Every Loss I See

Every death is your death. Every sorrow I come across takes me back. Even the TV moms portrayed as suffering loses of a child cause the wound from your death to ignite. I cry for their loss, their broken story. The actress who does a realistic job of conveying her woe gets more tears from me. I wipe my eyes and think: it never goes away, that ache, that sadness, that loss in losing you, Daniel.

In a recent movie I watched as one of the characters, an older woman, tried to console a young boy of twelve who had lost his baby sister. She said that the child was with Jesus and that Jesus is here. I thought: ah, that's a good way to think. Jesus is with us and he is also with Daniel in Heaven. Jesus bridges the gap between Daniel and me. He is with us both, even if Daniel and I can't be together. As I continued watching the movie, the sweet woman telling that boy to be bolstered by thinking of death in this way made me feel both grateful and sad at the same time.

I suppose that what surprises me most is that even after 24 years I still shed tears unexpectedly.

Every loss I see, every loss I hear, takes me to that place that never fades.

I miss you, Daniel.

Lessons from a Balloon-sending Mama

On your 29th birthday, I make my pilgrimage to the grave. Carl parks the Jeep and at your marker, I wipe away the brittle patch of cut dried grass. There's a strip of blue painter's tape stuck to the side. It's in Rachel's handwriting. We love you, Daniel. You've inspired so many people. I take a photo of your oldest sister's note and smile, sending a text to her so that she can see my appreciation.

I put a bunch of red Dollar Store Gerber daisies in the dirt by your marker. They aren't my favorite color Gerbers, but they were the best looking plastic flowers the store had. I take another photo of your grave and wish I could take a photo of you instead. I probably have the largest collection of grave marker photos that any mother has ever accumulated. They span my life over the last twenty-four years since you left us.

I walk over to Solomon's grave. When I found his marker years ago, I shed tears. From II Timothy 4:7 the words are enscribed: I have finished my course. I have kept the faith. If the day wasn't so hot, I would amble over the grass to visit Taylor's grave because his is one that also has touched my heart. We're so glad you came. Beside your grave is Audrey, who has only the year enscribed on her marker. And a large heart. I assume she, like Taylor, died the day she was born.

Under the shade of a tree, I sit on your Thomas the Tank Engine towel and pour into a cup orange-grapefruit seltzer water. The liquid is welcomed. I had planned to stay a longer time seated on the towel, coming up with something profound to write. But the afternoon is hot and humid. The dashboard of the Jeep, says it's 97 degrees F. Carl sits in the Jeep because it's cooler there.

I come to the cemetery with rituals that I have gathered over the years since you've been gone. One is to walk the premise. I have a pair of new tennis shoes on this afternoon. What better place and day to break them in. Briskly I make the round, and am grateful for a breeze. I remember when this location made me feel shame for not having been able to keep you alive. I never expected to have grown from my visits here. I never knew solace at my son's grave was possible. The years have been hard; the journey filled with sadness, but the lessons I have acquired are nothing short of priceless.

After my lap, I write a note to you on a slip of paper. It is my usual note about loving and missing you. On the back of it, Carl writes some words. I peek to see he has written. His words are: Too bad I never got to meet you. He has drawn a heart and signed his name. The love he shows for me by coming with me on this cemetery pilgrimage shouldn't be overlooked.

Inside the Jeep, together we string the note (I've punched a hole in the sheet with a pen) to another Dollar Store purchase----a red star balloon filled with helium.

And then we walk to the center of the cemetery as I hold tightly to the string. "Happy birthday, Daniel," we both say. I release the string which allows for the balloon to jet away from me and climb into the sky. We stand watching the wind do its part as the baloon travels. Soon it's blocked by two large oaks. Carl steps to the left and I follow so that we have a better view. We watch, eyes shielded from the August sun, until the balloon becomes a dot and then vanishes from our sight into a distant cloud.

Twenty-four years of lifting balloons into the sky, my symbolism of releasing love, of watching something perform what I cannot---an item sail into the sky on its own, climbing closer to Heaven. Twenty-four years of an ache that will not leave. I love you, Daniel. My love for family and friends has grown over these long years, so it makes sense that the love for you has increased also. I love you today and I will love you more tomorrow.

And those are a few of the lessons that grief has taught me.

