My World(s)

I lay in bed this morning in the pre-dawn darkness and thought about the world I’d live in today, or better said, the world I’ll choose to live in. Every day I struggle with who and where I am. In most cases, I default to being a caregiver, letting Burt’s mood and condition dictate my actions while I try to figure out what’s going on on his mind. Consequently, at the end of the day, I feel unproductive and unaccomplished—nothing to show for what I did. I tell myself it’s enough— to sit by my husband and hold his hand, giving him company and reassurance, watching him stare at me and tell me a thousand times how beautiful I am (to him). I tell myself that’s all I need to do right now. In some ways, it is enough. Allowing him the opportunity to look at me as if he’s seeing me for the first time, {hopefully}realizing the depth of love he’s had from me for 55 years meets a need for him now. Sometimes though, I think he feels regret in that he hasn’t taken the time to appreciate me this way before now. I think he needs the reassurance that he hasn’t disappointed me. He needs continuous and repeated affirmation from me that I love him and that he’s a wonderful man. I can’t say it enough to satisfy him. So at the end of this type of day, I’m worn out from repeating my words, wondering why my actions of tending to his most basic needs aren’t sufficient demonstrations of my love and devotion to him. That’s one world.

The other world is the one I try to live in. In it, I’m efficient and organized, energetic and creative. I’m awake before day, putting mindful thoughts on paper (or computer), reaping the benefits and satisfaction of a life well-lived. The business matters are in order; the house is clean; I’m running on schedule. In this world, Burt doesn’t wake up yelling during the night, my blood pressure doesn’t get too high; my hair isn’t thinning; my body never aches; my confidence in God’s provision never wanes, phantom fears evaporate quickly. . At least I get to live here for brief snatches of time.

I guess what I’m saying is, I’m adjusting to changes. I’m in the process of figuring out who I am right now. I’m seeing my life-partner gradually fade away and I’m having to assume a new role. I feel like the consummate actress, trying to take on the persona the script calls for.

The beauty of it, however, is that my real world is a blend of these two. Some days, I do feel accomplished and satisfied. I have had some degree of order. I have checked all the boxes on my to-do list (I actually was able to locate my to-do list!). I have spent quality time with Burt; he’s relatively comfortable and content; he feels well-loved. I’ve laughed with the grandchildren, spent time with friends, enjoyed the comfort of the Holy Spirit and the presence of Jesus, rested in knowing my life is in God’s hands. I choose to live here!

Oh, there’s one more world I forgot to mention. In this world, I drive a burnt orange Sport Bronco…

Cooking with Lollie: The best therapy

The best therapy I have going for me just now is GRANDCHILDREN! It took me a few years, but I finally admitted to myself that my boys were grown men and didn’t need me as a buddy the way I always assumed they did (although they tried to tell me so in various ways but I preferred to live in denial). Anyway, I realize I need to focus on Gen III, AND IT’S SO MUCH FUN!

A few days ago, a couple of granddaughters came over and they decided cooking with Lollie was a good idea. They wanted to learn to make biscuits, so we did. Before it was over, they got into the cooking show mode and our afternoon was a blast—and the rest of our family members enjoyed the results!

Actually cooking with the grandchildren began a while ago. That’s when I thought slowing down the process and the extra clean-up wasn’t worth the effort. Now I see what a wonderful bonding opportunity it can be.

What Pilgrims Talk About

Recently one of my humorous granddaughters popped a question. “So what did you Pilgrims do on the Mayflower?” Since I’m conditioned to the ribbing I get from our grandchildren, especially the girls, I burst out laughing. Their teasing makes me smile, even when I’m the target. (She was teasing…right?)

I’ve always enjoyed younger friends and have thought being around different generations was inspiring. However, this morning it prompted me to ponder the fact that having friends in the same age and stage of life is probably q very good thing. Take, for example, two conversations I had this morning with two of my Besties (both my age).

One of them used a word I’ve applied to my own situation and emotional condition lately: diminished. This feeling hit me unexpectedly when I gave my bank and credit card information to one of our sons. It’s certainly not that he’s not trustworthy; it’s just the feeling that part of my independence—or control— has been given up. I felt that some of my capability has been taken away. It’s probably part of the reason I’ve fought signing a revised will our lawyer-friend drafted about a year ago. It seems I have to face the potentiality of not being able to make decisions for myself. I prefer to live in denial to a point, yet my pragmatic side demands me to make good decisions while I have all my mental capacities functioning. Women in similar circumstances understand my feelings, and it’s comforting to know most of them share the same emotions.

