Whom God chooses

I asked Spirit what to blog about today and she jumped out of my heart and into my mind. I'll call her Jessica, the mother of five children ages 12 and under. I'd known several of the children, who charmed me, before we were introduced.

She's told me her story in bits and dribbles, always over the drone of nearby children, who bounce around the six-room house vying for the attention of the visitor. It's not a pleasant tale, peppered with the love and support of family.

At 15, something tragically unthinkable occurred. When she divulged details, I shivered, mentally wrapping a protective blanket over my 15-year-old, wishing I could have done the same for Jessica. It helps explain why Jessica seems less mature in some areas. In others, she is wise beyond her years. I believe she may have stopped growing emotionally after this incident. Merely an observation, not judgment or criticism.

Jessica is the first to point out her flaws. "I can't help my 6th grader with his math, it's so beyond me," she almost cried when we spoke before Christmas. "You know, I'm not good at that stuff."

It breaks my heart to see her so hard on herself, so I offered, in truth and love: "When my youngest had that math teacher two years ago, she said she was now teaching in 6th grade what high-school seniors used to learn." Her eyes grew wide and she responded: "Really, then maybe I'm not so lame."

She's not – at all. In fact, twice I have heard God speak directly through her to me. She wasn't even aware. The first time was several years ago when she lamented they had no computer and she knew her oldest would soon need one for school. She wasn't asking, hinting or implying that someone get one or even that I should. We'd just met, really.

But the message stayed with me for a few months. Until I blurted it out in Quaker worship because I had to get it off my chest. Though I wasn't even asking for money, one kind soul made a donation and they passed the collection plate, which my Meeting (church) doesn't ordinarily do. They, too, were moved by Jessica's story. Between my generous faith community and neighbors, we were able to purchase a desktop computer, printer, ink and year of Internet. Thanks to the local Obama headquarters, who donated leftover office supplies to Artsy Fartsy, the family also got a big box of paper.

I hadn't said a word about the computer until everything was organized and ready to go. Jessica latched on and hugged me repeatedly, saying I was her angel. "You really heard me." she said. "Not me, but that of God," I answered. We unknowingly made the delivery on her middle son's birthday, which stoked the celebration. God was certainly in charge

Jessica has also battled leukemia for 18 years and takes a number of medications, which have robbed her memory. She blames chemo for one son's struggles. In my Artsy Fartsy program, I have found him cooperative, creative and adorable. Being singled out and separated from siblings could have that affect.

Before Christmas, I had stopped by with a small gift just for Jessica. Often, she is overlooked as the children are more obvious recipients of help. You would have thought I had bought her a new house rather than scarf, bag and necklace, which, by the way, perfectly matched her outfit. She led me to her room and the sack of goodies she had just purchased from the Dollar Tree. "That's all I can do this year," she said as if merely thinking it out loud, not expecting any response or action.

One of my husband's generous siblings had asked my girls to select a charity and buy toys with his check. Well, as teens, they had procrastinated. Perhaps, though, this was Spirit's movement. We quickly texted to ask if their uncle would mind supporting an entire family instead. Without hesitation, he said yes! The girls went to work creating a list and plotting the next day's shopping expedition.

One of them and I decided to pay Jessica a visit to make sure this was okay and get some ideas. Just as we were walking out the back door, the front door-bell rang. One of her boys was bringing me a Christmas present. The mother with few resources had insisted on lavishing me with gifts. It's, probably, the most meaningful present I have ever received (okay, besides from my children). I quickly opened it, then we were on our way. I thanked her (a little too quickly, I now understand. I should have savored receiving and let her bask in the feeling of giving) and Jessica mentioned to be sure to notice the name of the fragrance. It was labeled "Token of love." I sprayed it on the other night, feeling very bathed in love and the light, springy scent.

There's more to tell ... in another post. I like ending on the idea of love and light, because that's what this friendship has brought me.

