Thanksgiving

The morning light has not yet touched the tips of the tall trees that surround us. I hear Ron lighting the fire in the woodstove to warm the house. We have moved back into the Big House, at least mostly. There is still furniture to replace and pictures to hang. But we are in, and will prepare a Thanksgiving meal to share with his parents later today.

Upon awakening this morning, I ponder this day of giving thanks. It has been a difficult year, a quicksand kind of year. I barely find my footing from one bad thing when another opens up before me. I don’t know where I would be if I did not recognize with absolute certainty that God is my rock, and God Most High is my Redeemer.[1]

As more and more stores are opening today to fan the flames of America’s seemingly insatiable appetite for owning more and more things, I remember the people who celebrated that very first Day of Thanksgiving. What would the few who had survived scurvy and malnutrition, due to the kindness of the local Native Americans and the mercy of God, think about our preoccupation with acquiring the latest gadget or getting the best deal in giant stores filled to overflowing with goods they would not even be able to identify let alone use?

This year we experienced a devastating flood and the long, slow process of rebuilding Sanctuary; having to replace 50-year-old sewer pipes that had mostly disintegrated under our San Diego home; four months of illness followed by major surgery and another month of recover; the major disruption of life caused by traveling between San Diego and Sanctuary regularly, living life in two very different places, often with Ron in one place and me in another; trying to move my piano students forward in their music with sporadic lessons; having to give up our midweek church community group; the personal financial consequences of Sequester and unpaid furlough days for Ron, in a year of unexpected additional expenses.

Then there are the smaller sand pits. I’ve come to expect about one new leak from some old appliance or faucet per week. And even when they are relatively minor, I will never look at plumbing the same way again, having seen the incredibly destructive power of water and its companion, mold. A relatively new dental crown that seemed solid decided to break. This in itself isn’t such a big deal, but since our dentist and doctors are all in San Diego, and the wait to see someone new near Sanctuary is at least two months, medical/dental needs require the 568 mile trip each way, back and forth. We’ve driven interstate 5 more times than I can count, during wind, rain, fog, sun, and dark of night. We’ve measured the exact halfway point where we can get gas so we only have to make one quick stop on each trip.

And so, as this incredibly unusual year draws to a close, I ponder giving thanks. My list is decidedly different than in previous years. I see God’s goodness through the lens of trouble and sorrow and uncertainty. I find that He is indeed faithful. He is not trite or capricious in these consistently challenging circumstances. The trouble He brings into my life fits unerringly with His perfect plan and purpose. Even, perhaps especially, when I have trouble seeing how.

So on this Thanksgiving morn, I am grateful for the God who is My Rock. I am thankful for a year of being reminded that He is good when life is not, that He remains faithful when everything else seems to be falling apart around me. His love, His mercy, His redemption are sure and certain. They are the things I can count on to always be true. I am learning to bow to His will more quickly when events occur that I would rather not experience. I am finding Him to be worthy of my trust.

Many months ago, when I was just entering the Year Of The Quicksand, I turned to my piano and wrote a new tune for a favorite old hymn. I played and sang these words over and over and over, usually with tears falling freely.

My hope is built on nothing less
Than Jesus’ blood and righteousness;
I dare not trust the sweetest frame,
But wholly lean on Jesus’ name.

Refrain:
On Christ, the solid Rock, I stand;
All other ground is sinking sand,
All other ground is sinking sand.

When darkness veils His lovely face,
I rest on His unchanging grace;
In every high and stormy gale,
My anchor holds within the veil.

His oath, His covenant, His blood
Support me in the whelming flood;
When all around my soul gives way,
He then is all my hope and stay.

When He shall come with trumpet sound,
Oh, may I then in Him be found;
Dressed in His righteousness alone,
Faultless to stand before the throne.[2]

Today, with a heart that is both somber and at peace, I give thanks to God simply and sincerely because He is my Rock and God Most High, my Redeemer.

