A Simple Christmas Eve: A Story

She slipped into her threadbare Goodwill coat; the inside lining torn and frayed. Outside the wind whipped, sending snowflakes spiraling. "Brrr. . . it's very cold today Eli. It's snowing again, Henri. You both are very lucky to have such warm winter coats."

Two tails wagged, the smaller terrier, Eli made a soft whining noise in anticipation. The larger dog, Henri, the retriever, looked at his human with complete adoration on his doggy face. His muzzle was graying, the playful step now gone. But the woman knew he still enjoyed their walks together.

She buckled their leashes onto collars and took one look around the small apartment. Nothing special, nothing out of the ordinary. An old sofa bed with stuffing poking from its many holes. Worn carpeting and a small table. It was all she could afford. And here it was the day before Christmas and she didn't have anything to give her beloved pets. The small check she received each month barely covered rent and the least expensive frozen meals. Dog kibble was costly and she would never let Eli and Henri go hungry.Yet she couldn't afford a toy for either of them or a bacon treat.

A small chicken sat defrosting in the apartment-sized refrigerator in her tiny kitchen. Tomorrow they would all feast on it and the vegetables that came from the dented cans she'd found in a half-price bin at the local grocers.

They walked out of their apartment and the snow began to fall much harder. The woman was patient; she smiled as each of the dogs buried their noses into the snow-covered ground, hunting some wonderful scent. No matter the cold wind that battered her, nothing made her happier than their contentment.

For a moment her mind wandered and she thought of her husband gone so long. He had loved this time of year. And this day was his birthday. She'd always made it special with his favorite meal and afterward, a small gift and then midnight church service. Late into the night, he would present her with his own gift: a portrait he'd completed of one of their precious memories together, for he was a talented, but humble artist.

He'd left her with one young child, a boy. The woman sighed with a pang of regret so fierce it almost stole the breath from her. She hadn't seen him in many years. He'd gone to make his fortune; to become important and leave his simple upbringing behind. His cruel words still hurt when he'd told her she was a nothing and a nobody. When he'd pushed her coldly away as she tried to cling to him while he  gathered his suitcases that day. With no phone to try to call him, or no way to reach out, not even knowing where he lived, she'd remained alone, lost and forlorn with the two dogs as her only family.

I've failed as a mama and I lost out as a wife. Perhaps the young one had been right; she was indeed nobody. The mistakes she'd made cloaked her like a suffocating blanket. A tear slipped down one wrinkled cheek. She rubbed her red, chapped hands together for warmth still clinging to the end of her precious furry companion's leashes.

As they made their way around the block, the woman noticed something strange. A large, shiny vehicle sat in a parking space near the front of her building. Someone must have important company. How nice for them, she thought, and walked on. She neared the stoop and saw a package wrapped in white tissue paper; a note sticking from underneath a big red bow. The handwriting on front of the envelope simply said: Mama. She glanced around; not a soul was in sight, and her curiosity got the better of her. The package felt heavy in the crook of her arm. Maybe one of the ladies who lived upstairs had a daughter who'd left something special for her. She would bring it in to her place and hold it for a day or so.

Vegetable soup simmered on the food-caked stove. The clock ticked four p.m. The package sat atop her counter and she wished just for a moment that it might be for her. What wonderful surprise might it hold? She let her mind wander and pictured so many things; the beautiful doll she'd gotten as a little girl. Tears poured from her eyes when she thought of the family who'd lived down the block and had lost everything in a fire. Yet, she glowed inside thinking of the shy child's smile when she handed her the beloved dolly; a true gift from the heart.

The light was fading outside; the snow had slowed. Her belly was warm and full from the soup. She sat in her grandma's spindly rocker and picked up her old, metal crocheting hook as the rhythm of the yarn lulled her. Eli and Henri lay at her feet; nose to nose, snoring softly.

She must have dozed for the bang of a car door woke her from a light slumber. The sound of footsteps and a knock at her door caused her a moment's panic. Now I've gone and done it, she thought. Someone is already coming to retrieve the package I took in today. Perhaps they'll think I've stolen it. Well, it won't be the first time. People always seemed to have an unkind word and cruel names to call her. Old hag, gypsy, half-crazy, they said. She sat a little taller, remembering something an old pastor had said many years ago. She was a child of God. Nothing could take that from her.

