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Remember Sunday May 27, 2007

Posted by gingerbreadman in Love.
29 comments

When I was very young, we would  (‘we’ being the entire gang of my dad’s side of my family…at that time probably about 30 of us or so) all troop into cars and trucks, drive out to the cemetary, pray over the dead relatives, leave flowers, then head to my Uncle’s house to swim in the pool and eat grilled burgers and homemade ice cream.  The veterans in our family had all lived.  We celebrated them on Veteran’s Day, and kept Memorial Day for Our dead.
 
The attitude was then, and is now:  If lives were given up so we could be free and safe and happy…we should.  We remember.  We are grateful.
Every day.  Not just one day.  All the time.  Prayers are sent up all the time.  Honor and respect is given every day, not just on Memorial or Veterans Day.
 
It is a comment on this country, and has been for a very long time, that the meaning of Memorial Day isn’t fully embraced.  That anyone would think to protest the sacred burial of a soldier…that there was ever a time someone was rude and hateful to a man or woman fighting for the country, doing the job, just making a living…especially when they were drafted into the situation and they were screamed at, spat upon, vilified and abused because people disagreed with the war, is repugnant and hateful.  Our Soldiers are to be celebrated, held up, thanked and blessed.  Every day, not just Memorial day, Veteran’s Day. 
 
Being a soldier is an immensely honorable profession.  The Armed Forces carries so much honor and respect, such bravery, fortitude…the determination and excellence and will power to exceed at the level these men and women have to perform boggles my mind.  They do so under excruciating circumstances for low pay, worse benefits and in hideous conditions much of the time, and now in War Time.
 
There should be no apathy where Memorial Day is concerned.  BUT…there should also be fun, and frivolity, and laughter, and gratitude.
 
Because of them…because of the ultimate sacrifice that has been made, tens of thousands of times over and over again, I still have the freedom to sit in my home and write whatever I wish, mostly, and publish it, free of charge…mostly…across the world for anyone to read, mostly.  *smile*
 
I have no military deaths of anyone closely connected to me.  I have been blessed.  The people in my family who have served have always come back.
 
But I have people I spent today thinking of…I don’t consider Memorial Day *just* for the Armed Forces only.
 
I remember Timmy, my cousin.  He was eight when he died in a terrible car accident.  I was eleven.  I always wanted to name my first son Timmy after him.
 
I remember Grandma.  My mom’s mom.  The first of my grandparents to go.  Fire and feist.  The Reynolds mouth with the tango legs.  She is the one who gave me the smile and the mischief behind my eyes and the ability to scream "Sex, sex, sex!" out a window.  *If you’re lost, you’ll have to go back to the Archives*
 
I remember Granddaddy.  Dad’s dad.  A boogerhead of a man.  I’m trying to remember something nice to write about him…the best thing I can think of is that he makes great story telling…all the things Grandmother said and did to him…they all started out with this tiny little woman with a tremulous voice that was getting ready to go banshee on him…."Rooobbeeerrrtttttt…..!!!!!"
 
I remember Tim.  He was our next door neighbor for years, my confidant, my shoulder.  We exchanged ‘why guys suck and aren’t worth all this damn trouble’ stories.  We both hated my husband.  I came and cried on him after the X would smack me around and he’d put salve on my wounds.  He died a number of years ago of AIDS related complications.  Tim was a good, kind, funny, sweet man and a dear friend I treasured very much.
 
I remember Grandpa.  He was inarguably the smartest person, hands down, I ever knew.  Still.  He gave me the *respect* for books I have.  He told me how much he’d learned from them, the practical applications you can get from books, how much smarter book readers (as a whole) are, what you can do with your life if you truly have ambition.
I’m afraid he would be very disappointed in me and my life now.
 
