Personal blog of christian
writer & fallible mom
Katy McKenna Raymond
in Kansas City, Missouri
Katy is represented by
Rachelle Gardner at
WordServe Literary
Read more Katy at
LateBoomer.net
Recent Posts
- Soul Train
- Live Out Your Dream And Discard The Box
- Tears In A Bottle
- From The Young Mom I Once Was, To You
- I Can’t Help Falling
- What A Difference Ten Years Makes
- The Next Best Thing To Robert Redford
- The Memory Keeper’s Daughter
- Where Have All The Years Gone
- Fun With Kiki Cullen
- Stuck On Mom
- Ten Years Later, Our Girls From Northern Ireland Remembered
- The Thrift of Grief
- Job Security
- The Party’s Over
Syndicate
E me at katy @ ngenius.com
DNR
In the end, the decision fell to me.
Twenty-three years ago today, before anyone could imagine that both the Oklahoma City bombings and the Waco tragedy would eventually mar this date, my father died.
There were no stand-offs. No gunfire. No terrorists. Just an early morning visit by my father’s doctor, who had operated on him in a last ditch effort in the middle of the previous night, to no avail.
The good doctor caught me in the hall as I arrived that morning, the first in my family to greet the grim reality.
“He will not live the day,” he said. “You have a decision to make, and I need to know now. Do you want us to call a Code Blue and attempt to revive him when his heart stops beating, or not?”
In the end, the decision fell to me.
Back in the day, we didn’t have advanced directives. The relationships among the patient, the doctor, and the family members were such that we could have these conversations, brutal though they were. We took each other at our word, respected each other, trusted that we had the best interest of the patient at heart.
If you could have seen my father, well. He had a six inch wide bruise across the front of his neck, apparently a bleed from a spontaneously dissected carotid artery. He’d complained of a terrible sore throat for weeks, and was finally hospitalized two days before his death because he could no longer swallow his medications, necessary to manage his heart disease, high blood pressure, and diabetes.
Once safely within shouting distance of the cardiac ICU, he suffered a massive heart attack, followed by cardiogenic shock.
“I need to put your wishes in the chart,” the doctor said. “Unless you make him a do-not-rescusitate, we’ll have to call a code. What do you want me to do?”
In the end, the decision fell to me.
In the wee hours, we’d each spoken to Dad one-by-one before they took him into surgery. I spent my sixty seconds telling Dad that the chances of him recovering were next to none. I told him his time had run out, his gambling days were over, the game had turned against him, and that he needed to make a choice.
“Give your heart to Jesus, Dad. There’s still time for this one thing. Let me pray with you.”
He could not speak, but nodded. I prayed aloud and he squeezed my hand. I left his bedside knowing he wouldn’t be with us long, but that he’d be with the Savior forever.
The next morning after talking to the doc, I went into my father’s room.
“Do you remember your prayer last night, Dad?” I asked. “Squeeze my hand if you remember.”
He remembered.
In the end, you see, the most important decision of all still fell to him.
Taking It Personally
In light of yesterday’s carnage on the campus of Virginia Tech, I keep coming back to a recurring theme not only in my own heart, but in my writing, as well.
It was driven home to me again this morning as I heard interviewed a young student named Derek, whose German professor and more than half his classmates were gunned down before his eyes, and who—even though he himself had been shot in the shoulder—helped to barricade the room once the killer made an exit.
Derek said more than once during his comments that he wanted to “go forward with his life.”
I understand the concept of “going on with life,” which to me could mean something as elementary as putting one foot in front of the other. Something as ambitious as, let’s say, getting out of bed in the morning.
But how does a human being who has witnessed such horrors “go forward”? How do they fully embrace the goals and dreams and loves that formerly meant the world to them? Are there things from which the heart cannot recover?
I know that, in Christ, there is healing and redemption and forgiveness and grace. Without these benefits of His salvation, I could not have endured the few truly horrible events that have happened in my own lifetime.
Still, Derek expressed a hope to actually forget that yesterday ever happened. I don’t think that’s possible, but I will pray for him and all the others, that they are someday, somehow able to move forward.
It won’t be anytime soon. It can’t be. It shouldn’t be. But someday, somehow, by the mercies of God.
I’m Dreaming Of A White April 14
Last night, the most ENORMOUS snowflakes we’ve ever seen (and I’ve lived here my whole life) fell in our own backyard.
It’s so crazy here in Kansas City, weather-wise, that a group of environmentalists who’d scheduled their symposium on global warming to meet at a park today had to move the festivities inside because of, well…global freezing.
Both Doug and Carrie awakened today, took a look outside at the snow-laden fir trees, and actually expected PRESENTS. Pathetically Pavlovian, don’t you think? I may have to make a run to Target just to get them over the psychological hurdle!
By tomorrow, the weather people say, it will be in the 60s. Mind you, they’ve been saying that for weeks. I might have the tiniest shred of trust left in them, if not for this comment offered on the local forecast last night.