• When has an unexpected friendship brought deep resonance?
• Is my heart aimed at helping people locally or globally? (no wrong answers, here!)
• When have I heard God speak through another?
• How did I respond?
• If giving is easier than receiving for me, what might I be depriving another giver of in not receiving?


the first time I met her,
she hugged me

I think because
I listened

something I'm good at
and something rare for
the mother of five

when I have been able
to listen deeply enough,
I am honored to hear
God speak through her

a wounded, marginalized
woman who thinks she's
good at nothing

that's whom God chooses

Listen to this post:

Underestimating my mother

Witnessing a parent decline is excruciating, plucking at and uncovering every minuscule  heartstring as you wonder if you've done enough or gotten what you've done right.

How do you care for a parent in a loving, compassionate manner that honors and respects their position in your life as well as the person they are, have been and will become?

This is a place of twisted fate and odd role reversal.

Accompanying my mother as patient and father as caregiver as an adult child is a complex maze, perhaps even a minefield, as I desire to assist them over telling them what to do. Often they amaze me, sometimes surprise me and, rarely, infuriate me. I hope to be more of a guide, carrying out their wishes, than dictator or purporting to know what's best. I want to help them stay independent and in their own home as long as possible. That's also my wish. 

My mother bravely faced a difficult nine-hour surgery head on. She knew in advance that was not the struggle. "What will I know?" she said. "I''ll be knocked out." The recovery would be, she anticipated, her challenge.

In a wonderful Quaker clearness committee, the process of surrounding yourself with trusted others to discern where God is moving by deep listening and thoughtful questioning, she discovered this recovery would be her surrender to Spirit. However, I think she believed it would be a few months, not and entire year as her family practitioner gently, but firmly, reminded her of last week. My father confided that they had heard a year, but did not truly believe it would be that long. She's always bounced back before, we all had remembered.

She's not bouncing back now. I would describe it as more of learning a slow dance, one new step at a time. Long and steady, but surely happening if you can be present to the details we once took for grated: walking a few feet, dressing yourself, getting to the bathroom, having an appetite, remembering and seeing with unobstructed vision. These have all become new obstacles to at once surrender into and master. How that works, I am uncertain, except through faith, trust and prayer.

Improvement is evident in her color, humor, determination and acceptance of help.

Last night in my warm circle of neighborhood book club women, we chatted about aging parents, memory loss, demeanor transformation, expectations, letting go, illness and feeling sandwiched, ever grateful they are still with us. One of the most gracious remarks was about how one mother struggling with dementia still knows to say thank you and I love you. And, when she fails to remember the story she 's trying so hard to relate, acquiesces with "I'll tell you tomorrow." There are bright spots, we all acknowledged.

My mother's family physician soberly pointed out the fact she was walking, talking and cognizant was remarkable given the severity of her surgery. "Remind her of that," he cautioned me, "on bad days," which he said would happen along with entire weeks of difficulty.

Have we forgotten how to care for the aged? It's not a new proposition, yet we are surviving longer. Once, our elders lived with us in largely multi-generational families. As we have transplanted and grown more transient, we've left those customs behind. And also in our social selfishness to focus on ourselves and immediate families.

I am appalled every time I experience someone younger patronizing an elder. It happens in hospitals, nursing centers, in public and privately. In attempting to be true to Spirit's calling, I try to "see" the whole person, beyond the encumbered climbs, faulty mind, thinning hair, stained skin and veiled eyes. We are each a child of God, no matter our age or condition.

• What is my experience of aging – my own or someone else's?
• What are the difficulties?
• Where have I witnessed grace?
• What part of the spiritual journey is this?
• How do I recognize myself and others as children of God?

in a surprise visit
on a snowy Sunday
when roads were
nearly vacant

I spied her head
drooped,
as she napped
in the wheelchair

I took that as a cue
and treated her
gently, perhaps
too much so

later, she beamed,
suggesting we
witness her progress
in the walker

with my husband
ahead, she
lurched forward,
perfectly in control

teasing him with
her new moves
and teaching
me to never
underestimate
her, 
her courge,
determination,
spirit and
faith

never

Listen to this post: