Paying Attention in the New Year

Another year passed, a new one begun - Happy New Year!  May 2014 be a year in which truth, peace and love are evident in our own lives, and also globally.

I went for a long walk this morning, and (no surprise) noticed many people out walking or running.  This is the day when we turn over a new leaf, set our goals for another year.  The calendar has turned to a page that is fresh and white, with a new number - 2014. Could this be the year our dreams become reality? The possibilities are endless. The old is gone, the new is here - we get to re-draw the picture, or re-write the script.  It's an opportunity too good to miss. 

It feels good to have another chance, doesn't it?  As a kid, I remember - every September - entering a new classroom, getting new notebooks, and writing beautifully in those clean, perfect notebooks for at least the first week. But then the assignments piled up, I started to hurry, and got careless.  Pretty soon, my writing was looking messy (no wonder we called our notebooks 'scribblers').  And every September I'd try again.  I never gave up.

Looking back through several  journal entries, I notice that each year, the goals I come up with are often very similar to what I resolved in previous years.  Maybe this is because I never really 'arrive'.  Most times, my determination holds strong for a few months, until I (ever so slowly) slide back into old familiar habits.  I start to eat the wrong foods, I neglect to set specific time aside for my spiritual growth, I grow weary of searching out publishers for my work.

It's likely that I'm not alone in this.  If everyone met their goals, being granted new opportunities in a new year wouldn't be nearly as appealing. There would be no talk of New Years' resolutions. If we accomplished our goals, we wouldn't need that fresh calendar page to give us hope.  We'd simply carry on from one success to the next.  But our personalities, formative influences and circumstances often hamper our ability to be persistent and consistent.

What comforts me in all of this is that I don't need a new year to begin again.  Every day affords a fresh start; God gives me that opportunity with each new sunrise.

But this I call to mind and therefore I have hope: The steadfast love of the Lord never ceases, his mercies never come to an end; they are new every morning; great is your faithfulness. (Lam 3:21-23)

God's mercies are there to pick me up, and they're never ending. How amazing is that? No matter how many times I'm stuck in my failure, He urges me to acknowledge my weakness, submit it to Him, and move on with renewed hope in His faithfulness. 

The other thing that comforts me is that I've got Someone in my corner - not just passively watching, but leading me forward, providing all I need. If I'm paying attention, I'll notice that the path is laid out for me.  The canvas and the page have been well prepared.

I am about to do a new thing; now it springs forth, do you not perceive it? I will make a way in the wilderness and rivers in the desert. (Isaiah 43:19)

A new thing - the desert's gonna bloom!  Forgetting the past, leaving my failures behind, I have new hope, knowing I'm loved for who I am, and that my dreams are valued.  So I resolve to pay attention; I'm eager to perceive the newness that's ready to spring forth!  How about you?

Of Careers, Calling and Parental Pride

Earlier this year, I blogged about having pride in our kids - pride that comes naturally for parents. 

I remember my dad being proud of his daughters, making it known that he could farm with his two daughters just as well as any man with sons (maybe his biases skewed his perception just a bit...). We have a number of friends whose kids have worked in the family business, which must be a good feeling - sharing knowledge, goals, looking at ways to move the company into the next phase or change, building together. We are naturally pleased when our kids follow in our footsteps, choosing to emulate us in their job or profession.
 
Growing up, I knew a large family whose kids all became either pastors, doctors, nurses or professors, most of them taking on a missionary stint in Africa or other developing country. To the last one, they were kind and compassionate, displaying none of the arrogance we often associate with highly successful people. I wondered what conversations around their supper table must have been like.  While we were talking about the best way to avoid scours (diarrhea) in newborn calves, they were likely discussing the latest medical breakthrough and the impact it would have on those who might benefit - or perhaps debating a difficult theological problem.  As years passed, my respect for this family only grew - parallel to their accomplishments which truly benefited people in countless ways. It's enough to make most of us just a bit envious.

What constitutes success? Is it our education?  Our accomplishments?  Our status?  Our wealth? Our health? Our fame?

