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The Things We Keep

Posted on by Susannah Warner

I had a burst of energy that sunny, November morning. It was Saturday, at 7 am, and a few restorative sips of coffee under my belt found me knee-deep in old boots, coats, and sports equipment as I had ambitiously decided to tackle my entryway closet.  I spent an hour purging it of many of the things that I had binged on through the years and the “give-away” pile was growing; not nearly as quickly as the “keep” pile, but I was pretty satisfied with myself, and my progress, until I found an old pillowcase, shoved way in the back. Inside, were the vestiges of my life, and my little families life, and the physical reminders of them that I’d chosen to keep.

I remembered then, that I’d thrown it in there many years ago, after a strikingly similar botched organizational attempt left me so sick of sorting through everything that I thrown the whole mess in to deal with later. Well, later had come…albeit many years later. Except this time, I finished my task and was quite pleased with my efforts as I sat down, and sipping my now cooled coffee, sorted through that old pillowcase (why I had used a pillowcase, I really can’t say) full of things from the back of the closet. Most were school papers from the kids, things that I found impossible to toss then, and difficult to throw away even now, although at least half of the drawings didn’t have a name and only by subject matter, or personal style could I identify the artist; intricate perfectionist drawings half-finished by our son, slapdash but completed works of art by our daughter.

Amongst the schoolwork and report cards decades of years old, I found crumbling baby teeth, the “tooth fairy” was unwilling to part with, locks of baby hair, that I guessed to be our daughters because it was not blonde like our sons, miniature arm bands, worn by our babies in the hospital and even, to my great chagrin, two, + pregnancy test sticks. Clearly, I am a person with a heaping helping of sentimentality, who is prone to tidal waves of nostalgia. My husband, is not so much, and calls me a packrat. However, he has a romantic streak, which this pragmatic girl does not, as evidenced by multiple little cards that come with flowers in the pile sent to me, by him, many of which expressed a remorseful, apologetic tone, while still others, gushing declarations of affection. There were also several love letters, one of which was in an envelope with a return address of “heartbreak hotel” at “I miss you, USA, ” with a “county jail” stamp emblazoned across the front. What can I say? A long marriage is full of ups and downs.

They were all things, that for one reason or another, I’d chosen to keep. Things that although I’d felt were important enough to store for almost three decades, I had not looked at, or thought of in many, many years. They were tangible reminders of the feelings they had once evoked, and I must have felt that if I threw them away, I’d be throwing away the emotion itself.

When I was younger, I was foolish enough to believe that the best things in life came in packages, things that could be wrapped up, with a bow on top. I thought happiness was tied up that way. After all, things are tangible and can be enjoyed for a long time as opposed to experiences and ideas, which were either too fleeting and expensive, or too abstract for this practical girl to embrace. What I didn’t know then, was that objects lose their luster as we become used to having them, and so we crave more. The shininess wears off, revealing cheap plastic underneath, which we toss away with one hand while reaching out for something new with the other.

As I’ve grown older and a little wiser, I have come to realize that the abstracts in life are truly what we desire. Love, joy, faith, hope, loyalty, friendship, family, and memories…not one of these things can be bought, but all are trully precious. These things did not have as much value when I was younger, many of them were not thought of at all, but as wisdom increases, many of us realize that we’ve taken for granted many priceless possessions. The expectation of our youth gives way to the gratefulness of old age for the intangible things. Things that we have discovered, are all that matter, and the only things worth holding on to. We eventually learn the secret to one of life’s mysteries…that the imperceptible gifts of love, joy and friendship we give to each other, come back to us so multiplied, they are nearly palpable.

Sneezing as I looked at each photo, read every card, and fondled the broken teeth, I contemplated throwing it all in the trash, but I knew that I couldn’t do it. Stuffing everything back into the pillowcase, I wedged it all back in the corner of the closet, knowing full well that someday my children would come across these things after my death, or when they moved me into a nursing home, and wonder why in the world I’d decided to keep such ridiculous reminders of the past. But, I’m pretty sure they will know too, of the things we keep.

 

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The Miracle

Posted on by Susannah Warner

My husband has smoked cigarettes for 42 years. He started when he was 11 years old, after he spotted his older brother smoking in the woods with his friends. So, to ensure that he wouldn’t rat them out, they made him smoke too. This isn’t to say that he wouldn’t have smoked anyway.  I’m quite sure that he would have, given the pack of ruffians he hung out with when he was growing up, and since a pack cost 35 cents in 1976, they were not hard to come by. His parents eventually found out, and grounded him, but he was not deterred.

I smoked too, for at least 10 years, my favorites were Marlboro lights 100’s in a box. There was nothing like the feeling of zipping the cellophane off a new box and inhaling the sweet smell of tobacco from what looked to be a box of perfect, white chalk sticks. I enjoyed the social side of smoking, and I’m pretty sure we were both smoking when we met at a pit party in 1989.  I continued to smoke, even throughout my first pregnancy (hey! my easy-going OB-GYN said “pfft that’s like smoking nothing” when I tearfully admitted that I still smoked three cigarettes a day), and even while I was in labor (although I’m not proud of this fact, please know that our now 27-year-old daughter has never smoked a day in her life, and has no health problems related to my foolishness). However, 5 years later, when I was pregnant with our son, I was older and wiser (24! LOL!), and felt too guilty to continue, so I quit only to pick it up two weeks after he was born in attempt to lose that baby weight, which I did – seven pounds worth in the first week. When our son was about a year old though, I had a patient about my age, who was on birth control like I was, who also smoked, and had had a stroke so severe that she could not pick up her own baby. The similarities were striking and scared me into quitting the very next day. It’s been 20 years since then, and although I still dream about smoking occasionally, and have often joked that I plan to return to it when I’m 80, I’m actually pretty sure that I won’t ever smoke again.

