The Bible tells us that we all have at least one spiritual gift.  I believe mine is the gift of encouragement. (Romans 12:8) I love to encourage others, and sometimes I’m blessed to see that encouragement turn someone’s somber countenance into a hopeful one. Unfortunately, like most people, I sometimes neglect opportunities to make a difference for someone. But, whenever I think of Charlie, it serves as a reminder not to let those opportunities pass.

You see, Charlie was a sixty-some year old loner in the small town where I lived and worked. Everyone knew of Charlie, but no one really knew Charlie. Most of us didn’t know his last name and only his closest neighbors knew where he lived. But, it was almost a given, if one were to drive down Main Street they would see Charlie walking up one side or the other. I never saw him stop to visit with anyone or anyone stop to visit with him.

Charlie didn’t drive, he only walked; shoulders rounded and eyes focused on the sidewalk in front of him. If you looked closely on breezy days, you could see the end of his long gray beard swaying.  In the summer he wore a T-shirt with bib overalls, and in the winter he swapped out his t-shirt for a long sleeved flannel shirt. Everyone considered Charlie somewhat strange. The kids in town sometimes teased him while the adults just ignored him.

Then the unfortunate happened. Charlie was brought into the hospital where I worked as a staff nurse, diagnosed with a left cerebrovascular accident (stroke). Lying on the bed in room 116, he was a fish out of water. Not one of our four doctors had ever treated Charlie, making us wonder if he’d ever seen a doctor in his sixty plus years. It was probably a safe bet to say he’d never been in a hospital. The stroke had left him aphasic (unable to speak) and unable to answer any of our questions.

The stroke had also left him paralyzed – a proud man suddenly caged in a flaccid body. No one had ever known Charlie to have shared his body with anyone. Now strangers were dressing and undressing him daily. We sat beside him and placed food in his mouth. We gave him medicine he didn’t want. Every two hours we placed the urinal for him.  His blank stare and the tears in his eyes told us how humiliated he was.

The speech therapist came every day for five days, but she reported to the doctor that he was non-compliant and wouldn’t try. She followed suit and quit trying, as well.  But Lou, the physical therapist, wasn’t so easily discouraged. Twice a day, she worked with Charlie. She rubbed, exercised, and stimulated his limbs any way she could.

“These legs have walked a lot of miles, Charlie, and they’ll walk many more.” She told him about other stroke patients and how they were progressing. She gave him small goals to attain. When he stared tearfully out the window, she pretended not to notice.

Finally, Lou’s efforts began to make a difference. During a morning session, Charlie attempted to make slight, gross motor movements.  Lou noticed and praised him up one side and down the other. As Charlie’s efforts increased, his tears decreased.

We were all elated with Lou’s reports, but still Charlie remained silent. The speech therapist had told us Charlie should be able to make sounds, but the nursing staff was convinced she was wrong. It had been weeks without any attempt at verbalization.

But then, one quiet night, nurses at the nurse’s station heard a strange guttural noise coming from room 116. They tiptoed down the hall to Charlie’s door. With eyes wide and giving each other the thumbs up as they listened from the hall, they quietly rejoiced at the sound of Charlie practicing sounds. Gradually the night time utterances turned into syllables. A week or so later,  the aide that picked up Charlie’s empty water pitcher nearly dropped it. Charlie had just looked her in the eye and said clearly, “Water, please.” She grabbed the phone beside his bed as she leaned over the side-rail and hugged him. The entire nursing staff responded to her page to come to room 116 where they  heard a successful repeat performance.

Lou would say she was just doing her job. Maybe – but she taught everyone of us how far a little persistence and encouragement can go. This is why the  remembrance of Charlie always spurs me to plant that seed of encouragement. It may not change someone’s life or attitude immediately, but coupled with persistence, it just might make a life changing difference.

Until next month, keep on readin’ and I’ll keep on writin’.

(If you like this style of writing, check out my book page on how to obtain my two Christian Fiction novels, set in the Sandhills of Nebraska.)

I’m not a fan of science fiction and fantasy so I have not read any of Robert Fanney’s works. But I ran across a quote of his that I like. In my experience, nothing worthwhile has ever really been all that easy. But it certainly has been worthwhile regardless how difficult it seemed. This explains my  line dancing experience. Read on for that story that has been submitted for consideration into a future Chicken Soup book, entitled The Golden Years or Second Wind. 

O Happy Day

 

It was time to choose some extracurricular activities – something physical.  I was sliding into retirement, now working two days a week. In a year I would be fully retired from a nursing career that had kept me busy, focused, and content with parking my backside into the recliner at the end of the day. Hmmm…I wonder what I would enjoy. Neither biking nor running appealed to me; I wanted physical, not torture.