Cooking with Author Lori Altebaumer

Today we welcome author Lori Altebaumer to the blog. Lori has a romantic suspense novel and a recipe to share. SO glad to have you here, Lori! Take it away!

Peg’s Pecan Pie

(From my romantic suspense novel A Firm Place to Stand)

1/2 cup butter, melted

1 cup sugar

1 cup light corn syrup

4 eggs, beaten

1 teaspoon vanilla extract

1/4 teaspoon salt

1 unbaked 9-inch pastry shell

1 – 1 1/4 cups pecan halves

Combine butter, sugar, and corn syrup; cook over low heat, stirring constantly until sugar dissolves. Let cool slightly. Add eggs, vanilla, and salt to mixture; mix well.

Pour filling into unbaked pastry shell, top with pecan halves. Bake at 325 degrees for 50 – 55 minutes. Serve warm or cold. Peg’s hints for a delicious pie: Use eggs at room temperature for better blending. And use chopped pecans to squeeze even more nuttiness into each bite.

About the novel

She’s either being stalked or losing her mind.

A job at a camp in the rustic and often rugged landscape of West Texas offers Maribel Montgomery a chance to escape both, especially if she makes sure no one knows where she’s there.

But when the body of a woman washes up in the river on her first morning, her hope of a safe place to start over are swept away. The suspicion she’s being watched follows her to her new home, and Maribel is forced to take a stand or keep running. Does she have the courage to face the danger stirring at the Pool of Siloam Camp?

If she doesn’t, another girl might die.

If she tries and fails, it could be her.

Circumstances force her into the acquaintance of Conner Pierce—a man with secrets of his own. Can Maribel risk working with him in order to save the next victim and find a missing girl?

Or is he the killer?

Get your copy of A Firm Place to Stand.

Author Bio

A life-long Texan, Lori lives in a small community not far from the rugged West Texas landscape she loves to write about. The mother of now grown twins, she has learned the secret to survival is a well-developed sense of humor and an active prayer life. After years spent working in the business world, Lori now uses her time to educate, inspire, encourage, and entertain through the written word.

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Superpower Levi

He wasn't just any dog; he had a superpower. I was not an animal lover (my husband is) and I thought I could live the rest of my days without a dog. No dog fur to vacuum, no vet bills, and grocery store trips without having to purchase dog chow suited me. Then along came Levi, a mahogany boxer puppy with white paws who had a penchant for ice cubes. He "sang"—soulful songs—whenever my husband played the harmonica (badly). If anyone peeled an orange, he appeared, begging for a slice. He nuzzled close beside me when I cried over the loss of my brother's dog. He had the ability to look at me with his dark brown eyes as though he could see into my soul.

He discovered what worked and that was to put his head on my lap when the clock chimed 6 PM---—his way of reminding me that it was dinner time. I’d stop what I was doing and fill his bowl as he’d twirl in circles--—his happy dance.

The seizures were the start of his decline; I sat with him on the sofa and doubted I could live without him. He died on a December morning even though I begged him not to leave us.

Levi transformed me into an animal lover; that was his superpower. When I met our new puppy for the first time I was able to embrace her without a moment's hesitation. I scooped her into my arms and held her against my heart.

Levi trained me well.

Make it Come to Life : Prologue to a memoir

A view from a train window can kick start a fascinating story. Look what it did for Walt Disney. On a journey from Manhattan to Hollywood in 1928, Walt looked out his window as large towns gave way to wheat and corn fields. And there, under an apple tree, Mickey Mouse showed up. Perhaps Mickey waved a white-gloved hand, or maybe he just smiled. Walt captured him on a sketch pad and the stories began. Walt’s gone now, but his cartoon mouse has traveled all over the world and lives forever.

Although I grew up on trains in Osaka, Japan, my creations weren’t the kinds you sketch, but printed words. I looked out the windows and instead of a mouse, four teens appeared on a boat. They needed an ocean to take them to a remote tropical island where they would get lost, build campfires at night, eat mangos the size of footballs, and have fascinating adventures with the natives. I put them in a rowboat (at age eleven I was not the smartest seafarer which meant neither were my characters) and let a storm fester with just enough wind for their vessel to wash against the shoreline of the island. I named the island Blue Hama (I suppose I didn’t have the knack for good names at age eleven either).