My husband, although proud of me for quitting, did not stop. He continued to smoke even after he went to college for physical therapy, and worked with patients who were dying of cancer and those whose activity was so limited by lung disease, that not only could they not walk due to breathlessness, but eventually even eating took their breath away. As a caregiver, it is such a helpless feeling to watch someone struggle to breathe; I can’t even imagine what it feels like for a family member to watch their once vibrant loved one become a shell. I didn’t want to see my nature loving, exercise obsessed, gotta-move, husband become like that, and I told him so, but still he smoked.

It’s not like he didn’t try to quit. Over the years he had many periods in his life that he did not smoke for days, and sometimes weeks, due to unfortunate incarcerations, or self-imposed week-long Appalachian trail hikes, meant to get him over the hump, literally and figuratively. He also tried the gum, patches, and even hypnosis, but nothing worked for him. Each time he came home, he was so restless, and so terribly irritable that he couldn’t stand himself, and I couldn’t stand him either. I once told him to leave the house and not come back until he had smoked because I couldn’t stand his crankiness one more minute.

As the years went by, he became very self-conscious about smoking. It had not been socially acceptable for many years, the era of the rugged Marlboro man long gone, replaced with the trappings of poverty and weakness. It became a very heavy burden; always looking for a place to smoke when out in public, remembering a lighter, trying to cover up the smell, not to mention the cost! He started to despise it so much, that he always tried to hide it from our granddaughter, and he obsessively washed his hands after he’d been outside (he hadn’t smoked in our house since 1990), and he was constantly asking me to wash his jacket because he didn’t like the smell.

Enter our granddaughter Bean. She and I have prayed for him to quit smoking for at least half of her six years. I’ve talked about the power of Bean’s prayers before; the red balloon, the boyfriend…but this request put our faith to the test. Half of your life, is a long time to pray for something, but she didn’t give up. The night he stopped, was no different. I had picked Bean up from school, taken her to dance class, and I was putting her to bed, while waiting for her mom to come home from work. Bean started with “Dear Lord,” then added in her little girl concerns and ended with…”and please help my Papa quit smoking! Amen!” I said the same, tucked her in, kissed her, said goodnight, and shutting her door went downstairs, picked up my phone and found this…5206D3DC-F38B-4991-9C39-1A6B69F29568

Now, don’t get me wrong…I absolutely believe in prayer, I believe that God answers all of our prayers, and that he wants the best for us, but this seemed too good to be true! I’d heard testimonies in church of people being “delivered,” but to have this addiction taken from him so effortlessly seemed too much to hope for. We were both a little afraid that talking about it would “jinx” it, so we moved on to other topics from there. I also didn’t want to pressure him, and make him feel badly if another attempt was unsuccessful, because every effort he’d made didn’t work, and every time he’d tried, he’d limped back to that controlling old lover with his tail between bis legs.

We didn’t say too much about it when I got home that night either, but the next day, I was dying to know what happened in the morning, as this was the time of day he needed to smoke the most. So, I waited awhile, but at break time at work, I could stand the suspense no longer and texted this…03CA8FBC-E108-4450-826A-79C13EDB2F5F

“It can’t be this easy,” he said, but it was. He was not irritable, he didn’t have to chew the terrible tasting gum, wear the patches that gave him panic attacks, or distract himself from nicotine cravings with candy. It was as if he’d never smoked at all…No cough as the previously paralyzed cilia in his lungs woke up and started to sweep out the debris, and his sense of smell, something he didn’t know was crippled, returned. The concerns he’d had initially about filling his time, dissipated. It was all so easy because God did it.

Reader, you might scoff at this, you certainly have the right to believe whatever you want. You might have been praying for things to change in your life, and it seems as if he does not hear you. But, let me tell you, He does. My husband was addicted to cigarettes for 42 years; it controlled his life and mine. He tried so many times to quit, but he could not do it on his own, at least not without an immense amount of suffering on his part, and on mine! It took some time; Bean and I prayed about this for years, and I know he’d also been praying about it for a long time, but if it had happened sooner, it would not have seemed like the miracle that it truly is.

I want you to know that my husband and I are rational, normal people. We are nothing special, just a regular American couple. We have two children and a granddaughter, we work, go to church occasionally, read our bible way less than we should, and tithe when it is convenient. We swear sometimes, go to bed angry sometimes, and are not always a good example of God’s love. We are Christians, but not what I would consider to be “good Christians,” if there is even such a thing. But, let me tell you something that I know, that I know, that I know…and that is this. It doesn’t matter if we are good; God is good. It is not about our faithfulness; He is faithful. It is not how much we love; He is love, and He loves us. We try our best, and he does the rest. It is just that easy, and it is just that simple…and that is the real miracle.

 

 

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The Golden Arrowhead

Posted on by Susannah Warner

Once upon a time, many years ago, in a land not too far away, an adorable little boy lived an unhappy life with unhappy parents. He was a sweet little boy, but he was full of energy, he liked to talk a lot, and he loved to see other people laugh, so he was often in trouble for being a class clown, or for being rambunctious although he meant no harm. In fact, he tried very hard to be good so that his parents would be proud of him, but he never felt like he was good enough.

The little boy was very active, and he liked to play outside with his friends, but he was often grounded and not allowed to go out, so he was very surprised when his mother told him that he was going to go to church camp for a whole week. He had heard his friends talk about camp, and it sounded like so much fun that he could hardly wait.

At last the day arrived, and although he was a little bit afraid, because he didn’t know any of the kids he saw playing outside, he bravely carried his little suitcase, and rolled up sleeping bag to the bunk house. Inside, there were other boys settling in for the week, and before he’d finished making up his bunk, he’d already made new friends and no longer felt nervous.

