Seashells and Shaving Cream

But Mary treasured all these things and pondered them in her heart. Luke 2:19

I  decide on coral and teal. If I cannot go to my happy place at the beach this year, I tell myself, I will bring the beach to me, beachy colors that will calm my soul every time I take a shower. Happily, I order a shower curtain and a window shade online. While I wait for the packages to arrive, I gather other items: new peach and white flowers for the washing pitcher that belonged to my grandmother, the little jar of seashells we bought in Bermuda, a pink candle I find in the downstairs cabinet. Amazon delivers on Thursday and on Friday, armed with cleaning supplies and a trash bag, I head up to the hall bathroom to refresh my soul with happy things.

I am delighted with the colors, glad that the light gray walls allow me to change the decor without major expense. I have even indulged in new curtain hooks in the shapes of seashells and starfish. I delve into the top drawer of the cabinet under the window. Time to clear out the clutter! I toss empty shampoo bottles, old toothbrushes, and a dried up jar of Vaseline with happy abandon. I reach into the very back of the cabinet and pull out a can.

And I stop and sink to the teal colored rug on the floor of the bathroom, holding a can of Barbisol shaving cream in my hand, and cry.

This was Ron's. The only kind he ever used, the kind that was put into his Christmas stocking by one of the kids every year and given on each Father's Day along with Old Spice aftershave. The can still emits the faint, clean scent of my late husband. Quickly, the memories come pouring into my mind: Ron on our honeymoon, carefully shaving while I watched, fascinated by the contours on my new husband's face. Ron on our trip to Jamaica, needing to buy a different brand of shaving cream at the gift shop--at an outrageous price--because he forgot to pack it. I probably said a few unkind words. Ron sitting in his wheelchair, no longer able to hold the razor, giving me instructions while I lathered his face and prayed I would not cut him. Ron in his hospital bed, the nursing aide using an electric razor to trim his bushy gray beard.

Memories, psychology tells us,  allow us to relive special moments in our lives, both good and bad (Psychology Today). And God designed memories so we could relive not only the grand moments of our lives, but the small and  intimate details that make up the years, the relationships. A marriage.

There on the bathroom rug, the shaving cream in my hand, I recall Luke 2:19, "But Mary treasured all these things and pondered them in her heart." I want to believe that these small moments--Jesus in his infancy and childhood, ordinary moments to anyone but a mother--are what gave her the courage she needed to bide him farewell.

It has been a year and a little since I bide Ron farewell. Not forever, but for now. I am learning to negotiate the path one step at a time, making a new life for myself and my autistic son, allowing myself to cry over a can of shaving cream and store up a few more treasures in my heart.

It was a long battle for us,  an uphill battle of many years and many illnesses. We learned in those years, Ron and I, to treasure the small moments of peace: a shared meal from a hospital tray, a day without surgery, a cup of tea after work drunk at his bedside. God was faithful on our upward climb. The road was often dark and treacherous, the path unknown.

The path led Ron to Heaven.

I walk alone now, on a new path of widowhood. I have not "moved on" from Ron, but I have "moved forward," twisting those many years of care taking--what was often back-breaking and soul-crushing--into my life. I hang coral colored curtains and seashell curtain rings. I cry over small things.

God is still faithful.

The tears are a healing balm. Soon I am able to get up from the rug in the middle of the bathroom floor and toss the empty can into the trash bag. I hang my new curtains, place my little memories around the room. I touch the seashell shaped curtain hooks one by one, each one a memory of a happy day. 

My husband is still here, in each action I take, each thought I think. Like the coral and the teal colors I have chosen, he calms my soul.

Calm and Quiet

 O Lord, my heart is not lifted up;
    my eyes are not raised too high;
I do not occupy myself with things
    too great and too marvelous for me.
 But I have calmed and quieted and my soul.  Psalm 131:1-2
    

Faintly, I heard my brother calling my name but the ocean was roaring in my ears and I had no idea--none at all--where Harvey's voice came from. We'd been jumping waves at the ocean, spending a beautiful summer day at the beach with our cousins, when a huge roller headed towards us. My brother dove into the wave and let it carry him to shore, while I was caught in it's trough and pulled under, scraped across the rocky bottom, salt water burning my eyes and nose.

I couldn't think. I couldn't pull myself up. I flailed my arms helplessly, certain that at the tender age of 9 I was drowning. Within seconds, though, the crest peaked and threw me onto the pebbled shore.

Suddenly, all was quiet. The water receded. I felt the warm sun on my face and shoulders. I felt the soft sand beneath my body. The shadow of my brother fell across me. "You alright, Linda?"

I nodded and he extended a hand to help me up. "Not yet," I said. "In a minute." The ocean, beloved haven of my childhood, was no longer something I understood.

