Christmas Reflections 2018

'Twas one week before the week

and all through the house

not a creature was stirring, not even a backyard deer or mouse 

And Pa in his skivvies and Ma visioning Sherpa cozies

were just waking up from a long night's nap

And all of a sudden there arose such a CHatter

it was time to arise, for many a matter 

When what to our wandering thoughts we recall

memories of the year, eager to share with y'all
and we realize how true the insightful saying is

The years goes by fast, but each day seems long

Jeff walks, on water?

2018 started out smoothly. Literally. Lake Springfield turned into the icy smooth world of Ana and Elsa's Frozen. Temps successively lowered just right, for the right number of days, to enjoy our first-ever iced-over Lake Springfield skating pond. We could have safely skated for miles. Instead, we skipped rocks creating sonic gongs that eerily reverberated in the depths below.

February 26th, a week prior to Jeff’s departure for a spring break Bolivia missions trip, in the home office Diane spun a half circle; and, like she was on ice but not, fell kerplunk and broke her dominant wrist. Within days she solo and basically one-handed journeyed 3-1/2 hours up north, to accompany Nana in her car for 5-1/2 more hours, to attend an already-planned youngest Grand's birthday party. She would not miss the "everything-princess" party for a broken wrist, or for the world. The next 8 months were spent visiting doctors, physical therapists, the chiropractor, and performing flexibility exercises. She has blogged enough about that challenging life experience, and is ready to carefully slide on as it continues to heal.

Jeff’s annual missions trip was filled with treasured re-connections. He loves Bolivia, and his heart is with all of the people he has known there for over a decade. And this year included visits to cool places like Salar de Uyuni, Potosi,  y Sucre. Students experienced the deep joy that comes from giving and living an adventurous life.

Son Nathan’s promotion scores a grade A++. It is a blessing with many increases. Prior to his new AAA job, paid vacation, sick, and holiday time were dreamy Santa wishes. Working from home as an insurance adjuster works well for him. Nathan sadly lost a "family" member, sweet boxer-mix Jersey, but soon gained a new pooch… weimaraner-mix Koda.

Diane's wrist felt mobile enough by June to co-host, with her sister-in-luv and our mega-helpful daughters, a first-ever family reunion in Libertyville, Illinois. Temperatures tied records for sweltering heat; but does that matter when indoor, air conditioned, alternate Plan B is available for the rare opportunity to eat and converse with so many beloved family members?

On the heels of the reunion was Nana/DeDe Camp. Two of the "littles" bravely journeyed away from the familiarity of home, Mom, Dad and little sister to travel afar with JJ and DeDe on a 9-hour-long summer "sleigh ride." They re-experienced our adventurous camp setting in Springfield for the ideal balance of time: Too few days for all of us to still long for their return, yet enough days to wear us out with fishing, swimming, super-duper bubble baths, and just plain playing. Then, we drove them back up to St. Louis for educator-and-field-trip-extraordinaire Nana Camp.

Mid-July we flew to sunny Florida. Snow-like sand, waves, Vitamin Sea, fine foods, and jazz music were just what this year's wish-list requested. Nothing can beat 5k walks on the booming beach and many chats with our dear friends in restaurant settings.

The loss of our beloved Greatest Generation family member, 92-year-old Spunky Aunt Ketra, became a celebration of her life. Jeff’s Mom was able to attend the funeral, plus three extra generations, to learn more about a giving woman's love of life. Our Grands enjoyed hotel swimming and observing aunts, uncles, and silver-haired treasures. Middle little was particularly curious about heritage relationships.

Thanksgiving in our home, with 14+ of the Fulks clan, gave opportunity to re-connect and laugh and cook with family, including a fine chef from Europe, knowledgeable scuba divers from the West Coast, and gifted renovators from the good old Midwest. And, we became better acquainted with Grandpup Koda. The littles will meet Koda at Christmas time, but might keep their distance since she is almost the size of a reindeer-in-training.