And, still with pain and so much longing, I miss Grandmother.
Gentle, sweet, loving, generous, family is everything After God Grandmother.  The Grandmother that chased me around her house with a wicked whippin’ switch when I was ten until she caught me and then wore my butt plumb out with it because I’d said a naughty word .  The Grandmother that accepted my divorced, with kids, for years, lifestyle when others in my very religious family tsk tsk’d me.  The Grandmother who devoted her life to making sure her 4 sons and 1 daughter brought all their children and grandchildren to church  and then her house after church for lunch every Sunday…didn’t matter that she had to cook ridiculously large amounts of food or that we numbered 75+ people stuffed into her two bedroom tiny house.
Grandmother loved her family and wanted them around.
 
I remember Grandmother every day of my life.  And honor her.
 
We are at War again this year…our bloodiest year by far with this war, almost 3,500 men and women dead and gone from their families, from their friends-from America.  They died for an idea-serving and protecting their country and our rights.  The right to play and relax and take it easy today…and the freedom to walk into any shop we wish, to visit any cemetary in the world and lay down a flower, a note, a picture, a piece of memoribilia and say "I remember you…I honor you, thank you" to someone. 
 
It isn’t just Iraq and Afghanistan-we have soldiers stationed all over the world who are largely forgotten in the spotlight of the RedZones nowadays. 
 
And this year, on August 20, the blogging world lost…I personally lost my friend, Marc.  This year, the meaning of Memorial Day is a bit more keen and fresh.  I feel for and think of his brother Josh, too.
 
 I had my family buy me two pots of Gerber daisies for my Mother’s Day gift, one yellow and one burnt-orange.  I wanted to have enough blooms ready by Memorial Day so that I had a bouquet ready for Grandmother and one for DocDurMarc, for me to plant.  No cemetaries for my memories anymore.  All my thoughts of Marc, of Grandmother live in wide open spaces, in the light, in laughing places, in smiles. 
 
Rob, Dave, Josh and Michelle will get a smile out of the coincidence of the burnt orange Gerber they brought me home that I chose for Marc’s plant.  It was almost dead when they brought it to me.  I repotted it, talked to it, gave it plenty of water and set it in the sunshin-y day.  It’s bloomin’ like crazy now.

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Whose Permission Friday July 28, 2006

Posted by gingerbreadman in Love.
19 comments
Who did you have to ask before you could get married?
 
Who did you really need permission from?
 
And aren’t you lucky?
 
Please watch the video.
 
Click Play on the Google Video.
 
This blog is defunct now  =/
Video taken down.

But I like it! Friday June 30, 2006

Posted by gingerbreadman in Love.
9 comments
I was very surprised to see the comments in the In the Mirror post telling me I shouldn’t go to church, that church wasn’t that good a thing…"Church Bad, Don’t Go!!"  What happened to us, that we not only don’t go to church anymore, but actually tell people not to go when they express an interest in attending?
 
My memories of church attendance during my childhood are warm and happy.  I loved sitting in the back pews, singing with the rest of the congregation, passing notes back and forth to my friends during the loud, roaring sermons; later as I grew older and grew to understand more and became a person of real faith I learned to appreciate the reasons for being there that had true meaning:  sharing in the Spirit with the other people who actually believed in God too, sharing an understanding of the Father and learning to finally be interested in educating myself about the world of Religion, and making friends with people who were also feeling the same things, seeking out the same feelings I was.
 
I was a full-blown adult, really, before the ugliness got to me, and I have to give credit to my church, in a way, for even that.  Sure, the preacher’s had always delivered messages of intolerance I suppose, but Missionary Baptists are far too busy getting souls to heaven by telling the people there to get saved to waste much time yelling at the idolaters, adulterers, homosexuals and drunkards.   We were a country group, from a small town, so it wasn’t a big deal what you wore to church, as long as it was clean, and if you were a girl-a dress.  Boys wore jeans. 
 
My reasons for wanting to go back to church now are simple and very complex.  I miss it.  I miss the community.  I miss the feeling of being swept up in the Spirit, in knowing I am not alone in celebrating the worshipping of the Blessings.  I love hearing other people appreciate God’s love as much as I do, it reminds me of ways I too, should be grateful.  It is so easy to get caught up in the things that are wrong in my life, the little things, the big things, and you can walk into church and find someone there….thanking God for helping them through a time so much tougher than anything you ever dreamed of.  Asking prayer for their child, for their father, sister, themselves…
Community again.
 