“If it keeps snowing heavily, you’ll see some accumulation. If it lets up, you probably won’t.” Ya think?
By the way, have I mentioned that our darling daughter is marrying a meteorologist? Should one family be allowed to have this much fun?
Party Down, Dudes
Doug and I enjoy throwing a good blow-out party every now and again. In fact, at least 3 times per year we host a doozy. And I’m not talking regular holidays here, folks. Those go without mentioning.
Since August, we’ve had three huge events here on Rolling Hills Road. We had a big going-away party for our youngest son, Kevin, before he left for Switzerland. Then we threw a book-launching party for our oldest son, Scott, when his first book hit the shelves. (“Ajax on Rails.” If you want to know what that means, look it up on Amazon!)
A mere week after that party, we welcomed fifty or so people to a surprise 50th birthday for one of our dearest friends, Steve. He thought he was coming to Scott’s book-launching and was TOTALLY surprised, to the point that he didn’t show up for church the next day because he couldn’t go to sleep after all the excitement.
You know what all these parties have in common? To prepare, I dust. And when I dust, I move stuff. And when I move stuff, I forget I ever had it and some of that stuff I forget I ever had is GOOD STUFF.
The most worrisome casualties of my propensity to move stuff are the books in my TBR pile. If you have a to-be-read pile of your own, you know what I mean. It’s sacrosanct, isn’t it? It’s in an order. Books move to the top of it, or are added to the bottom. I’ve promised author friends of mine that their newest release has finally “made it into the TBR pile,” and then—months later!—it comes to my attention that somewhere along the way, I had a party.
I’ve tried, when prepping for a party, to move the excessive pile of books onto the bookshelf in the corner of the bedroom, in some kind of systematic way which would trigger my memory to return those selfsame books to the bedside table at shindig’s end. But, no.
Today I read on another blog (Lisa Samson’s) that a fallible reader (hat tip to Carrie K!) received a copy of Francine Prose’s “Reading Like A Writer” for Christmas, and how excellent a book it is.
“Wait a minute!” I said, to no one there. (And no one heard at all, not even the chair.) “I have that book! I got it for Christmas, too, and it was nearly to the top of my TBR pile when….I threw a blasted party!”
Now I’ve retrieved Reading Like A Writer from the deep, dark recesses of my bookshelf, where it might have languished nigh unto forever, and it’s resting comfortably on my pillow.
Honestly, that’s the safest place for a wannabe-read-book in the whole wide world.
Any TBR books you’ve misplaced recently? How do you keep tabs on those puppies?
And She’ll Be In Scotland Before Ye
I am happy to announce that long-time fallible reader Chris(tine), she of the maiden name “Duncan,” has been randomly chosen by my sleeping husband (whom I instructed to point to one of my fingers, each of which had been assigned a commenter’s name) to receive a free copy of Liz Curtis Higg’s book, My Heart’s In The Lowlands.
I predict, Chris(tine), that before you’re many pages in, you’ll be more in love with the land of your ancestry than you could have ever imagined. Enjoy!
And again, Liz, thanks so much for being here with us!
You Take The High Road, And I’ll Take The Low Road…
Whose Celtic heart doesn’t thrill at the very thought of the mystical, misty highlands of Scotland? I know mine does. But when Liz Curtis Higgs, the premiere author of Scottish historical novels, published a non-fiction book called “My Heart’s In The Lowlands,” I had to know more.
This book is an armchair travel guide, but after reading it, I’m taking it one step further. I’m calling it A Travelogue With A Passenger’s Side. Liz designed the book with you in mind, and I do mean YOU. The two of you, sitting side-by-side, in a tiny hired (rental) car, galavanting in the most fantastic country on the planet.
“Lowlands” reads like a ten-day-long road trip in which you’re soaking up atmosphere with the friendliest author ever. She’s chatting you up, pointing out the landmarks she’s seen before, and exclaiming over new ones. You’re begging for a wee little bathroom break, and she’s saying, “Can you wait, dearie, till I check out the six-hundred-year-old headstones in this cemetery over here?” You agree to hold on, and are richly rewarded with scones and tea at the next stop.
By the end of your bookish travels, you realize what wonderful meandering chums you and Liz make. If you can’t hop on a real plane bound for Scotland right then (which I highly recommend), you can always turn back to Page One and imagine your sublime journey with Liz all over again.
I recently visited with Liz about her Scottish novels, her trips to Caledonia, and “My Heart’s In The Lowlands.”
Katy: Which came first, the novels or the trips?
Liz: In 1996, my husband and I celebrated our 10th anniversary by doing a 10-day tour covering much of Scotland—not hard to do in a country roughly the size of Indiana! I had a vague idea of the story I wanted to tell, but intentionally didn’t do much research in advance of that first trip.