When my friend, Janice, suggested I try line dancing, my thoughts immediately went to the dance scene in the movie Pure Country. In his soothing western swing style, you hear George Strait singing “She Lays It All on the Line” as every sexy body – turns, stomps, and sways in perfect synchronization. Smiles light up everyone’s face and all burdens are forgotten.

“Sure,” I said, “sign me up.” How hard could it be?  After all, the class was at the community Senior Center.

Thursday couldn’t get here quick enough. In my fantasy world I was going to go into class, a Lucille Ball, and come out a Ginger Rogers. When Thursday finally came, I soon found out the only thing that remotely connected me to Ginger Rogers was that the instructor shared her first name.

It was the Thursday before Thanksgiving when I walked into that first class. I had imagined this to be a class of rookies…like we would all learn one step at a time until the entire group got the hang of it. Then we would move onto the next step and by the end of class we would put it all together where we would gracefully dance our way out of Queen Hall. But no, I soon found out that my imagination had led me down a fallacious path. This was a class that “took beginners”. The majority of the group had been dancing for at least a year and some for many more years than that.

“Today we will continue practicing the numbers that we’ll be performing at the Dorsett Care Center for the Christmas program,” Ginger announced to the group. I realized I was the only newbie in the bunch when Ginger singled me out and asked, “Have you had any dance experience?”

“Uh…not much. Did a little square dancing years ago.”  I purposely omitted that I was knee high to a grasshopper and wearing saddle shoes when that happened.

“Grab a spot in the middle where you will have an experienced dancer on every side of you to watch. Just do your best.” (I wasn’t sure I liked the sound of that, but it was too late to run – I was now surrounded by the all women posse.)

Maureen, the teacher’s assistant, began calling out the steps as the music started.  Wow…these ladies knew just what to do; this wasn’t their first rodeo! “Rhumba box,” she called. Every single one of them moved to the left, then to the front, to the right, and back again. Maybe not as sexy, but every bit as synchronized as the scene in “Pure Country.” Oh my, I was out of my league – an uncoordinated newborn filly in the center of a room full of thoroughbreds. Maureen continued to callout unknown phrases – jazz box, kick ball change, mambo, Charleston – no one missing a beat. Except me, of course, – who stood dumbfounded, managing occasionally to face the correct wall.

I know, you’re thinking I was crazy to go back the second week. I thought so too, but that scene from “Pure Country” just wouldn’t leave me alone.  What if….even if it took me months to get it… Besides, I reasoned – the fact that your brain has to talk to your feet must be great preventive medicine for Alzheimer’s.

But that’s where the rub lies. There didn’t seem to be an easy pathway from my brain to my feet. There was no doubt in my mind (and everyone else’s) that my pathway had an overabundance of detours, loop de loops, and sinkholes.

I saw newbies starting weeks after I did that caught on to the steps like a fish to a worm. While these women skipped confidently into the intermediate class, I continued to go home week after week – practicing my steps with my home instructor – You Tube.

I still remember the day – month’s later – when I was able to complete an entire beginner’s dance without a flaw! I was more than Ginger Rogers – I was Amelia Earhart – flying high! The other women were as thrilled for me as I was for myself. They cheered, patted me on the back, and began telling me how they admired that I had stuck with it when it seemed very challenging for me.  (A kind way of saying, I was the worst they had ever encountered.)

It’s been almost two years ago since I started that class. I can now do the rhumba box, the jazz box, the kick ball change, the mambo, the Charleston, and a host of other beginner’s steps without thinking about it. What I am thinking about is advancing to the intermediate class.

 

 

I closed out the last year and a half of my nursing career as a home health and hospice nurse. Many people find it difficult to understand how anyone can enjoy taking care of those that are dying. “That must be so hard,” I heard time after time. And, of course, there were those times when it was hard. Times when the prodigal child didn’t come home; dismissing their last chance to hold their parent’s hand. Times when the dying wanted nothing to do with hearing the gospel message of life after death. Times when a child closed their eyes for the last time as Mom and Dad attempted to gather strength from each other, only to find neither one had any left.

Although there were these situations when I would leave a home with tears on my cheeks, there were more times that I left with joy in my heart. Joy that this person was at peace with whatever might happen in the next 24 hours. Joy, that relationships had been restored in the nick of time. Joy, that families were willing to give the dying one last gift and care for them in their own homes. A great example of this is my own neighbor – 91 year old Mary Lou. Not one of her four children lived in South Dakota. But each one of them came to take turns for a week or two at a time so their mother could finish out her days in her beloved home amid familiar surroundings. How much that meant to Mary Lou!

