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Every Day Miracles

Posted on by Susannah Warner

I just took this photo and it makes me so happy. I mean, a clean(ish) house, a glass of wine, a laptop, a clearly relaxed set of legs, belonging to a perfectly happy, and content wannabe writer? Heavenly. What you can’t see, and what makes me even happier, is the rest of the story.

It is January, and the world outside is white and tundra-like. An actual blizzard is raging. I can hear the winds buffeting the north side of the house and whipping the branches. It shakes the shutters and makes the Christmas wreath, still hanging outside, scratch against the door. The snow is blowing sideways and the roads are covered. There are hardly any cars going by, only an occasional plow truck rumbles past.

Inside, a fire crackles in the wood stove. I can see the flames dance when I look up from my typing and I can feel the comfortable warmth that only wood heat can provide. Two lazy cats nap, curled up side by side in front of the stove, having worn themselves out  wrestling and chasing each other upstairs and down in an effort to combat their severe twin cases of  “cabin fever.” The smell of my homemade brownies baking, my mother’s recipe, and chicken in the crockpot perfumes the air and is the essesnce of home. The house is quiet, other than the pleasant swish of the dishwasher, the tick of the hot oven and the snap of the fire. I am alone in the house, something every working mom knows is a rarity and therefore precious.

It occurs to me suddenly, that I am happy; completely content and peaceful. This is not to say that I’m usually not happy. I just don’t often think about it. After all, there are bills to pay, there are family members near and far to worry about, that beautiful snow is going to really suck to clean up tomorrow when the “high” temperature is zero, and one of those cats keeps peeing on my son’s clothes when they pile up in a corner of his room. Also, if I stop and think about it, I have a headache and aside from that, since I am alone, that means that my son, my daughter and my husband all have to brave the blizzard and travel home from work, another thing to worry about.

But you know what? I’m not going to think about those things, or at least not fret about them. In fact, this ties in to my New Years resolution. That is, to be more thankful. There are so many things to be grateful for. I can walk, I can talk, I can see, I can hear. I am healthy, I have a loving family, lots of friends, a warm house and a job I love. Why have I wasted so much time complaining? My smart niece has been doing “gratefuls” every single night for years. Basically, It’s an email type of diary, listing everything she is grateful for at the end of every day. This is pure genius, but also requires more dedication than I’m willing to commit to at this time. I’m going to do this in baby steps, and I have started to see a change. I’m already feeling more thankful.

It seems that there are as many opportunities to appreciate what I have as there are to grouse about what I don’t. Good things are not hard to find, they are everywhere. It’s really all in how you choose to look at it. I can grumble when the alarm goes off at five, and I have to get out of my cozy bed, or I can be grateful that I have a job that I love to go to, and the physical and mental ability to do that job. I can gripe when my husband tracks mud all over the floor, or I can thank him when he sweeps it up. I can bellyache about the cold weather, or I can marvel at the beauty of the snow. I can lament the fact that I’m not alone as much as I’d like, or I can be thankful that I have a family and a home and that I’m never lonely. I can even choose to be thankful that I can see the blessings all around, as many cannot. There really are two ways to live, and I’m going to try my best to appreciate all the miracles around me.

P.S. My two children and my husband all made it home safely from work. Anther thing to be thankful for!

 

 

 

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Good Tidings of Great Joy

Posted on by Susannah Warner

 

The world is white, the fire is warm.

The house is cozy, I am safe from harm.

My loved ones sleep, tucked in their beds.

Thoughts of them, forever in my head.

 

It is Christmas morning, I’m thankful to be here,

I’m blessed to have my family near.

But, there are so many, who feel alone,

even with family gathered in the home.

 

Loved ones who are gone, their absence still felt.

Single moms who make the best of the cards they’ve been dealt.

Soldiers who fight for us, far away.

Felons in prison, freedom the price that they pay.

 

 

But! Take heart dear friends,  today a King was born for you.

Wrapped in rags, his glory hidden from view.

His beginnings so humble, he was poorer than poor

He experienced hunger, cold and more.

 

He went through this life,  he suffered more than we.

He did this because he loves you and me.

He’s waiting now, his rightful place on the throne.

He will greet you with a hug, when you come home.

 

On Christmas day,  when not all can rejoice,

He hears your pain, he knows your voice.

Sad, lonely or sick, He’s felt them all.

Give your misery to him, he will not fall.

 

He loves you today, as much as he loved you then,

to be born a pauper, feel the pain of all men.

His majesty now revealed, for all to see.

Someday our pain forgotten , with Him we will be.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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Oh, Christmas Tree

Posted on by Susannah Warner

My husband and I have decorated 26 Christmas trees together. We’ve had real trees, fake trees, and on one particularly poor, but memorable Christmas, a stolen tree. “Nah, we acquired it” my husband said when I read this to him. We’ve decorated with babies crying in the background, toddlers with bright eyes and sticky hands, preschoolers with  questions and excitement, and nonplussed teens. Last week was the first time we decorated alone since our very first one so long ago, and it was by far, my favorite.