The knocking grew louder and a bit more persistent. "Coming," she said, and got up from her chair.
She drew the chain lock back and peered out into the dimness. A man and woman stood on the stoop. Their expensive clothing made her feel shabby. The woman was fair-haired and pretty, and the man was tall with dark, wavy hair and soft features.

"Can I help you?" she asked.

"Did you find a package here today?" the man asked. "It had white tissue and a red bow."

"Oh yes, I'm so sorry. I only took it in to get it out of the elements. I'll go get it for you."

The pretty young woman spoke. "No, it's for you," she said. She looked down at her feet, a bit nervously and when she looked up again, she was crying.

"What is this?"

"Mama, it's me. This is my wife. We've come to visit you. We've come to bring you home. I want to tell you how sorry I am for everything."

The old woman stepped back and her hand went to her heart. The couple walked into the room and their sobs resounded in the stillness of the night. Both dogs awoke with a start and Eli began yapping. "Quiet," she said.

Her son and now a daughter on a most magical Christmas Eve night. They held one another tight, tighter, tightest; and years of grief melted away. Her little boy now a man--a good man who promised he would make life better for her. She would be leaving with Eli and Henri tomorrow to live with them. No longer alone; no longer a nobody.

"Mama, can you ever forgive me?"

"There's nothing to forgive. You've come back to me. God be praised." Tears flowed freely from the old woman's eyes, but her heart felt light. "What's in the package?" she asked.

"You'll see."

She went to retrieve it, and shyly brought it before her son and his wife.

"Go ahead, Mama, open it."

She hadn't had a present since before her husband had died. She gently peeled away the paper, careful not to tear it. In it was a painted portrait of the man she had loved--her husband. The likeness was incredible. She laid it against her couch standing back to admire it. "Who did this?"

"I did, Mama. I painted it from memory. You see, when I left all those years ago, I thought I would live in my dream world of big business and huge corporations. It turned out that my heart wasn't in it. I began painting several years back, and people told me how much they liked my work. It's God's gift, really."

The old woman sighed and she beckoned to her son. The two of them stood side by side as Eli and Henri sniffed cautiously around the feet of the two strangers in the room.

His arm went around her. "Are you happy, Mama?" he asked.

"Yes," she answered. "For my prayers have been answered. I have everything now, you see. And I have the best gift of all which is love."

Sometimes strength feels like brokenness

Yesterday was a mixed feeling type of day while visiting my mother at her house. I felt wonderful that it went so well; that Mom and I bonded in the kitchen with a little cooking project. She peeled potatoes while I fixed pork tenderloin. She laughed so much, and shared some sweet stories. And yet at other times, she broke apart while talking about my dad.

I walked through the rooms of the house I had lived in from the early nineteen seventies. My old bedroom became my brother's room, and then later our father's little workshop. Many of Dad's projects are in that room--boat models, thousand piece puzzles he'd glued together and hung as pictures on the walls. A huge dollhouse, completed, sits on a built-in dresser--the tiny furniture askew in the many rooms--now forgotten. And everywhere--Dad. . . His little notebooks filled with writing; organizing the many bills he paid and doctor visits he kept in order. A few of his favorite DVD's still lay scattered about the room, as we haven't had the heart to move them just yet.

 My parent's room still had dad's shirts folded over and old blanket rack. I picked one up and became lost in the scent of my father, and memories which threatened to start me sobbing uncontrollably. I looked at the furniture in the room, an old bedroom set my parents had since I was a little girl. Many nights I used to wander into the room, frightened from a bad dream to make sure my parents were there. And Dad would wake to take me back to bed.

Mom began nodding off after our beautiful dinner yesterday. And the innocence of her dementia hit me hard. Once the strongest woman I'd known, she now talks like a little girl at times--memories of the past more clear than those that just happened. I thought about her life and the time she had with my father. They'd been married over sixty years. They'd shared a love like no other I'd seen, for they remained with one another through good times and bad. Moments of plenty and moments of lack. Sickness and health. Yes, they'd taken their wedding vows quite seriously. And my heart broke into tiny shards watching Mom sleep, and knowing she'd awaken alone once again without the love of her life there beside her.

