[This entry from fall 2005 was posted on my old blog that is now closing.]
If asked why I am blogging, my answer would have to be because of Bettie Skelton, past colleague as an educator with me at Bellin School of Nursing (now Bellin College), and later Bellin VP of Nursing (my boss) when I was Director of Bellin Hospice. Bettie has always been a model of Christian love for me. A professional who wore her Savior on her sleeve. Gave me courage to do it!
Well, a bit ago she challenged me to write something for publication. But, alas, my writing is so for me and my mental health, that that wasn't something appealing to me at the time.
When this blog opportunity came up on AOL, I thought, shoot, I'll try it. And so far it's been good, an adventure.
This was the eeeeeeee I sent back to Bettie after she sent me her thoughts on my writing. I share it because I want to validate any professional who chooses to be a bit more personal than scholarly :)
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Ah, what education does for us!
After I had done my first BS in Human Biology/Growth and Development, and decided I wanted an MS in nursing, I had to complete my nursing BS before I would be considered for entrance into the MS program at the University of Wisconsin at Oshkosh. I did that at Bellin College of Nursing. [The school where I had previously been an instructor myself! My basic education was a 3 year diploma also from Bellin School of Nursing in Green Bay, WI. I have a long history there.]
I must admit I started that program with distress, not understanding why I had to relearn things I knew, so to make it palatable, I began to search for the new information I could learn in each class, and I always found it.
It was often a long, arduous search, but it kept my mind busy.
In the class on the Nursing Process what I learned new was not welcomed by me, and certainly not part of the course content. It was a challenge to how I thought of myself and my skills.
We had to write a paper on what the nursing process was. I recall one passage I wrote that I thought was the heart, essence, and meaning of the NP. I remember it quite well. It was something like this:
The nursing process is not a stagnant thought written on a piece of cardstock paper, tucked in a Kardex that stays in the nurses station. No, the nursing process lives in the hearts of nurses. It creeps up and down hospital halls on cat's feet.....checking, responding, changing in the beat of a heart.....this way, then that. That is the Nursing Process.
It became one of those really big downers. The kind that hurts so bad one puts it away on the shelf for a while, then later, in disbelief, pulls its out again.
Looks.
Wonders.
Can this really be true?
Decides one was wrong.
What was written on that paper of my heart was: Your writing style is too casual for professional nursing. You need to work on a more scholarly style.
So I did.
And later I started grad school and wrote as scholarly as I could, which was always a struggle for me.
But then, ahhhhhhhh, but then, there was another teacher.
She asked us to write a paper on our own personal model of nursing, How I Practice Nursing.
Well, this was license for me not to try to be scholarly. And I put pen to paper, heart to thought. And I wrote my model of nursing: A Spiritual Model. And I let every ounce of what I believe about people, health, nursing, spirit flow into that paper. I told stories about personal nursing experiences to demonstrate my thinking. And I put emotion into it all, because there was emotion in it all.
A circle represented the individual. Nursing was around it, and sometimes nursing dipped into the circle of the individual, and sometimes the individual dipped into the encircling nurse. [Oh, the countless times the patient has done more for me than I for him!] The core of the circle was God, with spokes coming out, bathing and encircling ALL.
That was my model.
God did the nursing. God in us did the nursing.
I held my breath. I came to class.
And the prof talked about a model, a nursing model she had never seen anything like. She asked ME to present my model to the class!
I got a perfect score. A-ha.
Vindicated.
After that I threw a lot of my heart into all my graduate work. My thesis is sometimes scholarly, sometimes not. But always, always, it is full of heart.
So, when you say you like to read my words, I am encouraged. Since I have started eeeeeeeeeeeing people my feelings about things, I have stopped journaling. I find that amazing. I journaled since I was about 25, and I have notebook after notebook offeelings..................I did turn one into a book called Gentle Souls that Tap Dance. But I did that drunk, and it would take a different shape today, different ending, thank God, LOL. (Can't read all of it anymore. Wine spilled on some pages, :)
Regardless, my eeeeeeeeeeeing my thoughts is one of the important mental health things I do. My fingers do the walking over the keyboard, heal my heart, steel my backbone, and give me courage. And I never know exactly where those little devils are gonna take me when I lay them down!
Makes life exciting.
Friday, October 10, 2008
Lessons for the Teacher
[This entry from late 2005 is from my old blog, that is closing.]
The photo above is of my father teaching a group of farmers at the county extension office in the 1950's. I was probably about 9 or 10 at the time.
In my 20's when I took a teaching position with Bellin School of Nursing, my father asked me what I was going to teach. I explained my contract outlined that I would be teaching on the freshmen level, teaching the basic skills of nursing, which I listed for him.
No, he said, That's not what I mean. You need to understand in your heart what you are teaching. You should be able to articulate in a short sentence what you are teaching.
