Strongest Man

 In a text, he was referred to as the "strongest man I ever knew."  Some of us knew him before he got sick.  He was strong, for sure, and nimble and fast.  He loved to play basketball, and he did it well.  He danced with his wife.  

At a young age, he was diagnosed with ALS.  It is a terrible disease that takes away parts of a person, bit by bit, a little at a time.  The average time a person can live with ALS is 2-5 years.  Wayne lived well over twenty with it.  He is the strongest man some have ever known.  

He was determined and self-disciplined and some might say stubborn.  He did not feel sorry for himself, he reached out to touch the lives of those he knew when they were struggling.  Few of us have had struggles like he.  Many of us fail to get past our own navels when we struggle.  Not so, Wayne.

When his wife died of meningitis caused by a tainted spinal injection, he lost his main caregiver.  She was the physical strength, he was the emotional strength.  Most anyone would have been angry or bitter, for it seems the tainting of that medicine was due to neglect and possibly greed.  But he was neither angry nor bitter and would ask, "why should I be? I am a blessed man."

He buried his firstborn, after years of struggles with that child, struggles that would have crushed a weaker man.  But he was not crushed because he was a strong, strong man.  

Some believed he would not make it to the dedication of the inner-city daycare that bears his name.  Not only did he see the dedication, he witnessed the 20th anniversary.  He cared for people.  Many of us do.  But, he cared for people when anyone would have understood his throwing in the towel and giving up, for there was only the inevitable end to look forward to.  He looked forward to so much more than the ravages of his disease.  He gave so much more than a man in his position would have been expected to give.  He was a strong man who was an inspiration to all who knew him.

His struggles ended Thursday night.  He will be deeply missed by all who loved him, especially his only surviving son.  He truly fought the good fight.  We grieve, not as those without hope.  Many have expressed the comfort they feel imagining he is in some church league basketball game to be followed by a time of dancing with his Diana.  

Still We Are Family

Covid has kept us from gathering, from seeing those we miss and love, still, we are the Otter Creek family.  Covid has not kept us from being in touch, from sending notes and emails, from praying, because we are the Otter Creek family.   

All over, there are people grieving.  We anticipated the outcome.  The actuality hit us as hard as we expected.  We have prayed and prayed and prayed.  They were not selfish prayers.  They were prayers for four daughters, a husband, parents.  Our prayers were not answered in the way we wanted.  In fact, our prayers feel unheard.  We choose to have faith that God was listening and Jesus was intervening, even as we have myriad emotions from sadness to anger to gratitude for having known her.  Our Otter Creek family has lost the physical presence of this very bright light, but her influence will continue to shine on us as family. We grieve as a family grieves.

After a long battle, our sister Katherine left this earthly realm to gather with the saints who are living in the presence of Jesus.  She fought courageously.  She fought with a faith that was awe inspiring.  She lived in gratitude for every moment.  She loved her family well, her girls, her husband, her parents, her Otter Creek family.  She knew where she was going.

As the Otter Creek family, we have people to care for; her precious daughters, her dear husband, her parents will need us in the days to come.  We will be there.  It is what family does.  We will try to be Jesus to this sweet family as they go through the hard work of figuring out what life looks like from this point forward, and they will move forward for they would not honor Katherine if they did not.  It will be a difficult struggle, but with God's help, they will make it through.  

   

Maybe, I'm Starting to Get it...a Little Bit

 On FB this morning, I posted a quote from Frederick Buechner. Frederick Buechner's writings are wonderful.  Part of the quote said, "all moments are key moments."  A key moment struck me this morning and hopefully I gained a little more understanding.

When the term "white privilege" was first being batted about, I took offense.  I thought it meant that whites have everything handed to them, and I know how hard we, especially Mr. L, have worked, and there have been some extremely lean times.  So, I felt resentment at being told I was privileged because of my color.