---

[1] Psalm 78:35

[2] By Edward Mote, c. 1834

Thrifting With The Girls

Friday is 50%-off-day at the local thrift stores. I’d heard about this from my neighbor Bobsie. She and her octogenarian gal pals have made this humble occurrence into a major monthly outing. She has told me stories. Like the time one of them donated a couch only to have another buy it back later.

I love these women. Collectively they have supported each other through cancer, Parkinson’s disease, and hip replacements; through the loss of one spouse, and the various life-threatening diseases of the others. They prize being able to live independently, and do everything within their power to face the challenges of each day with courage, optimism, and humor. Lots and lots of humor.

When I analyze the remarkable friendships of these women, I say that Bobsie is the honey that attracts the others. And now she has me, too. We are a cluster of bees that laugh at her jokes and put up with sitting in the second-to-the-front row in a huge church auditorium for the 8:00 service on Sunday mornings. Ron, who also tags along when he’s available, calls this the cheering section. Bobsie claps enthusiastically with the worship music whether anyone else does or not. I get the giggles when Jeannie whispers stop now! with absolutely no effect. I’ve come to expect spontaneous hugs whenever Bobsie is particularly moved by a song or testimony.

One Sunday we had this whole whispered conversation, in the second-to-the-front row, about how, when I would get my harp replaced, she would see to it that I get invited as a guest harpist. I gaze up at the huge stage with its carefully designed set and large group of musicians who probably do this for a living. I whisper back that I’m not a member, and anyway, she’s never even heard me play. To which she replies that neither of those things matter in the least. She’s sure I must be good.

On Friday I accepted Bobsie’s invitation to join them on their 50%-off-tour. I didn’t know quite what to expect. She did not offer many details along with the invitation. But I can’t remember the last time I’ve laughed so much, or gone to so many thrift stores, in one day. We ended up supporting single moms, victims of domestic violence, cancer survivors, rescued animals, and the local hospice all in one whirlwind shopping trip.

The Girls have a system. We were each given a designated portion of the well behind the way-back-seat in Bobsie’s van. This was where we were to deposit our purchases. And if we happened to have a lapse of collective memory and couldn’t actually remember just who bought what, we could rely on this designated-spot method at day's end.

On the way to pick up Sharon at her daughter’s place, the others were discussing Sharon and Dean's new house in Roseville, about an hour’s drive away.

“Why did they move to Roseville?” I ask.

There is a chorus of I don’t know, do you know? No, do you know?

“Why don’t you ask her, Kathy? We all want to know.”

I make small talk with Sharon for the first leg of our outing, so it won’t be quite so obvious that I’ve been commissioned to extract information from her. But en route to the second shop I pop the question.

“So Sharon, why did you and Dean move to Roseville?”

Now Sharon has a gift for carrying on any conversation on any given subject for an indefinite period of time all by herself. She was pleased as punch to give an extraordinarily thorough explanation for their move, one to satisfy any curiosity remaining in the rest of the group. I was quite pleased to have accomplished my task so easily.

I found the rocking chair at about our third stop. There it was, right by the front door waiting for me. I  sat in it and rocked back and forth, ran my hand over the wood to find possible cracks or flaws. The Girls took turns oohing and aahing and sitting and rocking to make sure it would also fit Ron. We took a vote and agreed that it should be the very rocker to replace the one lost in the flood.

I continue browsing as the others shop. I wait when I see Jeannie approaching me with her slow gait.

“Are you going to buy it?” she asks in her quiet voice.

“Yup,” I reply.

“Don’t wait too long,” she cautions me. “It won’t be there tomorrow.”

I heed her advice.

Now Bobsie’s van is spacious, but there is no way this rocker is going to fit in my designated spot in the well. One of the lovely women working in the store marks it ‘sold’ and says I can pick it up within three days.

Suddenly I look around and I panic.

“Where are we anyway?” I ask Bobsie, having completely lost my bearings. I should have been leaving a trail of bread crumbs or something. She gives me a few points of reference so I will indeed be able to come pick it up tomorrow.

