T​he story wraps around my mother and her loss, but the truth is that the actions and character of my father is the “forever-after story.”  How he chose to make lemonade out of lemons for both he and my mother was the maintenance required for living with such sorrow.  Choosing to live in the present and make others needs more important than one’s own needs is part of this message.
 
MEMORIAL DAY
 
I only remember sunny Memorial Days from my childhood in Portland, Oregon.  Often the sky was full of white puffy clouds, some transitioning into threatening grey, but most often Memorial Day was a day we’d normally be at the beach or on a lake with the boat or visiting with favorite cousins. 

Perhaps I only remember the holiday as a sunny one because the number one priority of the day was visiting two cemeteries which seemed so far from my home and tending two graves with hand shovels, weeders and new plants.

As children often do, we went along with the tradition as if it were something all families did on that day.  We’d rise at our normal 6 am time and eat breakfast as a family. Dad would gather us to help clean up the breakfast items and do the dishes while Mom would prepare the picnic basket.  Into the car would go the gardening tools, gloves and plants along with our Car Bingo game.  I truly can’t remember carrying much else to keep us occupied -- that is what car windows were for.  With the radio blaring Indy 500 pre-race jabber, we headed for Estacada. 
 
Estacada was less than 30 miles away but may as well have been 500 hundred miles away. It took so looooong to get there.  In those days “out of town” was only 29 blocks away. Busy city streets soon became windy roads through dairy farms and countryside.  The smells changed from pavement to fir trees and green grass.
 
In my youngest days, it was hard to understand why we had to stop at two cemeteries. The first one was the grave of a baby.  “Douglas Clayton Hoffmeister. Born September 10, 1944- Died September 20, 1944.”  The grave site seemed so old and the incident foreign and unclear.  I just knew.  My Mom worked silently and furiously, pulling weeds and clearing away the overgrowth.  I don’t know what she was thinking, and quite possibly she was simply focused on the job at hand.  I just remember a blue handled hand-hoe that got a pretty good work-out.  At the end of the task, the gravestone was swiped down and cleared of grass trimmings and moss.  I vaguely remember using a stick to clean moss out of the etchings on the headstone.  That act seemed to connect me to the “soul” of the story - a story I didn’t yet know.

Dad stayed in the car.

On to the next cemetery we went to the grave of Victor Hoffmeister, a fallen hero of World War II.  I knew that because, even with the weeds and overgrowth, there was still a flag planted at his headstone.  The process of quietly cleaning up was repeated -- and by this time you could hear the Indy 500 from the radio in the car where my Dad sat.

I remember the swoosh of my Mom’s sundress as she knelt down to start the cleanup; the essence of White Shoulders wafted from the air as it passed over me.  I don’t remember smiling.  Perhaps in this moment is when the empathetic side of me first peeked out.  I remember an ache in my heart and my face feeling, if not showing, the grief that finally emanated from my Mother’s heart.  I now know that she was protecting us from the grief she felt and masking her feelings to keep the confusion away - both hers and ours. 

Dad still sat in the car.  That’s what was confusing.  My Dad was a hard worker, and when there was a task to be done, he would never leave my mother alone.  He always encouraged teamwork and helping each other out.  Why was he letting my Mom work so hard on this holiday?  Perhaps it was because he was a veteran of World War II and he wasn’t supposed to work on this holiday.  That’s how we celebrated Mother’s and Father’s Day.  No work allowed for the celebrated parent.

The work done, Dad would emerge from the car and help us clean up and stow the tools back in the trunk.  I remember rinsing our hands under a faucet.  Sometimes we stayed and opened the picnic basket right there and ate our sandwiches, cookies and fruit. Other times we would head the couple of miles to Grandma and Grandpa’s house and visit awhile before heading back to the city.

Over the years, the veil gradually lifted as the story of those two graves were revealed.  I don’t remember who told me and the fact that my father first did the heavy shoveling and weeding before he retreated into the car only solidified my respect for him.  I do remember the feelings of grief and sadness as I would look at my mother in a different light when she worked so feverishly at the graves of her first husband (and childhood sweetheart) and the son he never knew.  Killed in Italy, the telegram announcing the baby’s birth crossed with the telegram from the Red Cross delivering the news of his death to my Mother, newly a mother herself.  The baby died within days.

I gained a new respect for my mother, who at the young age of 20 became a war widow and had lost her only child.

And I honored and respected my father and the wisdom and possibly restraint it took to “retreat” to the car to allow my mother to grieve in love for two people he did not know, would never know and existed in a part of her heart he would never share.  He was heroic in my eyes.  My dad, a World War Vet himself, experiencing the clean-up of Dachau and the horrors of War, knew enough to stand-down in this moment.  He may as well have saluted the fallen hero.  He did with his heart.
 
EPILOGUE 1 - 2021
 
This Memorial Day, 2021, as we begin to emerge from a year and a half of isolation from Covid-19 and start to heal and rebuild our nation, still under attack by those claiming to be patriots while defiling the constitution has prompted me to look at my feelings around that.  It is not the political leanings of others I oppose, but the lack of caring for the lives of others that disappoints me.
 
Dad was the promoter of teamwork and respect for team members.  I always thought of this story from my mother’s perspective and although I learned from and was honored by my father’s kind actions, I didn’t deep dig enough.
 
Dad was not only respecting my mother’s grief, but he was honoring the life and sacrifice of Victor.  They were team members.  They were a part of the same Army, fighting the same war.  Dad’s perspective was clear: the only way to live life was to love one another and “Do unto others as you would have them do unto you.”  He also believed the words of Jesus, “Love your neighbors as yourself.”  He was not a religious man, but he was deeply rooted in the command to love one another.
 