I told him I had no idea what he was talking about, but he had confidence in me and continued: Think about it, Mary Lou. Sleep on it and we'll talk tomorrow. You will find in your heart what it is that you want to teach your students.
In my 20's when I took a teaching position with Bellin School of Nursing, my father asked me what I was going to teach. I explained my contract outlined that I would be teaching on the freshmen level, teaching the basic skills of nursing, which I listed for him.
No, he said, That's not what I mean. You need to understand in your heart what you are teaching. You should be able to articulate in a short sentence what you are teaching.
I told him I had no idea what he was talking about, but he had confidence in me and continued: Think about it, Mary Lou. Sleep on it and we'll talk tomorrow. You will find in your heart what it is that you want to teach your students.
It is the cornerstone of your teaching you are looking for.
Oh dear. What did he mean? I trusted my dad. He was a life long educator, being the County Agricultural Agent of Calumet County through the University of Wisconsin
He taught farmers how to farm.
He took school children from field-trip buses out on fields to teach about strip cropping, erosion, wild flowers, birds.
He taught 4-H'ers how to plant trees on bare slopes, creating a forest of 50,000 trees that grows tall, green, shady, and cool today at the Calumet County Park over Lake Winnebago.
Or, at least that's what I thought he taught.
I went to bed that night, in the bed of my childhood, and wondered, wondered what he meant. I thought about it because I believed what he was teaching me was going to be important. And I understood on some level that he couldn't tell me what I wanted to teach because he didn't know. He knew that I had to find it in my own heart.
I don't remember if it was as I fell asleep that night, or as I gradually awakened in the morning that I heard in my heart what it was I wanted to teach. I do remember a great peace and comfort after excavating my teaching cornerstone. (Ah, that good old Holy Spirit whispering truth in my ear again :)
I faced my father that morning with excitement and confidence.
I know, Dad. I know what I want to teach!
Dad sat down. What is it you want to teach, Mary Lou?
I want to teach my students to care, because if they care, all else will follow.
And then my dad gifted me with another of his precious gifts that has supported me even all these 30 years after his death: Oh, you are going to be a good teacher.
And I think I was.
But I was too young, still too self-centered to ask back: Dad, what do you teach?
I can't believe I never asked. But I didn't. So now, all these years later, I wonder about Dad's cornerstone of teaching. I think, because my father was so open, that I know what he would have said. And I don't think it would have been anything so philosophical and lofty as "I want to teach farmers to care for the land," or "I want to teach the community about the value of farming," or "I want to instill a love of the earth into children."
All those my dad did teach.
But I don't think, from he said, any of those were the actual cornerstone of his teaching. I think my pragmatic father would have said: I want to teach farmers how to make farming easier.
Yup, I think that's it.
I'll check it out with Dad when I check in upstairs.
Oh dear. What did he mean? I trusted my dad. He was a life long educator, being the County Agricultural Agent of Calumet County through the University of Wisconsin
He taught farmers how to farm.
He took school children from field-trip buses out on fields to teach about strip cropping, erosion, wild flowers, birds.
He taught 4-H'ers how to plant trees on bare slopes, creating a forest of 50,000 trees that grows tall, green, shady, and cool today at the Calumet County Park over Lake Winnebago.
Or, at least that's what I thought he taught.
I went to bed that night, in the bed of my childhood, and wondered, wondered what he meant. I thought about it because I believed what he was teaching me was going to be important. And I understood on some level that he couldn't tell me what I wanted to teach because he didn't know. He knew that I had to find it in my own heart.
I don't remember if it was as I fell asleep that night, or as I gradually awakened in the morning that I heard in my heart what it was I wanted to teach. I do remember a great peace and comfort after excavating my teaching cornerstone. (Ah, that good old Holy Spirit whispering truth in my ear again :)
I faced my father that morning with excitement and confidence.
I know, Dad. I know what I want to teach!
Dad sat down. What is it you want to teach, Mary Lou?
I want to teach my students to care, because if they care, all else will follow.
And then my dad gifted me with another of his precious gifts that has supported me even all these 30 years after his death: Oh, you are going to be a good teacher.
And I think I was.
But I was too young, still too self-centered to ask back: Dad, what do you teach?
I can't believe I never asked. But I didn't. So now, all these years later, I wonder about Dad's cornerstone of teaching. I think, because my father was so open, that I know what he would have said. And I don't think it would have been anything so philosophical and lofty as "I want to teach farmers to care for the land," or "I want to teach the community about the value of farming," or "I want to instill a love of the earth into children."
All those my dad did teach.
But I don't think, from he said, any of those were the actual cornerstone of his teaching. I think my pragmatic father would have said: I want to teach farmers how to make farming easier.