Later, when I had crushes on boys with names like Ethan and Harold, I looked out the window as trains took me to and from school, and saw handsome boys on bicycles near parks where they met pretty girls named Belinda, Camithia, and Sylviana. I bought spiral notebooks at the local stationer’s near my home in Awaji, knowing that each notebook would be the place where a best seller would be brought to life and I’d be rich and famous before I turned twenty.

Each train ride from Awaji to Karasuma—the station closest to my international school—took forty-seven minutes. That’s a lot of time to peer out of windows. In the afternoons, the train was less-crowded and when I got to sit down, I lured my characters, bringing them from outside where they began along the tracks, to inside the pages of my notebooks. I gave them words, obstacles to conquer, and lots of love in their hearts.

If Walt and I had ever crossed paths, or if we’d been seated on the same train, he might have used his pencil to draw me as a kid. Two blond ponytails sticking out from just below my ears, plaid skirt, red tights that bagged around my ankles by the time school got out, and a pair of black patent-leather shoes that were magnets for doggy poop. In my hand would be a yellow number 2 pencil sans an eraser on the end because erasers never last the lifetime of pencils. The pencil would be scratching out my messy words (I had what was known back then as sloppy penmanship) over the lined notebook’s pages, and my ears, although not as prominent as Mickey’s, would be stretched to listen for the conductor’s announcement of my train station.

I spent my childhood on trains. And when I wasn’t on one, I was running to catch one or if I missed it, waiting for the next one on the platform.

Every parent has some story they repeat and repeat, passing it onto their offspring. That’s how those tales of suffering get handed down like certain unwanted family heirlooms: “I had to walk to school in the snow.” “I had to walk up hill in the snow both ways.” “I had to walk in the snow both ways with no shoes.” Mine is: “I had to ride the train to school every day for forty-seven minutes. And that was just one way!” And like any other parent, I’m always subject to the indifferent attitudes my children display when my story is told.

When the Amtrak thundered over the track that day in 1996, I no longer rode the train to school. I was a grown woman of 35 with three of my own children. My middle child, Daniel, aged three, was by my side as we watched the silver cars streaked with red, white, and blue. One after another, after another, racing along, going somewhere. We stood, silent, as one does during the singing of the national anthem or during a prayer. The track was just beyond the slide and swings and the shade of the massive oak tree where we’d had a picnic lunch of peanut butter and jelly sandwiches because those are the easiest for moms to make.

The sound of a train has always tugged at the wild hope chord of my heart. A train symbolizes a way toward a happy destination, but more—the actual journey, looking out the window, passing places you’ve never set foot in, capturing vistas that are quaint, majestic, or even spiritual.

Daniel seemed to understand my need for reverence, he paused from playing with Caleb and tickling his baby brother Ben to be captivated with me.

But once the train was out of sight, he left me for the slide. He climbed up the ladder and at the fourth rung, stopped. “Where is the train going?” he asked.

“To the next station.”

But my reply didn’t seem enough for my son. “Where is the next station?”

I know that Moms are supposed to have all the answers, it comes in a kit they hand you at the hospital after delivery, soon after the umbilical cord is cut. Since the park was just miles from the state capital, I offered a guess and said, “Raleigh.”

“The train’s going to Raleigh?”

Why not? “Yeah.”

“Where’s Raleigh?” Daniel asked.

“Oh, about two miles from here.”

Satisfied with my answer, Daniel continued his climb to the top of the slide. From there he lifted a hand from the railing to wave at me. Just as my motherly instincts kicked in, and with them, the familiar phrase that all moms are taught to say, “Be careful!” Daniel said, “Bye, Mommy! I’m going to Raleigh.” And down he slid, his blond hair flying with the speed of an oncoming train. At the base of the slide sat his friend Caleb, whom Daniel managed to only nick with his shoe. “Sorry, Paleb,” Daniel apologized.

Caleb, unalarmed, continued drawing in the sand with two sticks, one in each hand, swirling them around as though stirring a pot of stew.

It was April, a warm and sunny Southern day. Baby Benny played in his stroller, his chubby hands wrapped around a stuffed blue dog, one that Daniel let him borrow. We often came to the IBM Park on clear days because kids and the outdoors are a freeing combination and moms should get away from houses that need cleaning. Everyone is entitled to some kind of liberation. On days when I babysat Caleb so that his mother, Susan, could work on her music duties at our church, he came with us. Susan packed him lunches in brown paper bags—chocolate pudding cups with peel-away lids, fat ham sandwiches, fruit gummies, and homemade cookies.

