Peeing on Your Toothpaste

Dear TEAMS,

I don’t have a lot of memories of my maternal grandmother, your great-grandmother, Elsie Leoma Rayle.  By the time I was realizing there was a world outside myself as a young teenager, Alzheimer’s had already stripped away most of who I knew of her.  I know she loved me.  I know she prayed for me.

I do have a vivid memory from when I was 8 years old.  She and my grandfather, Fred D Rayle, had come to take care of us 4 kids while my parents went to India for 3 weeks.  One night, she let me in the bathroom with her while she did her nighttime routine.  Fascinated, I watched her squeeze just a small smear of Pepsodent toothpaste on her toothbrush and she painstakingly brushed all her teeth.  Then, to my horror, she pulled out her bridge (a metal brace worn across the top of her mouth that had 2 molars on each side to replace the teeth that had been pulled) and brushed it as well.  I’m sure she created an object lesson out of it about why I should brush my teeth every morning and evening, a practice I chose not to do as a child and was not really enforced too much.

The thing is, when it came time to spit, she lifted the toilet seat and spit into the toilet!  And then, she used only a little water to rinse her toothbrush thoroughly, using her thumb to clean out the bristles.  Next, she wet a washcloth and washed her face—whether she used soap, I don’t remember and again, taking care to conserve with rinsing the cloth out and squeezing it.  Then, I was scooted out of the bathroom where she could empty her bladder (my grandmother would have never said “peed”) on top of the toothpaste spit in the toilet, so that one flush took all the waste away.  I was aghast!

Both my grandparents grew up on farms in Ohio.  My grandfather went to Yale and my grandmother to Findlay College, as it was called then.  Choosing pastoral work, my mother (your Grandma K), was born in Celina, Ohio in 1933.  A pastor during the depression with a baby…doesn’t get much poorer.

I tell you all this because my grandmother had a very real need to pee on her toothpaste at one time in her life.  Economizing meant food and having basic needs met.  Not economizing was choosing starvation.  Thankfully, with their mean beginnings, once they were married it wasn’t too much of a stretch to live frugally.  I have been the benefactor of this knowledge, passed down through my mother, and have written down some lists to pass along in the next few posts about them.  There are wonderful books with even more tips.  But these are ones I have adopted and were necessary in the beginnings of my marriage, too.  I continue with them because it makes sense.

You will note that peeing on your toothpaste is not one of them.

Love,

Electronics Time Log

Dear TEAMS,

You are of a generation when your childhood entertainment was limited to TV, videos (remember VCR cassettes), and DVDs, but your teen years had all of those options at your fingertips via iphones and laptops. When you were in single digits, I had control of entertainment.  It wasn't until M was a junior that I was contending with devices that made it impossible for me to know what you were doing online, and had to instruct and trust in those areas.

It became obvious to us that this new world was opening up new ways to be entertained when one day I sat and realized that if I added up all the time I had seen you all on Facebook, watching TV shows on Netflix, etc., 18 hours had been spent in one day.  Entertainment is one of the luxuries we get living where we do.  Eighteen hours of it is too much.

We created the rule that entertainment usage of the electronics (Facebook, watching on You Tube, watching movies online, Netflix) was to be limited to 60 minutes per day.  It did not include email, listening to music online, schoolwork usage, and it did not include any time we spent in the evenings as a family watching TV or a movie.  In order to keep track, I had this template (that I personalized at the bottom with your name) by the computer and you were to log the time spent.  It was more of a way for you to be aware of the time you were spending on entertainment than anything else.  You all are such great kids, that once you were aware there was a problem, you initiated getting it under control yourselves.

Love,

Lessons from Running

Dear TEAMS, 

It’s been an intense day in our household.  M is feeling overwhelmed and frustrated about beginning his freshman year at Millersville, and is struggling with not wanting to do the work when he knows he has to do the work.  S just thumped Tom Sawyer down on the sofa, frustrated that he has to read the book in only several days and answer the study guide questions I got online.  T came up this morning and was already overwhelmed at the prospect of cleaning the 3-story residence with E this morning and doing her schoolwork in the afternoon, all while watching the precocious neighbor girl.  And I imagine that E and A will each come home from their work with their own stories of getting through their work day.

