Just two people

No matter how hard I try,
I can't remember our first kiss.
But I remember every single detail
about our first hug.

It was on the sidewalk on Main Street
near the Overtime Tavern where we had been.
Arriving separately,
but leaving at the same time.

Bill the dog, waiting in the back
of Old Yeller (remember that pickup?)
parked in front of City Hall,
which makes the town sound bigger
and grander than it actually is.

It was not a first date
or any date at all for that matter.
It was just two people
enjoying each other's company
after work over a beer, belly-up to the bar.

For an Iowa farm girl,
he was an exotic cross between a hippy and a logger.
(I wonder what I was to him?)
His conversation was rapid and unpredictable,
as if bouncing off the bumpers in a pinball machine,
nearly impossible to catch up with.

As I recall, he mostly talked
and I mostly listened. Which is how I like it.
I understood some of what he said.

We left the bar together
and walked toward our vehicles.
Mine must have been parked
behind The Journal, where I worked.

And then suddenly,
I'm not sure how it happened,
I was in his arms in a perfect hug
that was exactly the right thing.
Unexpectedly perfect.

...

Now, many years later,
so much has changed.
The bar is a bistro, Old Yeller is gone,
the half-finished house is a mostly finished home.
The outhouse is now the recycling center.
The outdoor shower moved inside.
Kids have grown. Four beautiful daughters.
Grandkids arrived. Another on the way.

But one thing hasn't changed -
in his arms is still where I belong.
Exactly the right thing.
A perfect fit. Then and now.

...

(And no matter how hard I try,
I honestly cannot tell you about that first kiss.
More than thirty-two years ago.
But I'm guessing it was a doozy.)

Is it true?

"Is it true Auntie Lynn, that racism is
increasing in America?"

A simple question from my
'Ugandan daughter' Josephine.

How do I answer?
Living in a small town in Washington,
without television in my home,
I find myself isolated from so much.
How do I even know?

I try to pay attention.
I try to live my life in a manner
that encourages and supports others,
to be aware of the opportunities I have had
that are so easy to take for granted
and are not shared by everyone.

But I know, even though it is painful to say,
what I am doing is not enough.
Not if there are people
who are not safe to live their lives
in the country I call home.

...

Walking down the red dirt roads
in Uganda, I have experienced
being different, standing out because
of the color of my skin.
Children pointing and yelling "Mzungu"
but in an excited and curious way.
Friendly, not hateful.

I have climbed onto a boda,
a small motorcycle for transport,
and have wondered what the driver
thought of me, because of what I look like
and where I am from.
(Mostly, he probably thought
I could pay more for this ride.
And he would be right.)

I have experienced being a minority
for a couple weeks at a time
but I have never experienced racism.

I have experienced people
making assumptions about me
because I am American, and we are all rich,
but then I go home
to my middle-class life
where my culture tries to convince me
that what I have is never enough.

That is when my privilege
becomes something I want to hide,
making me want to take a scrub brush to my skin,
scouring off the white.

But wait - this is who I am.
And perhaps I can do a better job
choosing how I wear the color of my skin.

"Is it true Auntie Lynn, that racism is
increasing in America?"

Oh Josephine, the truth is that
it has always been here,
if we were honest enough to look.

Now, perhaps,
it is getting the attention it deserves.

Going Home

Behind every door, behind every curtain
in every ICU, there is a story.

It is a place where life is fragile and is held gently.
A place where the rest of the world falls away.
(It sounds peaceful when I say it like that.
But you know it isn't.)

Our family has a story.
Not all stories have a happy ending,
but I will tell you now - this does.

If you're looking for good news,
you are welcome to be part of this one.

Here's what happened.

The flu (the regular kind, not the pandemic)
turned into pneumonia in our mom's 86-year-old body.
It was February 8th.

The backdrop to this narrative
became a room in the ICU.
A room quickly filled with family,
trying to stay out of the way
as the nurses and doctors did their jobs.

It wasn't long, just a couple of days I think,
before hope was sent out the door
as if visiting hours were over.
We, however, were able to stay.

The doctor we named "glass half empty"
knocked the wind out of us
with his ominous description of to what to expect.
Preparing us for the worst, which is part of his job.

