A memory this day...

"He is young…He's afraid

Let him rest…Heaven blessed.

Bring him home…Bring him home…Bring him home."

Jean Valjean – Les Miserables, the musical

There is a paradox in this time…on this day…in this country. We find ourselves at war…something that seems, for some, a distant inconvenience…for others, who have lost a son or daughter, a friend or neighbor…an indelible stain that will not wash away.

Yet, on this Memorial Day in the United States, we should remember the freedoms we have are due to the sacrifices, ultimate or not, made by Veterans who gave of themselves for this country. We should remember the privilege and freedom – of religion, the press, speech, assembly, and the right to vote – comes because of sacrifices by those who served.

I journaled this four years ago and thought it appropriate today…

An opportunity…
I met an American hero today.

This past week I was in Palm Springs, California for a meeting. My flight home to Detroit through Chicago was delayed by 3 hours because of weather. By the time I got in it was well past 10PM and the flight to Detroit had been cancelled. It was a nightmare in Chicago with hundreds of people trying to find places to stay because many flights, like mine had been cancelled. I managed to get a hotel about 17 miles from the airport in Addison, Ill, and the 'last car' available from a limo service that had been recommended - there were no more taxis. It was late; unexpectedly snowy; cold and by the time I got to the hotel and collapsed by 2AM, I was ready and grateful for the bed.

Later that day, the flight to Detroit was scheduled for 1:55PM. There was an earlier flight at 10:40AM that was oversold, but being somewhat of a road warrior; I thought I might try to stand-by. I got to the airport, through security and to the gate for the earlier flight, where I was issued a stand-by coupon. There was an airline lounge just down the corridor, so I went in to wait. I was tired and my schedule was in total disarray. While holding up fairly well – I was anxious to get home.

The unguarded moment…
He entered the lounge in his wheelchair, his person so clearly recognizable. I had seen him many times before in the media, speaking with eloquence and care for the lives of so many young men for whom he had become a symbol.

We had all wondered what might happen in that foreign land; we wondered whether we would come home, whether we might ever see our loved ones – who seemed so much more precious to us as the plane took us from our shores to that foreign land. We often talked in soft voices, naively saying if something happened to us, we hoped it would be death – for what we feared most was coming home disfigured; half a man with ugly scars on the outside as surely there would be those hidden within.

The price…
“You can’t do that, you don’t have the tools to be a productive member of society.” They would say to us… “You served your country, but it just didn’t work out.” And so it was for him. His wasn’t the ultimate sacrifice – it was worse; he survived.

The grenade had taken both of his legs and one of his arms…he should never have survived that event nor the harm and pain it caused both his body and his mind. Yet somehow he did; somehow he moved forward with his life; somehow he became the youngest head of the Veteran’s Administration; somehow he became a United States Senator for six years from the State of Georgia. He struggled much and fought many battles both inside and out – and yet there he was in front of me in this moment. For him, it had worked out, because he had been determined to make it work!

Max Cleland, slipped from his wheel chair into one of the lounge seats transferring without help and busied himself with whatever work he had in his briefcase. I couldn’t contain myself and was drawn to his side. “Mr. Cleland,” I said, “You don’t know me, but I have considered you, for many years, one of America's great heros. I have no way to imagine your life, but you never gave up and set such an example for so many of us.”

The reward…
He was more than gracious, thanking me for making the effort to come and chat with him. He told me of the very recent loss of his mother at the age of 93; he told me of an uncle for whom he cared in addition to taking care of his own needs, reminding me that life and its struggles, while present for all of us, are relative. I shared the recent loss of my mother and he did the most remarkable of things…he reached out, took my hand and held it in his. This man from whom so much had been taken, shared a moment of consolation with me…he consoled me! That brief encounter transcended time and circumstance; the human touch both rich and intimate…a shared understanding that transcended words.

