Blog Birthday Reflections

I've blogged now for a whole year.

Translation: I've kept up with one thing for a whole year.

Yep. July 12. This blog's birthday.

I planned to repost some earlier writings this week to celebrate.

But nah.

Maybe I'll tweet some links to some of my favorites or top hits.

Maybe.

Maybe not.

I wrote some good stuff during this year--but also some bad stuff. Some fun stuff, some serious stuff. Some prose, some poetry. Tried to dig a little. Make myself bleed. Looked for my voice. Fought for my voice. Tried to not try so hard.

Tried to discipline myself to write. And found I need to discipline myself not to write.

Learned not to be so hard on myself for being a woman of many interests. Because really, maybe, hopefully that makes me more interesting as a writer.

For I am she who seeks and shares.

And writing is my passion. I know this now.

Over speaking. Over harping. Over singing. The music that begs to come out is not notes, but words. And words that sing better on the page than through the air.

At least I think so.

I started a writing blog about six months ago.

So now I have two blogs.

Some folks even follow them. And some folks take time to comment.

I developed cyber friendships as close, I believe, as any face-to-face. And all over the world. Heart-to-heart friendships. Other writers. Other seekers.

And quite possibly some of those are people I might not have given more than a head nod to had I not gotten to know them through their blogs.

I've participated in blog carnivals (such as One Word at a Time and Pleasantly Disturbed Thursdays) and group writing projects through High Calling Blogs. I've even been asked to guest blog.

I've found joy in poetry, dabbled with my camera, and maybe found even a call to fiction--all of which surprised me.

I've hooked up with ChristianWriters and joined ACFW.

And acted like I have a clue.

A comment Kathy Richards (katdish) made on Amy Sorrell's blog encouraged and inspired me. She said:

"@noveldoctor (Stephen Parolini) tweeted, 'If you want to write what you believe, write nonfiction. If you want to tell the truth, write fiction.'"

"There's so much truth to that statement," she said. "A work of fiction sometimes gives us a level of protection and allows us to tell a greater truth we may not be ready to write as nonfiction. The best writers are brave souls indeed."

I want to be a brave soul.

Thanks for celebrating with me. 

Party on!

Copyright © 2010 by Sandra Heska King

I Have These Scars

I have this scar.

It's fully four inches long and runs from the center of my palm up the inside of my wrist, skimming the vein. Pooh, a part Siamese from years past, sat on the kitchen counter, focused on something invisible in the sink. So focused that when I picked him up, he went beserk. And I dripped blood everywhere.

I remember.

I have this scar.

An inch long below my left knee and a couple of puncture wounds. From surgery due to a severed ACL--from a Cocoa Beach wave that knocked me off balance while I splashed in the shallows. We had just returned from a cruise and still had a couple days of vacation in Florida before we drove back to Michigan. Our car broke down on the way home and left us stranded in Kentucky for two extra days.

I remember.

I have these scars.

On my belly. From an ovarian cyst. From reconstructive tubal surgery in our quest for a baby. From a tubal pregnancy. From which I came close to not surviving. Two of the scars run perpendicular to each other and remind me of a cross. I used to be able to see it better when I looked down. I also have scars from a gallbladder removal that remind me of the Grand Hotel and hiking around Mackinac Island and concern about every twinge of discomfort and my daughter's phone call telling me I had an appointment with a surgeon.

I remember.

I have these scars.

Still. All over. Especially on my legs. From liquid nitrogen spray. Memories of several trips to the dermatologist last year that left me looking like I had chicken pox. Skin lesions zapped, leaving--well, skin lesions. And the hole in my hairline from the excision of a blue nevus, and then a deeper excision.

I remember.

I have these scars.

On my heart. From hurts endured. From hurts inflicted. That I allowed to be inflicted. Through decisions I made. Out of love and desperation. Yet out of stupidity. That caused life-changing scars for someone I love. Toughened scars. But tender still. Very tender. Memories I want to forget. Wipe away. But I can't. And I weep sometimes in the night. And in the day.

I remember.

But I don't want to.

He has these scars.

On His back and on His head and in His wrists and in His feet and in His side. Inflicted from stupidity. And from greed. And from jealousy. And from hate. Yet self-inflicted. Out of love. Because He was desperate. For me.

He remembers.

Me.

"See, I have engraved you on the palms of my hands." Isaiah 49:15a

Where are your scars?

Copyright © 2010 by Sandra Heska King

To My Sissy On Her Birthday

White spots on a nose and baby feet.

Shadows in the little house

You not old enough to fear.

Wispy memories.

Separated by the miles

Wrapped myself in shawl of self

Duel pain unshared.

Silent years.

Late night laughter

Stores and restaurants and icy parking lots

Pancakes and pavilions.

Treasured times.

My sister.

My best friend.

Copyright © 2010 by Sandra Heska King

Sizzling Hot Abs

So this is my new toy.

Because at my age, things--well, kind of rock and roll. Especially roll. And other things, like neck and back, get kind of stiff.

You've seen the ads. Just sit back and rocket (rock it.) Support head and neck.

Get sizzling hot abs.

Um, right.

I tried the beginner's workout. I can rock that baby down. Easy as eating chocolate cake.

Rocking back up again? Well, that's another story.