We talked yesterday of death, replaying the moments Dad had been in the hospital and the events which led to his passing. When my mother seemed to spiral downward, when depression threatened at its ugliest, I reminded her that she knew better than anyone. The near death experience she'd gone through in the early seventies were proof of the Love we will know and the Place we are headed. Dad is waiting for her there, and she will spend eternity with him. In her cute childlike way, she said, "Oh, I'd forgotten about that."

We are broken right now--my family. And in our time of grief, there have been moments that we showed a strength I didn't think we'd possess.

 I chatted with a friend this morning who'd lost her beloved husband some months back. We spoke of our loved ones and how much we miss them. We reminisced about better times and happy memories. And she said something to me that really made me think. She said, "Sometimes strength feels like brokenness." It didn't take me long to realize just how true that is.

A Moment Like No Other

 Some moments define us; others mold us or change us forever. The death of a loved one hits us hard, crippling us, taking us down into spiraling depression or a sadness so all-encompassing we feel as if we are suffocating in its wake.

Yet there are other times, we rise to the highest heights--a feeling of elation so overwhelming we almost cannot contain our joy. A moment that we know there are no coincidences and that God Himself, could only have orchestrated.

I lost my earthly father in September this year after a brief illness and hospital stay. My mother has dementia. I have been stuck in gloom and despair; I have pictured life without Dad and the long journey with Mom. I've felt at times that I couldn't take another step. I know that God has been there, for I've felt His presence greatly. But activities that gave me pleasure took a back seat--my writing for instance. And I could not find my smile; thoughts of unease have been my constant companions.

While driving to work this past Thursday, I had the radio tuned to our local classical music station. I heard the announcer talking about an upcoming play on the weekend: "To Kill a Mockingbird." My curiosity got the better of me, and I turned up the volume to listen. That book and movie has been balm many times to my aching soul. The character of Scout Finch is so beloved to me that I've wanted to become her more than once throughout my life. She was always tough, confident, and very brave. She fought for what she believed in and lived her young childhood on her terms. I'd been ladylike and frightened in my own youth, and my mother babied me with constant worry and concern. If I could only be like Scout, I would think to myself.

I contented myself with this blog, naming it The Finch's Nest in honor of my beloved Scout. My email holds her name, and I own soundtrack music and several versions of the movie and book. I re-read or re-watch "To Kill a Mockingbird" at least every couple years. And I always come away with a sense of awe and wonder. The book has been an inspiration for some of my own writing; Harper Lee, the best teacher.

As I listened to the announcer speaking about the play, he mentioned that Mary Badham, the actress who had played Scout in the movie would be in town and having a special meet and greet. My goodness! Are you serious?? Scout. . . THE Jean Louise Finch will be here? I drove to work with a tiny ray of hope that somehow I'd be able to attend this event, and miracle of miracles actually meet the woman who'd once been the little girl that had inspired me so much.

After clicking on websites and a phone call or three, my son agreed that if tickets were still available, he would take me to this event. My son . . . one of the best people I know. A young man who would do anything to see his mother happy.

Last night, Matt and I walked through the doors of The New Hazlett Theatre Center for the Performing Arts--a lovely, old stone structure on the North Side of Pittsburgh. My heart beat wildly, my palms sweat despite the cold in the air, and my level of excitement peaked through the roof. In just forty-five short minutes I would see her! My idol, my namesake. I'd met other actors before; some of whom I'd been elated to meet. But Mary Badham! This would be a perfect moment. I'd rehearsed what I would say if given the chance to actually talk with her. I pictured the questions I would ask if there was time. I daydreamed about shaking her hand or giving my little Scout a real hug. Who knew how this event would play out?

Pictures from the movie and the play adorned the walls of this wonderfully renovated building. My son and I sat near the table that we were told Mary would be signing autographs. My eyes scanned perfectly set tables filled with delectable canapes throughout the room. Fancy lighting glittered above us. The air was filled with a sort of expectation. I felt tears in my eyes, palpitations in my chest, and then: There she was!  Older and lovely, but it was Scout. She arrived with her husband and son, and people quickly flanked her and fawned over her. I stood shyly back, actually giving way to my tears. I could tell my son was touched by my emotions by the look on his face and how kindly he spoke to me. He knew what this moment meant to me.