Jeff continues on faculty at Evangel University, runs most every morning at the nearby lake, loves watching sports of all kinds, and is ready for winter to come and go. Diane's part-time position in the Housing Office keeps married and older students affordably sheltered. We try to stay a predictable step ahead of unpredictable students, but who knows the unusual or outrageous that will present itself next!

Icons like Fiery John McCain and Steady George H.W. Bush will be missed. Diane's Dad and "41" were members of the Greatest Generation (both born in 1924). Instead of sky-sleighing like St. Nick, brave young pilots during WWII H.W. (Navy) and Dad (Air Force) served our country and/or fellow persons. They grasped a higher call which is something, in one way or another, all of us can strive to do.

Some in our peer group are beginning to talk Medicare, semi-retirement, Social Security benefits, and Hallmark Christmas movie-binging. Surely we are too young for any of that, but I guess not! One of us plans a daring visit to Springfield's busy Social Security Office soon.

Diane is morphing into a semi-homebody. Rather than 5 or 6 trips to littles' country, she managed only two 2018 trips up north. Her heart is always with our far-away Grands. So, November and early DeDe-cember included 12-Days-of-Christmas outlet mall and thrift store adventures. One never knows what unusual, seasonal, or comical finds will be at the thrift store. The Grands will be here soon...

So now, time draws near

One thrifted Elf Elf sweater to don

Paired with mega-sparkly and bell-clad Elf Elf slippers
(That were swiped, playing a white elephant game, from a friend's son)

One customized and snow-like white Frozen Lego Winter Wonderland
Hypnotic twinkle light walks, and, weather-permitting, S$$$C after church Sunday morn

And, of course, the reason for the season, Baby Jesus in a manger

On Christmas we celebrate... it wasn't fake news... He really was born

Holiday moments can be magical

So, to all... who live far off or somewhere in between
Merry Christmas and loving sentiments to all
Wishing you a more than blessed 2019

July 2018 Family Reunion

&

(Posted to this writing after-the-fact) Family Christmas photo 2018

This Elf Elf chimes:
A "magical" Christmas, indeed!

My Reaction to More Than the Hearings

Blasey-Ford's testimony shows how alcohol destroyed more than her peace of mind. It may have trumped the ultimate trajectory of her career, now a Professor of Psychology. In a dove-tailed way, my story backs up her testimony's legitimacy. It shows the potential grip that denial can have on reality.

Maybe I should feel more nonchalant or blasé about it (pronounced "blasay," where the ending "e" has a long "ā" sound); but I hate alcohol. It is not just the taste and smell that I hate. Specifically, I hate what it can do to a person, and to the person(s) with whom the drunk comes into contact. 

Drunk-shaming is not my goal, because the underlying issue that creates the real disconnect isn't alcohol... but rather blinding denial that disengages logic. Denial justifies, and the pattern of over-drinking continues, motivated by a deep-seated and stuffed fear or worry, on steroids. For example, a shameful secret or deep insecurities. It is the reason why a PG-17 rating is given to this blog (meaning those who wish to stay in denial mode but read on might learn more than preferred about the topic).

Drinking one beer with dinner or pizza is a different matter. Instead, it is the teens, the 20-somethings, the frustrated bored, the distinguished but stressed professionals. The ones who drink with the deliberate intent to get buzzed, and go beyond. To the point of blackout. Where they are set free to let their inhibitions run wild... and not remember (and legitimately deny because from their perspective, experience, and reality nothing happened). Like pleasant sedation into a pain-free world during a wisdom tooth extraction. Or, like the unsophisticated drinking episodes that some children witness in their households: Hostile take-overs or alien possessions.

Over-drinkers don't remember the pent-up anger, insecurities, or sexual inhibitions unleashed during their stumbling stupors or inebriated tirades, at times on innocent sober victims. Victims who will never forget. The phrase, "What happens in Vegas stays in Vegas" is inaccurate: The ugly that happens while black-out drunk did happen, and is often glossed over with habitual trumpery.