“You want that? How about this? Paleb, are you gonna eat this?” Daniel would sort through Caleb’s bag, pulling each item out, shaking it in front of his friend’s face, and asking. That which his friend did not want, Daniel, happily indulged.

They tell you in the Mom’s Kit that your children will always prefer the lunch of another child. Something to do with the grass being greener on the other side of the fence, which boils down to other moms are cooler because they know what kids really like. Sometimes, when I encouraged him, Caleb ate his ham sandwiches. Daniel eyed those sandwiches and every bite Caleb took as he solemnly chewed his own peanut butter and jelly. I eyed those sandwiches, too. Mother and son wishing we had a mom like Susan to make us lunch.

About three weeks later, when a train whistle sounded and a freight train clamored past us in the park—oil cars, refrigerated cars, a car with graffiti—Daniel waited until the caboose was only a dot on the landscape. Then, turning to me where I sat on the grass with Benny who was getting sand in between his bare toes, Daniel said, “The train’s going to Raleigh.”

I smiled. “Oh, is it?”

“Yes. Raleigh is the next station.”

Years later—eighteen to be exact—I was seated in my grandma Stubbs’ mauve recliner, one I had inherited after her death. I looked through old photographs, color prints that mark time. It was a parade of matte and glossy visits—Easters with baskets bigger than my children, the Christmas we got the puppy, birthday cakes decorated with thick butter cream icing, our first night in the new house on Monticello—all made their appearances, chronicling the passage of the years. Rachel, Ben and Liz had all walked in and out and back in the new house many times again and again, even the puppy that grew into a senile beagle, made her way through and out the doggie door. But there would be one person who would never walk through the laundry room door inside or out. No one would ever see his smile or hear his laughter. He was gone, and yet he was everywhere. He was in every story we remembered and told.

The afternoon in my living room of remembering gave into the evening. Through the winter stillness, a train whistle sang—low, mellow, permeating the air. I didn’t stand, but my whole being was attentive until the song turned into only a murmur, as I envisioned its journey down the familiar tracks, tracks I could not see, but knew too well.

“Where is it going?”

Oh, Daniel, you know.

“The train’s going to Raleigh.”

And back again. And even beyond. There is so much to be discovered.

The story was already there, I just had to find the best way to make it come to life.

Reflecting in the Silence

Recently I read two news articles. One was about being busy and the other was about a few moments of silence used to reflect. The busy article spoke on how we equate busy with important. People say they are busy and that makes them feel that their lives are filled and valued. I decided not to call myself busy years ago. I am not important and so I omitted describing myself as busy even at Christmas when our wood-working laser business fulfills hundreds of orders for last minute shoppers.

The other news piece I read had to do with the need for silence. Governor Ron DeSantis asked that in his state of Florida school children be given a few moments of silence at the start of the school day. He feels that kids need some time to reflect in quiet. There are no guidelines for what those moments are to be used for, no mandates of prayer or meditation. (If there had been a time of silence at the beginning of the school day when I was a child, I would have probably used the time to pray for math class to be canceled. Forever.)

Like the Governor I have felt my need for quiet. Away from laptops, cell phones, the TV, and even conversations. Just the solitude for the sake of seeing what it will unveil for me.

These days the cemetery is where I go to experience that much-needed break from the world. I load up the Jeep with pens and notebooks. Sometimes I stop at the gas station along the way and pick up a cup of coffee.

The cemetery, snuggled between Durham and Orange Counties, isn't far from my house. Once I was instantly greeted by a gaggle of Canadian Geese. They walked aimlessly in circles, some cackled by the grave markers, some drifted away from the group. I followed the wayward noisey ones, and took a photo. When I turned my back to head to my Jeep for my notebook and pen, I heard a loud cry. Those discombobulated geese had taken off into the air in a formed V-line. One second they had appeared helpless and confused and then in the next, they lifted wings and soared. They had a purpose. I watched them sail into the autumn sky---making their geese sounds as they flew---until they were out of sight.

After they left, the cemetery was still again. I sat by my son Daniel's grave and stretched my legs. In the silence I thought of how over the years I'd been wandering, uneasy, perhaps making sounds like cackling after Daniel died. But through moments of silence and a desire propelled by his memory, I came to find what I wanted, and what I needed, and that was purpose.