The video trainer--that woman with the sizzling abs--the one in the tight pants that dip below her perfect navel--stretches her arms out in front of her or crosses them over her chest and just rockets up.

Up and down. Up and down. All the way up. All the way down.

I grab the handles, grunt, and just turn blue. Blend right into the background.

If I suck in my navel and remember to breathe out when I come up, I can rocket up, oh maybe an inch. Or less.

I'm such a weakling.

Chris Tomlinson (Crave, reviewed here) said, "I would like to think my spirit is ridiculously ripped."

I've thought about that a lot over the last months. A healthy spirit requires proper feeding and regular exercise. Without it, I suspect it's weak and flabby.

Like me.

I want a strong spirit.

Anyway, I'll continue to work it, and maybe I'll find a tighter tummy. Maybe even before I get discouraged. Or plain just tired of it.

Maybe I'll even find some sizzling hot abs.

Probably not.

It's in the fine print.

Results not typical.

But I can at least be more healthy. Maybe a little firm. And I'll try not to compare myself to the navel lady.

I'd rather have a spirit that sizzles anyway.

But sizzling hot abs would be nice.

"A healthy spirit conquers adversity, but what can you do when the spirit is crushed?" 

Proverbs 18:14 (Message)

What kind of exercise equipment have you bought? Did you use it? Did you see results?
Are you feeding and exercising your spirit? How's that going?

Copyright © 2010 by Sandra Heska King

Going Batty

I'm not a fan of bats. The flying kind. They creep me out.

I know they fly around doing good. Gobbling up a bazillion mosquitoes. Pollinating plants and spreading seeds.

But they creep me out.

I shudder to think how many visitors we knocked down in this old farmhouse and then released before having them sealed out. Before I worked for the health department.

Because now I know the risk.

And bats really creep me out.

A local lady saved herself this week by capturing a bat that bit her. She actually had puncture marks. Testing proved it had rabies.

Reminded me again of one of our many bat experiences.

~~~~~~~~~~~~

"Mom! Dad! There's a mouse in my trash can!"

Not the way I want to be startled from a deep sleep. Dennis continues to snore.

"Mmmmm. What color is it?"

I don't know why I asked that.

"Brown. Hurry!"

Brown? Mice aren't brown, are they? In her tall Michigan State trash can? Oh no!

Dennis sleeps on. I bound up the stairs. And there in her trash can--is a bat!

Bat. Bedroom. Sleeping person.

Must. Catch. Bat.

Book over can. Bushel basket with vinyl liner. More books to hold in place. Close closets. Close door. Stuff towels under door. Call . . . who? At 7 in the morning?

Margaret! Our communicable disease nurse!

Help!

Why am I freaked? We've had confirmed cases of bat rabies in the area. A bat in the area of a sleeping person means assumed exposure.

Lose bat. Get shots.

I check Abby over for bites, knowing marks could be invisible and that there is no way to tell saliva exposure. Calm her down. Calm me down. Send her off to school.

I call Animal Control who sends two officers armed with long heavy gloves--a man and a woman.

We go upstairs, and the man begins to dismantle my "trap."

He removes the books. He removes the  basket. The three of us peer warily into the can.

No bat!

Uh oh!

He explores the basket. Removes the liner.

No bat!

He removes the paper from the bottom of the can, piece by piece, and we stare at the bottom of an empty can.

No bat!

I see shots in our future. But--are those droppings on that sheet of crumpled paper? I reach down to pick it up.

And the bat falls on my bare foot!

My heart stops. I nearly fall out the window. The lady officer screams. The man swoops down on it with his gloves.

And. We. Wait.

Days later. The news. The bat is (was) clean.

Whew!

~~~~~~~~~~~~

I was and am informed now. But I wonder. How many other bats have we dodged?

While we slumbered.

Or like the one Abby woke up to see settled on her canopy one night?

Or like others seen, chased, and lost?

Not that the risk is humongous. But it's there. And I could drive myself batty with worry.

And I wonder. Am I aware of spiritual risks? Have I sealed the entries? Do I remember to don my armor? How many dangers has He protected me from? Dangers unaware?

I'm so glad that He stands guard even in the night watches.

And I'm not creeped out at all.

He won't let you stumble,

Your Guardian God won't fall asleep.

Not on your life! Israel's

Guardian will never doze or sleep.

God's your Guardian, right at your side to protect you--

Shielding you from sunstroke,

sheltering you from moonstroke.

God guards you from every evil

He guards your very life.

He guards you when you leave and when you return,

He guards you now, He guards you always.

Psalm 121:3-8 (Message)

Have you had any close encounters of the bat kind?

Copyright © 2010 by Sandra Heska King

I Beheld God

I beheld God

In the strength of a mother

     Who labored long and hard

          And in the end released control.

In the love of two parents.

In the tenderness of a father

     Who was a tower of strength

          And exuded calmness in the face of concern.

In the joy of a sister.

In the beauty of a newborn baby, fearfully and wonderfully made.

Lillee Azhinae

Born: 06/02/2010 at 5:28 a.m.

8 pounds 9 ounces

21 inches long

Photo by Jeannine Cooper, my amazing photography friend, whose first lily of the season just happened to bloom in front of this sign.

