In a Better Place

At a memorial service I attended recently the minister assured us our deceased friend was "in a better place." However, she provided no basis for this knowledge or further explanation.

That got me thinking about my own eventual demise, subsequent funeral, and what I hope might be said. My friend Jeff Wenzel, who died of a brain tumor about 10 years ago, made a video when he was sick in preparation for the occasion. It was just like Jeff, who was extremely well-liked and social, to be the keynote speaker at his own funeral. My favorite part was when he leaned into the camera and looked down, as if he were scanning the crowd to see who all showed up.

I could make a video too, but writing something is more my style. Something like this:

Thanks for coming to my funeral today. Because you are here, I know our lives crossed in a meaningful way, or your life has crossed some of the ones closest to me and you desire to support and comfort them. Both are great reasons to be here.

I want to assure you that I am now in Heaven with Jesus, in the place He has prepared for me. I've known since I was six years old that I would be joining Him here. My parents read me Bible stories and took me to Sunday School and church, so I always knew that I needed to ask Jesus into my heart.

On a Wednesday night in April, 1975, our First Mennonite Brethren youth choir sang a song with the words, "Don't wait until you're older, but trust Him. . " I knew I would be seven in a few months, so I decided tonight was the night. When my class went upstairs, I hung back, sat on the landing and prayed. I told Jesus I was sorry for the wrong things I had done (I had stolen a curler from a playmate, and lied about it to my mother, for starters), and I asked Him to come into my life and to take me to Heaven when I died. I was glad to make this important decision

When I re-joined my class, I wondered if they would notice that I was a Christian now. I don't remember if I told my teachers, but I know my Mom and Dad were happy for me when I told them that night.

Later I learned the Romans Road, which are several key verses the Apostle Paul wrote in Romans that spell out the path I took to find salvation. Romans 3:23 says, "for all have sinned and fall short of the glory of God." I knew I was a sinner (remember the curler incident). The bad news was I deserved death, as Romans 6:23 says, "for the wages of sin is death." However, the good news quickly follows because the verse continues:  "but the gift of God is eternal life in Christ Jesus our Lord."

So I am confident that I am in Heaven now, because I believe God when he says in Romans 10:9 "If you confess with your mouth that Jesus is Lord, and believe in your heart that God raised him from the dead, you will be saved." That's what I did, and I know He keeps His promises.

He's been with me all my life, guiding me, protecting me, loving me. I have not followed Him perfectly, but He is perfect, and He is faithful to do what He says He will. And now I have begun the best part that is scary to even imagine on earth--eternal life.

You may not have had the benefit of hearing about salvation repeatedly since you were a child like I did, but the same is absolutely true for you. God doesn't want anyone to be lost, He desires that everyone would come to Him. If you haven't done that, I would love for you to do that today. I would love for my memorial service to mark the day that angels rejoice in Heaven over your salvation.

And I would love to see you again. Let's plan to meet at my place--it's got lots of rooms.

Thanksgiving for Father's Day

Yesterday while in CVS I ran in to one of our favorite customers. Actually, I was passing her at the end of a tight aisle and realized it was her as I was two feet from her. She didn't recognize me at first because I had my hair down instead of in my usual ball cap that I wear when we mow.

Anyway, after the slightly awkward meeting, I mentioned I was heading to the greeting cards to get ready for Fathers' Day. With her usual sweet smile, she said she didn't have any men in her life any more. Her father is gone and her husband died (I think it was cancer) three or four years ago (when we started mowing her lawn). She said the only man she might do anything for would be her son-in-law, and she knew her daughter and three grandchildren were planning lots of festivities.

"He doesn't need a card from me," she laughed.

"Well, I don't know, he might," I countered. And we moved on.

But that little exchanged stayed with me all the day, challenging me on two fronts:

When I am in her situation, I pray I am not bitter at the hand I have been dealt. Her husband died early--right after retiring, if not before. Yesterday, and always with us, she is pleasant and talks about him and her situation in a matter-of-fact, accepting way.

But I am not in her situation. I have a dad who in 2011 was in the hospital for three months with pancreatitis and nearly left us, but he's still here. I have a husband of 24 years who is a good father, loves to spend time with me, and even fixed my computer yesterday. I do have men in my life, and today is their day, so I will celebrate them.

So now I need to post this and go fix breakfast. Happy Father's Day!

Both Sides Now- Facing Mother's Day with a slightly empty nest

My oldest son, Caleb, is away at tech school in Biloxi, Mississippi, so this will be my first Mother's Day in 19 years without him. He's actually been gone since mid-December when he went through basic training in San Antonio.

