they should be better. In fact, they could be better. One could easily design them with an additional sensor that would shut them off it they started to overflow. Or maybe the detergent makers could make better detergent products. But the extra protection from an infrequent overflow would cost more, and because our washers don’t overflow every day, we wouldn’t want to pay the difference. Unless maybe our house had just been flooded.

So because no one makes that washer that will never overflow, we live with ones that might. And because our easy chairs or our desks aren’t in the laundry room, we don’t sit and watch washers to make sure they’re not going to overflow. We just live with the uncertainty, learning to allow it to be pushed from the fronts of our minds by other things.

More importantly, we want a life that we can control, a life that is surprise-free, a life that isn’t disrupted by unexpected incidents. No one makes that life, just like no one makes the washing machine that could never overflow. Things happen, some of them tragic, some of them painful, some of them even fatal. That’s the way life works.

So we learn to live with uncertainty, and the prospect of not only flooded floors, but disrupted lives. Because we have no other choice.

Actually it started yesterday. I’d finished mowing, taken a shower, and put my mowing clothes in the washer and started it. Then I sat down in the den for a few minute before leaving to go eat and do some errands.

When I started to get up, I could see the water running from the kitchen into the hall. The washing machine had overflowed. Again. The entire kitchen, the laundry room, the garage, the hall, and a little of the den were very wet.

My first mode of attack was to use the hard surface floor cleaner to start sucking up the water. It sucked its capacity in about 3 seconds. I figured out pretty quickly that wasn’t going to be much help. Then I grabbed the 5 gallon wet vac, and that was great until it was time to try to empty it. Finally I shifted to the carpet cleaner, which was more manageable, and I finally got it all cleaned up.

So first thing this morning I called GE to set up a repair appointment under our service agreement. You see, the same thing happened two years ago, and I ended up buying the agreement. After navigating the phone tree and having to call another number, I got a representative reading from a script in broken English. He said I had to unplug the washer for one minute to reset it to see if the part was really defective. I did, watched it fill to the top thinking I’d shut it off quickly enough, only to have water running on the floor again! He kept asking questions while I kept telling him I needed it fixed and I needed to clean up the water, but eventually he got what he needed and I got an appointment. And I got the water cleaned up. Again.

So I thought I’d go have a nice lunch, soup and a salad, at Panera Bread. I ordered chicken tortilla soup and a classic salad with ranch on the side. When the food came, the salad didn’t have ranch dressing. I told the waiter, who responded, “We don’t have ranch.” “Well, what is this dressing?” “I don’t know,” she replied, “but I’ll ask.” “Balsamic,” she said a few minutes later. I didn’t tell her that the reason I didn’t order the Greek salad was I didn’t want balsamic. I just ate it, figuring it was part of the day.

After lunch, I went to HEB to pick up a few grocery items. It’s one of my favorite places, actually, and a trip there usually makes me feel good. And everything was going great until it was time to check out. Checkout was more like Walmart than HEB’s normally great experience. But after the way other stuff had been going, it just confirmed to me that it was just one of those days.

I’m looking forward to tomorrow!

Well Used

Some weeks I need my Moleskin.

I need to physically write things down, bullet lists of to do’s that I can check off as I go.

For some reason, it just doesn’t work the same when I do it on the iPhone. I’ve tried all the apps, some of them very good. But I end up feeling more overwhelmed, instead of more focused.

During Dad’s illness and recovery period, it was my go-to for information ranging from his Rx list to Dr. contact information to lists of what I needed to handle and ideas of how to do it.

It’s not a big Moleskin. It’s one that will fit in my pocket, one which will allow a pen to be held when it’s kept closed by the elastic closure thingy.

When things are going along pretty smoothly, I don’t need it. I keep up with things in my head or on my calendar.

But when things get hectic, as this week’s going to be, I grab it and start writing. It’ll be in my pocket the whole week, keeping me focused, keeping me comfortable, like a blankie.

What helps you be focused and comfortable during hectic or stressful weeks?

I think he's smiling!

It’s Friday, and I woke up early this morning.

I’ve enjoyed the quiet, watching the sun rise in a clear sky, hearing and watching the world in my back yard wake up. I saw the great horned owl come home to roost from his night’s hunting, ready for his day of rest. I saw the wasp that started building a nest on our back porch go from sleeping while hanging by a thread to the nest to resuming active building. I heard the sounds of other creatures big and small beginning to move, and the sound of traffic as people became busy.

Meth the goldfish, the name Eloise gave him because he’s lived so long (short for Methuselah), was excited that I was up, hoping for a few flakes of food. Missy Dog was still curled up in a ball when I went to let her out of her kennel. But she too was eager for the day after a few stretches.

I slowly sipped a cup of home-roasted Honduran coffee, not because I needed the caffeine, but because of the joy of its rich taste.