"For you created my inmost being; you knit me together in my mother's womb. I praise you because I am fearfully and wonderfully made; your works are wonderful. I know that full well." Psalm 139:13-14 (NIV)

Copyright © 2010 by Sandra Heska King

I'm Ready--Are You?

Baby's Breath

It could happen any moment.

I'm ready.

Camera/new camera card/fresh batteries.

Check.

Book to read/Bible/notebook to write in/pen and pencil.

Check.

Makeup/hairbrush/contact lens solution and case/glasses.

Check.

Sweater and a pair of warm socks.

Check.

Full tank of gas/cash and change in wallet/gum.

Check.

All packed and in car. Yes, some things I need to retrieve from the car and return.

Fresh clothes at the ready.

White board/fresh markers.

Check.

Coloring books/word search book/fresh crayons.

Check.

Nintendo DS/charger.

Check.

Blanket/books.

Check.

"Cute" clothes.

Check.

Packed and in car.

Grandma's and Gracee's bags.

Taking a lesson from the fig tree.

And now we wait.

For a little sister. For a new grandgirl.

It could happen any moment.

I'm ready.

"No one knows about that day or hour, not even the angels in heaven, nor the Son, but only the Father." Matthew 24:36 NIV

"So you also must be ready, because the Son of Man will come at an hour when you do not expect Him." Matthew 24:44 NIV

Are you ready?

Have I forgotten anything?

Copyright © 2010 by Sandra Heska King

When Do You Say Good-bye?

With Mona, our first lab, it was pretty much a no-brainer. She had  hip dysplasia and was in obvious pain.

  
Elsie. Just. Died.

She was a great dog. After she quit digging under the fence. She treed a woodchuck once. And caught a pheasant in the backyard. She loved water.

She survived parvovirus, a whole pound of raw bacon, and Abby's chocolate birthday cake. Though we found sprinkles in the yard for weeks.

And one day I found her in a puddle of piddle. Congestive heart failure. She pulled through that, too.

But died at the vet's while we were on a cruise. She was ten.

Rose was a wild thing when we brought her home. Three years old. Product of a broken marriage and returned to the breeder. She needed us.

She's always been a sickly dog, though. Skin allergies mostly. Icky ears. Perpetual scratching. Expensive foods. Frequent treatments. All kinds of medicines. And then pancreatitis, probably steroid induced.

But she recovered from that.

She hates water. And in the last few years had to lie down during short walks. So we don't walk her any more.

She'll be eleven in October.

She limps. A lot.

She scratches. A lot.

She whines. A lot.

She yelps. Sometimes.

She pants. Sometimes.

She seems restless. Sometimes.

She goes off her food. Sometimes.

And she seems fine enough. Once in a while.

She sleeps a lot.

She seems happiest when she's asleep.

How does one know--really know--when it's time to say goodbye? When it's more about love and relief of suffering than your inconvenience?

Messy carpets. Hair all over. The expense.

I wish I was Dr. Doolittle.

We've talked about it. Dennis called the vet for advice yesterday. He was in surgery, but hubby talked to one of the gals in the office who made an appointment for Saturday. For euthanasia.

But we're having second thoughts.

I prayed about it last night. Asked for some kind of sign.

She didn't get up to go out as early as usual this morning. She hasn't eaten all day. She's been vomiting all day.

Coincidence?

Making this kind of decision is for the dogs.

Have you ever had to do it?

"One reason a dog is such a lovable creature is his tail wags instead of his tongue." ~Unknown

Copyright © 2010 by Sandra Heska King

For Those With Empty Arms on Mother's Day

One church. One Mother's Day.

"All you children stand up and face your mothers. All together now repeat after me, 'I love you, Mom.'"

Another church. Another Mother's Day.

"All you grandmothers stand up. All you moms stand up. Now the rest of you women stand up. Because if you're not a mother in the physical sense, you are a mom in the spiritual sense."

Sorry, Pastor. That does not help when you are racked with new and even aging grief. In time, maybe. In time.

And that is why for so many years I avoided church on Mother's Day.

And why I still hurt for those with barren wombs and empty arms on Mother's Day.

And sometimes wonder if it's not best to to erase Mother's Day from the calendar--and honor our own mothers every day.

And so this weekend, for those who suffer, I think of you, my sisters. And I hold you up before the One who knows.

I know.
It's Mother's Day.
I know the burning in your breast
The throbbing chest ready to explode
The aching arms
The tightened throat, choking
The dammed tears
And then the flood.
I know the heartbreak
That follows month after month of scientific love
And manufactured methods.
And then the exhilaration of success
And the devastation of loss.
Fruitless.
I don't know your path of healing
But it will come in time
In some form
And the pain will subside
Somewhat
Leaving an occasional familiar twinge
A thorn.
It's Mother's Day.
And you hurt.
I know.
He knows.

"If your heart is broken, you'll find God right there; if you're kicked in the gut, he'll help you catch your breath." Psalm 34:18 (Message)

Copyright © 2010 by Sandra Heska King

Nursing School Memories on National Nurses Day

Composed by Mrs. Lystra E. Gretter, Detroit, 1893

Memories from nursing school dance in my mind today. I graduated from a hospital diploma program in 1969--a member of the last class.

