I went to a show last night... a dress rehearsal for a upcoming road show. The only info I had prior to was that it was 30 minutes outside of Nashville and show up at 6. Ok that was not quite all but I knew enough that this was an important event for a friend. My mantra of late has been to "keep showing up" to opportunities, to new things, to life. I'm working hard not to repeat the patterns of my past or those patterns that paralyze me. It's not easy but is getting easier. So I show up.

While I watched this production, I noticed a little girl sitting behind me wide eyed with wonder. She was maybe 5. We made friends at the intermission, over a game of peek-a-boo. As the second act started, I offered her my chair on the front row just by the stage. Her mom encouraged her and stayed right behind.  

I watched my new little friend watch big people sing and dance and live their dreams. The Sun Chips she clutched were her security blanket. They eventually just sat in her lap as she lost herself in the music. She tired in the second act and soon her brother started a meltdown so she was off to bed. With a pinky promise given and a high five. 

Today I ran and walked with friends who remembered their own dreams and some who need to be reminded of them. We talked of our 9 yr old selves or 19 yr old selves that still live in us and the little girls that need tending. 

Too often we think we "grow up" when instead I think we "grow away". Away from who we are or thought we were or even who we want to be. And it takes someone to invite us to the front row of our lives to help us see ourselves again. Older sure but still the little ones we were. 

I give thanks for those who are helping me put the pieces back. Some pull those pieces from a long long time ago. Some remind of my place here where I am. Some are reminding me of new ways to be. 

As we go along and re-member ourselves, I hope as we get tired, we continue to dream and hope and sit on the front row of life. All in the the thick of it. Together. We really can't do it any other way. 

Epiphany Kids

Yesterday was Epiphany. 

Traditionally celebrated as the day the wise men find the baby Jesus. 

It was also one of those whiplash days when I wonder where the balance of life can be found. They don't come often. 

In the morning, my family celebrated the day when a second parent adoption was granted for two little ones. We welcomed them into the world in June. For once in a long while, the state of Tennessee did a good job. The judge in the case had granted their big brother adoption 5 years ago. So all three children “get” two parents that they already had and already knew. A seal, if you will, on a family already made. 

That was the morning.

The afternoon was spent visiting with a little boy whose mother will die in the next month. He jumped into my arms as I got out of the car. We first met one warm summer day and in order to calm him down a bit, we did yoga. For some reason he loved it and we do it every time we get together. I taught him the motions to “YMCA”. We learned to read. He drew me pictures. We pray a body prayer every time I leave, gathering our arms to ourselves, raising them to God, receiving Gods love and sending that love into the world. His school photo is on my refrigerator.

I went to bed last night processing the day. A day of great joy certainly. A day of relentless sadness. A day I held held children in the hope I could love them.

 I realized more than anything, that while we pray over our children and pray they are protected and work as hard as we can to care for them, the world happens. Life happens. We can’t protect them from anything really. Hell, we can’t protect ourselves from much.

The best we can do is give them tools to get through. Safe spaces to cry. Listen to their lives. Hold hands together so we aren’t so small when the world is so big that we can’t get our arms around it.

Praying for the grace to see ourselves through. 

48 years 68 days

On Christmas Day I outlived my father by one day. He died at 48 years plus 68 days. On Christmas Day I was 48 yrs and 69 days. Don’t do the math…its likely wrong.

Its an odd thing to be on this side of life. 

Things I know now :

48 is young as hell. I knew that then because people told me. Now however, yes. Its young. For most of my friends, children are still elementary school or growing up. Careers are settling in. Life is a blur perhaps. 

He likely didn’t know anything anymore than I do. We all fake it sometimes. I can’t imagine he was any different, even if I did and still do think he knew all. I kinda like to think that now as I sit and wonder at my own still waiting on it wisdom. Makes me laugh really.

I'm told i live with ghosts. I prefer to think of it as a cloud of witnesses. Or better yet I'm an overachiever in the parental death category. (That can be funny. Its ok)  Knowing what I know now about childhood trauma and circumstances that change in families with the death of a parent, I have done pretty well. Yes I worry. More about being left than my own health issues. I'm working on that "left behind" part. Its a lifelong issue complicated by lots of things so…. I’ve got more to go. 

By all I know, Dad was a good guy. Likely with a long fuse, which once it blew, it was gone. I relate to that. I remember having an argument but couldn’t tell you what it was about 10 minutes later. A blessing and curse perhaps.

He played jokes.

He enjoyed his family.

He enjoyed his little girl…even as she called him a “male chauvinist pig” once. (I really did! and meant it and knew what it meant). I think I heard it on Maude. He walked out to the dogwood tree at the back of the yard to apologize to me for whatever he said. The dogwood tree was the “thinking tree” for me. It was my safety so he was most assuredly coming to my place for forgiveness. So there is some humility there. Even in the face of an angry 8 yr old. My mother told that story over and over and how hard he laughed at the “chauvinist” comment. 

