Musings on Marriage

Month: July 2015

Efficiency…

Dear Daughters,

Grandma loves to get the water pitcher out from underneath the sink and water her flower pots. There are three out on the deck and one hanging outside the front door. For decades she has watered flowers. Pour the water in and the flowers come out. It’s a miracle.

She usually waters them before I get out of bed in the morning. Then as I’m doing the breakfast dishes she’ll water them again. Often mid-morning she’ll forget they were watered already and will douse them once more. Oh yes, there’s that Christmas cactus too that gets lots of water, sometimes overflowing onto the floor.Flowers (7)

She also remembers to faithfully water those flowers down at the end of the lane. Grandma remembers very little these days, but she does remember the flowers.Koopman (3)

Thankfully Idaho is a very dry climate with little rain, so the flowers love all the extra attention they are getting.

One day I noticed that the pot on the deck table was a bit wilted. So I mentioned to Grandma that the two hanging baskets were good and damp, but the middle pot on the table needed some water. Being the pleasant lady that she is, she quickly got out the water pitcher and said “OK, I just need to water the middle pot on the table right?” Yep, just the middle pot on the table. As I watched her from the window, she watered the two hanging baskets and passed right over the middle pot on the table.

Efficiency.

My life used to be focused on that word. Do the most I can in the least time possible. Work. Be efficient. Don’t waste time. I made every moment in my life count. Make the meals, wash the clothes, create the lesson plans, be sure everybody was where they were supposed to be at the appointed time. That’s how I grew up and that’s what I taught all you girls.

Now that Dad and I are living with Grandpa and Grandma, that word has become extinct in my vocabulary. Nothing is efficient. We walk slowly, we speak slowly, we eat slowly, although Dad and I are still the first ones finished with a meal. We talk and wait until everyone at the table is finished. We repeat many of our words, either because Grandpa can’t hear us, or Grandma forgets what we told her 60 seconds ago.

Yesterday we celebrated their 65th wedding anniversary. About half the clan was there. Almost forty of us in all – children, grandchildren, and great-grandchildren – came together for a meal next to beautiful Bass Lake. Hamburgers, summer salads and baked beans made for a simple yet scrumptious lunch. Grandpa and Grandma couldn’t remember all the people’s names, but they did know that they are loved, appreciated and respected.

We were at the lake for about four hours and no one seemed in a hurry to go. Hugs, smiles, cards, cake and words were in abundance. We were not efficient but we enjoyed life for the afternoon.

Last night after we got home we were talking about the delightful party, Grandpa kept talking and talking about how much he enjoyed having so many of his offspring around him. Grandma asked “What party was that? Was I there?”

So why do we throw a party for someone who doesn’t remember it an hour after it’s over? Because we need to celebrate faithfulness with the younger folks. We need to rejoice in life and all that is good.

Have there been times during their 65 years together that Grandpa and Grandma fought? Of course. I know there were days of anger, hurtful words, silent treatments, frustration, times that they each got on each other’s last nerve. It is an imperfect marriage, just like all of ours, but vows were made and kept.  And for that, we rejoice.Koopman1

I recently read a book called Adam, God’s Beloved by Henri Nouwen. Adam was a 34 year-old man, severely handicapped, who could not speak or even move without assistance. But Henri, a world-renowned author, university professor and speaker, had become tired of the continual expectations that come with someone of his stature. So he decided to stop all the fabulously impressive things he was doing and care for Adam and others at L’Arche Daybreak in Toronto, Canada. There he found community and a sense of belonging, something he had been missing much of his life. He was accepted and loved even though he wasn’t writing books or teaching.

After caring for Adam and other L’Arche residents for almost ten years Henri wrote the following:

Adam’s great teaching to us was, “I can live only if you       surround me with love and if you love one another. Otherwise, my life is useless and I am a burden.”Adam

Such wise and true words. We need the Grandmas and the Grandpas, the Adams, and other people of the world to teach us to celebrate life, listen carefully, laugh often at ourselves and each other. It has been good for Dad and I to adjust to a new, slower rhythm of life. We have come to realize that we are all on the same journey, that mysterious and profound journey of life, and that we are all broken, yet beloved.