The difference between many fellow Americans and our World War II Vets, now a rapidly dwindling community, is perspective -- the understanding of teamwork, respect for others and the important task of preventing another Holocaust from ever happening again.  Now, we see some “Americans” who either deny that Holocaust or are endorsing the same platforms as the Nazi’s in Germany.  My Dad would be devastated to see some Americans have this perspective now.  Dad worked all his life and most of his time and efforts were to help make other lives better than his.
 
Dad’s simple gesture every Memorial Day has been an annual life lesson for me – to see the needs of others and to help heal the hearts of others.
 
On this and every Memorial Day, I honor and cherish my father who, with a simple education, learned well, and put into practice, the importance of being a lover of life and helper to others, as a small little step towards healing the world.
 
Until I die, I plan on touching on the rest of my revelations, not shared here, and on the new lessons I learn as I grow in awareness to the courageous, brave soldiers who died in battle in WWII and to those who survived to tell their story.
 
You see, as Dad sat in that car, he was honoring a fallen soldier, the same rank as he, and lived to love, cherish and care for his widow until his death.
 
That is the lesson for the world, this year.
 

​Writing has been a part of my being since I learned to write in first grade.  Second grade was the best, though.  I got to buy a new Big Chief pencil tablet and I could use it whenever I wanted.  It seemed I wanted to write whenever I could.  I envied the fact that my big sister had homework, so I assigned myself a writing project and turned it in everyday.  My teacher provided me with paper that had room to draw a picture and enough lines to describe the picture.  The trouble is, I had no idea, at the time, that a picture paints a 1000 words, so I used my Big Chief tablet and added on the extra pages I needed.  I still have a few examples of those early childhood blogs.  I loved homework until the day my second grade teacher assigned real homework for the first time.  It was great the first few weeks.  It was only one or two short assignments a week.  I stopped the “pretend” homework and tackled my real homework.  One day, I left my homework on the counter.  When Mrs. Patterson asked us to turn it in, I had nothing to show.  She didn’t know it, because all we had to do was put it in the homework box.  I was panicked inside and did not know what to do.  I knew what happened if someone in my sister’s 7th grade class did not turn in her homework, and I didn’t want that to happen to me.  I went home under a cloud of dread.  I could not eat dinner and pretended I was not feeling well.  Once I got into bed things got worse.  Problems always seem bigger when the lights go out and there is seemingly little to be done.  I fell asleep but woke up startled from a nightmare and cried out at the top of my lungs.  My mother came running to see what was wrong, probably assuming I was really sick.  I fell into her arms sobbing and blurted out the entire story about forgetting my homework.  Thinking the second grade teacher was being unreasonable; she called the teacher the next day.  I really don’t know what happened in that exchange.  My Mom was never confrontational and was very passive in her ways.  I’m sure she just told the teacher what I had shared.  Later that day, my teacher gently took me aside and told me how much she appreciated my diligence and dedication to my homework.  She reminded me that I was the only student who had ever done homework on her own.  And then she reminded me that forgetting homework in the second grade was normal and we were just practicing to be responsible in preparation for the upper grades.  And then she hugged me.
 
That could have been the end of my writing days, if I had stayed in the fear.
 
Fast-forward about 53 years later when I turned in my Big Chief tablet for a computer.  God had nudged me to get busy and start writing some incredible stories that I’d held in my heart for many years.  He even helped me figure out a style in which to write.  Oh, my, writer I had become.  I blogged for 3 years before I had another occurrence similar to what happened in second grade.  It seemed I had let someone down with something I had written.  I did what some would call due-diligence, a comprehensive appraisal of the situation.  In my heart, I knew what I had written was my truth and was about me.  However, I became fearful.  I was afraid to put anything out that could hurt someone, or cause pain. How would I ever know? How could I be responsible for the response of others?  It seemed impossible. I froze in that fear and only wrote outlines for stories I would tell at another time.
 
A year ago, after waiting 5 years, the nudge from God became a shove.  It’s as if He lit a fire underneath me and said, * ” For such a time as this you were placed upon the earth to hear my voice and do my will, whatever it is.”  It is true that when God has inspired me and I immerse myself into the call, I am happy, filled with joy and productive beyond compare.
 
A few days later, one my Spiritual Direction partners heard my story and recommended I join a Facebook writing mentor group, WriteMoreWriteNow.  I knew it was right.  I did, and immediately started writin­­g––not blogging, writing.  In late spring the leader of the group announced the possibility of co-authoring an Anthology for a December devotional. After stating my interest, I was offered 3 days in the 31 day devotional, The True Meaning of Giving-Daily December Devotions to Delight Your Soul.    What an exhilarating time it was, to strengthen my writing and editing  skills, learn how to submit my writing and watch as our leader engaged in the process of Amazon Publishing.  In preparation for a November 11th launch, we learned how to send press packages, build our author page on Amazon, start an advertising lead-in, and write our bios which would include links to our other books, blogs, and websites. It was time to revive my blogging. 
 
So here I am. It is a new beginning for this blogger.  I feel as if my second grade teacher has hugged me again. I go forward with more confidence and gratitude for the lessons learned during the pause.  There are always good lessons to learn in times of darkness and chaos.  We must remember to take a look at our pain, discern what is truth, accept responsibility where needed, change what doesn’t work and forge on.
 
I am and author and a blogger.  
 
In the spirit of renewal, I changed the name of my blog to Peanut Butter, Pickles and Mayo.  What’s with that name?  Aside from the fact that it is my favorite sandwich, my blog will contain subjects humorous, serious, spiritual, informative and historical.  It’s just a combination of very interesting flavors that together become something very special.
 
Welcome to my blog.  
 