Until she told him I was right. 

So today, I wonder what he would have been at 86. But not for long. He remains a 48 yr old bespectacled bearded Dad (who had a goatee long before it was hipster). Who laughed and loved and kissed me goodnight. Whose last words were "Khette, its going to be ok."

Perhaps the adventure continues in a different way. He’s here somewhere.  

Doing Some Jesus Stuff

Last night, I was in Memphis on a “girls weekend” with friends. Friends who work with me and friends who have seen all of us through a world of hurt and wonder. 

We had spent a day with Elvis at Graceland…hilarious in a variety of ways that left us sore from laughter. We had dinner at a spot on Beale and were headed to the Peabody Hotel when the protesters were spotted. 

I shouldn’t say spotted because really they were already there and we were headed toward them. They were on the corner of 4th and Peabody Place. A handful with placards reading #Icantbreathe and #blacklivesmatter. I had to stop at their corner because the light was red. We couldn’t cross yet. 

I felt a little awkward standing there with people behind me, mostly folks of color, with placards pleading for justice and for their lives. My back l was turned to them, literally. 

I am weary from the recent events of Ferguson and New York. Shocked and weary and deeply disappointed.  I really have no idea where or how to help….if there is any. “I look to the hills and from whence does my help come?”…..yeah….its supposed to come but feels like its taunting. I post things to Facebook but  what does that really do other than seem to make my less left leaning friends mad. (which is ok actually but still)

So really, I wanted a 24 hr period of peace, fleeting though it is. 

Did I mention,  my back was turned. 

I didn’t really like that. I didn’t like that I was literally not seeing what was behind me.   I’m the person who sits with her back to a wall so I can see up front and see what’s coming and yes…to people watch. I'm nosey like that. So this was uncomfortable. 

Oh, and I’m a white woman…with my back turned. 

I turned around and looked at who was behind me. 

A bearded white dude put a flyer in my hand. It was for a vigil to be held next weekend. I told him we were from Nashville and thank you for doing this, I said. I noticed a news crew interviewing an African American woman. She had on a pink t shirt and there had been a marathon that day…maybe she was discussing that… and to her left were folks holding the placards. 

My back wasn't turned.  

I looked at my friends and said “I got to do some Jesus”….they knew what I meant and thankfully stood patiently. One said later she knew exactly what I was about to do and whispered to our other friend, “she needs to pray”. I said "do some Jesus" to be funny. I wear the Reverend card irreverently some days. I know the weight it carries and its heavy. 

However, I needed to do some Jesus. For myself, for something bigger than me.  

I looked at one of the folks there…a young woman maybe in her 20s. I said “I'm from Nashville visiting. I am glad you are here doing this…I know this sounds odd, but could I offer a prayer with you all? I really don't know what else to do. If its too weird I won’t….I understand you have no idea who I am.”  (Read "I know you think I'm some crazy red headed white woman")

Unquestioningly, she welcomed the prayer, as did a few of her friends who gathered there with us. We held hands in a circle. I thanked God for the ability to be able to gather like this, to ask for justice and peace and made some lame-ass reference to justice rolling ( I DID get an amen however), and prayed for protection for the folks there and for my black brothers and sisters who live in fear and anxiousness everyday. And I prayed for forgiveness. Forgiveness for perpetuating myths and power structures that keep others from flourishing.  I'm not sure whose forgiveness I was asking. 

I said Amen. Thanked them.

I crossed the street wondering what the hell I'd done. 

I am not an activist. I don’t hold signs. I don’t stand in the line of fire. I'm not made that way. And I have long wondered how I can be supportive of lives I know nothing about besides giving my black friends a hug and a kiss. Sometimes I think that's trite even. Sincere because they are my friends for goodness sake, but trite.  What happened in that moment of “doing some Jesus” was something I CAN do. I can pray. I can witness to folks. 

God blesses drunks and fools and I God knows I can be both. 

Sometimes “doing some Jesus” may be being ourselves.

I am after all, the “never meet a stranger Khette” who makes living praying for dying folks. 

Surely I can pray for other dying folks to LIVE. 

Back to the Future

The last blog post had me running and declaring I was BACK! Well maybe so but a lot has changed since then.

But I am running again. And know I am and will for awhile now.

I am on the cusp of my 48th birthday.

My father died at age 48. If I follow any of his trajectory I will live until September 1, 2015. If I follow my own, it will be well past that...I hope.

I have thought and will think a lot about this likely until the year is up.

I have also been in a place where the old ways aren't working anymore. So I have tried to reach back to those things that have fed me at one time or another in my life. As an only child, the outdoors, my dog, and books kept me sane. So I've begun practices that incorporate these same things.