Camp was just like his school friends had said it would be. He ran and swam, played games and had so much fun with his new friends that before he knew it, it was the last day of camp, and that afternoon, his parents would come to pick him up and take him home. He was sad to think that camp was almost over, until lunchtime when one of the teenage counselors stood up, and made an announcement.

He held out a clear plastic box, and inside, nestled on a bed of red velvet, was a golden arrowhead. The counselor said that there would be a contest to see who could go the whole afternoon without saying a word. The winner would be announced at the closing ceremonies with all the parents present, and he or she could bring the golden arrowhead home. The little boy was so excited. He knew that he could win that arrowhead if he tried really hard, and he just knew his parents would be so proud of him. He could just imagine their faces when his name was announced, and he walked up on stage in front of everyone to collect his prize. He knew just where he would put it in his room, and he imagined taking it to school for show and tell. He was so sure that he could win it, and so eager to start, that he stopped talking even before the contest began.

At last lunch was over, and after a countdown, the contest officially began. Silently, all the children ran outside, a few pushing excitedly past the slower ones. “Hey!!” one of them protested. “OHHH! You’re out!” a counselor shouted, pointing at the talker. The little boy smiled to himself; he knew there was no way that he was going to make that mistake! Outside, the playground was eerily quiet, as all the children tried their best not to talk. But, after a few minutes, more and more children were pointed at by the counselors but still the little boy did not speak. He knew he could win, and he was determined to get that arrowhead.

An hour passed, and at least half of the children were “out.” The ones still in the running for the arrowhead, walked around but did not play for fear that they would speak, but the ones already caught talking had gone on to play kickball, and jump rope, and swing on the swing set. The little boy wandered around, hands in his pockets, thinking to himself that he wished he could play with the others but that it would be worth the wait, to see the look on his parent’s faces, when they saw him win that beautiful arrowhead. Scuffing his feet, he turned towards the swing set, just in time to see a little girl, younger and smaller, fall backwards off a swing, her pigtails covering her face as her head hit the ground.

The little boy ran over to the little girl, and said, “are you ok?” as he helped her to her feet. Crying, she nodded, just as a counselor pointed at the little boy and said, “You’re out!” The boy protested, “but, I was asking her if she was alright!” The counselor, who seemed quite big to the boy at the time, but who was probably no more than 14, was quite sure that the rules were black and white, “doesn’t matter, you still talked!”

The little boy gave up, he knew he would never get the arrowhead, and although he was angry with the councilor, he wasn’t sorry that he’d helped the little girl. He knew even then, that he wouldn’t want the prize if it meant that he couldn’t help someone. The rest of the afternoon passed, and at the closing ceremony, a girl about the little boys age was awarded the arrowhead. Everyone clapped as she proudly went onstage and afterwards, as he and his parents drove away, he saw the little girl’s mom hug her while her dad carried her suitcase and sleeping bag to the car, so that she could hold on to her award.

Years passed, and the little boy grew up. He continued to get into trouble sometimes, and he never really thought that his parents were proud of him, even when he went on to serve his country, or when he was the first person in his family to earn a college degree. The boy married, had children of his own, and eventually his parents passed away. The little boy was a father himself for many years before he remembered the story of the golden arrowhead again, and told his wife. He chuckled remembering how much the little boy wanted the arrowhead, and laughed when he told his wife how the joke was on him for losing the prize at a church camp because he’d tried to help someone. But his wife didn’t laugh, she felt sad for the little boy, who was punished for doing a good deed, and who couldn’t see that he was a such a good person inside, no matter how many times he got in trouble. She was proud of him, but rarely told him so.

Many more years passed, and the wife never forgot the story of the golden arrowhead. She thought to herself many times that she should tell the little boy that she was proud of him, and grateful that he had a merciful, sweet spirit, but she never did. Until one day, the story spilled out of her head, into her fingers and onto her keyboard. She wrote about the little boy because she wanted him to know that she was so proud of him for losing that contest, and that she loved him just the way he was, even though he sometimes talked too much, and was still quite rambunctious. The wife wanted him to know that even at his worst, he was still good, and that together they could live happily ever after.

The end.

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Susie Sunshine

Posted on by Susannah Warner

I’m kind of in a ranty mood this morning, so maybe you want to stop right here….still reading? OK, don’t say I didn’t warn you!

So, I guess I woke up on the “wrong side of the bed.” I don’t know why; it is raining out, so it could be that I suppose, or the fact that the wind is blowing the few remaining colorful leaves off the trees, and with it, the last vestiges of our glorious Maine summer, while ushering in Old Man winter. We had snow squalls yesterday, and while snow before Halloween in Maine is not unheard of, it’s always jarring when it occurs, because wasn’t it just last week, my husband and I were traipsing through the woods–coat less, hat less, and happy? Yeah, actually that was last week! Now, here I sit, typing away, right next to a roaring fire in my wood stove, warm and toasty on one side of my body and freezing on the other, or at least until I turn my chair.

I have a lot to be thankful for, and not much to complain about, except for my little list of first-world problems…Like, I’m out of my favorite creamer AND dish washer detergent AND toilet paper in the downstairs bathroom, which necessitates a trip to Wal-Mart, which means I’ll have to take a shower, and get dressed ON MY DAY OFF. While there, I’ll no doubt see people I know, since I live in small-town USA, and since I have a happy smiley face on all day at work, I don’t feel like having one ON MY DAY OFF, so, I’ll be forced to duck my head, and spin my cart around, so that I don’t have to make nice chit-chat about the weather and the Red Sox. I’m pretty sure I’ll walk out of there, 150 bucks poorer, and wonder how in the world I spent that much on three items?!? When I get home, I’ll realize that I should have thrown away all the healthy food I bought one sunshiny day last week when I was in an optimistic mood, to make room for all the junk I bought this week, because it is raining and my intake might as well match my salty mood. The junk food will remind me that I should have gone to the gym because I won’t be able to squeeze in a guilt-walk today, since it is pouring, and then, shrugging and giving up completely, I’ll put my sweatpants back on, open a fresh bag of Cheetos and throw myself on the couch for a few episodes of Shameless, which btw, is aptly named for the show itself, as well as for those of us who binge on it.