When I took my problem of finding my faith again and figuring out what to do with it to my email Friend and bemoaned the problem of finding a church, one of the things I complained about was how the churches I had visited had "talking" ministers.  I am accustomed to "strutting and yelling" preachers.  I hadn’t explained myself very well, in that I think I gave the impression I was speaking of one of those "YOU ARE GOING TO HELL IF YOU DO NOT DO THIS THIS THIS THIS AND THIS!!!  YOU WILL GO TO HELL IF THIS THIS AND THIS HAPPEN!!!!"…and it really isn’t like that at all.  These preachers start out talking…reading at normal voice from the Bible, talking to the parishioners from the pulpit, all is calm, all is good, we’re following along, getting our lesson…and then….the Spirit takes over….
and BOOM!  His voice gets louder, and takes on a sing-song quality, the face gets kinda red, sometimes it only happens during certain passages and then the voice goes back to normal, as if there are only very important phrases that must be emphasized particularly…it doesn’t last long…
but in those moments, I’m mesmerized, planted in my spot in the pew, absorbing every word, I can *hear* it.
 
My email friend said that people who enjoy those types of preachers are a bit impressionable, or something to that effect, and I took a little offense, and didn’t really talk about faith or Church anymore after that.  Because I didn’t need to, really.  He’d done an excellent job helping me figure out Belief, Faith, and Works.  And that is what I needed most at that time.  He was a great help and I will be forever grateful for the time he gave to me.
 
I have trouble finding a church now because I have to reconcile the Church of my childhood with the dogma of my adult beliefs:  and that is probably not a possibility.  I will keep trying though, because I want the community, I want to share my faith, I want the singing, the praying, the education, the sharing of feelings and belief.  I want my children to share that with me.  I want to walk into church and feel the weight leave my shoulders and my soul lift up in worship and praise and sit between two people who feel the exact same way, look up to the front of the church and smile up at someone who will lead us all in learning more about the Creator who made all this possible.  I want to close my eyes and feel the waves of love wash over me as it moves the congregation.  I want to cry unashamedly in gratitude for what has been done for me in a place full of people who will understand and feel the same way.
 
I did it alone for many, many years.  I worshipped in my solitude.  I went outdoors and communed amongst the trees and with nature.  I delved in other religions, searching for spiritual answers.  I wished and wanted and wailed and wracked my brain and heart and soul trying to figure out what I was missing…I had the Belief, I had the Works…I just didn’t have enough Faith. 
 
I didn’t hold on enough to my faith that regardless of my questions, there was only One Answer, eventually.  I didn’t accept that in the end, it didn’t matter how mad I got,  I was still loved.  I was constantly looking for answers to questions and when I got the answers, they weren’t the ones I expected, so I rejected them and looked some more.  I wanted what I wanted, the way I wanted, as if my spiritual life were Burger King, not a spiritual quest to learning and understanding.  Faith is a tremulous thing, if you aren’t careful with it, AND…a mighty wall that cannot be broken if you simply use true Belief as the foundation.  And the other way around.  Going to church is just one more thing to help bolster it all up, I think. 
 
For now, I commune still outside, and it is fine.  I sing my songs, I pray my prayers, I cry my tears, I scream and dance and laugh and wave my arms and shout to God to hear me, see me, please.  Know me, Recognize me?  I’m the little one that used to sit in the back row and play rummy in that church on Drakes Creek Rd in Franklin?  Still here.  In the tree now.   
 

Much Better =) Sunday June 11, 2006

Posted by gingerbreadman in Love.
18 comments
Dad’s MUCH better tonight.  They released him this afternoon and sent him home…on new blood pressure and cholesterol meds.  Of course he needs to change his diet, his eating habits, quit smoking…basically change his lifestyle.  He probably won’t, he’s known for many years all these things are unhealthy, and the fact that he got out of this with nothing more than scaring the hell out of everyone that loves him probably will just tell him he’s fine now that he’s on the BP and cholesterol meds.
 