To say Burt’s fall changed my perspective on lots of things is an understatement. No one of us wants to dwell on negative possibilities and I try to focus on the wondrous ways the Lord has provided everything we’ve needed and enabled us to maintain a sense of humor. To cope with all the thoughts of potential catastrophes that could occur and hence becoming overcome by anxiousness, i find a balance by reading and listening to other writers and speakers in my season of life who maintain positive outlooks, keep their strong faith, and simply find joy in the journey, as well as some humor—podcasters such as Peggy Joyce Ruth, Pam Hanes, Brenda Gantt, authors such as Jan Karon, Judith Viorst, and my all-time favorite, Peggy Rowe.

So I laugh along when the grandchildren tease me. I make up stories about the Mayflower. I let them come up with nicknames. One of them calls me Cricket. It’s okay; I call her Beetle.

The younger generations inspire me. They make me laugh. They give me hope for the future. But it’s the Spirit of the Lord that brings me ultimate peace, and it’s a huge blessing to find my people in all ages and stages of life. Some are just beginning their life’s journey and others are (a-hem) Pilgrims like me!

Riding the Property

One of the happiest habits Pops and I shared the past several years has been “riding the property” in the afternoons. This means, we loaded ourselves in his 20-year-old Chevrolet and drove around the farm, sometimes throwing out fish food at one of the ponds, sometimes sitting on the dock at the big lake and watching the sunset, often just traversing the fields and observing the crops or checking on the timberland. Some of those days, I was in no mood to get out of the house after a long day, but he had reached the point that I didn’t feel completely comfortable with his being away by himself, especially where cell service was spotty. Sometimes we rode our ATV, and that was always fun. In those cases, I was the driver and with the wind swirling in my hair, I felt like a schoolgirl again.

Now things are different, and I realize how much I miss those afternoon sunset rides.

So a few weekends ago, one of our sons came with Harrison, our 17-year-old grandson (the oldest of the 14 grandchildren). On Saturday morning, while Clint visited with his dad, I suggested to Harrison that we take a ride over the farm. We rode in the ATV, laughing at his blue Weimaraner racing beside us. It was so much fun! He was the driver this time, and I got to enjoy his undivided attention and learn from his extensive knowledge of things in nature—like banana spiders . In fact, if he hadn’t pointed out the massive web that stretched across the road, I would have missed the sight of the huge spider and seeing his antics when we annoyed him a bit. (I never knew spiders had personalities!)

The picture below doesn’t show how large this thing was, but suffice it to say I wouldn’t have enjoyed watching him if we hadn’t been a good 15 feet beneath him.

The spider was only one of the highlights of the morning. The real joy was the time I got to enjoy being with our handsome grandson and thinking of the pleasure of being able to share the simple moments, the ordinary days we so easily take for granted. We had a chance to talk a bit about his future plans, although at this point they’re just beginning to form. As we rode by a cotton field, I said, “Just think, Harrison, one day you might get to ride your son around these fields.” He answered, “I was thinking the same thing.”

Moments like this give me hope that maybe our future isn’t so bleak after all. Maybe there will be another day that kids can experience the joys of being free to appreciate the creation we live in and share beautiful memories with their grandparents. Maybe the world isn’t about to end, but if it did, the next stage of life is even better than the present one—much better! Meanwhile, I’ll keep seizing the moments to build a relationship with our grandchildren, to thank the Lord for the opportunities to share moments such as these, to be grateful for the foundation that was laid by their grandfather when he had the chance.

I’ll take this therapy anytime.

Camp Lollipop 2024

This summer I continued the tradition we started 10 years so: Camp Lollipop. It’s our cousins’ camp, called after our grandparent names, Lollie and Pops. For a brief spell I thought maybe we’d skip this year for various reasons—some grands might have outgrown it; Pops couldn’t really participate; the south Georgia weather was hot, etc. I’m eternally thankful I didn’t!

The children’s enthusiasm was contagious—it gave me all the motivation I needed. The older ones showed as much excitement as the younger ones, and they all had ideas to contribute. It would be a shorter camp, so the idea was to pack in the activities that would be the most rewarding.

Our time started Friday after lunch. They had the afternoon to play on the giant water slide and share laughs with a dunking tank. They even participated in silly races with each other, such as wheelbarrow races, leapfrog, crab crawl, hopping, waddling—anything competitive. The older ones paired off with the younger cousins and they couldn’t have been happier to be together. I watched amazed and satisfied at seeing their family bonds growing stronger and stronger.