I'll be frank,  I do not understand any of what is happening in the world right now. I do not know how the corona virus, far across the ocean, mutated from an animal to a person. I do not know how it managed to cross continents and reach our shores. And I do not know how to stop it.

And before I can begin to wrap my mind around it, adjust to a new sort of normal and explain it all to my autistic son, I just need a minute. 

Perhaps you've needed a minute these past weeks as news about the COVID 19 pandemic poured out of our television sets and our social media accounts. Perhaps you've needed to take a deep breath and slow your heart rate, stay for a moment on the soft sand of the beach, still and quiet while the shouting noises of the crowds echoed around you.

Just a minute, Lord. One more minute.

Like David, we need to calm our souls.

Psalm 131 illustrates how David, at a tumultuous time in his life, came to a place of quiet and peace. Scholars disagree on what might have been the circumstances he found himself in: was he running and hiding from Saul, or was he responding to his wife Michal who accused him of undignified behavior when he danced before God? Nonetheless, David needed to deny his own pride and display his willingness to simply serve God (Enduring Word). Verse 1 shows us David's humble attitude, his complete submission to Yahweh. As Jesus illustrated in Luke 14:8-11, David was willing to accept a lowly position.

Despite the circumstances, verse 3 expresses David's enduring hope in God, the satisfaction he finds in the Lord. Notice that he says, "from this time forth and forever more."

I find great comfort in that, in the certain knowledge of "forever more."

In just eight weeks, the world we all knew has drastically changed. Eight more weeks may see another change. And you might be, like me, thinking that you should do something great and sacrificial at this time, some huge gesture that will benefit all mankind. You may think that the little you can offer--phoning a neighbor or taking food to an elderly parent or friend--is only a small drop of water. Take a minute, friend. Rest yourself in God.

Laying on the beach in Rehoboth, letting the warm sun wash over me, I spent moments resting. My brother stood patiently nearby, ready to assist me. And, eventually, I held out my hand to him and he pulled me up. I went back to the umbrella where my aunt waited with a towel to comfort me. It took me a few days before I was ready to tackle the ocean again, to see it as a friend not an enemy. No one rushed me. In the meantime, I played along the surf and built sandcastles with my cousins. One day, though, I was ready to return to the surf that I loved.

One day, we too will return to the world we once knew. We will leave our homes and gather together and praise God for his deliverance. We will "hope in the Lord, from this time forth and evermore." I pray we will take the lessons from this time with us.

So, for now, take a deep breath.  It's okay. We're going to be okay.

We just need a minute or two.

A Time to Heal

1To everything there is a season,

and a time for every purpose under heaven:

2a time to be born and a time to die,

a time to plant and a time to uproot,

3a time to kill and a time to heal,

a time to break down and a time to build

Ecclesiastes 3:1-3

My daughter and I have spent a lovely two hours on the beach at Rehoboth, stowed the umbrella, chairs, and towels into the back of my SUV, and are now strolling along the boardwalk. Actually, she is strolling and I am limping. My flip-flops, perfect for the sand and surf, are not great at walking on wood and concrete. Quickly, I have developed a blister on my right foot.

"Let's get you new shoes!" announces Bonnie, so we slip into the air-conditioned quiet of the Kite Shop. Among the flags and Frisbees and beach toys we find a pair of slip-on sandals with some cushion to them. She insists I throw out the flattened flip-flops from last year. Or maybe they're from the year before.

"You need to buy yourself something new once in a while," she says as we continue our walk. I am aware that our time, as always, is limited. This has just been a quick overnight trip to visit my 91-year-old father. This evening we will drive home again where she and her husband will go look at some houses tomorrow, hopeful to move, and I will return to Allen and Ron. "You do everything for Dad and so much for Allen. You need to take care of you."

I shrug. "There is never time," I say. "Or money." I sigh. "Your dad requires a lot of both."

Despite the July heat, she takes my arm and snuggles up to me. "Someday there will be time," she says and I nod, fighting back tears. The older kids and I had realized a few months back that, despite our best efforts, countless surgeries, and nursing help, Ron was not getting better. We didn't talk about it, but the inevitable end was in sight.

I need to sit down for a moment. The blister on my foot is painful and the sand is rubbing into it. We choose a bench facing the ocean and let the salt breeze cool us. I shake my head. "I never thought--after the car accident--that your dad would be ill this long. I thought he'd get better." I gulp. "I don't know how long I can do it."

She puts her head against my shoulder and for long moments we sit there, facing the ocean, reluctant to move on. "You will do it," she says, "as long as you need to."

