Lois

September 2020 – Change

How Do I Get Some Me Time?

When I was a young bride—decades ago—I wanted to do everything I could to make my husband happy. In the early days we both got up to go to jobs, and Roger said he didn’t like breakfast anyway, so not to worry. I still got up to make the coffee.

After a few years he took a job in Los Angeles, thirty miles up the busy freeway from Orange County. That meant an earlier rising time to allow for the commute, an earlier coffee brewing time—like 5 a.m. I don’t remember when Roger decided he did like breakfast after all,

but I got up with him, fixed the coffee and breakfast. Some of my girlfriends were astonished that I’d do that. I think it was the era of the beginning of the end of “wifely” tasks, also known as Women’s Lib. In his favor, Roger would bring me a cup of coffee in bed after I had started the pot brewing earlier.

After two sons were born, I was happy to be able to stay home with them. But I still rose at 5 a.m. to make the coffee and breakfast. After Roger left the house before 6 a.m., this gave me a head start on the day with a large chunk of time before the little ones awakened. I had just enrolled in a Bible study program, so I began using that time of day for my devotional reading and Bible study. I loved the quiet!

This became a habit, and even after the boys were in school, if I didn’t get the study in before they left the house, I was free to sit at the breakfast table for as long as I wanted after they had gone.

Later, we had my mother-in-law in our home for fifteen years, and I learned to take that morning time for myself, regardless of what else was going on at the time. It was a life-saver. And by this time we had an automatic brewer, so Roger brought me coffee before I even got out of bed.

But now, fast forward—oh, yes, how fast it went—to today.

After my husband of 43 years passed away, my older son and his wife and four-year-old son joined households with me. Little Patrick grew up living in the same house, in the same rooms, going to the same schools as his dad had thirty years before. It was a precious time. I was more the observer as Jim and Kathy got Patrick off to school and left for their own jobs. I still had the morning devotional time to myself.

Then came my Jim’s early retirement from a career in law enforcement, and Kathy’s from an administrative position with the state. On January first of 2010, Jim set a retirement countdown clock on his computer to October fourth, the day of his retirement. All those days and weeks and months, we prepared for a move to Sparks, Nevada, where Jim and Kathy had chosen to retire.

And now we’ve been here for ten years! It’s a great place, beautiful vistas, magnificent skies—sunrises, sunsets, storms; slower pace of life, and for me, the blessing of freedom to be.

So my “me time” evolves and continues: I wake in the morning, go to the kitchen to fix my coffee and breakfast, bring the tray back to my bedroom, open the shutters of my east window and open the window to the freshness of the morning! Then I pile all my pillows into a soft nest and prop up in bed with my Bible, my journal, my calendar, and several devotional books, and for an hour or more, enjoy time to myself with my Lord. If it’s sunny, I watch the trail of the sun as it rises in the skies making shadow trails across my room. If it’s cloudy—and I do love cloudy mornings—I love the softness of the light. I can watch the budding of the trees in spring, the lush greens of summer, the glorious colors of fall, and oh, to wake to silent falling snow is magical. Whatever the season, whatever the time of day, whatever the weather, I revel in my mornings and my eastern view and my quiet time. I praise my God. I am totally content.

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August 2020 – Because You Said So, I Will…

I’ve gone to look for myself.

If I should return before I get back,

keep me here!

—Anonymous

When I agreed with my husband to bring his aging mother into our home, I didn’t realize it would be a fifteen-year sentence.

While she was living in a town many miles away from us, she had suffered a stroke. My husband’s sister authorized bringing her to a local hospital, after which she was sent to a care facility. We visited her on three successive Sunday afternoons, agonizing about the hallways lined with wheelchair patients, crying and reaching out to grasp our hands—anyone’s hands. By the time we reached her room, the silence was in stark contrast. She was unresponsive, basically asleep. We’d hold her hand, try to break through, assuring her we were there. And we’d cry all the way home.

On the fourth visit, we found her sitting on the edge of her bed gripping her purse on her lap, fully aware, fully dressed, and fully in fight mode.

“Get me out of here!”

That was all she’d say. And it was enough. We assured her we’d get her out, although we weren’t sure what that would look like.

The solution, after a consultation with my husband’s siblings, involved outfitting a bedroom in our home with her own furniture pulled from storage—big easy chair, television, framed family photos. It was quite a cozy nest. And charming.

My first mistake? Assuming she’d love it. I loved it. Why wouldn’t she?

In hindsight I understand that though the furnishings were hers—familiar—out of context in a new room, in a different house, she didn’t feel at home.

