While yesterday was great - I spent the late afternoon and evening with some of my dearest, fun friends - I spent an hour or so falling apart before that. I bawled, I carried on as only I can, I lamented my BIG health - the frustrations, the actuality of it all, having to get off the only medicine that has ever helped me - the energy issues - and my little health - catching cold - being so bitterly behind in my house and yard - and my lack of sleep.
Psalms 127:2b says "God grants sleep to those He loves." I commented that maybe God hates me. Jamie looked at me aghast and said, "Do NOT say things like that. You CAN'T mean that." Well, of COURSE I don't mean it. Isn't he used to the bizarre things that pour out of my mouth after 22 years?! It was a Robynn comment because who could actually believe that every wakeful night is a curse from God? The verse is often quoted but taken out of its overall meaning.
So, then I spent another hour carrying on about how he should know that's what I meant and how I was just having a moment of despair and where could I go if not to him and how I was weary with pain and so on and so forth in diatribe manner and more tears and laments of how I'm just T-I-R-E-D! I was pretty sure he regretted saying ANYthing but he hung in there, which is no small feat.
When we got home from the party I was done-in and starting to feel worse. The kids had headed out to sleep-overs and I longed for my bed. And it's in those moments, when you think you're almost there and nothing else better happen, that clocks fall off the wall and smash you in the head and knock you to the floor. Irony, really. It was our huge wall clock that has "The Reilly Family - established 1986" emblazoned on it.
What kind of weird message from the Lord was this?! Remember what you have to be thankful for? Don't stack stuff on the "crappy" chic cabinet (Jamie likes to call it that instead of "shabby" chic 'cause that's just the way he is, being Mr. Irreverent and all) because you might bump it and cause the clock to fall off? Here's a concussion and that should help you sleep if you don't think I love you?
I was still sorting out the meaning an hour later with a cartoon-sized bump on my head, an ice-pack, and visual disturbances. And that's how I fell asleep. But, hey, I slept!
Friday, January 2, 2009
Wednesday, December 31, 2008
Observational Twitter 6
Adage:
"An apple a day keeps the doctor away." Origins in Sixteenth Century British Literature
Epigram:
"A whole bushel of apples will keep the doctor away more effectively if you aim well." Robynn Reilly
Copyright 2008
"An apple a day keeps the doctor away." Origins in Sixteenth Century British Literature
Epigram:
"A whole bushel of apples will keep the doctor away more effectively if you aim well." Robynn Reilly
Copyright 2008
I HATE DOCTORS....A RANT
I know why God did not call on me to free His people from Egypt. If He would have given me the staff Moses had, instead of using it for Holy purposes, I would have gone around beating Pharaoh over the head with it - repeatedly. Every time he agreed there was a problem with holding the people captive, and every time he said he would let them go and didn't and acted like he didn't know WHAT I was talking about.....WHAM!! Smack upside the head. And I would have enjoyed it. I would never have made it to the big events of plagues and the like and I would have had zero lasting impact, except to give Pharaoh an elephantine headache and, with any luck, a concussion. God had much bigger plans for Pharaoh (AND Moses) and His were more effective and long-lasting.
I'm trying to keep that in mind as certain doctors in my employ (yes, they are being paid by us) condescend to me while spouting erroneous information and often mistake-laden advice. So far I have resisted all urges, strong though they may be, to conk my doctors on their collective heads with my hefty medical chart. I have to remind myself I doubt this would be deeply instructional to them. It would temporarily provide a burst of fun and entertainment in my life and, in light of the circumstances, that is not without merit. However, my celebratory moment won't further my diagnosis so, I abstain.
By way of disclaimer I want to say there have been some intelligent and caring diagnosticians who have graced my life with true concern. They remain humble, life-long learners who have not confused the image in the mirror with the God of the Universe. Unfortunately, theirs appears to be a small fraternity and I can only hope it is accepting new members.