And what does that have to do with running?  Lots.

Not all of us are runners in our family, but the majority of us are.  E, M, and S have competed/are competing at the secondary level, and your father and I have competed locally.  (Well, let’s be honest: Daddy and E competed, I showed up and finished.)  I have realized recently that there are a lot of life lessons that can be learned from running, and I brought them up to S today when he just was stuck in his emotional misery.

Running is about endurance.  There is a point in every run, even for seasoned runners, that the body systems become overwhelmed with the strain.  The lungs feel like they’re stuck in Pringles cans, the legs feel heavy, and the brain starts thinking things like I don’t want to do this; it is uncomfortable, This is hard work that I didn’t know I would have to do, and This sucks.  Especially to beginning runners, they really think they cannot run any more that day.  But the truth is, if we just push through that discomfort, usually you hit a pace and rhythm that you can run much longer and make the run serve you instead of the other way around.  As with life, those who push through the hard part end up finishing well.

Running is 60% mental.  Five days a week, I start a run knowing I will have to go up the South Mount Joy Street hill towards the end.  This is a steep incline in only a 2-block distance.  The first block, the incline is gradual, but the Pringles lung syndrome comes back and since I have already clocked over 1.5 miles, my legs are tired.  Let me tell you what I used to think for the few minutes it took me to run up the hill:  I don’t HAVE to do this—it’s not like I’m a professional or anything; I’m 45—I should be taking it easier on myself; I just don’t feel like this today—I’ll do it tomorrow instead; I shouldn’t have to work so hard to be healthy; Who do I think I am, thinking that I can run up a hill that the college students barely mount?  And guess what?  I would finish the hill, somedays giving up halfway, and always feeling like crap.

I was running it one day and Father spoke to me very clearly about the mp3 running on endless loop in my head.  He reminded me that He Himself said, “You are what you think about most of the time.”  I realized that I wasn’t just saying negative things, I was actually telling myself lies.  He asked me to instead run up the hill only thinking about truths in His word and facts about the state of my life.  So, I changed the audio loop to:  I want to do this to achieve other goals in my life; I am young, I am strong, I am healthy; They that wait upon the Lord shall renew their strength, they will run and not grow weary, they will walk and not grow faint; Pain is temporary—quitting is forever; When you’re going through hell—keep going; I can do all things because of Christ’s sacrifice 2000 years ago for me—including this hill.   

You are smart enough to know what happened with this.  The hill is no longer a mental barrier for me.  Plus, it became a frame of reference for me with other challenging things in my life, as in “Hey, if I can do the Mt. Joy hill, I can _________________ (deal with the child’s temper tantrum, plan this party, etc.)”  Someone once coined the phrase, “Life is 10% what you make it and 90% how you take it.”  Attitude really is everything, and can transform the hardest hurdle to the smallest speed bump in an instant.

Running is a discipline, and you just gotta do it.  I don’t think about brushing my teeth and washing my face, morning and night.  I just do it on automatic pilot.  But there was a certain time in my life that I had to discipline myself to remember to do it and do it well.  I fought against boredom and felt like it was a waste of my time.  But after so many thousands of times, I no longer even think about it and just do it out of habit.  And I’ve got great teeth and skin to prove it.  That’s how I have been with running.  I lace up my shoes and just spend the 40 minutes and do it.  If it’s a weekday, it’s happening—no questions asked, no second guessing.  And truly, that’s what most of life is…just understanding that what you face in a day needs to be handled healthily, whether you want to or not.

Love, 

Grandma K Again

Dear TEAMS,

Beside me in the office here are two boxes, brought back from my mother’s belongings.  One holds costume and simple jewelry, certainly not adding up to any big monetary value.  The other holds (and I am not exaggerating) about a thousand photos.  I have already sorted through the jewelry once, shipping off to your Aunt anything I thought she might be able to resell on Ebay to add to grandma’s meager account at the Home.  The rest of it is waiting for my more careful examination, either so I can relive a memory, or smile at the thought of why it appealed to your Grandma, or verify it is not some important piece to you because it was my grandma’s; your great-grandma’s.