Listening to those who understood the meaning of the term better and whose counsel I highly respect, my thoughts began to change.  Change is hard for me because I was raised in a religious environment that I felt taught me that change was being wishy washy, or trying to fit in with the times, and that if I had doubts about anything pertaining to God and Christ, then I did not recognize the Father's voice.  Frederick Buechner also says that "without doubt, there can be no faith."  Having adult children with minds and opinions of their own, has helped me in learning to see things differently and that a changed mind is not a sign of weakness.  Gradually, I've come to understand a bit better, what the term "white privilege" really means.

This morning as I was walking in my neighborhood, a police car passed me.  We have one black family that lives in my neighborhood and the husband runs every morning. We had just greeted and passed each other when the policeman drove by. My first thought was not, "oh, dear, am I in trouble," it was, "oh, no, I hope that black gentleman is not going to be bothered."  That is white privilege.  When a second police car passed me, I was reminded how privileged I am to live in a neighborhood where police cars are a rarity, not the norm, and that, in general when I see a police car I think of a helper not of a danger.

That moment was just one more stepping stone in my walk to understand better that which I cannot personally experience.

Helen

She was a teller of bawdy jokes...and she always laughed at them which made us laugh even harder.  She was a singer of songs.  She had the best dimples when she smiled, which was often.  She was full of mischief and fun.  Tales say that she surely knew how to roll a house back in the day.  She never married.  She had no children...oh, wait...she had children everywhere who loved her and whom she loved.  They did not have to be related to her and their color made not one bit of difference.  She was the champion of the underdog.  She had a wealth of friends from the famous to the not-so. She was always ready and eager to help.  When you look in a dictionary for the definition of "she'd give you the shirt off her back," you would find Helen's picture, for she would give you anything she had that you needed.  She loved God and Jesus and I don't mean in the way of those who talk a good talk but never walk the good walk.  She left this leg of her eternal journey today to step into the next...I believe into the arms of Jesus.  She will be missed. 

I have heard people say that "only so many have died in Tennessee of Covid-19, and that's not very many."  When it is someone you know and love who spent days in the hospital on a ventilator surrounded by gifted and caring medical folks, but not their own folks, every one is one too many.

I have no doubt that Helen is entertaining the heavenly hosts with some "cleaned up" jokes and beautiful songs.  She is well and whole and happy and knows the answers to all life's mysteries.  She will be remembered at lunches and Christmas parties and any other time that members of the 1970 graduating class of Isaac Litton High School gather.  Go rest high, Helen.  You are dearly loved.

An Eye for an Eye?

This has been weighing on me.  Like the rest of the thinking world, I am appalled at the murder of George Floyd.  I did not watch the video as I was so sickened by the picture of what I perceive as an arrogant man, with his hands in his pockets no less, slowly snuffing out the life of another human as he is being begged for mercy.  If we aren't appalled by this and by his fellow officers who stood by and watched, then we are something less than human.

But, here's what scares me.  I scare me.  The vision in my head of someone doing the exact same thing to the police officer that he did to Mr. Floyd scares me.  Where is Jesus in my response?  Do not misunderstand, I know that policeman and his cohorts need to be held accountable and punished.  But, here I am, self-proclaimed Jesus lover, relishing in the thought of another person "getting his."  That scares me.  That is a testimony to the state of my heart, and it is apparent that I need a lot more Jesus.

The looting and burning that is taking place in Minneapolis is so far from what Dr. King exhibited and taught.  I think of those dignified and determined black students who led the sit-ins in Nashville and I am overwhelmed with their courage. As one author said, "they dressed for church and often ended up in jail." I think of Reverend James Lawson who urged those students to respond to attacks in a "creatively loving fashion."  He said it was not enough to act like they loved their enemy, they had to, in their hearts, truly love their enemy.  It took awhile, but it worked, and much for which they were working was accomplished.  But, somehow we have lost our way in this country.  We are headed in the wrong direction.

So, yes, the looting and burning are dumb and counterproductive, but when people get fed up with what is happening, they do dumb things, and often bring down a world of hurt on themselves and those around them.  We have all done it.  Maybe we haven't burned and looted a Target store, but we've thrown or kicked something, or slammed a door or cursed or thrown mean and hurtful barbs or driven too fast or any number of dumb things that are ultimately counterproductive. When we've had enough, we don't think straight.  There is science behind the term "losing your mind."