Most programs lasted three years, but this one packed all the work in two. We went year around. I think the hospital counted us as staff, and some of us also sometimes worked as aides for a little--and I mean little--spending money. 

Which was okay because we had no need for much. We spent almost all our time either on the floors, in class, studying, or sleeping.

We lived in a dorm connected to the hospital with a tunnel. Sometimes we amused ourselves with cart races.

Most of the girls roomed with someone else, but Becky and I each had our own room in the end turrets--maybe because we lived further away and stayed on the weekends more often than the others. 

I remember the first night was just plain scary. I locked my door and lay on my bed shaking and crying. I wanted to go home. Especially when I heard all the crashing doors and screaming. And then pounding on my door. I didn't answer, didn't move. And found out the next day that the "big sisters" were dragging all the newbies into cold showers. 

 

Initiation.

If we survived the first six months, we received our school cap in a special ceremony. Every school had its own uniform and own cap. You could identify a nurse's school by the cap she wore. I remember sending our caps out to the cleaners who would wash, stiffly starch, and press them flat. We'd need to fold and staple them back together.

Capped by my big sister, Betty.

The ceremony took place in a church, and we are each holding a Nightingale lamp.

My brother carved the school's insignia (from a uniform arm patch) into a plaque as a gift. He cut himself and bled all over the house one weekend I was home --and wouldn't tell me what he was doing. Made me pretty mad.

Some of the things I remember are:

• Seeing my instructor's feet outside the curtain while I was giving a complete bed bath. She was eavesdropping.
• Having to give up my chair at the charting desk if a doctor appeared.
• My first patient death and having to prepare the body.
• Passing nasogastric tubes on each other and injecting each other with sterile water (yes, water, not saline.)
• Following a patient through an emergency C-section (baby's arm prolapsed) and discharge. The baby had a physical issue that caused doctors to question its sex. At discharge the mom proclaimed, "We love him in spite of his penis problem."
• Assisting with a circumcision performed in the nursery. Maybe more traumatic for me than baby.
• Stocking my closet with jars of baby fruit for late-night study snacks.
• Friday morning (8 a.m.) dates with a formaldehyde cat. 
• Early morning doctor rounds.
• Sunbathing on the dorm roof.
• Metal bedpans and emesis basins.
• Glass thermometers.
• "Man on the floor" warnings when maintenance came up to fix a dorm issue.
• Psych rotation--Playing Euchre with the patients, scopolamine and insulin treatments.
• Dr. Manning halting surgery to admonish (and embarrass) Becky. "Young lady, we NEVER say 'oops' in the operating room!"
• Having to wear our hair off our shoulders.
• Yelling "flush" if someone was in the shower so they didn't get scalded.
• The fragrance of alcohol, Dial soap, moist dressings, musty halls in the old wing, and fresh paint--among some not-as-pleasant aromas.
• Having the difference between empathy and sympathy drilled into us.
• Avoiding the autopsy page. We were all supposed to observe one. I always managed to be busy.
• Doing post-op teaching for a patient several days after a routine gallbladder removal.

We earned a black stripe for our caps later in our training. After graduation, we could work as a graduate nurse such until we passed state boards, allowing us to add RN after our names.

My first job was in an intensive care unit, which in 1969 would probably remind one of a regular patient room today. I rotated through all three shifts. I couldn't sleep during the day, and I remember a nightmare evening as charge nurse even before I'd passed my boards.

Over the years, I worked as a special duty nurse, office nurse (OB/GYN and family practice), OR nurse, community health educator, and public health nurse. I went back to school in my 40s to get my BSN. 

I haven't worked in the field for several years. And I miss it sometimes. I feel a sense of "home" when I step into a hospital, and I keep my license intact--just in case.

Someone reminded me today, "Once a nurse, always a nurse." That need to nurture and comfort in some form continues to be part of who I am. 

Even as I've turned to writing.

 

Nursing is an art; and if it is to be made an art, 

it requires as exclusive a devotion, as hard a prepration, 

     as any painter's or sculptor's work; 

for what is the having to do with dead canvas or cold 

     marble, compared with having to do with the living 

     body--the temple of God's spirit?

It is one of the Finest Arts;

I had almost said, the finest of Fine Arts.

                                           ~Florence Nightingale

Are you a nurse? Do you have memories of training? 

Do you know a nurse who creatively practices the art of compassion and caring?

Thank a nurse this week.

National Nurses Week 

May 6-12, 2010

Copyright © 2010 by Sandra Heska King

Whose fault?

Abby and I went to my niece's baby shower yesterday.

We had to go around the circle and introduce ourselves.

When my mom's turn came, she gave her name and said, "This is all MY fault."

At my turn, I said, "I'm her daughter, her mother, her sister, and her aunt. And yeah (pointing to my mom), it's all HER fault."

Cuz kinda sorta it is.

I mean if she hadn't met my dad, and they hadn't--well, you know--this little population explosion would never have happened.

HER fault.

I remember when then little Jeremy tumbled down the stairs.

"It's YOUR fault," he screamed at my husband.

"Really?" Dennis asked. "How so?"

"YOU put these socks on me! YOU called me down here! YOU bought this house! It's YOUR fault!"

Well, kinda sorta correcto.