Katy: Were you looking for a precise village in which to set your stories? Did you have that “I’ll know it when I see it” approach?
Liz: I wanted to feel my way around the country and discover the area that felt most like “home,” listening only to my heart and to the Lord. The guidebooks suggested that most tourists skip the lowlands area known as Dumfries and Galloway in their mad dash to the highlands. So, of course, THAT was the part I wanted to see first!
Katy: I have to say, in my three trips to Scotland, I’ve not been farther south than Edinburgh and Glasgow, but like many tourists, I’ve seen much of the highlands.
Liz: The lowlands do not disappoint! Galloway has an unspoilt, non-touristy quality about it…
Katy: Oooh, that’s what I love best.
Liz: Green, rolling farmland dotted with sheep, and charming villages full of real people, going about their daily tasks. On the weekends, you’ll find tourists, of course, but on a Wednesday in Galloway, you just might have the place to yourself!
Katy: It’s awfully barren and bleak in dear old Scotland, don’t you think? Doesn’t muted and misty take you down a few notches?
Liz: Believe it or not, I love grey skies and rain clouds on the horizon…
Katy: That reminds me of my favorite Scottish joke. The tourist is asking the tour guide to forecast the weather. The guide says, “If you can see that mountain over there, it’s about to rain. If you can’t see it, it IS raining.”
Liz: Exactly! Anyway, bright sunny days have little appeal for me—on either side of the pond. On a dreich (bleak, dismal) day, I’m much more productive.
Katy: Obviously, it’s working for you! You found the perfect setting for your historical novels, did tons of research, and the first in your Scottish novel series came out in 2003. Tell us a bit about the “Heart for Scotland” book tour you took that year.
Liz: I put together that solo tour of Christian bookstores a mere six months after the first novel came out. At that point, the people I met were more curious readers than eager fans! Now, after four historical novels and my travel guide, I’m developing a small but loyal following among Scottish readers. They seem rather amazed—and very touched—that an American would care so much about their country. Besides introducing them to the story of Leana, Jamie, and Rose, sharing my faith was a big part of the “Heart for Scotland” tour, and a big part of why I keep going back. I’ve had the joy of speaking in community centers and store fronts, tea rooms and movie theatres, living rooms and church basements. Organized religion is struggling, but those who know and love Jesus can be found everywhere.
Katy: It’s one thing to speak in all those places. After all, I once heard you say in a radio interview that you can “speak two hours without a subject”...
Liz: That sounds like me!
Katy: But can you really drive on those crazy roads?
Liz: The roads in Dumfries and Galloway are not nearly so treacherous as some of the highland single-track roads that cling to the side of mountains—
Katy: Pass me the paper bag. I’m hyperventilating.
Liz: But it WAS daunting my first time behind the wheel. Now, after nine driving trips in Scotland, I feel right at home, though for the first few minutes I say aloud, “Left, left, left…” One thing that helps is everyone ELSE is driving on the left side, too! From my perspective, you haven’t really seen Scotland if you’ve seen it through the window of a tour bus.
Katy: Well, when I read “My Heart’s In The Lowlands,” I sure didn’t feel like I was on a bus! It was just you and me, dearie, white-knuckling it to the next castle and praying we wouldn’t encounter any 18-wheel lorries on the narrow path!
Liz: I’m glad you felt like you were taking the trip with me. I’ve read other travel guides and wanted to make mine more personal, more friendly, and more FUN…
Katy: Oh, it was fun, all right! I can’t count how many times you had me crying and laughing, all on the same page.
Liz: I’m tickled you felt that way as we traveled over the hills and down the glens together. In virtually every reader letter I’ve received, they talk about enjoying when “we” went here and “we” went there—just exactly the reaction I hoped and prayed for when I wrote it!
Katy: Thank you, dear Liz, for joining us here at fallible today! And you readers, here’s your chance to win a free copy of “My Heart’s In The Lowlands” by leaving a comment on this post. Whatever you do, read this book. I promise you’ll be hooked on Scotland Forever, and trust me, that’s a very good thing.
Triumph Without Tragedy?
Have I ever told you that I make a truly crummy Protestant?
Lord knows I’ve been at it long enough. I’m 53, and I haven’t been a practicing Catholic since I was just 17. (And you know what I mean…) Since I committed my life to Jesus, I guess you’d say I’ve been a practicing Protestant, but that’s the thing. In my case, practice doesn’t make perfect.
Maybe it’s the whole Irish thing. My peeps are from the border county of Monaghan, just minutes from the line separating Northern Ireland from the Republic. My father’s family was staunchly Catholic in a county rife with division. It’s always been hard for me not to take the part of the Catholics in Ireland, but with great difficulty I’ve maintained my Switzerland stance.
Maybe it’s the whole Scottish thing. My father’s father left Ireland before the Easter Rising of 1916, settling in Kilsyth, Scotland, where he found a Scottish wife and the work he sought. When my own da was 17, he didn’t become a Jesus Freak like I did. He became a soldier in the British Army.