Back to my rant......a couple of my current doctors are quite the Balaam's Donkeys without near the wisdom issuing from their equine lips. (If you've come here to listen to me be politically, theologically, or eschatologically correct then all I can say is, "Bummer!") These "Brothers of Perpetual Illness and Pharmacology" condescend to grace us with their proclamations and issuances concerning our health. We are expected to bow to their superior wisdom in much the same way the kingdom was expected to hail and applaud a very naked Emperor strolling by in his "new clothes." An example:
Two days ago I followed up with ONE of my specialists (I have to employ a different doctor for all varying body parts as no one body part is connected to any other.) This particular doctor looked at one set of tests which were positive, another set of tests which were negative and positive (both looking for porphyria) and announced, "I think the best thing to do is just wait until you have another attack and then, when you go to the emergency room, tell the doctors to check you for it." Mind you, this advice from a physician who has only crossed paths with six porphyria patients in his entire career. His advice to "self-advocate" would be presuming:
A. I am not damaged neurologically as in the last two attacks
B. The hospital would have any idea how not to compromise my labs (which has already been done because they don't see porphyria often and don't know how to properly handle lab samples - they have to be kept in complete darkness like vampire blood)
C. I am not given meds which could kill me
D. Part of Balaam's herd isn't working that night, someone is actually educated about porphyria and, unlike YOU, dear doctor, listens to me.
Now, I don't mean to go all "feminism" on you here but I can't imagine a MAN showing up in his doctor's office with a heart attack only to be told, "Well, Fred (especially if that wasn't his name) let's go ahead and letcha have another one of these old things and, if ya live, maybe we can figger somethin' out for ya."
Porphyric attacks can be anywhere from mildly damaging to fatal as there is an enzyme missing that helps you clear toxins from your blood. These episodes can be brought on by a genetic disorder or other conditions. But under no circumstances should a physician recommend someone have one. Unless it was for themselves and then, I'm all for it.
If you have porphyria, there are many, many medicines you can't take because they can trigger an acute attack. You have to be hyper vigilant about what goes into your mouth. I have always had lots of reactions to pharmaceuticals, as have many people in my family. Reactions don't mean you have porphyria. But if you have other signs and symptoms, could be. Have you ever urinated what looks just like dark port wine? Yes, many times. Swollen liver/spleen? Check. Neurological damage? Yes. Bad labs? You got it. Severe abdominal pain that feels like you were just shot at point-blank range? Yes, yes, oh-my-possibly-inappropriate-word, yes. Ever had positive labs for porphyria? Uh, yeah. So I'm just thinking, it might be porphyria. But now my Job's advisor wants me to just go ahead and have another attack.
He wouldn't be alone. One doc wanted to treat me for an ulcer because of the abdominal pain. When I told him another body-part doctor, my gastroenterologist, had been part of the paparazzi at my last endoscopic photo shoot and assured me I did not have an ulcer, he continued to try and prescribe FIVE DIFFERENT ULCER MEDICINES. I turned each one down, repeating, calmly (believe it or not), I did not have an ulcer and, besides, I couldn't take those medicines as I had already been on them for what the gastro guy DID find: stomach irritation. And they all caused me major side-effects. He was so moved by my touching tale that he picked up the prescription pad he had been writing on and tore up the paper right in front of me with a heavy, knowing sigh. Knowing, that is, I was a pain-in-the-posterior patient who could simply not be fixed with a quick prescription. The worst kind. We make them look bad. I realize that and sympathize (okay, no....not that much....so....that's a lie).
I know I'm looking for the nearly impossible: A caring, smart-as-a-whip doctor who, if he or she doesn't know, won't give up and consign me to more diminishment; who won't see this as a personal affront to the ego but as a challenge and an opportunity to help.
Anyone who has been through a medical mystery or major difficulty has asked the question, "Why can't I get answers or a doctor who knows what's going on?" That's normal. And we can't give up. But I also ask God, "Why am I hitting so MANY brick walls?" The only thing I can think of is, "Hey, it's not all about me." For every Robynn Reilly who squawks and talks and rattles cages, there are hundreds of people who don't know what to do and will remain caught in their illnesses. Disturbers can make a difference. We have to possess the determination to fight back for ourselves, our families, our friends. So, God knows I tend to dismantle brick barricades one way or the other and perhaps He has seen fit to use me in the "War of the Walls."
I hope it's that noble. Knowing me? It's probably not.
Copyright 2008
I'm trying to keep that in mind as certain doctors in my employ (yes, they are being paid by us) condescend to me while spouting erroneous information and often mistake-laden advice. So far I have resisted all urges, strong though they may be, to conk my doctors on their collective heads with my hefty medical chart. I have to remind myself I doubt this would be deeply instructional to them. It would temporarily provide a burst of fun and entertainment in my life and, in light of the circumstances, that is not without merit. However, my celebratory moment won't further my diagnosis so, I abstain.