If Dennis and I never met and if we hadn't adopted him and if we hadn't moved into this house with these stairs, he wouldn't have fallen down them.

Yep. OUR fault.

It overwhelms me, really, when I linger too long in thought. How a choice we make in this moment can affect forever moments.

How if my parents' parents' parents hadn't met and had made different choices and my husband's parents' parents' parents hadn't met and had made different choices, we wouldn't be in this place at this time. How if I/we had made different choices, we would not even know our children or they might be totally different people. How two cousins now share a similar experience. How I might not be in love with a precious 7-year-old granddaughter. How my arms throb to hold the ones soon to come.

We are the fruit of yesterday's choices, and the seeds of tomorrow's fruit.

We follow broken roads of the past that lead us straight to the present.

We don't always recognize the signs that point straight to Him. Even the lost and broken dreams. The twisted expectations. The pain.

That somehow it all fits into a grander plan. Part of a bigger tree.

And that we're not really in control anyway.

God bless the broken road that led me here. And that will ultimately lead me home, into my Lover's arms.

I wouldn't have it any other way.

Yep. It's HIS fault!

And it's all good.

Very good.

"The mind of man plans his way, but the Lord directs his steps." Proverbs 16:9 (NASB)

Have you seen signs of Him along your broken paths? 

Where have you seen a sign of Him this week?

Copyright © 2010 by Sandra Heska King

So Long. Good-bye. Farewell.

Last week Bonnie Gray invited me in a blog comment here to take a "What If" challenge.

Brainstorm five "what if" questions, she said. Fast. Choose one. And then let's jam about it.

Like today. A week later.

Say what?

I've learned not to stew in a pot of "what if's" or swim in an ocean of regrets any more. Too hot. Too deep. But I do sometimes wonder in a curious way how my life might be different. And occasionally I still wince at some of my naive and stupid choices. But only for a moment. Because I can see how God takes my out-of-tune self and orchestrates a moving symphony.

One He continues to write.

Romantic.

Eternal.

So I don't dwell in those shadows. Takes too much energy.

Then I thought about stuff like what if I got to go to somewhere as a Compassion blogger or to Kenya on a sponsor tour? Or what if I got to visit the Holy Land?

Or what if I actually finished and published a novel?

But it needed to be something that I had some control over--now--with results to report on within the week.

So I came up with a list that doesn't touch some of the more noble and deep ones that others posted, but I could focus on one for a week and see where it led.

Maybe an open door of possibility. Maybe a path to what could be.

1. What if I gave up my addiction?
2. What if I walked every day?
3. What if I was in bed by 11 every night?
4. What if I sat and did nothing for at least 15 minutes every day?
5. What if I took that online novel-writing course?

Not very deep. Simple. Maybe even a bit hokey.

But what if I gave up my addiction?

Hi. My name is Snady.

And I am a Bejeweled Blitzaholic.

What if I gave up that time sucker? No more clacking jewels or colorful explosions. No more words of affirmation and encouragement. "AWEsome!" "Spec-TAC-ular!" No more one more game, one more minute turning into one more hour.

Or more.

No more trying to beat my friends with scores over 300,000. No more late nights. No more blurry eyes or cricked neck.

And so I did!

I gave it up.

Deleted the application from Facebook.

Yup.

Gone.

For a whole week.

Cold turkey.

So long.

Good-bye.

Farewell.

Forever.

And what have I done with that leftover time?

I've walked. Only twice this week for 45 minutes. Three times if you count today. But that's more than last week. Or the week before, or before, or before.

I watched the dust rise from behind tractors.I marveled at tine-straight furrows and pondered my own life path that looks more like a curly straw.

I inhaled the aroma of fresh-turned earth and listened to frogs plop into puddle-ponds pooled in last year's corn stalks. I patted passing horses. I took pictures as possible illustrations for blog posts.

And I've been to bed before 11. Even before 1 a.m. Every night but one when I got caught up writing.

I sat still once.

I stripped more wallpaper while I watched the History Channel for 6 hours!

I read more.

I don't know if it's all because of giving up a game. Maybe I just want to believe that. But surely I didn't spend THAT many hours playing.

I hope.

Anyway.

I'm still thinking about the class. I have until the end of the month for the specific one I'm thinking about.

And I joined ACFW just this morning. On my to-do list for months.

And so with my new-found time, my new-found health (I'm giving up M&M's too, doncha know--maybe), and even with a soon-to-come new granddaughter to dote on, what new movement might God write next?

Because I said good-bye to an addiction.

What if I finish a novel by the end of the year?

Is it possible?

Could it be?

What if . . . ?

NOTE: To read how others responded to this challenge, head over to the Faith Barista Jam.

Do you live with regrets? Do you wallow in the past?

Do you have any "what ifs" that could open the door to a "what could be?"

What would you throw off, do, change, start if you believed God was in it?

"I run for dear life to God, I'll never live to regret it." Psalm 71:3 (Message)

Copyright © 2010 by Sandra Heska King

6 Lessons Learned on a Messy Monday

Weekend messes greeted me Monday morning.

No worries. The day stretched before me like a yawning feline.

Lazy day.

Got my hair cut and colored in the morning. Clogged floor drain so I couldn't do laundry. No Tuesday class to prep for because of a planned testimony and potluck.