Throughout history, people who lived what we call a 'full' life - who made a difference somewhere, were people who listened to their heart. They leaned in to their potential. (What is our potential, if not who we were created to be?) Instead of emulating someone else, they discovered who they really were, and developed that person. They responded to their own specific calling. Isn't that a worthy task for each of us? To find and follow the passion and gifts that lie inside of us?

I recall walking through the Alexander Graham Bell Museum in Baddeck, Nova Scotia some years ago. Meandering through the displays, reading about this extraordinary man completely mesmerized me. This was a man whose greatest passion lay in compassion for people and discovering new ways of communicating, especially related to the hearing impaired. He was too busy working out his new ideas to worry about the financial rewards of his labor. He handed his telephone company, Ma Bell, over to his wife, which made her a very wealthy woman. He didn't work for fame; he cared deeply about people and used his inquisitive and creative mind to follow his heart. You can almost imagine the neighbors shaking their heads and saying things like, "Why isn't that man out making a decent living? Imagine just staying in that workshop every day! What will all his experimentation get him?" Still he forged ahead. His calling was greater than his desire for approval.

None of our kids have followed in our footsteps in terms of education or career. None of our kids has remained in the family business. None of our kids has status or wealth. None of our kids have achieved fame. What they have done is followed their hearts, and let God guide them to their best life...in an ongoing journey.  Each is being true to his/her own calling (each very different from their siblings) - and yet each one exerts positive influence in the lives of others; of that I have no doubt.  I know this, in part, because they influence me.

I don't expect, or even desire that our kids be like us. My hope and joy comes in seeing them find and follow their specific passion, working to develop their talents and gifts, even when it's hard and demands sacrifice. That they do so with integrity - continuing always to follow God's best for them - not for someone else. Envying someone else's place in life is a sure path to failure and defeat.

Accepting who we are, discovering our potential and then striving to be our best is one of the key ingredients to wholeness. When our children (and grandchildren) learn through success and through failure - in the confidence they are unique individuals who have a unique place in this world, I'm in their corner.  My heart is instilled with respect and yes, even pride.

A New Life

The conflict I wrote about in my previous blog has been resolved.
My mom passed away on November 1st.

As I indicated in my previous post, I had struggled - not insignificantly - with end of life decisions.  I was glad for the one-mindedness that my sister and I felt, and the validation by her physician.

Mom struggled against her oxygen mask and her IV in her final days.  Because of her memory loss, she didn't remember - more than a few seconds - when we told her the oxygen was to make her better. Mom was usually a pretty upbeat person, but it was clear that she felt almost claustrophobic. She wanted freedom.  A few times, she mumbled to me, "I can't anymore."
She hated having the mask on, and even the nasal tube when her meals came.  At one point, she just kept trying to pull it off and was becoming very agitated.  I found it painful to watch her discomfort and angst. I said, to her (in Dutch), "That rotten thing, hey?"
"Ya!" she exclaimed. 
I took it off and asked, "Is that better?"

For the first time, she actually laughed, and said, "Ya!" with a big, beaming smile.
As she continued to deteriorate, we consulted with the physician about the reality of her condition.  It was clear that if she was to get better, it would be a long road of fighting with oxygen and IV.

Then, overnight, she became unresponsive. My sister and I went in to speak with her doctor.  We asked him whether the most compassionate thing would be to remove all the tubes, allowing her to die in comfort and with dignity.  He concurred with our thoughts.
We asked how long she might last.  He said it would be anywhere from 2 hours to a few days.
As it turned out, she went within the hour.

My mom was a woman of faith. Her hope and salvation was in the death and resurrection of Jesus Christ. We cannot be devastated when we know the joy she now experiences. She has entered a new life where time is no more.  Her joy will never end.

I was blessed to be with her when she drew her last breath here on earth.  It's hard to express the deep mystery that envelopes the moment of death. I believe her movement into her eternal home was a gentle, good journey.  I feel privileged to have witnessed it.