In August, I started a trail racing program. 12 weeks of Saturday morning runs and Tuesday night hills. All for some reason that I am only now realizing.

I ran in high school. Track and cross country. I enjoyed it but can't say I loved it. It was a sport I could do. I was never fast but my mother declared I could outlast anyone. With the proper mix of stubbornness and perfectionism, I managed well.

The first Saturday was a little intimidating.. Several folks were training for ultra runs and distances that required metric conversions. I didn't know anyone. And it was hot. At 47, I produce enough heat on my own thank you. However, as I began to run --for a time, not a distance-- I forgot all of that. I was in the woods where I love to be., doing something I enjoyed for the most part. We were "given" permission to hike,walk, or whatever we needed to do to make the run good for us. Good for ME.

Permission to do something for me.

That's what I needed at that time and in that space. I'm not good at that part. And I so much needed that. I spent the downhill part of the trail flying almost out of control and feeling like I was 8 again. It had been a long time since I had that much fun.

I was hooked.

Fast forward to today. A damp Sunday with 30-40 folks, many of whom I had spent those 12 weeks. I have run 5ks and a 10k. The last 5k was great. The 10k was close to awful. Six miles still feels long to me. An hour plus on my feet is still a challenge. But I knew I would get it done.

We started the first mile waaaaaay too fast. Even for my best 5k it was terribly fast. And I was in the back! I took a water break. Stopped totally (permission remember?) and reset myself. The next 5 miles were steady, sometimes solitary, and comfortable.

My friend Kim and I finished together. We spent most of our training working hard with what we have. It was good to be there. My other friends had finished. Some folks got lost in the woods. Lyndsey hugged me knowing what this meant.

I don't pretend to think I will ever win a race or even finish topsin my age group. For me at this time, it's something to be proud of and know I accomplished something, I've learned a lot about myself. I've needed this in more ways than I knew.

Sometimes those things we leave behind, can be reused in new ways. The joy of childhood pursuits are now lessons of comfort and care for the child carried in me.

And that's just fine with me.

Back at it....

I ran last night. Ok I walk/ran but Lyndsey tells me I RAN! So I'll go with that.

Let 's back up a bit. I am 45 yrs old and as the Indigo Girls like to say "heavier by the year and heavier by the load". I am struggling with this aging idea. Mentally I feel 16 most days. I laugh I cut up I enjoy life mostly. Yet in the last year or so exercise has been hard for me.

I love to walk. I could walk all day long and am frequently excited by a long 5 mile trek. No problem. With the brown eyed boy, I like it even more. As predicted he is not allowed to walk at the moment and I a joining him in a life of sympathetic sloth.

The kicker here is that I have signed up with a bunch of friends to do a Color Run in October. Mostly we will run some per- determined distance in our tennis whites and have chalk thrown at us and come out looking like Neapolitan ice cream I think. It'll be fun. I have to get into shape.

The issue is this. I used to be 16 yrs old and weigh 102 lbs. Yall can fuss at me all you want about that but
I was. I was captain of the track and cross country team. Ran my butt off in August heat and proudly puked at the top of a hill in a fancy neighborhood in Knoxville. I was never fast but I could outlast anyone. I ran at least 8 miles of a half marathon two years ago. I trotted through it and it was fine. I did it and got the t shirt.

I am competing against that 16 yr old and losing badly.

Now? Ack. I need to do this so I won't collapse on this fun run with a bunch of friends watching. It hurts. Ok running is supposed to hurt? I know that mind over matter crap. My knees hurt. My toes hurt. It is hot as hell and I am in peri menopause. Basically that means do not stop me from getting into a cold body of water ASAP at the end of any physical activity.

I have tried the "your patients would give their eye teeth to get up and run" thing. That doesn't work. Frankly I think they would rather feel good enough to sit with their grandkids on their porch.

Yes I am healthy but it still sucks. I have tried the "oh who cares if you're 45, this is good for you!" Whatever. And don't even give me the "body is a temple" speech.

I don't want to feel middle aged....and based on good genes in my family, I am smack it the middle. I just got hearing aids and I need new glasses.

I'll go run tomorrow I guess. I needed a day to rest today.

It will still suck out loud.

Week 3 and a new appointment

We have completed week three of four for the first heart worm shot.

I think there may be a countdown calendar for the next leg of the treatment. Thanks to good friends who have agreed to sit with him at various times, we have managed. And likely managed well. I think he's high maintenance but then again it's probably me instead.

Our evenings have consisted of sitting on the porch instead of walking. So my activity level has reached one step above sloth. He has turned the living room into Lewis dogcave.