The decorations we use now, are not ones we originally picked out together (see paragraph below for explanation), these belonged to someone else. They are all antiques, in various stages of antiqueness. Half of them belonged to his side of the family, half to mine. Some are from the early 1900’s and are hand painted, even handblown, and others are plastic beads from the 60’s. I love them all.

It’s really a good thing we were given all these ornaments, because our own ornaments were unceremoniously, albeit mistakenly, brought to the dump by my ADHD suffering husband, 20 years ago. His long(er)-suffering wife occasionally still loses her shit about it when she’s riled up about something that has nothing to do with Christmas. Just the thought of the beautiful glass “Our First Christmas” ornament my sister gave us, and our daughter’s first, in the shape of a pink pacifier, amongst rotting banana peels and dirty diapers in a landfill, makes my blood boil.

Discarded ornaments were not the only thing that made our Christmases memorable. My husband has the gift of resourcefulness. He’s the type of person you would want to be stranded on a deserted island with because not only is he good at getting things done without the tools necessary for the job (being poor in our younger years, has had its advantages), but he’s also a fun person to be around as you while away the hours, waiting to be rescued. Anyway, one year early on in our marriage, we had less money than usual. Quite likely he had been laid off, as he was working inconstruction before he went to college, and I didn’t make much as a CNA, a job I had for many years before I went to nursing school. Apparently, we didn’t have enough money to buy a Christmas tree, so he decided to go into the woods of Maine, and chop one down for free. Unfortunately, although he found a beautiful one, it was on top of an 80 foot tree, which also unfortunately was on privately owned paper company land. Technically this was illegal, however given the fact that this occurred over 20 years ago, I think I’m safe to put it in print, given the whole statute of limitations thing and all. Besides, chopping that thing down with an axe, then hoisting and securing the remaining 18 feet on top of our Ford Tempo, was probably punishment enough. Never mind that 6 feet hung off the back of the sedan, suffice it to say that we live in Maine, and most people around here wouldn’t bat an eye to see such a spectacle hurtling down the highway.

 
Sadly, we haven’t had a real tree for years, mainly because my son and I are allergic to them. Every year now, he gamely hauls the artificial one down from the attic, puts it together and untangles the lights. Usually, at that point, the kids and I would take over and decorate. Sometimes he helped, sometimes not. Lately though, as we have sort of become “empty-nesters” (sort of, because our college age son still lives with us, although he is often not home), we are doing more and more things alone but together, if that makes sense. The other night, Christmas music on, we decorated. It struck me then, how  the traits we each bring to our relationship are unique, yet our adornments are beautiful in their own ways and compliment each other. Some from his side of the family, some from mine, yet they are so enmeshed, they are like one. It is hard to say sometimes, which one came from which family member, or even if they were from my side or his. It is not hard to tell though, that together, they make a beautiful tree and a beautiful life.

IMG_3828
Here is our tree. Ok, actually you cant even see our tree, I just wanted an opportunity to show off my party dress.

 

 

 

 

 

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Tree of Life

Posted on by Susannah Warner

 

Last night after dinner, my husband and I rose from the table at the same time, and while still discussing the minutia that dominates most of the conversations of a long marriage, started clearing the table. He scraped the dishes, and loaded the dishwasher while I wrapped up leftovers. Suddenly, I noticed the way in which we moved together. We were doing different tasks, but working towards the same goal. No movement was wasted, we did not bump into each other, or reach for the ketchup bottle at the same time. The work was done quickly and easily, and when I pointed out what I noticed, we joked about working like a “well-oiled machine.” This is one of the many pleasures of being with someone for a long time. You know their strengths and their weaknesses, sometimes even better than you know your own.

We’ve had a hard year, the two of us. This is the first year in a very long marriage that we’ve ever questioned if we would spend the next one together. We have been together since I was a teen, and I never doubted that we would  grow old as a couple. I guess it’s a miracle in itself that we made it this far without questioning our relationship. Not that it has been easy. We have survived poverty; not the kind where we were starving, but the kind where our electricity was shut off and we were too proud to ask our parents for money, so we told our young children that we were “camping” for the week (they loved it), and the kind where we couldn’t afford toothpaste sometimes, so we had to use baking soda. We survived the death of both of his parents, one by suicide, alcoholism, jail, a diagnosis of bipolar, with its 20% mortality rate, and both of us attended college with small children, while working.

Through all this, we laughed our way through many a hardship. It wasn’t all fun and games, of course. There were many tears, fights, threats and even throwing of wedding rings on two dramatic occasions. But in all those years, neither one of us, even while the words, “that’s it! I’m done” were hurled at each, ever thought for one minute that we would ever actually be done. Not for nothing, did my then six-year-old niece proclaim, “you guys are always either fighting, or kissing!”

No, the real threat came quietly. Years of his bad boy behavior, and my long-suffering martyr act caught up with us. We finally outgrew the roles that we’ve played for decades. Roles that we fell into naturally and actually must have enjoyed.  There is something so satisfying about being the “good one,” in the relationship. I do believe that I actually relished the martyr role. It felt pretty good to be the forgiver; benevolent, strong and merciful. I would shower him with forgiveness, and snatch it back at the first signs of a disagreement, enslaving him to a lifetime of being the naughty child to my scolding mom.

