Preaching the CREED

Hopespotters! I have missed you. I’ve been a little busy, as have you, I’m sure. I have so much to share. Just took/ passed my hospice recertification exam: blog to come.  So much to say about the Christmas season: blogS to come. But tonight I am about to EXPLODE and must write about the beautiful experience I just had. Friends, this is the season to find good and hope and the presence of Jesus (for those who believe). After a week of chasing CRAZY, in the first week of Advent, which in and of itself is supposed to be a season of hope, I hit the JACKPOT tonight.

Getting ahead of myself in blogs, I am trying to be more present with my boys this holiday season. My insane efforts for perfect gifts have proven to be less meaningful than my sanity and PRESENCE. Go. Figure. So, in an attempt for a happy family outing  after a day of basketball and errands, the Buckleys, plus one great boy, attended “Creed” tonight.

Disclosures: I am a HUGE Rocky fan. Rocky 3 may be my favorite movie of all time. Good guy beats bad guy after strong woman tells him what’s what. There are few things that move me more than sports stories and I’ve loved Rocky since I was 6.  The fight scenes terrified me then, but at that early age, I saw a movie that had a message larger than the action. Maybe it was Rocky that made me an English major.

Spoiler alert: I don’t THINK anything I am about to write is going to spoil the end, or the movie experience for you. However, if you are a purist and want to know no more than the previews will reveal, stop here. But come back.  Come back and like this because a blogger needs love, you know….

So WHY, am I SO  amped about Creed??? It is THE WHOLE ENCHILADA, my friends. As promised, I am not going to spoil the details.

So here is what I will tell you. There is a lovable "boy" who becomes a man. His father is in Heaven and the "boy" is very conflicted about accepting his father’s name. The "boy" falls in love with a woman who the world would not see as perfect: she’s a loner and has some disabilities that the "boy" finds lovable.  The "boy" seeks the counsel, support, and housing of a friend who knew and loved his Father. It is hard for this friend to accept the love in return, but due to the overwhelming love of the Father, he does.  This "mortal" comes to love the "boy". This "mortal" is grieving the loss of his own family and then becomes sick with cancer. The "boy" PLEADS with the mortal: if you fight, I will fight.  In one scene, the mortal is receiving chemo and the "boy" of the Heavenly Father is literally shadow boxing and fighting in the mortal's presence. The "boy" must fight evil to inspire the mortal who feels there is nothing left to fight for…

I CANNOT SAY MORE THAN THAT!! WHY SHOULD I???? Have you heard this story before? Sounds like Beezus… , Starts with a J??? But guess what? I was there- crying and cheering as the unloved of Philadelphia followed this “boy” on his journey, cheering as he ran, and cringing as he fought,  the same way I did at age six.  BUT, I was there with my husband and three young men- it was so clear to me that:  I can’t take my flock to church enough to teach this message.

And for my own heart, and the patients for whom I care and worry over and grieve: I was blown away by the image that brings forward this truth:  there is a boxer - a powerful, beautiful, loving and angry fighter right there at their side, as they get chemo, feel overwhelmed by disease and are scared beyond imagination. This "boy", this fighter is shown doing one armed push up, training and fighting at their side and PISSED OFF at the enemy!

Creed reminds us that God, however you see Him or Her, is here.  His or Her descendants are on this Earth.  Relationships are purposeful interactions with Angels. Humanity and Mortality are our teachers of humility. And we are all in this together.

I am sure I am beating a dead horse ( how many books/ movies/ etc go back to hospice, Jenny?) Sorry not sorry. This movie is, at very least, uplifting and exciting. In my heart, and for my tears, I think it is SO much more. I am encouraging each of my HOPEspotters to see it in this special way:  stories matter. fighting matters.  

Last piece: again- won’t spoil: At the end, the "boy" / "son"  of the "heavenly father" and the mortal, walk up the stairs that the mortal used to run. The son provides support and the mortal accepts it.  A remarkable idea, for the champion of the world.  And everybody else.

Cue the Rocky theme... ;)

January

Dear January,

Hey you! I’ve been thinking about you, you know? I know, I know, I have to wait just a little bit longer until I see you, but I am just so excited. I love you, January, and I can not stop thinking about you. If loving you is wrong, I don’t want to be right.

I started thinking about you in May. It felt like you had just left and all of a sudden it was “May-nia”.  This year was rough. In addition to the usual madness of end of school, Mother’s Day, and everyone in the world having a birthday (what goes on in July/August, January?) we had a First Communion and a Fifth Grade graduation. Both were wonderful, happy and well deserved celebrations for Ryan and Sean. And both were incredibly exhausting.

When Summer came, I couldn’t get you off my mind. January, it was so hot. For three months, I felt like an egg on a skillet.  At the end of July, it got so bad that I started to soak washcloths with SeaBreeze and put them in the freezer. At the end of the day, I would lie on the couch - or the floor - and put them on my forehead or my neck. Ok, I can’t lie to you, January, they were in my bra. And when I started to cool down, ever so slightly, I would think of you. As much as I tried to fight the thoughts before we headed out to ANOTHER cookout, I just couldn’t stop the memories. Don’t blush but I was thinking about that time, January. You remember and don’t say you don’t. That time when we did absolutely nothing. That was really special to me, January.

September is a sly one, isn’t she? She brings the promise of cooler weather and back to school normalcy and she delivers neither.  I was still wearing sweat saturated tired summer clothes and longing for crispness. And you know what else September brings? A boat load of papers. Permission slips, sign up sheets, soccer schedules, curriculum night DNA testing samples. Papers. Papers. So many papers. You don’t do me that way, January, and I dig that about you.  People don’t think of you as green, my love, but you are certainly paperless.

After September, I watch my home slip away from me. January, it becomes this haunted, harvest, holy, Elf on the Shelf monstrosity. There’s pumpkins and cranberries and evergreen and white lights everywhere. I wish I wasn’t so devoted to order, January, but I undeniably am.  I want my boys to enjoy the spirit of each season in my house, but in all honesty, the pervasive spirit is one of: “You’d better enjoy this crap because my toes are permanently curled thanks to this constant clutter.”  

AND THEN, we add Halloween candy to that mess. If my kids devoured the candy, I’d be thrilled. Unfortunately, I have unknowingly raised Halloween birds- pecking at candy and ever so slowly watching shitty unwantable candy reproduce in my pantry. I don’t like Laffy Taffy, January, so why did I eat it?

November has the right attitude: focus on gratitude. And that lasts for like a day. And then the focus shifts to, “ 36 more shopping days until Christmas?? Holy Hell!!”. I wish October would remind me next year that November is going to ask for a lot of canned food. We think of the hungry and homeless, you know? January, my heart is in the right place, but I feel bad when I give the hungry and homeless a can of artichokes that was intended for the sophisticated salad I was supposed to make in August and the pumpkin that I didn’t use for the pumpkin chocolate chip bread that I was supposed to make. I think when given the choice of canned artichokes or pumpkin filling, the hungry will stay hungry.

I have to mail this love letter now, January. I know what is coming. Tonight is the eve of Thanksgiving week. The true kick off of the holiday season. The boys are off from school. Thanksgiving is Thursday. Next is Black Friday. We’ll be decorating in the interim to Cyber Monday.

December will come like a wound incurred while shaving. I was comfortable, I was doing what I was supposed to be doing and WHOA! That hurt! I didn’t see that coming! Now that water is hitting the wound and DAMNIT! Stop. The. Pain.

December/ Advent/ Christmas is a precious and sacred season for me.  I will write more about this soon. But January, my love, why is your sister December so gosh darned WILD? I’m decorating and shopping and wrapping and giving. I’m receiving and toasting and partying and singing. I’m chasing perfect and special and sacred and sanity. There’s an Elf on the Shelf and a mystery that needs to be upheld lest the Polar Express run straight through your house and kill you! The soundtrack of my days is like a Christmas Carol taken by Trans Siberian Orchestra that started out beautiful and became kind of scary. My heart feels like someone riding space mountain screaming along, blissful but extremely aware of being out of control, forcing yourself to scream to your co-riders, “I Love my liiiiiffffe!” And my face is just like those pictures you see of people plunging into the water on a log flume where it is hard to tell if they are ecstatic or terrified.

December brings precious gifts, but at great personal cost, January. You don’t require that kind of toll be paid. I know we’ve fought in the past. You’re cold. You’re gray. I don’t want to fight about that again, dear January. I have come to love you for who you are. What makes me happiest is I feel you love me for who I am. No bells. No whistles. I feel thankful for the gifts you give: a fresh start and an empty calendar that allows me to sit and say, “I love my life” without screaming or crying. January, you bring me home and you let me stay home, and I love that. To love that is the essence of true happiness.

Can’t wait to see you. Wish me luck until then.

Underwear

In the last two months, I have attended two weddings. This is two more than I’ve attended in the last five years. These two were a cousin of mine and a work friend of Kevin’s. Both were beautiful and I loved them.

Weddings are magical events by which I have always been hypnotized. The lover in me is transfixed with the beauty of the day, the power of the vows and the magnitude of the commitment.

The weddings I have recently attended have featured beautiful, young, physically fit brides. Their grooms were equally handsome, buff, and clearly in love.  So awesome to see. And I swear I’m not a creep, but I must admit to finding myself thinking about their underwear.

I wasn’t close enough to either of these bridal parties to be present for the dressing. So my beliefs are purely speculation. These young couples, beautiful and passionate, were likely wearing seductive, flattering, sexy underwear. Go for it. Enjoy your youth. Enjoy each other.

One of the magical milestones of marriage is when the underwear starts to change. Cotton steps up and lace takes a backseat. The honeymoon, as they say, is over.

Delivering a baby or dealing with some of the struggles leading up to that, will introduce a young couple to the shocking next step in underwear. This is the one size fits all fishnet ass hugger.  Let me explain.  If you have had any vaginal event, your lady parts will be covered by a fish net mesh,  bulging out, much like you will see if you offshore fishermen lifting their bountiful catch up from the sea. The bounty is your flesh and your spouse will show his love by walking you to the bathroom while your ass pockets out of these pants- and maybe your hemorrhoids.  Husbands might ask about the crotch of these “shorts”, given the necessity of wearing them.  Well, gents, there is a feminine napkin in place. In my head, a feminine napkin conjures up an image of something cloth, trimmed with lace, with which one would dab the corners of her mouth after sipping tea from a cup and saucer. This feminine napkin will come to look like a surfboard that transported a shark attack victim back to the beach.

Like all challenges, this phase passes. After all the babies are out, it is his turn. When Kevin got his vasectomy, he shamefully walked out of the doctor’s office, boxers in hand, saying, “ I didn’t read the pre op instructions. I totally have the wrong underwear.” I can’t be entirely sure, but I believe at that moment he was commando.  $35 dollars at Kohl's later and with images I’ll never be able to burn from my brain, he got the right underwear.

Life at that point goes to underwear truth or dare.  My advice to these beautiful newly married: put a message board on the hamper. Children make life beautifully busy and laundry becomes a somewhat mindless task.  Notes like, “Sorry, baby, I trusted a fart” or, “went out with the guys and had a platter of jalapeno poppers” would be an affirmative nod of respect to the laundry doer reaching into the hamper blindly. And you might want to help her lift that laundry basket because if she sneezes or laughs, there’ll be another unfortunate submission.

Underwear, like marital vows, will continuously be tested. Waistbands will get frayed just like nerves. There will be holes that at times will be left unattended until they get so big they cannot be ignored.

So why do I really care about underwear? I will tell you that I have discovered the underwear of undying love and ultimate romantic devotion.

Depends.

Let me introduce you to Ellie and Murray. Murray has advanced dementia and lives in a memory care unit of an assisted living facility.  Murray is ambulatory with assistance, incontinent and has a pervasive flat affect.

Until Ellie shows up. Ellie is just as old as Murray and has a Parkinsonian tremor that makes her speak like Kathryn Hepburn.  Ellie comes to see Murray every day. She pulls into the parking lot of his assisted living facility in her massive Lincoln Town Car and is lucky to find a spot. Ellie greets every staff member as she comes in and inquires genuinely about the events in their lives.  Ellie always has fresh clothes for Murray and a fresh package of Depends. When Ellie finally reaches Murray, he doesn’t acknowledge her. But she sits with him- to feed him.  And when it is time to change his “underwear”, she is there. And when that is done… when Murray is clean… Ellie shows her heart. Ellie reveals the small Baby Ruth candy bar she has had in her pocket. And the listless Murray takes it, and smiles. He looks at Ellie and smiles.

That smile is what keeps Ellie coming back. The Baby Ruth is her ace and she plays it masterfully.

And as I watch Murray’s smile at Ellie and I think of the lovely weddings I’ve attended, I understand the the relationship between sexy underwear and marital devotion is inversely proportional. The less sexy the garment, the more intense is the commitment. And that, I believe,  is lovely.

We are praying for you

In preparation for my niece’s upcoming heart surgery, I have been extremely blessed by so many friends. Last night, when I posted on Facebook that her surgery had been postponed for a day, due to another baby’s emergency, I was overwhelmed by the responses. Kindness and concern stood up from near and far. There was a common link in almost everyone’s comments: “We are praying for you.”

In my work, and in my life, I hear and say, “we are praying for you” a lot.  And I mean it. I truly, truly do.  But I confess that I have often felt like an inadequate pray-er. My prayers often go something like this: “Dear God, thank you for this day. Thank you for my family. Please keep my children safe…. does Ryan need a haircut? Lord, his hair grows like a weed and his head looks huge when he needs a haircut… sorry, sorry sorry! GOD, I’m back.  Please be near the patients and families I care for. They are so afraid. Give me the strength to DAMNIT, I forgot to turn in Sean’s basketball registration. Ok, I’ll call Janet- she’ll fix it for me. What was I saying? Patients? Families? Strength! Right!! I need Strength…”

And I am really not any better with formal prayers like the “Our Father” or “Hail Mary”. "Distractable Me" interrupts my chain of thought in just the same way.  I forget the words, and then I worry that is some kind of sin which puts me into a worse spiritual state than I was in when I started to pray.

Recently, I had an experience that helped me understand prayer in a different and more comfortable way. I know what you are thinking. She’s going to tell a beautiful story about a hospice patient, right? Nope. Not even close.

I came home last weekend to find Kevin, Ryan, and Sean glued to the TV. They were watching some documentary on the Discovery Channel about this massive python that was terrorizing this village and the villagers were attempting to capture it. I was about to walk on by because I get so disgusted when they watch these things but I found myself frozen with shock at what I saw. This snake was SO FREAKING BIG that to show its full size they had to photograph it from a helicopter. A hel-i-cop-ter. For a snake.  Good Lord, Almighty! And there was this British narrator with this lugubrious voice talking about how this snake had terrorized this (seemingly third world) village. He called it a “keel-ah” and a “moan-sta”.

At this point, Ryan and Sean and Kevin have gotten up and moved on, but I am riveted by this “Village vs. Snake” drama. The documentary then presents a woman from the village whose brother was eaten by the python and she watched it.  Who knows what language she was speaking, but it didn’t really matter because her tone and her eyes said all you needed to know. Her eyes were wide open, her mouth dry and there were a lot of high pitched syllables. A LOT of syllables.  The British narrator needlessly explained that she was saying, “My brother. He was eaten by a SNAKE. And I watched. Holy S--T!” The devastation and complete bewilderment shown on her face at what had happened was not entirely unfamiliar. It looked a lot like the faces of patients and families I meet with to whom the concept of hospice is being introduced.

So what does all this have to do with prayer you say? Well, I haven’t told you about the end. The villagers needed to get the snake out to a firmer piece of land where a bulldozer (not kidding) could take the snake away.  They had to carry it.  It was so big that men, and in some cases boys, came from other villages to lift this beast and carry it away to a place where it could do no more harm. The swampy marsh that they carried it through was full of other snakes and beasts and thorns and many had no shoes. But they carried it. Together. Because they had no other choice. And when they were done, they celebrated. Together.

This week, the snake in my village is my niece having to undergo a very serious open heart surgery.  She will be better for it, but it is certainly not something you’d wish for any 12 year old girl. I have had other snakes and so have each of you. My friends have shown me in all their conveyances of prayer, that they are coming to my village to help carry this snake out.  My theological epiphany that came from the Discovery documentary was this: in my head, when I say, “I’m praying for you” what I am telling you is to lay down your burden, however big and ugly it is, and let me help you carry it to a place where it can do less harm. I am scared of it too, but we will face it together.

Haven’t each of us many times spoken in the language of the woman villager, broken high pitched syllables that say, “I found a lump in my breast.” “My husband was laid off.” “My mom died. She really died.” Perhaps behind a stoic face are the same wide eyes and dry mouth that ask,”how did this happen?” Our job, as pray-ers, is to listen and encourage the hurting to lay their burden down. To take it off their singular back and share it. One person would most certainly be crushed beneath the weight of such stress, such fear, such grief.

The Bible says, “Do not be Afraid” 365 times and I don’t know that from my studies of the ‘good book', but from my studies of Pinterest boards with motivational quotes. Regardless, it is a good reminder that every day, God, however you perceive His (or Her)presence, is with you and wants you to know that He (or She) understands your fear and is next to you, too, carrying the snake. In my head, I don’t think God is like a big Santa Claus in the sky listening to and deciding upon your wish list. He is dispatching snake carriers to your village.  Putting boots on the ground. Sharing a backstock of hope to get you through this day.

So today, as many other days before and to come, I am afraid. Your prayers, in whatever way they make sense to you, are deeply appreciated.  I can’t get this snake out of my village alone. And I won’t let you carry yours out alone either.