The Ants Go MarchingI’m a busy girl. Too busy. I often think about how busy I am. I dislike the word busy. It conjurs up images in my mind of ants marching all in a line, heading somewhere (who knows where) just because all the other ants are doing it. I wonder if they ever think about why they’re all marching. Or if they just want to stop and sit in the shade and think about something other than the endless march they are part of. Or maybe they’d like to march the other way. Or put down the gum wrapper they’re carrying back to the hill.
I feel like an ant sometimes. Like this past week, for example. The fall season of lessons started up for me. I had 30 students come through the door over a period of four days, a family to feed, a young son to be a good mother to, a conference to plan for, recordings to finish, bills to pay, errands to run, friends to visit, phone calls to make, a husband to serve…all good things, nothing out of the ordinary. But all together it made me feel like I was marching, marching, marching. And I find myself focusing on the time it’s going to take to do everything on my schedule and how tired I’m going to be when the day is done…and I zap all the fun and joy out of all of it. So there I am, all exhausted and stressed and living for my next vacation. Not in the moment at all. I’ve heard it said that “busy” is not a good thing…that busy is often the partner of stress and the enemy of peace and rest and sanity. So sometimes I try to fool myself and think that I just have a “full schedule.” The reality is that I’m really just busy and probably need to learn something about balance. How do the ants do it? So this weekend I’m at the coast doing music for a women’s conference. I’m going to take a long walk on the beach and ponder how I can get some balance and still do all the things I need to do, how to filter out the things that aren’t important, treasure the 30 students that come through my door each week, (knowing they are busy too, and have chosen to spend some of their busy day with me), soak in every moment I have with my husband and son, and look at the glass half full for a change, no matter what the day looks like. And whenever I have a moment, I’ll stop marching, get out of the line, sit in the shade and ponder something nice. Be in the moment. And then I’ll get back to it with a renewed sense of purpose. I’ll let you know how it goes. The Golden Rule Revisited...
A friend of mine from church came over the other day to work on some music for her ministry. She leads worship on a regular basis for a few local nursing homes. She wanted some help with leading from the piano...she felt inadequate for the task. Over the course of an hour, we talked and worked on some music...and I came away changed.
I have had a soft place in my heart for people of older age. I walked through the devastating effects of Alzheimers with my maternal grandmother, and watched my mom care for her the last 10 years of her life, long after grandma no longer knew any of us, and had permanently retreated into a place in her mind only she was aware of. My friend, however has not only a soft spot in her heart for the aged, but a burning passion. She says that when she plays and sings the hymns she has planned for each week, people that have been silent and with no discernable memory sing along. Something about the words and melody of those old hymns of the faith reach a place inside that nothing else will. It's like the Holy Spirit uses the hymns to call to their spirits. I was so moved after she left, somewhat convicted that I had been comfortable with just having a soft spot in my heart. I realize God doesn't call us all to the same ministry and doesn't give us all the same passion for the same causes. But I want to have more passion and not be so complacent about those in our society that don't have a voice and often no longer have anyone interested in their life. Shortly after my friend's visit I received a thank you note from her along with a Starbuck's card...she was grateful for the time I spent with her. She also enclosed a copy of an article, "The Golden Rule, Revisited". As I finished reading it, I realized I was the grateful one--to have my eyes opened to the reality of what is all around me, tucked away in nursing homes, out of sight and too often out of mind. Lord, forgive my complacency. Give me your eyes to see the need and your passion to make a difference. The Golden Rule, Revisited They lie there, breathing heavy gasps, contracted into a fetal position. Ironic, that they should live 80 or 90 years, then return to the posture of their childhood. But they do. Sometimes their voices are mumbles and whispers like those of infants or toddlers. I have seen them, unaware of anything for decades, crying for parents long since passed away. I recall one who had begun to sleep excessively, and told her daughter that a little girl slept with her each night. I don't know what she saw. Maybe an infant she lost, or a sibling, cousin or