Oh shoot, I also have to have a mammogram today, ( I’m aware that is unnecessary information, but, you were forewarned!), AND  blood work for which I am supposed to fast for, but already ruined with a thick slab of banana bread. All this, coupled with the knowledge that my work friends and I, who collectively just blew a lot of money on this first-world foolishness, DID NOT win Mega Millions and will in fact be returning to work, was just all too much this morning. The knowledge that before last week, I had never bought a lottery ticket in my life, AND the useless trivia cluttering up my brain, that 44% of lottery winners go broke within five years notwithstanding, I had already lived out my philanthropist dreams of “making it rain” in a crowded grocery store, and the acquisition of a writer’s paradise in the form of a private island, several times over in my head.

I’m aware of how I sound; like a spoiled, surly Susie. Fortunately for my husband, this is an anomaly rather than the norm. He, who is a night owl, set his alarm last night to give himself a few extra minutes to share coffee with the sweet girl he kissed on the forehead last night, only to blink in surprise at this stranger sitting across from him, a messy bun on her head, furrowed brow on her face, with grievances to air, and a pot to stir. He wisely made a hasty exit, a marriage hack he’s learned over several decades and employs when the need arises. He knows that if I’m feeling cranky, it’s a bit like the embers in our wood stove, slowing burning. He could choose to feed it, and crank it up, or let it slowly die on its own, which it always does when there is no fuel.

Finding no material here, yet still itching for a fight, I turned to Facebook, and quickly typed out a snarky comment to a poor unsuspecting soul who had posted some innocent meme about raising kids, then mentally smacked myself just in time before I hit post, erased it all, and sat down to blog out my annoyances instead. So, here I am; no Susie sunshinesque life lessons to impart, marriage advice to give, or cutesy photos of us rambling through the Maine woods or smiling broadly from a mountaintop. These things are not fake, they really do make up about 90% of my life, but sometimes I’m not into it. One Facebook friend aptly posted as he headed to work outside in the raw, gray drizzle, “I’m just not feeling it today,” and I almost reacted with “love” because I’m not feeling it either, but decided against it because I wasn’t sure if that would look like I was happy that he was suffering, or the virtual fist bump of solidarity that I had intended.

Sometimes though, misery really does love company, which is why I love my work friends so much, and our coffee breaks. A few minutes of airing our grievances to each other, and we all come out of the break room with our frowns turned upside down, feeling heard and justified. This is also why I will always gladly enter into our little office pools, partly because….well, FOMO, but also because I actually would have something to cry about (oh wow, that just brought up memories from my childhood!), if they were all gone and I didn’t have anyone to commiserate with.

I’m actually feeling better now! My mood has lifted as I’ve typed away my irritations. I feel more like myself! Who cares about Wal-Mart trips and mammograms and rainy days. And who cares that I didn’t win, I have blessings to count and I’d rather count them, than just money any day. Susie Sunshine has returned!

Update: I’m back from my errands and I actually spent 153.96 on God knows what, my mammogram doubly sucked because the radiologist was not satisfied with the first set of images so we had to do it again, and the cold northwest wind was enough to make me decide against my walk, but not enough that I don’t feel guilty about it. BUT…wine (not whine!)! That’s it. The end.

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Driving Blind

Posted on by Susannah Warner

Once I dreamed it was black as night, I could see neither left, nor right

I was driving, although I could not see, the road right in front of me.

I was not afraid until I became aware, that FEAR had dropped out of thin air.

“What am I doing!?!” I shouted in fright, because driving blind is obviously not right.

“I’ll crash, I’ll hurt someone, or myself!” Panicking, I looked around for help.

“Here, I’ve got this,” he said with a smile, “slide over, let me drive for a while.”

I didn’t move, so he sat on my lap, he moved as gracefully as a cat.

“Let me take the wheel, my dear, I’ll soon have us out of here.”

I almost listened, he seemed so sure, besides I didn’t know how to steer anymore,

because it’s impossible to fight that fight, when you don’t know if you should go left or right.

I lifted my hands to let him steer, and that is when I recognized Fear.

“Wait a minute! I know who you are! Get the F@#$ out of my car!”

His time was up and he knew it, once again he knew he blew it.

“I’ll get out, but you’ll see, you can’t continue without me.”

He slunk away, with threats to come back, but I knew I’d know him by the way he attacks.

Alone again, I still couldn’t see, but a new thought bubbled up out of me.

“I’m doing it!” I thought, “I’ve been doing it the whole time, I’m still on the road, I’m doing just fine!!

All I have to do is keep going, even though no path is showing.

It doesn’t matter that I can’t see, in fact that’s what has set me free.

If I am blind and yet can still move, God is in control, and that is the proof!”

He heard my cry and didn’t let me crash, kept me from scary teeth that nash.

And like a Good Father, He let me drive, so that I could learn, and grow to be wise.

And if again I’m blinded by fear, I’ll never doubt that it is HE who steers.

 

Joshua 1:9

 Have I not commanded you? Be strong and courageous. Do not be afraid; do not be discouraged, for the LORD your God will be with you wherever you go.”

