You can never truly go home ...

I live in a haunted house ...

Yes, haunted ...

But not in a bad way ...

There are no jangling chains ...

No items flying through the air ....

No apparitions of scary monsters ....

There is no fear.

Yes, I bought a haunted house last year ...

It belonged to my parents.

My son came to visit two weeks ago and remarked on how the kitchen smelled like Grandpap's Italian cooking.

My niece came to visit and peeked in the broom closet marveling at how she used to hide in there.

They laugh when they point to the baseboard heater at the bottom of the steps, which was the cause of bumps on toddler heads, a trip to the emergency room, and a remaining scar or two.

Yes, this house is haunted with people, scents, and sounds from long ago...

In the living-room, I see a recliner with a teen-ager who immediately vacates that seat when her dad enters the room!  I see a grandmother wearing a Santa Clause cap while her grandchildren squeal in delight as they unwrap the mounds of presents placed under the tree.  I see a wall lined with shelves full of knick-knacks and photos of graduations, weddings, beloved parents and grandchildren.

In the dining-room, I see a table fully open so that it almost spans the length of the room.  I see aunts and uncles seated there nibbling on pistachios, pepperoni, cheese, and crackers.  I see the white-haired grandmother seated at its head telling a tale or two or three.  There is a family of six gathered there every evening for dinner, each in their own chair.  There is an old-fashioned phone stand in the corner and when the phone rings, I hear the father say, "Whoever it is, tell them to call back, we're having dinner."

Phone stand, now a book-nook

In the kitchen, I see the mother bent over the oven basting a Sunday roast.  I see the dad grating cheese for  lasagna and home-made hot sausage.  I see sisters squabbling while one washes and the other dries the heaps of dinner dishes.  I smell the aroma of garlic, basil, and oregano.  

On the porch, I see chaise lounges where teen-agers sleep on hot summer nights.  I hear Pittsburgh Pirate baseball games and Sinatra serenading loud enough for the neighbors to enjoy.  I hear a bug zapper fry a mosquito before it's able to take a bite out of one of the occupants on the porch.  

Porch Living

In the yard, I see American flags dotting the walkways and waving softly in the breeze. I see a rose-covered trellis, a grape arbor with its clusters, and a statue of the Madonna surrounded by flowers.  I see a toddler hiding under a pine tree.  There is a small garden with huge red tomatoes on the vine just waiting to be picked for sandwiches and salads.  I smell green onions and see the tops of the ripening kohlrabis.  I see teen-age boys mowing and weed-whacking under the supervision of their dad; a man who is proud of his flourishing green patch of ground in the city.

After years of being pruned to the ground, the roses are blooming again

Yes, this house is haunted ...

Haunted with memories that have a way of messing with me on certain days.  Memories that fill with me nostalgia and longing.  

Though I am officially listed as the owner, I will never truly own this house.

This house belongs to another era.

It belongs to ...

my dad...

my mom...

... and their family.

The Way We Were, Barbara Streisand

Engraved in it, heart & soul.

Lets Get Real...

Pose - assume a particular attitude or position in order to be photographed, painted, or drawn.

I am late to the blogosphere.  Though, I've run this little blog for several years, I haven't really grasped the immensity of blogging until the past year.  I've discovered a few favorites that I follow.   At first, I was swept off my feet by the life-style ones.  The gorgeously decorated homes, the mouth-watering meals prepared each day with the fresh vegetables from their gardens, and the stylish outfits, even when painting!  And the children! Athletes, actresses, dancers, cheerleaders, honor-rollees, all fashionably stylish with impeccably clean bedrooms!  As mothers, these women are the fountains of wisdom:  never a scream escapes their lips, and if they cross the line into "bad-parenting," (which would be considered giving unwarranted advice), they quickly catch themselves and amend their  ways!  Oh, and the husband?  He is referred to as MrHandsome, MrHandyman, or MrBlueEyes, you name it.  He has immense patience, talent, and major power-tools.  Not only does he have a job that produces BIG money to fund all of the home-improvements, vacations, and expensive clothing, but he spends his week-ends turning ordinary trim into timeless architecture!

