This is today, January 8, 2022. We had had a light snow a few days ago, and today is the first day the temperature was above freezing. This picture doesn’t reflect the light mist we were walking in. I had my umbrella, but the mist stayed misty and I didn’t need the umbrella after all.
I got sick Monday evening, so between the inclement weather and not feeling well, today was my first day out for a few days. I am finding the weather doesn’t have to be perfect, even close to perfect! We avoid icy conditions, dress for the cold, and get out there. It indeed, cures what ails ya!
As the song goes on to say: “Do this, don’t do that; everywhere a sign!”We see them, in bathrooms, and on doors to most establishments. Most are mundane, and may not be read by the average door-opener. There are those, though, that catch your attention. A couple of months ago I saw this one at a local coffee shop, and chuckled. I took a picture, thinking surely others had seen this wording. But my friends on Facebook had not seen it before.
We recently took our first trip since the pandemic started. We used our mini-van to van camp and traveled from eastern Kansas to southeastern New Mexico. That made for quite a few gas station campground stops. I saw some spectacular sites (Carlsbad Caverns, White Sands National Monument) and signage I had never seen before. The internet is going to provide tons better pictures of those sites than the ones I took, but I don’t think you will find these signs on the internets. Well, maybe.
I am pretty sure few people think of the state of Kansas when they think of a place of beautiful, breath-taking scenery. But I do. I love the prairie, so it’s not a stretch. I actually love nature and different land and rock formations, so anywhere I go, I am enthralled. As an adult, I live one state away from where I grew up, and both states (Nebraska and Kansas) have beautiful sunrises and sunsets. It didn’t lose any specialness for me when my sister-in-law explained our spectacular views are created with the light filtering through all of the dust in our Midwest air.
I have been sharing some sunrise shots on Facebook, and decided to make a compilation blog of some of my favorite views. Summers in Kansas are hot, and at least in eastern Kansas, exquisitely humid. Since we love our outdoor walks, in the summer we walk before we eat breakfast or meditate. It works, even when the humidity is over 90 percent.
We live a mile away from the Kansas River, which has a levee built on the north side of the river. In-between the levee and the river is a wooded area. There’s a walking trail and a mountain bike trail. We prefer the smooth, gravel trail for ease in walking. On the north side of the levee are homes and farmland. Since I grew up on a farm, watching the crops grow is something I enjoy.
My adult children live in the same town I do, for which I am grateful and don’t take for granted. But my daughter is an elementary music teacher, teaching around 350 students a week. And her son is attending kindergarten. Although they are taking pandemic precautions, they have a potentially higher exposure than is comfortable for us. We have agreed we will not be gathering in-person on Thanksgiving Day, which is a first. We do visit them outside, but we do not want to attempt an outdoor Thanksgiving meal. At this point my son will join my husband and I, and we plan to make the traditional Thanksgiving meal. I am sad to not have the Thanksgiving gathering we have had the last few years. I have enjoyed it as we gathered with my daughter, her family and her in-laws. We split up the menu, and my husband and I made about four sides. I have a couple of favorite recipes: a Vegan gravy for the family vegetarian, which I ironically will use on top of a serving of turkey, and this version of Cranberry Sauce. I highly recommend both!
I have been mentally coaching myself since we made the decision several weeks ago, that I indeed will be okay, even though I am sad we are not gathering together. I will enjoy being with my husband and son, and be grateful we are healthy and able to hang out. And although the meal takes forever to prepare, then devour, there will still be some of the Thanksgiving Day left over. I intend to have some possible things to do to fill some of those moments. Thanksgiving is close enough now to see the extended forecast, which looks favorable for our two-mile walk. This is a guaranteed mood booster for me; I love walking outside with my husband. And a video call with my daughter and her family will fit into the day, I’m sure.
A few days ago, in one of my sad moments, I came up with some ideas of how to connect long-distance with those you love.
Here’s a list:
Do a video call bake-off. Set it up however you want. Make the same thing, and race to see who gets it done first. Or no race, just enjoy baking at the same time, as though you were in the same kitchen. Screen shot the video call, to remember this hopefully unique time in the future.
Some families share what they are thankful for before they eat the Thanksgiving dinner. Instead, write notes to your family members about why your are thankful for them. Mail , email, text, make a video telling them, or do a video call with each other, sharing what you wrote.