It must have been challenging for him, having had an Irish Catholic father and then being in an army determined, in part, to keep those very people in check.
At any rate, after the war my father moved to Kansas City and married a nice Protestant girl, only he insisted as a condition of their marriage that she convert to Catholicism. Have I ever told you what a crummy Catholic my mother is? :)
If I were to go live in Ireland, I think I’d go to the Catholic Church. Over there, that would feel right to me. It’s who I am at the core.
But here, I’m a…a…a…here, I’m a Christian. Not a practicing Catholic, and a truly crummy Protestant. But still…a Christian.
Last night, our church had its first-ever Tenebrae service. What we Catholics-from-the-womb would call a Holy Thursday service. It was beautiful. I went early with Doug, who was in the worship service. From the first note of his Irish whistle, I was in tears. I cried all the way through the music rehearsal and then all the way through the “service of shadows.”
And then I realized one of the things I miss most about the Catholic church: The liturgy gives us a rich context in which to understand that without the tragedy of the cross, the triumph of the resurrection is as empty as Easter morning’s tomb.
I cried and cried and couldn’t help thinking, in the midst of my gratefulness for what Jesus did at Calvary, of my favorite saying about my ancestry: “The Irish have an abiding sense of tragedy, which sustains them through temporary periods of joy.”
If you have a chance tonight to go to a Good Friday service, do it! The joy of Easter demands a preface, a descent into darkness with the Savior. A tragedy before the triumph.
For now, I’ll leave you with my favorite hymn, one I’d never heard until I became a Prot-Protes-Protesta…Oh, phooey. A Christian.
“O Sacred Head, now wounded, With grief and shame weighed down,
Now scornfully surrounded with thorns, Thine only crown.
O Sacred Head, what glory, what bliss till now was Thine!
Yet, tho’ despised and gory, I joy to call Thee mine.
What Thou, my Lord, hast suffered, was all for sinners’ gain;
Mine, mine was the transgression, but Thine the deadly pain.
Lo, here I fall my Savior! Tis I deserve Thy place;
Look on me with Thy favor, Vouchsafe to me Thy grace.
What language shall I borrow to thank Thee, dearest Friend,
For this Thy dying sorrow, Thy pity without end?
O make me Thine forever; And should I fainting be,
Lord, let me never, never outlive my love for Thee.”
Lent Went
Well, Lent is nearly over, and this “giving up the Internet” thing was every bit as hard as I imagined it would be. It’s been fruitful in many ways, but I don’t think I’ll be committing to repeating it anytime soon! :)
I’ve spent some great time with my friends in the real world, some of whom had stopped writing or calling because they kept up with everything they wanted to know about me by reading my blog. Shame on them!!
Now I’m ready to reconnect with my blogging buddies. I’m sorry, but it’s been too long, and I miss my online relationships as much as I’d been missing my offline ones.
Next week, I will be posting a great interview with one of my all-time favorite authors, Liz Curtis Higgs. Besides writing four Scottish historical novels, she’s now penned a travelogue about the Old Country, which on a single page is able to reduce me to fits of both laughter and weeping. I love authors with this particular talent! I hope you’ll join us, as we’ll be giving away a copy of Liz’s book, My Heart’s In The Lowlands.
This week, though, I’m getting ready for Easter and celebrating Spring by not only cleaning, but also PITCHING. Carrie (who will probably be moving into her new apartment on June 5 in advance of her June 30 wedding to Marc), Doug, and I have been getting rid of more stuff than we even knew we had. I’ve hauled two station wagons full to the thrift store, and have somber plans for a lot more.
The thing is, once you get started you realize you’re working in layers. The first layer is truly trash. The second layer is stuff you used to like or stuff that used to fit, but your taste has changed or your butt’s gotten bigger. (By the way, if you get rid of those pants, you won’t have to keep asking “Does my butt look big in these?”) The third is stuff other people gave you, which you never liked, but you’ve been too nice to ditch it. The fourth layer is stuff you’re storing for other people or “just in case.”
“Just in case” is a big category for me. Just in case Y2K interrupts the supply chain of food and water, not to mention prescription medicines and oxygen for the old folks. Just in case the bird flu epidemic sprouts wings, and we’re quarantined for nigh unto forever. Just in case a nuke takes out downtown KC and all our relatives and half our friends think they should come stay with us in the country. Pillows and blankets and towels, oh my!!
Hey, since when did God die and make me the savior of the universe? I’m gonna stop storing stuff here for Justin Case, whoever the heck he turns out to be.
It’s getting to be slim pickins’ around here, people. If anyone wants a piece of the largesse formerly known as The Raymond Stockpile of Surplus Everything, you’d better get over here, fast.