friend from years long gone. But I do know what I see when I stand by the bedside of the infirm aged. Though their bodies are skin-covered sticks and their minds an inescapable labyrinth. I see something surprising. I see something beautiful and horrible, hopeful and hopeless. What I see is my children, long after I leave them, as they end their days. This vision comes to me sometimes when I stand by the bedside in my emergency department, and look over the ancient form that lies before me, barely aware of anything. Usually the feeling comes in those times when I am weary and frustrated from making too many decisions too fast, in the middle of the night. Into the midst of this comes a patient from a local nursing home, sent for reasons I can seldom discern. I walk into the room and roll my cynical eyes at the nurse. She hands me the minimal data sent with the patient, and I begin the detective work. And just when I'm most annoyed, just when I want to do nothing and send them back, I look at them. And then I touch them. And then, as I imagine my sons, tears well up and I see the error of my thoughts. For one day, it may be. One day, my little boys, still young enough to kiss me and think me heroic, may lie before another cynical doctor, in the middle of the night of their dementia, and need care. More than medicine, it may be compassion. They will need someone to have the insight to look at them and say, "Here was once a child, cherished and loved, who played games in the nursery with his mother and father. Here was a child who put teeth under pillows and loved bedtime stories, crayons and stuffed animas. Here is a treasure of love to a man and a woman long gone. How can I honor them? By treating their child with love and gentility. By seeing that their child has come full circle to infancy once more, and will soon be born once more into forever." The vision is frightful because I will not be there to comfort them, or to say, "I am here" when they call out, unless God grants me the gift of speaking across forever. It is painful because I will not be there to serve them as I did in life, and see that they are treated as what they are: unique and wonderful, made in the image of the Creator, and of their mother and me. It is terrible because our society treats the aged as worse than a burden; it treats them as tragedies of time. It seems hopeless because when they contract and lie motionless, no one will touch them with the love I have for them, or know the history of their scars, visible and invisible. I am the walking library of their lives, and I will be unavailable. All I can do is ask, while I live, for God's mercy on them as they grow older. And yet, the image has beauty and hope as well. Because if I see my little boys as aged and infirm, I can dream that their lives were long and rich. I can dream that they filled their lucid years with greatness and love, that they knew God and served Him well, and were men of honor and gentility. I can imagine that even if they live in the shadowland alone, somewhere children and grandchildren, even great-grandchildren thrive. I can hope that their heirs come to see them, and care, and harass the staff of the nursing home to treat Grandpa better. I can hope that they dare not allow my boys to suffer, but that they hold no illusions about physical immortality, and will let them come to their mother and me when the time arrives. And best, I can know that their age and illness will only bring the day of that reunion closer. My career as an emergency physician has taught me something very important about dealing with the sick and injured, whether young or old. It has taught me that the Golden Rule also can be stated this way: "Do unto others as you would have others do unto your children." I think that this is a powerful way to improve our interactions with others, not just in medicine but in every action of our lives. And it is certainly a unique way to view our treatment of the elderly. For one day all our children will be old. And only if this lesson has been applied will they be treated with anything approaching the love that only we, their parents, hope for them to always have. James Dobson Family News, January 1, 2001, Issue 1 Dad It's Dad's birthday today, six years since he died. I've been thinking about him all day. I miss him a lot, even after all these years. When special things happen, I wish he were here to celebrate with me. When I have a particularly bad day, I wish I could just sit with him and borrow his calm. He had such a great sense of humor, and a tender heart. The older he got the more tender he became; he would choke up at the oddest times. He had a lot of time to reflect in his last years and not all of the reflections were easy to take, I'm sure. I would sometimes look over at him, sitting in his favorite chair, and see tears running down his face. He would just say, "I'm so sorry." I had long forgiven him and no apologies were needed, but he needed to say it. He had a simple