He’s scaring me, stubborn man.  I get stubborn from both my parents.
Bless mom’s heart, now she’s got *everything* on her.  The work responsibility, most of the household chores and now worrying about Dad stroking out on her again.  He’s been disabled now for a few years, blown out knees and mental disability for his manic-depression to top it all off.  But this has really hit it all home for her.  What a rock she is.  My admiration just soars for the woman who is my Mom.
 
And I’m so thankful tonight just to still have my Dad.  I’ve spent this weekend looking at him, thinking about him and my life experiences with him.  I told Trisha sometime over the mad blur these past days have been, He’s always been 10 Feet Tall and Perfect to me. Even when he wasn’t, and I knew it.  But I guess that’s the way it is when you have a good Dad and you’re His Little Girl.
 
I just want it to stay that way for a long, long time.
Thank you all for your thoughts and prayers;  it helped knowing they were there, good friends, all.
 
Love,
Lynn

My Dad Saturday June 10, 2006

Posted by gingerbreadman in Love.
16 comments
Mom called in the afternoon yesterday that my daddy was in the hospital with what they believed was a stroke.  He actually had a series of TIA’s…mini-strokes in which the symptoms of a stroke; the numbing paralysis of one side, the befuddleness, etc come, but then pass within an hour at least.  His passed pretty quickly, within 25 minutes, each series, so that is a good sign they tell us.  They’ve done tons of tests and are going to do lots more, but haven’t found ANY sign of damage to his brain  YAY! so that is the best news.  What’s driving us all nuts right now is they can’t find out why this hit him either, other than his skyrocketing onset of high blood pressure…which he’s never had before.   Other than crying like a loon and praying until we got to the hospital…I’m on autopilot.
 
My Dad…he’s…he’s scattered throughout this blog…my adoration for him, how much I love him, how he was the only person in my childhood I felt loved me at all.  He’s the end-all, be-all.  I’m definitely a Daddy’s Girl.  It was so hard to leave him last night there…so hard not to rush back there today, though they’ve told us sternly to wait until this evening when all the tests are finished.
 
So we call every hour or two, just often enough not to drive Mom nuts and pray and hope and research TIA’s on the internet and cry.
It’s funny how no matter how old I get, even with six daughters of my own…when I see my Dad, I’m always partly just his little girl again.  Even when I’m the caretaker.
 
And he’s going to be just fine.  I know it.  But, that’s where I am if I’m not on much in the next bit.   Please pray for us all.

On Memorial Day Monday May 29, 2006

Posted by gingerbreadman in Love.
12 comments
The boarding school I attended was a sort of religious place.  We had church services often, and required choir, prayer before each morning breakfast together.  It was also a very patriotic sort of school.  There were lots of flags, lots of American History emphasis, especially considering the number of international students attending.  I met the Shah of Iran’s very distant relatives during the hostage crisis, as insane as that sounds;  students from Ethiopia, children from France, Germany, Italy…all living in a little boarding school in Kentucky. 
 
You know I’m back to myself when I start out talking about Memorial Day….and a paragraph 4 miles long I’m still talking about boarding school and 9th grade.  *muttering amongst Space-land….Lynn’s rambling again*
 
Anyway…
 
We had a teacher who was very particular that we spend Memorial Day contemplating the Gifts the Soldiers who had Gone On (as he *always* put it) had Left Us.  That was how the School had us spend the holiday, basically.  In Chapel, watching slides of troops, parades, graveside services, Arlington Cemetary, American Flags.  Singing Hymns like The Battle Hymn of the Republic, America the Beautiful, etc.  Veterans who taught at the school, or would come to speak got up and talked to us about patriotism and service.
 
At home, Memorial Day was different. 
 
When I was very young, we would (oh, ‘we’ being the entire gang of my dad’s side of my family…at that time probably about 30 of us or so) all troop into cars and trucks, drive out to the cemetary, pray over the dead relatives, leave flowers, then head to my Uncle’s house to swim in the pool and eat grilled burgers and homemade ice cream.  The veterans in our family had all lived.  We celebrated them on Veteran’s Day, and kept Memorial Day for Our dead.
 