She was, I knew, right. God had provided me with whatever strength I needed in the last 19 years. God alone knew when the time would be right to call Ron home to Him. My part was to continue doing all I could and look to God to shore up my flagging energy. "Guess we should be heading back to Pop Pop's," I say after a few more precious moments. I limp back up the boardwalk, the blister on my foot becoming more aggravated, and we head back to my father's.

After dinner with Dad and Peg and a phone call home to Allen, who reports he went to WaWa to get Ron a soda and a pretzel, my daughter and I throw our overnight bags into the car and head on home. My foot is hurting so Bonnie drives and around Smyrna we stop at a Gas and Go for a first-aid kit of band-aids and Neosporin. Bonnie insists I buy two.

"Keep one in your purse," she says. "It might take a while for your foot to heal. Healing can take time."

If you've read my blogs, if you're my friend, or if you go to my church, you know how this day ended. You know that Bonnie and I arrived home around 9:15, walked into the house with a cheery, "We're home!" and found that God--infinitely wise and merciful--had chosen to call Ron to Himself. Phone calls were made, EMT's and police and friends arrived, Bonnie's husband and older brother and his girlfriend came. Allen, who lives on the edge of the autism spectrum, stayed quiet and withdrawn.

My foot still hurt. Throughout the week, the funeral, the burial, the luncheon, I limped, the blister gained on the boardwalk at Rehoboth a daily reminder of my more intense pain. I used the band-aids and the Neosporin Bonnie had insisted I buy. I threw myself into tidying up end-of-life issues, dispersing medical equipment, sorting out clothing, taking unused prescriptions to the pharmacy. I spent weeks helping Allen come to an acceptance of his father's loss.

Slowly, my foot improved. By the time I returned to teach English as a Second Language at an urban high school in September, it no longer bothered me. It had taken the time to heal.

But perhaps I hadn't given other things enough time to heal.

If you're reading this now, it's probably because for the first time in a loooonnnnngggg time, you're not overwhelmingly busy. According to an article in Forbes (Pontefract, 2018), Americans live in the age of "freneticism"--always busy, always on. This, says a survey from StressPulseSM (2017) leads to being stressed and stress decreases our satisfaction with life. And also interferes with our ability to be creative. Writer Kimberly Hines (2018) notes that the tendency of Americans to multi-task is not the great tool we think it is but leads to "shoddy work, mismanaged time, stress, and forgetfulness."

Back in January of 2020--pre COVID-19--the Center for American Progress reported that America was the most over-worked of developed nations with no maximum length of a work week, fewer paid sick days, no paid parental leave nationally, and only 13 days of paid vacation per year.

How times have changed. The corona-virus pandemic has brought all of us extremely busy bees to a grinding halt. And while many people are tragically dying, and healthcare workers are pushed to the limit, and a lot of people are out of work, and toilet paper is the new gold standard, I'm not sure there isn't something positive to be said for our mandated need to slow our roll. Maybe we all desperately needed a wake-up call to stop and smell the roses.

Ecclesiastes 3 shows us that God--not man--is the master of time. Not a single one of us can predict how long we have. Only God has that ability. It behooves us, then, to make the most of our time and that does not mean working 70 hour weeks. It means redeeming the time in healthy ways. It means taking care of each other and our planet. We all need to take the time to heal.

Writer Jonathan Watts (2020) reports that the changes to the environment without all of us humans messing around are clearly seen from space. Pollution belts are clearing, air quality is improving, and I haven't had an asthma attack in a solid month. Creativity is sprouting up as parents find ways to occupy their young children at home, teachers take on virtual instruction, and family dinners are again a seated at the table affair. At my house, board games rule the day. My daily walk through my small village show the ingenuous efforts of the kids on Maple Street who have chalked an exercise game on the sidewalk. Neighbors I do not know sit on their porches in the morning, cups of coffee in hand, and shout "hello" from a safe distance.

And, I'll be honest here, I needed some time to heal myself. While I gave my blistered foot the attention it needed, I was not so kind to my heart. I rushed headlong back into school and work and busy busy busy without allowing myself the proper time to take a breath, regroup, think about what I wanted the next chapter of my life to look like.

One of my favorite scenes in one of my favorite apocalyptic movies is Morgan Freeman's final speech in Deep Impact. While recognizing the loss of life, the fictional President of the United States tells the world, "We honor them with every brick we lay, every field we sow, every child we comfort and then teach to rejoice in what we have been re-given: our planet, our home. So now, let us begin."

One day, the virus will have run its course. We will come out from our houses and pick up our plowshares and our portfolios. But I hope we will be the better for having had some time to heal. As we "begin again" I  hope we will take to heart the words from Ecclesiastes 3, "To everything there is a time." Let's make this our time to heal.

This time, let's do it right.