Seeds of Care

Many who have been around a Bible for any length of time have read about the mustard seed. It is the main character in a parable about planting faith in the world. Why the mustard seed?  Because it is incredibly small: 

The mustard seed, in fact, is so small that it is hard to believe it ever germinates in soil subject to the whims of rain, wind, erosion, and a myriad of other nutrient deficiencies. Yet, the stoic and tenacious, wee little mustard seed marches on, growing into a remarkable tree, sometimes even doing so in inhospitable soil:

Jesus Christ wanted us to believe that the same was possible with seeds of faith.  No matter how little the seed, how futile the effort, how shut the door appears to be, spreading light around the world is supposed to have an impact, much like the mustard seed.   This is a wonderful parable about a little bit of the right effort traveling far and wide.   

Yet, so many times in my life, what I see from my vantage point is different.   I see so much effort gone to waste.  So much hope for so much change gone dashed.  But, of course, that is where faith steps in once again.  I have to count on a bigger picture that I cannot imagine, much less see.   

While the mustard seed exemplifies the little bits of faith we are designed to plant wherever we go, I imagine a much bigger seed to represent something different but equally important:  the seed of Care. 

  

The seed of Care resonates particularly loudly during this time of my life.  My grandmother Charlotte is 102 years old and has gradually declined over the years to the point that her quality of life is as close to zero as can be imagined.   Over the past two months, in particular, she has alternated among --

speaking of  how much she hurts, physically and emotionally, 

and

begging me to take the hurt away,

and 

pleading with God to take her home.   

I can fix none of the hurt nor grant any of her wishes.  How I wish I could.  Yet, I can’t even make a dent in the problem, no matter how much I flail and wish to do so.   Instead, with her compromised cognitive function making all communication uncertain at best and non-existent at worst, the only thing I seem to be able to do is hold her hand, rub her shoulders, and use my voice to offer some small (and often inadequate) comfort to her as she walks through these last days of her life.

My walk with Grandma Charlotte has been complicated by the fact that just three days ago, I had to leave her, mostly alone in her ALF in Dunedin, Florida.   Although the staff at A Rose Garden take very good care of her despite the Medicaid tattoo she bears, there are no more family or friends in Florida to visit.  Everyone has passed away or moved away.  And, just three days ago, it was my turn to do that to her as well... leave Dunedin to come back to Washington State and my job at the University.  A University which cannot survive if I were to take a day off (just ask them).  

On the road now, traveling the many miles between the southeast corner of America to the northwest corner, I can only hope that God has a counterpart to the mustard seed.  I can only hope that the days and hours spent by her side by not only me but my sister and the caring staff at A Rose Garden... have planted a seed of Care deep within Grandma Charlotte that will hold her close and safe through to the end of her stay here in this world.  

Just two short days after I left for Washington State, Grandma Charlotte aspirated part of her dinner and immediately contracted pneumonia and a 103+ degree fever.  She has been transferred to a hospice care facility, where nothing and no one are familiar to her.   

She is alone and my hands are tied along the many miles of interstate between us.   

We must have more than the mustard seed for Grandma Charlotte now, because her time is now so short.

Therefore, I demand the biggest seed of Care in the world for her ….

please

no sooner did i ask than my prayer was granted ... by dear friends in Florida, carrying the seed of Care along to the end of this journey with Grandma Charlotte.  

Cheese, Please

Of the many entertaining things to do while driving through the state of Missouri (a full list of which can be made available on request), one of our favorites is stopping at Osceola Cheese, about midway between Springfield and Kansas City:

One might ask:  Why would a simple thing like cheese hold such fascination?   For starters, both preceding and following Osceola on Highway 13 are vast swathes of somewhat monotonous scenery. And, no matter how pretty natural scenery may be, mile after mile of the same such scenery can cause the eyes to droop, often to the detriment of keeping a vehicle between the painted lines on the road.  

But also... truthfully, who doesn't love cheese? Especially when it comes in over 150 different varieties with free, unlimited tasting.   Onion and chive, Apricot and ginger, Smooth and sharp, Black pepper jack, and so on and so forth.   All these enticing tastes, remembered clearly from last year's trek across the country, brought forth some pleasant memories that caused us to risk life, limb, and Osceola delay devices (aka the Missouri State Police) to speed through Missouri and across the Osage river into Osceola Cheese just before closing time:

After eating far too much cheese and deliberating far too long over which three to purchase and take along with us, we left, with much regret, for Kansas City.  But, the cheese will live on.  Despite getting smaller and smaller with each passing day, there will still be enough cheese to share once we finally arrive back on our very favorite island in the Pacific Northwest.

First Day on the Road

There are some first days on the road that really should be last days ... marked by a wise turning around of the vehicle, headed back to where one started followed by a stubborn refusal to drive said vehicle for a least 48 hours.

Today was such a day.

We should have recognized something was amiss when both of us awoke this morning, sick as dogs (while the dogs, ironically, woke in contrastingly good health).   With my head trying to explode under the influence of raging sinuses and my husband's GI tract trying to explode with comparable force, it was difficult to even roll out of bed, much less finish packing six animals, two people, and a hootload of stuff in a minivan headed for the west.   We pondered the thought of staying in bed until our bodies were more cooperative, but alas, we stupidly and stubbornly dragged ourselves onto the road anyway.

We were again tempted to turn around and return to our place of origin when it took four hours to travel 140 miles.  All too soon, we discovered that the massive volumes of people we had seen at Clearwater beach only 24 hours prior were now all headed back north alongside of us.   Traffic inched and crawled forward at a maddening inconsistent and slow pace, worsened by increasingly impatient drivers up to their usual interstate tricks.