Yup, I think that's it.
I'll check it out with Dad when I check in upstairs.
Pupkus
[This entry was posted on July 20, 2005 on my old blog that is closing.]
Pupkus - the residue a dog leaves on a window after pressing his/her nose against it.
I had this sent to me today, and was relieved to finally have a name for it.
This,
this
is the state of all my car windows, patio doors, and storm doors. And, I love seeing it.
I notice others who have pupkus on their car windows too, and I think they are lucky
like me,
to have a puppy dog who loves to enjoy the world going by as we drive along; tongue hanging out, panting, smiling, looking back at me from time to time just to touch base with the driver.
I even have it on the back window of the car after we drive across the country.
Causes me to think of my mother, and how for weeks she wouldn't wash the hand prints off the big mirror behind the couch in her living room after a grandchild would visit. Why would I, she would ask.
Yes, I am glad I have a name for it. Pupkus. Maybe I'll change that to pupkis. Yes, I think that's better.
As for the other photo, look carefully.
This is of a slipper-puppy who dreamed of becoming real.
And she did!
Oh miracle. How lucky for us! We named her Suzy.
Follow the Recipe
[This was a posting from 7-20-05 in my old blog that I am moving to the new blog.]
My friend Woody, recently told me, in a kind way, that he was going to help free me from the tyranny of the Bible. I am grateful for his words because they have stimulated me finally, finally to put form to the inchoate defense I have about my faith in God, the Bible, salvation, and Jesus.
I must also give my nephew Eric Meyer credit for his words to me about 10 years ago when he said that after studying world religions in college, his professor said that the best religion for a person is probably the one he was raised in, and hence, most comfortable with. I have pondered this thought also for hours and hours and hours.
Here goes.
Although I credit Eric and Woody with the stimulation for creating these words around my deeply held convictions of faith in God, I really need to go back further.
To a death bed.
The death bed of my beloved father, Orrin W. Meyer.
Dad was a pillar of the church. President for a number of years, the years the money was raised that raised the new building for St. Martin's Evangelical Lutheran Church in Chilton, Wisconsin. He was an agriculturist, hands in God's soil, dependent on God's rain and sunshine.
And he was wise.
Cancer invaded him, and God rescued him to heaven when he was 59, leaving my mother bereft, and me holding on furiously to all the memories and words he gave me.
But these words, these, were the most potent, and most surprising.
It was about 1 or 2 weeks before Dad died, and I was laying on the bed with him in the room that was his & Mom's bedroom the last 25 years of his life (He had said to me laying there and looking up, I love that light fixture. It has been the friendly good morning to me for so many years.) Because Dad always had the answers for things, I decided to ask him the most important question.
Dad, what's gonna happen to you when you die?
Pause.
I don't know.
Pause. I gulp.
But Dad resumes and gives me the answer that stills my heart, but in a way I hadn't expected.
Mary Lou, who can be so full of pride as to think they can understand the mind of God? Who? We are nothing compared to God. We can't know what it will be like, but we have been promised it is good. I believe it will be better than anything I can imagine because I am just a man, and God is God. I would like you to remember that man in the pulpit is only a man too. He has no closer connection to God than you do. You have to listen to the small, still voice inside as the minister speaks. He may say some things that don't fit with your inner voice. Sift them out, but keep the pearls. There will always be pearls. And always go to church. It's good PR in the community.
There ended my community minded father's dissertation on faith. Simple, real, honest, with death bed clarity.
And County Agricultural wisdom :)
My Dad didn't spend time in the Word like some would think he should have, but he had faith, trust, and lived his life in joyful Christian victory.
And he ended it that way, a young man dying without bitterness or fear. A man faithful enough to sing with my mother, I am Jesus's little lamb.........
That was quite a witness for me.
And the Lutheran Church, Missouri Synod had helped him with that. The church, and his small, still inner voice, that I choose to call the Holy Ghost.
Oh the miracles I have seen in my life! So much proof that there is rhyme and reason in this world, even in this fallen world. I know God lives. And I know God lives in me. I hear the Holy Ghost speak to me often. I hear that small, still voice within, and in the miracle of my sobriety, I listen to it.
Listening has brought me understanding of the next right thing to do. And living life one day at a time, trying to do the next right thing, keeping that as my goal, has brought the by-product of happiness. And all my happiness is directly the result of trying to live the right kind of life, a life with ear open to God in me.
I also hear my father's voice: Who can be so proud as to think they can understand the Mind of God?Not me.
So I use the Word to help, understanding that even that cannot come near the truth and reality that is GOD. I believe that God chose for me the Christian path to spend a life returning to Him. He gave me the Word, and He made the Word flesh in Jesus to bring it home to me. This is the path God chose for me.
My precious husband Harry would call it "following the recipe."