In Nashville,  Zephaniah Alexander Looby was a black man who was expected to be deferential but who stood up for human rights in all arenas.  He provided legal counsel for those who tried to end segregation in the city, especially those college students who led the sit-ins.  When a group of racist whites bombed his home with him and his wife, Grafta, barely escaping, that bit of violence had unintended results.  People of all colors were outraged. After that bombing the mayor of Nashville, Ben West, who previously swore that Nashville would never be integrated, admitted that segregation was morally wrong.  Police killing, as this officer murdered George Floyd, is evil. I need to be, and am outraged by it but, my challenge is to find it within myself to love him...not his evil deed but him.

So what is to be done?  The first thing I need to do is look into my own heart and root out all the dark and vengeful thoughts I harbor there.  And, then, I need to ask myself, a paraphrased version of John Lewis's query to those who said he and he fellow students were not ready for the sit-ins: if not me, then who?  If not now, then when?  God have mercy on the souls of those who committed this murder by action or inaction, but, their souls are nor more in the need of God's grace than is mine.  I pray peace and an ever-awareness of God's presence for the Floyd family, and the families of all those who have not been given proper treatment and due process because of the color of their skin.

Catharsis

Wowza.  It has been a stressful few weeks pretty much for everybody I know.  It started for my family with my unexpected stay in the hospital, followed by my mom being hospitalized, followed by devastating and deadly tornadoes, and now the Coronavirus, which for me, is causing mass cancelations of tours.  Add to that schools closed, wacky politics, and the run on toilet paper and disinfecting wipes at the grocery and it can feel like a lot.

We have one family member who is swimming in anxiety over the virus, another who is a bit more cavalier.  They stress each other.  Those who are in healthcare have to feel pressure on right diagnoses, who to suggest go home and self-quarantine or who to send to the hospital.  It is a lot.

I heard someone from the CDC talk about how devastating the Coronavirus will most likely be in Africa because of the lack of medical care and the vulnerability of the population.  That makes me think of my friends at Exile International and Made in the Streets and those who work with Living Water.  It is distressing and it is a lot.

Today, I read a piece that makes the most sense to me concerning our responsibility and the Coronavirus.  If you are young and unconcerned about getting sick because in your demographic few are dying, then good for you.  But, there is a whole big valuable demographic for whom you are also responsible...your parents and grandparents.  So, take care, and possibly keep yourself from large crowds in an effort to protect others.  That is really not asking a lot.

The other piece that hit me is that if we will be cautious and keep ourselves away from large groups and just follow the precautions of washing hands and cleaning hard surfaces well, we will at least slow down the spread of the virus which will enhance our hospitals' ability to treat the most ill patients.  Slowing the virus down will possibly keep from overwhelming hospitals and prevent healthcare workers from having to decide which patient will get the last available ventilator and which will be left to die.  I cannot even imagine the agony of having to make such decisions.  That is a lot.

So, yes, it is a stressful time.  Bless, I have one child whose sewerage backed up in their house and they are having to deal with poop and toilet paper floating around in their basement.  That is a lot in the best of times.

Not being one who subscribes to the "let go and let God," mantra, I believe God expects us to care for each other and look beyond our own navels.  I, in no way believe that God caused this virus.  My teaching minister Sunday made a statement that went something like this..."the power of God was not shown in the storm (tornadoes in Nashville last week), but it was in the faces of those who came to serve the victims of the storm."  I believe we have the opportunity to show the love of God by trying to overcome our fear (not our caution), do what we can to protect ourselves and others, and serve where we are called.  That is a lot.

We have never been promised that this life would be easy and without stress.  If it is, we are not living it rightly.  But I offer you the following passage from Isaiah 41:10:

"So do not fear, for I am with you; do not be dismayed, for I am your God.  I will strengthen you and help you; I will uphold you with my righteous right hand."

It is a lot.