Later I tried to relate this experience to my wife, but could not speak…

I met an American hero today and found in him greatness, gentleness and inspiration that moved me deeply. As I left, I stood to attention and saluted this man who had been such an example for so many young men who – in another time and another place – had feared the worst, some of whom survived…some did not. He smiled warmly with an intimate and knowing look; it was a small gesture of a common brotherhood we had shared in life’s journey. More importantly, the shared experience of war had, in the most paradoxical of ways, opened a door of quiet humanity…the complete opposite of that most base of human conflict.

The gratitude…
In the serendipitous moments of life - those moments that go so completely unplanned, and indeed could not be planned – certain things are magical, things that defy expectation, things that shout, “I just want you to know I’m thinking about you,” things that just seem right and good. This was one of those moments, and for that, on this Memorial Day, I am very grateful indeed.

- ted

Nobody does it alone...

"Who can say if I've been changed for the better

But because I knew you
 I have been changed for good"

- Elphaba: Wicked the Musical

“I gotta go.”

“Where do you want to go?” She said.

In his own private world, anxiously moving around the porch, he replied, “I gotta go.”

Different words this time around…different feelings this time around…There was so much to say, yet no place for it to be said.

The beginning, as all stories should start…
Jim was head football coach for the biggest rival school in our town. Fairmont was, at that time, about ten thousand hearty souls in the middle of the soft, bituminous coal fields of West Virginia. While Jim coached ‘…the other guys for the competing team…’ his daughter went to my high school. Coach always seemed friendly, and while his daughter and I were not an item, I was kind of sweet on her.

My father was a Baptist minister. We had come to this place in the late 1950s, to a new church…a new town…a different culture for Canadian expatriates. From the fifth grade through high school and to college, this was my home. It was here friendships were formed; the life and voice changing discomfort of puberty, and the social revolution of the late 1960s. It all happened in this small town nestled in the West Virginia hills.

After high school, I went on to university, but was not successful. The Vietnam War was on, and I was drafted to serve. Like other young foreigners with immigrant status – a ‘green card’ – military service became a reality.

The years passed…
After separating from the military, I returned to Canada, and was living with my mother’s sister. Because I was not an American Citizen, I could not ply my military air traffic control training and experience in the United States. I stayed with my aunt while making application to the Canadian Department of Transport as an air traffic controller (ATC). Passing the tests and physical was not a problem; I was young, healthy and had already controlled air traffic in one of the least known, and busiest airports in the world – Vung Tau Army Airfield…Republic of Vietnam.

After notice of acceptance, there was a month or so before the training program began and I headed to West Virginia to see a few folk. Life had moved on and the ‘Coach’ was now ‘Dr.’…teaching at the local college. On a whim, I stopped by to visit with him for a couple of reasons: 1 – to see how he liked teaching at the college level, and 2 – to see the status of his daughter.

We chatted for only a few minutes, but in that short time – in those few words – the course of my life was about to change in a completely inconceivable way. He asked if I had finished school...the answer a “no.” I wouldn’t need a degree to control air traffic. It was a good profession, and work I really enjoyed.

He suggested, taking a year to finish school. A degree would be a good idea…after all; one might never know when having a diploma might come in handy. He argued that time would pass no matter what I was doing, and that finishing school would be a small thing, with no real downside – his words…“I’m not saying you should return to school, I’m just saying you should take it under consideration.”

Money in the bank of life…
This was a man who understood people. In particular, he understood young men. He understood one guides, one doesn’t mandate. He understood, motivation must come from within. The key? Find the ‘sweet spot’ in the young person’s mind, and let them think it was ‘their idea.’ He understood, that ‘life example’ in addition to edifying ‘words,’ builds currency in the bank of human relationships…he had invested wisely and was a man with plenty of capital in the lives of others.

I’m not sure about the events that occurred over the next three or four days, but by the end of that week, I had contacted the Department of Transport in Canada – requested and received a year’s delay for the start date in ATC school – and was enrolled in Fairmont State College! I never did return to Canada and become an air traffic controller. That brief encounter caused a ‘sea change’ in my life.