 

 

 

 

 

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Perfect

Posted on by Susannah Warner

“Nah, I don’t really want to go now,  I have a lot of things to do at home, and I know you have a lot of work to do too,” I said to my husband, as we sipped our morning coffee together, side by side on the deck. “Besides, when we talked about it last night, the forecast was for full sun, and now there are tons of clouds in the sky.” We were discussing plans for the day, a conversation we’d had the night before, when we’d talked about “leaf peeping,” an autumn activity so popular in Northern New England, that tourists come from around the country, and some even come from around the world to see the fall foliage in all its glorious splendor. Some people make reservations months in advance, and spend hundreds, if not thousands of dollars to witness Maine’s grand finale. Yet, here I sat, with a sour look on my face because, now the weather wasn’t perfect. In addition, I was actually in a cleaning mood, and didn’t want to be interrupted, because that mood is fleeting and I’ve found it wise to harness that sucker and ride it while it lasts, or else I’d never clean out a closet, wash a window or dust.

He was quiet for a minute as we both looked over the railing to our overgrown field, the morning dew sparkling on the amber birch leaves, while the sun ignited the reds of the maples in the background. “I guess you’re right, ” he said, squinting in my direction, I should finish painting, and go to the dump.” His smile disappeared, like the sun at that very moment, as it hid itself behind a cloud. I thought of how little he asks of me, and the unavoidable guilt I’d feel by getting my own way and breaking the plans we’d made, so I relented. “Ok, fine, let’s go. I’ll go get ready, ” I sighed, getting up reluctantly and going inside.  I threw some jeans on over my yoga pants, put a hat on my head, grabbed a sweatshirt and a water bottle, and I was ready.

Off we went, into the mountains of Maine. He chattered like a magpie, while I looked out of the passenger side window, answering questions, and offering  one word answers, but I didn’t participate much at first in the way of conversation, partly because I’d left my enthusiasm for the day back with the mop, and partly because the clouds were like a wet blanket on my shoulders. This seemed like a waste of time, when we wouldn’t be able to see the vividness of the changing leaves against the clouds as well as we would against a bright blue sky. I knew I was being ridiculous–that I’m blessed to live in Vacationland, where beauty is literally out my back door, and that I have a husband who loves nature even more than I do, and even better, that he loves nothing better than to share the beauty of the earth with me–but, you know how it is, sometimes when you let yourself get into a funk, it’s hard to pull yourself out, and the fact that you know you’re being ridiculous, makes it even worse. For me, this kind of mood is only improved by one thing, and that is to not only think outside the box, but to literally get out of the box, and into some fresh air.

It is so easy to limit our minds and our lives to the four walls we live and work in. We live in a box, we sleep in a box, most of us work in a box; and so, our minds and our passions can sometimes be limited to what we can control. I can turn on the light if it’s too dim, turn up the heat if it’s too cold, the AC if it’s too hot, and turn on the TV if I’m bored. I live in a controlled environment, but nature will not be controlled, which can be  exciting, disconcerting, but oh, so beautiful. My husband knows this, and sometimes I know it too.

“Ohhh look!” I said suddenly, as we sailed past an overlook. Braking quickly, we turned into a horseshoe-shaped turn with one of the most fabulous views I’ve ever seen. Silently, we got out of the car and looked at the artistry before us. Colors, as far as our eyes could see; brilliant reds, oranges and yellows, set against a backdrop of green pines, “a bouquet from God,” my husband said, and I had to agree. Beyond the trees, a lake framed by mountains in the distance, some as far away as Vermont and Canada, with a flamboyant carpet cover, the whole effect as dramatic, yet dazzling as a fireworks display. Above it all, a layer of clouds adorned the top, the striations adding to the scene, not taking away from it.  My mood lifted like the breeze, as I silently thanked God for his handiwork and my husband for helping me to appreciate it. Why should I wait until the conditions are perfect to enjoy what is before me? I’d be waiting a lifetime, for there is no perfect on this earth; not in our lives, our homes, or even in nature, it’s all in how we choose to see things.

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Try

Posted on by Susannah Warner

There’s a saying that my nephew and I both particularly despise, we discovered one boozy, confession laden, rainy afternoon when he was in Maine for a visit. Actually, I’m sure we are not the only ones who dislike it. It goes something like, “shoot for the moon, even if you miss, you’ll end up among the stars.” Its one of those cliches that seems so smarmy that it’s embarrassing in its cheesiness. It gives me an internal squirm, every time I hear it, as well as other disingenuous quotes like it. The kinds of quotes, plastered on the walls of a high school guidance counselor’s office, or a family planning facility, anywhere that there are cement walls painted a hopeless color of greige. You know, the gag-worthy ones with the kitten dangling from a tree limb, “hang in there” emblazoned across the poor things chest, or the rainbow with the oily commandment to “look through the rain to see the rainbow.” For awhile, my nephew and I would text them to each other and groan at the ridiculousness, until I looked at Pinterest quotes so often, I started stumbling on ones that I actually love; advice from Tolstoy, The Bible, Hemingway and Fitzgerald. I never really expected to identify with a cliche, although admittedly, it’s a cliche for a reason, nor did I expect to gain inspiration from another lazy, rainy afternoon at home.

Today, my husband and I found ourselves at odds; I had a day off from work, and no grandmother obligations to fulfill, and he could not do the work he needed to do outside because it was too wet. Thus, we did something we never do; we watched a movie in the daytime together, and without a shred of guilt. The movie I picked, was “The Glass Castle.” I’ve read the book, and I had already seen the movie with my mother, and both times, I thought to myself, that my husband’s formative years, would make an excellent memoir, similar in it’s dysfunction to that story, which is why I’d thought he might like the movie, and he did. To me, it was as touching as before, but this time I found myself struggling not to cry, my throat aching and tears welling up in my eyes, not so much because of the story, but because of the message I’d missed before. The message to me today was clear; try, just try.