Buy candles. Get them to your loved ones, and agree to light them at the same time. Or, video call to light them.
In the same vein of writing why you are thankful for them, write a memory of past gatherings. Or several memories! Again, mail, email, text, video or video call to share those memories.
Make a holiday craft together. Several ideas on how to run this: Make the same thing, and send the crafting material to your loved one. Pick something, like from Pinterest, and see who can make the “best” Pinterest fail. Or pick a craft, with the restriction of only making it from your available crafting stash at home. Video call while making it, or when finished.
Pick a movie to watch, either a new or old one. Each person either writes a review or makes a review via video. Then swap reviews. Or video call and have a Siskel and Ebert type session.
I know there are families who have been living far apart for years and have found ways to connect. Please share them here!
My husband and I walk or ride our bikes on the local river levee pretty often. It can be a bit long and tedious, especially when walking, but we have plenty of time to observe the fields of farming on one side and the grass and trees on the river side. I rode my bike on the levee trail by myself yesterday. We hadn’t been there in the last couple of weeks, so hadn’t noticed the corn field changing from it’s pure green stalks to the dying, yellowing stalks. Which also meant I was surprised to see the last of it being harvested by a corn picker yesterday. I stopped and took a picture so I could show my husband that one source of conversation was disappearing.
As I paused to capture this image, another image came back to me. It was of the fields of corn from my childhood, and how that impacted my life. And it did, because my Mom had a rule for her children, well, at least for me, that we couldn’t go barefoot until the ground was warm enough for the corn to be in it, to be planted in the Spring. And shoes had to go back on when the corn came out of the fields in the Fall.
This was a big rule in my childhood and not one I liked. I was always ready to be barefoot long before that corn was ready to be planted. I think it ended up with several conversations about my lack of footwear at the verge of bursting out of the house.
When I was around 10 years old I was at the local grocery store with my mom, when she stopped to chat with a lady I didn’t recognize. Evidently it had been several years since we had seen her, and my mom told me she used to babysit us when I was young. I didn’t recall ever having a babysitter (can you imagine volunteering to watch nine children?), but when Mom told her which one I was, she asked Mom if she could keep shoes on me yet. That’s when I knew I was known for being barefoot.
It was tricky terrain to be barefoot on our farm. Mom had her lawn and decorative flowers on three side of the house, and the fourth side was the scruffy side with a swing set of sorts, the water pump, and real close to the chicken house. All four sides were sticker-free territory. And of course the beaten down dirt in the front of the house where the cars were parked and joined the driveway. Sometimes that area had fresh rock, which was a slow trek barefooted, but manageable. Sometimes it was mired in mud, but that was fun barefoot.
Beyond that perimeter though, was free game for Texas sandburrs, and stickers or several varieties. I would still venture out in those area’s barefooted. I guess shoes were just too time consuming or confining. Or both. I had tough feet as a result, but not tough enough to keep the stickers out. We sometimes had thongs (they call them flip-flops now), but some thongs were so thin the stickers still poked through. Their usefulness on a farm was limited, at best.
One summer day when I was around 12 years old I decided I wanted to go down to the woods barefoot. I loved the woods, and recalled some soft grass there and no stickers. I convinced my brother Neil to go to the woods with me, for as much as I loved it, I was scared to go by myself. Neil, being sensible, wore shoes. Which turned out to be a great idea as I had not factored in the cow pasture that had to be traversed in order to get to the woods. It had many patches of stickers, with really no way around them. After finding myself holding onto Neil’s shoulder to extricate stickers from my feet for the umpteenth time, I finally admitted defeat and turned around for the painful journey back to the yard with no stickers.
When I was around 6 or 7 years old, I remember I saw the pristinely white, shiny snow outside and decided I would walk barefoot in that lovely fluff. I didn’t get very far when I realized that snow was indeed, very cold on bare feet. And that perhaps there was some wisdom in wearing shoes after the corn was harvested.
I don’t go barefoot outside so much any more. A few months ago I saw a chiropractor for some hip issues. She assigned some exercises to strengthen my hips, and my overall stance as well. Besides the exercises she recommended I walk outside barefoot to get the feedback from my feet to my brain about what I was standing on. It’s called proprioception. I was so shocked I had actually gotten to the place where I had to be told to go barefoot! But delighted to hear of its benefits.