I figured I could play a little, write a little, play a little.

And I did.

About 3:00, I decided I'd pay some bills, straighten the house, and start a creative dinner.

But then Abby called and asked if I'd meet her at the store and help pick out thank-you notes. Shouldn't take too long.

On my way, Jeremy called. He blew a tire crossing railroad tracks, but he'd called a tow truck to haul him to Wal-Mart. All cool.

Abby and I picked out cards. We both needed to pick up a few groceries. She complained of feeling very tired. Gracee did wheelies with the cart.

Jeremy called again. Wal-Mart didn't have a tire. They put on the spare, and the spare blew on his way to the only tire store in town. He didn't know what to do. Insurance only allows one tow a day. He didn't even know if the tire store had a tire, and he didn't have a number to call, and he didn't want to call information, and he really wanted to get to basketball, and his dad "wouldn't" answer his phone, and "I'm really starting to freak out, and the tire store closes in 20 minutes."

Jeremy has OCD.

Meanwhile, my phone reception in the back of the store was awful. I ran to the front to hear and to pay for my items (still holding the thank-you notes), remembering that I would need to get gas before I could get to Jeremy. I ran my debit card (as a credit--I always do because I never have enough cash, and I hate to waste checks.)

Not authorized.

I forgot! Happened earlier in the day, and I had meant to call the bank. That was on the list of stuff I planned to do "later." So I wrote my second check of the day with my ear to my phone and ran out the door and over to the gas station to pay for $3 worth of gas in change to get to Jeremy before the tire store closed.

Leaving Abby and Gracee to fend for themselves.

While my own frustration mounted.

Jeremy decided he just wanted to take the bad tire to the tire store and get a new one for $135 (all the money he had just withdrawn to buy some work clothes.) We skidded through the door in the nick of time and left with a new tire. The original plan was for me to take him home to change and then to basketball and then he'd have a friend bring him back to the truck where his dad would meet him and help him change the tire. He decided to change it on his own.
 
So we returned to the truck--behind which sat a police car with flashing lights. The officer cancelled his tow truck call, and talked Jeremy through changing the tire and even loaned him a sturdier jack.

Crisis resolved.

Whew!

I stopped at Abby's to drop off the thank-you notes. And she proceeded to tell me about HER afternoon that started downhill when she was late to pick up Gracee from school. Gracee had a wad of dandelions in her hand, and Abby, envisioning "butter and milk" in the car, told her to leave them and realized her mistake as soon as the words left her lips. Gracee threw them on the ground with a "Fine! They were for you." Abby tried to redeem the situation by suggesting to Gracee that perhaps Grandma would help her buy a little flower at the store.

Of course, by the time they got to checkout, Grandma was long gone, which threw Gracee into another tizzy because Abby didn't have the money to buy a flower. In fact, Abby discovered she had NO money and no way to pay for her purchase. At that point, she just wanted to sit down in the aisle and cry. As it turned out, Lee was on his way back from Lansing, so they just waited for him rather than needing my rescue. But at some point, Gracee (yes, sweet Gracee) played the "I just want to die" card, and that turned into an ugly scene--which was resolved by the time I got to their house. Gracee was fine, and Abby had just finished a good cry.

Whew!

When I got home, I picked a few flowers and took back to Gracee to give to mom.

Dennis had managed to call the bank between Jeremy's calls to discover the bank had put a hold on our card because Dennis had used it the day before to pay for some suits--an unusually large purchase for us with an unfamiliar payee.

Whew!

Dennis and I ate leftovers in a messy kitchen that night, and I finally paid bills around 9:00--including a credit card, which I paid off--but since it was after 5 on the due date, I can expect to see a late fee.

Sigh!

What did I (and my children) learn on Messy Monday?

• It never pays to procrastinate.
• It never pays to freak out.
• It never pays to speak before you think.
• It always pays to pray.
• It always pays to laugh.
• And it always pays to be prepared.

Because a day can suddenly turn messy.

And stuff can happen.

Are you a procrastinator? How do you cope when life interrupts your plan?

"Watch therefore [give strict attention and be cautious and active], for you know neither the day nor the hour when the Son of Man will come." Matthew 25:13 (Amplified)

Copyright © 2010 by Sandra Heska King

No Regrets

My daughter and my niece. Both due in June.

I'm 61 years old. And almost a half.

You'd think I'd be over it by now.

I am. Mostly.

But sometimes I still sense the faintest twinge of jealousy.

A ripple of regret.

A sliver of sadness.

A pensive moment of wonder.

What would it have been like to see my belly ripple?

To feel an inward wave of movement?

A kick of life?

And yes. Even the nausea and the fatigue and the bloat.

The miracle of creation.

Begetting. Bearing. Birthing.

With one request.

An identical outcome.

Because I can't imagine any other life.

 Abby and Jeremy - ages 6 months and 4 years. (1989)

And so I embrace what is.

Because it was.

Planned and purposed.

Before my time.

A miracle of creation.

From an empty womb.

Pregnant with faith.

Perfused with love.

Heart stretched past capacity.

Overflows.

Blessing begats blessing.

 Granddaughter Gracee - age 5-1/2 (2007)

And life is a kick.

No regrets.