For such a time as this
For now and all the days He gives
I am here, I am here
And I am His.
 
Esther 4:14
For Such A Time As This
Words and Music
Wayne Watson

I come from pioneer stock. I know that the pioneer spirit of my 3 times great grandfather, his wife, and his brother runs deeply in me. As an adult, I learned of their wagon train stories starting in Kentucky to their settlement in Oregon, and those stories seemed to spark a note familiar to me. I felt affirmed and uplifted as I compared my life stories to theirs.
 
I've always had a sense of justice, compassion for those who have less and most importantly, understanding of worth for those deemed unworthy of the same God-given life we were all born into. I believe my strong sense of justice and compassion for those who struggle came from my ancestors.
 
My pioneer ancestors were compassionate people who, all along the trail, camped outside the wagon train and took opportunities to befriend the Native Americans when they could.
 
At the Sierra Nevada destination, they had a choice to go west over the Sierras or head north to a settlement at Fort Whitman in the Northwest Territory.  They chose the northern route and arrived safely in Washington.  The party going west over the Sierra's later became known as the Donner Party.
 
They, as always, chose not to settle inside Fort Whitman but rather chose to befriend the local natives, one of them, the Cayuse.  They learned each other’s language, they taught each other their ways of hunting, fishing, baking, surviving.  They'd learned the languages of the natives to get along and to appreciate the wisdom and respect they had for the natural resources they were blessed with.   The language they learned went far beyond the words they spoke.  My ancestors had an instinctive way of understanding that people live in different languages. 
 
Acts 2 The Message A Sound Like a Strong Wind2 1-4 When the Feast of Pentecost came, they were all together in one place. Without warning there was a sound like a strong wind, gale force—no one could tell where it came from. It filled the whole building. Then, like a wildfire, the Holy Spirit spread through their ranks, and they started speaking in several different languages as the Spirit prompted them.
 
This scripture has been a solid foundation for my ministry as I constantly discern what the call means for me in the moment.
 
My original understanding of my call to the ministry of Wholeness and Healing was so limited and literal, that I bounced around for a few years trying to fit into a niche.  I received training in Spiritual Direction and continued my ministry in music and Worship Design but did not understand that the integration of my gifts was substantial to my overall ministry.  All my gifts were crucial to speaking a language that others could understand.
 
I was a visual learner and often became lost when all that was offered were lectures, a textbook, and a test.  I changed colleges because of that and later in life realized that others, like me, have difficulty sitting through a worship service if all that is offered is a sermon and reading of the scripture.  It is a different language for me.
 
Now, in my practice, I feel so comfortable and productive when others, like me, need some form of visual, interactive prayer practice, or some form of the arts to experience God in worship.
 
My ancestors knew this. Every human being is worthy of love, and honoring them and their ways may bring us closer to the truth if we understand the language.
 
When Christianity took hold in our world, many pagan rituals, symbols, and practices were incorporated into the teachings of Christ.  Why?  It was a language and expression they could translate.  Those rituals, in themselves, were not an issue unless they became the focus of our worship and not a tool for worship.  When things like candles and music, bells and shouts of Amen or pictures/icons or crosses are used as visuals to enhance worship, then those of us who need interactive prayer and worship visuals are speaking and hearing a language we understand.  When we offer these examples, we speak back to those who learn in a different language. 
 
Some feel uncomfortable with the music, or dancing in church, or smudging, or incense, or statues. The very same people may love stained glass windows. Those windows are no different than the chants of Taizé´ in a candle-lit chapel, or a hand-painted banner hanging next to the cross.
 
I live on the Oregon Coast close to the end of the Oregon Trail.  The history of the Native Americans and the settlers here is much the same as in the rest of the nation. What I know is that my ancestors knew enough to camp outside Fort Whitman.  They camped on land they knew was not their own, and befriended the local natives, honoring their way of life, their “language.” Where did that sense of justice and honor come from?  And, with the same sense of honor and justice, their new friends, the Cayuse, encouraged my grandparents to pack up and head south.  They informed my family that the Fort would be attacked the next week. The Whitman Massacre was devastating to the white settler and to their particular way of converting the “Indians” to Christianity.  I think that my ancestors deeply discerned spirit and recognized the activity of Holy Spirit in their new friends and engaged with them with that knowledge. You see, the act of converting others is something we do in humility.  I am a firm believer in Prevenient Grace, a grace that precedes the human decision, the fact that God is present and wooing us into a love relationship by showing and teaching love in us before we even know what that means. I am convinced that when we see the awakening of spirit in others, we are also forever changed.  I believe that it was this understanding and discernment that was the inspiration for my family’s kindness and concern as well as the importance of treating others as they wanted to be treated.  I rejoice in their wisdom and know that my ancestors live in me with the same spirit of justice for others.  There has always been a deep drive in me to love others with compassion and a love that only God can provide.
 
My pioneer spirit, partnered with my understanding of the Pentecost story, has been my inspiration for teaching and listening and providing visuals and music in my ministry. I lead retreats and workshops using different forms of the arts to help bring God’s message to those seeking Him. It is my language.  It is my gift, bestowed upon me from God, and I am empowered daily by the Holy Spirit to communicate in ways many don’t understand. But those that do, may just become richer in love, deeper in faith and closer to God because they hear God in the language to which they were born.
 
Perhaps my ancestral history is why I so often refer to the wisdom of the native American animal totem. I smudge my home with beckoning calls to the Holy Spirit to be in this place, to heal me and bring me closer to God. It is with great honor that I listen to the prayers spoken to God when a drumming circle is drumming their prayers.  God hears our language.  We must never assume that those of us who pray in diverse ways are any less Christian or God-fearing than the other.  Listen and pray to God in your language and then sit and wait for your answer.  Listen for the still, small voice of God who yearns to fill your heart with love and encourages you to use the gifts you have received.   
 