Well, That was a Strange Interruption...a self-indulgent post

Mainly, I write this so I'll remember.  I am hoping the day will come when I can forget it. It is long and tedious.  If you're seeing this, I've tried to give you fair warning. 

Three glorious weeks in Sanibel.  The weather was beautiful, the company stellar, the rest welcomed.  On the last full day, just Mr. L and me, I began to have pain in my jaw, that I thought was TMJ.  Periodically, over the past several years, I will have TMJ pain that is readily taken care of by 2 Advil and not lying on the sofa in my den with my head resting on the arm.  This day, however, 2 Advil did not phase the pain.  It increased during the afternoon and interfered with restful sleep that night.

Saturday morning found me in extreme pain and an inability to open my mouth very wide.  Still, I am thinking this is just a bad flare-up of TMJ.  Our flight home was scheduled at 5:15 pm so we had the whole day to kill.  Killing time for the Switzers is one of the hardest things in the world.  We are more "let's get this show on the road" kind of folks, but it was a glorious day on the island and we found ways to spend that time.  The problem was, I was in an enormous amount of pain.  I had oatmeal for breakfast because I was unable to chew anything and could barely get the spoon in my mouth.  I had a smoothie for lunch.  During the course of the day, I took multiple Advil, Aleves, and drank 3 ounces of Jack Daniels Whiskey just trying to get away from the pain.  Nothing worked.

We arrived at the airport 3 hours before our flight.  Anyone who flies knows that's a ridiculous amount of waiting, but it was just the best we could do.  About thirty minutes before our scheduled boarding time, the announcement came across that our flight had been delayed.  I sincerely thought I was going to lie down in the floor and wail in disappointment.  Turns out, a flight earlier in the day headed for Providence, RI had been delayed, so the airline decided to put those people on our plane and then send us later.  Maybe that made sense, except for the fact that those destined for Providence were told to return to the gate at 6:30 for their flight, and their flight took off at 5:15.  So, a plane with 19 travelers (Mr. L counted them as they boarded) took off to RI while another 20-30 were told they had missed the plane because they came to the gate at the time they were told.  Security had to be called to handle those irate folks.  Pretty much, everyone in that gate was unhappy.

Finally, we get to board and head home.  All I could think about was taking a warm bath, putting warm compresses on my aching face, and sleeping in my own bed.  After that warm bath, I noticed a small pocket of swelling in my jaw.  I thought to myself that I must have an abscessed tooth and I would have to call the dentist first thing Monday.  At midnight, I woke up and realized that the swelling had increased significantly and at 2:00 am it had increased even more.  I woke Mr. L, showed him the swelling, he called our daughter, an NP, who said, "take her to the emergency room." I think we both thought that was extreme, but we asked her advice and we trust her, so we followed her suggestion.  Both of us were thinking that the hospital would give me an antibiotic shot and tell me to call my dentist on Monday.  We were wrong.

When the ER doctor said that she felt they should keep me in the hospital, Mr. L asked, "what do you think that means?"  I said, "I guess they are going to admit me?"  He said, "maybe they are just going to watch you here in the ER." So, I thought, I bet he's right, I feel better.  Not much later, the doctor said, "well, we're going to put you in ICU, does that sound reasonable?"  Mr. L and I looked at each other incredulously, but my face continued to swell, and the ICU seemed more reasonable that going home.

Three nights in the ICU, not much sleep, Codes Blue, at least one death.  I had a compromised airway, could not swallow anything, so no food and no liquids for 40 hours or so.  The nurses were wonderful and attentive.  The last day in the ICU we learned that I had a bacterial infection that had moved to my bloodstream. I was on massive IV antibiotics.  I did not really understand what that meant until my nurse mentioned the word "septic."  That, I understood, but how could someone not feel badly and be septic?  It's funny how the little things become so important.  I was so ready to move to a regular room where I could get a shower.  On day 4 I was moved.  The shower had to wait until the next day, but at least I was a step closer.