(No stretch marks, either.)

" . . . we can't round up enough containers to hold everything God generously pours into our lives through the Holy Spirit!" Romans 5:5 (The Message)

Can you live a life with no regrets? Can you embrace what is?

Copyright © 2010 by Sandra Heska King

I Will Sing

I couldn't sing on Sunday. 

I had laryngitis.

So frustrating for one who loves to sing.

As a child, I stood on a salt lick stage in the woods and serenaded whatever critters would listen. I pretended to be Patti Page.

I stood outside under the stars and sang "Johnny Angel" as loud as I could. Only I changed "Johnny" to "Gary," a neighbor who was too old for me.

When I sang "Where the Boys Are," my sister declared I sounded just like Connie Francis. She has a much better ear now.

Yeah, I'm that old.

And truth? Still, when I'm all alone, I turn up the music and sing like a real singer.

Shhh. That's our secret.

Oh, I've had some singing "gigs" over the years. I sang a medley from Sound of Music when I ran for National Cherry Queen. I've sung in church choirs. Even sang solos and duets. Sometimes well. Sometimes disastrously.

People used to say they liked to watch me sing because I was so "animated." I still remember how I glowed for days for "really sticking that high A."

But I'm no Susan Boyle or Sandi Patty.

Not even close.

I wonder if David had a good voice.

I've thought about taking lessons. But these days I'm finding it easier to fade into the background. And at this point, it's not a dream I feel led to follow hard after.

So how come God gave me this great desire but not the great talent?

Maybe because He wants me to sing for an audience of One?

On whatever stage and in whatever stage I find myself?

With or without a voice?

I can do that.

I will sing!

"I will sing to the Lord as long as I live; I sing praise to my God while I have my being." Psalm 104:33 (NIV)

Can you sing--even if you "can't?" In whatever stage you find yourself?

Copyright © 2010 by Sandra Heska King

Her Father's Joy

Surrounded by babies and pregnancies.

But for us, just monthly disappointment.

We signed up to adopt a baby through the state of Georgia--a list years long.

I went back to the doctor. "You're just waiting to become pregnant," he said.

Sigh.

Dennis came home one day and said, "They want us to move to Florida. Just for 12-18 months. They want us to rent out the house, not sell it."

"You'll be coming back with a baby," my friend, Judy, predicted.

That move was so hard. I wrote about it in an article published in Evangel several years ago. But I'll share that another time.

We said our goodbyes, and off we went to the land of beaches and orange blossoms. But still no baby. So we began the process of infertility testing. More on that here. (And a followup here.)

Over. Finished. We'd done all we knew to do. My plumbing was disconnected. We did not feel led to go forth with extraordinary means at that point. Tired. We began to make other plans that did not include children. We gave it all to the Lord.

And then our pastor called with news.

"I went to this meeting. There's an interdenominational group that's been counseling young, unmarried, pregnant girls. They feel they need to offer an option. It's not an official adoption agency so there's not official paperwork, and the adoptions will take place privately through an attorney."

Without a lot of hope, we put together a packet that included resumes, biographical and spiritual histories, and a financial report. I still have copies of those on yellow carbon paper!  I also wrote a poem.

CHOSEN FOR LOVE

We've 

Love to share

Through joy and care

Bound with ties as yet unseen

We'll learn together the way to grow

That to the world His ways we'll show.

          As God is my Parent, you'll be my child

          We both are adopted in one family

          So I'll care for you as He cares for me

          That you can be all He wants you to be.

          We'll bake cookies for Dad, play catch outside

          We'll listen to music or read a book

          I'll check your homework, we'll talk of your day

          At bedtime I'll tuck you in while we pray.

          We'll share the wonders of butterfly wings

          We'll climb a mountain and walk on the shore

          In nature's classroom with childlike surprise

          We'll find new things that will open our eyes.

          Love has to be tough if it's love at all

          And it may hurt when I have to say, "No"

          But I'll kiss your bruises, always be there

          To comfort and hold you through every tear.

We've 

Love to share

Through joy and care

Bound with ties as yet unseen.

He chose you long ago, you see

A special gift wrapped up for me.

Sandy King, May 1984

The group  liked the packet enough to send out a state social worker to interview us and inspect our environment.

And we waited. Without much hope.

The 12-18 months stretched into 4 years! There were a couple false alarms about moving back to Georgia, but they fell through.

And then.  

THE CALL!

A baby girl. A newborn. Come and get her! My heart still pounds when I think about it.

Two days after her birth, I cradled and cried over this special gift. A gift given by Him 25 years ago today.

Planned before time began.

Almost immediately and before the adoption was finalized, the company transferred us back to Georgia.

Judy was right. We came back with a baby.

Abigail Elizabeth. 

Her father's joy. Consecrated to God.

Abby.

My gift.

My daughter.

My best girlfriend.

I love you.

Happy 25th Birthday!

    Welcome home, Abby!

So blessed!

Cake awaits. First toys. And snacks for the cats.

New daddy heading off to work in a pink shirt with a basket of pink bubblegum!

  

With Pastor Jack at 1-1/2 weeks.

Just look at her now!