For some reason this year, we both grew tired of our roles. I was weary of the burden, and after a summer of no sleep and a restless spirit, I abruptly shucked it off like an old coat. I decided that I did not want to be responsible for his happiness or lack thereof, something he never asked me to do in the first place. I don’t know why, but I also had no desire to hold our family together with an iron will and a clenched fist anymore. I let it go. I had no idea what would happen, but I was too tired of carrying our responsibilities, our happiness, and our salvation on my back like a figurative beast of burden, to care anymore. I thought that if I let go, everything would topple like a house of cards. I thought that I was so strong, that if I gave up control, he would go down too. It turns out that I’m not that strong, I never was. I was weak, because I thought I needed to hold on so tightly. God is strong, and he does not tire, nor does he hold on so tightly, he chokes the life out of someone.

Matthew 11:28 

 “Come to me, all you who are weary and burdened, and I will give you rest.

 

So, I did it,  I told God I was tired of carrying all of this baggage and I asked him to take it from me. Then, of course, like a control freak, I plucked it back from him a few times, but ultimately I experienced the freedom that comes with letting go. I decided that whatever happened, and whatever became of us, it would be better than what we had been doing and the weariness that I’d been feeling for years.

So, what happened to my bad boy? Did he spiral out of control? Did he fall apart without me to hold him together? Nope, he stepped up. It seems that maybe my mother-role wasn’t saving him all along. I actually was standing in his way. By stepping back, and letting go, I gave him room to take his place. By not feeling responsible for his happiness and behavior, he became responsible for it himself. He is more content, and I feel unburdened.

What this means for two people who share a lifetime of memories and laughter, is that we are free to choose each other, every day. No longer entangled in a vicious cycle of dependent/co-dependent behavior, we are able to oblige each other, because we are happy to do it, not because we feel the other person will give up, or fall apart if we don’t.  It seems impossible to believe that after 28 years together, we are happier than we have ever been. We laugh, as we always have done. After all, having fun has always been the glue that has held us together, sometimes one of the few things. Now, enjoying each other’s company is more like fruit on our tree of marriage. A strong tree with roots of trust and commitment, a trunk of love and devotion, and branches of respect, loyalty and friendship, The fruits have developed over the years and have ripened for such a time as this. They are children, grandchildren, joy, fun and companionship. I don’t have to support this tree, like I always thought, I only have to water it daily and enjoy it for the beauty, shelter and comfort it provides.

 

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Sometimes “Good Guys” Wear Black

Posted on by Susannah Warner

When my kids were small, there was a lot of talk about “good guys” and “bad guys,” especially when my son was little. He, like many children, liked the idea of defeating the bad guys. After all, the good guys should always win, and they do, at least in movies and books. Luckily, they are easy to identify.  The “bad guys” are dressed in black and are usually ugly with snarls on their faces. They are mean and rude. They don’t say “thank you” or “please” and I’m sure they never pick flowers for their wives. Actually, they probably don’t have wives, because they are bad, and no one wants to even kiss one, let alone marry one.

The “good guys” are handsome of course. They are often dressed in white and have impeccable manners. They are excellent swordsman and probably call their mothers every Sunday, and they always get the girl in the end. It’s black and white, there is no gray. The bad guys do not become good guys and the good guys are good 100% of the time. They do not do good things 90% of the time and then occasionally slip up, due to a lack of judgement, or lapse in sanity.

So, when we grow up and meet “Mr. Right,” we expect that they will be good guys, and they are, for the most part. Certainly no girl sets out to marry a bad guy. No one wants to look at a snarl-face at the dinner table or buy the same black outfit for him whenever he needs new clothes. We have already started to become disillusioned somewhere between the happy endings of childhood and the harsh realities of adult life, and realize that there is more to life than good and bad, black and white. We know that there are many gray areas and we accept that these gray areas apply to our own lives as well as in others. But still, we search for a good guy, and after we are with one for a while, we start to appreciate the little things, like the things my good guy does for me.

A good guy picks wildflowers for you because he knows that your practical heart dies a little inside when you see expensive roses fold their haughty heads after only one day of extravagant splendor.

A good guy gives you his fortune cookie at the Chinese restaurant, not because he doesn’t like them, but because “you love them more.”

A good guy poses for selfies with you every time you pull out your phone even though he says, “I don’t know how to fake smile” and, “why do we bother, we always have the same faces?”

A good guy walks on the outside of the sidewalk, even if the sidewalk is slightly slanted and it makes him appear shorter than you, just to keep you safe.

A good guy will go shopping with you if you ask, even though crowds make him panicky, and he puts the groceries into the trunk, while you sit in the car because it’s cold/raining outside.

A good guy has sampled lasagna all over Rome, but thinks yours is better, and tells you that.

A good guy comes upstairs when you text him from the warmth of your bed to ask him to turn on the fan, even though you are 8 feet away from it, because you don’t feel like getting up.

A good guy tells you that you are beautiful and that you that you smell good even though you often forget to compliment him.