Years ago I had also heard of going outside barefoot and just feeling what you were standing on, to just experience that for a moment, to help feel grounded. I liked that recommendation, and it takes me back to the many surfaces I walked, skipped, shuffled on as a child.
I am still going to push the edges of Mom’s rule. The corn may be picked, but I think it’s still warm enough to go barefoot. Today anyway.
I, as you are too, are probably frequently reading, to wash your hands! I thought, “They are preaching to the choir. I have been a believer and doer of this hand washing thing for decades.” A couple of decades ago my children and husband all came down with strep throat. I consoled myself that my fastidious hand-washing is what spared me from getting strep throat as well. (I have since learned some people are immune to strep, and that may be why I don’t get it.) A couple of weeks ago, I decided to sing that proverbial ABC’s song and show myself I put in those recommended twenty seconds. I was unpleasantly surprised to find I would usually stop around the letter “J”! I realized my routine was to not turn on the cold water and stop hand washing when the water became too hot for me. And that was around the letter “J”. Wow, did that burst my self-held beliefs about my great hygiene practices! With practicing the twenty-second guideline, I actually had the time to do all of the hand-washing routine I scrimped on, like washing the backs of my hands, and in between my fingers. And yes, the fingernails! Here’s one video I thought particularly helpful. No one I know or have been in contact with lately has had exposure to our pandemic virus. But I was sick with a sinus infection and have decided to stay home until the symptoms have dissipated. It turns out to be a great time to start better practices to reduce sharing our germs. At this point, I have become a more thorough hand washer.
It also is a great time to examine other long-held beliefs. About what’s important, what/who we value and the difference between wants and needs. And how we fit in to the society and world. Six years ago, we were traveling in southeastern Colorado, hoping to reach a campsite new to us. I was navigating, and missed the highway sign that indicated the highway going south had turned due east. We drove around ten miles before my husband and I both realized something was wrong, and that we were quickly heading to New Mexico. Although there were few spots, we located a place to turn around and head north. Probably making up for lost time, my husband sped up on the practically empty highway. He was soon pulled over by a state trooper, who informed him how much he was speeding and that he was getting a speeding ticket. The state trooper then told my husband that driving the speed limit was doing his part to keep the roads safe. I would have forgotten about this, indeed, I don’t really remember hearing the trooper say it. But my husband took the exhortation to heart, and has referenced it in driving and other parts of his life since then. Today, I am content to do my part by washing my hands correctly, and following our governor’s stay-at-home orders.
A while back I wrote “Sometimes I sits and Thinks” observing the process of learning to be okay just being, not doing. The second phrase of this saying, “and sometimes I just sits” also has significance for me. Lately, meditating is the time for me to just sit, which is what I want to tell you about today.
I am sure I had heard of meditation while growing up in the 1960s as it made the news, memorably through the Beatles’ venture into the world of meditation. I vaguely recall it being associated with non-Christian activity and decided it was suspect. Exotic and intriguing, but out of my realm on the farm in Nebraska. As a young adult, I heard it was practiced in Christianity and was curious. But still didn’t try it. When I was 25 years old I started attending 12 Step meetings, with the 11th of the 12 Steps reading: “Sought through prayer and meditation to improve our conscious contact with God as we understood him….” This renewed my interest in meditation. The 12 Step literature I read didn’t have a wealth of information on how to meditate, but there was a suggestion to reflect on the prayer of St. Francis. (This article gives the prayer’s origin to a magazine written in 1912, not St. Francis of Assisi. Who knew!) I may have tried this a few times, but it did not become a regular practice for me. My therapist was a proponent and practitioner of meditation and gave me some tips on how to meditate. I don’t recall all of the instructions, but I remember talking to him about the challenge of turning off my thoughts. He called it “roof chatter” like the sound of squirrels on your roof. He encouraged me to note what I was thinking, then return to breathing. But I gave up, thinking I didn’t have the ability to clear my mind and wasn’t going to get it right.