 Copyright © 2010 by Sandra Heska King

My Husband's Hand

I lay awake on my back in the dark listening to my husband's soft breathing. He lay on his stomach, his right arm tossed across my neck, hand resting on my face. I held that hand with my left and nestled my cheek into its cup, seeing it in my mind. My right hand gently brushed the arm hair, traced the outline of the fingers, encountered the roughness of a hangnail and the scab of a cut.

Not a large hand. But not small. And big enough to swallow mine when he grabs it while we cross an icy street or hike over rough terrain.

A balanced hand.

A kind hand.

Not a rough hand. But a hand that handles paper and holds phones. But not a soft hand, either. A hand that hauls wood into the house after a 16-hour day so I don't need to. That empties the litter box and fishes recyclables out of the trash (and sometimes food, but that's another story). A hand that spent several weekends trying to reconstruct our daughter's walkway.

A caring hand.

A kind hand.

Not a pasty hand. But a hand sprinkled with sun spots from summers working in the field. A hand that steered a tractor when it was only 6 years old and bottle fed calves and and bedded bulls and showed horses. A hand that created gifts for his mother, including a piece of clay art that I display in my office. I wish I'd seen that child hand.

A precious hand.

A kind hand.

Not a weak hand. A hand with roping veins and a strong slow pulse at the wrist. A pulse that beats with love for his family. A hand that shovels snow before I'm up--and then shovels for a neighbor. A hand that washes dishes and cleans bathrooms and vacuums carpets. A hand that helps my son's girlfriend with her taxes after a long day at the office.

A helpful hand.

A kind hand.

A hand that carried Frostys and other special treats to his nursing home-confined father, in spite of verbal abuse. A hand that helped his dad to and from his wheelchair, to and from his car to drive him to doctor's appointments and out to eat.

A compassionate hand.

A kind hand.

Not a grasping hand. An open hand. A hand that pulls bills from his pocket to give to a man on the street or a child that needs (wants) a little extra, leaving him with enough for something off the dollar menu or a simple peanut butter and jelly sandwich.

A sacrificial hand.

A kind hand.

A hand that changed diapers and plays board games and reads books and searches under covers for a hiding child when he can hardly keep his eyes open.

A patient hand.

A kind hand.

A hand that grasps a stray dog or cuddles a lost kitten or carries an unwelcome housebound insect outside. A hand that walked a colic-suffering horse all night, in the depth of winter. That brushed an icy tear from his own eye.

A tender hand.

A kind hand.

A hand that held me when I wanted to beat the stuffing out of one of our kids for some reason.

A restraining hand.

A kind hand.

A hand that stroked my forehead as I awakened from anesthesia.

A gentle hand.

A kind hand.

A hand that grasped mine when he noticed a single tear as I recently lay on an emergency room gurney. Even after my frustrated and angry and undeserved tirade against him earlier that evening.

A forgiving hand.

A kind hand.

A hand that slipped a ring on my finger over 38 years ago when he promised to love and cherish me through better and worse until parted by death.

A loving hand.

A kind hand.

My husband's hand.

"Therefore, as God's chosen people, holy and dearly loved, clothe yourselves with compassion, kindness, humility, gentleness, and patience." Colossians. 3:12

Have you encountered a kind hand?

NOTE: This post is part of the Blog Carnival on KINDNESS. For more thoughts, visit One Word at a Time.

Copyright © 2010 by Sandra Heska King

Sickness--A Gift?

I think my left side is permanently wrinkled.

I spent most of yesterday on it. I started by sitting on the couch to watch the news. And slid down ever so slowly. Basically into a stupor. One of those weird days where eyes refuse to focus. Momentarily sort of awake, sometimes, but not really. Incorporating news reports into my dreams. Hovering between the real and the unreal. Choking a devil dog that had me in its grip--and being relieved to find my kitty alive and well lying on my shoulder.

And then to bed, again on my left side. I'll probably be deformed.

I've been ill for the last couple of weeks. And I thought the cure might just do me in.

I almost gave up. But I made it through. One dose at a time. Several prayers at a time.

And today, I'm so grateful for evaporated drug effects.

Sickness. Not a gift I asked for. Not a gift I wanted. But a gift allowed. And as I opened it layer by layer, I discovered and rediscovered:

1. A greater empathy for those who struggle with daily nausea and fatigue from whatever reason, and especially for those undergoing longterm chemotherapy.

2. A caring and supportive family and affirmation that I'd be missed if anything happened to me. (This after telling my husband to "just shoot me" if I ever contract this illness again or--worse--wind up with the same prescription "bomb" again.)

3. A circle of friends who prayed me through day by day, dose by dose, in spite of my whining.

4. The knowledge that my "suffering" paled in comparison to that of others, and also the knowledge that I'm still such a "weakling" I'm apparently not ready yet for big time challenges.

5. A reaffirmation to take better care of my body in terms of diet and exercise.

6. A better grasp of the wise words, "This, too shall pass" and "Do not worry about tomorrow."

7. A reminder that sometimes it's okay to just let go and REST!

And today, I feel more rested. I'm eating again. And though my body might be slightly wrinkled and deformed, I sport a smoother and stronger spirit.

Have you ever found sickness to be a gift? 

"Come to me, all you who are weary and burdened, and I will give you rest." Matthew 11:27

Copyright © 2010 by Sandra Heska King