And I had a quiet conversation with God. We talked about Jim and Pam, and the slow process of recovery from a double lung transplant, about the joy of small steps, about the challenges of each moment. We talked about Earnest and Xenia, each caring for spouses who have suffered debilitating strokes. And we talked about many others, currently on my prayer list, asking his blessing and intervention for them.

But we also talked about how amazingly beautiful this world is that he’s given us to live in for a little while, and I spent some time wondering what Heaven must be like if this world is so gorgeous.

Most of my mornings are not this good. I wish they were. It’s a calm in a storm, a chance to catch my breath, a time of refreshing.

Much of the last week has been about caregiving. It had worn me out. I had lost a night’s sleep at the ER with daughter Sara as she suffered though another bout of pancreatitis. Then after getting her home, there was concern and being on call as she rode it out. I also spent long hours with Dad at doctors’ appointments and tests. Sara’s recovered and Dad’s test results were good. Another storm weathered. I’d never wish that I was not the go-to guy for them — I prize being able to be there for them. But it has its price.

My refreshing comes from quiet times like this morning. And from some focused time taking and processing and sharing photographs of beautiful things. And reflecting. And conversations with a God who loves me they way I am. And having a loving wife who puts up with me even when I’m weird.

I’m hoping that you’re having times of refreshment along the way too.

My buddy Jim Clarke got his new lungs last Wednesday night. The fact that a double lung transplant is even possible just boggles my mind. And yes, it’s a BIG deal — for Jim and Pam and their family, and for all of us who love them (which is easy because they are such loving and serving people). I’m so anxious for him to recover to the point that we can enjoy his laugh again!

Also last Wednesday, I spent time with one of our members who is in her last days. She and her husband have been though so much the last couple of years — she fighting cancer, him recovering against all odds from a massive stroke. However, as I visited with the family, we were able to talk about all of this and even laugh together frequently. Even though they have been dealt difficult blows, they’re handling it all with grace and gratitude. And as I prayed with this beautiful lady who had been non-responsive, she audibly prayed along with me.

In addition, I have two friends caring for their spouses who have suffered debilitating strokes. And several who have lost their dads in the last few weeks. And even more who are caring for their aging parents, dealing with all kinds of difficult issues.

The way they, and we, are getting through each day is the commonality that brought us together in the first place — our faith, and our hope. We are able to face each day through the presence of God — often seen through those dear people he has brought our way — in our lives.

Today I’m especially thankful for that.

Missy Dog

It’s my dog’s fault. Well, sort of.

Missy Dog has abundant energy, and is seemingly always either receiving my attention or getting in trouble in an attempt to get it.

Of course, the reasons I haven’t been writing are more complicated than that, and it’s not fair to blame it all on Missy.

On the positive side, I’ve been devoting a lot of time to my photography. There’s so much to learn, so much to shoot, so much to post process and to share.

I’d love for you to drop by my personal blog (which I’ve converted to be primarily a photo blog) to see some of my recent shots and how I’m doing with this newly revived passion.

There was also both an unconscious and conscious decision to pause my writing on this blog. We’ve had a lot going on personally — difficult seasons — so far this year.  Several of my last posts were about my brother-in-law being in hospice. Happily I can tell you that his condition has improved so that he is living independently. But then in March, my 85 year old dad had a heart attack followed by pneumonia, resulting in 10 days in the hospital and an extended recovery. That thrust me into an essentially full-time caregiving role. Happily, his recovery has gone very well. Not only have these situations required a lot of my time, but a lot of emotional energy. Writing about them and difficult seasons in general has just not been something I’ve had the energy to do. And I’ve needed to focus what energy I have had into activities that provide renewal (like the photography).

I’ve missed the writing, though. And I have a number of things that it’d be good to write about. So I’m back — but with no promises about how frequently I’ll post.

Thanks for reading!

This is not the result any of us wanted.

We have prayed with great faith for healing, knowing it was against the odds of nature all along. If pure willpower could win this fight, this man would have won. If being greatly loved by so many people could make a difference, it would have.

After he signed the paper and the witness and the hospice representative left the room, we didn’t have words to give each other in conversation that would make any of us feel better or deal better. So we prayed to the One who understands how we feel, the One who can carry us through these difficult times.

The prayer I spoke was one of lament, telling God that this was not the result we wanted, admitting our pain, our frustration. But I also found words to express our love and faith to God in spite of not getting what we wanted, our total trust in Him to provide for our best good. And I also uttered a number of requests — for His care and protection and love for this family as they continue down a most difficult road.

As people of faith, we frequently pray for healing even in the face of long odds. We are praying for a miracle, for an outcome that flies in the face of logic, of reason, of grim statistics of nature.

Sometimes, admittedly infrequently, God grants our deep desire. I rejoice, and my resolve to keep praying for divine intervention is strengthened.