End-of-life Care

The strides made in medical care over my lifetime are incredible.  We have been able to prolong life through ever evolving drug discoveries and medical technology.  Still, at some point, death takes us all.  So for children of aging parents, the question is, how much technology and medical care should be used in the name of prolonging life in someone well advanced in years - someone unable to make those decisions for themselves?  What comfort level should we aiming for?  Are we OK with our loved one struggling in anxiety and anger with the paraphernalia used to pump in life-giving substances and extract waste? 

What does it mean to allow a loved one to die with dignity?  Does the level of alertness give us the clues to follow?  Do we only make the hard decisions if someone is comatose? 

I have been spending the past few days at my mother's hospital bedside as she continually fights with her oxygen mask.  She has been incoherent and for the most part, unresponsive - we can't understand her - although she opens her eyes and nods to my questions. She has dementia, and her ability to speak has become much less recently.  Though she understands some things, she quickly forgets I've told her that she needs the oxygen to get better.

This morning, she's more alert.  Which makes her even more anxious about the oxygen mask, and now the intravenous as well.

Last night I spoke to a friend who has been visiting my mom for years...they had a close connection years ago, and she and her husband have been ever faithful to care for and about Mom.  We talked about Mom's constant irritability with the oxygen mask.  She said, "You know, your mom has the right to refuse the oxygen.  She has a right to be comfortable."  She said this with much love, as she referred to a visit they made with Mom at the nursing home, just before she entered hospital.  She spoke about the peaceful look on Mom's face as they visited, even though she was unable to speak.

Her words give me cause for thought.  How much do we fight with her to prolong her time in this, her 10th decade?  Will removing the oxygen and IV give her a certain peace, or will she struggle then, even more, against breath and dehydration?

Her increased alertness also makes for her desire to get up on her own, and want to 'go home' - back to the nursing home.  It's difficult to see your loved one tied down in a chair or bed - what's to be done?  What is the quality of life for someone requiring sedation to keep their anxiety level down? 

Is the struggle I feel more about appeasing my discomfort or hers?

My mother has always been a woman of faith - we are assured that when she takes leave of this life, she will be completely healed and living fully and joyfully in the next.  This is no justification for any decisions that we make, but certainly colors how we look at life and death.

We will see how today goes and speak with the physician tomorrow.  In the meantime, the dichotomy in my mind continues to churn, for there are no easy answers.

Faith and Fear - a daughter's view

I am reading Mary Gordon's Circling My Mother, a memoir set within a historical time frame that closely intersects the time period of my mother's life and mine.  Reading this book gives rise to the question of who my mother was and is.  Like her mother, mine, too, is afflicted with dementia.

As I read Gordon's probing evaluation of her relationship with her mother, it strikes me that much of my mother's actions may have been attributed to fear.  This has never really occurred to me before.  Perhaps I was always either too close to an emotionally charged situation or sadly, never had the inclination to discover what was behind her responses to certain situations.

She was afraid of horses, narrow mountain roads and my father's impatience with farm animals.  She was afraid that bears would come get her when she and my dad went camping. She overcame her fear of driving by getting her drivers' license when she was well into her 30's.  When we moved a province away, she was always afraid this was the last time she'd see us.  During my growing up years, her greatest fear expressed itself in frequent lectures (with much sighing and rolling of the eyes on my part) about 'what boys want' and how unbearable it would be for her if one of her girls came home pregnant.  She was determined that our family's reputation would always be untainted by that situation.

At the same time, she spoke of God's faithfulness, assuring us that he would always be with us - which was comforting - and that he always sees us (which was not always comforting).  From my perspective, her greatest fear also translated into lack of trust in my integrity.  At the time, it almost made me want to realize her greatest fear, to spite her.  But the faith she nurtured within me also prevented me from following through.  (I often wondered if she would have found it in her heart to be supportive in such a situation.)

This great fear of hers resulted in arguments about the length of my skirts, where I went and with whom (and when), and curfews.  Today, I can see the wisdom of some of these restrictions.  I was basically naive, and still tend to be blinded to the darker side of people.