During his eight weeks at basic, communication was limited to three phone calls--right when he got there, to let us know he'd arrived OK, week four (which happened to be his birthday. That was a little detail that God worked out as a gift for me) and week seven, so we could go over graduation plans and the details of visiting him at the air force base (AFB, the first of MANY acronyms). No texting at all. No email. No facebook messaging.

But he could write letters! And he did, nearly every week. The excitement that filled my heart each time I flipped through the mail and saw his handwriting on the white #10 envelope was palpable. Most of the time he filled both the front and back of a sheet of the the yellow steno pad that we purchased for that purpose. We went back in time to the 1980s. I made a point to write him on Sunday nights, typing my letters on the computer and printing them out because my kids complain about not being able to read my cursive.

I was so excited to see Caleb at his graduation from basic training!

Now that he's in tech school, he isn't limited on his phone, so we text occasionally about random things. Occasionally he posts pictures of his days off on facebook.

So I was thinking about what I'd really like from him for Mother's Day, and a letter topped the list. A card would be nice, too. A phone call would be good, especially if he would take off his waterproof Otterbox phone cover, which muffles the sound and makes it hard for me to hear.

A FaceTime or Skype call would be wonderful. Our family is planning to go to the zoo, which is one of his very favorite places. It would be great if we could connect there. Maybe by the baboons. Which is an inside joke, because he HATES the baboons. When he was four or five he did something to get on their bad side and they threw sand at him. OK, maybe by the river otters or the statues of the grizzlies.

At any rate, I yearn to hear from him. And then I think about when I left home.

I didn't go far. My family lived on a farm eight miles northwest of Hillsboro, and I attended Tabor College, which is in Hillsboro. My mom worked in the library at Tabor, so I could walk over and see her each morning. But I didn't. I remember one semester, I think it was my junior year, I had a free hour in my schedule on Tuesdays (or something) so I would usually drop in and chat with her a bit at the check-out desk, but that semester was the exception, not the rule.

I didn't have weekend meals, so I did go home sometimes for lunch on Sundays. For my 19th birthday, on Sept. 10 I met my parents at a reception center on campus. I think I was too busy to come home for an entire evening (plus, I didn't have a car). They gave me a denim jacket, which I liked. Mom might have brought a cake, I don't remember. I do remember thinking it was nice that they came as I walked back to see what was happening in our dorm.

I don't remember ever thinking about how my mom might have been missing her daughter. How if at all possible she wanted to bake a cake and be with the girl on her birthday that she had baked cakes for each of the 18 previous years.

That kind of insight (hindsight) takes years to acquire.

In fact, it's taken me 27.

Surprised by grace

Lately I've been thinking about the story of Jesus and the woman caught in adultery. It's found in John 8:1-11.

The teachers of the law and the Pharisees are anxious to catch Jesus in a trap, so they bring this woman to the temple courts. Jesus is seated, teaching a crowd of people gathered around him. The religious leaders interrupt, saying that under the Law of Moses this woman should be stoned. They ask Jesus what he thinks should be done.

At this point they might be avoiding sidelong glances at each other. They probably are working hard not to break into grins. They've got him! They know the Romans don't allow the Jews to carry out death sentences, so if Jesus says to stone her he'll be in trouble with them. But if he says to let her go, he will be violating Moses' law.

Never mind that the law required the execution of both parties. For whatever reason, her partner was allowed to escape, and she was brought to the temple, her humiliation on display for dramatic effect.
Instead of answering the religious leaders, Jesus bends down and writes on the ground with his finger. Which is pretty funny, when you think about it--Jesus, ignoring them, playing in the dirt. We don't know what he was writing, but we do know that it drove the religious leaders crazy. They kept questioning him.

Finally Jesus stands up and says, "If any one of you is without sin, let him be the first to throw a stone at her." Then he stoops down and goes back to writing.

And they leave. One at a time, oldest ones first. Finally, only the woman is left.

Gently, Jesus says, "Woman, where are they? Has no one condemned you?"

She replies, "No one, sir."

"Then neither do I condemn you," Jesus says.

His answer must have washed over her like wave on the sand. Cleansing, obliterating the past.

Expecting judgement, the woman is surprised by grace. Grace so powerful, so unexpected that Jesus' next statement seems like a no-brainer.

"Go now and leave your life of sin."

Having met grace at the point of her greatest need, her deepest humiliation, her darkest hour, she is ready to follow Jesus anywhere. No way would she go back to where she'd been. She's been transformed by grace.