I’m not much of a trier. I prefer to be good at things right away, and then I like to stick with them. This is why I’ve worked in the same place for 30 years, I’ve lived in my home for 19 years, and I have been married to the same man for 27. There’s nothing wrong with sticking with something, and I’m certainly not about to change any of the things that I’m already committed to. But, I’m feeling like I should try out something new, good at it or not. I’ve been plugging away at my little blog for a year and a half now, and this has been a good opportunity to try something I’ve loved to do since I was little, even though I have no idea if I’m good at it or not, it’s just something I need to do, I have to get out. I’m really not sure if it’s a mid-life crisis thing or not, but lately I’ve been dissatisfied with just getting by, which has pretty much been my life’s motto, especially where academia was concerned. I’m feeling like I want to stretch a little, out of the comfy little corner I’ve painted myself into. Oh, I still want my job, my house and especially my husband, family and friends in that corner, but I’m wondering if there just might be a little more out there for me. I think it might be called growing pains, although I’m not sure if that’s what it is, or if it’s actually a calling of some sort.

I’ve always admired people who just jump in and try new things, I’ve never felt comfortable doing that, because if I did try and failed, it would feel like a weakness, which is curious that I would feel that way, because I’ve never felt that way about other people who try something and it doesn’t work out. I’ve always studied the way someone handles defeat; whether they shrug their shoulders like, “oh well, at least I tried,” or did they wipe away furious tears because they wanted it so badly and set their faces to try again. I’ve always appreciated both attitudes, one for its easygoingness and one for its grit and determination. It funny to think that what I admire in others, I think of as a weakness for myself. Or, at least I used to.

I think that at this point in my life, I’m ready to try some new things. I’ve realized lately that life is too short to not follow your dreams. I may fail, I might not get very far, I might shrug and say “oh well,” or I might be determined to try again, but at the end of my life, I won’t wonder what could have been if I had been brave enough to just try. I don’t know if I will get to the moon, but at least I know, I’ll land among the stars….I’m sorry Matt! I just had to end it that way! I hope you all have inspirational music in your heads right now too. Also, if you do, please picture me walking into the sunset with my hands raised triumphantly, as the credits roll. Thank you, and thanks for reading. Please stay tuned.

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Vocation

Posted on by Susannah Warner

A few nights ago I attended a banquet held by my employer to thank me and some of my fellow employees for our loyalty and service. It was a celebration of our longevity and commitment to serving the community. I work at a local hospital as a nurse, and I have worked there for 30 (!!!) years.

It wasn’t meant to be a career. At the time I had just turned 16, and I was thinking about a summer job. My mother was a LPN at the local hospital, and had heard about a desperate need for CNA’S. Apparently, they were in such short supply in our area in 1988, that the hospital came up with a program that would train 10 high school students for free, if we agreed to work full-time for the summer. I had no aspirations to be a nurse, and I abhorred the idea of assisting anyone, least of all a nurse, but it was either that or continue babysitting and since I’m not a “sitter” at all, I ended up spending the entire time playing with the kids, which made me in hot demand, but completely burned me out. Then, there was the matter of the inconsistent paycheck; 20 bucks from a doctor and her stay at home husband for a few hours while the kids slept, VS 5 measly ones to be up until 1am with a screaming Mimi in a filthy house. Thus, the 3.35 an hour WITH night differential, was a clear winner, even if it meant being a nurse’s assistant–a certified one at that.

So, every Tuesday and Thursday afternoon after school, and all day Saturday, from February until June, I learned how to care for patients. I learned how to take vital signs, and the proper way to write them down (that’s TPR for you younger nurses, not all scattered about like some do today, so that you have announce the respiratory rate, instead of just doing it in order!), make beds you could bounce a quarter off of, and how to give bedbaths, while preserving modesty (theirs), and without embarrassment (mine). I was taught everything I needed to know except for one thing… how to literally walk into someone bedroom and assist them with all manner of basic human needs, all while chattering about the weather or last night’s ballgame, like it’s nothing. I remember the first day of work, walking up and down that long hallway trying to summon the courage to walk in to a patient’s room and ask them if they’d “like to wash up for breakfast?”  I finally did, and continued on from there; working days, evenings and nights the summer I was 16, then all of my junior and senior years of high school, and even after I graduated. I wasn’t ready to go to college yet; I’d was pretty wrapped up with a certain bad boy from Lewiston at the time (LOL!) and back then there wasn’t the same push to go to college right after high school ready or not; thank God, because I wasn’t ready, although I had plenty more to learn.

I found that I really enjoyed helping people, not the nurses so much, because many, many times I thought to myself that I could do a better job than some of the nurses, but the people in need; people who were hurting. It was truly a pleasure to wash and rub the back of the old farmer who had gotten run over by his own tractor and had been stuck in a hospital bed in traction for months, because it made him feel so much better. I loved making their beds fresh and wrinkle free, and helping the older lady, so debilitated and weary from a severe stroke, and hearing her sigh with relief and pleasure as she sunk into the clean bed.  Awkwardness? I got over that really fast, caring for a 23-year-old man who had been nearly killed in a motorcycle accident and was bedbound and nearly immobile for weeks in traction. At that time, it was not uncommon for patients to be in the hospital for weeks, especially when traction was involved. My, how things have changed.

I liked taking patients outside for “fresh air,” (I brought my own “fresh air” out with me on those occasions, and yes, I quit years ago!). I liked feeding the ones who could not feed themselves; I’d put lots of butter, salt and pepper on their potatoes, and sugar and cream on their oatmeal just how I like it, and felt as proud as a mother when they ate it all, especially when the patient’s sweet little wife came in to visit, just as I was wiping her husband’s mouth and exclaim, “that’s wonderful dear! He hasn’t eaten that well in weeks! Thank you for taking such good care of him for me.” I glowed with pride, as I did when I walked by my assigned rooms and admired how tidy they were, everything neat and inviting, and how clean and comfortable my patients looked.