But I also believe that God might have chosen other ways, other recipes, for other people. I believe it when the Bible says that God is Love. I do not believe a loving God would leave any part of His creation without guidance and direction and salvation.
Nope.
Just don't believe it.
But He chose our paths. And expects us to commit to those paths, in love. His Love. To be faithful to those paths as He created them, whether Eastern or Western in flavor.
I love the Word because it creates a safe structure for me wherein to find the next right thing to do, the way to behave, the way to be loving and kind, the way back to God.
My life is that: A journey home to God.
I have come to understand that I am not a human being. I am a spirit, a part of God's creation, trying to be human for a very short time, and it is hard.
But I have the Word to help me. And because I am trying to be wise like my parents, I am using that Word as my beacon, my light on the way home.
Yes, just as nothing can separate me from God's love, nothing can stop me from living in the Word!
I have found my freedom.
My freedom is in living the path God gave me.
Becoming the woman God meant me to be.
And what joy that is!
My friend Woody, recently told me, in a kind way, that he was going to help free me from the tyranny of the Bible. I am grateful for his words because they have stimulated me finally, finally to put form to the inchoate defense I have about my faith in God, the Bible, salvation, and Jesus.
I must also give my nephew Eric Meyer credit for his words to me about 10 years ago when he said that after studying world religions in college, his professor said that the best religion for a person is probably the one he was raised in, and hence, most comfortable with. I have pondered this thought also for hours and hours and hours.
Here goes.
Although I credit Eric and Woody with the stimulation for creating these words around my deeply held convictions of faith in God, I really need to go back further.
To a death bed.
The death bed of my beloved father, Orrin W. Meyer.
Dad was a pillar of the church. President for a number of years, the years the money was raised that raised the new building for St. Martin's Evangelical Lutheran Church in Chilton, Wisconsin. He was an agriculturist, hands in God's soil, dependent on God's rain and sunshine.
And he was wise.
Cancer invaded him, and God rescued him to heaven when he was 59, leaving my mother bereft, and me holding on furiously to all the memories and words he gave me.
But these words, these, were the most potent, and most surprising.
It was about 1 or 2 weeks before Dad died, and I was laying on the bed with him in the room that was his & Mom's bedroom the last 25 years of his life (He had said to me laying there and looking up, I love that light fixture. It has been the friendly good morning to me for so many years.) Because Dad always had the answers for things, I decided to ask him the most important question.
Dad, what's gonna happen to you when you die?
Pause.
I don't know.
Pause. I gulp.
But Dad resumes and gives me the answer that stills my heart, but in a way I hadn't expected.
Mary Lou, who can be so full of pride as to think they can understand the mind of God? Who? We are nothing compared to God. We can't know what it will be like, but we have been promised it is good. I believe it will be better than anything I can imagine because I am just a man, and God is God. I would like you to remember that man in the pulpit is only a man too. He has no closer connection to God than you do. You have to listen to the small, still voice inside as the minister speaks. He may say some things that don't fit with your inner voice. Sift them out, but keep the pearls. There will always be pearls. And always go to church. It's good PR in the community.
There ended my community minded father's dissertation on faith. Simple, real, honest, with death bed clarity.
And County Agricultural wisdom :)
My Dad didn't spend time in the Word like some would think he should have, but he had faith, trust, and lived his life in joyful Christian victory.
And he ended it that way, a young man dying without bitterness or fear. A man faithful enough to sing with my mother, I am Jesus's little lamb.........
That was quite a witness for me.
And the Lutheran Church, Missouri Synod had helped him with that. The church, and his small, still inner voice, that I choose to call the Holy Ghost.
Oh the miracles I have seen in my life! So much proof that there is rhyme and reason in this world, even in this fallen world. I know God lives. And I know God lives in me. I hear the Holy Ghost speak to me often. I hear that small, still voice within, and in the miracle of my sobriety, I listen to it.
Listening has brought me understanding of the next right thing to do. And living life one day at a time, trying to do the next right thing, keeping that as my goal, has brought the by-product of happiness. And all my happiness is directly the result of trying to live the right kind of life, a life with ear open to God in me.
I also hear my father's voice: Who can be so proud as to think they can understand the Mind of God?Not me.
So I use the Word to help, understanding that even that cannot come near the truth and reality that is GOD. I believe that God chose for me the Christian path to spend a life returning to Him. He gave me the Word, and He made the Word flesh in Jesus to bring it home to me. This is the path God chose for me.
My precious husband Harry would call it "following the recipe."
But I also believe that God might have chosen other ways, other recipes, for other people. I believe it when the Bible says that God is Love. I do not believe a loving God would leave any part of His creation without guidance and direction and salvation.
Nope.
Just don't believe it.