These blogs have tens-of-thousands of followers.  They are the women we emulate.  Why?  Because they seem to meet the criteria of the American dream, some even have the white-picket fence!  Most are professing Christians - they are the Proverbs 31 women.  Theirs is a world of prosperity, where the flaws are few and beauty abounds. 

Sigh.

I am glad that blogs weren't there when I was young.  How could I have reconciled my life with these images of perfect?  Though, I love the home-arts and have always worked  hard to create warmth and charm in my homes, it was always on a shoe-string budget. My husband had no interest in spending his week-ends engaged in home improvements, nor was there money for costly renovations. My oldest son was hyperactive and was the one who bit the other children.   Our honest attempts at gardening were generally overtaken by weeds, deer, and bugs by mid-July. 

How I longed for that picture-perfect family, only problem was my son would never stay within the gilded frame and I was usually seething, rather than smiling at my detached husband.  Life happens that way.  We raise our children with certain values and they grow to disregard them.  We marry with dreams of ever-after and wind up divorced.  We dream of the house with flowers and a white-picket fence and end up in fore-closure.  Age brings perspective.  We all reach that age where our dreams meet reality ... when what we hoped for becomes "what is" or "is this all there is?"

I had a long conversation recently with a young man who is defining his philosophy for life.  His goals are noble and I admire his clear-headedness and ambition.  As he talked I heard the optimism of his youth, his belief that life is linear;  he believes he will reach his goals by doing A-B-C.  Sometimes that works, but most often, it doesn't.  There are many impediments along life's path.

Working with the dying has allowed me a stark glimpse into life.  I worked with a 19-year-old, whose dream was to become an engineer, he had his A-B-C plan, as well.  The only difference being that he was diagnosed with osteosarcoma during his freshman year of college and died a month after turning twenty.  Then there was the young mother of two preschoolers.  Her life seemed much like the ones in the blogs.  She was beautiful, an artist, married to a doctor, and lived in a stylish home in an affluent neighborhood.  She was diagnosed with a brain tumor and died at the age of thirty-six leaving her young family devastated. 

I still read some of those blogs; however, they've become portraits of fiction to me, much like reading a novel or watching a movie.  I still hope, somewhere deep down for that type of life, where everybody is happy and life is as it should be.  However, I am tempered enough to know that I will only experience brief times and seasons of it in this world.

Life is so temporary.  Eternal life beckons.  While here, we are called to partner with God in the work of redemption and restoration.  That can't happen if we are posing.  We have to be real.  He desires truth in our inward parts.  We have to be willing to show our messy rooms, our marital woes, our children's less than stellar performances, and the weeds that grow among our herbs.  James told us to "confess our faults to one another that we would be healed."  Healing occurs when the truth is told in the context of trust.

My prayer is that rather than striving to emulate perfection, we strive to have honest hearts. My prayer is that the less-than-perfect woman in the less-than-perfect marriage with the less-than-perfect children know that hers is what real life looks like.  This is what Christ came to redeem.  This is why we need a Savior.

Selah

Musical Inspiration:  Broken Spirit, Psalm 51

Beauty for Ashes

Beauty for Ashes

My mentee and I recently went to see the new movie, Cinderella.  I enjoyed the new take on this classic tale that is told from one generation of girls to the next.  What is its appeal that draws the female's attention and never seems to get old or outdated?  What is the common thread that weaves itself through the hearts of girls, both young & old?  What is it about the story of an orphaned child left in the care (or lack thereof) of a cruel stepmother that resonates within us?  What makes a young woman subjected to daily beratings, forced servitude, and life among the ashes, with rodents as her only companions, our hero?