During that final year or so in Fairmont, Jim became for me what he had been for hundreds of young men in his career – a quiet but solid place of solace and comfort when the storms of life seemed a little too much. He was a man who appeared to take comfort in watching ‘his boys’ grow into men.

After leaving Fairmont, the journey led to LaCrosse, Wisconsin for graduate work, finally the University of Missouri for completion of formal post-graduate education. The smell of jet fuel and crowded airspace seemed a distant and increasingly faded memory.

The unbroken thread…
Once or twice over the years, I headed back to Fairmont with only one driving goal in mind…to see Jim. I wanted to remind him again, the investment of his time and attention had been meaningful and worthwhile; I wanted to remind him he had changed my life, and was part of every success I had; I wanted to remind him, while people I met over the years never knew him…everyone of them felt a piece of him in my words and spirit; I wanted to remind him I loved him and appreciated the immeasurable influence he had had on my life.

He would always seem a bit surprised at the intensity and enthusiasm with which I would tell him of my adventures, always finishing with gratitude for his influence…he almost seemed embarrassed by my words. You see, he was simply doing the job for which God had called him. He was following the leading that had been put in his heart. He wasn’t thinking about what any of it might mean…he was just doing his job. His quiet, but steady enthusiasm for life was so palpable; you wanted to be a part of it.

With an irregular regularity, I would write, catching him up on the events of my life – a note coming back with a ‘congratulations’ and brief thanks. A couple of years ago I wrote and nothing came. A month or so later I received a letter from his wife. It sat on my desk for a week – I was afraid to open it. I didn’t want to face the news that his journey was over.

Finally, when I could avoid it no longer, I steeled myself and opened the letter. Jim was not dead, it was worse…he had Alzheimer’s disease. I was overwhelmed.

A journey home…
I knew I was going to be in Fairmont for a reunion the next year and asked his wife whether I might come by and see him. She said, “sure,” and on a warm summer’s day, in those West Virginia hills, I spent some time with this gentle man who had changed everything about my life.

I wanted to, yet once again, tell him how much he had and still meant; I wanted to say, yet once again, how grateful I was that he had given me the option to ‘think’ and ‘do’ something better with my life. I wanted him to tell me that he loved me too, and that he had always known my life had purpose.

I did say some of those things…but there is hollowness when there are no receptors on the other end..an emptiness when words are spoken out of season, when “…the salt has lost its savor.”

I longed to hear him say, “I’m not saying you should , I’m just saying you should take it under consideration.” Instead, he puttered anxiously around the porch of his home repeating: “I gotta go….I gotta go”

I am reminded how important it is to let people you care about know that you do. I have learned to do it at the moment the thought occurs...not waiting until some time in the future. I have learned how important it is...Not just for their sake, but for ours…

I’m not saying you should tell people who have touched your life, that you care about and love them; I’m just saying you should “…take it under consideration…”

- ted

The beat goes on...

“Be aware when things are out of balance…”

Lao Tzu – Tao Te Ching

“Stop philosophizing about what

a good man is and be one.”

Marcus Aurelius - Meditations

The moment I stepped out of the room in tee shirt and light jacket, I knew I was in trouble.  It wasn’t actually ‘the stepping out’ of the room, but the millisecond it took to realize the key lay on the desk inside.  You know the feeling – the mind gets it, but the hands not quick enough to beat the clicking sound of a securely shut door!

I was in the Ozark Mountains in Southern Missouri on my way to teach a course on the clinical management of chronic back pain.  It was March and a great time to be in the ‘Show Me’ State.  This is the time year, when world begins waking from the winter, and the smell of impending spring fills the air like the expectant hope of the first flight of a young bird…a special anticipation to the air – ah, the cycle of life renewing itself once again! 

The trip in had been uneventful and the motel, while modest, had one of those beds that afforded a great night’s sleep.  A common, but not excessive ‘road warrior,’ I have spent many a night in strange cities and in strange beds.  No matter where the room, its cost, or what it looks like…only one thing really matters once the lights are out…how does that bed sleep!  This one was excellent!