Once it’s gone, it’s gone. And then Doug and Katy will be free indeed. A couple of laptops, some great books, and some beautiful music. What else do aging baby boomers really need?
OK, loaded gift cards for Starbucks. But that’s another post for another day!
Leave a comment and say “Hi!” if you’re still checking in here. I’d love to know there’s a land of the living to which to return.
Cozy Mystery Writer?
I think I’ve mentioned here that my mother is reinventing herself. Or, I should say, I’m reinventing my mother.
I can’t remember when or why Mom stopped carrying a wallet in her purse, but let me tell you, those were the good old days. At some point, she must have decided the wallet weighed her down too much, probably when she went through a rash of compression fractures in her back.
Who knows? Since I was the one who took her to get a gazillion cortisone shots in various vertebrae over a few years there, I may have even suggested she ditch the dead weight. (I carried her purse.) It’s too many details for me to remember now. Water under the proverbial identity theft bridge, let’s call it.
Anyway, for a couple years, my mother had in her purse free floating ID cards, credit cards, Medicare and Blue Cross cards, and even her Social Security card. They all treaded dirty Kleenex in there with a tube of Chapstix, ancient bingo markers, and a coin purse embroidered with a slot machine made out of gaudy beads.
Finally, during one of her many hospital admissions, the clerk asked to see her medical cards. Mom couldn’t produce them to save her life, so I shoved one hand over and over into the fearful abyss of her purse, like a scuba diver short on air, until I came up with them. The clerk gave me a knowing look, fished around in her drawer, and handed over a substantial rubber band.
“Try this,” she said.
I gathered every card from the mire, banded them together, held them up for Mom’s approval, and said, “Behold, the power of elastic.”
Mom loved her knew “wallet.” Very simple, very easy. Of course, it was very simple and very easy to lose the whole packet at once, too. Or for the darned thing to be swiped. Either way. Because I’m a bit dramatic, I automatically jumped ahead to “swiped.”
Around six weeks ago, it came to my attention that Mom could no longer locate in her purse the banded set of cards. And so began another dark night of my soul—though Mom didn’t lose any sleep—during which I devoted half my waking hours and most of my nightmares to recreating her identity.
If you’ve had to replace a Social Security card recently, you know what I’m talking about. The entire process is now designed to ferret out illegals. I do believe the standard form is in Spanish, not that it matters. Even if it was English I was dealing with, the instructions are largely incomprehensible to anyone who doesn’t read the IRS tax code for enjoyment.
Let’s just say the SS wants LOTS of proof of the “Who’s your daddy?” sort before they’ll issue you a card. Cough up those original birth certificates and State IDs with picture, people! Mom said, “Why can’t they use my Ameristar card to prove who I am? My name’s on it…”
You see what I’m dealing with here, right? When you lose everything at once, you’ve got more than cancelling your credit cards to worry about. Every card-issuing institution wants proof of your identity in the forms of all the other stuff you lost at the same time. Yeah. It’s like that.
Amazingly, we made the most progress by going to the DMV first. Since she’d had a valid driver’s license which they could pull up in their system, they used their computer file on her to verify that yes, she really was the person she claimed to be, only having an even worse hair day than last time.
I told Mom—after we’d made grueling trips to the bank, the DMV, and the SS office—that we would miraculously find her old ID cards as soon as her new ones were ensconced in the wallet I bought her. That’s just the way life works, right?
Saturday evening, my sister dropped her back at her assisted living apartment after an afternoon of riverboat gambling. Mary KNOWS that Mom’s wallet with her new ID was zipped into her purse that night. Sunday morning, my sister Liz picked Mom up for brunch for Liz’s birthday. AMAZINGLY, Mom pulled out the rubber-banded set of cards from her purse like they’d never been missing at all! But, I’m sure you’ve guessed, her new wallet was gone.
“Someone at the facility is messing with you,” I told Mom last night, when I went to her apartment to search for the wallet. “They’re trying to see if you’re with the program. If you don’t report these incidents, they’ll ramp up their efforts and wipe out your bank account in one fell debit-card swoop.”
“You’re writing another novel, aren’t you?”
“I’m finishing the first one, Mom. I don’t know what you mean…”
“I see what’s going on here. You’re looking for a story. Well, there’s no story here. What if my old cards with the rubber band were in my purse this whole time?”
“Mom, you and Mary and I searched your purse dozens of times before I decided to spend the rest of my life getting you new cards. The old cards weren’t in your purse until sometime between 8:30 last night and 10:30 this morning. Someone sneaked in here while you were sleeping, unzipped your purse, replaced the cards they’d stolen from you weeks ago to ‘test’ you and then tiptoed out with your new wall—”
“Listen to yourself, Katy. You’re making all this up. Isn’t that what novelists do? You’re writing a—”
“Mom! Explain to me where you new wallet is and how the old cards got back in your purse.”
“I don’t know about the wallet. But I told you already that I FOUND the old cards.”