When it came time to stand before her with my copy of the book she would sign, she looked up into my eyes and I began to blubber again. "This is such an honor. You have no idea what your performance meant to me. I always wanted to be Scout. My email and blog is named after your character." I shook her hand as she made pleasant chit chat, signed my book and thanked me for my love of the story. I walked away feeling as if I were a foot off the ground, floating perhaps above everyone else.

A question and answer session would follow, and Mary spoke of her love of the story as well, and her relationship with the other stars and author. She spoke of literacy, being a huge advocate for children to help guide them toward a love of reading and writing. She encouraged those of us in the audience to write our stories for future generations. It was then I realized the little "gift" I'd been carrying in my tote bag would be given to her after all. I had a copy of my own book "Reflections From My Mother's Kitchen." I'd chosen this particular one because of the memoir-type of writing and heartfelt story. Also because I had a chapter with a particular nod to my favorite book of all time: "To Kill a Mockingbird."

I was a woman on a mission. I walked back into the room where Mary had gone to sign autographs once again. I got in line, not caring if I sounded stupid or what she would think of me. As I stood before her for the second time, I jokingly said, "No, I'm not going to cry all over you this time. I actually have a gift for you. I, too, believe in literacy and the love of reading. So much that I have written several books and want to present you with one as my gift to you. This book is actually a fictionalized memoir of stories that my mother and I shared through the years." My hands trembled as I gave her the book. Mary's eyes lit up and she said, "Oh, that's wonderful! Thank you. Thank you so much. I look so forward to reading it," and she got up and actually reached over and hugged me across the table.

I had envisioned this moment--this time that I never could have pictured in my wildest dreams. I shook hands with the "famous" before, but never had the personal experience that this beautiful moment gave me.

Yes, God has known my recent suffering. He longs to comfort and give us good things. I believe that this evening was His gift to me. His grace is perfect and wonderful. And He knows what we need and love, or what will bless us and bring us happiness.

I sat with my son watching the play late into the night with my favorite actress seated only several rows behind us. I listened to the lines I'd known and loved so well. A sigh of contentment escaped me. I reveled in the feeling, this wonderful time with my amazing son and gave thanks to my Heavenly Father for a moment like no other.

After all, what were the chances that I would have heard about this event at the last minute and still be able to get tickets?
 

Where Has Pappy Gone?

A child filled with wonder sits on my knee,
she asks, "Where has he gone, where can my Pap be?"
I hug her and smile, knowing just what to say,
"It isn't the same, but he's not far away.
 Heaven's for real, and Pap's there now you see,
And someday we'll be with him, you and me."
Her eyes become drowsy; a smile on her face,
She says, "I bet that heaven's a really nice place."
I sit back content and knew I would start
planting seeds of God's love right there in her heart.
She drifts off to sleep, so precious to me,
I whisper a prayer, "God, let us be--
wrapped in your love and your care and your grace;
And let this little one in dreams see your face."
I sigh and remember my own father's love,
and know that he watches for us from above.
Yes, heaven must be so much more than we
would ever have imagined it to be.
God is so real and He loves you my friend,
This isn't over, it's not the end.
Just be like a child, and look for His grace
You'll find it in the simplest place.

My own eyes are closing, I'm drifting to sleep,
I want all these treasures to hold and to keep.
When just then I see my dear Daddy before me,
He's handsome, he's young, he's wrapped all in glory.
Yes, heaven's for real little child, a Voice speaks,
All the tears all the suffering aren't here for keeps.
You'll feel loved, warm and safe, you'll be wrapped in My arms,
With nothing to fear and protection from harm.
 Your earthly father is proof that I'm real,
All the good that he's done is something you'll feel.
So carry this gift back with you upon waking,
My perfect Love is a gift for the taking.

The little one stirs, and her eyes meet mine,
She says, "I want to visit with Pap one more time."
I kiss her small face and I ask, "Did you see him?"
She says "Yes, he's so happy, I thought it a dream."
But I know that God has given her a peek,
a glimpse of His love with a kiss on her cheek.
She's got her whole life ahead of her now,
For fun and adventure, so I must allow
her own little journey, her own little path,
To take time to giggle and take time to laugh.
The serious things will just have to wait,
I'm praying that her young life will be great.
And hoping that nothing will keep her apart
of the memories of Pappy and God's loving heart.