It was a modest, family-owned motel where the car parked just outside the room, so slipping out lightly clad seemed reasonable.  Reason quickly faded as chilling reality took front seat.  In addition to being outside the now locked door, the temperature had dropped twenty degrees over night bringing with it an unexpected snow and ice storm.  It was very cold!

Clearly there was motivation to change my circumstance quickly.  There is another motivating factor in the early morning hours – hot coffee! So rather than going to the office to get another key – a rational strategy – I fired up the car, turned on the defroster and waited, shivering until the car heated up – being an early riser doesn’t imply common sense.

Coffee being the predominant thought, the hunt was on for an early morning vendor of that black elixir that renews the cycle of my life on a daily basis.  This was, however, rural Missouri and it was going to take a little time to find a place.

You see what you look for - find what you know...

By the time I found the roadside restaurant, it was 5:30AM and the singular thought occupying my mind was that hot liquid of morning rebirth.  The place was big and stark.  The man behind the counter, in a tone of distracted non-interest said, “Do you want to smoke or not?” I said no and was pointed to a side room down a short hall. 

The non-smoking room was a bit smaller with all but one table empty.  Overhead, 1960s music was playing; the first couple that caught my attention were:  “Help, I need somebody, help, not just anybody, help, you know I need someone. Help me,” and “I can’t get no satisfaction.” – by the Beatles and Rolling Stones respectively.  Songs that excited passion and debate in their day, but now seemed familiar, yet tired lyrics, reflecting a sense of paradise lost, with little help and a touch of thoughtful dissatisfaction.  “Those were the days, my friend.  We thought they’d never end…”  Yet, like the slowly sinking sun into the Western sky, those days…those days slipped into the greyish unfocused shapes of yesteryears.

I was not alone…

I took an empty table and glanced at the others in the room. Both women already looked exhausted.  They were mothers with three children between them – one baby and two little ones, each competing for attention – no men to be seen.  The older of the two asked for a little more water apologizing for the mess the children were making.  The waiter, no doubt having seen this movie more than once, said, “Sure” in a moderately inattentive and knowing monotone. 

You could sense the mothers’ anxiousness – these children needed to eat the food, because for them it was expensive and who knew what would be coming the rest of the day.  How often growing up, did we hear variations of this expression, “Eat your food <your name here>. You should be grateful – just think of all the children starving in <fill in the blank for the country>.” 

The urgency and frustration in this disheveled, blue jean clad mother’s voice, had little to do with starving children anywhere, but rather a compelling urgency that filling these children up was a necessity of life.  Her words carried a tired sternness, “You need to eat the rest of your breakfast.  Don’t let me hear you say you are hungry later…” as if the child had anyway to understand the importance of fueling up for what might be the biggest – maybe only meaningful meal of the day. 

The starkness of the scene, the sense of ‘paradise lost’ in the words of the tired 60s music, and the reality of millions of people living on the edge was overwhelming – almost tangible in this early morning hour.  The emergent problems of these women were not my problems…or were they?  The child caring, fatherless setting, all too common, even in this land where there is so much. 

It is an old story…

What is the mother to do?  How does she survive?  Where does she find the resources to care for this unwanted, but clearly present responsibility?  Who knows what she was thinking, or ‘wanted to hear’ when she was promised the “…whatever…” that caused her to ‘give it up,’ and led to this circumstance.  She, of course, would do what mothers have done through all of time, when left to care from the conception and birth, of a poorly conceived moment in time.  She would do whatever it took!

I got the coffee, had a little breakfast, paid my bill and added a tip.  Yeah, I got a little more interested service, because it was clear, in this setting, only one table was going to tip anything, and it wasn’t the women with the children. 

One of us was inconvenienced by a minor unexpected circumstance, the consequence of which…get a new key and go on with the day – a small thing really.  The others were inconvenienced by a grinding and unrelenting life circumstance - a much greater consequence.  They wouldn’t find a solution to their situation quite so easily.