“You found them?” OK, I must have missed this part of her true confessions. “Where?”
“In my PURSE, Silly.”
Oh. Yeah.
“You can go home now,” she said, disgusted. “Case closed. Seems to me like you’ve got some typing to do.”
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Quaking
I haven’t blogged much during Lent, but people. If you’d just this morning finished reading Lisa Samson’s Quaker Summer, you’d have to blog about it, too.
Quaker Summer is the story of Heather Curridge, who—for many years—has exhibited more courage in the mall, plunking down huge chunks of change for stuff she and her hubby and son don’t really need or want, than she has anywhere else.
But all that changes when circumstances force her hand. Heather finds herself face-to-face with “the least of these,” the homeless, the addicted, the criminal. Slowly—and to the great consternation of the mothers at her son’s privileged Christian school, who just want her to head up the next tea—Heather begins spending more and more time with people whose needs will never be quenched, if what Jesus says about the poor being always with us is true.
Spiritual claustrophobic that I am, I kept hoping she’d find a permanent way out of God’s calling, that she could just go back to her house on the hill at the end of the day (or at least, at the end of the book!) and really find some lasting satisfaction in that Jacuzi of hers.
Here are the notes I wrote to myself as God spoke to me through this novel:
“Am I really making a difference, giving back, or proving somehow that I have a social conscience if I drive farther to drink my lattes in an artsy district in the city, rather than hand over my four bucks down in the suburbs? Sure, those joints are inhabited by patrons decidedly different from me, but is my heart truly changed by briefly mixing it up with the less fortunate? Or am I then not only out the cost of the latte, but the extra gasoline to drive that far, too?”
And later, this:
“Do I think I’ve done a good work—good enough, in fact, to absolve me of additional good works for perhaps months into the future!—if I merely take a ‘tour’ of a ministry in the inner city, just to see what God’s up to there? And if, after the tour, I write a big, fat check, Jesus WILL end up saying to me at the end of my luxurious life, ‘Well done, good and faithful servant’—won’t He?”
Won’t He? I don’t know anymore, people. I’ve done something dangerous, reading Quaker Summer. If you’re feeling like taking a risk, go thou and do likewise.
If you’d rather play it safe all the days of your Christian life, run the other way. Now. Before Lisa Samson writes another amazing book like this one.
Either way, don’t say you haven’t been warned.
Cards
For nearly every cliche, there’s an equal and opposite cliche.
Take, for instance, “Absence makes the heart grow fonder.” Nice sentiment to latch onto if you’re about to leave behind a love interest in favor of a trip around the world, wouldn’t you say?
Sure, you would. But before long that spot in your subconscious where you store cliches until the moment they’re most needed will bring this gem to mind: “Out of sight, out of mind.”
Oh-oh. Better rethink those travel plans.
Today I’m contemplating cliches with card-playing references. Not one to play poker or bridge myself, I still seem to recall something about “holding your cards close to the vest.” And then there’s the perennial advice to “not show all your cards at once.”
The card cliche that rings the most true (and useful!) to me, though, is “Play the hand you’ve been dealt.” I’ve made such excellent use of this motto throughout the course of my own medical history, in fact, that I’ve become something of a role model to health-catastrophe newbies in my ever-widening sphere of influence.
You can stop imagining my rear end expanding NOW. Thank you. :)
A couple in our Sunday School recently went through the husband’s harrowing 6-way heart bypass surgery. Lynett turned out to be a real champ in caring for Fred’s many needs during the weeks following their crisis, but as a result, she’s been a little…spacey.
She’s coordinating a group of us to go see the Dead Sea Scrolls, on exhibit here in KC for only a few more weeks. She called the other night and Doug told her that we couldn’t make it, so I was surprised when she called again yesterday.
“I’m trying to get a head count,” she said.
“Um…what did Doug say when you two talked?” I asked.
“Oh, my gosh! I totally spaced out that I’ve already talked to him! I am so sorry…”
“Lynett, I happen to know you’ve always been goofy. But here’s the deal: Now, for more than a limited time only, you are entitled to Play the Hand You’ve Been Dealt.”
“What do you mean?” she asked, all innocent like Medical Virgins everywhere.
“Heart surgery, baby. Lay those cards on the table. Go ahead and be your usual spaced-out self, but take advantage of Fred’s surgery to make your ongoing deficits socially acceptable. Starting today.”
“And ending….when?”
Honestly, Lynett is SUCH a nice girl.
“Never, Lynett. Ending never. Fred’s surgery and his long recovery—during which you will put all the other details of life on the back burner to serve his needs like the faithful wife you are—will officially be your one-way ticket to Space Island. From now on, no one will question if you lose your grip on pesky details or skimp on logic. You’re home free!”
“You think?”
Yes, I think. That’s precisely why we’re having this conversation!
“Lynett, have you had a hysterectomy?”