It felt for a while,
that the ventilator was keeping death alive.

And then later, so many days
filled with so many tears later,
that same doctor delivered to us hope,
as he went about his business
of saving our mom's life.

...

Off the respirator (for the second time)
trying to make sense of where she was
and what was going on,
and why so much family was there,
she asked, in a voice barely audible,
am I going to die?

No, no, we answer, you're getting better!
The words were a gift for us to say
and a blessing for her to hear.

And so she did. Slowly, bit by bit.
With much poking and prodding and hard work.
So much determination on her part.

Now she is going home. Today.
March 27th.

...

Writing this story down on paper,
I find myself careful not to equate God's love
with earthly outcomes,
as I speak of hope and healing.

Because we are all very aware that these
aren't the main characters in everyone's story.

Looking back,
recognizing the strength and comfort
we received from your prayers.
And for those of you who do not pray,
from your thoughts.
All flowing from the same love.

So very grateful.
Thank you.

The season of letting go

We gather
in the darkening sanctuary.
A small group of us
settle into the pews.

The beginning of a sunset behind us,
a fiery orb trapped in a narrow space
between the horizon and dark clouds.

In front of us
an invitation to be still.
To focus. To be intentional.
To be open.

Beginning, as always,
with the breath.
Closing my eyes, it feels
suddenly like going home.

Breathe in. (Receive.)
A prompting surfaces.
Lean into who I am
to become who you are.

Breathe out. (Release.)
Letting go.
Watching worries fall away
caught in the wind like falling leaves.
Spiraling upward before resting on the ground.

Breathe in.
Move over and make room for me.
(An invitation, not a demand.)
I shift to the left. Just enough.
Now here, let me help you with that.
Breathe out.

But... no wait, hold on a minute.
Panicking at the thought that receiving
help also involves letting go.

Breathe in.
Misplacing my trust.
Clinging so tightly to the wrong things.
Not confident enough to let go.

Then, hearing the words as a thought:
Remember, it was never meant for you to bear alone.
(Release.)

Now, watching the leaf fall,
sadness becomes mixed with possibility.

Seeing hope as a pile of leaves
covering the ground.

Trusting. And letting go.

Listen carefully

Today the grandfather trees spoke to me.
They told me to walk gently on the earth.
They told me it wasn't enough to just love it.
They told me to take care of it.

And I was ashamed.

The last breath

(for my dad)

Watching closely.
For the transition between now and... what?
Something else. Somewhere else. No longer here.
Not the ending. Definitely not the ending.
Understanding without needing to put it in words.

Experiencing the powerful comfort
of having heard and said I love you so many times.
The sacredness of continuing to love to this moment.
Until nothing. And everything. All at once.

Wedged between my brother and sister
in a small room with a small couch.
Next to our mom who showed us over and over
what it is to love someone. That much.
(Wondering how she could possibly say goodbye.)

Being prepared for this moment
through more than ten years of gradual losses.
Little by little. The slowest of seasons.

And then, in that room, you find yourself
suddenly unprepared.

(Looking back, I realize now
faith did not need a prayer
because it was part of everything.)

Two days of watching and waiting
(was it more than two days?)
and then it took us by surprise.

The last breath,
defined only by the absence
of the one to follow.

.....

Later, in the church I grew up in,
standing together, mom listening from up front,
finding strength in each other, we sang.
"My chains are gone, I've been set free."
Knowing it to be finally true.

Realizing the breath we've been holding
can now be released.

Thirty-one years

How well have we loved each other?
A curious question.
Thirty-one years together.
We must have done some things right, yes?

But how well have we loved each other?

My husband, a timber faller then wood worker,
strong hands, rough from his work,
gently cradled babies and held mine.

As an artist, drawn to the wood's inconsistencies,
knot holes, blemishes, insect trails,
intentionally focusing on the simple beauty
of imperfection.

Perhaps this same unique beauty,
these highlighted imperfections,
are also what makes this thing called "us."

There are few straight grains
in our relationship.
Curled shavings pile up on the floor of the shop,
releasing the beauty of the wood
into a smell that can only be called home.

How well have we loved each other?
Enough. Always. Forever.

Highlighting the imperfections.
Creating something uniquely beautiful
into us.