A good guy sometimes leaves love notes in your lunch box and doesn’t mind if you show your friends at work.

A good guy empties the dishwasher, because he knows that you inexplicably hate this task.

A good guy rubs your back, even though you rarely rub his.

A good guy makes you a grilled cheese sandwich, when you text saying you are craving one, while you are on your way home after a long day at work.

A good guy makes a headboard from a pallet, after you saw it on Pinterest and then strings christmas lights on it and turns them on every night, so that you will see it when you go upstairs to change after work.

A good guy makes you a huge walk-in closet, big enough to fit three dressers, and floor to ceiling shoe racks, and bars to hang an exorbitant amount of clothes, while he makes do with one bureau.

A good guy asks if you have “stencils” for your fingernails and offers to paint them for you.

A good guy washes your car for you, notices when you need air in your tires, and your oil changed, and does it for you.

A good guy repaints a whole room, without a complaint, after you come home from work and exclaim, “ohhhh, I didn’t know that color would look so bright!  Ummmm, I don’t like it…”

A good guy knows that a long marriage is like hiking a mountain. It requires endurance, strength and perseverance. Sometimes, you don’t feel like climbing anymore and you want to go back, but if you push through when you think you have nothing left, the view is so beautiful, all the struggles leading to it are forgotten.

A good guy calls you his best friend and makes you laugh.

A good guy is strong, loyal, protective and sweet. He stirs emotions in you like no one else. He can make you go from love to hate and back again in one afternoon. He is the only person that can make you so mad, you never want to see him again, then five minutes later, make you laugh. He might snarl at you at the dinner table, but kiss you goodnight. A good guy always has your back, even when he is mad at you.

A good guy does all this, but he also f*$#’s up occasionally. Sometimes he drinks too much or too often. He stays out too late with his buddies.  He can be irritable, especially in crowds and can be irrationally jealous. He throws his jacket on the kitchen chair instead of hanging it up and his boots always track in mud. He loses things all the time and absent-mindedly drives off with cellphones and Ipads on top of his vehicle. A good guy also admits when he is wrong, apologizes, and tries to do better.

My good guy, like so many others, wears black sometimes. He is not always good, but neither am I. Many times in our adult lives, we find ourselves in gray areas. Sometimes we wonder if the good outweighs the bad. Sometimes it does, and sometimes it doesn’t. The longer I am married, the more I realize that if my guy always wore white, I probably would tell him that he is boring, and anemic, and that I need a little more color in my life. Sometimes, my good guy wears black, but in the end, he still will always get this girl.

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Bravery in the Face of Fear

Posted on by Susannah Warner

To leave the safety of your bed, knowing that you must fight off a blanket of darkness, climb a wall of despair, and be pelted with boulders of hopelessness, all while negotiating a razor wire of fear, is not weakness. It is strength. I’m grateful that I don’t fight the battle of anxiety and depression, but for those of you I know and love, who grapple daily with these demons, you are more powerful than you know and I am proud of you.

 

I wrote this a year ago today, and posted it on Facebook. It popped up this morning, which was strange because I’ve had this subject in the back of my mind for a while. I’m so thankful that I have only felt a wave of panic well up in me twice in my lifetime, but those two brief episodes were enough to convince me that people who have felt that tidal wave of fear wash over them, and still carry-on, are freaking superheros.

The first time it happened, I was in a small plane which was experiencing an abnormal amount of turbulence, enough to make the attendants, whose facial expressions I always scrutinize for any signs of fear whenever there is a flight irregularity, quickly take their seats and buckle up. Out of nowhere, my heart started to pound, my palms got sweaty, and I almost started to pant as I fought off a sense of impending doom. I felt like there wasn’t enough air and my seat-belt was squeezing the breath out of me. This passed through me in a matter of seconds, until my brain realized that I was experiencing a natural reaction (ok, slight overreaction) to a potentially life threatening situation. Thankfully, I was able to calm myself down with deep breaths and the whole episode only lasted about 30 seconds.

The second time I nearly panicked, was when I accidentally swallowed acetone (long, ridiculous story!), and as I was washing my mouth out with water at the sink, I started to hyperventilate and feel like I was choking, a thought made even more scary by realizing that even if I wasn’t alone, no one could do anything because I wasn’t choking on anything except chemicals. Again, I was able to calm myself down, and think rationally enough to call poison control.  I was fine, and both of these autonomic responses were fairly reasonable, as there was at least a potential for harm. But what if there was no threat to my safety? Imagine how it would feel if anxiety welled up for no reason, unbidden and unwanted, and could not be rationalized away?