Well, I think in short she is US.  She is me, she is you, she is every girl, and every woman since the creation of Eve.  Females with tender hearts living in a cruel, cruel world, often discarded to the ash-heap of life.  We want so terribly for her to win, we want to see her rise from the ashes and claim her rightful inheritance in her father's house.  We long for love to find her, we want adoring eyes to see her value and worth hidden beneath the smudged face, the calloused hands, and the tattered clothing.  This is a story that goes deep to the heart of our feminine wound, the deep soul injury created by our first mother's act of disobedience in reaching for that forbidden fruit. 

Each year I eagerly awaited this Rogers & Hammerstein version to come on TV

One thing I liked about this new movie is that it gives the audience more background information.  We are introduced to the little girl, Ella (her name before life in the cinders), who lives with her wealthy parents on their beautiful estate.  She is a carefree child who is warmly nurtured and loved by her parents.  From her earliest memories, her mother's words to her were to always be "kind" and have "courage."  When Ella is 12-years-old, her idyllic world comes crashing down when her beloved mother dies.  On her death-bed, the mother calls for her child and asks her to promise to always be "kind" and have "courage."  The child, with tears streaming down her cherub face, promises.

As the story progresses, it tells the tale we are all well acquainted with.  There is the wicked stepmother, the evil step-sisters, their cruel behavior, and the humiliating nickname they bestow upon her out of jealousy, Cinderella.   We witness the young Cinderella stay true to her promise.  She remains kind in the face of indignity.  As hard as they try, they are not able to break her spirit.  She courageously continues to believe in goodness, love, and in dreams come true.

During one scene, as the stepmother lashes out at Cinderella in a fit of envious rage, she reveals her own heart wound.  The deep disappointments that she has experienced through the deaths of not one, but two husbands.  She fears her waning beauty and her financial future. She expresses displeasure at the lack of natural beauty and feminine charm in her own two daughters.  As she vents her bitterness, you come to understand that Cinderella represents everything to her that she had hoped for and lost. 

Of course, the ending of this story is a happy one.  Cinderella experiences a transcendent moment with a fairy-godmother and is transformed into the princess who wins the prince's heart.  All the girls and women in the audience let out a collective sigh as they rise from their seats with a smile, all is redeemed and as it should be.

This movie provides us with the portrait of two women, each deeply wounded, and how they respond to the cruel blows life inflicts upon them.  The one becomes full of rage and bitterness.  She is defensive and full of jealousy.  She is hard-hearted and cruel; and in the end, she is never heard of again.  The other responds to her loss with "kindness and courage."  Courage to keep her heart open and to continue to hope, even in the midst of her own suffering.  She is somebody whose own pain enlarges, rather than diminishes her capacity to love and feel compassion.  She lives happily ever after.

On the way home, Markita and I had opportunity to talk about the words, " kindness" and "courage," and how we might apply them to our own lives.  How do we respond to hurt?  What does a vulnerable feminine heart look like?  What of a courageous one? Actually, I think the lesson was more mine than hers.  Life has been tough on my feminine soul and at times I've caught myself raging in response.

This movie serves as a metaphor for the Kingdom of Heaven; and therein lies its appeal.  Written into the very fiber of our DNA, we know something terrible has occurred.  We have lost claim to our inheritance and are living in a world ruled by an evil authority.   We are all longing for the embrace of a true love, for the restoration of all things, and for the dream that really does come true.

"Will love ever find me beneath the soot?" The question that reverberates throughout the hearts of all women throughout all ages.

We long for thy kingdom come ...on earth as it is in heaven.

He has come, the prince has come and all has been restored!

The Spirit of God, the Master, is on me because God anointed me. 

 He sent me to preach good news to the poor, heal the heartbroken,
Announce freedom to all captives,  pardon all prisoners.
God sent me to announce the year of his grace, 

a celebration of God’s destruction of our enemies—
    and to comfort all who mourn,
To care for the needs of all who mourn in Zion,
    to give them bouquets of roses instead of ashes....