 
 

  It’s the same with sorting the nuts and bolts jar in the garage.  All those bolts, screws and assorted nails go into their own little drawer. Then, at the bottom are those lonely brass tacks, glazer’s points, and a rubber black thingy that one might just need someday.  They seem like important little doodads well worth keeping.  They all get tossed in the empty cottage cheese carton and plopped back on the shelf.  All those papers and extra thing-a-ma-jigs are important enough to warrant space, just not their own.  How many labels have I titled Miscellaneous?
 
Sometimes, at the bottom of the paper pile is a long forgotten bonus!  Whoa!  I forgot we got that insurance refund check.  Score!!!  
 
Such, is this trip to Norway.  Even on the airplane trip over, I was having a hard time understanding just where this was to be filed.   It’s not a vacation.  It wasn’t/isn’t in our budget.  It wasn’t all business trip.  John would have 3-4 days off (HAHAHA – right!) in the middle of the two weeks.  It would ideally have been a part of a planned, future trip around Europe, with destinations in mind.  What it was/is is simply a bonus that just happened to pop into our lives amidst some complicated and chaotic times.
 
So we will plop it into the miscellaneous file of life (there’s not a cottage cheese carton big enough for this experience) and treat it with respect.
 
And that’s just how the first week started. 
 
We left the house at 7am Saturday morning PDT.  We arrived to the hotel at 4:30pm Sunday, Norway time.  That’s – Sunday, 7:30 am – Oregon time.  The flight attendants try to trick you on the plane.  They give you sleeping masks, feed you poison and expect you to get some sleep.  We planned on it.  I even took my infamous Ambien – but only ½ tablet.   And, for John and I?  We got a great seat at the bulkhead ------- right next to a sweet new mom and her 5-month-old baby.  We fell in love.  We must have looked like the loving, understanding grandparent types when they assigned our seat at the gate.  That darling baby cried the entire trip.  John sleeps through anything, but not this time.  Neither one of us could sleep, not so much from the noise, but from our parental training of 36 years.  If a baby cries you go on alert.
 
Arriving at Fredriksten Hotell*, I looked around the hotel room, said, “this is nice,” took my picture of “I Can See Sweden From Here,”(see below) and passed out on the bed.  John on the other hand who can nap in a blink of an eye, had 40 minutes before he had to get his poor jet-lagged self to his client’s board meeting and annual dinner. 
“So long, sucka,” I say as I nestle into my snuggly European duvet and feather bed. 
 
This would not be just any dinner.  John and the board ate at the 5 star restaurant we would experience just a few days later. 
 
So, here is the formula:
1 always sleepy John + 1 terribly sleep-deprived John + 1 Bored err, Board Meeting, + 7 courses of fine, fine food+ 8 wine pairings = HAHAHAHAHAHA!
 
 I have no words to describe this.  However, later that week when we were hosted at the same restaurant, one of John’s clients kept apologizing to him and promised that next time they would plan the meeting and dinner so he wouldn’t be so tired or jet-lagged.  So, I asked John later if he’d fallen asleep.  He paused and slowly said, “I don’t thinks so.”  I know my John.  Anytime he has carbs he is a goner after dinner.  Just ask my kids.  That is how he became the person doing dishes after dinner.  Not wanting to lose any precious time with his kids, he would wash dishes to stay awake.  We called it his “stay awake” chore.  We don’t really eat many carbs anymore.  He still does the dishes and he still falls asleep after dinner if he imbibes in carbs.  That is usually no problem – UNLESS YOU ARE AT A DINNER WITH YOUR CLIENTS!  I giggle at the thought of John snoring into his kjøttkaker lapskaus and his kaffistova .  At least the meatballs probably blocked his snoring.
 
I continued to sleep.  For the most part, stores and most restaurants are closed on Sunday, so, the receptionist at the hotel ”threw together” a shrimp and salmon salad, green beans, the best bread and fruit for me.  And, then I slept until John arrived.  And then I slept through Monday, taking small walks and just taking in the magnificent view.  John on the other had to get up and drive into the office at 7.
 
Luckily I saw the kaffistova still smeared on his beard, wiped it off and sent him off.
 
Now, file me under ZZZZZ!  We are here.

5​In fact, I was rudely awakened in the middle of an Ambien[i] induced sleep, which hadn’t even commenced until 3:00am when I finally gave in after a restless evening of decision making.
 
It is hard enough to discern a sleep-interrupted phone call when not taking drugs. Ambien does its job and takes me away to a deep and relaxing sleep.  Awakened from that state, I had less than five minutes to make a decision about traveling to Norway in the next 5 days.   There really was no answer but yes, right?  This trip was a gracious gift by a valuable client of John’s.  They asked John to attend some significant meetings occurring over a two-week period, including the Mother’s Day weekend.  John told them he would if he could bring me.  They did not hesitate to say yes.  And, the client houses John in a company owned hotel, so even that cost was eliminated.  Woo Hoo!
 
