August is Officially Over

Today was one of those days--a day when I thought I was being a good person.  How come it's those days when getting crapped on is so much more painful?  Sometimes no matter what you do, it's never going to be enough.

It's days like today when I really hope God has an eye on me.

I refused to take a gift from a friend--paid her for it because she needs the money.
I listened to someone tell me how hard it is to believe his son is now a junior in high school--yeah, that was especially fun!
I told someone I'd like an opportunity to apologize even though I can't for the life of me figure out what I've done wrong.
Let's just say, it wasn't an easy day.

All I'm supposed to care about is that God knows I'm a good person, right? 
That stinks.

Tough and Tougher

I saw this bracelet in a catalogue the other day.  I thought about buying it, as I'm determined that I won't let go of the beliefs I've held my whole life.  There's only one problem:  I wasn't tough enough when it mattered most.

Last summer, when Ian was so weak and I was so worried I told God I couldn't do it anymore.  I couldn't go back to way things were when Ian was 5, never knowing what to do or if things would be okay.

I think I'd blocked that out for a while, but when I saw the bracelet, it came back.

I told God I couldn't do it and look what happened.

Strait and Narrow

I've always wondered about the scriptures that reference a strait and narrow path.  Strait and narrow both mean narrow.  Actually strait can mean restricted or confined, like a straitjacket, or strait-laced which was originally referring to corsets that were extremely tight.

I looked at some things on the internet--21st century research--that said strait and straight are interchangeable as adjectives.  I read that straight makes sense in the context of  the Bible verses because God's course is direct and undeviating. 

I like to think of strait in the same way as the "camel through the eye of a needle".  Or, it's the same as the commandments--they can be viewed as extremely limiting or they can be seen as  a tiny path of protection through a scary jungle full of all kinds of dangerous predators.

Matthew recorded:  "Because strait is the gate, and narrow is the way, which leadeth unto life, and few there be that find it."  In this context,  maybe it's talking about restricted entry.  It's fun to really think about the words and the possible meanings, then again,  I have to be careful not to wrest the scriptures and just try to feel what the spirit would have them mean.

I Don't Want to Hear Myself

Everyone knows somebody who just talks to hear their own voice?  I wonder if people like that ever get tired of what they have to say?  Like Kim Kardashian--does she get tired of seeing herself everywhere?  Is that why some movie stars don't watch their own stuff--they've had enough.

Well,  I'm not famous or known for my outstanding appearance,  plus I hate hearing my own voice on the answering machine,  but the point today is I'm sick of what I have to say.  How can I feel the same pain and find some way to express it everyday?

I smashed my thumb today.  It's black.  I'll probably lose the nail.  I'm not using it to type.  It really hurts,  and when I just sit down and don't keep myself doing something, it throbs.  After several hours it's still throbbing.  And guess what?  All that does is remind me of my life.  It hurts.  A lot.  How many days, weeks, months can a person cry?  How long can I just barely function with a to do list of the things that can't be put off any more?

I'm sick of it.  I'm tired of how I feel.  Post-bawling headaches are awful.  The never-being-hungry and losing weight has passed--that was the only good thing I had and it's over.

Like I said,  I'm sick of my own voice.

Ode-M-G

In a year of doing crossword puzzles I've learned a lot.  When I have finished the medium, hard, and expert puzzles, or when I want to fall asleep,  I do an occasional easy one.  Almost without exception, easy crosswords all have one clue in common:  tributary poem, lyric poem or Keats poem--ode.  I remember the term from both poetry classes and a humanities class where I had to be able to recognize Beethoven's  Ode to Joy.  What a masterpiece.  You can hear it here.

I was thinking about that yesterday during church.  When we sing before the sacrament, there are lots of songs that have more verses than we finish.  I often read the extra verses that I'm not familiar with to try to concentrate on the purpose of what I'm doing.  I'm always impressed by the lyrics that we neglect because of time restraints.  I wonder if I wrote a poem about someone and their life's accomplishments, would I want only the first four stanzas to be read?  Probably not. 