More days in the hospital waiting for the bacteria to be identified.  It was Parvimonus micra, apparently very rare.  I learned later that this was the first time St. Thomas Hospital had ever seen it.  More days waiting for them to figure out what antibiotic would be most effective against it.  One morning I woke up with a swollen knee.  This caused a bit of alarm among the doctors with the concern that it might be the bacteria in my knee.  So, I had my knee drained by a radiologist who, apparently, was unaware that a person was attached to the knee.  That was NO fun!  The fluid was questionable for the bacterial because white blood cells were there indicating they were fighting something.  The fluid did not grow the bacteria, thank Goodness.

The usual back and forth, up and down that come with medical diagnoses.  My family was more aware of the danger of the situation than I was.  It is hard to watch the people you love stressed and fearful, and feel like you're causing it, even though you know it was nothing you did.  It truly is easier to be the patient, in spite of the pain and needles and knee drainings than it is to watch someone you love go through all that.  Finally, I was dismissed on oral antibiotics, the best thing I could hope for, and I was ecstatic to go home.  There truly is no place like home.

People were so nice...nurses, caregivers, doctors, those who brought me my meals, and let me say, the food in St. Thomas is not bad at all, in fact it is pretty yummy.  I left the hospital still with jaw pain, unable to open my mouth very far, so, of course that had to be addressed.  The oral surgeon I was told to see worked wonders in that regard, and I can now eat and chew again.  I have a couple more doctors to see in an effort to try to figure out what in the world this whole thing was about and where it started in my body.  I doubt we will ever figure out where I actually picked up the bacteria.  I find myself a bit paranoid at every twinge, but, hopefully, as I get further from the hospital experience, that will improve as well.  I am grateful beyond my ability to express for all the cards and prayers and flowers and texts and calls, just the love that was shown me.

What I knew intellectually but what was brought back to mind is, life can be interrupted in various ways.  I hope I'm done with this, I truly do, but unexpected interruptions are going to occur.  I just hope I have the good sense to stop and mark the event, take the lessons it offers, and come away a better, more compassionate and empathetic person.

A Little Mother-Son Mischief

Today was the last full day that my children and grandchildren will be with us on Sanibel Island. It has been a wonderful time with bonus days with both MP and Marshall. On the rare years that they leave before us, we all feel a bit sad. It is so hard to leave the beach on the last day. Marshall and I were the last to come in and we were both in tears.

For several days there was a giant inflatable duck wedged between a trash can and the fence around the condo pool. This morning, a gentleman who works at the condo said that he was going to put the duck in the trash and asked if we would like to play with it. Well, certainly no one in their right mind would turn down a giant, smiley duck. The grandchildren had great fun jumping on, riding, and fighting over the duck. He was a huge hit.

Later in the day, we congregated at the beach and someone suggested that the duck might be fun in the gulf. The boys joyfully went together to retrieve him from the pool deck. There was a mighty wind blowing and a means for hanging on to the duck was needed. Earlier in the week, Violet had discovered a vine about twenty feet long. She had used it to rig a trap in her effort to capture a seagull. Chasing them with a small fish net proved futile so a well-planned trap made up of a hole dug in the sand covered by a small plastic wagon attached to the vine was devised. Bread was used to lure the birds to the trap, but she was unsuccessful in catching a seagull, thank goodness. I’m fairly certain that we all would have freaked out had she been successful.

When the giant inflatable duck was brought to the beach on this most windy day, Violet’s vine was put to good use again. The boys thought riding the waves on the duck would be fun so Simeon attached the vine to the duck and then tried to stake it in the sand. This arrangement was set up to keep Max safe while in the water. The stake came loose, the waves flipped the duck, Max fell off and it was decided that riding the duck in the surf was not much fun. Violet then used the vine as a string to fly the duck as a kite, and actually at one point the wind caught it and it did, for a brief moment, behave very much like a kite. The duck provided much entertainment, but one by one everybody decided to call it a day and headed back to their respective condos.