Two hours later I awakened “for real,” questioning my state of panic!  I remembered the conversation.  At least that’s a good thing.  I’ve heard many horror stories where people are doing all sorts of things in the middle of the night while taking Ambien and not remembering it.  At least I wasn’t wiping cool whip off my mouth during the panic attack.   That would be a true Ambien moment.  Saying yes to the trip over the pond was a significant enough decision to be making in haste without the added drug stupor, but this opportunity came at a time in life where our life is scattered and a bit complicated.  Trust me, you don’t really want to hear about it – although, knowing me, you will hear about it sometime!  I guess I felt I needed to justify the luxury.  That’s it in a nutshell.  With so many other obligations to fulfill right now, a trip to Europe was something I thought only feasible through a win on Wheel of Fortune.  But the price tag was not mine to pay, so now what was my reasoning?  Once I’d had my two cups of extra bold French Roast gut-rot, my mind cleared and I realized the true reason behind my hesitance and panic. I was going to have to depend on my darling husband (read – good ‘ol farm boy from Ohio) for fashion and packing advice!  (Enter heart palpitations, flushing, rapid pulse and shallow breathing!)   Oh good, I’m still breathing!  After stripping and running through the house screaming like a Viking I settled into the fact that I had a scant  week to figure out what to wear, what to pack and how to pull a few rabbits out of the hat that wouldn’t fit in my one allotted bag.
 
I’m reasonable, (no judging here!!) and quite possibly mature enough (do not laugh here) to realize that I do not have to wrangle up a new wardrobe to visit a country known for its casual approach to life.  But I also know that I have surfed through winter this year with a handful of clothes that fit.  Last year, I was losing enough weight in the spring and summer that I tossed all my winter clothes out, believing I would be ready for the next size down come winter 2015.  It is a smart move when you know you are going to continue to lose weight.  But I didn’t.  I stagnated and for the first time in 5 years, put on 10 pounds over the holiday.  It has taken me 4 months to lose that and I am still not comfortable enough to wear the next size down.  I happen to know that the fat person in Norway is rare.  (A fact that was confirmed at the airport.) I need a moving van to hold two weeks of winter clothing, but the Norwegian needs a backpack or maybe two.  I need a small carry-on for my gloves and scarves.
 
My next panic attack occurred two days later when we put an offer on a house in California to commence the beginning of our soon to be two-year residency in California and the selling of our two properties in the Davis area – our retirement investments.  Now, shouldn’t this be where the real panic would start?  I mean, I am concerned about leaving things in the air, but it is second to the real issue. My anxiety lay in the fact that the moment was coming when I would limp into what’s supposed to be a walk-in closet,  get down to skivvies and try anything on that could possibly fit and use any trick that could magically fit those giant winter clothes into 1 bag.   How much do I hate this?  Well, this much – I cleaned and sorted drawers, I sorted toiletries, I did HOUSEWORK instead of just getting my arse into the closet to make some decisions where the fun began.  Martin Luther has nothing on me when it comes to masochistic performances.  I placed my lily white, hairy-legged body in front of a full-length mirror and began the elimination process.  To my delight, I had actually lost enough weight to fit into some of those next-size-down clothes, but seriously, did I really want to appear as John’s arm candy in my Bi-Mart plaid work shirts and my “Love it in Lincoln City” sweatshirts?  Aacck!  You must know, John actually asked, “What’s wrong with that?
 
I eventually caved in and decided to go as me, i.e.  a few clothes I’d choose to wear to church and most of what I’d wear around town. The first two days post-arrival, I was feeling excellent about my choices.  And then it happened.  The weather in Europe turned upside down.  Who would have known that the 45-50 degree days would suddenly shoot up to 73-80?  -- More on that later.
 
 And all those other reasons to be panicked? They are legitimate and life-changing, but we live in the electronic age with international cell phone plans, electronic signatures and Social Media to keep us as close to business as we are in our rural town of Otis.  John and I are pretty adaptable despite the 9.5 hour difference.  It is, indeed, a timing fiasco when we a have business calls as early as 7am - Norway time and as late as 9pm - Oregon time.
 
But we are boomers melding our way with the millennial way.  Stay calm, peace out and fake it ‘til you make it.  It occurs to me that many of my concerns are nothing my children would worry about.  They have adapted to the electronic age better than we have.  I believe I was on the cutting edge, when in 1983 I learned “the computer.”  I not only learned on one of the 1st personal PC’s, I was teaching others how to paper-train their lives by 1984.  But, I still have a printer, I still have a fax machine and I still have a land-line.  They are all security blankets and yes, my kids will find, safely locked up,  all those CD-Roms and DVD’s and a few of those new-fangled flash drives full of my most important life events.
 
I don’t intuitively know or feel that I am a button-click away from someone from so far away.   This trip has helped me with that process, although I did text my good friend and hairdresser to make an appointment at 2am her time.  Good thing she loves me anyway!!!
 
So, I stepped out in adventure and said yes to an experience that was only a dream on a bucket list.  I put away my list of “what-if’s,” and “should do’s” and embraced this generous gift. 
 
And, the greatest gift?  It may be a rumor, but I don’t think I have to shave my legs.

​[i] Ambien is one of the “must haves” for my treatment of Fibromyalgia.  It’s the only pharmaceutical I take.  I have been working with a fantastic researcher for 7 years.  Besides giving me consistent sleep, it also provides me with a lot of opportunities for jokes and excuses.

In the past few weeks there have been numerous family and friends diagnosed or threatened with illness, syndromes or debilitating injuries.  My email prayer chains have been flooded with prayer requests for both healing and requests for prayers for those grieving the loss of their loved ones.  The announcements of those who have died at a young age are seemingly the tougher ones to handle.  It is only in recent meditation and discernment that I realize that my deeper grief right now lays in the death of my elders.
 
It isn’t because I don’t cry out the injustice of a life taken too soon.  I grieve those deaths tremendously. But, we are more verbal about losses when there is no rhyme or reason - as in, suffering the loss of a child -- or anyone under 80, for that matter.  We have become blasé about the death of our elders.  We soothe ourselves with rote responses like, "Well, they've lived a good, long life."  Although, it may be true -- that the aged have lived good, long, lives and have left behind legacies of knowledge and wisdom, they leave us alone to carry on.  The boomers are now in the last stages of losing their parents.  My parents were “unjustly” taken from me before they reached their 70’s.
 