The attitude was then, and is now:  If lives were given up so we could be free and safe and happy…we should.  We remember.  We are grateful.
Every day.  Not just one day.  All the time.  Prayers are sent up all the time.  Honor and respect is given every day, not just on Memorial or Veterans Day.
 
It is a comment on this country, and has been for a very long time, that Memorial Day isn’t fully embraced.  That anyone would think to protest the sacred burial of a soldier.  That there was ever a time someone was rude and hateful to a man or woman fighting for the country, doing the job, just making a living…especially when they were drafted into the situation and they were screamed at, spat upon, vilified and abused because people disagreed with the war. 
 
Being a soldier is an immensely honorable profession.  The Armed Forces carries so much honor and respect, such bravery, fortitude…the determination and excellence and will power to exceed at the level these men and women have to perform boggles my mind.  They do so under excruciating circumstances for low pay, worse benefits and in hideous conditions much of the time, and now in War Time.
 
There should be no apathy where Memorial Day is concerned.  BUT…
there should also be fun, and frivolity, and laughter, and gratitude.
 
Because of them…because of the ultimate sacrifice that has been made, tens of thousands of times over and over again, I still have the freedom to sit in my home and write whatever I wish, mostly, and publish it, free of charge…mostly…across the world for anyone to read, mostly.  *smile*
 
I have no military deaths of anyone closely connected to me.  I have been blessed.  The people in my family who have served have always come back.
 
But I have people I spent today thinking of…I don’t consider Memorial Day *just* for the Armed Forces only.
 
I remember Timmy, my cousin.  He was eight when he died in a terrible car accident.  I was eleven.  I always wanted to name my first son Timmy after him.
 
I remember Grandma.  My mom’s mom.  The first of my grandparents to go.  Fire and feist.  The Reynolds mouth with the tango legs.  She is the one who gave me the smile and the mischief behind my eyes and the ability to scream "Sex, sex, sex!" out a window. 
 
I remember Granddaddy.  Dad’s dad.  A boogerhead of a man.  I’m trying to remember something nice to write about him…the best thing I can think of is that he makes great story telling…all the things Grandmother said and did to him…they all started out with this tiny little woman with a tremulous voice that was getting ready to go banshee on him…."Rooobbeeerrrtttttt…..!!!!!"
 
I remember Tim.  He was our next door neighbor for years, my confidant, my shoulder.  We exchanged ‘why guys suck and aren’t worth all this damn trouble’ stories.  We both hated my husband.  I came and cried on him after the X would smack me around and he’d put salve on my wounds.  He died a number of years ago of AIDS related complications.  Tim was a good, kind, funny, sweet man and a dear friend I treasured very much.
 
I remember Grandpa.  He was unarguably the smartest person, hands down, I ever knew.  Still.  He gave me the *respect* for books I have.  He told me how much he’d learned from them, the practical applications you can get from books, how much smarter book readers (as a whole) are, what you can do with your life if you truly have ambition.
I’m afraid he would be very disappointed in me and my life now.
 
And, still with pain and so much longing, I miss Grandmother.
Gentle, sweet, loving, generous, family is everything After God Grandmother.  The Grandmother that chased me around her house with a wicked whippin’ switch when I was ten because I’d said a naughty word until she caught me and then wore my butt plumb out with it.  The Grandmother that accepted my divorced, with kids, for years, lifestyle when others in my very religious family tsk tsk’d me.  The Grandmother who devoted her life to making sure her 4 sons and 1 daughter brought all their children and grandchildren to church every Sunday and then her house after church for lunch…didn’t matter that she had to cook ridiculous amounts of food or there ended up being 75+ people stuffed in her two bedroom tiny house.
Grandmother loved her family and wanted them around.
 
I remember Grandmother every day of my life.  And honor her.
 
I hope your Memorial Day was full of honor and respect and laughter.
 

 

 

 

We pause on this Memorial Day to join in this refrain
for those who gave their All for us so Freedom we’d retain.
For Darkness they confronted in preserving Freedom’s Light
we owe them more than we can pay for giving more than Life
but Lives they gave Endure Today in Hearts and Souls and Minds
of we who drink from Freedom’s Cup the Fruits of Freedom’s Vines.