Here's an example:

1. Behold the great Redeemer die,
A broken law to satisfy.
He dies a sacrifice for sin,
He dies a sacrifice for sin,
That man may live and glory win.

2. While guilty men his pains deride,
They pierce his hands and feet and side;
And with insulting scoffs and scorns,
And with insulting scoffs and scorns,
They crown his head with plaited thorns.

3. Although in agony he hung,
No murm’ring word escaped his tongue.
His high commission to fulfill,
His high commission to fulfill,
He magnified his Father’s will.

4. “Father, from me remove this cup.
Yet, if thou wilt, I’ll drink it up.
I’ve done the work thou gavest me,
I’ve done the work thou gavest me;
Receive my spirit unto thee.”

_____________________________

This is where the song cuts off.  We never sing the rest.  There are so many like this--especially and specifically about Christ.  Maybe there's just too much material--we could never cover it all at once,  but the last 2 verses are so meaningful.

5. He died, and at the awful sight
The sun in shame withdrew its light!
Earth trembled, and all nature sighed,
Earth trembled, and all nature sighed
In dread response, “A God has died!”

6. He lives—he lives. We humbly now
Around these sacred symbols bow
And seek, as Saints of latter days,
And seek, as Saints of latter days,
To do his will and live his praise.

Text: Eliza R. Snow, 1804–1887

I think I'm going to write some Odes of my own to honor the Savior, my parents, my husband, my kids, maybe even nature or my country.

Electrically Charged

We learned a good lesson today.  If you want to see the entire movie, don't invite a spirit to go with you. 

We didn't know what to do today for Ian's birthday, but what could be more appropriate than a superhero movie?  First we went to the cemetery.  Lucy placed the KISS book on the grave--with a note that read,  "You'll go to Hell for stealing from a cemetary!"   I love that she spelled it wrong--she hates it when people spell things wrong.  My parents placed rocks from Yosemite--a little of the Jewish ancestry coming out.  Then we went to the movie theater to see the 10 a.m. showing of Captain America.  I was a little nervous to tell mom and dad that's what we were doing and found out later they thought it was going to be animated. 

It was a great movie.  We were all enjoying it.  Then the screen went dark.  We sat for about 10 minutes and then got it going again.  We were all so excited it was in the exact right place and that a manager slipped in to pass free tickets down the aisles for our inconvenience.  About 15 minutes later--with only about 15 minutes to go--it went off again.  Power outage number 2.  We had to leave.  The entire theater was dark--all 13 screens.  The water in the restrooms wouldn't even turn on.

My dad fell in the dark and got a gash on his arm.  Keith got mad at the manager  (because now we have to use the free passes to sit through the same hour and a half of a movie we already paid for to see the end).   I think he just needed to vent some of his feelings about the day.

I was just disappointed.  Ian would've loved that movie--at least the part we saw.  Not only did it have a great superhero, but it was anti-bully and showed that good on the inside is more important than buff on the outside.

As we were walking to the car,  we looked over toward Bass Pro Shop.  Parked right in front of the doors was an orange Toyota FJ Cruiser--the first one we've ever seen.  Wow,  Ian's dream car in his favorite color.  We got on the freeway to find a place where we could get flowers and I turned to Keith and said,  "I guess we know now what happens if a spirit tries to sneak into a movie theater."

My Spirit Spoke

The monument company gave us the hope that they would have Ian's tombstone done before his birthday.  It was a long shot.  Marble takes 4 months to order.  A week or so ago, Keith and I went in to initial the final copy of the design and left more nervous than before.  The process of taking a drawing and making it into a sandblasting stencil is a lot more complicated than you would think.  So, when they called and said the stone came in, we both (privately) went into a sort of panic.

I said several silent prayers that day.  Amazingly they were very similar prayers to ones I offered many years ago.  I asked God to guide the hands of the sandblaster,  just like I had asked  Him to guide the hands of many surgeons.  We didn't pick a pre-made design from a book.  Keith had sketched a stripling warrior and I had simplified it to a basic line drawing for the stone.  We needed Heavenly Father to intervene and make sure it was fitting to our son's exemplary life.  It would be the last thing we could do directly for Ian.