Life is a gift. Each person is unique, known by name and loved by the One who created us. Regrettably, there is a consistent, loud, prevailing message that comes to us from our world leading us to believe that we must prove our belovedness by how we look, what we own, and what we can do.

True living does not mean checking off everything on your to-do list. Living, at the root of all life, is learning how to love. And what better way to learn to love than to hang out with people who are not efficient, with those who struggle, with the weak-minded and the weak-bodied. Life can become shallow when we think only about ourselves, our own interests, and our own lives.

Is it easy? Nope.

Is it always fun? Not at all.

Is it challenging? Yes.

It is hard, but oh so good.Yellow (7)

Though it has been a long journey, I am learning – finally – to love, and sometimes that means to water that poor, neglected middle flower pot on the table after Grandma has gone to bed.

Love, Mom

Pedal to the Metal

Dear Daughters,

A few months ago I was driving to church in the dark, about 12 miles from our home.  The speed limit is 50, meaning most people go at least 55 and often 60.  I was going along at a decent pace, when about three miles from my destination another vehicle pulled out from a side road going an acceptable speed.  But immediately she pulled back to 35 mph.  I was irritated and wondering what kind of person pulls out, then drives like a snail.

Because it was dark and the road curvy and hilly, I was unable to pass.  I was feeling some annoyance and not thinking kindly of this person but grudgingly figured I could handle a few more miles at this turtle pace. I was surprised to see the same slow vehicle pull into the parking lot just ahead of me.  Since we’ve only been attending this church for a few months I had no idea who drives crazy like this.

When I got inside, Jeanie, who is the same age as me, came and apologized for being that slow-moving vehicle.  She was embarrassed, and proceeded to tell the story.  As soon as she had pulled in front of me, an electrical warning light showed up on her dashboard and suddenly her car would only go 35 mph even though she had the pedal to the metal.IMG_20150705_190023712 How quickly I had judged her to be a rude, uncaring driver when in fact she could do nothing about her vehicle’s behavior.  It wasn’t a serious issue, it made me about a minute later than I would have been.  No big deal.

Often in the past, and I must admit even sometimes these days, I judge others’ behavior from my idealistic mindset of who I think he or she should be.  God convicts me more and more to quit and leave the judging to him.  There is so much about every person’s battles that I don’t know. As Wendy Mass says:

 Be kind, because everyone you meet is fighting a battle you know nothing about.IMG_20150707_190549772 (1) Your husband is fighting a battle as well, maybe he doesn’t talk about it, maybe he doesn’t even realize it, but it’s there.  He may be wondering if he has the strength and wisdom to love you, love the children, protect the family.  He may be fearful about his job performance, insecure and angry because of past abuse, anxious about being with your family.  He may be battling depression but is afraid to talk about the thoughts that ravage him…..

In years past, when I was stopped at a red light my eyes wandered to other people sitting in their cars nearby.  I saw those who were well dressed, driving a brand new car, looking so happy and found myself thinking that they must have a perfect, problem-free life.  But after talking to many people over the years – some who are beautiful, smile a lot and drive new cars – I have found that everyone has a story, a difficult, sad, challenging story in which they are living.

As Jesus said, “In this world you will have troubles….”  There are no exceptions; we will all experience trouble throughout our years here on earth.  It is simply a fact of life as we face this battle between good and evil.IMG_20150712_175027451 Most people try to do the right thing but something happens in communication – words come out wrong, misunderstandings occur, snap judgements take place, haughty eyes are thrown toward heaven, body language offends.

There are times I would like Dad to procrastinate less, talk more, eat less, exercise more, snore less and on and on…. Why do my eyes often see only what I don’t like about him?  Why am I so quick to make hasty conclusions?