Friday night after dinner we gathered around the fireplace (which definitely did not have any fire this time) for our “intentional time.” They showed up on time (according to my printed schedule), equipped with journals and Bibles, to have more serious and meaningful discussion. I paired them together in combinations that weren’t necessarily the unusual combinations and asked them to go out at sunrise the next morning and spend time with their partners seeing what they heard from the Lord.

To my delight, they all did it! Two of them took beautiful pictures of the sunrise. I wasn’t sure if they would make it by the time, especially when the girls had a dance party at midnight in our cabin. Nevertheless, they all woke and were out by sunrise the next morning.

The next day was filled with laughter, competitions, and designing their own camp tee shirts. I’m glad I didn’t order printed ones. Their own creativity was much more satisfying to them and a much cheaper option for me.

The highlight for the day was their preparing dinner for their parents that night. With the help of three of the granddaughters.I had created three groups to be in charge of the 3-course meal. At 4:00 p.m. the “appetizer” group started prepping wedge salads. Other than a bit of overlap in the kitchen with the main course and dessert group, the dinner went as planned and was a huge success. The parents enjoyed being served and pampered and the kids got satisfaction from their efforts and cooperation.

But the ultimate highlight of the weekend came Sunday morning when six of the grandchildren were baptized in our lake by their fathers. The desire was that Pops be the one to do it (as he did with the first two grandchildren three years ago), but since he wasn’t physically able, they chose the next best thing. He sat in his wheelchair and no doubt had his cup filled.

Hoarded Resources

A close friend sent me a link to the song “He Giveth More Grace.” I’m not sure if it’s my age or my situation in life (or if I’m tired of songs that don’t really touch the soul), but I feel drawn back to some of the old melodies and I’m paying closer attention to the lyrics. There’s a line in this beautiful old hymn that says, “When we reach the end of our hoarded resources, our Father’s full giving is only begun.”

The phrase “hoarded resources” pinged in my mind. The last five years have caused me to draw strength and encouragement from spiritual truths that are embedded in my memories, but at times I don’t feel I have enough resources to keep me going. It’s at these moments that the Holy Spirit comes to tend to my deepest needs, and I’m strengthened and encouraged. Many times I have to run into the shelter of His holy presence and receive the assurance that His grace is sufficient.

Last night a good friend invited me to come over for dinner with her and her husband. We had tried four times to get together and I didn’t want to pass up the opportunity to spend time with her, although it wasn’t the best time for me to leave Pops. He wanted me by his side and although I’d sat and held his hand for three hours, it wasn’t enough. I left in spite of my reluctance and, sure enough, he became distressed in my absence. One of our sons and his family came to have dinner with him while I was gone, but that wasn’t what he wanted.

It’s at times such as these that being his source of love, comfort, and purpose weighs heavily on me. I struggle with being glad he loves me so much and feeling solely responsible for his being reason to live. All I can do is ask the Father to pour out His grace both on me as well as on my sweet man, calm his spirit, and bring peace—to both of us.

Shopping Day

Yesterday I went shopping. I needed to find the perfect pair of tennis shoes for myself and some with non-slip soles for my husband. In times past, this would have been pleasurable; yesterday— not! 

A lifetime ago, I would have relished the chance to get away for a shopping day. Our five boys would have been left very contentedly with the grandparents or with their dad, who would have them working on the farm (which actually meant they would be chasing wild rabbits and pelting each other with dirt clods and jumping into gullies deep enough to break a leg). Anyway, they would be happy and so would I. Sometimes Burt would ride with me and nap in the car while I enjoyed my shopping. I especially liked selecting things for him.  

But my shopping day yesterday was different. I had to leave my main man at home with a caregiver and I ventured out alone. This time I saw so many good looking clothes for guys, but all he needed was a pair of slip-resistant shoes, to make things easier for the caregivers to shift him. What I found were ugly and black, and it made me sad. I still want him to look stylish.

There were years when I thought he didn’t really care about style since most of his wardrobe consisted of farming and hunting clothes–in other words, mostly brown. But the older he gets, it’s funny how things like his clothes still seem to matter to him. A few days ago I pulled out some old flannel pajama pants for him because I thought they’d be comfortable. He opened his groggy eyes and said, “Why’ve I got on these things? They’re about a hundred years old!” 

 The man is still here.