Nothing New?

Is there a thing of which it is said, “See, this is new”? It has been already in the ages before us.

Ecclesiastes 1:10

I just finished watching The Vietnam War on PBS.  It has ten segments, and I already feel I need to watch it again to try to understand more of the complicated history that led into what Americans know as "Vietnam".

There are so many things that I felt as I watched.  But as I watched episode 9, "A Disrespectful Loyalty (May 1970-March 1973)", I had an uncomfortable sense of deja vu. I listened to veterans discuss their involvement with protests after returning home from fighting honorably during their tours.  I watched footage of protests in cities across this country calling for an end to the war.  I heard recordings of private conversations between political leaders that made clear the efforts to mislead this country and the world.  I watched angry people marching in the streets with signs calling into question the integrity of the media and insisting that Americans must support the president.  I heard opposing views of patriotism:  one veteran said, 

...and being a citizen I had certain responsibilities.  And the largest of those responsibilities is standing up to your government and saying 'no' when you think it's doing something that is not in this nation's best interest...I served my country as honorably when I was in Vietnam Veterans Against the War, as I did as a United States Marine.

while many Americans echoed President Nixon's call for "Peace with Honor" and decried any war protest as anti-American and anti-military.

I also watched footage of protests that got violent, and even deadly--like  the one at Kent State in which the National Guard shot 4 students who were either there to protest or in the wrong place at the wrong time.

My heart was sick as I thought: what is happening in our country today is not new.

I am not a historian, and I've heard the sayings "history repeats itself," and "those who cannot remember the past are condemned to repeat it."  So I'm not sure why what I saw and recognized was so jarring to me.  Perhaps it's the helpless feelings I have with increasing frequency as our country seems more and more divided over race and politics.  Or maybe it's that it doesn't seem as if we---as a country--have learned anything from our past.

But, ever the optimist, I saw hope as I watched the final segment: "The Weight of Memory (March 1973-onward).  As I watched, one of the former anti-war protesters became teary as she recounted words she had said and things she had done and offered an agonized apology for it all.  I was encouraged by her softening, by her understanding that as much as she had been certain at one time of this absolute point of view, she had grown and learned, and her thoughts had evolved.

It is humbling for me to glimpse how much I don't know and understand.  But I feel motivated and energized by all the ways that I can continue to grow in knowledge and understanding of this very messy and broken world.  But most of all, I am filled with hope because while, as Solomon observed in Ecclesiastes, "nothing is ever truly new" (v. 10 NLT), he spoke of the things of this earth.  And I, as one saved by Jesus Christ, can choose to see things from a greater perspective--one in which I am assured that our God did "something NEW" (Isaiah 43:19) in the life, death, and resurrection of Jesus, and continues to act each day, so that in spite of the chaos surrounding, I can also see hope spring forth in conversations I have with people or stories I hear of healing interactions, or kindness shown in spite of unkindness.  I have a responsibility to seek these things out and be obedient to God's call in them, but He is good, He is sovereign, and He has overcome it all.

What is a Love Story?

I took my kids for a quick visit with some of their cousins at my mom and dad's this past weekend.  They ran around my childhood home, creating "escape rooms" in the basement, performing puppet shows, throwing water balloons, making jelly soaps and bath bombs, and driving Grandpa's tractor.  We also made our usual rounds--eating lunch at The Old Dairy, pizza at "Aurelio's", and visiting with my bonus-grandma, Mrs. Snowden.

We did make a couple new stops this time.  We drove to the town a few miles over for lemon soft-serve ice cream, and, on the way home, stopped at the cemetery to visit the grave of my bonus-grandpa, Mr. Snowden.  He died in February of 2016 at the age of 96.  Mr. and Mrs. Snowden were our neighbors for as long as I can remember until they moved into a smaller home several years ago.  Mrs. Snowden always had the most beautiful flowers around her house.  She never got mad when I "popped" her unopened lilies' buds or poked my small fingers into the snapdragons' "mouths."  She allowed me to spend (what seemed like) hours gazing on her multitudes of treasures from their extensive travels that were displayed throughout their home.  She taught me to do cross-stitch and shared many of her beautiful creations with our family over the years.  When my mom came home after working a night shift as an ICU nurse, Mrs. Snowden would get me off the bus from half-day kindergarten and make me chicken noodle soup and hot dogs for lunch, serving me milk in a special strawberry shortcake glass.  Mr. Snowden taught me what it looked like to be a truly good neighbor.  While he spent a lot of time working in his own yard, he also spent hours maintaining common grounds and inviting many others, including my dad, into service with him.  One of my favorite memories of Mr. Snowden was when he "rescued" me as I feared I had clogged the kitchen sink at the house where I was dog-sitting.  He calmly turned on the garbage disposal and made no comment about why I hadn't known how to work it.  His kindness and respect for me in my youth made me feel dignified even in my panic.