What do we do? How do we ‘…pay it forward?’  How do we invest the privilege we’ve been given to try and make a difference?  Clearly, most of the world around us is out of our control, there is little we can influence other than our own thoughts, AND we can try to be good farmers…planting ideas and thoughts in the minds of those with whom we come in contact.  We can also act on the thoughts that have been planted in our minds.

I should have quietly paid for their breakfast on my way out – I didn’t.  Next time I won’t make the same mistake…lessons learned – hindsight, you know?

As I left the restaurant, I could hear the closing refrain of the Sonny and Cher hit echoing in my brain, “…the beat goes on, on, on, on, on….”

My hope? Today and next time - be a better man…

- ted

It's all in the voice...

“…with so much that has been given,

what is our obligation?”

- Anonymous

“Samuel, Samuel, ” the voice called…

The ritual was the same most nights.  There would be a hug and a kiss good night, preceded by a short prayer thanking God for the day and maybe for those who might be less fortunate than us. 

Then there would be those special nights – there were many as a child, when Mum would tell me a story.  Her favorites, and by extension mine, were those of the Old Testament in the Bible.  One I loved to hear, and would request from time to time, was Samuel.  

A fellow named Elkanah (El-cain-ah) had two wives: Hannah and Peninah.  Peninah (Pe-nee-nah) produced several children, but Hannah was barren…and pretty depressed about it.  One year, quietly and bitterly praying to God, she negotiated:

“…If, thou wilt look on the affliction of thine handmaid, and remember me, and not forget thine handmaid, but wilt give unto thine handmaid a man child, then I will give him unto the Lord all the days of his life…” (1 Samuel 1:11 – Bible)

The deal?  Give me a boy and I’ll give him back to you.  She returned home, and the scripture says, “…Elkanah knew Hannah his wife; and the Lord remembered her.”  Thus begins the unlikely journey of Samuel, one of the pivotal characters of the Old Testament.

When the child was two, Hannah took him to the Priest Eli and gave the child to the old man.  This was her deal…give me the child and I’ll give him back - she honored the arrangement.  Somewhere around the age of five, Samuel was sleeping and God called him.  The scripture says, “…the Lord called Samuel…,” but my mother recounted that God said, “Samuel, Samuel…”  There is no way for me to express the quiet and urgent gentleness of my mother’s voice as she spoke those words, but in the imagination of a young child, I was transported to the very room where God spoke to this little boy. 

Samuel thought it was the old priest calling him and went to see what he wanted.  The priest, of course had not done so.  This was repeated twice before the Eli realized God was trying to communicate with the boy.  He instructed Samuel to say, “…Speak Lord; for thy servant heareth…” – which Samuel did, ultimately leading to Samuel's role in the birth the Hebrew monarchy.

This was just one of many stories Mum would tell.  They were intimate and animated and full of quiet enthusiasm.  You see, I was Samuel to my mother.  It is not that she was barren, for I was given two great sisters.  It is that she had fervently prayed that God would give her children that she and my father could care for and raise with purpose.

Mum would tell me - maybe it was when I first heard the story of Samuel - I didn’t belong to she and my dad.  I was a gift from God and it was their obligation and duty to raise me for Him.  It is difficult to express the comfort of these words from her.  There was the sense that this was a team effort…inclusive – not exclusive. 

She and dad had conceived me, but in fact, I was to be a free moral agent being prepared to hear ‘the voice’ myself.  That was their job as she saw it.  Teach me the language, tell me the stories, inform me of my place in this world and then turn me loose - her work complete.

She would say, it might not come as clearly as “Samuel, Samuel…,” but it would come.  The task might not be of Samuel’s magnitude, but...it would be.  I should be aware, she would continue, that like Samuel, it might take time to recognize God’s leading, but if I kept my mind open, I would eventually recognize ‘the voice.’