Recently, with this acknowledgment, it hit me like a bolt of thunder that one of my greatest fears is losing the wisdom of these elders before we have finished our apprenticeship in learning to govern, teach, share and love.  We have depended on their wisdom and now it is us -- ME that will take over.  Our parents and the parents before them survived the two great wars, the great depression and built a country together without the divisive and undermining tactics our generation is embracing.  They, in fact, are called. ” The Building Generation.”    Following in their footsteps, was the “The Quiet Generation,” a generation who grew up as children in the post-depression, too young to serve in World War II, and benefited from the “We Did It!” influence after the previous generation won the war.  There were plenty of jobs and new industry and the building of great homes.  And, although they rode the coattails of the Building Generation, the drive to survive was not embraced, simply because they didn’t need it as much.  But this generation did embrace the importance of staying united and working together.  Both of these generations are dying off.  And somehow, we have come to a point in our human evolution where we stand divided.
 
We have forgotten how much we need one another.  We have forgotten how important it is to honor one another’s differences while pulling together for the common good.  We are now living in a state of fear that we have festered ourselves.  We have shown, as a country, that we can unite against those who attack us as a whole, but we have failed as a nation to unite as civil and loving people.  Our fear is manifested in bigotry, judgment, racism, cop hating, blasphemy, and arrogant Bible thumping.  Where there is love, hate has become the shade of shame.  Hate has risen to the top of the pile, because love is being bullied.   It’s time to recognize that there are only two places to be in life.  With Hate or with Love.  Hate is fear with a voice. 
 
My father and mother preached love.  My father was especially vocal about loving one another and following the golden rule.  He wasn’t particularly fond of churches, but he did a pretty good job at showing us how to love.  I miss that.   My father cared.  He saw the worst of the worst when his Army Company was called into Dachau to clean up the concentration camp after the US ran the Germans out.  He saw hate in “living” color.    He learned from that horrific lesson that fear, manipulation and hate would end our society and though he hid the truth of the Dachau moments deep in his heart until right before his death, his heart used that pain as a launching pad to keep love the dominate reaction to life.
 
I believe in that love, but today, as I watch the response to massive shootings, vulgar statements from Christian extremists, and “trollers” on the Internet, whose purpose in life is to create anger, I cringe.  I cry out in a blistering rage from a fear that NO ONE CARES!  People are screaming out for one another from fear.  Fear is not rational.
 
I don’t want to walk this life alone.  I want to take on the “Builder Generation” attitude of unity and love and build from the worst circumstances.  I want to learn from 9/11 and mass shootings.  I want to learn how to be united even during the most heated debates about gender equality, abortion, and gun control.  I want to recognize the fear in the hearts of those who are angry and bathe them in a soothing salve of love and understanding.  I want to walk with those who disagree and be there with those from whom I can learn.
 
I don’t’ want to walk alone.  We need each other to be kind and welcoming and understanding.  We need to walk a spiritual path that leads to the pure core of Love,
 
We are scattering like billiard balls in a break.  We are hit with unimaginable circumstances, like 9/11, mass shootings and a dysfunctional political system. We are hit; one at a time, from all sides, and end in a pocket of darkness.  Only love can rack us up and gather us back together and keep us in the light.
 
We need each other.  The circle is broken and the only way – the ONLY way to make this circle complete again, is to reach out and take someone’s hand.  You don’t have to agree with them and you don’t even have to understand their fear.  You only have to take their hand and say, “I am here.”

Last night I felt devastated as I watched the San Francisco 49er’s lose to the Seahawks.  I was NOT a gracious loser and in fact saw myself as I am when there are gross injustices, that cannot be explained happening right in front of me.
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First of all, I was only able to see the last quarter of the game.  I have been so wrapped up in the 49er’s this year there would have been no way I ‘d choose to miss a game without a seriously good reason.

And sure enough, the day of the NFC playoff game, nationally professed to be the “real” Super Bowl, I am smacked back into the reality of life and faced with making a choice that match with my life priorities.  I had only one choice, and that was to attend the Memorial Service of my childhood friend, Judy Andrews Petrarca.   Judy and I had known each other since first grade.  She is one of the friends that was absent from me during the “lost years;” the thirty years when I lived away from my Oregon family and friends.  Judy and I had seen each other only a half a dozen times in the last 30-something years, but her death brought to the forefront the importance of those friendships that last a lifetime, regardless of time spent together.  

Judy, along with quite a few others, have known me since I was 6 years old.  That is 56 years for all of you who care to know.  That is only 6 years short of how long my sister has known me and 4 years short of my brother.  In other words, they know things about me that most all of my current friends could ever know about me now.  They share a history with me.  They know exactly where I was when JFK was shot, so when I tell, them, “In the Creston Grade School cafeteria, in Mr. McMahon’s Orchestra class, they get it.  They see it -- they feel it.  When I joke that Judy had the best Go-Go boots in 6th grade, and quite possibly the only go-go boots at Creston, they feel the envy I felt so long ago.  When I talk about the de-segregation abomination that took place and the sadness that emanated from the two boys who were bussed to our school our 8th grade year, they know exactly what I mean.

My Creston buddies, have been my buddies for 56 years.  They have known me longer than my parents who died when I was just 36 and 41.

So it was a no-brainer that I would choose to be with the old gang to toast to a beautiful friend, taken too soon, on the day of the NFL championship.  (Judy was feisty and a rebel and was probably rooting me on when, at the end of the gathering, I asked someone if they knew the score of the 49er’s Seahawks game.  This was in Portland.  I waited until I heard the score, before admitting I was a 49er’s fan.  Tee-Hee!)