By way of disclaimer I want to say there have been some intelligent and caring diagnosticians who have graced my life with true concern. They remain humble, life-long learners who have not confused the image in the mirror with the God of the Universe. Unfortunately, theirs appears to be a small fraternity and I can only hope it is accepting new members.
Back to my rant......a couple of my current doctors are quite the Balaam's Donkeys without near the wisdom issuing from their equine lips. (If you've come here to listen to me be politically, theologically, or eschatologically correct then all I can say is, "Bummer!") These "Brothers of Perpetual Illness and Pharmacology" condescend to grace us with their proclamations and issuances concerning our health. We are expected to bow to their superior wisdom in much the same way the kingdom was expected to hail and applaud a very naked Emperor strolling by in his "new clothes." An example:
Two days ago I followed up with ONE of my specialists (I have to employ a different doctor for all varying body parts as no one body part is connected to any other.) This particular doctor looked at one set of tests which were positive, another set of tests which were negative and positive (both looking for porphyria) and announced, "I think the best thing to do is just wait until you have another attack and then, when you go to the emergency room, tell the doctors to check you for it." Mind you, this advice from a physician who has only crossed paths with six porphyria patients in his entire career. His advice to "self-advocate" would be presuming:
A. I am not damaged neurologically as in the last two attacks
B. The hospital would have any idea how not to compromise my labs (which has already been done because they don't see porphyria often and don't know how to properly handle lab samples - they have to be kept in complete darkness like vampire blood)
C. I am not given meds which could kill me
D. Part of Balaam's herd isn't working that night, someone is actually educated about porphyria and, unlike YOU, dear doctor, listens to me.
Now, I don't mean to go all "feminism" on you here but I can't imagine a MAN showing up in his doctor's office with a heart attack only to be told, "Well, Fred (especially if that wasn't his name) let's go ahead and letcha have another one of these old things and, if ya live, maybe we can figger somethin' out for ya."
Porphyric attacks can be anywhere from mildly damaging to fatal as there is an enzyme missing that helps you clear toxins from your blood. These episodes can be brought on by a genetic disorder or other conditions. But under no circumstances should a physician recommend someone have one. Unless it was for themselves and then, I'm all for it.
If you have porphyria, there are many, many medicines you can't take because they can trigger an acute attack. You have to be hyper vigilant about what goes into your mouth. I have always had lots of reactions to pharmaceuticals, as have many people in my family. Reactions don't mean you have porphyria. But if you have other signs and symptoms, could be. Have you ever urinated what looks just like dark port wine? Yes, many times. Swollen liver/spleen? Check. Neurological damage? Yes. Bad labs? You got it. Severe abdominal pain that feels like you were just shot at point-blank range? Yes, yes, oh-my-possibly-inappropriate-word, yes. Ever had positive labs for porphyria? Uh, yeah. So I'm just thinking, it might be porphyria. But now my Job's advisor wants me to just go ahead and have another attack.
He wouldn't be alone. One doc wanted to treat me for an ulcer because of the abdominal pain. When I told him another body-part doctor, my gastroenterologist, had been part of the paparazzi at my last endoscopic photo shoot and assured me I did not have an ulcer, he continued to try and prescribe FIVE DIFFERENT ULCER MEDICINES. I turned each one down, repeating, calmly (believe it or not), I did not have an ulcer and, besides, I couldn't take those medicines as I had already been on them for what the gastro guy DID find: stomach irritation. And they all caused me major side-effects. He was so moved by my touching tale that he picked up the prescription pad he had been writing on and tore up the paper right in front of me with a heavy, knowing sigh. Knowing, that is, I was a pain-in-the-posterior patient who could simply not be fixed with a quick prescription. The worst kind. We make them look bad. I realize that and sympathize (okay, no....not that much....so....that's a lie).
I know I'm looking for the nearly impossible: A caring, smart-as-a-whip doctor who, if he or she doesn't know, won't give up and consign me to more diminishment; who won't see this as a personal affront to the ego but as a challenge and an opportunity to help.
Anyone who has been through a medical mystery or major difficulty has asked the question, "Why can't I get answers or a doctor who knows what's going on?" That's normal. And we can't give up. But I also ask God, "Why am I hitting so MANY brick walls?" The only thing I can think of is, "Hey, it's not all about me." For every Robynn Reilly who squawks and talks and rattles cages, there are hundreds of people who don't know what to do and will remain caught in their illnesses. Disturbers can make a difference. We have to possess the determination to fight back for ourselves, our families, our friends. So, God knows I tend to dismantle brick barricades one way or the other and perhaps He has seen fit to use me in the "War of the Walls."