"Love you Mr. Snowden.  Thanks for a ride on the glof crat! Love Owen"  This was placed on a table at Mr. Snowden's visitation a year ago.  

Ryne and Mrs. Snowden

They were there for my brothers' and my own weddings, and were one of the first visits we made when our babies were born.  My kids have grown up feeling loved by Mr. and Mrs. Snowden, and, I think, seeing the love I have for them as well.  So, now, for them, visiting Grandma and Grandpa also means visiting with Mrs. Snowden.  She knows all their names and remembers their interests.  This past weekend when we were there, a gentleman who lives in her apartment building came by as we were chatting and watching the kids interacting together.  She told him, "These are all my grandkids."

I am not totally sure why this fills me with such emotion as I type.  I don't know if it's this stage of life I'm in--looking back on my childhood through not only my own memories but also from the perspective of one parenting kids and understanding that what we are doing now is creating memories for them--or just my own deep gratitude for all the ways in which I have been blessed to receive love throughout my life.

At church last Sunday

 A few weeks ago, I accidentally shared some pictures taken of my extended family.  I really only meant to share one picture with my parents in the foreground with my brothers and I and our families in the background.  I had posted it with this quote from Don Snyder: "Let us hope that we are all preceded in this world by a love story."  When I did, I was thinking mostly of my parents and their marriage that has lasted 48 years thus far.  However, my friend Linda commented on my post that the pictures showed "a three generation love story."  I've turned that over in my mind since then, not unaware that I am blessed to come from where I did, to be born into the family I was, to always know that I was loved and accepted.  And so, I gained a deeper appreciation for the family "love story" that has not only preceded me, but still surrounds me.

And after this past weekend, when Mrs. Snowden claimed my children as her grandchildren, I realized it goes further still.

I cannot claim any credit for the blessing of how my parents raised us.  And, I cannot say that I always felt "blessed."  I was typically teenaged and sullen at times and remember feeling weighed down by the parents who never seemed as cool as my friends' parents and certainly (in my mind) didn't understand my life.  My upbringing didn't prevent me from being diagnosed with depression as a senior in high school, or from experiencing periods of that same depression with the delightful addition of anxiety in the years since.  But I look back and see how my parents responded when I was diagnosed--by literally stopping what they were doing and just being with me as we took the first steps together to get help.

My family--then or now--is not perfect.  But my parents created every opportunity they could for us to be loved, whether it was by our family's relationship with the Snowdens, or by insisting we spend time together as a family.  And this past weekend, as I watched my kids experience the fruit of that, I was immeasurably grateful.

adventures in being still.

It's not supposed to look like this.

I knew there was a problem as soon as it happened.  I had been tugging a mattress from its position while assisting a client at The Sharing Shed when the handle on which I'd been pulling snapped, sending me flying backwards onto the concrete floor.  I landed on my outstretched left hand and felt the crush of said wrist.  I immediately scrambled up, my left arm held instinctively in the air, showing an off-putting concavity to the normally straight line of my wrist.  My former ER nurse's mind knew it was bad.  I hurriedly walked over to where my phone sat, grabbing it up before collapsing back onto the closest couch while speed-dialing my sports medicine specialist husband.  (of note--amazing to have such a nice couch on which to fall, so thank you to whichever generous person donated it!  It's also not lost on me that it's pretty cool to be able to call my very-appropriately connected hubs in this situation and let him do all the pertinent decision making.) In short order, he was on his way to collect me.  In the meantime, our church's Family Minister, DJ, took over with our client and my friend Tanja drove up with her boys, who were there to serve.  She found me some ice to wrap around my rapidly swelling joint and then held it there, because by that time I was unable to move it from a vertical position.  Mark arrived, eyed my wrist and my now tear-filled face, and bundled me into the car as DJ offered to drive our two boys, who were there serving, home when they were done.