Our next shot is July 30. I actually consulted Lyndsey for the date so I actually don't have that nervous breakdown I came close to the last time. Since I am going off meds, it's best for all of us.

We'll make it I believe.

He still won't mow the yard though I bet.

What we call normal

This morning in an effort to restore a little normalcy to our day, I put Lewis on his tie out so he could do his morning thing without having someone monitor every drop of piddle and poo. He's been calm and settled all week and if he gets hyped up, I could bring him back in.

This worked fine as I found evidence of such things in his usual spots in the yard (why is that the case I wonder). All the better because it was 6 45 am and this meant we could either go back to bed or lounge all morning.

The weather was tolerably cool and together we sat on the back porch enjoying some outdoor time that we have both missed terribly. I put in some laundry, made coffee, and sat.

Then came the obsessive licking.

Lewis's pads were damaged last week at an unnamed local dog boarding place on Gallatin Rd....and he has worn a cone head for the past week. After settling my anger at this pad condition ( and receiving a less than satisfactory response from the unnamed dog place on Gallatin Rd), I have discovered that this cone head has helped calm him a good deal. That and all the drugs he is on....

All of that to be said, without the cone head this morning, he began obsessively licking his front paws. Ignoring my warnings, he continued. I went inside to retrieve the cone head. I put it on him and with his usual pitiful brown eyed pout, he settled down. I read the paper...well FlipBoard, checked email, Facebook. Even read today's lectionary text. (Sing us one of the songs of Zion followed by cleaving one tongue to the roof of ones mouth)

And then, the squirrel appeared. under the bird feeder and within the cone head sphere of sight. Lewis bounded off the porch, into the yard...with the cone head on.

I think even the squirrel laughed.

Well here we go. The long awaited heartworm shot. As you can tell he's thrilled. I think he's more thrilled that I awakened him early to go get this thing. Per the vet at noon, he took the shot "well". Whatever that means.

While I have waited today...and by waited I mean, I had a flat...waited on the AAA guy named Kirk. he game ME a bottled water. I took the car to the tire place... and waited. I went to lunch while I waited. And then waited as a patient's partner told his story. And came home and am waiting now for a phone call.

In the meantime, over these last "waiting weeks", I have two friends who have had babies. I have had two friends lose a mentor to death. I have witnessed a wedding and a reunion of hearts of those that surrounded them. I have seen what friendships do to sustain people. I have driven to Ohio and back and then watched as 20 something people drove into the morning light to go to church camp.

So maybe I haven't waited and done nothing. Surely not. An article today that is making its way around  "the facebook" talks of the need, deep deep need, for idleness. To sit. To ponder. To be.

I was anxious about this day as I was returning to work having been away and having missed out on too many deaths...or so I thought. I dont feel like I have done much. I was and am anxious about the evening to come.

And then I remembered my dear Dot telling me to wait in line is a gift from God to be quiet and take it in.

This life.

This life of babies and weddings. Of friends and family. Of creatures to care and love.

And await my dream guy.

All will be well.

My Dog Lives

The first dog I ever remember was a Chihuahua named Charlie Brown. He was my parents dog and was the "first child" of Josephine and Carl. I don't remember much about him other than he was a little cantankerous by the time I came along and he had "dropsy". This was a heart condition of sorts that cause him to faint, lay on the floor breathing shallowly, and hoping up to lay on the couch for a long nap. It basically terrified me.

There are numerous photos of Charlie Brown lying at the foot of my crib watching over me despite my insertion into his life. My Mother and Dad sat together on the couch crying when we had to put him to sleep at 22. It wasn't until much later in life that I realized how significant he was to the two of them and how much of life they shared with him. He was a companion to my mother when my Dad was away at school. He was Dad's caretaker when he was sick. And he was the sentry that watched reluctantly over a newborn.

Chip was the next one in line, a stray that wandered up to our house on Carta Rd. He was a wire hair terrier with who knows what else in him. He and a neighbors dog named Cinnamon meandered about the neighborhood most days and settled respectively at our house and the Griffin's house at night. It seemed in those days we didn't worry as much about strays and we fed whoever wandered up. Seems as long as they didn't damage anything or anyone, they were welcomed.

Chip was my best friend. He was always up for a a game of Bonanza and wandered the Ponderosa of the back yard when I decided the fence horse was where the afternoon playtime was. He gladly laid down next to me to hear my complaints about my Dad being a "male chauvinist pig" one night (yes there's a tale about that one. It was the 70's after all and I was Woman Hear me Roar). He splayed himself out for the regular Doctor's appointments I made for him with my plastic stethoscope and little blue plastic bag. It was probably the little candy pills he liked. He was a sport. I held him the night before he died and knew he was my first love and best friend.