In the early days of monumental grief, I reverted to what I had done as a child----I wrote. I penned poems and articles and how-to grow through grief and loss pieces. I came up with my own psalms of woe. On scraps of paper I wrote book ideas. Some of my work was published. Most of it was too emotional and flawed and didn't need to see the light of day. In the moments of reflection (some silent, many with tears), my spirit called out to God. My wrestling propelled me toward healing.

And none of it could have been done without participating in those bouts of silent contemplation. What is most important to me, especially as I get older, is not filling my days with activities and events, but in making the time for the simplicity of quiet. I need my treks to the cemetery. From these silent experiences, my spirit gains strength and I can hear life calling me to joy.

Cooking With Author Linda Rondeau

Today I welcome author Linda Rondeau to the Patchwork Quilt Blog. Hello, Linda! She has a recipe for us and a book to read. Let's start with the recipe.

MAC SOUP

Linda says: Since childhood, this has been my son’s favorite meal. Though he is now 48, he still asks me to make this for him whenever he visits us or we visit him. I’ve given his wife the recipe, but he still likes me to make it for him. Maybe the aromas send him back to those cold winter days when Mac Soup was a must. No matter how old I get, I’m happy to do these little things for my now mature children. There may come a day, when I won’t remember how or am too feeble to make MAC SOUP. So during these twilight years, I will never refuse for as long as I’m able.

INGREDIENTS

1 lb. ground beef

1 small box elbow macaroni

6-8 cubes beef bouillon (according to taste … may use reduced sodium if needed)

1 large can tomato juice or V8 juice

Suggested seasonings: onion salt or minced onions, seasoned salt, black pepper, red pepper, tabasco sauce (go easy), should have a little “kick” when you take a trial taste

1. Brown ground beef, drain, and set aside.

2. Dissolve bouillon cubes in 1 cup boiling water (you can use instant bouillon if you prefer).

3. Cook elbow macaroni according to directions on the box. Drain. Set aside.

4. Put tomato juice or V8 juice into a large pot. Add ground beef, bouillon, and macaroni.

5. Heat to slow boil.

6. Season to taste, simmer for about five to ten minutes to allow seasoning to blend.

ABOUT WHO PUT THE VINEGAR IN THE SALT?

"Linda has hit a home run once again! Her book, Who Put the Vinegar in the Salt? is filled with wisdom, encouragement, and the power found in God's Word. This book is oh so much more than shaking the salt shaker. It is about being wrapped up, tied up, and tangled up in Jesus. It truly makes the reader evaluate where they are and where they wantto be. Linda shoots straight from the hip to touch our heart!" ~ TammyWhitehurst.com

The world offers much beneficial self-help advice. Shouldn’t the Christian seek to be the best possible version of themselves?

Aren’t we supposed to be good people?

Why not look to the world to solve life’s problems?

Because God has called us to be salt.

While there is much good to be found, like vinegar, the world’s best advice falls short of God’s recipe to live a victorious Christian life.

In a down-home, friendly manner, the author provides analogies, inspirational stories, anecdotes, a wealth of Scripture, and optional study guides for both individuals and groups, inviting the believer to discover God’s desires for his salt.

Buy Linda's newest book here.

ABOUT LINDA WOOD RONDEAU

By the author of I Prayed for Patience, God Gave Me Children.

A veteran social worker, Linda Wood Rondeau’s varied church experience and professional career affords a unique perspective into the Christian life. When not writing or speaking, she enjoys the occasional round of golf, visiting museums, and taking walks with her best friend in life, her husband of over forty years. The couple resides in Hagerstown, Maryland where both are active in their local church. Readers may learn more about the author, read her blog, or sign up for her newsletter by visiting www.lindarondeau.com.

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Making Water Delicious!

So . . . we are told to drink water. Now I never had a problem with that. I liked water and preferred it at meals over soda or iced tea. Even when my cousin's wife called it a boring drink, I, as a college sophomore, was not bothered by her words. Drinking water with food made sense to me. I filled my glass in the college cafeteria.

Fast forward to me now. I still like water and order it with food whenever I eat out. But somewhere along the line, I started to drink less of it at home. Was I starting to find it boring?

