Much Obliged, Buddy

I really admire people who find running fun and recreational. In all honesty, I envy those who can relax by their sneakers hitting the pavement. The habit has never been one I've easily acquired. Of course, a couple of trips on the treadmill and a run around a track now and then can hardly add up to much trying. Now that I'm older I have more excuses, I'm not sure they are good ones but an untimely death or permanent disability are fairly reasonable fears. As I contemplate a couch to 5k program, I know finding the reason to start and maintaining the new habit are big hurdles for me to face.

So I was intrigued by the quiz a friend posted on Facebook this morning. The quiz was based on Gretchen Rubin's Four Tendencies. She proposes that there are four different ways people will face the expectations of changing habits. The quiz can be found here. She calls the tendencies: the Upholder, the Questioner, the Obliger and the Rebel.

I wasn't surprised that I came up as an Obliger. An Obliger is described as those who "respond readily to outer expectations, but struggle to meet inner expectations. In other words, they work hard not to let other people down, but they often let themselves down." This is true for me. I've always said the easiest diet I ever succeeded at was when pregnant with my first child. Diagnosed with gestational diabetes and told if I didn't follow this nutritional plan my baby would be born "fat and stupid." Probably not the best way to describe the consequences but very effective for me. My eating directly affected my baby, I would do whatever I could to protect her. 

Gretchen Rubin's suggestion to help obligers create new habits is finding external accountability. Obviously, maintaining a pregnancy is an unrealistic option for external accountability. However, my dog, Buddy, helped provide some external accountability this morning. Buddy and I take a short walk each morning so he can relieve himself. As a responsible pet owner and considerate neighbor, I keep plastic bags in a dispenser attached to his leash. I try to make sure the dispenser is kept full because the thought of having to leave Buddy's deposit on someone's yard is completely embarrassing to me. I was enjoying the beautiful spring morning thinking maybe tomorrow I should try to jog a little. But knowing I wouldn't even though it would be good for me.

And then Buddy started his "poop circles," the dog can't poop without running in a circle first. I reached for the bag dispenser and realized with a lot of fear that it was empty. I had used the last one the night before but forgot to put in a new roll. And that was just the kind of external motivation I needed to take a morning jog. Buddy and I took off running for our yard before he could do his business. With great relief, we made it to our yard before his business came out.

While it was just short jog, maybe a block or so, I did learn several things.  First, I didn't die. Second, I probably could have gone fa
rther. I only have one question now, do you think Buddy could hold it for a 5K?

How are you with making new habits? Did you take Rubin's test, what was your tendency? 

Grandma's Prayer

"O God our Father, whom to know and serve is to find joy, abundant and eternal. Grant that we may grow into such complete devotion to thee that our joy may be fresh and full every day. Bless our Pastor and his family as they help us to understand and offer us a comforting hand as we study thy word. Bless each one of our congregation. Father be with each one of us that we may use our talents to spread Thy word. In Jesus name we ask it. Amen"  - Prayer found in Norma Alatha Atwood's Bible dated May 22. 

My maternal Grandmother would be 100 years old today. It's hard to believe that she has been gone for almost 15 years now. I found the prayer above in some old papers I had saved. It had been in her Bible and is in her handwriting. The only notation is the date, "May 22." I can only guess what it's significance was. Maybe my Aunt or Mom might know more about it.

I imagine Grandma writing this prayer out, thinking about what she wanted to say both to God and to those who would hear it. I think she would have said it at a bible study or ladies' meeting. Maybe she found these words someplace else and wrote them out on a paper to share with others. Maybe they were written down and placed in her Bible to be read often in her private prayer time. I'll never know but I'm drawn to the words, especially these, "Grant that we may grow into complete devotion to thee that our joy may be fresh and full every day." I can relate to that desire.

It's the end of a long work week. I'm tired and feel a little beaten down. What I need is a joy that is fresh and full to quench my parched soul, to remind me that God is near. Did Grandma understand this longing in her own life and in the lives o those around her? Did she want to help each one who heard that prayer to understand that God's grace is new every morning. Grandma's words written many years ago, speak to me today. I'm always thankful for her place in my life, today I'm thankful for some simple words on a scrap of paper. Happy Birthday, Grandma. Thank you for our love, your faith and your legacy.