There were several dogs in between that were part of our lives but I was growing up and didn't have the energy or time to spend with them. Olivia was a shepherd mutt who was named after Olivia Newton John. She was the crush at the time and about the time the real Olivia got married, the dog Olivia (Livvie) ran away. Sparky was in there somewhere. He was the dog around when I was in college. More for Mom's company than any. Finally, Smokey was the last. He too took off in a thunderstorm I think.

Summitt the wonder pup was the best of the bunch. As I've written before, she was my soul mate and likely always will be. She was the first dog that was mine all mine and we forged a bond in the snows of upper East Tennessee when she was 6 weeks old and her peeps of discomfort could be heard out my bedroom window during a snowstorm. My mother got her for me over Thanksgiving one year after I rented a house. I carried her in a pouch pocket for about a month. She chewed the hell out of my furniture and wasn't the most welcoming dog. But she stuck with me through sickness and health and hurt. She lies under an apple tree in Washington. And I miss her still.

I've had cats too. They are fine but the dog lover in me enjoys the companionship. It is something to be with a creature who cares not a wit about what you do or who you love or how you worry. Yes they want food shelter and water. They also teach me how to live in a world with too little forgiveness and too much selfishness. In part because they forgive and seem to understand that we humans are pack animals displaced.

Lewis is currently piled on the couch on my Grandmothers quilt. It seems the family is together again.

Lewis and Life

Lewis has heart worms. Lyndsey has encouraged me to blog about this since I cant really blog about my patients. HIPPA and all.

So I am going to try. I am an overprotective pet owner and he is fabulous. A dire situation even if he gets a hangnail. More on that later on perhaps. So I will start this endeavor with some info and background.

Heart worm disease

Heartworm disease is a serious and potentially fatal condition caused by parasitic worms living in the arteries of the lungs and occasionally in the right side of the heart of dogs, cats and other species of mammals, including wolves, foxes, ferrets, sea lions and (in rare instances) humans. Heartworms are classified as nematodes (roundworms) and are filarids, one of many species of roundworms. Dogs and cats of any age or breed are susceptible to heart worms.

http://www.heartwormsociety.org

If its bad enough to have its own society, it's bad.

Let me begin by stating that this is very treatable. Expensive but treatable. Often there are symptoms other than a cough. A blood test and xray are needed to help determine treatment. ($225)

At the moment he is tracking a squirrel or some other tree dweller. He played at the dog park last night and in true herder fashion undercut a Labradoodle and set him on his butt. (he went to check on him too. still...) He is eating fine.

We adopted Lewis knowing he had tested positive in the past. He was a stray and apparently his owner decided someone would take pity on him if he tied him to a pole. So his adoptive mom took him. She tested him and re tested ... He was positive. She treated him with doxycycline,an antibiotic and Heartgard. From all I can tell this is a way to treat the worms but not a way to get rid of them. So we can't fault her really. She told us he was negative when we got him. Not so sure I can't fault her for that.

At his routine visit this year, he had blood drawn and all the usuals. And he was positive. The vet told me its unlikely he'd be positive for as long as he was and then turn up negative. He was kinder than I am.

We did a chest X-ray. And I am happy to say Lewis has lovely innards. A slightly enlarged right side heart, good arteries, an his lungs are clear. One descending somethin somethin artery is enlarged which is the likely spot of infection. I also learns air "pictures" black so his lungs are indeed clear.

I bought the prescribed antibiotics, again doxycycline ($63.23) and he'll do those for about 15 days. The next step is to do three shots. The drug that you treat with is called Immiticide. It’s an injectable, arsenic-based product. The dog is given two or three injections that will kill the adult heartworms in the blood vessels of the heart.

And the we keep him calm for 6-8 weeks.

That's when the fun begins.

My hope is this will be more than a "poor pitiful us" blog. We will learn I am sure.



Sent from my iPhone

At the moment I am sitting in my back porch looking at the earliest of fall leaves on my trees. This is my first fall at this house that Lyndsey and I share. I am so very happy to be here. It is comfortable and a place we can call home together. Home is a good place. I am listening to a Knoxville radio station with Bob Kesling who took over for John Ward a few years a go. I miss John Ward, gravel voiced and all. He is retired and doing Tennessee gas commercials. Which made Sam and I laugh alot. It is days like today that I miss them the most...them being Mom Dad and Dot and Sam. Tailgating on the river with brownies from the little bakery on Jacksboro Pike. Can't think of the name now but Dot made sure that we had them. Sam and I headed to Hardee's for either chicken bisquits or roast beef sandwiches...depending on the game time. As a kid it was 1:00pm period. "TV just ruined it!" they always proclaimed afterwards. It s a rain delay per the radio. So we wait for kick off. At one time I remember sitting in pouring rain but I think that was before the metal seats! So many memories in that place and time. For which I am grateful and loved even now on this back porch on a day that is football time in Tennessee.