life that I often wish I had. In our later years, he was never too busy to be with us or with his grandkids. I wish he could see Jake play football and baseball and golf--he would've loved to see how much Jake loves to golf. There is so much more life that I wanted to share with him--I wasn't ready for him to leave us. I was such a selfish girl, I thought too much about myself and not enough about him. I should've told him more how much I loved him. I should've served him more. I should've been more patient. I sometimes wonder if God lets him see how much he's missed. Today I was also thinking about what my sister wrote and read at his memorial service... My Dad My dad wasn’t perfect. (Is anyone’s?). He made some mistakes. He made more good, I think. While alive, we might remember the bigger mistakes more than we should. But family and friends are about forgiving, forgetting. We remember the good things about people when they pass on. And laugh about some of the faults and foibles. We have been doing a lot of that for the last few days. Dad died early Thursday morning. My mom and her sister, when they finally retired, spent the rest of the early morning hours in the living room, talking. My sister and I, along with our husbands and kids, arrived Thursday night. And we talked some more. Dad’s brothers arrived on Sunday and the house has been filled with their talk. “Remember when’s” and stories from childhood on. Friends have called and dropped by, cards and letters have arrived…(And food—thank you very much!)…all remembering my dad. The good things he did, the stories he told. (And he could tell a good story—those of you who have known him long are smiling to yourselves and can probably tell a few). Listening to this talk you remember things you forgot, and hear things you never knew. Another facet, another shade of color of the person you love so much and thought you knew so well. I have been listening to these stories all week. Now it’s my turn: Let me tell you what my dad did for me. My dad took me hunting. I remember the first time—I was four years old. We were in upstate New York and the snow was deeper than me. And we bundled up and went tromping through the woods in search for deer. My family remembers I wet my pants—but mostly I remember hunting with my dad. When I was 10 or so, he taught me to shoot a rifle. Later, when I was in the Air Force, I had to shoot an M-16 to qualify for something or other. Both times I imagined my dad standing firmly behind my shoulder so the recoil wouldn’t knock me on my backside. I got two expert marksmanship medals that way—pretending my dad was standing right behind me. He taught me to bowl. He taught all of us how to bowl! Kids, sons-in-law, and grandkids. (Of course none of us could touch his average!). Just a couple of nights ago my sister and I, our husbands and my daughter went to the Triangle to bowl some games. I think that a memorial in itself some way… My dad was a great provider. He bought me my first car. (He helped me buy probably at least two other cars as well, and my sister, too, I’m sure). He helped both my sister and I buy our first homes. He has loaned me more money that I care to admit needing… He never hesitated to help when we were in need. He was the best grandpa. I am so glad my daughter was able to spend part of nearly every summer with my folks. So we’ve been remembering. We remember things like Old Spice, old songs, a familiar phrase or the oft-told story that always makes us laugh. The fact that he loved to listen to my sister sing (and in a bit she will sing one of his favorite songs). But the best foundation my dad laid, on which all the rest lays (on top or alongside), are the many ways he showed us his love and his commitment to our success. By providing for us, putting braces on our teeth, helping us get our start as adults on our own, capping off his commitments to his family in the role of indulgent grandpa and even more indulgent owner of one very lonely tabby cat. We will miss him much, but know he is in a better place—one without pain, without hassles and where he can look on us all and continue to care for us well. I love you, Dad, and I miss you.  Biographical Blog(Taken from my post on www.sisterblog.net)
The instructions here say that I should share a little biographical information--as opposed to biological information, like that I have a lot of freckles, or that I have a Miller's thumb. (You'll have to google that). So I won't talk about that kind of stuff. I was born in a small town in upstate New York back in the 60's. We moved to a small town in Washington when I was 3, where I grew up in a little white house (with my mom, dad and toy telephone wielding sister and where mom still lives). There were several mills in Longview (International Paper, Weyerhauser, Reynolds Metals) being that the city borders the north bank of the Columbia River before it makes it's final 50 mile journey to the ocean and where ships from Japan and other countries could come