And so my childhood would go.  Mum was clever when telling many of these stories, taking poetic license here and there.  Some of the Biblical stories are fairly explicit, if not in language, certainly in intent.  The story of Esther provides an example.  A King named Ahasurerus (A-hash-U-E-rus), had divorced his wife and was looking for a new queen.  His counselors rounded up the young virgins of the kingdom, prepared them and presented to the king - one a night.  Esther was one of these girls.  He took a great affection to her and made her his queen.  Mum explained the reason the king liked Esther so much was that she was a “…very good story teller, and the king really enjoyed them.”

As the years have gone by, some of the warmest memories I have are the times I had with my mother in the twilight of the day – telling me stories.  As she admonished, I have tried to listen for ‘the voice’ as my journey has unfolded.  As anyone that seeks knows, discerning God’s leading is not always evident.  Yet, seekers know 'the sound' when they hear it.  It may not be clear to others what the voice of God sounds like, but I can assure you, when He quietly speaks to my heart, it is the distinct and quiet voice of my mother calling “Ted, Ted…”

Happy Mother’s Day Mum.

 

- ted

A longer view...

“…weeping may endure for a night,

but joy comes in the morning…”

- Psalm 30:5 - Bible

The photo fell from a small notebook I had moved when cleaning the office.  There were two in the picture – a 90 something woman, with the empty stare of someone encouraged to smile for some unknown reason – a vacant sense of emptiness in her eyes that gave away nothing of the rich life experience that had been her legacy.

The other a confident, a bright eyed woman with charisma that jumped off the paper.  Every thing about her said, “I am joyfully alive and am facing the moment – carpe diem!”

That was then and this is now…

Mother had been suffering from Alzheimer’s for several years before this picture was taken; the bright-eyed woman with charisma to burn, my sister – now in the throes of the same devastating disease…not in her 90s, but early 60s.  The irony in this photo…all but overwhelming.

Nancy Jeanne, my ‘little sister’ …a woman whose strength, determination and persistence was, at least in our family circle…legend.  One is reminded of the story of the 'talents' in the scripture.  The master gives three servants some money (talents) and goes away on a journey.  Upon his return, he asks for an accounting of how the servants used the talents.  Two of them doubled their money, to which the master says, “…well done thou good and faithful servant, you have been faithful over a few things, I will make you ruler over many…” (Matthew 25:21 – Bible).  The third servant did not use the talent given him, burying it in the ground.  The master chastised him and cast him away.  This Parable, as all parables, is meant to be a metaphor…in this case the gifts we have been given in our lives and how we use them.

In Nancy’s world there were no mountains too high, no obstacles too problematic, no hurdles from which she withdrew.  She had only two speeds: rest and 100%! Somehow, there was a solution to whatever problem emerged and encouragement to anyone who might not quite have the tools necessary to handle the unrelenting gravity of life.  She had been a successful businesswoman, who spent a decade in New York City as a trailblazing female executive, before coming to Missouri.  In Jefferson City, she spent nearly 25 years bringing her thoughtful; innovative skills to a local bank while, as a single parent, raising her daughter.

A special life

Nancy had been spared twice: once as a baby she was struck by an unknown acute respiratory attack.  Her color turned and she struggled to breathe.  It happened in the isolation of our cottage, in Canada, when she was under the age of two.  My father drove the gravel back roads with the terrifying skill of a grand pre professional, while a cousin held the gasping infant in his arms.  They made it to the emergency room, thirty miles away, in time and she survived.

While in high school, she was coming home with her boyfriend on rainy and road-slick night.  The accident that night caused her to go face first through the windshield on the passenger side, and among other things, opened a large gash to her right cheek.  As fate would have it, a plastic surgeon happened to be at the hospital when they brought her in.  She survived the crash, and the skill of the plastics man eventually left her with almost no discernable scar – on her face.  She was marked with a dime-sized area of hair, just at the widow’s peak, that grew from that moment to this day…a distinguished pure white.  In many ways, it was a symbol of the way she lived her life – with distinction.