Throwing Shoes

She was 11.

Tears streaming down her face, she sat in her seat on the bus.

Things had gotten a little hairy getting on the bus leaving camp that day. And when you are small, life gets a little challenging. Shoes got tossed and she was hit in the head.

The head counselor came and got me. I seem to be the one to go to when the crying starts. Not sure why but I do.

I asked what happened and made sure there was no real harm....like blood or a knot. All was well on the outside any way.

She asked me to sit with her. So I did. We sat in silence for a good bit. Because she was 11 and I might as well make a new friend, I asked her what she did, who was her family.

She did art and soccer and lived with her mom and 4 yr old sister. She liked to wrestle with her sometimes. Her dad had died in the last year.

I know that hurts.

It being summer and all, I asked what she was doing this year. Camping with Nana in a really, really, really hard bed had already happened. This week was grief camp...that was where we were when the shoe thing happened. And next week she was going to Alaska.

"We are flying to Las Vegas"

"Gonna play the slots?"
"Nooooo silly....I am too young to do that! But then we're gonna fly to Washington and then get on a boat and then we're gonna horseback ride in Alaska and ride bikes and...."
"Wow....I think I want YOUR life!"
"Do YOU wanna get hit by a shoe?"

: )

Bah Humbug...Sorta

If anyone has been around me lately or near me during Christmases past, you know I am not thrilled with the holidays. For me, it is too much grief, too much missing. It is for me the worst of “orphaned holidays”.

Growing up Christmas WAS fun. We did the cookies for Santa thing (only it was cheese and crackers cause Santa had high cholesterol). We read the Christmas story. Decorated the tree. I was sent back and forth from my house to my god parents house with coded messages usually innocent enough but laden with sexual innuendo (it really was funny looking back on it!) and we spent the day with my grandmother and cousins…some of whom I didn’t see often.

This year is my first year with all of the family deceased. There has usually been ONE phone call to make at least. But this year, not so much.

So I am working Christmas eve and Christmas Day. I figure I can work and sleep and then it will be over! One can call me in denial or whatever. It is my choice and may keep me sane!

With all of that in mind, I did realize today, it isn’t ALL humbug. The following is a list I can live with:

1)I believe that Santa’s reindeer were on my roof that Christmas Eve when I was 5.

2)I think Handel’s Messiah is one of the most beautiful pieces of music ever written.

3)I like hot cider.

4)I stand and sing the “loo loo loo loo loo” part of the Charlie Brown Christmas show

5)Luke’s birth narrative warms my heart.

6)I love Christmas lights.

7)I love my stockings

8)Everyone seems happier

9)I can wear my Santa hat…if I can find it

10)I re read a Christmas Carol this year…..

11)I think it is cool that my parents were creative enough to have “Santa” call me every Christmas eve at 6:00pm. It’s even cooler that I never figured out who it was until I was a teenager.

12)I am intentionally making things quieter each year.

13)I say “Santy Claus” sometimes….I am from East Tennysee you know.


All will be well and all manner of things will be well.

Sec C Row 32 Seats 1,2,3,4

Sec C Row 32 Seats 1,2,3,4

These were the seats where I was raised. The are located in Neyland Stadium in Knoxville TN. If you believe the family stories, I was practically born there… in the rain in October 1966 as Joe Namath played for Alabama.

It was there that I sat and listened to stories of games played in Knoxville, Athens, Birmingham, “on the Plain”, Tuscaloosa, and Gainesville. Stories of games played in Emory VA, Jefferson City, TN and Bluefield, WVa. We talked football. And along with the sport, I learned the geography of my family and my faith.

Saturdays in Knoxville were spent in the ritual of getting ready for the game. When I was 5 or 6 I got to go to one game a year. It was usually Alabama because that was my “birthday game”. As I got older and that rivalry got more one sided, I usually chose the Georgia game. Our seats were alongside the visitor section. I learned all the school cheers, not just Rocky Top. I learned that “damn” was a cuss word and I was not to use it at home (thanks Hotty Toddy) and I never much liked cowbell (Mississippi State). I memorized the rules and the game program. I wondered about places like “The Plains” and Commonwealth Stadium. I got to go to Birmingham and understood why the Iron Bowl was played. I listened to "Lordy Hershel! RUN!!!" more than I care to remember.

This last Saturday, I had the privilege to go to Sanford Stadium with my friend Blair, also a child of the SEC south. It was a pilgrimage. With the ones who taught me the game long gone, I went alone to see a friend. I carried with me the memories, legends, and excitement of two men who I hope somewhere could watch me and see who I had become. That fact alone was enough for the weekend to serve its purpose. I touched the hedges, imagined a trip home in 1960 something that my father and Sam called “harrowing” as they were bumped “all the way down the highway”…the only time I recall my father wanting to fight someone, a feat hard to believe for his easy going temperament.