  

Isaiah 61:1-3:  (The Message Bible)

Oh, come, great Prince

You who sees beauty beneath the soot

Come and quench the longings of our heart

With your great love

Beauty for ashes 

You restore all things.

Musical Inspiration:  Beautiful Things by Gungor 

Period

For the past 5-years I have been very busy.  I have driven thousands and thousands of miles.  I have provided thousands of massages to hundreds of hospice patients.  October 31st was the last day of my contract.  Complimentary services were discontinued due to financial constraints imposed by the new healthcare law.

 In November, I moved and spent the next month cleaning, repairing, painting, and creating a space that fits our lifestyle.  Then came Christmas.  Boxes that were just moved into the basement were lugged back upstairs as we "decked our halls."  Last week the last of the glittery adornments were again put away.

Its January.  Its winter, the temperatures are frigid and the skies are gray.  What now?

The book-nook I created in the living room

The period punctuation mark is the most used in the English language.  It indicates that a complete thought has been expressed and the reader is to stop.  I remember as we learned to read out loud in grade school, the teacher constantly needed to remind us to stop and pause when we came to the period.  As young children, we were prone to run all of our sentences together resulting in a jumbled mix of words, which muddied the meaning and message of the author's narrative.

When God devised time, he structured it with a natural rhythm of starts and stops. Genesis tells us that he placed the lights in the sky to separate the day from the night.  The rising of the sun awakens us and invites to engage the outer world; while the setting of the sun, like a period at the end of the sentence, indicates that it is time to stop. 

The Genesis account of time also tells us that God placed a period at the end the week.  After six days of creating, God stopped on the seventh day and rested from all of his work.  The seventh day was called the Sabbath and was the day specifically blessed and sanctified by God, indicating the value he places upon stopping.

We are also told in Genesis that the sun and moon mark and delineate the seasons. Four seasons of the year, each bearing forth distinct characteristics that shape how we live and engage our world. The full days of sunshine in summer beckon us to activity from morning to night. Winter, on the other hand, by its very nature imposes upon us a stop. 

Metaphorically, our lives are referred to in terms of times and seasons. When we are young, we are in the spring time of our life, and when middle-aged, autumn.  When new things occur, it is a "dawning" and when they end, the "dusk".  When we are in prolonged periods of confusion or depression, it could be referred to as the "dark night" of the soul.  When we are in transition, our "season" is changing.

Winter is the season that beckons us to turn inward.   Winter, who invites us to life under the blankets with a good book and our journal, or in front of the fire with a bowl of soup.  Winter, who only allows us short periods of time in the outside world.  Winter, whose harsh winds and snowfalls say, stop!

Out my window on a winter morn

 Though we moan, complain, and feel a bit blue, there are gifts that this season brings to our lives.  It provides us that break in time which allows us introspection. We can examine our path, are we headed in the right direction?  Is there anything we should change?  What are the subtle messages our hearts have been trying to convey, but we've not heeded because of the demands of the outer world?

We are responsible to discern the seasons of our hearts and lives.  Unlike the clear signs of the natural seasons, understanding the times and rhythms of the inner movements of life is far more mysterious.  What does this sense of restlessness mean?  This anticipation, for what I don't know?  What of the persistent sadness?  Or, the exhaustion that is not cured by 8-hours of sleep?

I have had many people on my massage table who were unaware of the pain they were carrying in various parts of their bodies until the touch of my hands brought it to their attention.  The busyness of their lives did not allow them to "feel."  They were just a bundle of "doing."  Living entirely for the outer world, rushing to meet deadlines and to fulfill the myriad of the obligations that had their schedules overflowing.  Once on the table, experiencing a period/ a pause, they were finally able to pay attention to the message their bodies were trying to convey.


When we don't comprehend the pauses in life, like the reader who does not grasp the importance of the period, we are apt to run-on and on, jumbling and obscuring the message and meaning of our lives.