While the others are still browsing, Bobsie and I sit in her car chatting. The back hatch is open to receive purchases, and we have our doors open to let in the cool breeze. I happen to glance out the window where a gray haired, gray bearded man is mouthing words and making odd motions with his arms. I turn to look behind us, to see who he is talking to. But no one is there. When I turn back to look at him again he mouths more words. I raise my eyebrows and point to myself. He nods, and I finally realize he is asking if we need some help. I politely call out the door to say we are okay.

“What does he want?” Bobsie asks.

“I think he is hitting on us,” I tell her, which sends her into raucous laughter.

“So, what do you think of him?” she asks conspiratorially, like we are still in junior high or something.

“I’m a married woman,” I say piously. “And so are you.”  She giggles. As if either of us could forget. Our combined years of married life are just shy of a century.

Later, in another store, I see The Man again.

“I think he’s following us,” I whisper to Bobsie as we squeeze between tightly packed racks of women’s clothing.

“You are paranoid,” she announces, much too loudly for my comfort. “You really need to work on your observation skills. You’d never make it as a witness. The other guy didn’t have nearly such a big belly and was much better looking.”

But who’s watching.

The day includes a drive to the Happy Apple Farm so we can have lunch at the Happy Apple Kitchen. They grow apples there. Very happy apples. We talk and talk, and eat like hard working farm hands. We order dessert, and Bobsie trades bites of her desert for bites of ours. And we all agree to this, for goodness sake. It’s the bees-and-honey principle at work.

The 50%-off-day tour takes all day. After the fifth or sixth shop we forget to close the back hatch door and drive off down the road. The women are all chatting, but I hear a funny sound.

“The hatch is open,” I yell to Bobsie. We pull over so she can press the magic button to close it. (She insists that we don’t shut it manually. Evidently, it must be closed from the key fob to be done correctly.) There is much giggling among The Girls. No treasures are lost. No harm no foul. I am really glad we aren't on the freeway.

I’m the youngest one in this group, and I am exhausted. They finally decide to call it a day, and the others are safely dropped off at their homes with their treasures. Bobsie drops me off at Sanctuary and heads home up her driveway.

These women are the real treasures. I want to be just like them when I grow up.

One Thousand Goodbyes

Tomorrow Ron leaves, and I will say goodbye to him one more time. It has been a work-all-day kind of day, and I am tired. So as I put sticky-felt-pads on our furniture to spare the new wooden floors immediate scratches, I think of him leaving. I wonder how many times I have said goodbye to him during our years together. And I am unexpectedly melancholy.

Before we married I dreamed of living every single minute of every single day together. But of course, we needed to earn a living somehow, so I adjusted this dream to a nine-to-five lifestyle with every evening and weekend together. In my defense, I was still a teenager, and what do teenagers in love know about real life?

I worked to put him through college, wanting him to get a wonderful job. And he did. It just didn’t end up looking like the kind of job I had pictured in my mind. That nine-to-five, be-home-for-dinner-every-night kind of job. About two years into his career, he began to travel. Not so much at first, but with time his trips came to alter the rhythm of our lives irrevocably.

I’ve said goodbye when I was angry and when I was sad and when I was feeling sorry for myself. Each goodbye meant a piece of life we weren’t going to share. And when I was still new at it, I wasn’t at all sure that was the kind of life I wanted.

I’ve said goodbye when I was at term with our daughter and Ron was headed out to enjoy a submarine ride in the big, blue Pacific Ocean and my friend Sue stood in the gap. I think she was secretly hoping she’d get to be my ride to the hospital, but Ron made it home in time, robbing me of the opportunity to say I told you so!

I’ve said goodbye when I was sick and when the kids were sick; when we had a car that broke down about once a month and we’d all have to sit in the smelly waiting area while John-the-repair-guy fixed it for us.

You may have caught on that I haven’t always been a happy camper about this. But it is amazing how God has created us with the ability to adapt to the situations He brings into our lives. And adapt I did. Perhaps with some kicking and screaming. But eventually I settled into the rhythm of goodbyes.