I hope it's that noble. Knowing me? It's probably not.
Copyright 2008
Saturday, December 27, 2008
Toothaches and Technology
I have a major toothache. My Bluetooth is killing me. In fact, it may be listed as the cause of my demise on the coroner’s report: “Death by safety device.” Ever since the new California law was passed last January I have become the equivalent of a six-year-old with car keys. I weave, I slow down, I park in the fast lane of the Freeway, I accelerate while making tight, left turns on overpass exits and go Dukes-of-Hazzard over the side walls, launching into the air. The landings are taking a toll on my car’s suspension and my spinal column. I’m doing all this in the name of safety while I attempt to use my “hands-free” equipment.
I had none of these problems before. One hand drove and one hand held my phone. I used voice commands and could actually utilize my eyes to watch the road. Now, I drive with my foot while simultaneously looking through my purse and pulling everything out searching for my Bluetooth. Once I’ve located it, the dangerous part begins.
As I left San Francisco recently, I headed out on the Bay Bridge. My girlfriend called me to firm up directions to her house in nearby Benicia. Just as she was telling me which lane to get into, the earpiece went dead. This meant I had to get the charger out of my purse while trying to navigate three lanes of speeding, maniacal drivers perched hundreds of feet over shark-infested waters. Once plugged into the cigarette lighter I now had to insert the other, miniscule end into my Bluetooth. This is best achieved with a skilled surgeon, floodlights, and magnifying glasses equal to the Hubble Telescope. Somehow, while nearly sitting on the steering wheel, I made the connection. I took my seat, hooked the thing over my ear, and, just as I was about to give it a command, the coil of the charger sprang back into place and launched the device off my head and into the next dimension.
There are severe issues with voice recognition as well. This is an example of a recent conversation:
Bluetooth: “Please say a command.”
Me: “Call.”
BT: “Command not recognized. Please say a command.”
Me: “Dial.”
BT: “Command not recognized. Please say a command.”
Me: “Call.”
BT: “Well why didn’t you say that in the first place, you idiot? Please state the name or number you wish to dial.”
Now, at this point, Artificial Intelligence basically takes over the planet and we are all at its mercy.
BT: “Did you say ‘Humpty Dumpty?’ ”
Me: “No.”
BT: “Did you say ‘Howdy Dooty?’ ”
Me: “No.”
BT: “Did you say ‘Jabba the Hut?’ ”
Me: “Yes.” I have discovered this will actually activate the command known as “Jamie at Work,” thereby connecting me with my husband.
He is experiencing a dysfunctional relationship with his safety-accessory as well. He said he couldn’t hear anything in the Bluetooth over the roar of his truck so he went with the type that mounts on the visor. This, too, was supposedly designed to be simple to use while driving. All you do is push a button to activate and start talking. But he still can’t hear anything so he just yanks it off the visor and shoves the whole thing up to his ear. It is approximately the size of a clipboard. This comes in handy when he has to attach it to his hair and hang it off the side of his head. He says when he is pulled over by the police he will protest saying he is, in fact, using a “hands-free” device.
After I left Nancy’s house from Benicia the next day, I made a final attempt to connect with the outside world from the confines of my car. I had checked messages and knew another friend, Teresa, was trying to reach me.
Southbound I-5 stretched out before me like a comfy couch, my headset was charged; all systems seemed to be a “go.” I managed to navigate my way through voice commands and actually connect with the right person. The only problem seemed to be the volume. I mean the volume in the way a jet engine might sound two feet from the fired-up burners, only much louder. It was the demon now flanking my head. I pushed every button to no avail. I was apologizing, while attacking my ear, when the thing flew off again, this time landing under the seat. “Keep talking!” I yelled, zooming down the freeway using the sound of her voice for homing assistance. With my legs hanging out the driver’s side window, I hung upside down to peer under my seat and found it hiding behind an In-and-Out Burger napkin. I had only changed lanes seven times and driven under a big-rig once. No harm done. I resigned myself to the roaring volume and, with my right hand, held the thing three feet from my head, still managing to suffer hearing loss.