Last week he had procrastinated on making airline reservations which resulted in some very inconvenient times and an extremely aggravated wife.  I know this a relatively minor first-world annoyance, but immediately my mind went to all the things in the last 20 years that he has procrastinated, listing each one of them in my mind.

The Enemy had a heyday with my thoughts.  Along with the listing came the thoughts, “Things will never change.  You’ll never have the love you’re looking for.  You deserve better.  I hate this.  I get so tired of the same ole same ole….”IMG_20150707_190628646 I kept on reliving all those procrastinations until God brought me up short and encouraged me to make a list not of Dad’s weak points, but of his strong points.  So I started listing:

  • Faithful to me for 39 years
  • Forgiving when I confess my wrongs
  • Always willing to listen to me and my many ramblings
  • His big hearty laugh
  • His willingness to move 1700 miles to help me care for Grandpa and Grandma
  • Taking on the job of loading the dishwasher after every meal

  IMG_20150705_132434045                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                             When I forgave him (after grousing for a while) and started listing his strengths I was able to refocus my wandering mind, quit judging him and let him be a flawed human being just like me.        

  I don’t know why he does what he does.  Sometimes I don’t even know why I do what I do.  And you know, it’s really not my job.  Yes, I will confront him on some issues, but God is leading me to pray for him more and criticize him less.

Paul speaks clearly about how we are to speak to all people, our husbands included:         

    Be completely humble and gentle: be patient, bearing with one another in love.  Ephesians 4:2           

  Just like Jeannie, many people have their pedal to the metal, but something has gone wrong and they are having a hard time doing what they want to do.           

  Give your man the same grace that God has given you.  Then be amazed at the changes you will see.

Love, Mom IMG_20150618_141414220_HDR  

A Fierce Good-bye

Dear Daughters,

 This week is the 23rd anniversary of my brother’s, your Uncle Steve’s death.  He was only 40 years old,  his life ending much too soon.

Steve loved the outdoors.  One of his favorite pastimes was canoeing down the Snake River, sometimes coming home with a banged-up canoe after going through some tougher than expected white water.BlueLakesCC

I can still see him playing the piano with his large muscular hands.  One of his favorites was Easter Song by Annie Herring.  I appreciated how he worked so hard to get those demanding octaves in the left hand.

He also loved to whistle.  In church when other people would be singing, Steve would whistle.  He and I sang duets together, spent time together, but he never talked about the depths of despair that haunted him.

He went to Mexico to help the poor.  He loved God but had a difficult time loving people.  No one knew, not even Steve himself, why interpersonal relationships were so challenging….

IMG_20150623_144333477 I remember that dark day well.

Our family, many of your aunts and uncles, cousins and grandparents had planned to spend four days in the beautiful heart of the Sawtooth Mountain Range in Idaho.  Redfish Lake was our destination, sitting at an elevation of 6,550 feet above sea level, where the waters are crystal clear and the beaches are sandy.

Our full family van had recently arrived from Kansas, our home at the time, anticipating another splendid summer vacation with our family in Idaho. It was a tradition, you remember, for as long as you girls have been living.  Each summer our extended family would gather together for three nights and four days, enjoying mountain climbing, water skiing, canoeing, and simply delighting in time together.

We were planning to meet the whole family at Redfish Lake which was about a three hour drive north, each family taking their own vehicle.  The day was sunny and hot, as they always are in July.  Dad, Jodi and Stephanie were well on their way up Highway 75 in Grandpa’s motor home.  I was following behind with Joslyn and Amanda in our car, eager to see the beauty that awaited us.IMG_20150623_144126071 I stopped to wait at a designated spot to meet up with Uncle Steve and some of his children, but he never showed up.  We waited and waited until Uncle John came and stated the reason that he had not come.  Steve had been found – dead.