One thing that has always bothered me about this story is the absence of her partner. Adultery takes two, after all.

It isn't fair. He didn't have to bear public humiliation. He didn't have to sit while the Pharisees watched their best-laid plans to trap Jesus unfolded. He didn't have to wait while they decided who would throw the first stone.

He got away with it.

For the rest of his life, he carried the guilt of his transgression. He didn't get to meet Jesus face-to-face and hear his words of pardon. He got away with it, but he wasn't transformed. He didn't receive grace.

My journey to hysterectomy

At a well-woman check up this summer, my doctor noted I had an enlarged uterus. A sonogram revealed two benign cysts, called fibroids, The largest measured 8 cm, which is bigger than a baseball. Fibroids grow during the influx of estrogen that happens during every menstrual cycle. Once a woman goes through menopause, the fibroids will shrink to about a third of their size.

At 46, I am not too far away from 51, the average age women go through menopause. However, my mom and grandmother both were closer to 60 when they stopped, so I was looking at most likely 10 years or more for my baseball to become a softball or (yikes!) volleyball.

The other problem I have is menstrual migraines, also handed down to me from my mother and grandmother. Since entering my 40s I have been getting increasingly severe monthly headaches, caused by the fluctuating hormone levels during my cycle. Although there are no guarantees that removing my ovaries will eliminate migraines, it seemed like a risk worth taking. The possibility of skipping 120 debilitating three-day headaches over the next 10 years makes me smile.

The decision wasn't easy, though. I believe God made our bodies to function pretty well, and altering anything is risky. When I was debating whether to have  my ovaries removed, my doctor mentioned a trying a Lupron shot, which would put my body into menopause. Then we could see how my body would react, and if the headaches would go away.

Lupron is expensive, I found out, around $800 a dose. The doctor's office had to jump through hoops to clear it with my insurance. Then the Aetna drug people called me to make sure I wanted it before they shipped it. On the day I was to have the shot, I looked Lupron up on WebMD. Numerous patient reviews said the side effects were horrible. Most were taking it to relieve pain from endometriosis, and even the women who were getting help from the drug still weren't sure it was worth it. Several reviewers expressed regret for ever taking it and begged other women to reconsider.

I'd read enough John Grisham books about irresponsible drug companies to be completely freaked out by that, and I cancelled my appointment to get the shot. In the following weeks Aetna robo-called me numerous times, wanting me to refill my prescription. No thank you.

So I went into surgery on Friday with no real guarantees that this will help my headaches, although I think it will. I will no longer have the discomfort from the fibroids.

Since we are self-employed, we've had bare-bones insurance for years. We were forced to switch with ObamaCare last year. Right now it looks like it will be a blessing. From what I can tell our portion of the bill will be manageable.

I delayed having the surgery until we were through with our regular lawn care for the season. I've been looking forward to my eight weeks of recovery. I checked out Middlemarch by George Eliot (Mary Anne Evans), an 800-page classic novel found on many "must read" lists. I also plan to blog and set our business up on QuickBooks.

Right now the other employees of Franklin Lawn Service are getting ready for snow removal. I think I will take a nap.

At the Cross

We had communion in church this past Sunday. One of the songs had the powerful phrase "at the cross."

Where else is life distilled to its most basic form than there? At the cross only one thing matters--our response to Jesus' sacrifice.

When Dave and I were first married, we participated in an Easter pageant. He was a Roman soldier, I was one of the women following Jesus.

At the crucifixion scene we were all at the foot of the cross, weeping at the injustice.

And I realized a friendship I had at work was getting a little too important to me. My sin had put Jesus up on the cross. My tears of repentance were real.

In high school, I was a cast member in "Godspell." Midway through the second act Jesus said goodbye to each of his followers:  some with handshakes, many with hugs, all with a special gesture to signify each unique relationship. Just when we were starting to realize who our friend was and why he came, he was taken away.

In the play he was hung on a fence that stood in for a cross. Listening to him sing, "Oh God, I'm dying," while we were writhing at the base of the fence was a spiritual experience that gave me a glimpse of his sacrifice.

Our small school cast was a mix of kids, from different churches or no church background at all. Some athletes, some musical, some popular, some not. I determined that in my mind for the rest of my life they would be family. The ground was level at the foot of the cross.
 

Ode to Odie

Our family is in love with Odie.

We've had our Cavapoo for nearly a year, and he has a special bond with each of us.