Grandma and me 

First day of Spring with a Forecast of Snow

The steadfast love of the Lord never ceases; his mercies never come to an end. They are new every morning. Great is your faithfulness. "The Lord is my portion," says my soul, "Therefore I will hope in him."  Lamentations 3: 22-24 (ESV)

 I woke up this morning with the bad taste of yesterday's worries in my mouth. I'd went to bed grumpy and fearful after a long day of bad news. Sleep had been slow coming and restless rather than restful. My alarm came too early and my eyes didn't want to open. I could feel the cold just beyond the warmth of my blankets and I could hear the rain dripping on the window pane. I wanted to pull the covers over my head and be swallowed up in the sweet oblivion of sleep again. But the dog needed to go outside, Emily needed to go to school, Tony needed his lunch packed and I had a full day of work ahead of me. There would be no lingering in bed this morning.

My feet hit the ground and the negative thoughts began. Of course, nothing had been resolved overnight. These were the kind of worries that fester and brew. There was nothing to fix, no decision to be made, no amends to be offered. It was the realization that some things must be endured, bad things happen and life doesn't unfold as we planned. It was the first day of spring with a weather forecast of snow.

These are the mornings that I need to be reminded of the words in Lamentations: "[His mercies] are new every morning. Great is [his] faithfulness." God's mercies provide hope that in the midst of despair that new life is possible. I don't have to have all the answers, nor does it all have to make sense.  God's new and unending mercies wash away my old worries. Spring is here no matter the forecast. And God's faithfulness is enough for each and every day.

No Sad Farewells

“Dear Friends, there’ll be no sad farewells, There’ll be no tear-dimmed eyes. Where all is peace and joy and love and the soul of man never dies.”

  Where the Soul of Man Never Dies - Johnny Cash and June Carter Cash

                I learned this hymn in the pews of Loyall Church of Christ, in Loyall, KY. We often sang it during Fifth Sunday Sings when other Christian Church congregations joined together. The old gospel hymn is best in 4 parts and was always a favorite. No one can sing it better than the folks at a Fifth Sunday Sing in Harlan County, Kentucky. The words of the chorus have been running through my head a lot lately.

                It has been a season of loss, not only for myself but it seems for those around me. Two dear family friends passed away around Thanksgiving. Mrs. Osness was like a second mother to me. Her daughter, Cheryl was my first friend and we were raised together in many ways. I remember doing calisthenics with Mrs. Osness and Jack Lalane in their living room.  Bernice Lindsey passed just a few days before Mrs. Osness. Bernice was related to us as a distant cousin but she was also a dear friend and neighbor. As a kid, she was the one with gold fish tanks and a beautiful flower filled yard. She gave my brother his allergy shots for many years. Both of these women were a huge part of my growing up and I shed tears when I heard of their passing.

                And then my Dad declined quickly and soon I found myself waiting for his passing. It was during this waiting time that I started singing this song’s chorus in my head. “Dear friends, there’ll be no sad farewells. . .” It was hard anticipating the inevitable farewell and being so far away from my family. But I knew that Dad’s life of pain would soon be over and that he would be in soon be in a place “where all is peace and joy and love. . .” Those particular words sustained me as I waited for the phone call.  And when the call finally came, I did rejoice that Dad was no longer in pain.

                Once I returned home after Dad’s memorial service, I hoped the season of loss would be over. While I haven’t lost anyone else close to me, I have witnessed others around me experience the loss of ones they love. My college friend just lost his mother unexpectedly, a co-worker is grieving the loss of his mother-in-law, another the loss of her mother-in-law. And tonight I found out a dear friend from the Loyall Church passed this week. The losses continue. The tears come quickly now. Today I’ve been in a melancholy mood, partly because it’s Ash Wednesday, partly because I cried for Dad this morning on the way to work, and because I see so much loss around me.