and go easily. So there was always a lot of smog and mill odor in the air. (One of my college friends, upon visiting my home city, said that explained a lot about me. You can interpret that however you wish). I had a Dorothy Hamill haircut and I wore a lot of big-flower-printed tops with my bell bottoms. My favorite pair were gold and purple plaid. They didn't go very well with my big-flowered tops. My sister was tall and thin (like my mom) and I was sort of tall and not-so thin (like no one else in my family)...which was a bit of a sore spot with me until I realized I didn't have to share my clothes with anyone. Just another reminder that there are always benefits to any situation if you look hard enough. I thought I loved a boy named David in the fourth grade. He moved away before I had a chance to write a love note to him on a scrap of notebook paper and stick it in his history book like I did with Jeffrey the next year. Every time I hear the song "I Can See Clearly Now" I think of David, since that was the big song that year. I think I thought I loved six other boys before I graduated High School. I don't think any of them thought they loved me back. Our dad drank a lot during our growing up years. He moved out when I was 12. It wasn't a particularly happy time in our family, but my mom was a master at making things seem okay, and I feel like, in many ways, I was a lucky girl in spite of tough circumstances. I played the piano ALL the time back then and took piano lessons from age 7 to age 18...I met a lot of great friends and had a lot of great musical opportunities throughout high school since I got to accompany just about everybody who sang at my church or school or around town. I loved to sing too, but played more during those years. I ate, slept and breathed music when I was young. I graduated and went to college in Seattle where I broadened my world, made some more great friends, had wonderful roommates, thought I loved a few more boys and got a good education. My mom worked really hard to put me through school...I didn't appreciate it or realize the significance of her selflessness at the time like I do now. I've used my musical education just about every day since I graduated. What a gift my mom gave me. I travelled with a few singing groups after college--around the country and overseas to Peru, Brazil, Chile and Columbia. Singing has taken me to every state but North Dakota; I don't think I'm missing much, but I know I'll get there some day. Just to say I did and maybe meet some cool people. I met my husband in 1989 and we were married in December of the next year...he sings too, and that's how we met. I was in a Christian rock band, Komunique, and he joined us. I was actually verbally engaged to someone else at the time. I say "verbally engaged" because I didn't actually have the ring. Never call yourself engaged until you have the ring. Bad things can happen. My verbal fiance' was seeing someone else, and things didn't work out so well. But again, if you look hard enough, there are benefits. As a result, I ended up with the most amazing man...the first one that really loved me back. Now we're in our eighteenth year of marriage and I'm looking forward to the next eighteen. One of the best benefits of our marriage is our son, Jake. He's a pretty cool dude. He makes life fun. (We just built a snowman tonight in the front yard of mom's house--in March! I love making memories like that, and hearing Jake say, "This is the BEST snow day of my life!!!"). So there are a lot of things that have happened in my life since I showed up on the planet back in the 60's, but the very best was that day at Vacation Bible School back in 1975 when I asked Jesus to come into my heart, forgive my sin and take control of my life. He did, and has walked with me ever since, through every situation good and bad. I haven't always made the best choices. (That's a blog for another day). But it doesn't matter to Him, he died for my bad choices and loves me no matter. I want to live my life for Him, every moment; there is no benefit in life that doesn't pale in comparison to knowing Jesus--there is no greater thing. I'm a selfish girl and need Him every day. I love Him with my whole heart, and will never stop being thankful that He saved me from myself all those years ago. I am unashamed to say that I am living my life in pursuit of Him. There's some biographical information for what it's worth. I always wonder what I have to say that is worth sticking around to read...so thanks for sticking around to read it. Thoughts on Music and LifeI fell in love with music at an early age. At night after we were tucked in bed in our prospective bedrooms, my sister and I would have song wars; we'd sing at the top of our lungs in an attempt to drown out the other. We also sang along with every commercial and sitcom theme from the time we could remotely talk. We sang at the dinner table until our parents made us be quiet. Our growing up was fully immersed in music.