“Yes, back in 1991, but I hardly see how that—”
“Do you vacuum?”
“Katy, of course I vacuum. What kind of a woman do you think—”
“If you’d played the Hysterectomy Card starting the DAY you had surgery, when your doctor gave you instructions not to vacuum or do any heavy lifting for at least six weeks, you’d have trained your husband and children. These days, you wouldn’t even know where to locate the Hoover’s ‘on’ switch. You’d have never vacuumed again.”
“What do you mean, never? What about when the six weeks ended?”
“Lynett, husbands and kids don’t keep track of stuff like WEEKS. With Fred, kind of like with the Lord, six weeks is as a thousand years. If he’d taken over the vacuuming in 1991, and you asked him today how long he’d been performing the duty and how the vacuuming ball came to be in his court, I guarantee you he’d be clueless.”
“Why, I never,” she said. “I suppose there are Childbirth Cards I could have played 25 years ago?”
“Girl, girl. Let’s not cry about lost games. Think about the straight flush of Menopause Cards you’re clutching in your hot little fist, all yours for the playing today. It’s not too late to get your piece of the action.”
“But what about Fred?” she asked. “What if he gets wise and tries to play the By-Pass Card? What if he says he can’t figure out his medications and needs me to dole them out to him? What if he says he can’t get his diabetes under control unless I fix him three meals and three small snacks per day? I’m not sure I can—”
“Of course, you can’t, honey. No woman could be expected to keep up with all that. Especially not you. And do you know why?”
“Um….because I’ve just played the…?”
“That’s right, Lynett. The Space Cadet Card.”
I heard her sigh then, a happy, contented sigh. “Thank you, Katy. You’ve made my day. I mean, my six weeks. I mean…the rest of my natural life.”
If she hung up the phone, turned to Fred, and said, “That Katy is a real card,” I’ll know my work here is done.
National Archives, Personal Treasure
Another item the British Embassy is hitting me up for—which they did not request on my original application—is proof of the exact date my father became a citizen of the United States.
I suspect they don’t require this of everyone who applies for a British passport based on being a British citizen by descent. Somewhere around the time my father became a citizen, the US laws changed so that a new citizen did not have to renounce their former citizenship. If Dad had renounced his British citizenship to become an American, I would not be able to get my British.
This little bit of extra red tape resulted in me discovering that we have, right here in Kansas City and only fifteen minutes from my home, a National Archives. There are only eleven of these in the US, and it is in these archives that citizenship papers are stored. I called one day last week, and within an hour the VERY helpful archivist, Marilyn, had found my father’s paperwork.
I’d never seen these papers in my life, of course. I cried at my father’s signature on the bottom of the original, because, well…the handwriting of my dead people always makes me weep.
He must have filled out this final application for citizenship after March in 1955, and before October of the same year. He lists my mother and his three children (Patrick, Katy, and Elizabeth) as all residing with him. By the time he was awarded his citizenship in December, though, Patrick—at age four—had died. The custom was that once the application was filed, no information was updated, though of course, everything in our lives by then was forever changed.
Archivist Marilyn could not believe that I’d never seen the only copy of Dad’s actual citizenship certificate (this was the application), which he would have been given on that momentous day.
“Most new citizens at that time would have framed the certificate and hung it on the wall,” she said.
There’s only one place it could be, and that’s the one remaining Rubbermaid tote filled with the epemera my sister Bridget and I did not have time to go through when we closed Mom’s house down nearly five years ago. It’s in the closet in Mom’s apartment and soon, I will attack it. Who knows what goodies I’ll turn up?
In the meantime, though, I showed Mom the certified copy of the paperwork I received from the National Archives, and she loved it. She looked at the names of the two witnesses Dad had sign for him that day, fellows he worked with at the First National Bank downtown. Mom remembered the blokes, after all these years.
“I couldn’t go with him that day,” she said, not needing to remind me that neither she nor my father knew how to drive a car. “I’m sure he walked over to the courthouse on his lunch hour. All I remember is when he got off the bus that night, he marched down the block waving an American flag and saying, with his thick brogue, ‘I am now an American cit-i-zen!’”
And you know what? Although I was barely two at the time, I remember that evening, too. It’s the very first memory, in fact, embedded in my consciousness.
About the framed citizenship document that should have been hanging on the wall? I don’t think so, Marilyn. I’d remember something as precious as that. The classiest thing on our walls hung beside the green-topped chrome kitchen table, within my father’s easy reach: A carton-sized plastic dispenser of Lucky Strike ciggies.
When I told Marilyn that, by the way, she was clearly unimpressed.
Still Not Too Late
I got some editing of my novel done at Barnes & Noble today. Yes, really!
While strolling through the children’s section, I spied a little girl, maybe six years old, in a plaid Catholic school uniform. Honestly, it felt like looking in the mirror approximately 47 years ago. Except for the age thing, we could have been twins—auburn hair, scrawny legs, missing teeth, freckled nose.
