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    

My sister, My friend

What is a sister?

"She is your mirror, shining back at you with a world of possibilities. She is your witness, who sees you at your worst and best, and loves you anyway. She is your partner in crime, your midnight companion, someone who knows when you are smiling, even in the dark. She is your teacher, your defense attorney, your personal press agent, even your shrink." ~Barbara Alpert

Mary Johnston died on June 1, 2010. She died of uterine cancer at the age of 58. She left three precious children and two baby grandsons. Her capacity to love was huge; her ability to empathize was unlimited. She was one of the smartest women I knew. She was a guide, a muse, and a mentor. She was my sister, not of the flesh, but of the spirit.

I started to write this 1-1/2 years ago and I have only recently been able to finish it.

"She is your partner in crime, your midnight companion..."

Mary had an interview for a CEO position for a behavioral health company in Scranton, PA. She invited me to go with her, we would stay overnight. We arrived on a bitter-cold winter's night. Mary could not tolerate cold! Many times on our outings we would have to stop at a store so she could buy a sweater (even on July 4th!)

When we arrived at the hotel and got to our room we discovered that the heat had not been turned on. The room was freezing!!! We turned on the heat but knew with such temperatures it would be quite awhile before the room would warm. Mary was literally shivering and shaking. She got in the bed fully-clothed, including her coat and mine on top of that and all of the blankets on top of that, and still she shivered!!

The only warming element in the room was the iron ... hmmm!! Soon I was ironing my friend!! Literally ironing her!! Through her clothing, of course! We laughed so hard we were almost crying! She warmed up and completed a successful interview the next day. She was offered the job but in the end declined. She didn't want to live hours away from her kids.

"She is your mirror, shining back at you with a world of possibilities."

I met Mary in the fall of 2000. I was hired to work as a temp in an office for which she had oversight. My life was in major transition; I was entering the workplace after 22 years of marriage. I was not sure how competent I was and felt insecure in a corporate setting. Mary was always affirming of me, she constantly focused on my success and was generous in giving praise. She seemed so sophisticated to me, the epitome of the professional business woman.

She hired me as her permanent assistant in April of 2001. I was not as computer literate as others, but she was always sure of my potential. Little did we realize then how our lives were being aligned by divine design for a greater purpose than the smooth operations of a behavioral health insurance company.
Later that month, I moved out of my marital home and she was diagnosed with 3rd stage breast cancer. We were two women whose lives would embark upon a journey that would change us forever. The years to come would knit our hearts together and forge a love that would be until death do we part.

"She is your defense..."

Mary was hugely empathetic. She called me one day distraught because a dear friend of hers was diagnosed with cancer. She asked for prayer as she felt helpless to help her friend. As we prayed I envisioned a pair of baby shoes, a tiny pair of baby shoes. The Lord wanted her to remember that she is but his little girl and He is her big daddy. He will take care of this situation. She loved the analogy and found comfort in those words.

About a week later we were out for dinner and stopped in a shoe-store. I knew the Lord wanted me to buy her a pair of baby-shoes as a reminder to her that when she feels overwhelmed she has a big daddy who will take care of her.We chose the sweetest pair of pink baby sandals! We laughed so hard when we took them and placed them next to a pair of men's shoes, size 14!! It was such a vivid picture to both of us of how little we are next to our heavenly Papa!

She took the shoes home, and with a piece of lace ribbon hung them on the wall beside her bed. It was a constant reminder, especially during her illness, that Father God would take care of her. He would carry her through the trials that overwhelm. She was protected and could lean on His strength.

When she died, Annie asked if I wanted anything that was her mother's. I asked if I could have the shoes. Those pretty pink sandals now hang in my bedroom. They remind me of my sister and of our big, big Daddy.

"A strong woman is one who is able to smile this morning like she wasn't crying last night."

I was in school for massage training when Mary first started treatment for breast cancer. I wanted to do something for her after her surgery so I offered to go to her home and give her a foot massage. When we arrived, I expected to find her fragile and worn after having undergone a radical mastectomy. Instead, a beautiful and radiant Mary greeted us at the door.

I would soon learn of this woman's strength, even under the most dire circumstance. Days after chemotherapy she would be back in her office, working, smiling, and caring for others in her usual manner. With the exception of her inner circle of friends, nobody would know how terribly she suffered from the side-effects of chemo.

During the last week of her life I spent a few nights with her in the hospital. One was a particularly rough night, she tossed and turned, she was up and down, even with the high dose of pain medication she was restless. It was clear that she was declining quickly. Her blood pressure was a dismal reading.

When the doctor came in the morning it was determined that a decision would have to be made regarding whether she would return to her home or go to inpatient hospice. She was caught off guard by this as she thought there would be more time.

I witnessed my dear friend do what she did all of her life. With all the strength she could muster, she sat straight up on her bed. She analyzed how difficult it had been for her to go to the bathroom in the hospital, which was just steps away; how would she manage at home? What kind of stress would be created for her children? So she made the decision, through mere strength of will and consideration for others, to go to inpatient hospice.

As usual for Mary, the decision proved to be right. If she had gone home, she would have been transferred back. Three days later she breathed her last breath and went home to Heaven.
 
"She is someone who knows when you are smiling, even in the dark."

Mary became a regular massage client when I opened my office. She was my favorite because of how she relaxed into the session. She would often have visions while in such a state. When the massage was over I would leave her to dress and when I returned we would sit together while she told me what she experienced.

One such vision was the adventure of riding on the back of Aslan, (the lion character representative of Jesus in the C.S. Lewis Chronicles of Narnia series.) She envisioned riding Aslan to the summits of the highest mountains. Her hair was golden, long and flowing to her feet! Aslan would stand on his rear legs and roar and roar. On his back she was happy, free and protected as they climbed onward and upward to heights she couldn't imagine!