Fast-forward 25 years. I married Ken in 2010, who shared he had received the Transcendental Meditation training in the 1970s and felt it was beneficial to him. I was surprised when he explained the few and fairly simple instructions. Although he was not meditating at the time, he was willing to teach me by meditating together. His format was to meditate for 22 minutes, the first two minutes to allow ourselves to settle into the meditation space, 18 minutes of meditating, and 2 minutes of returning from the meditation. Basically, I spent my meditation time focusing on my breathing. Ken said I didn’t need to turn off my thinking, but when I had a thought, just gently let it go and return to breathing. I told him about the roof chatter being pretty loud for me, and that in the past I hadn’t been successful in tuning that out. He encouraged me to let go of the idea of doing meditation correctly, that just doing it was the goal. Being an “all or nothing” kind of person, was a novel idea for me.
We first started meditating together using a guided meditation CD, as I thought it would help me block out my own thoughts. We did that several times a week for a few months until he said the guided meditation felt like interference with meditating. I was still doubtful I could clear my mind but was willing to try. We developed a routine of meditating three times a week. He did a gradual retirement and started working part-time. We actually meditated on the mornings he went to work. He would get up and get ready for work, then I would wake up, at 5:05 a.m. and be ready to meditate at 5:10 a.m., finishing a few minutes before he left fo work. I found that barely being awake to meditate was beneficial. I had less noise of the busyness of the day in my head and was more able to breathe and relax.
My husband had been given a mantra when he trained in TM, that he still accessed. I decided to use a phrase to pace my breathing and came up with “All is well” for breathing in, and “All is verrrrrryyy well” for the longer exhale breath. I also found I didn’t necessarily turn off my thoughts, but if I just let the thought exist, like a situation at work that perplexed me, the answers would become apparent during meditation. I would say to Ken, well, I didn’t turn off my thoughts, but wow, was it a great problem-solving time! He would remind me there was no right or wrong way to meditate; the point was to just do it. I didn’t know if I was getting what I was supposed to get out of meditation, but I knew I liked those moments of clarity for problem-solving. I did begin to notice there were empty spaces, where I wasn’t aware of the time, my breathing, nor thoughts occurring. At those times, the 22 minutes zipped by. I realized I did have spaces of that nothingness.
Ken’s training had suggested a second period of meditating in the day, before 8 pm so as not to interfere with getting to sleep. Sometimes we would add a second meditation time after getting home from work. These were interesting sessions; I found it would help me know what was the next indicated thing to do that evening. Several times, it became apparent to me I was so tired from the day, the next indicated thing was to take a 10-20 minute nap! I wasn’t inclined to take naps, so this was a new and novel experience. I found that bit of nap made for a better evening. Other times, the afternoon meditation was all I needed to have an evening being awake and engaged in whatever I was doing. I liked it, but I let the busyness of the days distract me from the second meditation time becoming a regular thing.
Several years ago I showed up for that colonoscopy recommended for people in my age range. I was all prepared for the procedure, IV line in place, and heart monitors on when the nurse came in and apologized. She said they were running behind and would be a few minutes late for the colonoscopy. I wasn’t fussed. I had already endured the uncomfortable part of the colonoscopy the night before. But, my mobile entertainment smartphone was with my husband in the waiting room, and there were no magazines in the room. I decided to use this unexpected downtime to meditate. I started my meditative breathing, and one of my monitors started beeping. The nurse came in fairly quickly and asked if I was okay. Evidently, my heart rate had lowered enough to set off the heart monitor. This was the first time I had data showing I slowed my heart rate when meditating. I was delighted! Maybe I was better at this than I thought!
After a time of consistently meditating, I realized I was reaping some benefits overall. I believe my focus, in general, had improved, I was less reactive, and solutions to issues became more easily apparent for me. I was quite impressed!
After retiring meditating daily was easier to include in our day. Since I like its benefits, it’s become a priority for me. We continue to tweak it: meditating after breakfast, meditating before breakfast. To beat the summer heat, we recently started taking our daily walk before breakfast, and misplaced meditating. After a couple of weeks, I realized I was less focused, maybe quicker to being irritated, and decided to fit meditating back into our mornings.
Interestingly, in writing this blog, I have decided to try adding that second meditation time back into my day. I am finding those same benefits I had in the past. I am glad I wrote this blog!
I highly recommend making meditating a part of your daily routine; right up there with brushing your teeth! I am assuming teeth brushing is a daily part of everyone’s day…if not, definitely prioritize that!