MP and Violet were packing up when it became necessary to make a decision about the duck’s future.  He was tethered to MP’s chair by Violet’s vine because, as has been said, the wind was tremendous. MP asked what should be done with the duck, and I replied, “let’s just let the duck go.” Marshall was shocked, minimally, truth be told, that his mother would make such a suggestion. The duck being let loose to fly as he may seemed a much better end than a condo employee throwing him in the trash. Besides, think of the spectacle of a giant, yellow duck flying end over end over the sand. It was going to be great...and it was! I mean that duck was free, flying down the beach, big ol’ smile on his face, passing folks as he joyfully flew over the sand, when way down the beach, just as the duck was happily about to hit the water there came a man running out of the sea oats across the beach to rescue the duck. Marshall and I watched (MP had already left unwilling to witness the folly of our poor decision to let the duck go) with trepidation and curiosity. What would the man do with the captured duck?

From our vantage point it seemed as though the man and the woman with whom he had been walking a dog were trying to figure out what do now that the man had captured the duck. During the consultation the woman sort of threw her hands in the air as if to say, “I don’t know.”  The man struggled with the giant duck trying to somehow weigh him down so he would stay put. It has been mentioned that the wind was tremendous. There was nothing nearby to aid the man in holding the duck down. To our horror, it appeared that the man had come to a decision and it looked as though he intended to carry the duck down the beach inquiring of each person along the way if the duck belonged to them. It was only a matter of time before he got to us. Marshall and I had to make a decision. When asked, do we say, “it’s not our duck,” which technically was true but very much felt like a lie. I even, not proudly, thought about saying that we had also seen the duck flying down the beach, but again, not exactly honest. So, we did the only thing we knew to do, we somewhat rapidly got up, picked up our stuff and walked off the beach before the Good Samaritan could get to us to inquire about any knowledge we might have concerning the duck. We were crying...with laughter.

I really hope that duck found a good home and I hope that man did not walk all the way to the end of the island trying to find the rightful owner. One thing I do know, that duck brought, and his story will continue to bring great joy to this mother and her son. It ranks right up there with the day we set gunpowder off in every room of our house. Now, that was amazing!

For Whom Shall We Pray?

If you live in Nashville, you certainly heard about the terrible tragedy of the stabbing deaths of Clayton Beathard and Paul Trapeni III.  It was a heart-breaking tragedy that just did not need to be.  Prayers have been offered on behalf of each of these families by many they know and by those of us who have not and probably will not ever meet them.  Scenes of the joy in anticipation of their being home for Christmas break and their presence at family gatherings turned to the deep sadness of unopened gifts that will never be used, worn, nor eaten.  Holiday gatherings turned into funeral services. Lives ended before they really got started.  Dreams that will never be realized. It is too much to comprehend. And, so we pray comfort on them.

There is a third boy, for yes, 21 and 22 year olds are still boys, who will forever bear visible and invisible scars from that devastation.  He will close his eyes in an effort to sleep but find himself reliving the chaos and pain of that night, the loss of two friends.  It is all a nightmare. And, so we pray peace and rest for him.

Their families find peace in their faith.  They believe and trust that their sons are in their true home with their true Father.  It is the only way such grief can be borne, the only way they can put one foot in front of the other.  And, so we pray a constant awareness of God's presence and attention.

Michael Mosley is the boy who has been arrested for wielding the knife.  He spent his Christmas alone in a house in Cheatham County.  Whether drugs or alcohol or childhood abuse or whatever was the driving force that brought him to that place and those deeds may not matter.  There are consequences.  Perhaps, all involved might have been spared this tragedy if this boy had been held more accountable four years ago after he was involved in a similar incident, one that did not result in a death.  Perhaps, it would have made no difference at all.  I have self-proclaimed Jesus loving friends who were gleeful when this boy was arrested and made statements like, "I hope they burn his a$$" and "he's going to get his in prison."  Is this what we pray?  Perhaps, he and we would benefit more if we pray redemption, not retribution on this boy who has ruined his own life, taken the life of two, and wrecked countless others who love him and loved them.  Perhaps, by praying for him and his family as well as the Beathards and Trapenis, we grow a bit closer to the nature of that Jesus we so righteously proclaim.