I now believe that this was a vision of her in Heaven. I think when I arrive there I will recognize her as the woman with the long, flowing golden hair down to her feet!

"She ... is even your shrink."

Our first lunch together was at Wendy's. I was experiencing deep emotional pain during that intense transitional period in my life. It was during that lunch that Mary began to reveal to me some of her own story. I was shocked to hear her talk of the deep disappointments and rejection she had experienced for I imagined hers the "perfect" life.

Her disclosure comforted me. I felt less isolated, less alone. She did not judge me, rather she entered into my pain and identified with me. It was then that I knew I had made a friend. This was somebody I could trust and confide in. What a blessing, an oasis in my spiritual desert, a balm to my emotional rawness! Over the years, Mary would be my confidante. I never knew a greater listener. She was an active listener, one who would pay attention to the smallest detail and show such interest that you thought your story the most engaging - your idea, the most brilliant - your problem, the most important concern of her day!
 
"She is ... your personal press agent,"

A mutual co-worker and dear friend of both Mary and me died in the spring of 2009. I was asked to officiate at the funeral. I was nervous as this would be the first funeral I did alone and many of my former co-workers would be there. I so wanted the funeral to be a fitting tribute to my friend's life and I wanted to encourage the mourners to take comfort in the reality of God's abundant love.When I felt afraid of something I would usually call Mary and she would help me muster the courage to go at it! As usual she was right there with me, encouraging me and praying for me. The day of the funeral, Mary was already there when I arrived. She stayed with me while I prepared and then she took her seat.

As I began to speak I scanned the audience for her face and there she was, smiling at me through her tears. She nodded at me with the approval and affirmation that eased my nerves. When the funeral was over and people came to shake my hand and thank me for a touching eulogy, Mary beamed with pride the way my mom did when I performed at school functions or dance recitals.  

“Death opens a door out of a little, dark room into a great, real place where the true sun shines and we shall meet.”

Her beautiful face is no longer here in the audience of my life, but I take comfort in knowing that she is among the great cloud of witnesses in Heaven. She still cheers and beams with pride as I run my race in this life. I am most assured she will be jumping up and down when I cross over that finish line into eternity.

Always in my heart, always in my touch. How deeply you are missed, my sister, my friend.

"No love, no friendship, can cross the path of our destiny without leaving
some mark on it forever."

- Francois Mocuriac

Aldonza or Dulcinea?

Dulcinea (musical inspiration)
from Man of LaMancha, Placido Domingo

Chapter 3 of the Sacred Romance challenges us to examine the arrows lodged deeply in our hearts. The wounds inflicted by living in a hostile world, intent on drowning out the sweet intimacy between the human heart and its Creator. The message of the enemy's arrows come to mortally wound us. They come to pervert our God-given identity and thereby, divert us from our destiny.

As I read this chapter I was reminded of one of literature's most romantic characters, Don Quixote, Lord of LaMancha, knight-errant on a quest to right all wrongs and to raise up the weak and the poor.

I rented the movie and was  drawn to the interchange between Don Quixote and Aldonza, as the perfect illustration of the vying that occurs between the romance and the arrows.

Aldonza is a kitchen maid/prostitute. She is a woman who has been beaten-down and defends herself with anger and bitterness. To her, men are abusers, and she has long since hardened her heart to the notion that a man could/would ever love her. She accepts money from the male patrons at the inn for sexual favors. Her hatred is expressed in these words, "When I am dead, no man will miss me for life's a cruel and dirty game. So you can curse or you can kiss me, it's all the same! It's all the same! Oh, I have seen too many beds but I have known too little rest. I have loved too many men with hatred burning in my breast!"

Upon arriving at the inn (castle) Don Quixote is smitten when he first sees her. This is what he says to her, "Dear God! It is she! Sweet lady, fair virgin, I dare not gaze fully upon thy countenance as I'd be blinded by thy beauty."

Aldonza is baffled by this and the others laugh and mock at her being referred to as a lady and virgin!

Don Quixote continues, "I implore you, speak once your name." She replies, "Aldonza."

In disbelief, Don Quixote continues, "Milady jests! Aldonza! The name of a kitchen scullion or milady's serving maid!" She seethes at him, "I told you my name, now get out of the way!"

Don Quixote is not moved by her reaction, he calls her by a new name: "Dulcinea, Dulcinea. I see heaven when I see thee Dulcinea, and thy name is like a prayer an angel whispers, Dulcinea, Dulcinea. If I reach out to thee, do not tremble and shrink from the touch of my hand on thy hair. Let my fingers but see thou art warm and alive and no phantom to fade in the air. Dulcinea, Dulcinea, I have sought thee, sung thee, dreamed thee, Dulcinea. Now I've found thee, and the world shall know thy glory. Dulcinea, Dulcinea!"

Throughout the rest of the story, we see the struggle between Don Quixote and Aldonza. He continues to call her Dulcinea, imputing beauty, value and nobility to her and she continually fights back, reminding him that she is Aldonza, a vile creature.

But at last our valiant knight prevails as we watch Aldonza transformed to Dulcinea. By the end of the quest, when called "Aldonza" by the squire, she quickly corrects him, "I am, Dulcinea!"

Don Quixote, brave and noble knight fulfills his quest by righting the wrong done to the heart of this fair lady!

And so, the wooing of our Lord, Jesus Christ. A noble knight who comes from a far-away kingdom to defy the arrow's reality and to rescue our battered and wounded hearts. "Come, my love, arise from thy lowly kitchen chores ... arise, my lady, my love - "Dulcinea!"

Selah, So be it.

Isaiah 62:2 (NIV): The nations will see your vindication, and all kings your glory; you will be called by a new name that the mouth of the LORD will bestow.