The two experiences I had, lasted only seconds, but they were so intense that I remember that feeling, years later. It is enough to give me empathy for the people in my life who experience sheer terror even when there is no real threat to their safety. I have seen people whom I love, experience this, and their eyes look the eyes of a person who is drowning. Pupils dilated, hands shaky, some have grasped my arm like it is a life raft.  Some of these people have been patients, rendered breathless from lung disease, and some have been family. I once had to take a panicky friend to the doctors, who would not leave the perceived safety of my car, so I had to go the appointment in her stead, and implore the doctor to see her in the car, which he kindly did. I’ve had patients grip my arm so tightly they have left crescent shaped fingernail marks in my skin, and say, “don’t leave me!” I didn’t.  I’ve escorted people to psychiatrist appointments, and one time was asked to go to the appointment myself because, “you can explain how I feel much better than I can.” Again, I didn’t, but I sat with this person, while they fought the urge to run.  I’ve had to drive two different people to the emergency room because they both were convinced they were having a heart attack. I’ve had children hide their faces in my neck, and cling to me like a baby monkey, and I’ve had family members lean their head on my shoulder, to try to slow their breathing and their pounding hearts. Why am I surrounded by anxious people? I can’t say. I like to think that calmness is a gift from God, so when an anxious person leans on me, I always pray that His peace will pass through me and bleed onto them.

“I wish I had your strength,” a dear person once said to me. “I’m not strong,  I’m just lucky.” I told her. This is true. It is not strength or bravery to feel no fear. Bravery is feeling fear and doing it anyway. To the people I know and love who feel anxiety or even full on panic attacks and yet quietly work, care for your children, pay your bills and live your life, in spite of your fears; YOU are the strong ones and I admire YOU.

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Courage

Posted on by Susannah Warner

I’ve written about addiction several times. I don’t have an addiction, except maybe to coffee and I do love sugar. Oh, and lately I’ve been addicted to my evening walk. I’m thankful that the things I crave are sugar, caffeine, and exercise but I realize that I could just as easily be under the spell of drugs or alcohol. This is a subject that is close to my heart and I hope I do the struggle justice.

The crazy thing about an addiction is that it is such a comfort. It is not what those on the other side would suppose, an ugly and ferocious competitor, a monkey on the back of the oppressed, something to be shaken off, trampled and kicked to the curb. No, that’s not how it feels. Your addiction is your friend, your confidant, no one understands you like your addiction. No one is as fun as your addiction. No one gets you like your addiction. It is a constant companion and a comfort. The thought of losing your security is terrifying. How do normal people function without it? How do they get up in the morning and face another day without the thought of it to alleviate the boredom and the fear? It’s not that the battle is just against the addiction. No, the real battle is within yourself to want to get rid of it. To see it how others see it, destructive and ugly, because that’s not how it looks on the other side. It is a beautiful sweet relief, and rest. To fight the battle of life without addiction’s armor to protect you seems impossible. The deception of it all, is that now that you have tasted the forbidden fruit, the rest of your life will seem anemic and hopeless without its color. Pale and dull. scary and empty. To realize that you are entrapped and need to free yourself is the mountain. To spend a minute, an hour living life and not letting your mind slip to the reassuring grove of your addiction seems like an accomplishment. “Well, I did it,” you might think it, “I went a whole day without it.” But then it hits you. Like a punch in the stomach, a day is not the goal, a week is not the goal. A lifetime without, is the goal. Forever, is the goal. How can you go forever without your friend, your comfort. How can you do this? What’s the point?

Here’s the point. Your family and friends are the point. They are depending on you, counting on you to pull yourself out of this slimy pit, because they need you more than you need your addiction. You are their comfort, their shield and their armor. You are what makes their life colorful and full. You are the comfortable groove that their mind slips to when they are feeling afraid or overwhelmed. Is this a burden? Will the weight of someone else’s happiness weigh you down and pull you under? No. Because someone’s dependency on you is not an anchor, it is a life jacket,  It will pull you up. even as your addiction will tell you that is pulling you under. These people, or this person is here for a reason. The reason is that they need you, yes, but more than that, you need them to need you. The thought of disappointing someone else, might be the only thing that keeps you going. You might slip up, you might run back for one sweet, terrifying minute, but you will be back, and the pull of being needed will keep you going, without your addiction. Some day it will hit you, that your loved one’s happiness, and need of you is truly what makes life colorful and worth living.

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Traveling; The Good, the Bad, and the Ugly

Posted on by Susannah Warner

Traveling for pleasure is a strange thing, if you think about it. A lot of money, time and thought goes into planning and executing a trip. Approval must be granted for vacation time from work, airplane tickets, accommodations, mode of transportation must be considered, as well as practical home concerns; who will feed the cat and bring in the mail? Then, there is the travel companion, is this person a “good traveler?” Will this person enhance the experience and be a help, rather than a hinderance? After a whirlwind, fly by the seat of our pants trip to Italy, my husband and I, fondly (umm, maybe not! ) known to some as “the Bickersons,” can tell you, there is a good, a bad and an ugly to every family vacation.

The Good: First of all, Italy is awesome. In the U.S., history is old, but in Italy it is ancient. I’ve been to Washington D.C. and marveled at our progress as I strolled through the museums,  I’ve walked on the grounds of Monticello, and crossed the Delaware where Washington crossed. I live in a state that was established in 1820, and have discovered old foundations hidden in the woods of Maine, and have even dug glass bottles out of the ground, discarded by settlers 200 years ago. However, compared to statues, structures and roads thousands of years old, with cobblestone streets chariots bumped over, and marble steps, worn smooth and indented from the tread of millions of feet, U.S. history seems infantile. The experience cannot be duplicated anywhere, even at Epcot, whose “World Showcase” was the extent of my International experience, prior to traveling abroad (“Sad” my husband just scoffed, when I read what I had so far. He, having already traversed Europe, while stationed in Germany many years ago. However, as he was often under the influence of Oktoberfest, and the wonders of Amsterdam, I countered with my own “sad”).