With my nerves jangled and a ringing in my head, I pulled into Starbucks in Los Banos. I figured I needed a hot cup of coffee to complete my driving maneuvers. While safely stopped in the parking lot I managed to fix the problem du jour and attempted to phone my children. “Command not recognized while flip is open,” my nemesis taunted. “Flip is open?” I yelled. “Which flip? Phone? Bluetooth? WHAT?!” “Command not recognized. Did you say, ‘Beans and weenies?’ ”
I feel much safer now with my Bluetooth. I know everyone else does, too. We’re all keeping the law as we narrowly careen around one another in death-defying destruction derbies. Maybe next they can invent something to help you drink your coffee while you drive down the road. I don't know….maybe a spigot right above your head could automatically pour boiling java all over you. You could lick at the drips while your skin falls off.
Copyright 2008
I had none of these problems before. One hand drove and one hand held my phone. I used voice commands and could actually utilize my eyes to watch the road. Now, I drive with my foot while simultaneously looking through my purse and pulling everything out searching for my Bluetooth. Once I’ve located it, the dangerous part begins.
As I left San Francisco recently, I headed out on the Bay Bridge. My girlfriend called me to firm up directions to her house in nearby Benicia. Just as she was telling me which lane to get into, the earpiece went dead. This meant I had to get the charger out of my purse while trying to navigate three lanes of speeding, maniacal drivers perched hundreds of feet over shark-infested waters. Once plugged into the cigarette lighter I now had to insert the other, miniscule end into my Bluetooth. This is best achieved with a skilled surgeon, floodlights, and magnifying glasses equal to the Hubble Telescope. Somehow, while nearly sitting on the steering wheel, I made the connection. I took my seat, hooked the thing over my ear, and, just as I was about to give it a command, the coil of the charger sprang back into place and launched the device off my head and into the next dimension.
There are severe issues with voice recognition as well. This is an example of a recent conversation:
Bluetooth: “Please say a command.”
Me: “Call.”
BT: “Command not recognized. Please say a command.”
Me: “Dial.”
BT: “Command not recognized. Please say a command.”
Me: “Call.”
BT: “Well why didn’t you say that in the first place, you idiot? Please state the name or number you wish to dial.”
Now, at this point, Artificial Intelligence basically takes over the planet and we are all at its mercy.
BT: “Did you say ‘Humpty Dumpty?’ ”
Me: “No.”
BT: “Did you say ‘Howdy Dooty?’ ”
Me: “No.”
BT: “Did you say ‘Jabba the Hut?’ ”
Me: “Yes.” I have discovered this will actually activate the command known as “Jamie at Work,” thereby connecting me with my husband.
He is experiencing a dysfunctional relationship with his safety-accessory as well. He said he couldn’t hear anything in the Bluetooth over the roar of his truck so he went with the type that mounts on the visor. This, too, was supposedly designed to be simple to use while driving. All you do is push a button to activate and start talking. But he still can’t hear anything so he just yanks it off the visor and shoves the whole thing up to his ear. It is approximately the size of a clipboard. This comes in handy when he has to attach it to his hair and hang it off the side of his head. He says when he is pulled over by the police he will protest saying he is, in fact, using a “hands-free” device.
After I left Nancy’s house from Benicia the next day, I made a final attempt to connect with the outside world from the confines of my car. I had checked messages and knew another friend, Teresa, was trying to reach me.
Southbound I-5 stretched out before me like a comfy couch, my headset was charged; all systems seemed to be a “go.” I managed to navigate my way through voice commands and actually connect with the right person. The only problem seemed to be the volume. I mean the volume in the way a jet engine might sound two feet from the fired-up burners, only much louder. It was the demon now flanking my head. I pushed every button to no avail. I was apologizing, while attacking my ear, when the thing flew off again, this time landing under the seat. “Keep talking!” I yelled, zooming down the freeway using the sound of her voice for homing assistance. With my legs hanging out the driver’s side window, I hung upside down to peer under my seat and found it hiding behind an In-and-Out Burger napkin. I had only changed lanes seven times and driven under a big-rig once. No harm done. I resigned myself to the roaring volume and, with my right hand, held the thing three feet from my head, still managing to suffer hearing loss.