At the grocery stores I purchased no-calorie sparkling water and loved that it came in a variety of flavors. There are many brands that have this type of drink, and if you are okay with the carbonated-feel to the beverages, lemon and lime Bubly or cranberry La Croix are refreshing and fun, although over-priced (my opinion).

The other night I read two pieces about the value of drinking water. In a book about turning 60 it said to drink according to your body weight. Take you weight and divide it in half. Then drink an ounce for every pound (so half your weight). If you weigh 120 pounds, drink 60 ounces of water per day. Whew! To me that seems like a lot of water. I'm happy if a drink 24 ounces a day.

The U.S. National Academies of Sciences, Engineering, and Medicine has decided that an adequate daily fluid intake is: About 15.5 cups (3.7 liters) of fluids a day for men. About 11.5 cups (2.7 liters) of fluids a day for women. No mention of your weight there.

June's issue of Better Homes and Gardens has a small piece about drinking water. It includes how to add herbs and fruit to your water glass. Now that piqued my interest because, over the recent years, I have been doing this. I started with slices of lemon and limes. Now I drink more water if the water has a little bit of flavor to it.

Pizzaz added to my glass makes for great sips. Sliced lemons and limes add susbtance as well as flavor. I like ginger hot tea, so I thought I should add some ginger root. I currently have a pitcher I keep in the fridge with not only sliced lemons, but peeled ginger root. I really like the subtle flavor the ginger adds. I have mint in my garden and rosemary. I sometimes add those to my water pitcher. Sliced cucumbers also create a nice flavor. So many possibilities!

So happy water-drinking! Here's to staying hydrated!

The Memories We Cherish

After my son Daniel died at age four, I asked family and friends to send their memories for a memory album I created. Here's one from my Dad sent from Japan where he and Mom were missionaries for 38 years.

It doesn't take long to write a memory of a loved one. Write one to cherish and don't hesitate to ask others to write memories of their own.

Spring From the Eyes and Nose of a Puppy

I turned 60 this January and aside from the few minutes it takes to get out of bed to feel fully functional each morning, I consider myself healthy. However, with the shutdown/lockdown that we continue to face, I find myself feeling a bit less healthy. I want to rip off my mask; I want to jump on the direct flight from Raleigh-Durham to Vegas like Carl and I used to (without masks); I want to go back to church and stand with the congregation and sing----even if my voice is off-key. I want to have friends in my home and make dinners with pasta and lots of cheese.

I stop from my whining because someone is at my knee. It's my seven-month-old puppy, Bella, who has brought a squirrel toy to me and wants me to play. I take the toy and toss it across the hardwood. She chases after it, stops, grabs it with her mouth, and races back to me. We go outside into the sunshine where I toss a tennis ball and she follows its path along the driveway, picks it up, and returns to me. She drops the ball and jumps into a pile of raked leaves we keep for her to play in (yes, it's spring and yes, we still have fallen leaves from the 40+ trees on our property). She looks at me with her beautiful expressive face and then makes a bed inside the pile.

When the first iris bloomed---the first iris Bella had even seen----she introduced herself to it. She was curious and cautious. Her approach to the iris made me think about trying new things, about wonder, about curiosity. I felt that perhaps in a season of dismal (not only the continuing pandemic but the excessive government spending, our southern border crisis, etc. and etc.) it was time to take a break from the daily news and see the world through the eyes of a puppy.

I walk around the yard and take photos of the flowers, and then take a few of one of our neighbor's trees with the large pink blooms. I breathe in the fresh warm air and note the blue in the sky. Bella skips over to me and I watch her nose sniff scents that I cannot smell. "It’s been estimated that dogs can smell anywhere from 1,000 to 10,000 times better than people," writes Lynn Buzhardt, DVM. "Dogs also have a great homing instinct that depends on their ability to smell. Since dogs move their nostrils independently, they can determine the direction of an odor and use their sense of smell like a compass."

I sit on the back stoop with Bella, together--she with her compass-nose twitching in the air, and me with my camera----focused on the magnitude of creation supplied by our Creator. All of this new life for us to take in. Every year I have enjoyed the season through color, touch, smell, and that sense that causes me to say: With so much beauty, how can life not be good?

As Bella snifs my hand and rests against me, my prayer is: Don't let me be so bogged down by the way things are (things that I cannot control) that I miss the wonder and beauty of my 60th spring.