More good? The food and the wine paired with the atmosphere and the company made mealtime an experience. Savored rather than wolfed, sipped rather than gulped, every part of a meal was meant to be enjoyed, and it was. Even the price was a nice surprise, every authentic Italian meal we ate, was less than what we have paid at Olive Garden. The service was excellent, as the host, a beacon of hospitality, waved us over, welcoming us to sit anywhere, “you like table outside, yes?” Then, with a flick of the wrist, an outdoor heater arrived to ward off the chill, while a man whose moustache was pointy and waxed, surely a character in a movie, took our drink orders and sent a young man over to help us order, as the best places we found, had menus written only in Italian. Laughing and gesturing, we made our requests known and sometimes ended up with a surprise, as when bruschetta (yum!) rather than bread arrived, and meatballs instead of a salad. Lingering is actually encouraged and one owner of an out-of -the-way, authentic treasure, with only four tables, covered with red gingham tablecloths and candles, actually exclaimed, after nearly an hour and a half,  “aww, you leave so soon?!?” The people were kind, and appreciated the smallest and even lamest attempt to speak their language. “Buongiorno, chiao, bagno? Grazie” all met with an indulgent smile. Thankfully, most spoke some English.

The Bad: Being sick while on vacation is never fun. Feeling dizzy and feverish is not only uncomfortable but apparently dangerous, as it led in part (the other part being a complete lack of grace and awareness) to my falling down some granite stairs at a palace, no less. Fortunately, I was not seriously hurt, just a bruised knee and rear-end, and I managed to walk a total of 13 miles that day, so it could have been bad, but maybe now, it’s just kind of funny.

Of course “The Bickerson’s ” had to make their appearance as they have on every vacation we’ve ever taken. The Bickerson’s are our alter egos. They like to show up whenever a fun time is expected and throw a bucket of annoyance, irritation, intolerance and aggravation on our heads. They take over for a while, and snippy comments, stalking off, and sulking ensues. The Bickerson’s always wear out their welcome very quickly though, and the Warner’s return before it goes from bad to…

The Ugly: Squashing into an airplane seat between a sleep and nicotine deprived, cranky faced husband and a plump, pinstripe shirt stranger, with no shoes on, who woke only to gulp copious amounts of fluids, then sleep, with his arm resting on mine and his pillow and blanket on my feet, is the ugly part of the trip. In addition, my leg room was commandeered by an oversize travel bag containing essentials such as receipts, train tickets, one half of a converter, binoculars and an empty Ibuprofen bottle. Never a good sitter, I am the person who jiggles their foot in work meetings, and who jumps up at any oppurtunity. Since sleeping beauty was in the aisle seat, both of these things were impossible. While I perched between these two, grimly counting the miles and the minutes,  I noticed that we were the only three who did not have an empty seat beside us, probably this happened when we were inexplicably bumped off the plane, and were thoughtfully put back on, in different seats, prompting an annoying and unnecessary “thank you” from me. Eight hours of hell later, we arrived in the U.S., still four hours from home to the news that our bags were in London, and are bus tickets were in the bags. All in all, just the usual travel annoyances; two flight cancellations, one very nearly missed connection, several swear words uttered in Heathrow no less, the land of manners, as well as three charges for one hotel room and the need to buy two more bus tickets, as ours were across the pond. The coup de grace, and my breaking point, came when trying to exit the bus station parking lot, we realized that it took every kind of credit card but ours, which made no sense as I had just used that same card to purchase our second set of bus tickets, three hours earlier. Marching into the dimmed and nearly closed bus station, I felt like the half crazed mother in Home Alone, who is desperate to get home, and does not even know what city she is in. I stalked up to the counter, as the attendant was putting on his coat, and informed him of our predicament. “Well, that’s alright, we take cash.” He said. I counted up my dollars, knowing full well that I would be three short. “I have five euros I can give you with it, but that’s it. Either you take it, or we are stuck here, which is it?” Twenty-two hours of travel had made me bold, and he knew I meant business. He took it, and off we went, realizing only after, that now we had no money for tolls. The irony of a vacation in Europe, ending in scrapping for change for tolls was not lost on us, and we laughed, after we found a dollar, of course.

