Dirt under my nails and a wandering mind

This time of year it is impossible for me to have nice, manicured nails. Warmer days, the passing of the threat of frost and sunshine all beckon me to dig in the dirt. Even when I wear my gardening gloves, my hands get dirty and develop some calluses, too.

I am a city girl, through and through, have never lived on a farm, but even since moving to a townhome where a service mows my yard, I cannot resist planting a few things in the ground, and of course, some containers, too.

Last summer I planted some perennial grasses in large containers on my deck. I hoped they would return, as perennials are supposed to. I knew planting them in containers might mean the winter cold would kill the delicate roots. Roots that if planted in the ground would reach deep down and keep the life in the plant so it would grow again the next season. Alas, my container perennials did not survive the winter. They sat as lifeless as the dirt, brown and unsightly.

Dead perennial roots. They actually
went deeper, but I cut them off with
a trowel so I could extract them
from the container.

I knew I had to dig out those clumps of prairie grass before I could put new soil and plants in the containers. I started digging and was shocked at the strength of those dead roots. They were bunched together, intertwined, forming a compact center, and they reached very deep into the container. It took a lot of time and energy to finally pull out the dead roots.

This exercise – and it really was a bit of a workout as I tugged and dug – got my mind to wandering, thinking about roots.

My wandering mind went to my own roots – family and spiritual. Roots that can’t be seen, but they certainly anchor me, just as plant roots anchor. I have deep family roots, and am attempting to grow deep roots with my children and grandchildren.

Spiritual roots are essential for me. I have a deep-rooted, long-time faith in Jesus as my savior, but in recent years, my spiritual roots have gone deeper and broader. For me, just embracing beliefs is not enough. I need to grow in my faith – experience God’s presence in my life.

My faith could have wavered when my worst fear came true: my husband was diagnosed and within four months, died of ALS. I have never been afraid of dying, but losing my husband was a very real fear. And it happened.

Red yarrow

If my roots had not been firmly planted, I may have become “stuck” at the prospect of being a widow and alone. I might have been like that clump of dead perennial roots that was supposed to grow again but didn’t. Those roots were still present, taking up space, but they sure were not growing.

This life is a journey. I still have times when I wonder where my life is going and what I am here for. And I admit being alone is sometimes hard. But, for the most part, my roots have grown deeper. When a plant grows good strong roots, it usually blooms and flourishes. And it can withstand wind and other environmental “hazards.” In the same way, God has helped me to flourish and grow in this life I now have. And I am grateful for that.

It is reassuring to me to know that, though I am a widow, God is with me. He is opening the path for my life journey ahead of me. I do not know what is ahead – no one really does – but I know I can trust because God is with me, and he loves me even more than my husband did.

 

I was reading the Apostle Paul’s letter to the Ephesians today, and was struck by these verses that talk about our roots.

“Then Christ will make his home in your hearts as you trust in him. Your roots will grow down into God’s love and keep you strong. And may you have the power to understand, as all God’s people should, how wide, how long, how high, and how deep his love is. May you experience the love of Christ, though it is too great to understand fully.”

 -- Ephesians 3:17-19 (NLT)

Did you catch the phrase “all God’s people” in that passage? His love is all-inclusive – it’s for you, too. You can trust God with your life path, even when it’s rocky because of losses, hurts and illness, because he loves you more than anyone can. Take Paul’s advise: put your roots in God’s love and it will keep you strong.

“Show me your ways, O Lord, teach me your paths; guide me in your truth and teach me, for you are God my Savior, and my hope is in you all day long.”

-- Psalm 25:4-5 (NIV)

Ministering to One Another

Having just celebrated Easter, the resurrection of Jesus, the greatest celebration in the Christian year, I am thinking about the women.

“When the Sabbath was over, Mary Magdalene, Mary the mother of James, and Salome bought spices so that they might go to anoint Jesus’ body. Very early on the first day of the week, just after sunrise, they were on their way to the tomb and they asked each other, ‘Who will roll the stone away from the entrance of the tomb?’” (Mark 16:1-3)

They were headed to the tomb. The borrowed tomb where Jesus was buried. But think about this: It was three days since his crucifixion, and in that climate, even in the cool of a cave, the body would have begun to deteriorate. Now, we know the end of the story. No body. No worries. But they didn’t.

His body, especially given the number of open sores and bleeding before he died, would have been really smelly. A disgusting odor. But they loved Jesus, and they were honoring their centuries-old traditions and practices of anointing a dead body. They were not thinking about the smell they would encounter.