This is where I am at right now.  I am at a period.  I am pausing at the end of a complete work season to discern where to next.  I am celebrating the stop.  For I know that as the world turns, we shall not be in any one season for too long.  Before long, spring will call and I will douse the embers in my hearth and turn outward once more.

"What a severe yet master artist old Winter is ...

No longer the canvas and pigments, but the marble and the chisel."

- John Burroughs, "The Snow-Walkers"

Granny's Hands

Yesterday was New Year's Day.  As with almost every first day of the new year throughout my life, we celebrated with pork and sauerkraut.  This German tradition was passed down to us by our mom and grandmother.  As we celebrate this meal with friends and family, we tell them once again about their grandmothers and grandfathers, reminding them where we came from and who we are.  

My son, Jared, wrote this during his college years.  His assignment was to write a story based upon a memory from his childhood.  It had to be written from a child's perspective and in the language a child would use.  He wrote about his Granny (my grandmother), who was one of the greatest storytellers I ever met.  

 

Granny's Hands

My granny is my grandma's mom.  My grandma died and granny is still alive.  She is really old.  She says sometimes she thinks God forgot about her.  I don't think he did.  He just wanted me to get to know her.  I visit my granny every week.  We sit at her kitchen table, just the two of us.  She drinks her black coffee and her fingers fold her napkin over and over again.  She will tell me stories about what happened a long, long time ago.  I don't tell her that she already has told me this story because she gets happy in her eyes.

I saw a black and white picture of my granny from a long time ago.  She looks the same way back then.  I think she must have always been old.  But that can't be true.  I've seen a REALLY old picture that my mom has where granny has brown hair like us.

Granny has crazy white hair and big bushy white eyebrows.  Her eyes always look like they are dancing.  And her smile is always on her face.  She wears a green house-dress most of the time when I visit.  She shuffles around the kitchen floor wearing the pair of slippers my mom bought her last Christmas.

The thing I like best about Granny is not her stories, because I have heard them all one billion times and I could tell them to her.  The thing I like best are her hands.  They are like two pillows.  On the finger of her right hand she wears a ring that was my grandma's.  On her left hand she she wears the ring she got when she was married. I never met my great grandfather.  I hear he was a bad guy.  He ran out on my granny and left her with three little girls, my mom told me this.  Granny has never said anything but nice things about her bad husband.  I wonder why.

My granny worked in a bakery for forty years.  She worked at night.  She kneaded the dough with her bare hands for all those years.  That's why her hands are so soft and fluffy.  I think she knows I like to play with them because she always puts them in front of her and smiles as she talks, and I listen.

"Grandparents are a family's greatest treasure, the founders of a loving legacy, The greatest storytellers, the keepers of traditions that linger on in cherished memory. Grandparents are the family's strong foundation. Their very special love sets them apart. Through happiness and sorrow, through their special love and caring, grandparents keep a family close at heart." ~author unknown

Redeeming Home

Stone House - Photo by Rebekah Pascoe

 Years ago I fell in love with a 100+year-old farm house.  I had never been in it but when I saw it sitting on the hill, set back from the road, nestled in trees,  I imagined my family living there.  One day as we drove by I noticed there were no curtains in the windows and wondered if it was available to rent?  Upon further inquiry, we learned that it was and rented it on the spot, sight unseen.

When we got the keys and were able to get inside we found that the condition of the house was pretty awful.  Its original pine board floors were scratched and dull.  Interior doors were broken.  Every wall was drab, dirty, full of nail holes, and looked as if they hadn't been painted in 20-years.  An old dirty rug, that kicked up dust when you walked on it was tacked to the floor in the dining-room.   The wall behind the stove was so grease-splattered that it required the use an electric sander to get it off.  Needless to say, when I entered the house I was overwhelmed.  I walked around the rooms saying to myself, "What have you done?"

After the initial shock wore off, I began to take a critical look at the house.  Its bones were good.  Straight walls, original floors, oak bannister, original wainscoting in the kitchen, two fireplaces, newer windows, and the views... they were stunning!