With my nerves jangled and a ringing in my head, I pulled into Starbucks in Los Banos. I figured I needed a hot cup of coffee to complete my driving maneuvers. While safely stopped in the parking lot I managed to fix the problem du jour and attempted to phone my children. “Command not recognized while flip is open,” my nemesis taunted. “Flip is open?” I yelled. “Which flip? Phone? Bluetooth? WHAT?!” “Command not recognized. Did you say, ‘Beans and weenies?’ ”
I feel much safer now with my Bluetooth. I know everyone else does, too. We’re all keeping the law as we narrowly careen around one another in death-defying destruction derbies. Maybe next they can invent something to help you drink your coffee while you drive down the road. I don't know….maybe a spigot right above your head could automatically pour boiling java all over you. You could lick at the drips while your skin falls off.
Copyright 2008
Friday, December 26, 2008
Observational Twitter 5
False Advertising:
"Victoria's Secret."
Truth in Advertising:
"Victoria Doesn't Have Any Secrets."
A prominently well-known fact to any mother accompanying a son through the mall at Christmas and past the display window.
Copyright 2008
"Victoria's Secret."
Truth in Advertising:
"Victoria Doesn't Have Any Secrets."
A prominently well-known fact to any mother accompanying a son through the mall at Christmas and past the display window.
Copyright 2008
Wednesday, December 24, 2008
Observational Twitter 4
Esoteric:
"Necessity is the mother of invention." Plato
Exoteric:
"If necessity is the mother of invention, laziness is the father." Robynn Reilly
(No men were injured during the making of this quote and any relation to persons living or dead is unintended.....although, didn't Plato just sit around telling everybody he couldn't be bothered because he was thinking? I'm just saying.......)
Copyright 2008
"Necessity is the mother of invention." Plato
Exoteric:
"If necessity is the mother of invention, laziness is the father." Robynn Reilly
(No men were injured during the making of this quote and any relation to persons living or dead is unintended.....although, didn't Plato just sit around telling everybody he couldn't be bothered because he was thinking? I'm just saying.......)
Copyright 2008
Friday, December 19, 2008
A Christmas Story....Not The One With The Leg Lamp
I am reposting this for Christmas. I wrote it five years ago and was reminded of the story by a friend. I hope your Christmas is filled with the joy that comes from helping others, the ability) to find and count your blessings (though they're sometimes buried among the pain and struggle of life), and the hope that came into this world through the sacrificial love of the One who breathed life into us all and calls us to Himself. Merry Christmas.
I don't think I can top the Bumpkiss' dogs or the fish-net leg lamp. I can identify with Ralphie in "A Christmas Story" when he has to suck on a bar of Lifeboy soap. I became a regular connoisseur of the latest "on-sale" bar soap when I was a kid. Lux, Lifeboy, Dial, Ivory. Apparently getting cleaned from the inside out was the way to approach child rearing. Maybe it was a chaser for the bleach I accidentally drank from a Ball canning jar several years earlier. My heart may have its stains but my intestines are clean as a whistle.
It was during this same period my Christmas story takes place. It wasn't humorous but it was definitely happy. I remembered it today when the kids and I were part of the follow-up team for handing out Christmas food and gifts for the company Jamie works for. We volunteered for the privilege because who doesn't want to be part of that kind of Christmas cheer? Of course, I groused about schedule logistics (note last blog) even though I truly, truly wanted to do it. I mean really, WHAT is my DEAL?!
We drove across town to the warehouse, picked up seven boxes of groceries and a few toys, and headed to the home of a single mother with lots of children. The neighborhood was down-trodden but several neighbors stood against the blight with cheery light displays and decorations.
The home sat on a quiet corner, surrounded by a chain link fence. A chewed rope hung limply from a metal pole advertising a dog no longer tethered there. I walked up and tapped lightly, feeling slightly awkward and apologetic. The door creaked open and out peeked little shining faces, obviously excited to see strangers bearing gifts. A teenage son arrived home just in time to help unload the car and serve as translator. His mother spoke only Spanish and I spoke only English. He stared at us through dark-lashed eyes that were guarded with a mixture of suspicion and embarrassment. He couldn't have been much older than my son. I wondered if he would have felt much the same in a similar situation. I sensed his gratitude but also felt the sting that charity might bring to a young man. He quietly complied with my request to let his mother know I had been on the receiving end of a Christmas delivery when I was child. I suppose I wanted her to realize (and him to understand even more) that I knew how it felt on both sides and it was a blessing to give back. Her shy smile showed her appreciation, and discomfort as well. It truly is more blessed to give than to receive.