More often, He doesn’t. Then I express my lament, my sadness at the pain of this life. My resolve to continue praying for divine intervention is not lessened, but I am reminded that I, like Job of old, don’t know the answers.

I was reminded of Job yesterday, that in spite of pain and frustration, that he didn’t lose his integrity.

And that it was time to give that helpful book a fresh read.

Dog Visit in Hospice

Tomorrow it will be four weeks since we got the call that Steve had been sent to the hospital in an ambulance, followed a few days later by a diagnosis of end-stage liver disease and a prognosis of three weeks to three months to live.

The next week he was moved to a residential hospice. Two weeks ago tonight, we had a call that he was not expected to live through the night. But he did.

A week ago we were back down visiting him, fixing him a pie, and taking his dogs to visit him. He didn’t move from the bed. In fact, he didn’t even sit up. We had a few one sentence conversations.

The hospice doctor felt that his condition had stabilized however, and plans were underway for Steve to move to a residential hospice facility for less critically ill patients.

Tuesday, after we were back home, Steve called me and we had a very lucid ten-minute conversation — something that hadn’t happened at all during our visits. And he has continued making phone calls, and having long conversations, all week.

Friday he was able to get up and walk with assistance. Saturday he was able to walk with one cane and go to a nearby BBQ place for lunch with his brother.

It’s been a strange, stressful, roller coaster ride so far. We’re thankful Steve is enjoying some better days, sort of an unexpected bonus for him. But even that adds to the stress, trying to manage contingencies, handling location changes, dealing with his changing needs.

It’s a reminder that dying is an unpredictable and individual thing.

We can’t know what things will happen next, only that they’re unpredictable. So we take one day at a time, all too aware that we’re not in control.

Thanks so much for those who have provided words of encouragement and support and especially prayers. It helps keep us going.

Black Bottom Pie

Eloise and I were in Florida for the long weekend visiting her brother Steve in residential hospice. I wrote briefly about our visit on Saturday. Here’s a brief update on our Sunday and Monday visits.

Eloise had been thinking about what she could do special during this visit for a while, and decided that making Steve’s favorite dessert, black bottom pie,  would be it. It was the special food their mom always prepared when Steve was coming home. It was his “birthday cake.”

It’s not an easy pie to make. You first prepare a custard, then make half of it chocolate which forms the bottom layer. The other half of the custard has beaten egg whites folded in along with some vanilla, and forms the second layer. After these layers have set, it’s topped with whipped cream. We spent quite a while just shopping for what Eloise needed to make the pie. We ended up having to go to three stores to find an electric hand mixer. It turned out to be one expensive pie, but we just decided to call it priceless.

When we arrived at the hospice, Steve was sleeping, and really didn’t want to wake up, so we watched a little football, and even our cheers and groans at the Cowboys didn’t arouse him. However, a guy came to visit with a therapy dog, and that helped Steve start waking up. He was about to go back to sleep when I started telling him that Eloise had made him a black bottom pie. That made him decide to wake up!

With an aide helping him, he ate a whole piece, mumbling appreciation and even rolling his eyes at how good it tasted. It was worth all of the work to see him enjoy it, to talk about how important it had been in his life, to explain that it was his mom’s recipe. We made sure the staff all got some as well. He talked some, but mostly dozed after eating the pie.

Monday our goal was to take his dogs out of the kennel and take them to visit Steve. It’s been the thing that he has most wanted since this all began. We had planned to do it Saturday, but the kennel was closed for the weekend.

Steve’s dogs are golden retrievers, and though they are good dogs, were quite a handful for us. But once we got them into his room they settled, and aside from wanting to drink out of the toilet, were well behaved. Hospices are dog friendly places, and encourage pet visits. The staff had all heard about the dogs, and all came in to meet them and be part of the time together. Steve really enjoyed the time with them, and talked more and even laughed several times while we were there with them. The dogs didn’t really understand the bed thing, but we were finally able to help the dog Steve raised from a pup to get up on the bed with him so that Steve could hold and rub on him. It was an emotional scene for all of us.

Shortly afterwards, we said our goodbyes, as we had to leave to take the dogs back to the kennel and catch our flight home.

We had been able to have some memorable moments, and it was a good visit.

One of the interesting twists to all of this is that Steve’s condition has stabilized to the point that he will move to a different resident hospice house this week. He doesn’t require the level of care that is provided at his current house. In fact today, Steve called me on his cell phone and we had a good conversation — much better than any we have had in person since this all started. He didn’t remember that we had been there for the weekend, but with prompting remembered the dogs coming and the pie. A week ago he couldn’t talk, and today he has been talking since he woke up.

We don’t know what the days ahead hold. But we know that God has been at work in all of this, and for that we are thankful.