Broken Faith

The first Christmas without my child was one I wanted to avoid. Yet bereavement is not a journey we get to bypass; bereavement is a journey made to go through, and discover how to live in spite of sorrow.

December 1997

At the strip mall I entered a chain Christian bookstore I’d been to many times before. A Christmas tree with red bows and silver and gold ornaments greeted me. I was aware of the piped-in music because it was one of my favorite carols that played, “O Little Town of Bethlehem”. Whoever was singing had a rich, soulful voice, which transported me back to last Christmas.

Last Christmas we had our own decorated tree, expecting to spend Christmas at home with my brother and his girlfriend who had come to visit. But days before the 25th Daniel ended up in the hospital due to some unknown cause. He’d spiked a fever, was delirious, but although numerous tests were done, nothing grew in the Petri dish. Next Christmas will be different, I had thought, as I sat by his bedside reading books to him. Next Christmas he’ll be done with his protocol and we’ll be able to celebrate at home like a normal family.

We were now living next Christmas.

As the music in the bookstore continued, I walked down the aisles. One aisle was stocked with motivational books, books with titles that were all about how to increase your faith and trust Jesus in all things. Book after book. Believe, grow, love, trust!

I made my way toward the door, ready to leave. I'd been crazy to think that I could shop during this season. With a hand on the door, I paused. To my right I saw a table that had a sign on it: Discount.

Discount tables and I have always gotten along. I’ve never met a discount I didn’t like. On the table among plaques, and tree ornaments, a stocking hanger with the manger scene piqued my interest. There in the middle of the decoration was baby Jesus in the cradle with Mary and a lamb to the left of him. Joseph crouched by Mary and the three wisemen with their gifts were together. A donkey relaxed by the foot of the cradle. I picked the item up, turning it over in my hand. I noted the weight of it. It was a heavy piece.

As with anything that’s placed on sale, I want to know why. Peering closely, I saw the tiny star at the top of the hanger had a faint diagonal line underneath that didn't look like it belonged. Two of the points of the star were chipped. The donkey was missing an ear. The item had to have been dropped or hit; the star must have broken away from the rest of those below it. Someone had used glue to seal it back to the roof of the stable. I suppose the donkey's right ear was never found. I ran my fingers over all the edges and figures, over the defects. I had never had a stocking hanger before, but that was not why this decoration continued to stay in my hands. This object connected to me.

It belonged to me.

I purchased the discounted broken item. It was right within my frugal budget; it had been marked down from twenty-five dollars to just seven-ninety-nine. Now it really was mine.

On the way home, I drove past homes with festive lights strung from eaves. Plastic blow-up snowmen and big, happy Santas waved from neighbors’ lawns. Wreaths graced front doors. Inside the windows I saw decorated pine and spruce trees, their twinkling lights bright and warm.

When I got home, I hung my new purchase on the mantle in the family room. I told my husband that the item was the beginning of a collection of Christmas decorations, decorations for the broken.

Next year, maybe it would be easier to breathe during the holiday season. Next year maybe the air would not be thickened with brokenness. But maybe not. There were no promises for an easy life; but there was the promise of Emmanuel always with us.



O little town of Bethlehem

How still we see thee lie

Above thy deep and dreamless sleep

The silent stars go by

Yet in thy dark streets shineth

The everlasting Light

The hopes and fears of all the years

Are met in thee tonight.

An Irish Soda Bread Day

Irish Soda Bread is one of the first recipes I recall making as a child. I made a loaf the other day and fell in love with the bread once again. I found some recipes online and using a few of them came up with this one.

Quick and Easy Irish Soda Bread Recipe

Ingredients

• 1 3/4 cups buttermilk

• 1 large egg

• 4 and 1/4 cups all-purpose flour

• 3 TS sugar

• 1 ts baking soda

• 1 ts salt

• 5 TS unsalted butter, cold and cubed

• 1 to 2 cups raisins (you can eye-ball this; I like a lot of raisins, you might want less)

• 1 ts caraway seeds

Directions

Preheat oven to 400°F. Grease a 9-10 inch cake pan or pie plate/dish. Or you can place a piece of parchment paper on top of a baking stone. (I used a baking stone I have from Pampered Chef.)