But He chose our paths. And expects us to commit to those paths, in love. His Love. To be faithful to those paths as He created them, whether Eastern or Western in flavor.
I love the Word because it creates a safe structure for me wherein to find the next right thing to do, the way to behave, the way to be loving and kind, the way back to God.
My life is that: A journey home to God.
I have come to understand that I am not a human being. I am a spirit, a part of God's creation, trying to be human for a very short time, and it is hard.
But I have the Word to help me. And because I am trying to be wise like my parents, I am using that Word as my beacon, my light on the way home.
Yes, just as nothing can separate me from God's love, nothing can stop me from living in the Word!
I have found my freedom.
My freedom is in living the path God gave me.
Becoming the woman God meant me to be.
And what joy that is!
My Granddaughter's Wedding
[The first photo is of my mother and dad, Florence Dittmar and Orrin Meyer, in 1939 a year before they were married, my father's last year at the University of Wisconsin. The second is of my husband's precious granddaughter, and mine too for the past 11 years, on her wedding day to Eric.]
This entry is from July 18, 2005, from my old blog that is closing.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
This past weekend my beautiful granddaughter Michelle got married to Eric. She is still in college, and so is her new husband, so they are signing up for some hungry years.
They have always been so in love. They have always been so committed to each other since their senior year in high school. I think they knew most people wondered about a marriage between them at such an early age (both are 21). I think we all wanted to protect them from the realities of adult life until they had finished their educations and had a career foundation. But there were thoughts on my heart that became words, and I sent them to Michelle before the wedding.
This past weekend my beautiful granddaughter Michelle got married to Eric. She is still in college, and so is her new husband, so they are signing up for some hungry years.
They have always been so in love. They have always been so committed to each other since their senior year in high school. I think they knew most people wondered about a marriage between them at such an early age (both are 21). I think we all wanted to protect them from the realities of adult life until they had finished their educations and had a career foundation. But there were thoughts on my heart that became words, and I sent them to Michelle before the wedding.
I share them here in honor of love, marriage, and sacred unions under God.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Dear Michelle,
My parents dated eight years, since Mom was a Junior and Dad a senior in high school. Dad went to Manitowoc Teacher's College and taught country school after high school, and then went back to the University of Wisconsin so he could pursue a more versatile career.
Mom waited.
Dad died young, only 59. Mom never dated once after that, and was never interested. She always said Dad was the love of her life, and we kids always felt that. We knew we were a God given product of their love, and important to them, but not the center of their lives.
They were the center of each other's world.
Not us.
There was great comfort in living in that kind of love.
Mom said her heart was content with Dad's memory, and she knew they would be spending eternity together, so she would wait for him again.
This last wait was 29 years.
What I want to tell you now with this background reported, I have said to you before. But I want to say it again. In more recent years as my mother was declining, and she would talk about her death and her desire to get back to Daddy, I asked her if she had regrets in her life. Her answer was:
Only one. Your Daddy and I should have gotten married sooner. I could have worked while he was in college. We could have had 3 extra years. I grieve those years.
You are getting those 3 years my parents didn't. Use them well
Cherish them, honor them, and revere them as the important time they are.
Blessings, Gramma Lou
P.S. If I listen in the quiet house at night before I fall asleep, I imagine I can hear my parents dancing on the ceiling.
And when it rains,
I know I do.
Wednesday, October 8, 2008
The Easter Bunny
This is a post from 7-2-05 from my old blog that is closing down:
Did you know that the Easter Bunny keeps a list like Santa, and probably checks it twice? Yep. I have known that since I was a child.
Case in point:
Date - Easter about 1952
Place - 220 Saratoga Street
Chilton, Wisconsin
Family - The Meyers, staunch Missouri Synod Lutherans; Parents, Orrin & Florence; Children, Tom, 10; Mary Lou, 6; Jim, 4
The Saturday night before Easter; after dinner, after Sunday School lessons and memorization, and after baths; our mother brought down from the attic our Easter baskets to get ready for the Easter bunny. We left them, empty of course, on the kitchen table. It was a thoughtful act. Something to help the bunny out. While we were setting them up on the table, my father put on his Scotch hat, winter coat, and boots over his slippers (he was in his pj's too) and went to go outside. "Where ya going, Dad?" we all chimed in. "Never you mind. Never you mind." And out he went in the cold darkness to the garage. After just a couple minutes the cold from the early spring night came seeping into the kitchen as Dad carefully maneuvered in through the back hall with a bushel basket! With a smirk on his face, he placed it on the table, dwarfing our baskets. Mother was not happy, and insisted the dirty thing NOT be on the table, but if he insisted on having it, it must wait for the Easter Bunny on the floor. "Boy, am I going to get a lot of candy this year. Sure glad I thought of this!"