I wore red and black on Saturday, with orange socks. I wanted to experience Athens as a Georgia fan. As one welcomed home and into the fold. I am frequently asked why it is that I can sit and watch a game and enjoy it no matter who is playing.
It is because of those Saturdays in Sec C. I would cheer for Tennessee then. Still do most days. Sam and I shook our heads in dismay in those days…for the good and the ugly. I heard other fight songs and watched other mascots. I secretly hoped Vanderbilt would win most games.

Maybe it was in the section where I learned and saw differences. Subtle, obvious, and in between. It was in those seats that I learned some people win a lot and some people can’t win for losing. And that isn’t always fair.

And it was in those seats that I sat with my family, learned the rules of the game, and traded stories and knew I was loved.

Today is September 11.

Nine years ago I came out of a windowless training room with 7 co workers and the world had changed. We emerged to see small television screens fuzzy with images of ash, smoke, and fire. A coworker worried that her husband would be unable to return from his business trip. I worried that a cousin in New York was safe. Both were safe and sound though shaken for obvious reasons. I also gave thanks for my mother’s death three months prior as I knew she would be frightened in ways I would not want to see.

I have seen signs and facebook statuses that tell me to “never forget”. That will not be a problem. I don’t forget what I have experienced. A lot has happened in these nine years since. America has been at constant war, both at home and abroad. I have friends whose family members have served in Iraq and Afghanistan. I have cared for them, their children, and their families in many ways. Through prayer, presence, and phone calls. It is the least I can do for them.

Closer to home this week has seen calls for burning of sacred texts. I haven’t read a Qur’an. I will buy one today. I will read it and hopefully talk to a Muslim friend who can help me understand it. I will compare it to my sacred text, the Bible. These are streams of faith that run into rivers of holy waters. I am baptized in those waters created by a God who is seen and heard in many ways for longer than any of us have known.

The God I serve is called many names. Even Allah.

The God I serve calls me to love my enemies. I am not even sure they are my enemies. I disagree with them for certain. Ideologically, theologically. We may not even agree on what football teams we like… and in the South that’s important. What I do know is they look like Fred Phelps. They look like Terry Jones. They look a lot like Scott Roeder. Those are the easy ones.

What about the enemy that sits next to you on the couch? The ones you know who loved you on the first day of your life? The ones that taught you to pray for peace? The ones that sit next to you at the office and need to tell you they are hurting because of something they know you support? The ones you care for in body, mind, and spirit who speak ill against “people like that” knowing you are the “that” of which they speak? Can you love them?

Can you forget them?

Advent Coming

Advent Coming

Cold breeze blowing on a November night
Before Thanksgiving
Have you seen me lately?
In your dreams day and night
Sitting in a corner with my cigarette reading my paper
Across from you in a coffee shop
Watching you from a place unknown
Where I hear your voice
See your face
In your waking and lying down
Cold nights and days coming
Are here... now
Gripping you in their fold
Leaves dead on the sidewalk
Kicked to the curb
On a long walk last night
In the dark
Embraced by the chill
Air that hits with sharp pangs
Biting
Crunching
Crushing
Coming like the death that comes soon but not soon enough
Waiting is the hardest
With news of old wounds that won't heal
Here
Now

Observations on Life (and sometimes death)

So today …. I went alone.

Ok so that was dramatic!! I have begun a year long residency in chaplaincy better known as CPE or Clinical Pastoral Education. For those who need to know, most chaplains actually DO get certified to do their job and a year long residency is part of the process. Most chaplaincy jobs require a residency in a clinical placement which may be in a hospital setting (where I have worked before), prisons, psych hospitals, and hospice settings (where I am placed) and other places. I have been visiting folks in tandem with another team member. Today I escaped and was on my own thankfully.

My placement is in a hospice group. This placement requires me to visit patients in their homes. What I have discovered in the mere two weeks I have been working in hospice is that one home is as different from another and another and another…. And people live everywhere.

Some random observations after a week.

Observation #1: Despite what the “typical” definition of family may be, I have yet to see a “typical” family. I met a couple, now married for 10 years who married each other late in life. They “lived in sin” for two years before they got married. They were 65 and 69 respectively when they married. Grown kids and grandchildren. Another man I met is estranged from 2 of his 3 children (I think I know why but still…). Two patients are living with friends who have taken them in. One patient is living with his significant other girlfriend and sees his ex wife about every week.