This Mayo Clinic article is an easy read about the different types of meditation and some hints on how to tailor meditating to your preferences. Check it out and see what works for you.
I had a poster when I was a teen with this quote: “sometimes i sits and thinks and sometimes i just sits” ― Satchel Paige or A.A. Milne, depending on your source of information.
I ponder now why that saying intrigued me at the time. I am guessing I thought it was about being a thinker, a deep thinker. Perhaps a philosopher. What I know is it what very different from what was expected of me. I have vivid memories of several incidents of my parents yelling at me and my sibs when they came into the house from the morning milking and finding us not working, thus being lazy. They had gone to the barn at 5:30 am, so the affront was we were still in bed, after 9 a.m., or sitting around the house in our PJs. One morning, Dad berated me for playing solitaire, while still in my PJs. So perhaps the poster’s declaration, the permission, of the activity of non-activity, was a unique thought for me. (After becoming a parent, I realized my parents didn’t tell us their expectations of us, gave us no direction about chores or behavior they wanted. Maybe if they had given us some guidance we would have behaved differently? Who knows.)
When I was a child, my mother shared a hurt of hers, that a relative told her father that her then-fiance was lazy. My mother cared deeply what other people thought, and spent a fair amount of her farm life aiming to disprove any laziness existed on our farm. Overtly doing nothing useful did not further her goal.
My mother never had idle hands. After we bought a TV, when she watched in the evening, her hands were busy darning socks, knitting or crocheting her latest creations. She taught me to knit and crochet (not how to darn socks though!) so I soon had busy hands while watching TV.
I enjoyed the sitting and thinking part of life, especially as a student. I loved pondering ideas teachers introduced. Two of my favorite classes at college were Ethics and Philosophy. My friends grew so tired of me repeating my newfound information and revelations from Philosophy class they banned me from postulating at mealtimes. After college, I enjoyed Bible studies, professional workshops; any form of information dissemination and discussion. I savored the passage in the song “If I Were a Rich Man” from Fiddler on the Roof:
” And I’d discuss the learned books with the holy men Seven hours every day That would be the sweetest thing of all “
I too, dreamed of sitting around and pondering those learned books. That aspect of seminary was one I relished when I thought of attending seminary. (I wanted to attend seminary since I was a kid. I didn’t end up going but held on to it as a potential for decades.) I did attend graduate school for a master’s in social work and thoroughly enjoyed the classroom again. I even took another ethics class!
As I grew up I followed my parents’ example of ceaseless work. But not by living on a farm! I avoided getting serious with any guy, even those handsome ones, who were becoming farmers. I had no interest in the consuming life of a farmer’s wife. It sounded limiting to live in one place, and there was a whole world out there. I also observed that my parents were not happy when they lived on the farm and left when I was a teenager. Their contentment seemed more apparent when they were no longer dairy farmers.
After my first job out of college, as a church youth worker, the rest of the jobs I pursued were Monday-Friday, with weekends off. But I filled those weekends with avid church involvement, then later added marriage and children. When I started working in the school district and had ten weeks off in the summer, I saw that as an enormous amount of time. I immediately signed my five-year-old daughter up for four sessions of swim lessons, as I had no idea how to have that much unstructured time with my child. I even volunteered to pick up a friend of hers, which added at least an hour to the summer-long swim lesson venture.
I kept up this frenetic pace, working full time, having two children, and certainly not slowing down when being a single parent. I remember one weeknight: the children were in bed, it was nine p.m, and I was thinking of the tasks I felt I needed to complete before allowing myself to turn in. I paused, took stock, and realized I was exhausted. It struck me in some cultures, some parts of the world, when people are tired, they go to bed. I realized that was a reasonable response to being tired, but I don’t think I allowed myself to go to bed. And now I read articles supporting the benefits of a good night’s sleep, such as this one.
All of my life, however, I have stopped to observe a sunrise, a sunset or a rainbow. Usually with exclamations of appreciation and encouragement of those around me to enjoy it as well. If we move, my husband and I both want a clear view of at least the sunrise or sunset from our new abode. And a place that delivers the sunsets we get in Kansas. Sweet stuff!