The Best: I saved the best for last, which is visiting with family without the time constraints of work. Stay up until all hours (by all hours, I do mean midnight) drinking Sangria at possibly the only Mexican restaurant in Rome? Sure! Watch old movies after walking miles and miles while chatting and laughing and reminiscing? Absolutely! Wonder cobblestones streets with a dripping gelato in our hands? Yup. Admire the grit and antiquity of Rome, and the grace and beauty of Florence with some of our best friends, who also happen to be family? Yes, we did all that. More than that actually, we created memories that will last a lifetime. I’m so grateful for them, for my family and for the whole experience; the good, the bad and even the ugly. It is what life is made of.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Posted in Uncategorized

God and Softball

Posted on by Susannah Warner

I wrote this piece over a year ago, about our church softball team. I’m not sure why I did, but it was prior to having a blog and I guess needed some creative outlet for how I felt. I gave it to my mother to read, who promptly gave it to my Pastor, who asked if he could put it the book he was writing at the time about the homeless shelter. I agreed and thanks to his book, I actually was published and got to see my name in print, although looking back now, I inwardly cringe at the quality of the writing. However, the sentiment is the important thing and I wanted to share it. Here it is…

Trinity has a softball team. Although a church softball team is not unusual for many churches, for a homeless shelter this may seem a bit ridiculous. Most of the players we have had on our team do not have a job, a home or even a bed to call their own, so why would God think its a good idea for them to run around a softball field, chasing balls and swinging bats?  Maybe because he loves us and wants us to have fun and because he knows that not every person who is lost will find their way into a church. He seeks us out and comes to where we are and so, he uses the things that we love to draw us to him. Never this has been more evident to me, than with our softball team this year.

In previous years, we have had plenty of players. Usually, 15-20 young men show up to our first practices, some with sneakers and athletic skills, many with cigarettes, most with the energy and bravado of youth but none with a bat, ball or a glove. The team is unique in that the players come and go throughout the season, as some find jobs or get their “vouchers” for housing and others come in. Someone who might have been a home run hitter and star left fielder one week, might be gone and could be replaced by a man who has never played the game but who wants to be a part of a team or maybe just wants to get out of the shelter for a bit. Because our team is so fluid, we have not had a winning track record by any means. Trinity has always been known throughout the church league as a “bad news bears” sort of team. The kind of team that cheers not when we have won a game, but for when we have not lost too badly. For this reason, and because we are disadvantaged in many ways, the league commissioner and other teams have been very kind to us. One team allows us to use their field as our “home-field” and games are almost always scheduled there for us, as transportation can be a problem, sometimes requiring multiple trips to and from the shelter or coordinated efforts on the part of the non-residents to bring the players back and forth. We have also been given bats and catchers equipment, and one time, a player from the other team brought over two pairs of cleats. For the man who was wearing work boots at the time, as that was all he had, this was quite a blessing!

This year was a little different. For some reason this spring, there seemed to be far fewer young men at the shelter, a wonderful thing except when it comes to a softball team. Determined to have a team, my husband searched outside of the church to recruit some people from our town to play. He knew of a group of young men who enjoyed playing softball so much that they organized a pickup game every Sunday. However, these games did not always end well as the participants were at times “three sheets to the wind” and disagreements and fights often ended the play abruptly. Several of these guys were excited about the prospect, even though they were warned that this was a “Christian league” which would not tolerate drinking, swearing or smoking on the field and that weekly church attendance was a league rule. We didn’t worry about them following any of the rules except the last one, as at least one of the guys was overheard saying, “church would probably catch on fire if I went in.” We shouldnt have worried though because God provided the answer for us. Of course he did!

One of the guys who was recruited was a huge red-head, named Scotty, who was 6’6,  280 pounds with size 18 feet!  Despite his hulking appearance, he was an encouragement to all and was never hard on anyone when they missed the ball except himself. He was having a rough game one night, early on in our season. He missed a ball he thought he should have been able to catch and was upset with himself. Because of his competitive nature, the next time the ball was hit to left field, he ran and dove over a fence in an attempt to catch it. The fence tripped him up and this big guy, with all that weight, landed on his side and on top of the fence, nearly impaling himself on the spikes.  We all ran over when he did not get right up. We found him struggling to breath and in obvious pain. He was helped off the field and the decision was made to bring him to the hospital to be checked out. My husband ran to get our jeep to bring to the field as it was a long walk to the parking lot. While we waited, I asked if we could pray for him. “yes please, anything” he said, as we gathered around and laid hands on him. We finished as my husband arrived with the jeep and they went to the hospital. We continued on with our game, although we missed Scotty and wondered how he was doing. Later that night we heard that he had been discharged and that nothing was broken. We were relieved to hear this, but a few days later we heard from his point of view what had happened. He said that he was sitting on the stretcher in the ER, in pain and struggling to breathe, with what he was positive were broken ribs, when suddenly he felt the presence of God. Immediately, the pain was gone and he could breathe normally. He knew that God had healed him and from then on, he started carrying a pocket bible with him.

As happy as we were about Scotty, we were concerned about the fact that many of the players were not going to church. This had never been a problem in the past, as most of the players lived at the church. Now, we were saddled with the task of telling these excited guys that they either attend church or they couldn’t play. Although we knew we needed to be respectful of the league rules, this seemed like a lose/lose scenario. We needed them in order to play, and more importantly, they were being exposed to the love and mercy of God, all while having a lot of fun. My friend, our scorekeeper, and I were discussing this quandary when she said, “too bad we couldnt bring church to them, you know, like a bible study.” What a perfect, God-given idea! Excited by this, she contacted one of the church’s elders, a man who also stepped in to play with us when we needed an extra player, and he graciously agreed to help us by leading the bible study. We told the guys that we would now be having bible studies before games, and if they wanted to play, they had to attend. No one balked or complained, in fact this information was greeted with quiet acceptance.