I went to bed that night absolutely upset with myself for not having thought of that--a bushel basket! What a great idea. The Easter bunny always filled our baskets to the top!
I was still kicking myself as the house woke up in the morning, and all three of us children rushed to see what the result was of Dad's great idea. We never even thought of looking for our own baskets.
Then I saw it.
I saw that bushel basket shoved sort of behind my dad's favorite chair, but not all the way in, not against the curtains or wall. I remember so clearly feeling sorry for the little bunny, and how hard he must have worked to shove thatbig basket full of candy that far from the kitchen into that spot. (Now, of course as an adult, I realize it was my mother protecting her drapes and walls, LOL.) All three of us kids rushed over, and with major, major excitement peered over the side and into the bushel basket.
GASP!
There, on the bottom, lay three of those awful-huge-jelly-bean-sort-of-candies that I have never in my whole life seen a human eat. And, with the awful-huge-jelly-beans lay a couple sticks that looked like they were shed from the weeping willow on the side of the house.
And,
even scarier,
there on the bottom, with the awful-huge-jelly-bean-sort-of-candies and the sticks, lay a note on a piece of folded over paper.
It was not for us to touch
We stepped back.
Dad, rubbing his hands together, came forward with our original excitement. "Boy, oh boy, this is gonna be good!" And he moved past us and looked in.
Stillness.
Slowly he picked up the note, quietly unfolded it, and read it in silence. We also were silent.
Waiting.
He hung his head, folded the note, and handed it to Mother. Mother snapped it open and with very little sympathy read: If you are this greedy next Easter you won't even get this. The Easter Bunny.
Later in the day at home after church, as we munched candy from our baskets, we would quietly go to our reprimanded father and sympathetically offer him some candy. He would take it with a humble thank you, and would sigh, I really learned my lesson. I really learned my lesson.
So did we.
Did you know that the Easter Bunny keeps a list like Santa, and probably checks it twice? Yep. I have known that since I was a child.
Case in point:
Date - Easter about 1952
Place - 220 Saratoga Street
Chilton, Wisconsin
Family - The Meyers, staunch Missouri Synod Lutherans; Parents, Orrin & Florence; Children, Tom, 10; Mary Lou, 6; Jim, 4
The Saturday night before Easter; after dinner, after Sunday School lessons and memorization, and after baths; our mother brought down from the attic our Easter baskets to get ready for the Easter bunny. We left them, empty of course, on the kitchen table. It was a thoughtful act. Something to help the bunny out. While we were setting them up on the table, my father put on his Scotch hat, winter coat, and boots over his slippers (he was in his pj's too) and went to go outside. "Where ya going, Dad?" we all chimed in. "Never you mind. Never you mind." And out he went in the cold darkness to the garage. After just a couple minutes the cold from the early spring night came seeping into the kitchen as Dad carefully maneuvered in through the back hall with a bushel basket! With a smirk on his face, he placed it on the table, dwarfing our baskets. Mother was not happy, and insisted the dirty thing NOT be on the table, but if he insisted on having it, it must wait for the Easter Bunny on the floor. "Boy, am I going to get a lot of candy this year. Sure glad I thought of this!"
I went to bed that night absolutely upset with myself for not having thought of that--a bushel basket! What a great idea. The Easter bunny always filled our baskets to the top!
I was still kicking myself as the house woke up in the morning, and all three of us children rushed to see what the result was of Dad's great idea. We never even thought of looking for our own baskets.
Then I saw it.
I saw that bushel basket shoved sort of behind my dad's favorite chair, but not all the way in, not against the curtains or wall. I remember so clearly feeling sorry for the little bunny, and how hard he must have worked to shove thatbig basket full of candy that far from the kitchen into that spot. (Now, of course as an adult, I realize it was my mother protecting her drapes and walls, LOL.) All three of us kids rushed over, and with major, major excitement peered over the side and into the bushel basket.
GASP!
There, on the bottom, lay three of those awful-huge-jelly-bean-sort-of-candies that I have never in my whole life seen a human eat. And, with the awful-huge-jelly-beans lay a couple sticks that looked like they were shed from the weeping willow on the side of the house.
And,
even scarier,
there on the bottom, with the awful-huge-jelly-bean-sort-of-candies and the sticks, lay a note on a piece of folded over paper.
It was not for us to touch
We stepped back.
Dad, rubbing his hands together, came forward with our original excitement. "Boy, oh boy, this is gonna be good!" And he moved past us and looked in.
Stillness.
Slowly he picked up the note, quietly unfolded it, and read it in silence. We also were silent.
Waiting.
He hung his head, folded the note, and handed it to Mother. Mother snapped it open and with very little sympathy read: If you are this greedy next Easter you won't even get this. The Easter Bunny.