Gradually, my buy-in to the busyness of life started shifting. I heard the term, “be a human being, not a human doing”. That intrigued me and hearkened me back to my lovely poster. I no longer wanted to live by my parents’ perceptions of laziness. I didn’t need to face their demons or live according to their fears. Several things happened: I left my small church, where I volunteered for a variety of responsibilities, and joined a big church where less was needed of me, and anonymity was possible. I married someone who does not enjoy attending a multitude of activities, especially where a lot of people are gathered. I started getting more selective of outings, especially on weeknights. And I realized I appreciated the spaces between activities, even started craving the downtime.
When retirement was imminent, I was often asked what I would be doing. I boldly and emphatically replied, “Nothing!” Even though I gave myself permission to do nothing, a lifetime of inculcation to be a productive human being did not evaporate with retirement. It reminded me of a passage in the popular 1970 romance novel “Love Story”. Oliver and Jenny, the main characters, have fallen madly in love, and marry. They had sex prior to their marriage but felt guilty about it. After they marry, Oliver observes that the act of marrying did not automatically turn off the guilt associated with having sex. I am thinking this is true for me with retirement: it has been a process to turn off the expectation that it is necessary to be productive, to be that human doing. Instead of feeding that notion of productivity through working a job, I have now translated to being productive in our home and it’s upkeep. I haven’t thrown myself into it, so it is my current focus of guilty thoughts. I am hoping to find an equilibrium, less dissonance, between my personal expectations and my actions. Winter is an easier time to reduce the nagging thoughts, as there is little yard work to be done.
Last year, a friend introduced me to a series of books I am finding absolutely delightful. I had been reading a ton of murder mysteries series and had commented to Ken I would prefer reading a mystery book sans someone being murdered. The series my friend recommended is the No. 1 Ladies’ Detective Agency, by Alexander McCall Smith. The protagonist, Precious Ramotswe, lives in Botswana. With her father’s inheritance, she starts a detective agency. I have read 15 books, and so far, no one’s been murdered. Sometimes the interactions or the characters’ behaviors in the books feel trite, but then there are jewels like this, from The Minor Adjustment Beauty Salon (No. 1 Ladies’ Detective Agency, #14): “There was no reason why one should always be on the move. That was half the trouble with the world, she [Precious Ramotswe] thought: not enough people took the time to sit down for a few minutes and look up at the sky or at whatever it was that was before you—a herd of cattle, perhaps, or a stretch of bush dotted with acacia trees, or the sinking of the evening sun into the Kalahari. “
Each book has similar sentiments, which I am eagerly reading to help flip that switch in my brain that productivity is the only operative way to live. In this series, Mma Ramotswe pairs her thinking time with her red bush tea, which I had not heard of. When I investigated, I found it is called Rooibos tea by the transplanted Europeans and is from a particular bush in South Africa. Here’s more information for tea lovers. I easily found the tea locally and was delighted when I enjoyed the taste immensely. It’s my cue now, to brew a cup of Rooibos and contemplate the ease of just sitting and being. I have not released all of the work ethic inculcations of my childhood, but I am eager to continue to “work” at it.
I wrote about my brother Bob’s illness and subsequent death in The Winter of Grief.What I saved for this story is events I experienced, especially in the last year, involving my brother. Here’s the backstory: When Bob was diagnosed with Parkinson’s and Dementia in 2010, he started his care in a nursing home in the small, rural town where his youngest son lived, in Ord, NE. Once he was stabilized he was able to move to the Assisted Living facility in that town. He was sixty-five years old, and noted he was the youngest person there, by at least ten years. Periodically he would talk to me about moving to Kansas. He would also talk to our brother in Colorado about moving to Colorado. Neither of us were able to help him move. I considered the potential of Bob moving to my town and state. Since the major portion of his medical insurance was state-residency based, I did not think I could take on the task of helping him gain residency, thus medical benefits, here. My home state of Kansas had a back-log of Medicaid eligibility, with no promise of that changing. We live in a two-bedroom house, and my son was just starting high school. My stepson lives with us in the summers. Basically we had a full house and couldn’t bring Bob here. This left me feeling lacking and wishing I could be of more help to him. We visited him once a year at that time, even having an extended family gathering at a bed and breakfast in Ord in 2013.