Sister Chris Kean of the Benedictine Monastery at Mount St. Scholastica in Atchison, Kansas, says, “‘They were going to the tomb to preserve his body, but they were doing something else too,’ she says. ‘They were ministering to one another in their grief.’” (Atchison Blue, Judith Valente, page 53.)

Ministering to one another in their grief? I like that thought. I can see myself in that passage – especially the part about, “oh, duh, we’ve got this stuff we need, but, hey, that’s a huge stone, and besides it’s sealed with a Roman seal. And there are probably still Roman guards there, who are not going to be helpful at all. How are we going to get in there?” (The paraphrased gospel, according to Polly.)

Have you ever started out to do something and realized that you were missing an essential piece? Maybe making a certain dish or baking something, only to realize you do not have one critical ingredient? I have … many times. These women were not so much different than we are.

But in fairness to these dear women, they were grieving. When someone is grieving he or she may not be thinking clearly. A psychologist once told me, when I was in a muddled state, that phase is called retardation. It’s when you cannot think what to do when what you need to do is very plain and simple. Things as simple as what to put in your grocery cart or what to do next when clearly you need to shower and dress before you can do anything else.

It’s real. I have experienced it, and likely, so have you when you were grieving or coping with an emotionally troubling situation. If it hangs on it might become Post Traumatic Stress Disorder, but it is a normal phase of dealing with a loss or difficult situation.

These two Marys and Salome ended up rejoicing when they discovered Jesus was alive. For most of us, when hard things happen the ending is not so happy. The person we love is not going to come back to this Earth. I believe I will see my husband, as well as grandparents and beloved aunts and uncles, again someday when I join them in Heaven, but for now, they are gone from me.

So what can we say to someone who has a loss of a loved one or some emotional upheaval?

I learned from things people said to me when my husband died that many well-meant comments actually hurt when the loss is fresh. Since then I have just been simply saying, “I am so sorry.”

Sister Thomasita Homan, also of Mount St. Scholastica, said, “I’m with you in your sadness.”  (Atchison Blue, page 43.)

I like that, and that is what I will say in the future.

It acknowledges that there is deep sadness. Those words also speak of being present with the person. It’s not about doing, although, of course, sometimes it really helps to “do” things, like bring food and paper products, provide transportation or other needs.

But more than doing, it’s about being. Walking along side someone, even if you are not physically present. And those words tell the person that you are sad, too.

Easter is about the end of death because Jesus is alive. I believe that with all my heart.

In times of loss, having someone walk with you is the way God intended it to be. None of those women mentioned in Mark’s Gospel went alone to the tomb. They supported each other. And that is what we need, too: someone who is with us in our sadness.

More Valuable than Birds

A few days ago I refilled my birdfeeder. I was tardy. It had been empty for a few days, and I had not gotten around to refilling it. And though the snow is gone from the ground, and the birds can forage for seeds, I enjoy watching them accumulate at the feeder, so I continue to refill it, even when it takes me a few days to get to it.

As I was watching the birds gather to feast, listening to them chatter, I again marveled at the different colors, shapes and sizes of the various kinds of birds – plenty of sparrows, a few house finches, cedar waxwings, cardinals, and occasionally a chickadee. The robins that came north very early this year prefer the tiny, probably fermented, crabapples on the tree in my front yard. But they were present at this gathering, too.

The birds are so beautiful. The bright red of the cardinals, the subtle colorings in the little sparrows – some with a white neck resembling a clerical collar, robins with their red-orange breasts, and the chickadee with his little black cap. What creativity God displayed by his color selections for birds – and these are just a few of the many he made.

Watching the birds, my mind wandered to thinking about how we tend to compare ourselves to others. I am aware that birds do not have the same cognitive abilities that humans do, but just imagine with me for a minute. What if the female cardinal, who is mostly a light gray with just a bit of red in her wings, was looking at the male, who is a beautiful red, and she began comparing and feeling inferior because she is not as brightly colored? Or what if the little chickadee with his black cap was jealous of the finch with the red on his head?

The sparrows have different markings, even within that species. What if one little sparrow was unhappy because she didn’t have that little white collar that her friends have? Or what if the cedar waxwing wished to have a red-orange breast like the robin?

Crazy? Maybe a bit. I don’t even know if birds perceive colors, but I’m pretty sure they can’t think well enough to compare their feathers to another bird’s. (There’s a reason why some people have been labeled “bird brain.” Not nice, but true. Birds’ brains are tiny.)