Others would never have known she was fearful, since she was always full of jokes and trickery, and had a great sense of humor.  She was hospitable and extroverted.  School friends and neighborhood kids were welcome at our house. Another person at the table was never a problem.  Later, she always played games with her grand kids, as she had done with us and our friends - she loved cards - especially crib.

It sometimes saddens me that my mother and I did not have the close mother/daughter relationship that would have allowed us to discuss any subject - openly and without judgement or defensiveness.

Like Gordon's mother, mine is more of the child now; she doesn't remember my name (although she recognizes me as someone dear to her), and she's unable to hold a conversation.  She doesn't always remember what to do with a fork or spoon, and doesn't remember family names or relationships.  On good days though, her sense of humor is still evident by the glint in her eyes as she does a 'happy dance' behind her walker.

I have long ago given over the tension that once existed between us and trust that a solid faith still resides deep with her - a faith that will not fail her in her last days.

 

Thunder and Lightning - Oh Yeah!

As a small child I would never have guessed that one day I would enthusiastically welcome the chaos of a powerful thunderstorm.  The prairies offered regular summer thunderstorms that shook the foundations of our house.  Bolts of lightning flashed through the windows and I often imagined being struck by one through the panes of glass.  But alas, I have moved away from the prairies and thunderstorms are now a rare event.

One of my earliest memories is of  being put to bed one afternoon in an upstairs spare room.  Although my memory of this particular room is unclear, I remember it being sparse, big and scary.  My impression was that I had done something to deserve being there, but I'm not sure.  Thunder rumbled intermittently outside the walls of the bedroom.  My mother came in and told me (in her native Dutch tongue) that God was 'bose' - angry.  I wondered if his anger was directed at me.

As young children, my sister and I were often awakened at night by great peals of thunder as they enveloped the house, reverberating beneath it.  The obscure clothes cabinet became blindingly present in unpredictable flashes, as walls vibrated with every new round that made us crawl deeper under the covers.  If the interval between lightning strikes and thunder was almost non-existant, Mom and Dad would come to sit with us or get us up in anticipation of a strike which thankfully, never occurred.

A little girl's wide-eyed fear eventually grew into wide-eyed awe.

Today I watch as a rare storm rages outside my window.  I am awe-struck by the intensity of lightning fingers as they streak a darkening sky and resounding cracks snapping angrily as if offended at not being first.  I turn off my music to catch more distant rumblings.  An expectant thrill moves through my body as I stop to pay attention.  I am not disappointed.  How I love a good, rousing thunderstorm!

Three Things, (Part 3)

Inspiration by itself does not produce results.  Nor does the combination of inspiration and insight, although one might argue that those two in combination can possibly improve someone's character.  But as we pursue excellence in our dreams and passions, a third element is necessary. To be diligent is to be focused and intentional.  Diligence requires self discipline, for when it comes to being successful at our work or play, who else can we discipline (unless parenting is our focus, but that's a subject in it's own right). 

Diligence is the steadfast application of ourselves to the task at hand.  Basically, it's good old-fashioned hard work.  In a culture where instant gratification is the norm, we are often left with a deflated enthusiasm for the time required to produce excellent results.  The drive to be diligent - our energy - is largely fueled by inspiration, whereas our method is produced by insight.

Great leaders who were met at every turn by opposition or desolation, yet refused to give up, were somehow inspired to keep going.  Think of William Wilberforce, Martin Luther King Jr., Winston Churchill, and Eva Peron.  Their influential actions changed the world, bringing dignity to an oppressed and enslaved humanity.

Mother Theresa, one of the greatest role models of diligence in our time struggled deeply with depression and feelings of Divine abandonment, yet continued her work with relentless focus, courage and energy.  In times of doubt and loneliness, sheer determination drove her forward - determination to be true to God's calling in her life.  Perhaps it was her vision to accomplish one small deed at a time, rather than great, sweeping successes that gave her the ability to move one foot before the other, over and over.  This kind of diligence is difficult to understand; there is no instant gratification in it - yet its results generate a new cycle of inspiration, insight and diligence. 


“I do not pray for success, I ask for faithfulness.”
― Mother Teresa