Later came the war – but first there was lunch

In the summer of 1969 I was in the U.S. military and had received orders for Vietnam.  This would be the last summer, before heading overseas, at the cottage where I had come every year of my life.  Our maternal grandfather had purchased a parcel of land in 1910 in South Central Ontario where, in subsequent years, family members built cottages along the sides of a bay.  This summer was particularly meaningful, because it had the potential for being my last.

Nancy and I decided to return to the States together…me to leave for a foreign land and she to university.  On our way home, we stopped at Niagara Falls for lunch at one of those rotating restaurants on the top of a tower overlooking the Canadian side.

You know how some things in life get burned into your memory in ways that remain crystal clear every time they come to mind?  I was sitting on the inside of the table looking, over her right shoulder, out the window on this clear sunny day; we both had shrimp salads.  As the restaurant slowly swept by the falls on its ‘one hour per rotation,’ I looked across the table and it was though I had never really seen Nancy before.  I was overcome by feelings of love for this young girl/woman.  The moment might have been framed by the anxiety of my impending overseas tour, or perhaps a heightened appreciation for a possible last glimpse of things familiar.  Whatever the impetus for that moment, is now lost.  Not lost in that brief and brilliantly clear moment, however, is the rich and deeply moving realization of how much my sister meant to me.  I didn't know what lay ahead, but knew beyond doubt, if I returned home, this woman would become my best friend.

Life has a way of acting out its own screenplay

I survived the war.  As I have grown older and the optimism of youth has become mixed with the realities of life, I have still kept a sense of wonder and gratitude as to what might come next…just around the corner.  I have also learned that life can be cold…very cold, and the way we react to the temperature has everything to do with whether we survive the ride.

And so in her early sixth decade the chill of winter has been too much for my sister as she slips across the ice into the darkness of dementia.  In the seemingly most unjust, unfair and reactive of ways, I find myself asking, “Is there meaning or purpose?”

No, seriously, “…is there any purpose to life?”

In the shallow end of the pool, the easy answer is NO!  In the shallow end of the pool, the anger and pain that wells up at this seeming injustice, yells, “HELL NO!”  In the shallow end of the pool, it is easy to say, “What then is the point?  I’m just asking, is there a point?”  These expressions create a caricature that professes a fearful and self-centeredness that is really saying, “What about me!” 

An opportunity for a deep breath and a little introspection.

There is a longer view…there is deeper water.  Whether one lives for 20 years or 80 years, matters not.  For one only really lives in the ‘…moment of present consciousness…’  The ‘…moment past…’ cannot be altered; the ‘…moment yet to come…’ cannot be predicted. 

How long into the future in ‘…moments of present consciousness…’ my sister will have and at what level, is unknown – our family is long lived and how quickly she will lose us is uncertain. However,  the unalterable moments of ‘…present consciousness…’ she had in her life cannot be altered.  They were productive and they were meaningful.  Pieces of her charismatic zest for living were left with everyone who had more than passing interaction with her.  There was no one too big or too small,  touched by her, that did not know there was something special about this woman.  Her defiant honesty, her richly felt compassion, her intellect and broad view of the playing field always left things better than the way she found them. 

Her ultimate gift?  A daughter, instilled with the same sense of honor and compassion; planted with a sense of justice – of right and wrong.  Nancy paid the game of life forward with every breath she took, as she recognized life was truly a gift – no guarantees for the next step. 

Life that ends this way is tragic and sometimes seems to be unfair.  People who love and care express themselves with words of condolence and sorrow.  In these circumstances, we often don’t know what else to say. 

The compassionate care of friends and family ARE meaningful and ARE of real comfort.  Yet there is no condolence – no sorrow necessary here.  There is, of course, the work needed for her care as long as she has breath, BUT there is a celebration, to have her still with us, a remembrance of the example she left by making the things she touched so much better.  Nancy spent her life, gifts and skills, building up the people and things around her.  While her life has been diminished, she continues to fight and shine and share, and love within her capacity as she always has. Truly it could be said of her “…well done thou good and faithful servant…”

- ted