I hadn't wanted to call and check on the progress--frankly,  I didn't want to know.  With my parents here,  I wanted to minimize my break downs.  By early afternoon today,  I couldn't stand it and I knew Keith would ask when he got home, so I called.  They said installation was scheduled for today.  They couldn't say if it was already done or would be done in the next few hours.  I called Keith--4 times with no luck and finally went to the cemetery--just left the kids with my parents and went.

When I got there,  no stone.  Nothing was any different,  but I knew the cemetery would close at 4:30, so I just found some shade and waited.   The truck came within a few minutes.  It took almost an hour.  I stayed back, out of the way.  I didn't want the man to feel pressured or hurried.  When I saw the marker,  I asked if he was the sandblaster, and he said yes.  I told him it was perfect and I thought about how God had answered my prayers.

On the way home the van was quiet.  I had a tune going through my head.  It took me a few miles to recognize it.  I wasn't humming it.  It wasn't audible.  It was my favorite hymn--All Creatures of Our God and King.    It occurred to me--glaringly--that my spirit inside me was reminding me that it was thankful too--singing  Alleluia,  Alleluia,  Alleluia,  Alle--lu--u--ia!

Depends on How I Look at It

Birthday    #6

I talked to a friend recently--for an hour or so.  She sent flowers on the 2nd and I called to thank her.  She understood a lot of my feelings.  She is missing one of her sons too.  She understood how I was relieved when the 2nd was over--that it had been looming for weeks. 
But this past week I was thinking how she was lucky.  She only had one day that was significant on the calendar.  Her son's birth and death were the same day.  She didn't have to decide how to think and feel  on 2 separate days.

I was wrong.  It isn't worse to have 2 days to commemorate.  It's better.  I have 16 (counting the day Ian was born) birthdays to look back at, and there are special memories with each one.  There is joy in all those memories.  The only memory my friend has that includes her son is the traumatic day when all went so horribly wrong.

I have the memory of Keith singing to Ian just a few minutes after he was born.  I have the memory of the rash that shows on the 1st birthday photos, because we thought guacamole was okay for a baby.  I remember baking a cake that looked exactly like clown--the loved musical toy.  I remember the pool party back in CA at Papa's house.  There was a baseball party in the club house of our apartment complex;  a Captain Hook pirate-ship cake;  a Superhero parade that marched down our street.  I remember the rock and roll party with the karaoke machine and the make-your-pizza party.  There was the movie and dinner out year with only 2 friends;  There was the billiards at a pool hall year.

I remember the year we got satellite TV for Ian for his birthday and the year Keith said he needed video games.  We did birthdays  right.  We never knew when there wouldn't be another one.  Now we know.  I'm glad we have two days--only one of them is horrible;  the other is bitter and sweet.

Birthday Present

I'm a cheapskate.  No argument.  I am.  I went shopping with my mom and Lucy today.  We  had a good time.  Lucy is  a little more concerned with what things cost lately.  She hears about the economy.  She hears me say I may have to go to work soon.  Usually when she asks for things  that aren't a need I say no.  I say it's not worth what they want for it.  I say maybe next time.  I stall. 

We were in Barnes and Noble today,   looking at books.  She asked for something--a book about KISS to take to Ian's grave next week.  I didn't even hesitate.  I just said yes and walked to the checkout.  I was so thrilled to hear her initiate a conversation that she usually avoids.   Progress, I hope.

Falling Rock

Yesterday we were with friends at a water park.  I'm trying to give the kids a good summer--nevermind that I cried the whole way there.   Anyway,  I was fine by the time we got there and had a fairly good time.  We had what I originally thought was a pretty innocuous conversation.   Lucy was sharing the names she had picked out for her children:  Garrett,  Patrick,  Seamus,  Molly, and Cassidy.  Not bad.  Then my friend asked if she'd planned her wedding too.  I said I had to for a class in high school.  You know, that class where you have the egg to take care of like it's your baby.