She started playing the violin in grade school and I started piano lessons at the age of 7 when we moved my grandmother's antique upright from her house to our dining room. I first played by ear and spent hours imitating songs I heard on the radio. I clearly remember the day I got my cassette player. My first tape was of Olivia Newton John. I really wanted to be her someday. I used to put the cassette player in the basket of my green bike with the sparkly banana seat and ride down the hill to my elementary school--there was an echoey tunnel type area where I could be alone and sing along to "I Honestly Love You" at the perfect power-ballad volume. Then I went to see Evie at the Portland Memorial Coliseum and almost cried--after that I wanted to be her someday. The list grew longer over the years...Amy Grant, The Imperials, The Second Chapter of Acts, Kelly Willard, Sandi Patty, Point of Grace...I spent much of my youthful energy playing, singing, writing and accompanying anyone who asked, secretly hoping I'd be someone someday. I met Jesus at the age of 12, and He took the passion for music He had put in my soul and gave it a purpose. It was the most amazing thing. For years I have worked this out in various forms: solo ministry, worship leading, church music ministry, touring, studio session work, background singing, piano solo and accompanying work, event singing, teaching and coaching. I've loved it all, and still do...the love of music is indelibly written on every part of me. I've written music since I was a young girl (my first song was entitled "Sam's Song"-- an aptly named and very cheesy rhyming song for a boy I thought I loved), but only recently began finishing the songs I've started. People used to ask me when I was going to do something with my music. I thought that was an interesting question because as far as I was concerned I had been doing something with my music. At least I have tried to. I think what they meant was that anyone who was a real musician would make a CD--like that would really be doing something. I'd like to do that with some of the music I'm writing and I'm working on it...it's just such a slow and painstaking process for me. I have friends that are prolific writers and recorders...frustratingly, that's not me. I've learned to stop comparing myself. Maybe I'll finally finish it this year. Then maybe I can pass my musical thoughts down to future generations so they can be encouraged in their walk with the Lord. But even if it never gets completed I think I've still been doing what God has asked me to do and has gifted me for, and I think that's really all that matters in the end. ShadowlandLife has a funny way of moving in directions you never intended, or could have imagined from a younger, more naive perspective. When I was a little girl I had mapped out in my mind what my life would look like...the model family, how I would meet the man of my dreams in college and marry him at 23, have 2 kids by the time I was 27, have a nice house and comfortable existence in a place where I would settle down and stay for the rest of my life, growing old with my husband, children, grandchildren and good, lifelong friends nearby.
Things haven't worked out quite that way. As a young girl I watched my father descend into the grip of alcoholism until he left us when I was 12. I saw my mother struggle to hold her heart and our family together. By the time I was 25 I been through a series of my own bad relationships and painful break-ups that left me feeling somehow "less than". While I met the man of my dreams at 26 and was married at 27, I spent the first three years of our marriage in a state of suicidal depression and illness due to an undiagnosed brain tumor. Against all odds I had one child a few years later, then could not have the others I longed for. I have moved 9 times in the past 15 years, between three states and 6 cities. I have experienced financial peace as well as the stress than comes from wondering where the next meal will come from. I have experienced a ripping apart of the marriages of dear friends and family. I have walked with my husband through debilitating injury. I have known the pain of needless, severed friendships. I have cried an ocean of tears. Much of my life has been spent in what my sister refers to as the "shadowed lands"--a place of darkness that presses in overwhelmingly...a sense of hopeless "forgottenness" and wandering. The type of aloneness that goes far beyond my general melancholy nature. Those have been the times, however, that I have grown the most as a person. The times that I have gained wisdom and maturity that comes from long periods of pain and loss and questioning. The times that God has gotten my attention and has caused me to press into Him. The times that He has come to my rescue, around the bend, through the mist. If it weren't for the place of deep need and darkness, I would never be in a place to discover again that Jesus is the only One who can bring the light and meet my need. Hannah Whitall Smith says that "the valley is the place of vision." I see that now, and know that when I have come out of the shadowed lands, my eyes are clearer--the sun is brighter, the meadow greener, the sky bluer than I remembered. And there is hope that no matter the circumstance--my God is mighty to save and I am never forgotten. Click Here to loisten to the song... GirlfriendshipI've been thinking a lot about girlfriend-ship. It's a pretty nice thing, if you ask me. My pondering started as I thought about my friend Keri and how we've been friends for the last 20 years and have walked through all the highs and lows and love each other as much as you can love a friend, I think.