Then, I left to go to my son’s apartment where my husband was watching the game.  I quickly donned my Niners Steve Young shirt and walked in the door only to watch the most miserable last 10 minutes of a game  -- ever!

If you don’t follow football and don’t know anything about the game, you might want to stop reading now.  Maybe look up the controversy attached to the game, or just keep reading.  It really isn’t the outcome of the game that makes any difference, but what I learned about myself that is important to me.  The first is that as much as I love football, my life-friends are most important.

The game was ugly, and a play-by-play description of the game angered me tremendously.  I lapsed into a state of fear that escalated into a state of anger.  That is textbook psychology.  All anger is rooted in fear.  If you are angry, you must ask yourself, “What am I afraid of?”  If you respond in truth, you will find out a lot about yourself.

I became an angry loud-mouthed fan as I watched the game be decided not by the talent on the field, but by incompetence, or bias of referees, and an escalation of anger on the field. (I’m quite positive opposing fans will not agree with this.  So be it.)

Violence begets violence.  Fear begets fear.  Anger begets anger.  It makes my stomach turn that any team, including my beloved 49er’s think that bad sportsmanship, abusive verbal attacks, and intentional violent conduct is of any value to a great championship game.  I am saddened that today’s youth witness this egotistical, pompous, braggart behavior on the field.  Heroes?  No. These athletes are still little boys -- boasting and cheating when they are not sure of their real talent.  Cheaters never win.  They may win the game but they will not win in life.  The best athletes in the world are people like Peyton Manning, and my son Gabriel.  To them, football is only a game.  It may be a profession but it does not define their priorities in life.  I am not a Seahawks fan – PERIOD.  I think the entire organization needs to rethink their way of marketing.  It models bullying.  I don’t care if anyone agrees with me.  Don’t take it personally, because I’m about to confess my own weaknesses in being a football fan at any level.

I called the “SleazeHawks, loud-mouthed bullys.  I think I still mean it.  But in doing so, with such anger in my heart, I was stopped short to take notice of the horrid feelings coming from someone who professes Love is the only way to peace.   How awkward it feels to find myself vomiting words of anger and hatred to a stupid blue and green football team.  I fell into the trap of what I call the “bully syndrome.”  Bullies make bullies of victims.  No matter what sport I choose to watch, when there are injustices that determine the outcome of the game. I seethe.  I am known for my stance against injustice towards anyone.  But I know that anger will not change things. 

In the last 24 hours since the game as my heart and stomach flip-flopped, I have been confused about how I can be in such turmoil and grief over a silly football game.  That’s what it is.  A GAME!  What in the world is really going on?

And then it hit me.  I don’t respond like this when the game is won clean and fair and the athletes perform with dignity and pride.  I realize that I just, plain and simply, do not want to lose to an organization that won’t sell tickets to the opposing team’s fans, intentionally build a stadium that was created to “bother” the other team and doesn’t mind winning, not on athletic ability but whether or not the refs make fair calls and how many dirty plays they can get away with.  Those plays are blatantly broadcast over and over again in instant replays.   You don’t have to agree.  And, again, it’s not about the game.  It’s about my response to the game.

I am struck in the gut by the realization that my anger and outrage is not really about this one particular game.  This game just pushed the buttons in me that cannot tolerate the constant injustices in life -- boasting, bragging and bullying, beating, berating...  I abhor anyone bulldozing anyone else. My anger is really about the times in my life people have been mean, uncaring and cruel to get what they want.  The blatant, intentional face-masking, questionable turnovers, bad ref calls – all of it - parallels the times when I have been screwed over by others, especially when trying to be gracious and give the “other team” the benefit of the doubt.  There is an ugliness in those who would take advantage of the goodness of someone else.  In my life there have been people – pastors, ex-friends, and bosses, who took advantage of the fact that I like to play on a fair and even field. I submitted to their authority only to be hurt by them.  It is easier to stomp on someone if they are kneeling down.

So, this particular NFC game is when the ugliness of the past wrongs against me came back to haunt me.  I was not a very gracious loser.  I apologize to the one Seahawk fan in the room for all I said at the end of the game.  It was a glorious moment for you and I robbed you of your moment.

But I am not apologizing for how I felt.  Watching Sherman, the next day, defend his end-of-game rant re-fueled the fire of anger within me.  He asked that we not judge him by that one statement.  But, son, words are powerful.  What you said hurt many more people than you profess to be helping through your charity work.  A Stanford education does not make up for a lack of judgment in the moment.  You, Mr. Sherman, are a professional football player.  You get PAID for your job -- a paid professional.  In other words, you are not really a pro yet.  A real pro does not blame adrenalin for their lack of grace and humility.   It is your prideful nature, indeed, that made you slip and keeps you an amateur.  The real pros win with grace.  As my son says -- probably something he’s been taught and embraced through his college football years, is that you leave the “ugly” on the field.  Your team won the game and still you made the choice to spend your 1-minute interview bad-mouthing your opponent.  Perhaps it was because your subconscious mind understood that the game wasn’t decided on just talent, especially yours, but on a few bad calls that made you NFC champs.  That’s why you had to boast.  Your game-ending play was just one play and makes you nothing more than an alert and savvy player.  It was a good play, but it did not concrete the win.  There are many things that can change the fate of a game, and human error by refs or players is one of them.  That is part of the game.  And, there is a good and bad side to instant replays that are shown over and over again.   In this case, everyone saw the truth and you know they did.  To be fair, Mr. Sherman was not alone in his rude behavior. But, you get to choose how you want to go forward.  Do you want to be known as a boastful braggart, or be known for shaking the hand of your opponent and walking off the field with dignity and grace and create a moment of distinction.  The second way is safer.  If you walk off in grace, you don’t have to try and live up to your boasts at the next game.

