Sad

My mother approached my great-grandmother, decades ago, on the occasion of the death of GG Mapes’ youngest daughter. Mom asked how she dealt with the loss, having buried two husbands and all but one of her seven children. My great-grandmother turned and gave her the oddest look, paused for a long time, then gave some answer appropriate for a minister’s wife—a response meant to sooth Mom’s soul.

I never believed she spoke what was on her heart.

This morning, I recognized her odd look in the mirror.

Thursday, a dear friend died. He was forty-six years old. Recently, you may have lost someone that was also young. Perhaps you just started your grieving of a sudden death, or you like Spyros’ friends and family have held the grief inside since his November cancer diagnosis. Although the quick end came as a blessing for one suffering with immense pain, it did wrench the hearts of those who loved him.

For me, it seemed to be the last gasp of sadness that I could draw in. My mirror reflected that.

Friday at the memorial service, friends will hold hands, hug, cry, celebrate a short life remembered, and part.

I can only accept the truth that this not the final stage of our lives. I will hold Spyros again. For now, I cannot feel sad anymore. Not about Spyros, others we have lost, or my darling’s ongoing suffering—battling diabetes. The joy must be in touch of my husband’s breath on my cheek. The puppy growling in his sleep. The surprise delivery of flowers from a friend.

The blessings in my life are small and powerful—all I need to end the sadness of everyday living. Maybe that was exactly what my great-grandmother said.

God Bless Your Family

Slowing Down

Usually I don’t think about weighing-in. I do it once a week as a benchmark of the positive things I am doing for my body. This week was different. The scale called to me daily. Ignoring the beast, I tried to concentrate on life at hand. Why I am all-of-sudden obsessed with finding out my weight? It is because I am close to breaking the two hundred twenty pound barrier—the first time in a decade.

When you focus on something bad nothing good can happen. I lost only a half of a pound and did not hit the mark.

Spending all day waiting for special VW spark plugs to be delivered for my tune-up did not help. I sat all morning working on my book at Carl’s Jr. However, CJ’s idea of a health menu is offering orange juice with a fried egg, cheese and sausage sandwich—doomed before I started. I would have done better walking two miles to Mom’s house and eating a salad—a good thought in retrospect. Of course, I would not have written all morning.

Life is a trade off.

This week will be about prayer, exercise and raw foods. Only good can come focusing on good things.

I blame Church

This week resulted in a weight loss of a little more than a half of a pound. I blame Church.

You see this past Sunday was the third in six new-member classes each held after the last service of Church. The evangelism committee provides lunch to the group ranging from six to twelve people including Pastor Michael Murphy, a gentleman of Irish descent. As it was my turn to provide a meal, I put together Pastor Mike’s favorite meal—Shepherd’s pie, Irish soda bread, salad, and dessert. Shepherd’s pie is simple faire, made with ground meat (beef, turkey, or lamb), cooked in butter with onions, peas and carrots, and baked in a casserole with a delicious layer of mashed-buttery potatoes. Not low calorie. Not raw food. Comfort food.

I managed to get through the three hours of cooking without incident and held together as I transported the hot dishes from my house to Church in a closed car smelling of meat pie and soda bread—mmm the caraway seeds. Even setting out the food and serving, gave me little upset. The undoing, at last, was the drive home. The scent became so strong in the warm car—heated by the afternoon sun. I drove like a woman possessed from Church to my driveway.

It took no time at all to unload the boxes and serve up my still-ill husband the leftover meal.

Somehow bits of raisin-ladened soda bread slipped into my mouth as well as spoonful after spoonful of Shepherd’s pie. Poindexter, the dog, witnessed my transgressions and had to be silenced with his own plate of the home-made goodness. I felt guilty in the bribe but Poindexter gobbled up the offering with no apparent judgment on my sin. But now… my weight loss has slowed.

I pray I can get back to my successful raw diet.

Fasted and Feeling Righteous

I’m down to the last few hours of my three day fast: one day lemon-water only and two days watermelon with water chasers – three days longer than I ever fasted. I can’t say the experience pleased me but it kept me out of mischief. That is something.

Yesterday at church, my friend and I engaged in a conversation about fasting, when another joined in the conversation. I said that I managed to get through the experience by remembering that Jesus fasted forty days and I only needed to survive three.

The third person said, “…but Jesus had someone holding his hand.”

I said, “I would like to think the same hand was holding mine.”

“No,” she said, “God was really holding Jesus’ hand.”

“I understand…”

It seems my Christian friend could not believe that the same God that held Jesus hand could hold mine. I believe that Paul and I could not have lived through everything we have without God holding our hands. We are about to face surgery together – husband and wife sharing danger with the hope of a better quality of life. We cannot do that without a little faith.