Doesn't do justice to the swelling.

It was a long ride to the ER, as every bump and curve caused more pain in the arm I was still holding upright.  Thankfully, the wait in the ER wasn't too long.  In short order, an xray confirmed what we'd known, that it was broken.  Unfortunately, it wasn't a clean break; I had smashed the "distal end of my radius" as well as breaking off the tip of the ulna.  I mean, why do it if not really well right? (eye-roll)  A very kind nurse brought me more ice and my first ever percocet while Mark was frantically texting his colleagues who specialize in hand and wrist stuff.  (again, so grateful for this!)  He was able to reach one who would actually be in the same office space with Mark the next day and was able to see me to try the least invasive method of reducing (pushing/pulling the misplaced bones back into the right spots) my fractures.  A tech came in to apply a splint for the night that would offer support and hopefully some comfort for my broken wrist.

And then we were on the way home, and I started making calls--to my friend who, along with her hubs, had driven up to retrieve my van and who I asked to drive me to my appointment the next morning, and to my parents who were anxiously waiting to hear from me after being updated by Mark via text.

I was met at home by my three wide-eyed and curious kids.  Ryne stated his intention to sleep with me while Maddie had made me a sweet card. But she also told me, "I'm just really glad it wasn't me (who broke her arm)."  Oh, my girl. (shaking my head)  And Owen, my oldest, was even more generous than usual with his hugs and cheek kisses.

After a long night of squirming on the couch, morning came.  My kids are pretty self-sufficient.  (I can't imagine how different this would look if they were still clingy toddlers!)  So, they got their breakfast while I made my coffee and laboriously changed my clothes.  I delegated my other morning "chores" to the kids while I fussed about what to do with my hair.  I finally asked Maddie to help, and she did a passable job with the flatiron.

But then she wondered what we were going to do about her own hair, which I typically braid for her each morning.  Knowing my friend Dorinda would be coming to take me to the doctor, I suggested that Maddie ask her for help.  

I think it turned out pretty well, which could be problematic in the future when Maddie comes to me for help and says, "but that doesn't look like when Ms. Dorinda did it...."

We made it to the doctor's office, and after getting my wrist injected with lidocaine, the surgeon was able to get things back in place.  In the pictures at left, you can see on the top one where my two arm bones are not at the same level and there's a shadowy line through the top of the bone on the right.  In the lower one, even though my hand is at an angle, things are much more matched up.  And, almost as soon as the doctor manipulated the bones into place, I felt relief from  much of my discomfort.  Truly, the worst part of the whole experience was when the very sweet receptionist asked me if Dorinda, who is my age, was my daughter.  Granted. I hadn't slept the night before....but, OUCH!

So, now is when, for me, the hardest part actually begins.  I like to take care of things, and for the next couple weeks, I literally cannot do that.  For one thing, it hurts.  But more importantly, I could mess things up and necessitate surgery.  So no working out, and I had to pull out of a relay race I was going to do with some friends.  But I can already feel myself surrendering.  I'm embracing asking my kids to do all the things I have previously done myself because it's easier than nagging or because I want it done "the right way"  (my way....).  I'm letting myself need my husband.  I mean, I always do, but I often blow through all of the stuff that needs doing without allowing him be involved.  I already feel like we are more of a team because right now, I'm forced to rely on him, and he's more than meeting our family's needs.  I'm grateful for the opportunity to watch him care for us.  And I haven't yet agonized (too much) about asking friends for help.  Even in the haze of pain on Wednesday night, I knew that we had people.  My worried boys didn't just get a ride home on Wednesday evening, DJ stopped and got ice cream with them.  When my friend stopped to pick up my van keys from our house, she lovingly but firmly told Maddie that "even if your mom isn't home by 9:30, you still have to go to bed."  So, as I sit here with my bum arm elevated and sitting on a bag of frozen corn while typing one-handed, I am not thrilled about my circumstances, but I am grateful for the many blessings these past few days have brought--the greatest being the love and support from our family, co-workers, neighbors, friends, and church family that reassures me that we are not alone.