                I guess it’s no surprise that the song has also been running through my head today. It is a song of hope, a song that reminds me that those we’ve lost are in a place filled with peace, and joy and love. And a reminder that someday “there’ll be no sad farewells, there’ll be no tear-dimmed eyes. . .” So I’ll long for that day while I also rejoice that the ones I love are already there.

A Flying Tradition

Every time I hear about another plane crash. I’m reminded of when I first began to fear flying. I was 17 and in France with a group from school. As we were preparing to go back to the United States, I found myself terrified to board the airplane. I knew I wouldn’t have a choice and the thought filled me with anxiety.

            It was the summer of 1985. The only terrorist threat to a commercial airplane at the time had been hijackings and those had been out of style for years.  All that changed when an Air India plane was brought down by a terrorist’s bomb on June 23, 1985. All 328 passengers and crew were killed.  I was in France at the time. Our tour group didn’t get a lot of news and most of what I saw was on the front page of French newspapers. I surmised it was serious when I saw the adults whispering out of range of our ears. We were flying one week after the crash. Every time I saw the charred wreckage on the front of a newspaper; I knew I didn’t want to step into that airplane.

As our departure date neared I became obsessed with talking to my Dad. After all, he was the one who explained the theory of flight to me and he always kept me safe. Dad was an aeronautical engineer and spent his career designing the very type of airplane I would board.  He had flown in test flights taking off on the top of mountains in Peru. For most of his career, he traveled all over the world selling these planes to international airlines. I knew that Dad wouldn’t allow me to board a plane in a situation he didn’t feel was completely safe for his little girl.

            International calls weren’t easy back then. We didn’t have cell phones or laptops.  I tried to call collect once but French operators and the time difference made it difficult.  Eventually, my folks called me at the hotel pay phone.  I honestly don’t remember what he said. I wish I could make it sound awe inspiring. I know he assured me that the plane was safe and well designed. And that security was being heightened with this new threat.  It didn’t really matter because after that I was no longer worried. If Dad said it was safe, then I knew I would be soon be safely home.

            After this, it became normal for me to call Dad every time was I was going to fly. It seemed to me that each time I was preparing to fly an air plane crashed or a new threat was discovered. Before boarding any plane, I knew I needed to talk to Dad. It became part of my trip preparation; pack my toiletries, passport and call Dad. Sometimes we’d talk about planes and their safety. Sometimes we just talked about my destination. The subject didn’t really matter just hearing his voice put me at ease. 

Singing with Dad

My earliest memories in the cab of my Dad’s truck singing old hymns. I loved climbing up in the cab and sitting beside him while he sang.

“There’s within my heart a melody. . .” his baritone voice bellowed.

He was not a trained singer but to my young ears his was the most beautiful voice in the world. Those old hymns remain among my favorites; In the Garden, Just a Closer Walk with Thee, I Love to Tell the Story, and The Old Rugged Cross. I first learned about Jesus and his love for me listening to Dad sing. The singing together stopped as I grew older. Looking back I know that chronic back pain took away many things. And over the past few years, Parkinson’s robbed him of much more. Conversations became difficult and tired Dad out. So when I was planning my visit with Dad last summer it became important to me that I would sing for Dad.

I purchased a ukulele and had it shipped to my folks so it was waiting for me when I arrived. It was a pleasure to spend a little bit of each day singing for Dad. Emily joined in and we sang songs at his request. One of the songs he requested was Just As I Am. What a joy to share with him the songs that meant so much to him.

Ten days ago, it became evident that Dad’s body had reached its limit. The end was coming and I knew what I wanted to do. I couldn’t travel out to be with him at his bedside but I could sing one last time for him. And so I did, I would have liked to sing more for him but I created a couple of videos for him. My family played it for him on their phones. Dad sang music into me and I wanted music to be part of my good bye to him.

Dad passed on Friday, January 16, 2015. He was surrounded by family and peacefully left the pain of this life behind. Sing on, Dad. I love you.