I wanted to share my own story with them but I couldn't invade their emotional space. He needed me to leave; she needed me to leave; and they couldn't have been more quietly gracious about it. I drove away remembering a Christmas that wouldn't have happened but for the intervention of friends and strangers.
I was ten and my sister and brother several years older. It had been a year of great upheaval. Well, come to think of it, I guess all of our years were years of great upheaval but this one came with even less money. My mother had just landed a good job but found out right before Christmas there would be no paycheck. It was a government job and the policy was to withhold the first check to be used for future severance pay.
The morning of Christmas Eve arrived but there was no sign of Christmas at our house. We had often gotten our tree on Christmas Eve because they were rock-bottom priced then. But on this day there was no discussion of a trip to the tree lot. The pantry was pretty bare and there hadn't been any talk of presents except to say there wouldn't be any. I don't remember being worried that we would eat beans for our Holiday dinner, but I do recall wondering afterwards what the menu would have been.
I think, on that day, I must have been in that beautiful place children live in their minds; the place that helps them believe everything will be alright somehow; the place where magical thinking rules and reality doesn't have a prayer. And it was in that moment that a knock came to the door. My sister and I opened it and saw our mother's friend, "Aunt" Fran. She had her husband with her and much more importantly, to our minds, the most beautiful white-flocked Christmas tree in tow. Now, our trees had been pretty much the bargain variety and we had never entertained the idea of a tree this grand. This was purview of the rich; the domain of the entitled. We were suddenly and at once part of this club of exclusivity! Aunt Fran was the prosperous owner of a nursery school that was much in demand. It was always immaculate and beautifully appointed. Each year, at the school, she prominently displayed her faith in God and her exquisite tree. It would normally have remained up through the New Year but this year she and "Uncle" Austin dismantled it and brought it to our house, along with the ornaments.
We had barely begun redecorating the tree when there was another sound at the door. Representatives of The Lions Club stood on our doorstep with arms full of boxes filled with ham, canned goods, and items far more tempting than beans. They left everything on our dining room table, wished us well and "Merry Christmas" and were gone. Here was food and here was a gorgeous tree. How could it get any better? In a matter of minutes it did. Another rapping at the door brought members of First Baptist Church bearing more food and wrapped presents. I can still see the white tissue paper and red ribbon wrapped around what I knew was a game. I couldn't wait to open it the next day. I don't know what the other gifts were that year but I was the happy recipient of "Sorry" and it's the game the kids and I still use after all these years.
Apparently, Aunt Fran had placed us on a few "needy family" lists and I'll be forever grateful that she did. It wasn't until years later I realized how close we were to having a very different Christmas experience. It was nothing short of a miracle to me and yet it lived up to my faith that all would be well. And for that time and for that day, it was. And that was enough.
I hope it will be the same for the dear family we met today. I pray a bright memory of Christmas miracles lives on in the hearts of the kiddos there and, if only for a short while, a burden is lifted for a weary mother. I hope a tentative young son feels compelled to drop his guard. I think that might be the case. I hugged his mother and then turned to him to pat his arm. He started to lean in for a hug, too, then caught himself. But it had happened, nonetheless, and in that moment, if only for a moment, I think all was well.
May you have the merriest of Christmases, my friends, and may God richly bless you.
With Love,
Robynn
Copyright 2008
I don't think I can top the Bumpkiss' dogs or the fish-net leg lamp. I can identify with Ralphie in "A Christmas Story" when he has to suck on a bar of Lifeboy soap. I became a regular connoisseur of the latest "on-sale" bar soap when I was a kid. Lux, Lifeboy, Dial, Ivory. Apparently getting cleaned from the inside out was the way to approach child rearing. Maybe it was a chaser for the bleach I accidentally drank from a Ball canning jar several years earlier. My heart may have its stains but my intestines are clean as a whistle.
It was during this same period my Christmas story takes place. It wasn't humorous but it was definitely happy. I remembered it today when the kids and I were part of the follow-up team for handing out Christmas food and gifts for the company Jamie works for. We volunteered for the privilege because who doesn't want to be part of that kind of Christmas cheer? Of course, I groused about schedule logistics (note last blog) even though I truly, truly wanted to do it. I mean really, WHAT is my DEAL?!