I proceeded to tell about my fake egg baby.  I wanted my baby to be unique.  There would be no curly yarn hair made on a knitting needle;  No ribbons;  No trendy girl name.  I painted my egg brown, gave it a leather loin cloth and named it Falling Rock.  It was an adorable little Indian.  There was no other like it. 

Here's the part of the story that wasn't so innocuous--Somehow my egg got broken.  I don't remember how.  It's been 25 years.  I just didn't take good enough care of it and it broke.  I had to do a report on funeral costs.   Haven't really been able to forget about that conversation today.  It's kinda stuck with me. 

I know from plenty of literature classes that, after the fact, anything can be seen as foreshadowing,  but...
I miss my son today.  I miss him everyday.  I wish I could have control over whether he was here with me today.  I would choose here--not gone.  I wish I could have every second of his life back--that would be 503,442,016 seconds.

Sure Mercy?

I did some reading Sunday afternoon--trying to keep the sabbath holy and all.  I was reading in Acts 13 and came across a phrase I hadn't ever noticed before.  It really struck me.  It was about the "sure mercies of  David".  I didn't know what that was.  The footnote sent me to Isaiah.  That figures.  No wonder I didn't get it.  Anyway,  apparently,  David was promised resurrection.  I know that everyone on earth gets the free gift of resurrection, but this reading really made me think.

I have thought a lot about David over the past year.  He writes so much about his sorrow and remorse and begs forgiveness of God through so many of the Psalms.  He sounds so broken.  He didn't actually kill Bathsheba's husband--but he did cause his death.   (Yes,  I'm still waiting for God to tell me my yelling at and demanding too much of Ian wasn't the cause of  his death.)

If David was responsible for an innocent man's life,  would the promise of resurrection feel like mercy?  Would you really want to be resurrected if you knew that meant that you would then have to live eternally with what you had done?  It seems to me not being resurrected would be the more merciful choice.    I obviously have a whole lot to learn.

Not My Will, But Thine

Ian with Matt,  my cousin who also has congenital heart disease
and has gone on to serve a mission,  marry,  and become a father.

It's not hard to know what to write about today.  There was a line in a testimony today that really hit a sour note with me--didn't make me mad,   just made me want to say something.  This is my forum.  This way I won't hurt any feelings or hit a sour note for anyone else.

The man was saying how thankful he was for the priesthood and how important it is--TRUE.  Then he said it's great that people, can be healed by priesthood blessings--through their faith.  I looked around the room and thought of all the people that should have been there--except they weren't healed.  Let me give their names:
Carol Tulua, 
Sherry Cherry, 
Ian Gleason,  
Mae Wright,  
Annette Webster, 
Ernestine Blakes, 
Victoria Figuera. 
I'm thinking there should be more,  well, there are more, 
Bob Fleckenstein and 
Mary Murdock,
but I didn't know them personally and can't account for their faith.  The first group though,   all had enough faith to overcome anything that was ever put in front of them.  I'm sure of it.

Here's my take:  God's will trumps faith.  If He wants people to be healed and live on this earth and fulfill more of their earthly purpose, then they can be healed through their faith and the faith of those blessing and praying for them.  If He wants them home with Him, then they return,  regardless of how much faith is exercised in trying to keep them here.  Period.

That is not to say that lives have not been lengthened by priesthood blessings and prayers.  I personally think we had bonus time with Ian.   Time given by a loving Heavenly Father,   perhaps according to faith.  Not enough time.   I've heard my father tell the story of giving my grandfather a blessing every day for many days after he had a heart atttack--a blessing  that he would live.  Those blessings were  honored.  But on the day that followed when a blessing wasn't given,  God took the my granfather and His will prevailed.  That was quite a lesson for my Dad. 

I think sometimes when we have miracles before us,  we give ourselves more credit than we should.  God is in charge.  He giveth and He taketh away.   It's up to us to have faith either way and know that it's our job to submit to His will.   Not every story has a testimony meeting ending.