Do I wish our life had been different? I’ve decided this is a question not worth asking. This is the life I, we, have been given. The goodbyes have been hard, there is no doubt about it. But there are two things I know.

First. In a country where the term ‘government worker’ brings to mind the run-ins we’ve all had with someone at the DMV or IRS, my husband has broken the stereotype for his entire career. I once asked him what percentage of his work he actually enjoys.  “About 50%,” he replied. This from a man who has given no less than 100% each and every day. He has honored his Lord by doing the best he can with the gifts God has given him. Every day.

Second. I would be a different person if I had never had to say goodbye to my husband for a period of time longer than a day. I may have been dragged into this with lots of whining and drama, but God knew I needed to be challenged to become the woman he intends me to be. Evidently, a clinging, dependent wife wasn’t what He had in mind.

I am grateful for this life of mine. I have been blessed with a husband who is a good man. I think you’ll forgive me if I’m just a little bit teary-eyed as I think of saying goodbye to him one more time.

Woods Queer

When I was a girl, the word queer simply meant strange or odd. It was unkindly applied to kids who didn’t quite fit in or spat out at people with whom you were angry. It wasn’t until later that this word metamorphosed into a sexual context. I rarely hear it used anymore, perhaps to avoid insult or confusion. But I recently found it in book that I have read and thoroughly enjoyed.

Written in the early 1940’s, We Took To The Woods is an autobiographical collection of stories written by Louise Dickinson Rich. Each chapter addresses a question people might have asked her about her choice to move into a remote area of the Maine woods with her husband. Questions like: But you don’t live here all the year ‘round? and Do you get out very often?

It is this second question that brought up the term woods queer. Defined by the hardy folk who made their homes in that particular section of wilderness, it simply refers to someone who has been isolated for so long that they can’t remember things like what day of the week it is. Louise writes:

Woods queerness is a real and serious and fairly common thing here, brought on by solitude and a growing awareness of the emptiness all around. It starts in little ways, and gets worse and worse, until finally it may end in raving insanity. Every now and then, someone along the lakes is taken to an asylum.

 And then she tells a funny tale of self-doubt, wondering if she was beginning to go woods queer and deciding that she needed a trip to the city.

Now I do most of my non-study reading in bed at night, and this chapter made me giggle. I shared the concept of woods queer with Ron, and I have to admit I may come to regret having done so. Every time I ask him what day of the week it is, he responds by asking if I’m going woods queer. Of course, he’s joking. At least I think he’s joking…

Time up here in the woods, especially during the long stretches when I’m here alone, takes on a different rhythm. The routines of sleeping and eating, going for a walk or doing pilates, savoring devotions and taking on the day’s work, are not so different than when I am in San Diego. What is different is the absence of activities that occur on specific days at specific times. Piano lessons on Tuesday, community group on Thursdays. The kinds of things that recur weekly. Things that remind me what day it is.

I joined the local quilter’s guild, which meets monthly. Which doesn’t really help with the what day is it? thing. So far it hasn’t really helped with the monthly thing, either, since I was unable to attend the last several meetings due to other conflicts. Like a visit to the local ER. But, that’s a whole other story.

When you think about it, though, is it such a bad thing not to have our lives dictated by a calendar? Wasn’t that one of the greatest things about summer vacation when we were kids? Three months without the structure of a school day that was completely dependent on what day and time it was!

Life in the woods for Louise Rich was not a life without parameters. Whether she was aware of which specific day it was or not, food had to be prepared, fuel brought in for the stove, water gathered. The seasons brought rhythm to life – a garden in the spring; harvest in the summer; serious, and I mean SERIOUS, preparations for winter in the fall; surviving and looking out for neighbors in the winter.

Perhaps woods queer wasn’t so much about orientation to the days of the week. Perhaps it was more about the necessity of interaction with other people, the connections we need with one another to maintain a healthy state of mind and heart.  After all, in the creation story God declared that it was not good for Adam to be alone. He needed someone other than the animals, someone like himself, for companionship.

Do you think Eve ever asked Adam: so, is it Tuesday or Wednesday?