Then I thought about my sister, and what a great friend she is. We didn't always like each other like we do now. I'm glad we got over that. We're very different, but it doesn't matter. It's an amazing thing to have someone in your life that is always FOR you. She's always for me, even when I'm not easy to be for. And she's really funny. We laugh so hard sometimes we can't talk--tears rolling down our cheeks and everything. My sister-in-law, Sue, is for me too, and she's a party waiting to happen, any time and anywhere. I love this about her, because it's only how I am in my dreams. I'm glad that she's part of my family because we probably wouldn't have thought to become friends since we're so different, but she lives across the street and I get to see her a lot and join her party. She inspires me to lighten up and not take myself so seriously. Then there's my friend Lori. She's one of my funniest friends, and deepest, too. I love spending time with her--we alternate between hilarity and deep conversation--sometimes within seconds. We relate on many levels, and have known each other for over 30 years. We started singing together in the 7th grade. We wrote notes to each other about the boys that we loved and were sure we'd marry some day. We didn't. I went on my first real diet with her in the 9th grade. She didn't need to, she was voted "Best Build" in our senior yearbook. I think she did it just to encourage me. That's what a good friend would do, and she's a really good friend. I have a neigher, Lisbeth, who is one of those "what you see is what you get" friends. True and authentic and loving and REAL. She has a lovely home that I love to go to, just to hang out because it's cozy, just like her. We were just commenting that we have the kind of friendship where you don't have to do or say anything--you can just sit and ponder together--and it's totally comfortable. It's a no expectation friendship. I love that about her. And there's my friend Cathy--we've known each other for over 30 years, too. She's been there through thick and thin and knows a lot of deep, dark secrets about me. Although we grew up to be very different in many ways I know she'd drop everything to come if I needed her. I'd do the same. She's a deep thinker and challenges me in my faith and what I believe to be true. She makes me ponder and want to really KNOW why I believe what I believe. Good friends do that, too, even when you have to agree to disagree. That's just fine when you love each other. She's really cool that way. And Tammy--I never call her Tammy--we call each other 'Roommite' because we lived together for the three years before I got married, and 'roommate' was a bit too normal. We were always anything but normal. She's another of my funny, quirky friends. We do a mean imitation of the bagpipes--it takes two wierd people to really pull that off. We consoled eachother through many a broken heart, and knew what it really meant when we each found our soul mate in the one we married. We each have only one child, boys, born 8 weeks apart. She has always been there for me no matter what being there meant, even as our lives have taken us to live in different parts of the country. We have a lifelong connection. We don't call each other as often as I'd like anymore, but she's one of those friends that I often think about and wish lived closer, just so we could see each other and laugh and talk and do the bagpipes. Julie is my friend and mentor. I've often said I want to be her when I grow up. I hope that I will even be sort of like her, just a little...I try to be like her now. She loves the Lord with all her heart and serves Him like every day is her last. I want to have that kind of heart for God. Whenever I spend time with her I always seem to have an "Aha! moment"...and I come away feeling refreshed and renewed. She spurs me on to greater things and reminds me of what's important. She's a treasure to me. I met a new friend this week, Tara Leigh. She was only in town for a few days and we shared a brief lunch, just a moment, really. She's one of those friends that you meet and immediately like, but know that they'll soon be gone and you'll wish they wouldn't leave but they have to. One of those friends that you know would be a good friend if they stayed. I wish she could've stayed. So many other friends--Courtney, my fun music friend; Becky, my spiritual encourager and conference partner; Jan, my dear friend who lives far away but is forever close to my heart for all we've shared...from the mountain to the valley and back again; Vicki, my friend for life; Betsy, my friend who has always been there at a moment's notice; Janet, my Cannon Beach friend through the seasons; my mother and my mother-in-law...two women I admire so much for so many reasons..."rocks" in my heart and life; and Donna and Kyla, my young and newly-married friends who keep me feeling younger than I am and remind me of me all those years ago. So I've been pondering and am thankful for such delightful and treasured girlfriend-gifts, all of them--I am what I am because God put these women in my life... 
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