Karen Malena



 

Dancing With My Father

When I came home from work this evening I had the strong urge to play one of my father's CD's that I had gotten him for Christmas a few years ago and had now inherited due to his recent passing. I slipped "The Emperor Waltz" from its plastic holder and placed it into an old boom box type of player that I have. The first few notes of the classical piece played forth reaching the magnificent crescendos. I reached for Dad's picture from the many photos my husband and I have adorning our refrigerator; photos of all of our loved ones. In this particular one, my father is sitting next to me on our back porch on a lovely summer day from a few years ago. He is smiling sweetly while looking at me as I chatter away, my Italian hands flying from whatever it was that I talked so passionately about.

I held the picture in my hands as tears began to trickle from my eyes. The picture blurred, but I could see something else very clearly--I saw in my heart, my father young again. No longer the bent body, the aches and pains of his older years, my Dad stands handsome before me, black hair, twinkling green eyes and a smile--oh that smile. He beckons to me, reaching out his arms and we twirl together with the music of our favorite waltz. This was the dance we should have danced together at my wedding to Jim, but we dance now, giggling as our feet become tangled and we make up our own steps to the beautiful piece.

My father tells me he is well and that he has been with so many of his friends and loved ones who have gone before him. He asks about Mom, and wants her to know how much he loves her and how he will wait to welcome her home someday.

The music peaks and we twirl once again. I hadn't realized we could waltz so well. I want this moment to stretch on forever, but the music finally nears its ending. I open my eyes, still clutching the photograph of Dad to my heart. The magic is gone, the spell, broken. But I know each time I now hear that special music, the vision of my father and I dancing in the presence of God's beauty will warm me and bless me.

Start a kindness revolution

Wow, not another political commercial. Not another hate-filled rant of one candidate versus the other. It's been shoved down our throats for months now, and I, for one, am caught up in the anger that each of these tirades bring. I am not a political person. I was not brought up in a family where things were discussed around the dinner table that had to do with the government and politics. In our house it was which favorite movie line we could quote, which comic superhero was the best, what piece of music touched us the most, etc, etc.

This is why I think we need to take a step back and bring back positive virtues, good talk, compliments, and kindness. Because after listening to poison, I think we all tend to spew words out in the same fashion. Let's be the change. Start a kindness revolution in our own homes. Let's push back the dark and make way for the light.

Easier said than done? Turn off the television. Revel in the quiet. Or play a favorite piece of music, and better still, let it be classical thunder or a favorite movie soundtrack. Let it permeate your being and see how it makes you feel. Stop reading negative articles and newspapers. Fill your mind with what is good and lovely as the Bible suggests. Read the Bible.

I find this very thing in our home sometimes. My husband has to deal with a ton of ignorance at his job. Then when he comes home, he puts the t.v. on, and watches the news. He asks me all the time how he can get rid of his negativity and anger. I tell him that we need to be the light, the candle in the dark. Keep our own doorstep clean. All the old adages come to mind, but I can see that they worked for past generations. We need to simplify, de-clutter our minds, and become the goodness that we so desperately long for. A kindness revolution.

I found myself grumpy and mean a few months back. Because so much was going on in my own life, I began to take it out on my co-workers and loved ones. I'd forgotten my own words of advice and became caught up in ways that should have been foreign to me. When it was pointed out, I sought God's help immediately. I asked His forgiveness and strength. I began pushing the darkness away and embraced the light. The kindness revolution had begun in my little world.

During my father's recent illness, hospital stay, and passing, I found that I treated everyone kindly and respectfully. Even in our darkest moments, my words bespoke something good, something light to everyone I encountered. It would have done no good to "take out" on others, the turmoil I'd been feeling inside. And I can't tell you just how much it came back to me. Especially when we lost Dad. There was so much given back to us. So many people filled with love and goodness toward my family.

Yes friends, the kindness revolution works. It's real and true. And it comes back to you tenfold. Be the light. Get rid of bad thoughts, words and deeds. Keep on pushing back the dark.

I love the words in this song by Christian artist Josh Wilson.