In 2016, Bob’s son left Ord and moved to Grand Island, NE. Bob believed he had no connections to keep him in Ord, and wanted to live in an urban area. We helped him by researching and visiting facilities in Lincoln, NE. We found one that met his needs and wishes, and he moved to Lincoln. Since he was now over one hundred miles closer to me, I hoped to visit him more often. My daughter and her toddler traveled with me that June, to celebrate Bob’s birthday. We took him to a popular restaurant for lunch. He had to traverse a short, steep ramp in the restaurant to be seated. He was using his walker, but started falling forward. Two diners were in range, quickly sized up the situation and reached out to steady him. I was shaken by the potential of him falling and realized I did not have the expertise to lift him off of the floor. I hesitantly drove him out for supper, and later to a twelve-step meeting. They were uneventful and he loved every moment. I was thoroughly exhausted at the end of that birthday celebration and realized I was no longer comfortable transporting him.
Bob enjoyed the city, but his health declined, his needs increased, which meant he no longer qualified for assisted living. He moved to a nursing home in Grand Island, NE at the end of 2016, to be in the same town as his son.
When I retired later in 2017, I considered ways to be involved with his life. I asked Bob and his sons if I could participate in his quarterly Care Plan meetings, via conference call. They were fine with that; Bob indicated he would find my input helpful.
In my social work career, I had attended a multitude of meetings for children that had some of the same features as an adult’s care plan meeting. I knew these meetings could either be a place of a dynamic group process of relevant action plans being shaped or a perfunctory meeting, convening for the sake of meeting state and federal requirements. I had experienced both types. I was hoping for the former. The angle I decided to focus on in his Care Plan meetings was activities meaningful to Bob. As he had been a Lutheran pastor, church and theology was still an interest and passion of his. He had also attended twelve-step support groups and continued to find that fellowship important. I knew he had found rides to both in Ord, but that had faltered when he moved to Lincoln. Our brother in Lincoln gave him information to make those contacts himself, but we didn’t realize he was not able to function at that level anymore. It was so hard to gauge his current capabilities and what he could no longer do independently. Our brother had just begun to make contact for Bob at a local church when Bob moved to Grand Island. The Lincoln pastor contacted a pastor in Grand Island, and we were aware a pastor was making visits to Bob. But he was no longer attending church. His physical decline was enough to not task volunteers with helping him in and out of vehicles. To engage in worship, the activities director had Bob be in charge of starting the DVD player of a freshly burned DVD of a local church service, delivered to the nursing home. When we talked about this, he acknowledged he had little theological alignment with the church but appreciated having exposure to church services. He also helped lead a Bible study. The activities director, our brother and I all tried to set up ways to be participate in Twelve Step groups in Grand Island, but nothing ever worked out.
In June, 2018, my husband Ken and I were heading out for our daily walk. It had been pretty hot, so we thought of going to our local indoor track, but decided to face the heat and walk in our neighborhood. We have several different routes we take, but on the one we chose that day, about a mile into the walk, I saw a car with a Nebraska specialty license plate that said “ELCAREV”. Not being a congenital Lutheran from Nebraska, as I was, I explained to Ken this plate indicated the car belonged to a minister of the Lutheran branch called the Evangelical Lutheran Church in America (ELCA), which was the brand I had spent most of my life attending. And that REV stood for Reverend. As we started walking away, a woman walked out of the house and towards this car. I called out to her, “Cool license plate; where do you live?” She did that thing I so recognize; she started qualifying that her town was small, and I probably wouldn’t have heard of it. She said she lived in Ord, NE and is the minister at Bethany Lutheran Church. I responded, not only had I heard of Ord, but we had been there to visit my brother, Bob Larson. She said, “I know Bob, he is a member of my church!” She then explained she had lost touch with him when he moved to Lincoln. Her home office (It’s actually the Nebraska Synod Office, for those of you who like accuracy and relate to church jargon. I like deciphering jargon.) had recently contacted her to let her know Bob’s current address. She said she made the drive to Grand Island weekly for text study (They also call if Peri-copes study. More jargon!) and had begun to visit Bob and serve him communion. I was washed with gratitude to know Bob was being spiritually nurtured in a manner familiar and dear to him.
Rev. Glenda explained her two adult sons live in Lawrence, but in two different parts of town. She just happened to be at this son’s house, and she just happened to decide to go to her car to retrieve her water bottle. When we just happened to be walking by. We were all in awe of this harmonic convergence and all tearing up. We exchanged phone numbers so we could continue to communicate about Bob.