 

I couldn’t find the author or the title 

for this poem

 
 

Happy Valentine’s Day! Tuesday February 14, 2006

Posted by gingerbreadman in Love.
6 comments
I absolutely love you all
so very much!
 
 
 
 

Tears, tears, tears Wednesday January 4, 2006

Posted by gingerbreadman in Love.
15 comments
I got up this morning to the terrible news that 12 of the 13 miners trapped in Tallmansville, W. Va had died.  Particularly heart-wrenching for the families waiting news outside the mine was the reports that the men trapped inside were found alive by rescue workers.  Church bells rang.  The families were jubilant, exultant.  All found alive!  For three hours, celebrations and prayers of thanksgiving were given, until the grim news was announced;  it was a miscommunication, a mistake–there was only one survivor after all.  The other twelve miners were dead.
 
Imagine, if you can.  Waiting for days for some news…your hopes growing smaller by the day, then the hour.  Suddenly, the amazing, miraculous news:
 
THEY ARE ALL ALIVE.  THEY HAVE SURVIVED.
 
Then, No.  I’m sorry, so sorry.  Not all.  Just one.  My deepest sympathies.
 
My tears ran freely, unashamedly.
 
It was a harbinger, apparently.
 
This isn’t a happy day for Lynnie.  So, no happy, upbeat, inspirational post for Lynnie, or for Lynn’s readers today.  I’m sorry.  Can’t do it.
 
Today is a day I think about the fact that I can’t remember the day I took Laura and the girls to the waterpark in July.  It looks like fun.  The pictures are very cute.  Lala looks like she had a ball.  The girls told me this morning I went down the BIG RED SCARY waterslide twice.  Mike probably would’ve kicked my mommabutt for that one too  *eye roll*. 
 
Don’t remember it.  *Consider really bad word said here*
 
So, I could shrug off the fact that I will never have any memories of raising Laura in my head longer than 4-6 months and go about my merry day…
or I can get through this situational depression moment brought to me by Kodak the only way I know how.  By just dealing with it.  Owning it.  It hurts.  A lot.  I’m going to cry.  I’m going to hug my baby.  I’m going to spend today taking a lot of pictures, writing more in my paper journal, making more memories to perhaps come back and blog about.  So lookout, you may have to deal with the Alien Jourals.
 
You can help out if you’d like.  Don’t comment with things like:
 
"I know how you feel, my short term memory…."
 
Shut the hell up.  It ain’t the same thing.
 
"At least you don’t have to remember her tantrums…"
 
Shut the hell up.  I’d give my left ear, arm, leg… to remember ANYTHING about the raising of her.  ANYTHING.
 
If you mention Lucy and 50 First Dates…I will cut you out of my blog life forever.  I’m not kidding.
 
You could always, if you want to comment…just say, Hi.  Or simply sign your name.  I feel caring when it’s given to me. 
 
I guess I sound like a bitch.  If you’re not a parent…you have no concept as to what it is like to LOSE part of your child…my therapist asked if I thought it was like losing a child.
I thought about slapping her.  I would never presume to think I knew what it felt like to lose a child.  No. 
But I do not know what it was to hear her first words, though she spoke them to me.  I don’t know what it felt like to have her walk into my arms for the first time, though it was me she walked to.  I don’t know what cake she had on her first birthday, or what we bought her, unless I ask someone. 
I know everything about Jessica, Rebecca, Emily, Katie, and Libby.  I was so involved in their raising up until September 18, 2004. 
 
It hurts me that I won’t remember the very precious talk I had with Emily about whether she should stay in Beta or not on Saturday.  It hurts me that I won’t remember Katie telling me in her wildly dramatic way all about her walk to the park yesterday.  I ache to know that I won’t recall holding Libby while she cried her heart out over finding out her bestest friend ever, Lizzie, was moving.
 
But the girls are etched, deeply into my memory, and I have so many memories with them.
 
So little with Laura.  And none to look forward to now.  Or ever.
 
So.  Today, I think I am going to be in abstentia loco.  Or something to that effect.
 