Later in the day at home after church, as we munched candy from our baskets, we would quietly go to our reprimanded father and sympathetically offer him some candy. He would take it with a humble thank you, and would sigh, I really learned my lesson. I really learned my lesson.
So did we.
Good Friday Past
This is an entry from Easter, 2004, from my old blog that is closing down.
Good Friday Past
This is how I spent my Good Friday morning.
And it was a good Friday.
I delivered Easter baskets to needy Pima Indians on the Salt River Reservation. The Social Ministry Committee of our church, Shepherd of the Desert Lutheran Church, prepared Easter baskets last week, filled with the usual candy and stuffed animals, plus some Christian literature [age appropriate], and some hygiene products as well. Making the baskets was a fun morning in and of itself, but because it was a group of women there was naturally some delicious food to nosh on after our work was done. :)
Today we delivered the baskets. After receiving my assignment, loading my car, and getting my driving instructions, I set off down the 101 freeway awed by the clear air made fresh last night by an AZ rain [called a sprinkle in Wisconsin]. The mountains showed their crooks, crannies, and colors. The Mummies, Camelback with the Praying Monk on his nose, the South Mountains, Twin Buttes, the Superstitions way off to the East, Four Peaks racing along beside me while the McDowell and Black Mountains retreated in my rear view mirror, all added to the immersion into my reservation experience that was modulated by the Indian music I had playing in the CD. I was struck as I drove down the 101, by the two worlds that live next to each other here. And when I came to the Indian School Road exit, I turned away from the upscale buildings and homes of Scottsdale, into the desert. Into the Reservation.
The line is sharp
There is no question as to where this boundary lies. I felt lifted and joyous
As my tires traveled the roads of the Rez, my mind traveled the memories of my days at Phoenix Indian Medical Center in downtown Phoenix. I could hear the musical quality of the speech of different tribes. I could smell the scrambled eggs with green chilies that was often served for breakfast. I could hear the scraping sound of the toco as a laboring mother rolled over in bed and upset the transmission of the baby's heartbeat. I could see the corn pollen on a mother's skin that the Medicine Man had applied, and could remember clearly my surprise at the positive power it had to lower blood pressure and assuage pain. I could feel the weight of a labor bed as we pushed it quickly through the halls for an emergency C-section. I could feel the sticky little eye lids of a screaming baby as I pulled them open to be treated with the medication that is law. I could see the shockingly dramatic black cap of hair on the baby's head. I could look into the little face as I treated the baby to his/her first shampoo and style, and yes, a baptism. I confess: I baptized the babies committed to my keeping after their birth. It was the simple "In the name of the Father, Son, and Holy Ghost" and I added a prayer for a blessed life, happiness, and health.
I worried about my little Indian babies. And as far as I was made aware, two of my babies were killed by their parents in their first year of life. But they were from up north. Not from Gila River or Salt River Reservations.
Ahhhhh, not today. I turn them over to God today. Today was for the little ones who lived, little ones to whom I was bringing the Easter message of Hope.
I found them as I had left them 25 years ago.
Oh, my goodness. It has been 25 years since I left the Indian Hospital. But the memories are so fresh and alive. So real. So meaningful.
And, as I traveled to the Rez homes; avoided the Rez dogs running loose on the roads; stepped over what was between the car and the front door; smelled the wonderful cooking aromas of food fried in lard; discussed a wound infection on a diabetic woman's foot; heard about the egg hunt at school; discussed an allergy problem on a Rez dog that was dearly loved by a little girl as she held tight her Easter basket; wondered why the woman of one house didn't seem like she could get out of her Lazy-Boy; saw men hanging over the engine of a truck; looked into eyes that where open, honest, and willing, but tired, oh so tired; I recalled again why my few years, my few lowly years of staff nursing in high risk OB on the 4 to midnight shift at Phoenix Indian Medical Center feels so close, so recent. Despite what I believe was a successful career that included positions of prestige, influence, and power, my work was at PIMC. What I did at PIMC was my most meaningful experience.
And satisfying.
Yes, satisfying. It's not that it was so much that I did. It was that it was so needed.
And today, I brushed that need again.
And the wonder of wonders happened again as it did on my nights nursing the Indians. They gave me so much. They did it again today.
SometimesI wish I could start life over. I would make different career choices. Less education and more patients.
But, alas, I shouldn't be acting like what I did had no meaning. It did. It's just that in my years of working there was no one as engaged in returning energy to me as my Indians. God bless them. Each and every one. And my church can count on me to deliver whatever is needed to be delivered to the Indians of our nearby Reservations.
Only next time I will remember to take baskets for the skinny Rez dogs too. :)
Thanks for sharing my day with me. This Holy Day where I was blessed by the Pimas, and reminded what caring, sharing, and giving is about.