The photos I have decided to sort and put in piles and make albums on my mother’s Facebook page.  (As an aside, one of the ways we were aware my mother was having issues about 2 years before she ended up at the Home was that I was talking to her about Facebook and encouraged her to join, and she couldn’t grasp the concept of it.  This was a woman who owned a personal computer in the 1980s, at least 10 years before Bill Gates achieved his dream of having a computer in every home in America. Your Uncle C eventually set her up with an account, but she kept calling it "Bluebook" and wouldn't get on it.  But back to the photos…)  Some of them are ones I recognize from the Churches of God, General Conference where Grandma worked when I was in high school.  Some are from her time pastoring a church in Oak Park, IL.  Others are of architecture (Frank Lloyd Wright was a favorite) or pretty wildlife.  And some are photos I have no idea what they symbolize, and I don’t recognize the faces, but it is obvious they are people and places that were important to my mother at one time.

The sadness of this all is that 485 miles from here, your grandma is sitting in a Nursing Home.  And even if I could drive there tomorrow and show her these few things of hers, she could not tell me any story related to the item.  Indeed, my mother doesn’t even remember she was moved to the Care facility grudgingly from the home she bought with my father and raised her children in, or that she ever owned jewelry.  She cannot tell time.  And she cannot dress herself or go anywhere unaided.

Over the past few months, I thought that it couldn’t get any worse than talking on the phone with her and asking a basic question of what she ate for lunch and having her answer with completely nonsensical gibberish, every non sequitur and lone syllable stabbing me through the heart at the loss of…well, her.  It turns out, I was wrong.  Worse than the answers that made no sense is, in fact, the silence I encountered on my last call with her, just on Tuesday.  [This posts 2 weeks later than my writing.]  

Your grandma can no longer answer my simple questions I would ask her to keep her talking, to have a connection with her, and to let her know she was loved.  On this recent call, I would ask a question, and there would be silence.  I have already learned to wait many seconds past the typical conversation for her answers, such that they were, but I waited even longer this time and no answer came.  Perhaps there would be a mumbled word every so often.  She did offer that her back hurt.  I just kept telling her I loved her, and I believe in my heart she heard in her spirit.  Five painful minutes I spent on the phone, asking her questions and listening to her silent responses, trying hard not to let the tears in my eyes choke up my throat so I could talk.  When I finally said goodbye, I wondered what she would do.  She didn’t hang up, because she didn't know she was supposed to; and an aide finally came in the room and confirmed with me that the call was over.

As I look at the boxes, I am reminded how important these items were to her at one time.  Your grandma never did anything without it being meaningful to her in some way, and I know every necklace I pull out and every photo snapped has a story to it of why it was important to her and how it represents her very long life of 78 years.  But what strikes me as I sit here and meditate on these boxes and on her now desolate mind is that ultimately, these items—this “stuff”--means nothing to her at all, and in fact has no value to us, either.  All that emotional energy that was wrapped up in the decision to purchase or click the shutter, all the money and care spent to “preserve history” has absolutely no worth to her whatsoever.  She does not even know these items exist, nor does she ever remember possessing them or spending time on them, nor does she realize she was ever any place other than where she is now.  And I’m not sure she even cares that she doesn’t know, in that she no longer is capable of making sense of her days.

I do not know when you will read this, and my final days, Father willing, are still a long way off.  I don’t believe my brain has the same fate as my mother’s and that you will have to lose me before you lose me, the way I am having to with my mommy.  But in the end, it’s pretty obvious to me right now that all this work we do every day, and the people we meet and the things we strive after and the money we spend and the stuff we collect, well…

There is nothing better for a man than to eat and drink and tell himself that his labor is good. This also I have seen that it is from the hand of God.  For who can eat and who can have enjoyment without Him?  For to a person who is good in His sight He has given wisdom and knowledge and joy, while to the sinner He has given the task of gathering and collecting so that he may give to one who is good in God’s sight. This too is vanity and striving after wind.  Ecc. 2:24-26