Ecclesiastes 7:2-4 tells us that it is better to go to a house of mourning than to go to a house of feasting. The heart of the wise is in the house of mourning because there we learn what matters most. Many times I was called out in the middle of the night by family who’s loved one had passed. As much as I treasure good sleep, I never minded these calls. This is where I learned how much the deceased meant to those closest to them. Once I would get to the house there were tasks to be done. After a brief examination of the patient, I would notify the family’s choice of a mortuary to attend the deceased. While waiting for their arrival I would destroy the patient’s medications as is required by law and ready the body for transport by the funeral home staff. I would make notes as to family physician and pharmacy to notify in the morning. But the most meaningful and heartwarming part of my night was to listen to the family share the wonderful stories and memories of their loved one. (Most families that choose to care for a loved one in their home at the end of life are families where relationships are valued.)  I felt it a great privilege to have been invited into this exclusive world of remembrances. It was an hour of learning what the deceased had done while living that mattered most to these loved ones left behind.

David Brooks, a New York Times columnist has this to say about the way we live our lives: There are two kinds of virtues – those that look good on a resume and those you want said at your funeral. Sometimes they overlap, though often they seem to compete. When in doubt, always choose the eulogy virtues.

On these nights (and some days as well) I discovered what virtues are most important to the majority of us. I heard stories of honesty, generosity, compassion, contentment, integrity, courage, humor, and many other qualities that would look mighty fine on a resume in my opinion.

When my own father passed away five years ago, I felt a nudge to share one last story of a virtue that is hard to find these days – the virtue of clean speech. It wasn’t easy to address the congregation at such an emotional time, but I had to share what it meant to me that I had never heard Dad speak a swear word in the sixty years that I knew him. His most used expressions of exasperation were “shucks” and “that’s the berries.”

I can’t help but wonder what my children, siblings, grandchildren, nieces and nephews might say about me once the last heartbeat has beaten. Will I be thought of fondly or do I have some work to do while I still have the time? Will the memories they bring up around the kitchen table diffuse the somber sting of death? I would like nothing more than to know that laughter and smiles were shared on my behalf.

I am grateful for the opportunities I had as a hospice nurse. It was indeed a place that I learned what matters most.

Until next month, keep on readin’ and I’ll keep on writin’.

 

 

 

It never changed through thirteen years of school. I was always the most vertically challenged person in my class. By the time I was in 5th grade, I no longer had to wait for the music teacher to tell me where to stand for the annual Christmas concert – I marched to my position – left lower row, outside corner.

Children are inclined to gloat when they surpass the height of their same sex parent – We and most do. Studies have shown that boys typically rise 1-2% higher than their fathers and girls tower over mothers by 3-6 %. As much as it would have pleased me to be one of those statistics, it wasn’t in my bucket. Somehow, my percentage was dumped in my sister’s bucket who surpasses our mother’s 5’2″ by at least 4 inches.

Needless to say, I’ve heard my share of “short jokes” and/or not so subtle insinuations related to my stature. Grade school classmates affectionately called me Shrimp. My high school classmates razzed me about the stack of pillows I needed to see over the steering wheel.  And, as an adult there were incidents that happened, too. Let’s see…I was nearly kicked out of the hometown Home Show when I came home for a visit from college. I had sailed past the sign at the door…ANYONE 12 YEARS OR AGE OR YOUNGER MUST BE ACCOMPANIED BY AN ADULT.  Home Show Security (the business owner at the first booth) confronted me. I whipped out my driver’s license and found it quite rewarding to watch his response. And…when I was six months pregnant and already in what seemed like full bloom, I was given a pair of  size 13 men’s shoes as a gag gift at our hospital Christmas party. “So you can see your toes, again,” the presenter announced. Then theirs my cowboy nephew who’s built like two  fence posts upended on each other, that has affectionately dubbed me “Shorty” and doesn’t want to let me forget it. There’s even been an occasional positive experience.  It’s not every 30 year old that still has candy passed to them through the drive-through window at the bank. (Did not apply if I was driving.)

For the most part, I handle these things with grace, but occasionally something hits me wrong.  So it was, one day when I was working as an orthopedic clinic nurse in Laramie, WY. We had several satellite clinics that we flew to. The surgeons employed their own full-time pilot, and Randy was a personable young fellow. It was his duty to keep us safe in the skies. Randy took his job seriously; if he didn’t think it was safe to fly, we didn’t.

This particular day we were headed to Fort Morgan, Colorado. Randy didn’t always come to the clinic before heading to the airport, but this morning he did. I was on one of the several phones in the hallway with the Fort Morgan personnel as Randy came up the hallway.  He realized, by the course of the conversation that I was talking to the Fort Morgan folks. He waited for me to finish, and when I hung up we took off down the hall together. We chit-chatted for a minute or two, but then out of the blue, Randy peers down over his mustache and says, “How’ s the weather down there?”