I took her for a younger version of myself: a student, a book lover, a reader, probably a storyteller, too. She wanted nothing more than to be there, among her favorite tales, her unhurried mother by her side.
I kept walking and then, over my shoulder and already nearly a part of my past, the child spoke words that immediately entered my heart.
“We still have a lot of time, don’t we, Mommy?”
I stopped on the carpet’s well-worn path, my breath catching in my chest until the young mother’s voice answered, “Yes.”
I smiled and, just for a moment, reveled in the magical world-without-end of that little girl, a miniature me.
I still have time.
Citizen Kate
Some of you will remember that one of my goals is to (please dear God, let it be before I DIE!) acquire my British and Irish citizenships.
I started this crazy process five years ago. FIVE YEARS. Maybe it’s the Daughters-of-the-American-Revolution rebellious side of me, I don’t know. But, folks, bureaucracy and I, we just don’t get along.
A year ago, leading up to the fabulous trip Doug and I took to Ireland and Scotland, I submitted what I thought was every piece of paper God ever made, all notarized, to the British Embassy. I hoped, hoped, hoped to receive back in the post—before we left for the Old Country in April—my coveted British passport.
I am, you see, entitled. My father was born in Scotland, which makes me a Scottish citizen by descent. I’m also entitled to my Irish passport and citizenship, because my grandfather was born in Ireland. However, as with so many things in this world, the burden of proof rests with, you guessed it…me.
Me and a whole bunch of bureaus, that is.
When you try to establish your lineage, you’re forever writing agencies requesting “long forms.” Long-form birth certificates, death certificates, marriage certificates, and on and on. Long-form certs must contain more pertinent information than short-forms, but I wouldn’t know. I doubt that I’ve ever seen a long-form up close and personal, no matter how many times I’ve requested—and paid—for them.
So, last year, on the day before we left for Ireland, my passport request was denied. Several items were missing, apparently, including my own “long form” birth certificate.
“The certificate you enclosed was issued in 2002,” the British Embassy bureaucrat informed me, “which is more than three months after your date of birth.”
Ya think????
I called the State of Missouri’s Department of Vital Records today. It took nearly a full year after that glaring rejection for me to work up the vitality to try again. I told the very helpful agent that I must have received the incorrect certificates back in 2002, when I requested the long-forms in a letter.
“Did you use a yellow highlighter to mark the words ‘long form’ in your original request?” she asked.
“Umm…no,” I said.
“Did you mark the words ‘long form’ with stars on both sides?”
“You’re kidding, right? That would also be ‘no.’”
“Underline them or bold type them?”
“Didn’t happen. I’m sorry. I learned to write a business letter in approximately 1964. I typed a simple, straightforward letter including the magic words ‘long-form’, and accompanied it with a big fat check. When did that stop being enough?”
“Circle them, point arrows at them, type them in caps, or stick a post-it note on them?”
“NOOOooooo!!!!!”
“It’s been more than a year since you received your short-form birth certificates. We cannot exchange them for long-forms now. Nor can we refund the substantial chunk of change you handed over with that perfect specimen of a letter you wrote…”
“How exactly do you expect me to handle this? I need those long forms to get my British passport!”
“You’ll have to request them in writing, and enclose $15 for each certified copy of the long-form that you require.”
“But how shall I word my request? I’m afraid I’ve become quite useless in the way I communicate…”
“Don’t worry, ma’am. The words themselves aren’t important. Just make sure you use a yellow highlighter to draw attention to them.”
“And—”
“And stars, bold, caps, underlining, and arrows.”
I couldn’t help myself. “What about italics?”
“Now, ma’am. No need to get testy.”
If only I could give up bureaucracies for Lent.
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Day Seven And Yes, I’m Still Counting…..
OK, about Lent. They tell you that it’s a 40-day-long season, right? What they don’t tell you—at least, I never knew this until after I committed to giving up both the Internet AND American Idol this year—is that the Sundays between Ash Wednesday and Easter are not included as fast days. So, if you do the math, there are actually 46 days in the entire season, making it roughly SIX DAYS HARDER to remain observant than it otherwise would have been.
Honestly. Here it is, Day Seven Of Lent, and it’s like I’ve just now begun the 40 days!!! Did any of you know this about the church calendar? ‘Cause I feel like I’ve been misled by priests and pastors and penitents galore here!
Anyway, if you’re wondering how I’m surviving, here’s the short answer: Fantastically well. Although I miss all of you very much, I’m learning a lot about myself and my addictions, getting some serious editing on my novel accomplished, and reconnecting with friends and relatives in the physical world. As opposed to the cyber world. You know what I mean. :)
In case you, too, were on track to feeling that Lent was getting awfully old and dragging on oh-so-slowly, now you know why. It’s MUCH longer than officially advertised, people. But you know what? Maybe that’s a good thing.