So, with our superb cognitive abilities, we DO compare. We compare looks, body image, and clothes. And then we go further and compare homes, cars, perceived incomes, educations and even kids’ behavior, intelligence, and achievements.

What are we accomplishing by comparing ourselves to others? Sometimes we look up to another person and try to model our behavior after that person. That’s not all bad. It’s good for us to have people we admire and want to emulate. But we are the people God made us to be. We are not someone else. We do not have the hair, body type, taste, clothing, home, car or kids that someone else has. We are ourselves. And that’s a good thing.

Of course we can try to improve who we are by study, working out, eating healthfully, dressing in a way that is flattering to our body type, getting a good hair cut and style, or whatever else we can do for self improvement. That’s all maintenance work on these earthly bodies. But the fact is you are the you God made you to be.

God made us with the personalities, coloring, body types that we are. So rather than compare yourself to another, remember that you are a unique creation of God’s, and you are beautiful whatever color, shape or personality you are.

“There will never be another you, and God meant it that way. He is the ultimate Creator, with more unique combinations of DNA at his disposal that there are grains of sand on all the beaches in the whole world…God loves you, exactly the way you are. Period.” (“Every Little Thing,” Deidra Riggs, page 164.)

The birds are all beautiful. Even the lowly sparrow. I don’t think it’s any accident that Jesus told the crowd, “…how much more valuable you are than birds! … Why do you worry about the rest?” (Luke 12:24-25) He was telling them that they have eternal value.

Jesus wanted the crowd to understand that God would take care of them, and he ended that parable with the statement, “For where your treasure is, there your heart will be also.” (John 12:34)

That’s a lesson for us to stop comparing ourselves to others, believe that God will care for us, and for us to focus on what is important – our relationship with God and with our fellow human beings – and not what we look like or what we own. This life is not a competition, no matter what social media and publications tell us.

God loves you. And God’s love for you cannot be changed or reversed, no matter what you do or if you believe him or not.  

Where is your treasure? That’s where your heart is also.

We are Like Sea Glass

On a recent trip to Hawaii, my travel buddies and I found, at the Aloha Bowl Flea Market, an artist who makes beautiful sea-glass jewelry. We all enjoyed looking through her stock of so many lovely designs and colors. And yes, we all took some pieces home with us. I joked that our jewelry was really recycled materials.

Some of my sea glass jewelry from Hawaii

I have always loved sea glass, and this experience made me think, “Why do I like it so much? It’s really a fragment of something that was perhaps a useable object – a bottle, dish or jar made of glass – but was broken and somehow ended up in the ocean. Alone, the pieces are actually worthless. I certainly don’t save pieces when I break a glass or bottle, no matter how colorful the glass is.

And though the colorful pieces make pretty jewelry, those chips of glass are not precious or even semi-precious stones. They have no inherent value. But in the hands of a gifted artist, the glass becomes valuable.

Part of the appeal for me in sea glass is that the sharp, broken edges are worn smooth by the churning of the sea, sand, rocks and pebbles. I have no idea how long it may take for a piece of glass to be worn smooth in the ocean and then to be washed ashore in the waves. But I am sure it takes a while – perhaps months or years – maybe a lifetime.

But once ashore and retrieved by a creative person, a fragment of sea glass can become something beautiful.

Is that what is happening to us? The waves of life are wearing down our rough, sharp and cutting edges, making us into the people we are meant to be. Kinder, less critical of ourselves and others, more patient and compassionate, and certainly more open hearted.

Another thing that makes sea glass so intriguing is that it is always unique – like we are, different from everyone else in our emotions, ambitions, thoughts and personalities, as well as physically different. You cannot compare one piece of sea glass to another expecting a perfect match with shape, size or even color. Although there are similar colors they vary because of thickness and opacity.

What if we viewed ourselves as valuable because of our uniqueness and stopped comparing ourselves to others in looks, accomplishments, ideas and strengths? Comparison seems to be a problem for many of us. We feel we just don’t measure up.

I believe God wants us to view ourselves as beautiful, with most of our rough edges smoothed by our life experiences and capable of letting God’s light shine through us, like a piece of sea glass.

Next time you’re tempted to compare yourself with another, remember that just like a piece of sea glass in the hands of a creative artist, you are lovely, unique and useful to our creative God. He knows exactly what setting to place you in to show your beauty and let his light shine through you.

I am a Pilgrim

It’s a fact of life. If we live on the Earth long enough, we lose someone we love. Someone who is so much a part of us that living without that person is unthinkable. And even someone like me, or many others you probably know, who have lived through such a loss cannot offer solutions or make it stop hurting.

Books on death and grief tell about various steps of the process. But it’s not one-size-fits-all, and it’s not a linear process. Grief is sneaky. It blind-sides you when you least expect it – a song, a scent, a place, a voice, words and even people can trigger the pain of loss. And just when you think you have moved to the next stage of grief, you may find yourself back at square one.

I recently read “Travels with David,” by Fran Rybarik, who lost her husband suddenly to a heart attack. She and her two adult sons came up with a unique way to honor her husband by taking film canisters of his ashes to places he loved and places they knew he would have loved and probably would have visited, had he lived long enough.

The book is not drippy sad. Actually, it’s full of adventure, inspiration and honest stories of how Fran somehow goes on, as life does, and becomes who she is today. Not “David’s widow,” but much more.

So many things in this book rang true to my own experience. Joyce Carol Oates memoir, “A Widow’s Story,” ends with this quote:

Of the widow’s countless death-duties there is really just one that matters: on the first anniversary of her husband’s death, the widow should think, I kept myself alive.

While I have never been suicidal, in the years since Ron died I have often thought I would rather just be in Heaven with him than here without him. But apparently that’s not God’s plan because here I am, still on planet Earth.

Like Fran Rybarik, my life has changed. I have continued to make memories – travels, fun with grands, new friends, reconnecting with old friends, to name just a few. The thing I miss most now is that I cannot have a conversation with Ron about these experiences and the memories I am making. I know I can talk to him, but it’s always one-way. Not a conversation.

A Hawaiian shoreline

Several of my travels have taken me to the shore – the Loch Ness in Scotland, cruising in the Irish Sea, the Atlantic Ocean, the Mediterranean Sea, lakes in Missouri and Iowa, the Pacific Ocean, Resurrection Bay in Alaska, and the shores of Ohua, Hawaii. When I am on a beach or shoreline, I always look for shells. Rubarik says seashells symbolize pilgrims.

I have often said it’s a good thing I was born in the 20^th Century because I never would have been brave enough to cross the ocean in a small wooden boat, travel West in a wagon train or any of the other crossings or treks the pilgrims who went before us took.

But, now, in 2016, I find that I, too, am a pilgrim. A whole person, separate from Ron, to whom I was married for 44 years. I am stronger than I ever thought I was. And I am braver than I thought possible. I drove to New Jersey with only my trusty OnStar and me for company. I joined a different church – the first time alone and the first one where Ron has not been part of the music ministry. I took a three-year course to become a spiritual director. I’m becoming more intentional and contemplative. I have hired people to help with big tasks, and I bought a car, sold the house we lived in for 30 years and bought a townhouse by myself.

Does all this mean I’m over my loss? No. I don’t think it’s possible to get over it. It simply means I know myself -- my strengths and weaknesses -- better now. I know that while I am single, I am not alone. I have friends and family, a great circle of wonderful people who have helped me to grow, recover and heal. And most important, my relationship with God has grown greatly in these last four years. I have God and he has me. And he will never leave me.

In a class I took I learned about mandalas, which are circular patterns representing the cosmos or the universe. I think of them as the circle of life. Mandalas are visible in many forms around us if we pay attention. The most obvious perhaps is in a rose window, a circular window often found in churches of Gothic architecture. But I have noticed mandalas in many places.

A few years before Ron died, we went to an art event where we bought a beautiful circular copper wall hanging. Once I understood the spiritual meaning of the circle, that copper piece became a mandala for me. It signifies my journey, like a labyrinth. My journey was not Ron’s journey, although we walked together for 44 years. His journey ended in 2011, but mine goes on. And since I “kept myself alive” through that first year, I have sought to find my path in my life now. Maybe I had not thought enough about retirement before, but I am often surprised by how many choices and decisions I still am making.

One choice I made is to not wear the “widow badge.” I am only the widow when required to fill out an official form and check that box. Otherwise I’m a pilgrim you may see looking for seashells and picking my way along my life path.

My journey continues. I don’t have many answers. I cannot give anyone a magic formula for living with loss and grief. But I know that I am not alone on this path, which opens ahead of me just one step at a time. I continue on my pilgrim way.