He naps next to Dave's head while Dave is watching TV in the beanbag. Caleb plays with him by making quick movements and gets Odie running in circles. Harrison and Laurel give him a baths. Laurel is adept at putting on his harness and taking him for walks. I taught him to fetch my newspaper from the end of the driveway each morning.

The fact that we have a dog at all is amazing. A miracle, really. We were done with dogs. We'd had two puppies that we'd gotten from my parents, Abraham and Isaac. After about a year Abraham learned how to jump the fence, so he went back to the farm. Isaac stayed longer. He was an outside dog, but for some reason he was inside for a while one day and happened to pee on our bed. He was gone the next day. Dave gave him to a coworker.

Then a few years later we had Zoe, our big Great Pyrenees. She was the inspiration for our kindergartener to start his own business, "Caleb's Poop Scooping Service."

Caleb used his new tools at his Aunt Julie's and Aunt Jenny's back yards. However, after a few years the novelty of a dog and a business wore off. Both were neglected. When Great Pyrenees are neglected, they turn to barking. Incessantly. We got her a bark collar, which worked for a while, but then she developed a sore on her neck because we'd neglected to take off the collar. She's in a better place now. Dave placed an ad and we gave her to a family that had 40 acres.

And we swore that we wouldn't have any more dogs. And it was easy to keep our word, because we have a lawn service so we were reminded constantly of what dogs can do to a backyard when we mowed yards where people kept pets. And when we happened to step in a fresh pile and smelled it in the truck for the rest of the day, we would look at each other and say how thankful we were that we didn't have dogs.

A terminally ill customer of ours was having trouble caring for his dog Chloe, a Jack Russell terrier. He doted on Chloe, so we offered to give her occasional baths and take her on walks so he would be able to keep her as long as possible. I wondered if he had a plan for where Chloe would go when he would have to give her up. Chloe was 12 years old, so I knew the commitment would be short. Even though I grew up on a farm and firmly believed a dog's place was outside, I offered to take in his house dog. He told me that a neighbor had already spoken for Chloe, so I was off the hook. Our son Harrison, who was hoping for a dog, was crushed.

Then Dave went camping with our friends the Reeds, who brought along their adorable new Cavapoo puppy, Cora. Dave loved how Cora sat on her owner Danita's lap the entire weekend, and he was sold on their tales of how she was so smart they had trained her to ring a bell when she needed to go outside. Since she was half poodle, she didn't shed.

The Reeds told Dave they'd gotten Cora from a breeder in Missouri, so he started monitoring their website. When they discounted a 12-week old spotted puppy named Casey, Dave decided he was the one. He said we should take a road trip that Friday to pick him up. I had my doubts. Huge reservations, actually, in the form of 2,000 sq. ft. of new carpet that we'd just installed when we'd moved into our new house only a few months previously. New puppies and new carpet were not a good combination, in my opinion.

But the day before Dave wanted to go to Missouri, we got some news. It was one of those things that you hear about after the fact, so you can't really do anything but just feel sick. But I knew I would be thinking about it all day, and suddenly the thought of getting out of town with my hubby and processing it together on an all-day road trip was exactly what I wanted to do.

So we ended up in Carthage, Missouri, and brought home our little bargain puppy. I tried not to think about "Marley and Me," because their bargain puppy turned out to be much more than they bargained for. I held the scared little Casey in my arms the whole way home. The kids were truly surprised and happy to finally have a dog. We tried out several names. Nothing stuck until the puppy jumped and awkwardly fell flat on his face, so he became Odie just like Garfield's nemesis in the comics.

At Easter I asked my nephew Lincoln if he remembered our doggie's name. "Yes," he said. "Coyote."

On the way home from Missouri, the puppy had pooped and pottied when we stopped at a rest stop. "Maybe this will be easier than I thought," I said to Dave. Of course, those were famous last words. We have gone through all of the usual trials in trying to train a puppy. However, since our kids are teenagers, they actually can take care of him, and since they knew Mom was on the fence about the whole thing in the first place, when he would have accidents--and he did, including diarrhea until we got him used to his new puppy food--they would silently go for the spray bottle of carpet cleaner and a roll of paper towels.

We have adjusted and included Odie in our routines. Dave, Caleb and I love watching him race excitedly around us as we put up our equipment after returnlng from mowing all day. I catch the kids slipping him bits of food under the table, but I have been known to let him lick out my empty yogurt containers. Lately I've been taking him to the bank drive-thru when I make deposits, because they give out doggie treats. And that, my friends, is nothing short of a miracle.

Odie waiting patiently for his Milk-Bone to come at the bank drive-thru.