From The Invitation…
I want to know if you can sit with pain
mine or your own
without moving to hide it
or fade it
or fix it.

The Wooden Bowl Tuesday January 3, 2006

Posted by gingerbreadman in Love.
13 comments
A frail old man went to live with his daughter, and son-in-law, and
four-year old grandson. The old man’s hands trembled, his eyesight was blurred, and his step faltered. The family ate together at the table.
 
But the elderly grandfather’s shaky hands and failing sight made eating
difficult. Peas rolled off his spoon onto the floor. When he grasped the
glass, milk spilled on the tablecloth.
 
The daughter and son-in-law became irritated with the mess.  "We must do something about father," said the daughter. "I’ve had enough of his spilled milk, noisy eating, and food on the floor."
So the husband and wife set a small table  in the corner. There, Grandfather ate alone while the rest of the family enjoyed dinner.  Since Grandfather had broken a dish or two, his food was served in a wooden bowl!
When the family glanced in Grandfather’s direction, sometime he had a tear in his eye as he sat alone. Still, the only words the couple had for him were sharp admonitions when he dropped a fork or spilled food.
 
The four-year-old watched it all in silence.
 
One evening before supper, the father noticed his son playing with wood
scraps on the floor.  He asked the child sweetly,  "What are you making?"
Just as sweetly, the boy responded, "Oh, I am making a little bowl for you
and Mama to eat your food in when I grow up."  The four-year-old smiled and went back to work.
 
The words so struck the parents so that they were speechless.  Then tears started to stream down their cheeks. Though no word was spoken, both knew what must be done.
That evening the husband took Grandfather’s hand and gently led him back to the family table.  For the remainder of his days he ate every meal with the family.  And for some reason, neither husband nor wife seemed to care any longer when a fork was dropped, milk spilled, or the tablecloth soiled.

 
This is of course, a lesson in how to treat our elderly; with the respect everyone deserves, with humanity and humility.  Always remember there is a proud human being under those wrinkles and tremors. 
I’ve never understood how people forget that the person who is complaining about having to care for someone unable to dress, feed and clothe themselves, someone who is incontinent and unable to communicate well anymore and is difficult to handle at times, hard to cope with, prone to tantrums…
forgets…
that elderly one did the very same thing for them once.
With love, tenderness, care.  Bragged about it.  Carried around pictures, wrote in books.  Did it with joy and pride.  Did anyone thank them?  And now that the tables are turned? 
 
Wheel…ka…
The circle of life.
 
 
But I didn’t read this in that vein.  Perhaps because my parents are still in good health, perhaps because there is no way in hell my family will never be in that predicament. 
 
I see in it a lesson, a plain one.  Treat people with simple respect.  All people.  The weak, the infirm, the elderly, the young, the dirty, the poor, the grungy, the tacky, the fat, the ugly, the loud and obnoxious, the disabled, the scary, the little old lady who lives in the shoe, the Jesus shouter on the street corner, the homeless, the snooty lady who brushes by you without a backwards glance.
 
Even if they don’t bother to give you the same regard. 
Life isn’t about giving what you get.  It’s about giving.  That’s all.  The other end of the equation is their job.  Their problem.  Their karma.  Your only job in this life is you, and yours. 
Give the dignity.
Give the respect.
Give the humanity.
Give the love.
 
It’s a wheel.  A circle.
 
We’d all do well to remember that.
And…even if it weren’t a wheel…even if it never ever mattered if we were going to get some good back for it?  Would you rather look back at you 20 years later and be at peace with your choices, or wince?
 
*Blessings*

From Libby to Laura Monday December 26, 2005

Posted by gingerbreadman in Love.
3 comments
Libby gave everyone a Christmas card in our stockings…but hers to Laura…oh gosh…
 
 
 
Laura-
You are going to HATE that you’re the youngest!  But I can help you with all of it!  I’m pro-tiny!  Don’t mess with me, tall peoples!
 
Merry Christmas!
 
I got your back
you’re not alone!
 
-Libby
 
 
 
I love being a mom –do you blame me? 
*Blessings*