So began my adventure with Virgie, my mother-in-law, living in our home. I do feel that God asked me to enter this service of love, and I did so willingly, but I found myself arguing with him as the weeks became months became years.

Expectations were all out of whack. Some people asked in amazement why in the world we’d consider taking care of her at home when there were facilities available. Others suggested sainthood might be involved.

There were disruptions. We moved our younger son up the hall to the den so Grandma could have his room, closest to the bathroom. Both sons had to share the bathroom with her.

She had to learn they had priority on school mornings; they had to learn to clean up after themselves. A good thing.

There were quirks. The time I baked cookies for a coffee time treat, set the plate on the table, turned to get coffee, turned back to see that all the cookies were already gone! She expected to take her naps in the living room, teeth and glasses on the coffee table, shoes slipped neatly under the table. She expected dinner preparation to begin right after lunch. She had no sense of boundaries; a closed door meant nothing to her. When I finally installed a lock on our bedroom door, she’d stand in the hall pounding on the door.

There were safety issues: One day our younger son came home from school and said, “Mom, Grandma is standing up on the corner of Prospect, holding her pillow.” When I ran to retrieve her, she told me she was “going home.” The next day I installed a slip lock up high on the door where I hoped she wouldn’t notice it. I also hung a large jingle bell on the doorknob! I grew to hate the sound of that jingle bell.

There were medical crises. Virgie began having TIAs—what we commonly call mini-strokes. I learned to recognize the onset. Her eyes would glaze and for a minute or two she’d not be cognizant. On one visit to her doctor, he wrote a note for emergency personnel—if it ever came to such a point: “This is an expected death at home.” Ironically, fourteen years later I suggested he update the note!

There were poignant times. She began to think that her son (my husband) was her husband. We always placed her in the front seat of the car because it was easier to help her get into and out of the seat. I was “that girl” sitting in the backseat. She was jealous of me.

As long as she was able, we took her to church with us, even though she was mostly non-communicative. And then there was the Christmas Eve service when during the last song, always Silent Night, she began singing in harmony!

One morning I heard a loud sneeze. When I went to check on her, she was drooped in her wheelchair, staring at nothing. She had had a stroke, after which she never recovered. Although there was more physical work involved with her care: bed-bathing, laundry, feeding via tube, the mental stress for me was easier—I knew where she was and that she was safe.

She lay in that bed for seven more years. My husband and I took turns staying home with her on Sunday mornings while the other went to church. One Sunday when it was my turn to go, I went to check on her before leaving, and she had died, just slipped away without any crisis.

I don’t know why God let her hang on so long. I sometimes think it was to whip me into shape. I know my attitude wasn’t always positive. I tried not to grumble. I—we—had chosen to do this and I wasn’t going to go back on our decision. But in doing the right thing, the loving thing—even when I didn’t feel loving—I realized that last Sunday morning that I had finally grown to love her.

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July 2020- Freedom!

FREEDOM…

…the condition of being free of restraints, the ability to act without control or interference by another or by circumstance… (TheFreeDictionary.com)

Are any of us really free in this outlandish year of 2020, in “the land of the free and the home of the brave?” We’ve spent three plus months confined to our homes, we’re told where we can go, what we can go out for, when and where we can shop, what we can shop for—provided it’s in stock. And, although restrictions are loosening, we are warned that there is still a possibility of renewed regulations. At first most of us willingly participated in issues related to health—our own or others. That’s only reasonable. But as time goes by, with ever changing guidelines and rules, and differing opinions even from the “authorities,” it’s difficult to know what to believe.

Are we ever truly free to experience freedom? There are still “oughts” and “shoulds” and “musts” that we face, that can overwhelm us with feelings of inadequacy or even failure.

As believers in Jesus Christ, we have a freedom that is unknown in the world. Jesus said, “If you hold to my teaching, you are really my disciples. Then you will know the truth, and the truth will set you free….So if the Son sets you free, you will be free indeed” (John 8:31-32, 36).

But even with this assurance, it is sometimes difficult to experience true freedom. There are those pesky “oughts” and “shoulds” and “musts” that cloud our perception of freedom. The Apostle Paul warned us, “It is for freedom that Christ has set us free. Stand firm, then, and do not let yourselves be burdened again by a yoke of slavery….But do not use your freedom to indulge the flesh; rather, serve one another humbly in love” (Galatians 5:1, 13). And Peter echoes the challenge. “Live as free people, but do not use your freedom as a cover-up for evil; live as God’s slaves” (1 Peter 2:16).