One million reasons why, you shouldn't even try.
After all you're just one heart, a single candle in the dark.
And there are shadows here, feeding on your fears,
That you don't have what it takes - who are you to make a change?

But oh, oh, don't underestimate the God you follow.

Whatever you do, just don't look back.
Oh somebody needs the light you have.
Whatever you do, just don't lose heart.
Keep on pushing back the dark,
Keep on pushing back the dark.

 

 https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=6wyockRKo6Q

Well Done Good and Faithful Servant

Last week we said goodbye to my father. Even typing the words seem a bit surreal to me. Did it really happen? Yet I know it did, for the hollow ache in my heart tells me so.

I had prayed for miracles through the years and God answered those prayers in amazing ways. My father lived to the age of 85, when by all standards he should have been gone a while ago. He beat odds. He survived quadruple bypass heart surgery, a fall down bleacher stairs at a high school stadium. He made it through several bouts of congestive heart failure, kidney issues and several hospital stays. But on Sunday, September Fourth at 1:58 p.m. that strong heart stopped beating.

I drove to Sewickley hospital that morning knowing Dad was back on the ventilator once again. He'd signed DNR before, but continued to give the "ok" when asked if he wanted to try one more time. I think he was doing it for my family. Always thinking of others, especially my mom, this man would have given his last breath for another.

I knew what my mission was that morning. I'd spent three weeks watching Dad go downhill, then upward. Making it through what seemed to be routine gallbladder surgery that you or I could easily bounce back from, Dad fought a good fight. Yet I knew he was tired, weary, worn out. I saw it in his eyes, those bright eyes so full of life were now telling me another story. "I'm ready," they seemed to say. "Let me go home."

I arrived at the hospital around 8 a.m. And I found Dad to be unresponsive, yet breathing with all the bells and whistles attached to him. Mustering my courage and faith, I began to speak softly to him. I told him it was time to go home. He'd done all he could for us. He deserved his Heavenly reward now. I mentioned to Dad that he had two other children waiting with open arms for him. That my brother and I had been blessed to know him all this time, but now the babies my mother had lost were ready to meet him; ready to love him.

I thanked him for everything he'd been to me, and all he'd taught me. I promised that Mom would be taken care of. I laid my head upon his chest as tears poured from my eyes.

Later in the day, when my mother and other family friends arrived, and it was time to make the decision to let Dad go, I could not stay in the room. I walked to the chapel in the hospital, but it was too dark in there for me. I knew outside the sun was shining brightly. How my father loved the outdoors! So I went out into the bright day, walking around the well-tended grounds of the hospital, looking at flowers, watching butterflies and birds all around me; something my father and I would have enjoyed together.

I found a wooden bench at the front of the hospital, and sat down, raising my face to the brilliant sun. Cardinals chirped cheerfully across the street, though I could not see them, but I knew the sound intimately. Moments passed, prayers continued. When inside my innermost being I heard my father's voice clearly: "The nightmare is over."

Now I must pause and explain. One of my Dad's favorite phrases had always been, "What a nightmare," as he described things that upset him, bills that arrived, hospital visits that were unplanned, and how poorly he'd been feeling lately. But he'd always said it with a sort-of giggle to his voice--a way of making light of difficult situations.

Perhaps a minute or two after I'd heard the voice, I received a text from a family friend asking me to tell her when I was back in the waiting area. I texted back: Why, is he gone?

My father had passed peacefully in that same moment I heard his voice. Always the jokester, I imagine Dad needed to tell me he was free, in that silly way, and  goofy sentence he would have known I'd understand. I will never forget that moment. I will treasure God's love and light shining on me as the sun warmed me and the words from my father, now young, now free of pain and grief, tears and suffering echoed in my heart.

I know that somewhere else, my father was also hearing the words: Well Done, Good and Faithful Servant.

 

Such a good man

We painted small plastic football men with toothpicks. Made a Crystal Radio kit. Spent countless hours trying to understand word problems with my math homework.

We bonded over crafts: pine cone Christmas trees. The doll houses he so painstakingly put together. Would my brother and I please purchase some contact cement for him? Oh, and could we pick up a small can of tan paint? Tan is such a good color for the outside of a three-story miniature home.