And it isn't my caring, and sharing, and giving that I am talking about. Oh no. Not mine.
It is the gentle Akimel O'odam's (Pima's).
Blessings!
Good Friday Past
This is how I spent my Good Friday morning.
And it was a good Friday.
I delivered Easter baskets to needy Pima Indians on the Salt River Reservation. The Social Ministry Committee of our church, Shepherd of the Desert Lutheran Church, prepared Easter baskets last week, filled with the usual candy and stuffed animals, plus some Christian literature [age appropriate], and some hygiene products as well. Making the baskets was a fun morning in and of itself, but because it was a group of women there was naturally some delicious food to nosh on after our work was done. :)
Today we delivered the baskets. After receiving my assignment, loading my car, and getting my driving instructions, I set off down the 101 freeway awed by the clear air made fresh last night by an AZ rain [called a sprinkle in Wisconsin]. The mountains showed their crooks, crannies, and colors. The Mummies, Camelback with the Praying Monk on his nose, the South Mountains, Twin Buttes, the Superstitions way off to the East, Four Peaks racing along beside me while the McDowell and Black Mountains retreated in my rear view mirror, all added to the immersion into my reservation experience that was modulated by the Indian music I had playing in the CD. I was struck as I drove down the 101, by the two worlds that live next to each other here. And when I came to the Indian School Road exit, I turned away from the upscale buildings and homes of Scottsdale, into the desert. Into the Reservation.
The line is sharp
There is no question as to where this boundary lies. I felt lifted and joyous
As my tires traveled the roads of the Rez, my mind traveled the memories of my days at Phoenix Indian Medical Center in downtown Phoenix. I could hear the musical quality of the speech of different tribes. I could smell the scrambled eggs with green chilies that was often served for breakfast. I could hear the scraping sound of the toco as a laboring mother rolled over in bed and upset the transmission of the baby's heartbeat. I could see the corn pollen on a mother's skin that the Medicine Man had applied, and could remember clearly my surprise at the positive power it had to lower blood pressure and assuage pain. I could feel the weight of a labor bed as we pushed it quickly through the halls for an emergency C-section. I could feel the sticky little eye lids of a screaming baby as I pulled them open to be treated with the medication that is law. I could see the shockingly dramatic black cap of hair on the baby's head. I could look into the little face as I treated the baby to his/her first shampoo and style, and yes, a baptism. I confess: I baptized the babies committed to my keeping after their birth. It was the simple "In the name of the Father, Son, and Holy Ghost" and I added a prayer for a blessed life, happiness, and health.
I worried about my little Indian babies. And as far as I was made aware, two of my babies were killed by their parents in their first year of life. But they were from up north. Not from Gila River or Salt River Reservations.
Ahhhhh, not today. I turn them over to God today. Today was for the little ones who lived, little ones to whom I was bringing the Easter message of Hope.
I found them as I had left them 25 years ago.
Oh, my goodness. It has been 25 years since I left the Indian Hospital. But the memories are so fresh and alive. So real. So meaningful.
And, as I traveled to the Rez homes; avoided the Rez dogs running loose on the roads; stepped over what was between the car and the front door; smelled the wonderful cooking aromas of food fried in lard; discussed a wound infection on a diabetic woman's foot; heard about the egg hunt at school; discussed an allergy problem on a Rez dog that was dearly loved by a little girl as she held tight her Easter basket; wondered why the woman of one house didn't seem like she could get out of her Lazy-Boy; saw men hanging over the engine of a truck; looked into eyes that where open, honest, and willing, but tired, oh so tired; I recalled again why my few years, my few lowly years of staff nursing in high risk OB on the 4 to midnight shift at Phoenix Indian Medical Center feels so close, so recent. Despite what I believe was a successful career that included positions of prestige, influence, and power, my work was at PIMC. What I did at PIMC was my most meaningful experience.
And satisfying.
Yes, satisfying. It's not that it was so much that I did. It was that it was so needed.
And today, I brushed that need again.
And the wonder of wonders happened again as it did on my nights nursing the Indians. They gave me so much. They did it again today.
SometimesI wish I could start life over. I would make different career choices. Less education and more patients.
But, alas, I shouldn't be acting like what I did had no meaning. It did. It's just that in my years of working there was no one as engaged in returning energy to me as my Indians. God bless them. Each and every one. And my church can count on me to deliver whatever is needed to be delivered to the Indians of our nearby Reservations.
Only next time I will remember to take baskets for the skinny Rez dogs too. :)
Thanks for sharing my day with me. This Holy Day where I was blessed by the Pimas, and reminded what caring, sharing, and giving is about.
And it isn't my caring, and sharing, and giving that I am talking about. Oh no. Not mine.
It is the gentle Akimel O'odam's (Pima's).
Blessings!
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