One Person, One Moment

We were all there: both sets of grandparents anxiously awaiting the arrival of the expectant parents.  It was a small room on the first floor of Women's Prentice Hospital.  Just days before, the doctor had determined that an emergency cesarian was necessary.  Already, the pregnancy had been worrisome and now the baby needed to be delivered a month early.

With helplessness looming over us, we watch as the two were escorted into a room down a hallway behind locked doors.  Now, we were left to wait.

With the grandparents was the soon-to-be brother.  Gramps was the designated babysitter for the day. So, knowing that the dimly lit, cold and quiet room was not the place for a five year old, the two left the hospital to spend time in the sun.  The rest of us had no such distraction.  Honestly, I know I did not want the distraction anyway.  My thoughts were only on my daughter and new grandchild.  There were dangers involved.  It was a scary time.

Feeling alone and wishing that somehow Gramps could have been with me instead, it was with surprised delight when in walked my nephew, Don!

I had know him for more than thirty years and always had a love and fondness for his gentle spirit and intelligent soul.  But, I would never have predicted that he would make the trek to the hospital.  His presence was comforting.  Don is the kind of man that knows when to talk and when to be quiet.  With that knowledge, he astutely knew how to just be there for me.

The day was long and the procedure was twice as long as we had anticipated.  At one point, the two grandmothers checked with the front desk regarding any news.  The receptionist made a very vague response which was misinterpreted.  Therefore, I became very concerned that daughter and baby had not survived.  I was terrified.

Don helped me through the valley that day.  All the times that I had been the adult in his childhood were nothing in comparison with the adult that he was to my frayed emotions that day.

Almost two years ago, I not only met my new granddaughter, I also met someone I had known for more than thirty years.

The Value of Friends

Finally!  Warm weather has arrived; snow covered paths are now brimming with vegetation and bone-freezing, muscle-aching winds are now an unpleasant memory.  Breaking from my self-preserving hibernation, I happily traverse my way to the room above the garage, fondly known as "my studio."

During the "winter incubation," painting projects floated through my mind, filling my spirit.  I anxiously waited for the moment that I could open tubes of paint.  Now, each color beckons me.  Slowly, the choices are made, the paint is squirted on the palette, the medium readied, and I pick up the brush.  Once more, I am free to explore the world beyond the physical.

This year has been unique.  Rather than delving right into the plans that have slowly formed over the long winter, I wrested with new challenges.  For the past two months, I spent my time paintings for others. A much more daunting task.

The first challenge: A friend asked me if I could paint a particular scene for her.  During her stay in Lake Geneva, a photograph had been taken of her and her husband.  It was a special time as they celebrated another year of a long and happy marriage.  The photograph depicted them sitting together on a bench looking out over a lake.  Special time, special meaning, special photo.  Now, she had faith that I could take the photograph and translate it into a painting.  

I felt unequal to the task.  My hands are getting weaker and the amount of time I can spend painting has decreased to only 1 1/2 hours per day.  However, I was determined to try.  The process was slow and difficult.  Painting is a series of problem-solving tasks.  Often, finding frustration instead of satisfaction, I would scrape down the day's work to start all over again the next day.  Always, nap time followed painting time.  Regeneration and incubation.

Finally, a few days before we were to see my friend, I finished the painting.  My loving husband varnished and framed the painting.  When we met, I was too nervous to give her the painting myself.  While I waited, my husband took my friend to our car to give her the painting.  Honestly, I did not think it would live up to her expectations.  You can imagine my humble surprise when she said to me, "I love it.  It is even better than I thought it would be."  Better?  How can that be?  Words of love. Words that give strength. 

The second challenge:  Another friend asked me to paint a scene for her.  Sounds pretty open-ended, right?  The constraint: For Christmas, I had given her a painting of a river in the woods.  The style was more fantasy than realistic because the colors were vivid and there was an abundance of flowers in the woods.  I titled it, "Living Waters."  She loved it.  (She loves me and is very kind-hearted.)  But, in the gift-giving, I had created a dilemma for her.  She and her husband could not agree on where the painting should be hung.  Her solution: commission me to paint a companion piece.

After some serious pondering on what scene would be a good complement, I decided on another scene set in the woods.  Only this time, the central image would a cottage.  It was fun finding a way to use similar techniques and colors without replicating the first painting.  The painting is finished.  The first coat of varnish had been applied.  Soon, I will be giving her the companion piece.  Because it is for her and she is a gentle spirit, I have titled it, "Grandma's Place." To me, it is a loving, safe, cozy haven. 

The unexpected reward has been the joy I encountered in the doing and the giving. The discovery: I may be handicapped physically, but I am not handicapped relationally.  It is life-affirming to have loving friends.

Can It Be?

I am not given to dreams and visions.  No, I am fundamentally a realist.  Although, I do believe that there is more to life than what I can touch.  Our beings are only part physical; the other part is spiritual.

Recently, a friend wrote to me that she believes we have a subconscious internal memory.  It was her way of explaining her recent behavior.  Even though she did not wake up remembering that the day marked another anniversary of her young daughter's passing, she was "cranky" not only all that day but also for a few days before.  Finally, at the end of the day, it occurred to her and, at that moment, she understood.

Although I had never talked to her about this very subject, I knew the truth of her words.  For years, I found myself anxious and moody for days leading up to the anniversary of my young husband's death.  Relief only came after the day had passed.  It is uncanny how we know without knowing.

So, this past Sunday, as I was sitting in church, I felt a sudden deep sadness and tenacity.  It was perplexing.  This feeling did not belong to me; I did not own it, but I knew it.  This feeling was so familiar.  With a slight jolt, I knew where I had encountered it before.  It was my mother.  She had come to visit me on the eve of the anniversary of her death.

Let me be clear.  We were never close.  It was not a longing that made this encounter.  She came to me and I understood her in a way not possible during her years on earth.

The gap between us was closed.  Before, it was easy for me to judge her for what she did not do.  Now, it was with shame that I came to see all that she did do and why she could not do more.

Can it be that we use one standard for ourselves and another for others?

It is time to forgive.