I threw out my arm with more force than you would imagine a 5 foot, small framed woman would possess, and landed it squarely across Randy’s abdomen. He gave an “umpf” as he bent forward, astounded at what I had just done. After regaining his balance, Randy stared at me like I owed him an explanation. No worries – I had already planned to give him one. “Randy,” I said with lips pinched, “I get short jokes all the time, and this morning I’m in no mood.” (Most likely due to the fact that the Fort Morgan personnel had 5 more patients on their roster list than I did; charts I would have to locate within the next 10 minutes.)

Randy shook his head as if clearing the cobwebs from the crevices. “Oh, I get it,” he finally said, starting to laugh. This hyped my irritation even more.  I found myself glaring at this pompous man who dared to laugh at my expense. Amid continued chuckles, Randy was just about to return a well deserved surprise to me.  “I just wanted to know what the weather was like in Fort Morgan.”

Oh crap…if there had been a thorn bush nearby, I would have crawled under it.  Of course…it all made sense NOW. With less than a half hour to be in the air, Randy’s mind was focused on weather. Only then did I remember the severe weather warnings I had heard on the way to work that morning.

Wow…how easy it was to misunderstand Randy’s intentions! I’m willing to bet it’s happened to all of us at one time or another – either we misunderstood someone or they misunderstood us. I couldn’t get around it – I crawled out from under the thorn bush and apologized.

The Message Bible had not been published when this story took place.  But, had it been and had I taken Proverbs 8:25 to heart, it may have saved me a bucketful of embarrassment.  Don’t jump to conclusions – there may be a perfectly good explanation for what you just saw (or heard in my case).

Until next month (I publish on the first Monday of the month) keep on readin’ and I’ll keep on writin’.

If you enjoy this style of writing, check out my book page to find out how you can get my Christian Fiction novels.

Riding my horse, Ginger, across the soft meadow, the sweet smell of clover drifts upwards. My eyes naturally gravitate downward to observe the many rounded white and purple blooms that are scattered generously throughout the meadow. But as I gaze over the gently waving landscape beneath me, it is a sea of not only clover, but species of bluestem grasses, grama grasses, purpletops and many others I do not know the names of. All I know is that the carpet is so thick that a prairie chicken’s nest would not be seen until Ginger cracked an egg. This is a snapshot in my mind from years ago, but thankfully, each year when I visit the home ranch, the picture has been redeveloped – for now.

My dad would tell me, as I was trying to understand things,  that the meadows looked good because they were  sub-irrigated. When he would see my questioning look, he would explain that this meant there was an underground water supply that laid near the surface. Because of this, we had no need of pivot systems to grow great hay for our cattle. Also, because of this water supply near the surface it would have been best had we not had a basement in our house. Many times, when running an errand to grab something from the deep-freeze downstairs,my socks became saturated with ground water, seeping up through the cement floor.

This vast water supply is called the Ogallala Aquifer. It underlies an estimated 174,000 square miles of the Central Plains and spans into portions of eight states. It holds as much water as Lake Huron – nearly 3 billion acre feet of the valuable resource. It is considered a “fossil water” meaning it originated a very long time ago from melted glaciers. It is the major source of irrigation water throughout the eight state area where it lies. This aquifer provides the foundation for the large percentage of the food supply that feeds our nation. Extraordinary amounts of water are taken from it yearly, taking its tole on the water levels. In one Kansas study of the aquifer it has been shown that the water table in some western counties has dropped by as much as two feet per year. This water supply is considered a non-renewable resource, and alarmingly – if depleted,  is estimated to take over 6000 years to replenish naturally through rainfall. This same study also suggests that this depletion could happen in the next 50 years. Thankfully, many scientists and environmentalists realize this possibility and are working on solutions to the problem.

My great niece  – age seven, and her three younger brothers, live on the ranch I grew up on. It would sadden my heart, to see Gracelynn one day, riding across that same meadow kicking up dust and scattering sand-burrs. It’s anyone’s guess what might happen to the Ogallala Aquifer in the future.

But there’s a water supply that doesn’t have to be guessed at.  It’s a water source that quenches our thirst for the soul. Jesus is that living water. In John 7:37-38 Jesus tells us, “If you are thirsty, come to me! If you believe in me, come and drink! He promises to fill us with the living water from the well that always has enough – for anyone that asks. Don’t be timid about asking for your cup of living water. It is the water that sustains me, day in and day out – always renewable. And there’s always enough to share!

Until next month, keep on readin’ and I’ll keep on writin’.

If this type of writing appeals to you, check out my book page (may have to scroll down a few entries) to see how to obtain either of my Christian Fiction books.