Love, 

Photo is of your Grandma K's charm bracelet and other charms found among her belongings.  What I remember about the charms L-R: Sweet 16 from her birthday 12/27/49, music staff from being in choir in HS/Findlay College, Ohio Cardinal charm, airplane from her trip to India with my father around 1974(?), a cross showing her lifelong church involvement but if unknown origin, a church (my dad's first pastorate in Leipsic, OH?), San Francisco from our family trip west around 1978, an Oregon State charm from the same trip, Happy Birthday from an unknown birthday, a house charm signifying a new home either for 708 Christina Court or 704 Charles Ave., an graduation owl with a tassel dated 1977 (which I think signified her graduation from seminary).  The single charms are of Hawaii, signifying a trip your Uncle C took her on in the early 1990s, Glacier National Park, where your Aunt K worked for a couple summers during college, a charm from Bluffton College, where your Aunt K graduated from, a New Mexico charm either from the previously mentioned trip out West or from when your Aunt K went on a Navajo Missions trip, a passport which opens like a locket and contains a photo of someone looking very 1960s, a train/caboose/trolley from I don't know where, and a menorah, I assume from her trip to Israel, also in the 1990s.

I Dream of Jesus

Dear TEAMS, 

Our friend’s  beautiful green eyes started to well with tears, and by reflex her fingers went straight under them to sop up the tears.  I’d been talking with her about her husband’s death while her two small children played around us in the after-church fellowshipping, while the gymnasium is cleaned up and everything put away.  We were oblivious to everything but our conversation and Mom radar, pinging out frequently to make sure her kids were fine.  She was confessing how hard life basically was in this her first year as a widow.  “I just wish he’d come back.  This wasn’t in the plans,” she quietly stated.

I mentioned something to you all about it at dinner today, after E kindly asked after her.  But as I sit on the sofa in our big room now, I am trying to convey in one tiny blog post the absolute, complete, confusing-and-castrating powerlessness I felt this morning.  

I am old enough that this rare feeling is no stranger to me, actually.  In fact, most people who have truly been present in their days will blessedly and dreadfully experience a depth of vulnerability at this level at least a couple times.  It is usually brought on by external circumstances and people, born of evil intentions that violently ripple outward at the final earthly action the intent spawned.  You have been privy to some of my life experiences that have caused this, and I don’t wish to outline them in this oddly public-yet-secret forum.  Even you, as young as you are now, experienced it on 9/11/2001.

When I was younger, I watched too much TV and one of my favorite shows was I Dream of Jeannie.  Larry Hagman played an astronaut who found a genie’s lamp on a beach where he landed after a splashdown in the ocean (which was a routine ending of a mission of space travel in the Sixties, incidentally).  When he rubbed it to clean it off, the Barbara Eden character (Jeannie) came out and granted him a wish.  Somehow, he took her bottle and her back to his home in Cocoa Beach, FL and for several seasons led a complicated life with a genie named Jeannie.  

However, this is what you really need to know about that show:  whenever Jeannie wanted to grant her Master’s wish, she would fold her arms in front of her with her elbows away from her chest, and do a hard blink with her eyes.  Blink!  His modest den became a throne room in Versailles.  Blink!  The phone cord would unplug itself from the wall.  Blink!  A seven-course meal would suddenly appear in the kitchen.

At my tender age, I actually thought if I tried hard enough I could Jeannie-blink things and physically tried it throughout my single digits.  I tried it on my very messy room, to clean it up.  I tried it when I had to fold the laundry basket.  I tried it when I saw someone I loved crying.  And I tried it when everything I deemed safe began to unravel and fall away like ash.

And today in church, I wanted to try it again.

The comfort from all of this for you, my dear Children, whom I love more than my own life itself, is that we actually have access to a Greater Power to set things aright in our lives than some measly little blinking genie.  Because, as sure as I know that water is wet and sunlight is bright, someday everything really will be okay for our friend and her family.  At the end of her life, she will have had more days of joy than of missing her husband, and she will see how God’s plans for her life worked to her benefit and welfare, and she will probably experience greater lasting love than the 10 married years she had.  None of these things will be instantaneous, a la' a Jeannie blink.  But come they will, because through Jesus we serve a loving, kind, good, merciful, and compassionate God whose Father’s touch is more knowing, efficient and thorough than a magical genie, and whose Daddy’s heart loves greater and with more hope than a story could ever tell.

Love,