Decisions

I had to take my car in today.  That's another story, but the shuttle driver and I chatted the whole drive to my house.  He was a nice guy.  We talked cars,  jobs,  and Obama.  As we turned into my neighborhood, he said he knew several people who used to live in area,  but they all lost their jobs and their homes.  Anyway, he asked if our house was a 2-story.  Simple question, right?  Nope.  I nearly cried.  Our house is a 2-story.  As was our last one.  We picked  them because of Ian.  I remember the whole discussion over whether a 1-story would be better,  and then deciding that having to go up and down stairs all the time would be good for him.

He has been part of every decision we've ever made.  Now what?

Clamped Down

When Ian was about 18 months old,  things weren't going too great for him.  That's when his brain decided to join his heart and be unique.  We still don't know what happened.  Doctors from across the country and around the world were baffled.  They decided one day they needed to have a look at his brain tissue.  The biopsy would be pretty complicated,  taking into account the cardiac issues and the allergies to anesthesia.  Their plan was to put Ian out then let the ophthalmologists look at his eyes first,  and then they could put on the halo that actually attaches to the cranium.  That way they could use all their fancy mapping equipment. 

Well, about an hour after they started,   a doctor came out to tell us that there had to be a change of plans.  When they got finished examining Ian's eyes,  they moved the draping back to start everything else and found that his arms and legs were completely blue.  They had used a neurological anaesthetic instead of one especially for cardiac patients and it had put Ian's little heart into shock.  When something this traumatic happens,  the heart goes into survival mode--"clamping down" they call it--just circulating to the vital organs.  They said Ian wasn't even stable enough to move into the right room to do the rest of the procedure.  Pretty scary day.

I think I've been "clamped down" for a year.  My heart is so traumatized that survival has been the prime goal.  It's mostly figurative,  but for almost a month last summer,  my hands were asleep all the time--tingly.  I think my brain and my heart--my thinking and my feeling are still half asleep.  Maybe your body puts you into one of those  "induced comas" so you can heal.  The question I have is:  When I come out of it,  will it hurt worse?  Is that possible?

Not Funny

Knock, Knock,
Who's There?
Naughty,
Naughty Who?

...Not Ian,  he's not here.  He won't ever get to tell me another joke!

1 Down, Many Years to Go

There all types of  commemorations.  There are birthdays and graduations;  holidays and  anniversaries.  There are congratulations and farewells.  Hallmark counts on us to have events worth remembering.   I'm not sure they make a card for a day like today.  Last year on August 2nd, our world stopped.  Ian leaped ahead of us on the journey we're on.  Yep, still have to find a euphemism.

It's strange.  After the weeks that have been so hard leading up to today,  it was strangely a relief.  It's here, so it can be over.  We don't have to face it again for a few hundred days.  I said it was strange.  Yesterday was the day anyway.  It all happened on a Monday, following the Sunday and the Saturday and the Friday--the Friday we took him to the hospital.  The events of those days are as etched in my mind as the date will be on his tombstone. 

Keith and I talked about how we were feeling today,  which we don't do terribly often, and we both felt the same way-- We are 1 year closer to seeing our son--our terrific, incredible, super son, which is a good thing.   We don't miss him any more today than we have any other day in the past 365.  In fact,  I almost think we'd be doing him an injustice if we marked this particular day as something special. 

He had a life of thousands of days--days where he did remarkable things and overcame obstacles that he was told were insurmountable.  Those are the days we should remember.  The day he got his first hit in little league was quite a day.  The other parents were concerned about the score and whether or not we'd win the game.  I just wanted Ian to have fun and not get hurt.  Then he hit the ball.  That was a day.  The day he was on the news was good too.  Having the news crew come to school to interview him and his friends and teacher made him pretty proud.   I liked the day he came home and told me he had  a girlfriend.  Getting A's on the report card was good too,  especially after going to those awful IEP meetings all those years.  I think he felt redeemed.  Too many good days to count.

I'm glad today is over.  I was surprised how many people remembered and reached out.  Maybe I'm we're not alone.