I am truly offended by many of our professional athletes these days.  49ers are not exempt.  Please clean up the game.  Please teach my grandchildren, that getting away with cheating and rule-breaking is not a dignified way to win the game.  Please learn to be gracious winners. 

Please do not encourage others to be hateful and angry.  I am appalled that I was hooked and fell into that trap.  It is a place I need to heal.  The recognition of that is the only joy in the pain of loss.  That is the only gift in being so angry: that and understanding that I have not come to grips with the injustices in my own life. When I see acts of injustice on the sports field, in courts of justice, between bosses and employees, in Pastors and churches, in parents who abuse their kids, in rapists who violate anyone, I get livid.   

So, as someone said, Sherman just made me a Broncos fan for the Super Bowl. I will always, always root for those who have a class act.  I will work harder to keep my own anger tempered by discerning the fear that lies beneath the anger. Many times that anger originates from being fearful of ever letting myself be in a position again where my destiny could be decided by insecure, boastful, needy people, no matter their stature.

Games are not always won in loving ways, but life is.

And so, today I sat wondering how to negate the anger. It came to me that the 30 or so mutual friends at Judy’s memorial service all agreed that we cannot wait for another death before we get together and all vowed to go forward telling one another, families and friends how much they mean to us.  I decided to focus on that instead of the anger.  Again my life-priorities saved me.

I started that process today, texting my family how and why I love them.  That act of love erased the fear and anger.  I feel the redemption of claiming love over anger.  The game is fading in my mind but my discovery and lesson learned at Judy’s service and experiencing the game will stay with me forever. 

The light has arrived.  I couldn't write this on Christmas Day.  Why?  Because, once I do the light goes out.  Well not really, but the way Christmas is celebrated these days, there is a build up of anticpation starting with the first Christmas Commercials sometime in September.  I remember walking through a fabric store in August and they were playing Christmas music.  Can you say, "fingernails on the chalkboard?"  I complained as I checked out - more like grumped about the premature caroling...  I was told it was a week-long promotion for some of their Christmas crafting projects.  Crafters have to start in the summer to finish by Christmas.  Okay, I'll give them that.  I'm okay with listening to Christmas music at anytime.  I used to play the lively music - Joy To The World, Deck The Halls, etc. on high volume in the middle of July when I was doing a deep-cleaning on the house.  It is the happiest music.  Christmas is worship music and I love it.  What I don't love is the commercialization of the season and the use of the songs to manipulate people into buying even before fall has officially arrived. And what I don't REALLY like, is the day after Christmas, those same stores turn OFF the lights of Christmas to make room for hearts and candy.  UGH!

I prefer to start the season of Advent in the dark; in a place where no star exists, only the prophecy of the birth of light and the incarnation of Love in the form of a tiny child. I prefer to watch homes light up as Advent begins and I love the gradual lighting of trees and homes, brightening the hearts of all who look upon them.

The house somehow seems warmer, cozier and I overcome the  anxiety of Christmas preparation by replacing it with the anxious anticipation of the gathering of the family.  One by one family arrives on our Chirstmas Day Christmas Eve.  That's right, this blended family does Christmas Eve on Christmas night so that everyone can stay over night and spend the entire day in jammies, opening presents, eating brunch,  making our annual Christmas video, eating dinner and more, more more...!

Then it happens.  Again, gradually, the kids leave.  One by one they are on to the next activity on their holiday list.  It's not like the "olden" days when we had an entire school vacation to fool around.  And, although the lights are still lit in the house, and no one has extinguished any of them, the place seems less bright and dims with the fading footsteps on the walk.  it seems the light is going out.

That is the reality of being a parent of grown children.  It is not until I sit in the room, tree still lit, looking at pictures of our family event and editing the silly annual video that the light shines brighter and brighter.  The warmth in my heart is the love and gratitude I feel as I embrace each child with my heart. 

I am so grateful of the gift of love that first Christmas.  Let the light of love shine brightly in your life this new year.  Go into 2014 with the understanding that the God of Love has more love for you than we can understand.  On your dark days, let God turn on the light of love to shine on your path.

So, the lights of the tree come down.  The candles on the hearth go out.  As we turn off the lights of Christmas may we brighten the light of our hearts even more.  May your days be Merry and Bright, and may you always, always follow the light of love.  Happy New Year.


So, let YOUR light shine before people in such a way that they will see your good actions and glorify your Father in heaven." Matthew 5:16

For many years now I have listened to this Christmas song with a lump in my throat and tears in my eyes.   Later on, I heard that it was written in response to one of the author's moving through the Christmas holidays after the loss of a parent.  I get that.  The first Christmas after the loss of anyone can be tough.

But,even before I knew the background story, I had a vision of this song being about Mary, the mother of Jesus;  her first Christmas after the death and resurrection of her Son must have been an emotional war ground. Joy, pain, grief, anger; the stages of grief wrapped up into one big package of confusion.

But, the reason I adore Mary is because of her example of grace and understanding.  It would be like her to find the joy in a day that most modern day mothers would find only sadness.

I've had a vision for a long time, that of shooting a video that would express the pictures in my head every time I hear the song.  It's probably not going to happen, so I pulled together these graphics to tell the story.

In the graphics are some theological tidbits that jump out - tidbits, that weren't planned.  However you understand this, see it through the eye of a mother rejoicing the first world-wide celebration of the birth of her son.  We don't really know if there was one, but even if it started only in her heart, the celebration is still happening and the story of the birth is the first chapter to the greatest story ever told.