We drove across town to the warehouse, picked up seven boxes of groceries and a few toys, and headed to the home of a single mother with lots of children. The neighborhood was down-trodden but several neighbors stood against the blight with cheery light displays and decorations.
The home sat on a quiet corner, surrounded by a chain link fence. A chewed rope hung limply from a metal pole advertising a dog no longer tethered there. I walked up and tapped lightly, feeling slightly awkward and apologetic. The door creaked open and out peeked little shining faces, obviously excited to see strangers bearing gifts. A teenage son arrived home just in time to help unload the car and serve as translator. His mother spoke only Spanish and I spoke only English. He stared at us through dark-lashed eyes that were guarded with a mixture of suspicion and embarrassment. He couldn't have been much older than my son. I wondered if he would have felt much the same in a similar situation. I sensed his gratitude but also felt the sting that charity might bring to a young man. He quietly complied with my request to let his mother know I had been on the receiving end of a Christmas delivery when I was child. I suppose I wanted her to realize (and him to understand even more) that I knew how it felt on both sides and it was a blessing to give back. Her shy smile showed her appreciation, and discomfort as well. It truly is more blessed to give than to receive.
I wanted to share my own story with them but I couldn't invade their emotional space. He needed me to leave; she needed me to leave; and they couldn't have been more quietly gracious about it. I drove away remembering a Christmas that wouldn't have happened but for the intervention of friends and strangers.
I was ten and my sister and brother several years older. It had been a year of great upheaval. Well, come to think of it, I guess all of our years were years of great upheaval but this one came with even less money. My mother had just landed a good job but found out right before Christmas there would be no paycheck. It was a government job and the policy was to withhold the first check to be used for future severance pay.
The morning of Christmas Eve arrived but there was no sign of Christmas at our house. We had often gotten our tree on Christmas Eve because they were rock-bottom priced then. But on this day there was no discussion of a trip to the tree lot. The pantry was pretty bare and there hadn't been any talk of presents except to say there wouldn't be any. I don't remember being worried that we would eat beans for our Holiday dinner, but I do recall wondering afterwards what the menu would have been.
I think, on that day, I must have been in that beautiful place children live in their minds; the place that helps them believe everything will be alright somehow; the place where magical thinking rules and reality doesn't have a prayer. And it was in that moment that a knock came to the door. My sister and I opened it and saw our mother's friend, "Aunt" Fran. She had her husband with her and much more importantly, to our minds, the most beautiful white-flocked Christmas tree in tow. Now, our trees had been pretty much the bargain variety and we had never entertained the idea of a tree this grand. This was purview of the rich; the domain of the entitled. We were suddenly and at once part of this club of exclusivity! Aunt Fran was the prosperous owner of a nursery school that was much in demand. It was always immaculate and beautifully appointed. Each year, at the school, she prominently displayed her faith in God and her exquisite tree. It would normally have remained up through the New Year but this year she and "Uncle" Austin dismantled it and brought it to our house, along with the ornaments.
We had barely begun redecorating the tree when there was another sound at the door. Representatives of The Lions Club stood on our doorstep with arms full of boxes filled with ham, canned goods, and items far more tempting than beans. They left everything on our dining room table, wished us well and "Merry Christmas" and were gone. Here was food and here was a gorgeous tree. How could it get any better? In a matter of minutes it did. Another rapping at the door brought members of First Baptist Church bearing more food and wrapped presents. I can still see the white tissue paper and red ribbon wrapped around what I knew was a game. I couldn't wait to open it the next day. I don't know what the other gifts were that year but I was the happy recipient of "Sorry" and it's the game the kids and I still use after all these years.
Apparently, Aunt Fran had placed us on a few "needy family" lists and I'll be forever grateful that she did. It wasn't until years later I realized how close we were to having a very different Christmas experience. It was nothing short of a miracle to me and yet it lived up to my faith that all would be well. And for that time and for that day, it was. And that was enough.
I hope it will be the same for the dear family we met today. I pray a bright memory of Christmas miracles lives on in the hearts of the kiddos there and, if only for a short while, a burden is lifted for a weary mother. I hope a tentative young son feels compelled to drop his guard. I think that might be the case. I hugged his mother and then turned to him to pat his arm. He started to lean in for a hug, too, then caught himself. But it had happened, nonetheless, and in that moment, if only for a moment, I think all was well.
May you have the merriest of Christmases, my friends, and may God richly bless you.
With Love,
Robynn
Copyright 2008
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