So, is there a time or place where we can reach that delicious sense of freedom that is really free? Yes, but unfortunately it has come and gone before we realize that’s what we’re searching for. Take a look at the little boy in the photo above. Look at that face, see the body language full of confidence and one-year-old pride. That’s my grandson, Jake, just days after he first learned to walk. He was on his grandfather’s farm in Iowa, and was turned loose in a fantastic farm yard. He is totally free. He has no concerns about what he “should” or “ought” to do. He’ll learn those later from conscientious parents who love him and want him to be a good citizen. He doesn’t even know he trusts them to provide for his needs. He just does.

It’s that way with our heavenly Father; or it “should” be! Jesus said a little child was the greatest in the kingdom of heaven (Matthew 18:1-5). He also warned that “unless you change and become like little children, you will never enter the kingdom of heaven” (verse 3). Why? Because of the innocent trust of a child, knowing his father loves him and takes care of him.

True freedom comes from knowing and experiencing God’s truth. I want the real thing. I don’t want to mouth the words, but to know and experience the freedom Jesus says is mine through knowing Him. In the older versions of Scripture, Jesus often used the phrase, “Truly, truly I tell you….” I am going to revisit the gospels, looking for His comments of “Truly, truly….” I will study them, dig in and pull out the truth from each of His statements, and pray that in digesting them as food, I will come to understand and experience the freedom of my Father’s love and eternal truth.

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June 2020 – What Would I Tell My Younger Self?

What would I tell my younger Self?

SWEAT NOT THE SMALL STUFF

It’s a groan-worthy cliche, but aren’t they all? As writers, we’re told never to use them, instead to think up new witty ways of saying things, but a cliche becomes a cliche simply because it makes the point so well we can all relate to it.

Years ago I would never have recognized it, let alone admitted it, but I have obsessive- compulsive tendencies, even in small matters. I can work with a decorative display for hours (maybe that’s an OCD exaggeration) to get just the look I want, only to redo the whole thing if one piece seems out of place.

I am not a great housekeeper; I tend to be messy. I can live with clutter for weeks, even months, then suddenly I see it, and have to attack it. Cleaning up for visitors is a panicked run through, sweeping all the mess into closets, cupboards, and drawers, but the surfaces look neat and presentable. But heaven help the person who opens a closet, cupboard, or drawer in my house. When I do clean, I want the results to be perfect, so I often postpone a cleaning task until I have time to make it perfect.

Perfectionism is a symptom of the OCD syndrome. That’s another word I refused to apply to myself because of the less than perfect environment I allowed in my life through procrastination, neglect, or carelessness. Good enough was never in my vocabulary, yet often the results of my projects, especially in housekeeping, weren’t even good enough unless I took the time to make them meet my expectations.

One place where I allow, nay require, perfectionism is in the area of writing for others to see. It gets my hackles up (another cliche—what is a hackle anyway?) to see misspelled words, misused apostrophes, sloppy grammar and the like all over the internet, whether in individual posts or even in ads from big name companies who should know better, or hire writers that do!

So what would I say to my younger self? Do the small tasks “good enough” to keep you from becoming buried in the trivial. Enjoy life. Enjoy your family, your friends, your work, your play. Breathe. Pray.

Just don’t let me catch you misusing an apostrophe!

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May 2020 – Isolation

After more than fifty years living in frantic-busy Southern California, I moved with my retired son and daughter-in-law to laid-back Northern Nevada. Friends were astonished that I looked forward with such anticipation to the relocation.

“Don’t you hate giving up your home?” many asked.

“Not really,” I’d respond, surprising even myself. “My friends, yes. My church, yes. But the house, no.”

As the youngest daughter of a midwest minister who moved a lot, I lived in five towns from the time of my birth until my last year in high school. In fact, I left high school in my senior year (finished by correspondence) when the opportunity arose, to move to California to be my older sister’s live-in nanny while attending college, where I met the man I married, had two sons with, did life with for the next four decades.

After my husband’s death, my son’s family joined me in my home, and I had hands-on with my first grandson, watching him grow from the age of five, attend the same schools as his dad had, until his graduation from high school and departure for university. Yes, there were a lot of memories in that house, a couple of generations worth. Yet, I still looked forward to the next open door.

From the start, I loved my new surroundings—four rooms on the east side of the house, with views onto a secluded large yard, hidden from neighbors by a row of tall deodar cedar trees. From my bed, where I have my morning devotions, I could observe this expanse and imagine I am alone in the world. And that was okay with me. I’ve always enjoyed solitude.