Whisk the buttermilk and egg together. In another bowl, whisk the flour, sugar, baking soda, and salt together. Cut in the butter using a pastry cutter, a fork, or your fingers. Work the dough until into coarse crumbs. Stir in the raisins. Pour in the buttermilk/egg mixture.

Fold the dough together until dough it is too stiff to stir. With floured hands on a lightly floured surface, work the dough into an (approximately) 8 or 9 inch round loaf. Knead the dough lightly. Make sure all the flour is moistened.

Place the dough onto/into the prepared pan/stone/pan. With a sharp knife, make an X into the top. (You can melt 4 TS of butter and brush it on the top at this time if you would like.) Sprinkle with caraway seeds.

Bake for 45 minutes until the bread is golden brown. Test the center with a chopstick or toothpick to make sure it has been baked through.

Remove from the oven and allow the loaf to cool for 10 to 15 minutes, then transfer to a wire rack.

Cut a slice, spread real butter on it, and enjoy!

For the love of dogs

In the mornings I wake to low whimperings and deep breathes. Bella, our 5-month old boxer, is on the other side of the closed bedroom door. Carl usually gets up before me and takes Bella from her crate to the backyard to "be quick". After she's inside the living room and he's at the computer, she runs upstairs to find me. I get dressed to the sounds of her sniffing and whimpering at the cracks in the door. When I open it, there she is----almost-40 pounds of her leaping toward me. Before I take a step from the bedroom into the hallway, she is a ball of wiggling energy. She has learned not to jump on my legs. I make a fuss over her, reaching down to cradle her head. "Good morning, sweet girl." On a whim, Carl and I drove over 1,000 miles to Tennessee and back for this brown and white furry creation. From the moment I saw her photo on the computer screen in the ad on Craigslist, I knew that she and I were going to be friends.

The reason I knew I could bond with this puppy was not because of my inherent love for dogs or because I have always been a dog owner. The ability to get close to this puppy and let her lick my ears and climb into my lap was because of a different dog. The kids named another boxer, our mahogany and white Levi.

Levi entered our lives as a puppy over ten years ago. Carl is a lover of boxer dogs and wanted one. I had barely agreed. We already had a dog----the kids' beagle named Dixie. Why did we need another? I had plans that when Dixie went over the Rainbow Bridge, that would end my dog responsibilities. No more puppy chow to purchase, no more dog hair to sweep, no more vet bills. But something unexpected occurred. Levi did something to my heart. He wormed his way in with his expressions, his love of ice cubes, his soulful "singing" when Carl played the harmonica and the way he'd rest his head against my thigh when we'd watch TV. He gave me confidence in how to train a dog and how to enjoy dog antics. He was stubborn, he was handsome, he barked too loudly at any UPS truck, he smudged windows with his nose, he pressed against my side when I cried over things that hurt my spirit. The dance he performed whenever he saw kibbles being poured into his bowl was enough to show me that while he made us happy, we could make him happy, too. The simple things in life are worth rejoicing over. Every night he twirled around until his bowl was filled and dinner was served.

And when he was gray and suffering from seizures brought on by a brain tumor (the tumor was an educated guess by our vet; we did not get an MRI done), I told him to rest and if his resting took him to the Rainbow Bridge to cross it, by all means, cross it. When he died an hour after I'd whispered those words into his ear, I sobbed.

Bella and I walk down the carpeted stairs to the landing where the staircase turns. There's enough room for both of us to sit. Bella sits beside me and when I put my face by hers, she licks my neck. I feel a connection to Levi at this spot. I tell Bella that this landing is where Levi liked to lay and watch the world through the smudged-by-his-nose window below. In the late mornings the sun makes its way through the window and warms the carpet. I suppose the older boxer liked the way it warmed his fur.

Bella and I sit together for a few minutes even though the sun has yet to reach us. We see a young woman in a florescent hat jogging on the street. Next, we watch a boy on a bike. The bike's front wheel hits something in the road and the bike halts. The boy calls for his mama. A woman rushes toward the boy. We can't hear what she says, but the boy nods and starts pedaling again. Bella moves closer to me. I don't know how much longer she will put up with my ritual of sitting, but I'm grateful for her company. She waits until I stand and then together we continue down the last steps---me, slowly, she, scampering----into the hallway and living room.

We are ready to face the world and all the challenges it offers.