Even though I was told plainly with words that my brother was dead, my mind could not comprehend that fact.  I was in complete denial and drove to the hospital to see which room he had been admitted.  When they told me there was no one registered by that name I walked away in a daze. I don’t remember how, but eventually we all ended up at his house and walked out to the garage where the death took place.

The details of the story slowly emerged.  It happened the evening before, July 4 – Independence Day – when Uncle Steve took his own life.  From his perspective, life had become unbearable and he could no longer survive the emotional turmoil that was raging inside him.

Just two days before, Grandma and I had visited him as he was settling into his new apartment.  He seemed OK, although he always was a man of few words and little emotion.

As we were driving away from his home that dark evening, the guilt, shame and stigma of suicide began to descend on Dad and I.  I was embarrassed, humiliated and ashamed that this happened to our family.  This was for other families, not mine.  Yes, I knew that my cousin had also given up on life a few years earlier, but things seemed to be better in our family.

IMG_20150623_144144234 I was absolutely certain that no one would show up at the funeral.  It was too horrifying to think about, much less talk about.  In my mind I imagined that I had a big black letter “S” sewn on my back.  I felt like an untouchable, a reject, cast out to sit on the ash heap. Dad, one of the few who could stay focused on what needed to be done, helped my sisters and me go through the dull motions of picking a funeral home, choosing the casket, writing an obituary, planning the service – something I had not been prepared to do on my carefree vacation to Idaho.

Then came the day of the visitation.  I was going to be strong and greet the people who could possibly be brave enough to stand with us in this atrocious grief.  But as I walked into the dimly lit parlor and saw his body lying lifeless, his trademark pith helmet lying on his chest, I stayed for a few seconds and then fled out of the room, sobbing uncontrollably.

The day of the funeral dawned even though I was hoping it would never arrive.  With legs like lead I got dressed and mechanically prepared the family to go.  I was quite certain that maybe, just maybe, there might be two rows of people brave enough to attend.  Who in their right mind would want to be identified with such an atrocity?

When I walked in the doors of the church, my high school friend, Lora, was there with tears and a hug.  She had heard the news and she had come.  Some cousins came from Washington to grieve with us.  People trickled into the church until it was packed.  I remember nothing of the service, just sitting there numb, except for the overwhelming fact that there were people who came and cared and cried with us.

IMG_20150623_144405092 God was there in those people who took time out of that glorious summer day, and it was because of those people that I knew for certain that God still loved our family.  I was afraid that He would perhaps turn His back on us but the presence of many who cared assured me that God was present, even in the midst of our personal horror.

Riding in the family coach on the way to the cemetery I watched as people mowed their lawns, played catch with their children, some laughing as they were talking to their friends.  I wanted to scream at them to stop.  STOP.  STOP and cry and wail with me.  The whole world, all of you, should stop, everyone should feel the same heart-breaking grief that I‘m feeling.  There should be no smiles, no laughter, no joy….not today, not now, maybe not ever again.

It was a fierce good-bye.

Uncle Steve had devised a permanent solution to a temporary problem.

It took months, no it was years slowly turning into decades, to be able to process all that had happened.  I read books about suicide, I grieved with friends, cried while singing in church, mourned with tears of unspeakable guilty grief into the early hours of many mornings. To this day there are still more questions than answers.  I honestly think Uncle Steve had no idea about the grief others would suffer because of his death, simply because he was hurting so badly himself. Clouds (3) I bring up this memory of Uncle Steve to thank you, daughters, for choosing to live even when your marriage gets hard and fractured, when life hurts and everything seems so unfair.  When you are in the depths of despair, when your heart is breaking, God walks with you and I will walk with you.  He’s there even when you slog through the valley of the shadow of death.  He is permanently there.  Always.  He will never leave you nor forsake you.  There is always hope, light, and life, even when life seems hopeless, dim and futile.

Always choose life.  Love fiercely.

Love, Mom Trillium (2)

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