At the very moment that we broke free from the log jam on the interstate, our cat Kickstand recognized the mistake she had made by not partaking of the litterbox one last time this morning.   In celebration of this mistake, The Howling went on for at least ten minutes, followed shortly after by The Smell, followed not so shortly thereafter by the rest area, where said mess was cleaned and bedding replaced, so that poor kitty could refrain from The Howling during the many miles that still lay ahead of us.

Tired already, we decided to get lost, fooled by a U.S. highway sign that surely must have been terribly shy and decided to hide behind a tree at the very moment that we passed it.   Another forty minutes wasted, we relocated the errant highway and proceed west into Alabama.

Alas, Kickstand was not yet down with her carsickness drama.  The drama suddenly resumed somewhere in Alabama. It began with more of The Howling, followed by strange noises that made us wonder where the nearest vet could be found, and finally, headed into a crescendo of puke.  Then, more Howling, more Smell, and so on and so forth.

I swear that Montgomery, Alabama moved west today, trying to evade our poor hapless, loaded minivan.  However, when we finally caught up with the moving city of Montgomery... we were almost not too surprised to find we had been placed in a smoking room.  With my allergy to cigarette smoke and relentless head cold, I suspected an evening equally as joyful as the day's road trip lay ahead.  I again thought about turning the car around and heading back to Clearwater, Florida.

Instead, I rolled out of the van, leashed a rather anxious Lucky and restless Lady, and ventured out upon a long walk... during which L & L ran into an episode of Big Sticky Thorn followed by Silly Bystander who, seemingly unaware that my dogs are large, protective, and canine... proceeded to challenge Lady to come after her.   Although I am still putting my shoulder back into its socket, I was able to keep Lady from rising to the challenge.  Really -- who challenges an unknown big black dog and expects good things to come from it?   Sigh.

Although, my head still feels like a full explosion is near... this is what the reaction to today's high stress and drama was among our household:

That's what I love about this crew.  They just let it all roll off of 'em as if days like today never happened.  

A Parable of the Home Builder

Some sources say that the word "parable" should only be applied to the stories that Jesus Christ told in the new testament in order to point out a moral or spiritual lesson.  I hereby disclaim that I am only using this particular word because it sounds a great deal better than "allegory" or "analogy".  Maybe I am just not in the mood for "a" words.  I am certainly not up to the eloquence or wisdom of Jesus Christ.

Here we go:
A man once endeavored to build a house.  Or was that a woman? Either way... the house was to be built.   So, he found many helpers to (yes, that's right) help him.  He found helpers who could pour foundation, helpers who could lay flooring, helpers who could paint, and so on and so forth.  At the end of the first week, the man was delighted at all his helpers and their expertise.

So, during the second week, the man began to build the house.   He prepared the ground for the foundation and looked to his helper who had experience laying foundation.   Alas, the helper had to wash her hair during the second week, so she could not assist with the laying of the foundation.  So, the man picked up his DIY manual and spent the second week reading about how to lay a foundation, and watching YouTube videos to confirm what he read.

During the third week, the man began to apply his newfound knowledge and lay the foundation for the house.  In the middle of the messiest part, when the man had somehow managed to land knee deep in fresh concrete, the foundation laying helper appeared with shiny, clean hair.  She observed the process before her and began a critique of the man's foundation.  She pointed out many flaws and stood apart from the foundation, waiting for the man to fix them.  And so, the man fixed them, one by one, until the foundation lay, almost perfect, in the middle of the chosen plot of land.  And so ended the third week of building the house.

During the fourth week, the man began the framing for the house.  This was his area of expertise, so he required no help, no DIY manuals, and mercifully, no further input from YouTube.  At the end of the fourth week, his helpers came and assessed the structure, its integrity, and so on.   The man listened and applied the knowledge he thought relevant and nodded his head at the rest.

During the fifth week, the man began the plumbing, the electrical, and the HVAC. Again, he called on his helpers with the right expertise for the job.   His helpers were busy.   They were important people.  They could not help.   The man retreated to the land of DIY manuals and YouTube, studying carefully each step in this phase of building the house.   This process took several weeks, almost months, because his helpers remained busy elsewhere.  Magically, when the plumbing was complete, the plumbing helper stopped by to offer a detailed critique of his work and wrote up many pages of corrections to bring the plumbing up to his standards.  The electrical and the HVAC helper did the same.

The story continued and bit by fitful bit, the house rose from what before, was merely a patch of dusty, hapless land.    After months of tireless effort, the man finally screwed the last piece of drywall in place, applied the finishing touches on the paint, and declared the home building process complete.

He stepped back to admire his work, but was so tired from all that he had done that he could bear to be on his feet only a few seconds before collapsing, less than fortuitously, onto one of the many agave plants his landscaping helper had critiqued into position just a few days earlier.

While attempting to extract himself from the myriad of spines and thorns on the agave, he noticed a great crowd had gathered on the lawn.  Upon further inspection, he noticed that the crowd consisted of two groups of people:  (a) his many "helpers" and (b) a crowd of onlookers who had gathered around the helpers to congratulate the helpers on a job hard won and well done.

Invisible and exhausted, the man retired inside his house, lay down on the floor, and slept for a half an eon.

When finally, the man awoke from his deep slumber, he immediately noticed the eyes of his many "helpers" staring down upon him, expectantly, waiting.   When the helpers were sure that the man was awake, conscious and responsive, they uttered only these words:

"Let's build another one."

Such is the far too common story of authorship on scientific publications.