Before our next game, the whole team sat in the shade, lined up against the back of the dugout like good little soldiers. We shared Bibles that I had borrowed from the church and helped each other find the scriptures. We took turns reading, even one man who said “I’ll try, but I’m not that good at it.” All 12 of us, including 2 from the shelter, listened quietly as God, through the message, brought Saul to life, with encouragement that no matter what you have done, you are never too far gone for God. Throughout those 10-15 minutes, everyone was quiet, focused and listened intently, taking all the information in. After the final prayer, everyone jumped up, ready to play our game, but Scotty seemed stunned and was overheard several times that night saying, “I can’t believe this! My mind is blown!” To top off the night, we actually won that game and took celebratory pictures after.

Luke 19:10

For the Son of Man came to seek and save those who are lost.

Since that time, we have continued with bible studies before games. The players accept this and no one complains, from the 19-year-old, fresh out of high school to the 55-year-old grandfather. Jesus came to where these people were, and because of that, they have been touched. We were given the freedom to observe the spirit of the law, rather than the letter of the law, and in turn, seeds of hope were spread. Scotty still carries his pocket bible around and has been known to spontaneously start reading aloud, especially from Psalms. He is the first to remind us that we need to pray after practice, even leading the prayer once, after which he said, “I’ve never done that before and I was so nervous!” Oh, and our team? We won more games that year than in all our years as a team combined. Of course we did.

 

Afterword: Originally published in the second of two books written by Pastor Richard Berry about the many miracles happening at Trinity Evangelical Free Church and Homeless Shelter, available on Amazon.

 

                                    

Posted in Uncategorized

Nurse

Posted on by Susannah Warner

 

Rushing down the hospital hallway on Sunday, to get a shivering patient a blanket from the warmer, I suddenly had a sense of gratitude for my job and the ability to perform it so strong and so powerful, that tears sprang to my eyes and I had to blink them away lest someone think something was wrong. It was so unexpected and so intense that by the time I walked back into the patient’s room and put the heated blanket over her shoulders, I think she could feel it, because she said, “this feels so good, I could cry.”

A day (or night) in the life of a nurse is piled high with tasks. Patients must be assessed, medications must be passed, doctor’s orders addressed, treatments performed. Patients must be admitted, educated, discharged, and ambulated. Conversations with physicians, other nurses, nurse’s aides, pharmacists, physical and respiratory therapists, social workers, and family members take up a large part of the day. Everything must be documented (“if you didn’t chart it, you didn’t do it!”), often at the end of a 13 hour day because there was no time to stop caring for patients long enough to prove that it was done. Intake, output, weights, and vital signs need to be obtained, monitored, and addressed on each patient. A nurse must know the proper and safe amount of medication for every affliction, and question when an order seems unsafe, but must never diagnose, only make suggestions. The nurse must stay up to date on the newest technology and operate complicated life saving equipment with ease (never appearing befuddled in front of a patient).  They must remember policies and procedures and signs and symptoms of hundreds of illnesses, or at least know where to find the information and absorb it quickly, and well enough to explain it in layman’s terms so that anyone from a child’s level intelligence to a genius can understand. In addition, the nurse must weigh intuition against objective data. At times, this means imploring the doctor to intervene and possibly order expensive and unnecessary tests, based on a “gut feeling” or say nothing, and realize too late that although the patient’s numbers were good, the instinct that “something isn’t right” should never be ignored.

Meanwhile, the nurse must nod, when well-meaning managers appear with the latest and greatest piece of safety equipment, or a process change and must implement these things with a smile. A nurse must wait to go to the bathroom while assisting patients who need help to go, must eat when it can be squeezed in around the patient’s meals and must only sit in between tasks.  A nurse must always appear calm and in control, even when faced with gruesome injuries, children gasping for air, families grieving, or when aggressive patients attack, verbally and sometimes physically. A nurse should not tell a patient, “I’m busy” no matter what the request, and should try not to appear harried or overwhelmed, even when the tasks are piling up, and that barely treading water feeling has dissolved to the drowning feeling that every nurse knows so well.

Why in the world would anyone do this, you may wonder. Why would someone want to work weekends, nights, and holidays and have so much responsibility and yet very little say? Why would anyone want to put the needs and wants of others above their own? The answer is easy for a nurse and it can hit us when we least expect it. It is a blessing to make someone comfortable, to ease their pain and their anxiety. We are the liaison between birth and life, dying and death. With this heavy mantle of responsibility, comes the pleasure of knowing that we have made a difference in someone’s life, every day. We see people at their best and their worst. We see tragedy and triumph. What the patient sees and feels in us, is the joy and passion that comes through in every thing we do, from saving lives to fetching a warm blanket. It is a blessing to make someone comfortable, to sit with them when they cry, to make them laugh and ease their pain. I may not remember this every shift, but when I do, I am flooded with gratefulness that this is the job I have been given to do and that I have the ability to do it.