So, I set off to work.  Scrub, scrape, paint, wallpaper, and more paint, paint, paint!  My goal one afternoon was to paint the interior of the entry closet.  To prepare the walls, I had to scrape through layers of wallpaper (who wallpapers the inside of a closet?!).  Oh, how purely tedious and mind-numbing such a job!  Scrape, scrape, scrape ... finally I reached the bottom layer.  What I discovered there was a lovey rose-colored floral wallpaper and I immediately felt transported back to the time when this house was built.  Who was the lady who choose this wallpaper?  I thought of how proud she must have been of her home on the hill at the edge of town with its oak stairwell and gleaming pine floors.  I thought of how cozy her home may have felt after she hung this warm-colored paper.  Did she and her family sit each evening reading in front of the marble fireplace?  Who knew that such a drudge job would result in a wave of nostalgia, a taste of romance, and such inspiration?

Up On the Farm  - Rebekah Pascoe

 In the following years, I continued my work in redeeming that dilapidated  farm-house.  The old floors were sanded and polished till they shone like honey; the walls were painted, wall-papered and hand-stenciled; every corner of every closet gleamed with fresh white paint; the doors were straightened; and that old house regained its stature.

A home once again ... the dining room housed family and friends for Sunday dinners, the aroma of home-made soups wafted through the kitchen, colorful flowers spilled out of their boxes on the porch, and a young mother sat in the living room each evening reading to her children, a boy and a girl, one at each side snuggled up against her.

During the years that I lived there, I often thought of that first lady  ... of the connection that I felt to her. My hope was that she would have been proud of the work that I did to the house that we both called home.

In that closet, I left a small swatch of the rose-colored wallpaper in her honor.


"It takes hands to build a house, but only hearts can build a home."  - Anonymous

Seen Better Days - photo by Rebekah Pascoe

Jesus in Disguise

Insignificant - unimportant; too small to be important; of no consequence, influence, or distinction; without meaning, meaningless.

A patient I have seen for six months died recently.  She was a woman who lived with her daughter after she was diagnosed with heart disease, then she was moved to a nursing home.  Upon entering the nursing home, I noticed a marked decline, not only in her physical demeanor and stamina, but in her emotional well-being; she was very depressed.  On my third visit to her in the nursing home,  as I began the massage, she cried out to me, "Oh I cannot bear the insignificance!!"  Selah

Though this woman was diagnosed with heart disease, I believe what hastened her death was a broken heart.  She was deeply lonely, displaced, felt she had no value, and served no purpose; life had lost all meaning.

Nursing homes in America, for the most part, are warehouses for our elders, the last stop in the journey of life.  When I walk through them I see people sitting (perhaps for hours) in wheel chairs.  Many are bent over, unnoticed, and unattended to by the over-worked staff.  Many are in medicated stupors.  They are under-stimulated. They live in cramped rooms shared with a room-mate who talks too much or not at all, and plays the TV way too loud.  And then there are the smells....

The loneliest people in our culture live there...

Our elders live there...

Our parents live there ...

Our dad lives there ...

Our mom lives there...

Jesus lives there ... in disguise

Will you visit Him?

Touch Him with tenderness?

Smile at Him with warmth?

Gently wipe the saliva off of His chin?

Look into His eyes and hold His gaze?

Listen, even if it is an incoherent utterance?

...respond?

Will you love Him?

Honor Him?

"... I was sick, and you visited Me..."

"Truly I say to you, to the extent that you did it to one of these brothers of Mine, even the least of them, you did it to Me" Matt. 25:35,36,40  

"Being unwanted, unloved, uncared for, forgotten by everybody, I think that is a much greater hunger, a much greater poverty than the person who has nothing to eat." -  Mother Teresa

 Musical Inspiration:  Follow You

Oh! ... that not another human soul cry out in utter emptiness and despair.  Hear our prayer.  Selah