Blip, bleep goes the hospital monitors. Whooshing sounds; the ventilator--the most hated and loved of life-saving devices. Drip, drop goes the intravenous fluids. Dad lays there, drifting in and out of sleep. His eyes open for a moment and he waves to us as we stand gathered at his bedside.

Each one of us takes our turn to whisper words of encouragement. His grandson, my son Matt, who tells his beloved "Lamp" as he calls him, that his YouTube fans are sending out prayers and good wishes. This makes him smile. I know it's a smile, for I see those eyes twinkle still yet as Dad hears this. So proud of being in one of Matt's YouTube videos, playing the silly claw machine and winning a Betty Boop doll that the fans went crazy over. Several of the kids liked Dad so much, they even asked for his autograph.

My mother lays her head against his arm. Their fingers are entwined together. Sixty years. A good marriage. I show the kind nurses pictures on my cell phone of Mom and Dad when they first wed; those two gorgeous people in their early lives, so much hope before them.

I pray out loud, offering words of comfort and strength. Dad closes his eyes. He knows the Lord.

The silly names he has called us all through the years float through my mind and the nonsense language he invented. If we were shopping and he needed kleenex, I knew what the word lagogos meant. My son Matt has been Raymond to him, my brother, Matty or Boy. And my own magical names: toots, Tenya, Nice-a Toy. Oh I want to hear those words from his lips right now.

He wanted to talk yesterday, of that I'm certain. Knowing Dad as well as I do, I filled in the blanks for him as I watched his eyes and hands. I tried my best to envision what he might like to tell us all.

The silly hats Dad used to put on when we would be shopping together. Once he donned a type of fedora and pretended to be Hannibal Lector from Silence of the Lambs. A big, tin popcorn can went on his head one Christmas, and he breathed like Darth Vader stating: "Luke, I am your father." He unzipped his postal sweater one evening, singing "It's a beautiful day in the neighborhood" as good as Fred Rodgers.

He loves Peter Sellers Inspector Clouseau movies. War pictures. Funny Farm with Chevy Chase. Marathon Man with Dustin Hoffman. I think of the hours we've watched and re-watched these films, able to quote whole scenes from them.

A good life. A good man. Even the nurses tell us this. When asked how he is feeling, they always get a "thumbs up" from Dad. From the little they know of our family story, and the times they were able to actually speak with him, every single person who has met Dad in the hospital says the same thing. What a good guy. Gracious. Kind. So sweet. Yeah, they have a small glimpse of who he is.

Keep fighting, strong man. Know how much you are loved, not only by your family, but by every life you have touched and blessed.

Quiet Time, Reflection

While visiting my father in the critical care unit of the hospital recently,  I stood by his side when the doctor said the words that every family fears: We are unsure of the outcome if you decide to have surgery. But if you don't, it could prove devastating also.

My dad reached for my hand and held it, carefully digesting the doctor's diagnosis. When she left the room he said, "I don't even feel sick." That's been my father. A man who had a heart attack and didn't even know it. A man who claimed that he never felt much pain. A man who would put others needs before his own, and not really let you know what was going on behind those amazing green eyes.

I excused myself for a few moments, and quietly fell to pieces in a restroom down the hallway. Then I gathered my courage, called my brother, and kept a stiff upper lip while I spent the rest of the day with Dad. A little later I left the room again, headed for the small hospital chapel. A room to reflect in. A room for prayer and God's presence.

Two candles were lit on a small altar. A huge, old Bible sat opened. Several rows of wooden pews stood closely together and the lights were low. The smell of candle wax permeated the air; a kind-of nostalgic, comforting scent, bringing me back to the many Sunday's I attended church with my father.

I closed my eyes and spoke quietly in my heart to my Heavenly Father. I don't know if the words made sense, but the Holy Spirit knew. For a calm descended over me, and loving arms wrapped about me. Though I had thought I couldn't go on earlier that day, I stood and walked from the room to face whatever outcome my father's surgery would bring that evening.

******

A women's care facility. Cold and sterile. An oversized, cotton dressing gown that hung on my frame making me and the other ladies who were waiting for results of their own tests look like clones of one another. My name is called. The tickle of fear in my belly deepens. After all, I've been called back for more tests on a mammogram. I entered the room feeling more like a computer generated number than a human at this point. And nobody smiles here. I make a mental note that in the future I will find a better facility. I miss the girls I had known back home, hating that insurance companies force you to find places that accept your carrier.