Observation #2: I love GPS. I swear I do. I even used it to get to the store yesterday. Just because I wanted to try a new route (which I knew but the voice on the GPS relaxes me)

Observation #3: Pets. Pets matter. Period. Just today, I met Binkie the cat, still traumatized by a de-clawing experience. I was the first person to see him today as he has remained hidden for the last three days. Rufus the boxer who hates it when you leave. I have a hole in my shirt sleeve from that one. And finally, Bubbles the parrot. He does talk but I couldn’t teach him Rocky Top today. Maybe next time.

Observation #4: Lots of parents worry about lots of kids. And houses and property that no one may want.

Observation #5: Access to health care is a privilege. A paid for privilege. It shouldn't be. Right now, the way the system works money is access and access is limited. Period. Health should not be a matter of economics of treatment. I knew that in theory. I am now coming to know this in practice. I am not sure how to rectify this but will work on it.

Observation #6: 80 year olds apparently used the word “copacetic” back in the day. My friend Sam uses it often… he is 82. An 86 year old used it today. I love the word.

New factoid: Cows lived across the street from me… in 1933. And there was a tornado that year to. Trauma to a 10 year old girl who is now 86.

Not bad for the first two weeks.

There's life in the old girl yet...

I have worked the evening shift at the hospital the last couple of nights. Not a bad gig if you are into quiet hallways and crickets. And I have been fortunate that there have been no huge emergencies…though those make life interesting.

Yesterday, I met a woman whose aorta exploded. Don’t ask me how or why or what that looks like but according to her husband, that is what the doctor told them. The patient, whom I will call Cecilia, was in and out of sleep and on a breathing tube. She has been here for 3 weeks and each day is part of the roller coaster ride of life on the edge of death. Her husband, Mr. French, (again I will call him that) was a gentle sort who took his hat off when I came in and clutched it in his hands as we talked.

Conversations often begin with how and why a patient is here, where folks are from, etc. I usually ask about families and how long the patient and spouse have been married. This conversation was no different, other than the worry on Mr. French’s face. He had been sleeping in the waiting area for the last three weeks. Afraid to leave and afraid to stay all at once. As our conversation turned toward his marriage to Cecilia, he smiled and blushed.

“How long have you been married?” I asked
“27 years” he answered
“That is a good long time”, I responded, thinking this may be a second marriage.
From the other corner of the room I heard “It is both of their first marriages”

“Great!” I say, “Nothing like waiting to be certain. Where did you get married?”
Mr. French shuffled a bit and the blush grew a little deeper….. “we eloped”

“Eloped!” I said, along with the nurse who replied all at once. Both of us imagining this sweet sweet couple sneaking off one day to their parents surprise.

He giggled and said “yes we did… to Florence AL!”

Of all places! We laughed and he grinned and gushed over his bride now lying behind a bank of machines and bells and whistles.

I noticed she was awake and went to her bedside. Her eyes opened and I introduced myself. She tried to talk but the breathing tube prevented any conversation. I saw in her eyes that she was aware of her surroundings. I told her I heard she eloped with this sweet man on the other side of her. Her blue eyes smiled as she nodded. And I saw someone else there in that pool of blue.

We prayed together and Mr. French cried… I hate it when men cry. I looked at Cecelia and told her I would visit again. I went back today. She was more alert and Mr. French had gone home for the night. A good sign I think. And those blue eyes of hers lit up again. She wanted to talk and couldn’t. I yammered on about how she needed to rest. We continued to look at each other intently. Her eyes wide and wonderfully bright. Mine trying to tell her it was ok to rest.

And then I realized who else was there…. my grandmother. The same look. The same blue. My grandmother died a good 12 or more years ago but I saw her again today. A shadow that follows me around a good bit. The woman who was so very strict and stoic but who read to me from the Bible. A woman who could remember the 23rd Psalm when she could no longer remember her name… or mine.

The woman who baked the best cakes and whole wheat rolls in the world. None of us can re-create those.

And the woman from whom I learned an awful lot about trusting God and prayer and the church.

I never know who I will meet in a hospital room. Sometimes, it isn’t the person in the bed but is the person you need the most.

Night work might be ok sometimes.

Guilty Pleasures

Ok I broke down..I am on Twitter. Don’t ask why. I was merely supporting those I love in their endeavors. But apparently it will be my new addiction. Thinking for some stupid adolescent reason that I can “follow” my favorite celebrities (ok basketball players and coaches!), I am following the likes of well…ok… former UT Lady Vols and hot coaches! There I admitted it!

So here I am, a relationship person. One who believes in a good cup of coffee and good belly laughs and conversation. Face to face. And I will be Twitterized for awhile now.

I also like People magazine and VH1 Behind the Music. And E True Stories. Roller Derby and an occasional Britany Spears break down.

How is it we think we can “know” each other in 140 characters or less?

I will let you know. And when the randomness comes out of my twitter account…. Maybe you can ask me a question.

PS KitKhet is one of the family nicknames. Me and Dad….just like always.