Then one morning I read: “O God, you are my God; I earnestly search for you. My soul thirsts for you; my whole body longs for you in this parched and weary land where there is no water” (Psalm 63:1).

Because we had not yet started landscaping, the yard looked parched and weary. Thought led to thought led to questions. What am I to do in this new land? Is there a ministry for me here? Was God putting me on a shelf for a season? Am I in exile in a dry and weary land? What am I to do?

It took me a long time to adjust to the reality that God had brought me to this place in my life, albeit through the decisions of others. He would reveal His purpose in His timing. I had simply to wait. Ah, there’s the hard part, isn’t it. In the meantime, I enjoyed the slower pace of life, the time to enjoy it, the solitude. And found myself trying not to feel guilty for enjoying it so much.

My isolation led to a continuing ministry. I wanted to stay connected to the church in Orange County that I had helped birth, and I had seen it through many growing pains. It felt like abandonment to walk away. Eventually it became clear that I could retain my membership, and even continue in ministry from four hundred miles away. When I was there physically, I wrote, and I continue to write the weekly prayer letter, thanks to technology. I exercise a ministry of prayer and encouragement.

And now, nearly ten years later, we find ourselves in a new kind of isolation, one which the government has imposed upon us, although I believe God has allowed—perhaps even ordained. It has not been difficult for me at all, because of my introverted nature. I still enjoy solitude. I still enjoy the view of my yard. I still enjoy my technological connections. My church has even started holding our worship celebrations on Zoom, and we can all see each other and chat before or after the service, so there is face to face fellowship!

I do understand those for whom this is a difficult time and I empathize. I urge you to keep your eyes on the Lord and wait. He is in control of all things. He will resolve the situation when He sees fit. Look up all the verses you can find on waiting. Here’s a great passage:

But the eyes of the LORD are on those who fear him,

on those whose hope is in his unfailing love,

to deliver them from death and keep them alive in famine.

We wait in hope for the LORD; he is our help and our shield.

In him our hearts rejoice, for we trust his holy name.

May your unfailing love be with us, LORD,

even as we put our hope in you.

(Psalm 33:18-22)

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April 2020 – Hope

A few nights ago I experienced a downer that was quite foreign to me. I am usually an optimistic soul, and have mostly learned to be content in any situation, so my malaise was both puzzling and frustrating to me. As I chatted with my son on Facebook Instant Message, I sensed he felt the same way. I didn’t want to feed negativity into his feelings, so we said good night and signed off.

Why was my soul so downcast? Well, duh! Any news broadcast would bring even Pollyanna to the depths. But that wasn’t it.

I believe God is in control of all things; the good, the bad, and the ugly. I believe He knows what’s going on throughout the world, and will work all things for good for His plan in our lives.

I trust Him to bring all things in line with His purposes. No, all things might not be rosy or painless. Yes, we may have to go through hard times, and even suffer. But God will see us through. I firmly believe all that.

So, why was my soul so disturbed?

I also read in Scripture that grumbling or complaining is a sin. Look at those stiff-necked Israelites (God’s word, not mine) as they wandered in the desert (Exodus, Numbers, and Deuteronomy). God literally put them in their place—they weren’t allowed to enter the Promised Land. So, I’ve learned not to complain or grumble about things, and I cringe when I hear others moan and groan about their situations.

So, why was my soul so downcast?

I wasn’t questioning God. I wasn’t blaming Him. I wasn’t angry with Him. But I was angry!

At whom? At the flood of viciousness and anger and blame rampant on the FB feed. How does such vitriol help anybody? Then I realized I wasn’t actually angry. I was sad. I was grieving, mourning, weeping. I think God is grieving too.

The next morning my devotional reading took me to Psalm 37, and there was my balm. “Do not fret because of those who are evil (and yes, I feel that spreading the bitterness is evil)…they will soon die away. Trust in the LORD and do good; dwell in the land and enjoy safe pasture….Be still before the LORD and wait patiently for him; do not fret when people succeed in their ways, when they carry out their wicked schemes. Refrain from anger and turn from wrath; do not fret—it leads only to evil. For those who are evil will be destroyed, but those who hope in the LORD will inherit the land.”

I hope you will turn to Psalm 37 and read it all. There are a lot of great verbs for us to do, and a lot of great promises.

So, Why, my soul, are you downcast? Why so disturbed within me? Put your hope in God, for I will yet praise him, my Savior and my God.