I learned tricks along the way too; getting someone to suck on a straw, when they couldn’t even open their mouths. I learned how to shave a mans face, with an electric and a disposable razor, wich is a tricky business when the skin is loose, and the angles are sharp. I learned how to make the ladies permed hair look like they came from the beauty parlor with some no-rinse shampoo, and a pick. I learned how to roll a 200+ pound person alone, even though I was a little over half that myself, and I could pull that same person up in bed by myself (Patients tend to slide down in the bed, and constantly need a “boost,” usually by a person on either side of the bed lifting with a sheet or pull pad) by pulling the bed down and lifting them from the top, and I could safely transfer that same person to a chair, with no help even if they couldn’t put weight on their legs. I learned that warm prune juice works like a charm for sluggish old bowels. Also, along the way, I learned how to make small talk. A tomboyish introverted bookworm, I would have described myself prior to working with sick and injured people, I had absolutely no clue how to make small talk, because it didn’t come naturally to me. Thanks to thousands upon thousands of conversations with strangers, I can talk to anyone about anything.

Most importantly I think, along the way though, I learned how to make people feel better– to make the worst day of their lives, just a little bit better. I learned to joke with the surly ones, kid the old men, agree with the confused ones, and listen to the sad ones; and I learned that this is my calling. I continued to work as a CNA for 16 years, in the same place, before finishing nursing school. The only reason it took that long, was because I loved the work so much, and didn’t want to trade the closeness I had with the patients, for paperwork and medications. Eventually  though, the lure of a higher paycheck, coupled with the annoyance I sometimes felt at some of the nurses because I knew I could be more efficient, more compassionate and less judgmental than a few of the ones I worked with at the time (those slackers are long gone, the nurses I work with now, are a wonderful group of people).

Now, I spend the majority of my days at the front desk, and I miss the time I was able to spend with my patients. 30 years ago, I worked closely with two older nurses, who had my dream job. They no longer worked as nurses, because they were past retirement age and felt that they couldn’t return to all that responsibility, so they were allowed to function as CNA’s  but with their old nurse pay. While I know this would never fly today, it seems like that would have been a nice way to ease out of the most trusted profession in the world, in the same way I entered into it; helping those, who for whatever reason, can’t help themselves and in the process helping myself.

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Grace Under Pressure

Posted on by Susannah Warner

Here’s to you mom, the young and the old,

with dishes to wash, and shirts to fold.

Here’s to you mom, the rich and the poor,

the one herding everyone out the door.

Here’s to you mom, the single and married,

with lives that are full, and too often harried.

Hold on Mom, your time will come,

when there is no more work, it’ll all be fun.

So, enjoy it Grandma, now it’s all downhill,

A feast to enjoy, and never a bill.

 

Yesterday was Monday, and every other Monday during the school year, starting today, I’ll be playing mom to my six-year-old granddaughter for the afternoon. This is because my daughter and I have unusual work schedules since we both work at a hospital; she in the ER, and I work on a medical/surgical floor. She works every Monday, from 8-8, and has to rely on her father and me to pick-up Bean at school, take her to dance, and get her to bed. It turns out, that this is an exhausting afternoon for a grandmother, even a fairly energetic one like me.

it’s not that I haven’t done something like this before—my children are 27 and 21, and they both participated in a variety of sports that required numerous trips to and from school, not just after school, but before it as well…as in 4:30 am for a powerlifting program they inexplicably loved. I somehow acclimated to rising at 3:50 am, throwing on sweatpants and a hat and winter jacket (hey! This is Maine!), and sleepily driving the five miles to school, a silent teen, huddled like a turtle in it’s shell, inside a hooded sweatshirt beside me. Afternoons were more lively; sweaty, dirty and triumphant after a great game, or sometimes loaded down with friends bemoaning a loss, the afterschool task of chauffeuring my kids was always fun. I’m used to all the “running around” required of a mom with active kids—Or, at least I used to be.

“School gets out at 2:50, get there 10 minutes early, go to the office and fill out the pink sign-out sheet. Then wait in the hallway. You will have to watch and pluck her out of the herd of kids because she doesn’t always see me. Dance arrival is 3:45, her pink dance bag is in the living room. Please pack a water. Dance pick up is 5:30. Please ask her if she has homework. She should go to bed at 7:30.” My daughter is very organized, and gives explicit instructions which I appreciate, because I seem to have lost any sense of urgency that I used to employ to make sure that we were all where we were supposed to be, with clean faces and a minimum of five minutes to spare. I ran a tight ship back in the day, but now my ship is more like a pleasure cruise, and I am happy to let my daughter be the captain. She’s very good at it.

After a few clarifications, I showed up at the school and waited with the others, 3/4 of whom were moms. They’re easy to spot. Some hold coffee cups, some hold toddlers, all hold their phones, either in their hands, or stuffed into the back pocket of their jeans. They lean comfortably against the walls and chat about mom stuff, “I know! Harper always wants to watch that show,” and “I just can’t believe how fast they’re growing! My oldest just turned 15!!” The dads look uncomfortable and shuffle their feet, communication limited to a nod of sympathy to other dads, angling for a spot on the wall. I could almost hear them thinking of each other, “poor bastard, wonder how he got roped into this…” They too hold their phones, squinting fervently into the screen, which I know instantly is a ruse, because being an outsider myself, I also tried casually scrolling through my phone, so that I would feel less awkward and out-of-place, only to find to my disappointment that there was absolutely no service in that part of the school. Everyone waits for the kids to come out. Finally they do—and just as my daughter predicted, I did have to fish her out of a stream of kids. She threw her arms around my waist, and shouted ”Noni!!” She smiled a jack-o-lantern smile, while looking over her pink glasses like an adorable little librarian. French braided pig tails with loose strands springing out, and a giant backpack on her back, water bottle tucked in the side pocket, off we went, through the school doors and into the unseasonably hot September afternoon.