I am called in for a sonogram next. By this time I want to scream. I want to run far away. Don't they know my father is in critical care in another town? Don't they know he still has a ventilator in and we are hoping, praying for good results? Can't they at least look at me and tell me that everything will be alright, or even if not, can they give me a ray of hope?

I lay back upon the table in the low-lit room. I close my eyes and my breathing slows. Once again, I'm drawn into the presence of the Almighty. I don't need to be in a chapel or church. For He is with me wherever I go, and I feel Him now. 

Do not fear, for I am with you. Do not be dismayed, for I am your God. I will strengthen you and help you. I will uphold you with my righteous right hand.

The words are a promise and a truth. Whether the outcome of my tests or my father's surgery this past week had been good or bad, I knew God was real. He is a miracle worker and He adores us. Had we lost Dad, I knew where he was headed. And I had a true peace with that knowledge.

My tests turned out negative, though I had a small cyst. I am to have more frequent mammograms now. And my father: well, he made it through touchy surgery against all odds. At eighty-five years of age and being a heart patient, a quadruple bypass and defibrillator and pacemaker patient, this brave man chose the road of recovery. He didn't throw in the towel or give up. 

I think back to those quiet moments this week. The times I closed my eyes and called upon the peace that passes understanding. The lonely moments where all I had was my God and that was enough.

Yes, my friends, He is more than enough. Let His peace rule in your hearts. Give yourself quiet time and moments of reflection in the midst of your own uphill battles.

Love with the passing of time

Recently I met a wonderful community of writers. Those who write about their true experiences with their aging parents, and dealing with Alzheimer's and dementia. A wonderful support group, and people who know how difficult it is as my family is going through it right now.

What follows is the post written for the community about the inspiration behind my fictional novel of love in the golden years.

Love in the senior years: A true inspiration to me. My parents are married over sixty years as of this writing. Sixty years of ups and downs, good health and bad, happiness and sadness. But one thing remains: a steadfast love. It is this love that inspired me to write; theirs, and another couple: my husband’s elderly aunt and uncle.

You see, when I was a little girl, my mother suffered from mental illness. There were times in her delusion when she barely knew who she was, much like Alzheimer’s. It wasn’t easy and she was hospitalized many times. That is why her recent diagnosis of dementia has been very difficult to take. But as I saw when I was a child, my father puts all of my mother’s needs first. At complete disregard for his own comfort, he would do anything for Mom. He’s remained by her side, loyal, loving, respectful, treating her as if she’s the young beauty he first married so long ago.

I saw another great love. Louise, my husband’s aunt, had a stroke several years back and was hospitalized and eventually moved into a nursing home. Her husband, Hubert, took the time every single day driving to see her, helping her to eat, talking with her even though she couldn’t speak well, and making sure every need of hers was met. There came a time he couldn’t drive any longer, and he would wait as the senior bus picked him up, not missing one day with his wife. When he suffered his own health crisis, he ended up in the same care facility. Though they weren’t in the same room, Uncle Hubert would wheel himself down the hall to spend time with his beloved each and every day.

Hubert and Louise didn’t have many family members, so I became a regular visitor of theirs. I watched as love appeared to grow even stronger as Hubert sat by his wife’s side, gazing upon her as if she was the most beautiful woman he’d ever seen, and talking to her as if she was the only person in the world who mattered.

It was then that a story began forming in my mind. What if an older couple actually met for the first time in an assisted living center? What if a warm friendship was forged, and eventually led to love? My book Love Woven in Time was born.

It chronicles the lives of Harry and Rose, two people who meet in the golden years, both with their own sets of challenges, but the main one being Harry’s onset of dementia. It was carefully written with the help of a dementia coach and author, Carol Howell, and with thoughts of my parents and my husband’s uncle and aunt, giving a story that is tender, believable, and written from the heart.

Though Hubert and Louise have passed, I am blessed to still have my parents. I continue to watch, grow, and learn from them about true love. A bond that cannot be broken. Even with the ravages of time, age, and memory loss.
https://alzauthors.wordpress.com/2016/08/16/meet-karen-malena-author-of-love-woven-in-time/