With this dramatic insertion of my brother into my local life, I decided I needed to contact his nursing home to find out when his next Care Plan meeting was scheduled. I was surprised to learn it was the next week, on Wednesday, June 20th! Two of my cousins I lived down the road, so to speak, in Nebraska, so I asked them for lodging and a visit. They were both available on the dates I needed! The trip was falling together seamlessly.
I saw Bob on Monday, asking him what he wanted addressed at his Care Plan meeting on Wednesday. He gave me several items; some made sense to me, some didn’t. But, overall, we had a coherent conversation. I told him of meeting Rev. Glenda and he acknowledged she was visiting him. I then drove further west, to stay with my cousin.
A year prior, my nephew told me Bob wished, when he died, to have a Lutheran funeral service and to be buried at the same cemetery as our parents. It’s a rural cemetery, formerly connected to a German Lutheran Church and parochial school. I knew nothing about the process of getting a burial plot there, but my cousins did. I asked them and found out it was simple to reserve a burial plot; one cousin gave me the contact person.
Tuesday was a day to hang out with my cousin hosting me, and we decided to visit the cemetery, to see our parents’ graves, and take a look at available burial spots for my brother’s request. We found a spot right beside my parents.
She suggested we visit the local funeral home, to gather more information about burial at Immanuel Cemetery. The information from the funeral director was specific and not as complicated as I had imagined . I later passed on the information to my nephews, for use in that unforeseen future.
The next day I said goodbye to my cousins and drove back to Grand Island, to attend Bob’s Care Plan meeting. Bob seemed disoriented, so I was glad I had had the conversation a couple of days prior, to share his concerns. After his meeting I drove to a local fast food of Bob’s choice, Runza Hut, a local favorite, and brought it back for Bob’s lunch. He enjoyed every last bite.
I drove home via Lincoln, NE, so I could have supper with our brother. Knowing he is proficient at wood working, it occurred to me to ask him to consider making an urn for Bob’s ashes. He gave me a decisive yes. I really considered this planning for an event years away, but was grateful plans were falling in place so well.
After that, when I called Bob the conversations had digressed with the progression of his dementia. In November of 2018, my nephew let me know Bob was placed on Hospice care. They said he had declined, but they did not see death as imminent. He basically needed more daily care. I texted Rev. Glenda to let her know they had included chaplain care in the hospice services.
I wasn’t involved in his September Care Plan meeting as they had staff changes, who didn’t know to contact me. For Bob’s December Care Plan meeting, I again participated via conference call. The goals for his Care Plan were now comfort care, not rehabilitative care. This was hard to hear, but helpful to face the reality of Bob’s condition.
I was still surprised, though, when my nephew’s wife called to tell me in early January Bob was not eating and declining. I texted Rev. Glenda to tell her Ken and I were heading to Nebraska on a Sunday to say our goodbyes. Glenda did not anticipate coming to Grand Island at that time. A few hours later she texted me and said she was coming! This meant she was driving the eighty miles one way, after presiding at two church services that morning. My brother and his wife from Colorado came, my nephew and his wife were there, and Bob reveled in being surrounded by family. My nephew, his wife and I took opportunities to talk with Rev. Glenda about funeral services, within the confines of limited funds. Rev. Glenda offered her services and the services of her church in Ord with no need for payment. We were deeply touched, and relieved.
It turned out to be our last time to see Bob as he died six days later. My nephew and his wife worked with Rev. Glenda to arrange the funeral service. Our brother was able to build the wooden urn in time for the funeral service. The inurnment of ashes at the cemetery on the plains would wait for better weather.
Our family gathered, and Rev. Glenda a officiated a service honoring Bob. She told anecdotes of his church life in Ord; stories new to me. She told us when she moved to Ord she was still doing graduate work. She asked Bob to read her papers and said he gave constructive feedback. When Bob died Rev. Glenda informed the NE Synod Office and the Assistant to the Bishop participated in the funeral service. None of Bob’s family even considered this as an option, but we knew Bob would appreciate the acknowledgement of his ministry. And we were grateful for the immense care Rev. Glenda gave to the details and her ministry to us. Rev. Glenda turned out to be a blessing to my brother and his relatives. Much of this falling together because Ken and I decided to take a walk in our neighborhood on a warm day in June.