I can happily say that we did everything we were supposed to do (except for the shower her mother requested when she called at her dinner break; because, well, it just seemed like all too much), she had a snack, got changed for dance, got there in time, came home, had dinner, did homework, had a little tv time, brushed her teeth, read a story, and went to bed. But, because I’m a grandmother, I cheated a bit. Her snack was a cupcake from a local bakery, I let her watch YouTube videos in the car, dinner was a happymeal, and honestly, if she had whined about brushing her teeth, I’d have said, “oh well, it won’t hurt just this once!” But she didn’t.

However, even with all these shortcuts, I still found this afternoon exhausting. Usually when I’m with her, we have no agenda at all, Sure, I’ve had to pick a sick Bean up at school a few times, much to her working mom’s relief, and I’ve even taken her to an appointment or two, but usually we while away our days playing Barbies, baking, shopping, and going out to lunch.

There was a time though, when my life revolved around my children; their needs, wants and activities, and my husband and I managed it all while we worked and each went to college, and didn’t think anything of it. Not about the daycare that closed permanently one Friday afternoon, when I came to pick my daughter up, because as the daycare owner tearfully confessed, “my husband is cheating on me! I just can’t do this!” Not cleaning up vomit at 2 am, when I had to get up in 2 hours, or the battle royale faced every freaking night about homework (our daughter) and bedtime (our son). I look back now, and think, “how did we do it and not kill each other?” The answer is grace. God gives you the grace that you need for every season of your life. grace is quiet and gentle, like a soft sweater. You aren’t even aware of its presence at all, and there is only one way to know for sure that you were given grace, and that is when you look back at that time in your life and think… “How, did I do it all?” That does not mean that it’s not difficult, or that you don’t cry at night. Or nearly psychotically, endlessly, repeat Robert Frost’s “…and miles to go before I sleep” as you drive a wailing toddler to the babysitters at 5;30 in the am, both of you with blankets over your laps, and a scraper in your hand to clean the windshield of frost as you drive down the dark road because, the blower broke in your car, and you have no money to fix it.

But, I digress, clearly there is a lot of emotion left over if I  think about how hard it really was. It is difficult to be everything to someone, or several someones. It is scary to feel like your little ones future rests on your shoulders and that if you mess this up, they might end up being a bad person. It is tiring to always have to do things the right way and rarely “cheat” as I did with Bean last night. But, it is so worth it. Because someday, when you have come through that exhausting season of life, you might be the grandparent, breezing through the drive-thru, not a shred of guilt, or a morsel of remorse for that snack-time cupcake. Let me tell you, because I’ve been there, no grace is needed for this job. Hallelujah!

 

 

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All Things Work Together

Posted on by Susannah Warner

In the past 48 hours, we’ve had to take two different vehicles to the mechanic’s shop for repairs. One had to be towed with a broken transmission line, and the other one needed a new alternator. We’ve also had not one, but two broken brake lines, a flat tire, and for the needle that nearly broke the haystack… the lawnmower just died. I said nearly, because guess what we did, when I called to my husband to come see the gas that he’d just put in the mower, pouring out the side? We laughed.

“Well, that’s the end of that mower,” he said, as he took off the filter and the rest of the gas dribbled out. “You can’t fix it?” He just looked at me, “Bugs… it’s done.” I knew he was right; that 100 dollar push mower has been around for years and has been used weekly to mow our two acres, as well as at times, up to three other properties. I’ve mowed more lawns with that push mower than a teenage boy, not for an allowance, but just so that I don’t have to go to the gym in the summer!

At any rate, this newest domestic annoyance, while not earth shattering, was enough to put us over the edge. In the past, we quite likely would have been bickering, blaming each other, or at the very least, bemoaning our fate and lashing out with a “Great! What else can go wrong?!?” But not today, Satan, not today. It seems the Bickersons have learned a thing or two; maybe we are finally growing up, or maybe, just maybe, we’ve learned that blessings often come on the heels of tragedy, or in this case, vexatious situations.

So, we laughed instead, and we actually could see the “bright side” of each problem…The truck could have broken down while we were away this past weekend in a place with miles and miles of dirt roads, loaded down with a four-wheeler, two bicycles and a trailer with two kayaks, and absolutely no cell phone service. We are thankful to have AAA to tow us, and we were so relieved to find out that what we thought was a bad transmission, was only a broken transmission line, which cost 183 dollars, instead of thousands. The jeep also, when it broke down was conveniently in front of the eye doctor, where my husband had a much needed appointment, and had just enough juice to get him to the shop after the appointment, although without wipers on a very rainy day. In addition, the brake line that failed, as he was driving the truck home from the shop, did not cause him to completely lose his brakes and crash into someone, and the second brake line that blew while he was repairing the first, happened in our drive way. The lawnmower? Well, that does suck, but it’s September, and we’re bound to find some clearance mower out there.

It’s all about perspective I guess. The Bible tells us to “consider it pure joy, when you face trials of many kinds.” That seems nearly sainthood level and I’m quite sure I’ll never be happy about tribulations, but I’m very thankful that both my husband and I have learned this verse, and we stand together on this promise found in Romans 8:28… “All things work together for good to them that love God.” I’m expecting a blessing after all this hassle and all these unexpected expenditures! Stay tuned…

P.S. I would be remiss if I didn’t give credit to my niece Mollie, who has written a “grateful” every night for 1,331 nights in a row, never missing one. A “grateful” is a list of things good and bad that she is thankful for that day. She emails this list, which also serves as a communication tool so that her family and friends can see where in the world this Gad-about Gladys is on that day. What I love about this is that even when bad things happen, like a nasty fall she had recently that required stitches, and several days of unaccustomed idleness to recover, she always looks for the positive, and changes the whole situation around with her perspective. She is so wise for her age, and she is right; there is always something to be grateful for.