1960's sweet and pudgy Town Drunk Otis knew his weakness and where he belonged... he locked himself up when he was soused, and most in Andy's Mayberry knew it. And too, Genesis 9 Noah wasn't disturbing others inebriated (DOI) or harassing his family. Noah was where he belonged...  after over-sampling his vineyard, he slept in his own tent. Sadly, Son Ham turned the incident into an inappropriate show-and-tell.

Prudent discretion is a protective aspect of relationship, family life, and togetherness. Denial to preserve the family bond is legitimate. But when blinding alcoholism is involved, denial for the sake of the drinker's reputation avoids more than just the truth; it denies emotions of family members (the innocent victims) that get stuffed and do not vanish. If there is no closure within the family unit itself, genuineness and connection evaporate.

Events that happened decades ago should no longer matter, right? Unfortunately, much like after intense military service, delayed irrational responses to stimuli, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder, as well as trust issues, can set in. Even the Bible in Leviticus 26:36 appears to acknowledge PTSD: "...You will live in such fear that the sound of a leaf driven by the wind will send you fleeing."

My parents have both passed, so now denial for their sake is toxic. It opposes being genuine, whole, and "knowing thyself." It also denies a key decade during which my identity should have formed. This adult-child-of-an-alcoholic knows dysfunction, and I have seen why people can and do cover-up. Many nights as a child our entire household was disrupted when Distinguished Jekyll transformed to Angry Hyde; feeling afraid and unsafe, because protection and any form of nurture evaporated. Our pseudo 1960's "Father Knows Best" household was turned inside out. During those uncertain middle-of-the night hours, my parents displayed just how polarized they were.

The world felt eerily unpredictable. The sober ones fully experienced it, meaning Mom and her six young children. But stubbornly self-reliant Mom was distracted, with a capital D (babies and basic necessities like laundry, dealing with cloth diapers, cooking, and errands kept her overwhelmed--to survive, cleaning ranked at the very bottom of the to-do list, as an optional). Two prime reasons why the enormous pink elephant (or deeply unsettling situation) in the room was overlooked, for over a decade: 1) To protect Dad's all-consuming and distinguished career; and, 2) something I have grasped in the last few years, Mom's fierce need for independence from her Mother. Dad's career is a logical argument, because he was the responsible sole breadwinner for a family of eight; and, he had no father-figure for back-up financial help or strength. In other words, the world felt eerily unpredictable for Dad, as well.

In hindsight, I am realizing the question now more painful than ever to face is why no related close mother-figure was permitted to step in from time-to-time to help fill the nurture-void, not even during mom's 1962 gallbladder surgery (in "olden" days, a four-week recovery time was the norm). Instead, a nearby oober mom, whose children were friends with my older two siblings, took the older three (or maybe four) of us six orphans in, during the daytime, for a day or two. I was the annoying younger "third-wheel" or tag-along. The foreign home had a dark and narrow "Harry Potter" staircase that led to the second floor and its amazing laundry chute, for sliding clothes and towels from the second floor way down to the basement's laundry area. Too many towels, and possibly toilet paper balls, were pushed down that chute by an exploring first-grader.

The indelibly stored-in-the-brain's-hippocampus (memory-banks) decade-of-chaos happened. I cannot remember any of the specific dates, but some of the more intense incidents and feelings will never vanish. Middle-of-the-night eruptions, that sometimes lasted on-and-off for hours, really did occur in our home. As a young observer with no control over the situation, it was rattling. The most difficult factor was the sporadic unpredictability of it all. Will inebriated Dad wake up, again? Will Mom be here in the morning, or forced to leave? And, there was no discussion after the incidents. Six of the direct witnesses or victims still survive, with unsung memories, and our perspectives are each unique.

In late 1972-73, after a decade of Mom stubbornly believing she could successfully tame Jekyll/Hyde, my parents (within a year of each other) finally turned to Jesus to save their marriage. Alcoholic dysfunction and their strained marital history became water under the bridge. No need to disrupt the cart or expose "Noah's" past. With no cues needed whatsoever, aged 13 to 23, we all knew our roles. After viewing a Baptist horror film that literally scared the "hell" out of me, naturally at age 17 I accepted Jesus. I wanted no part of being left behind or going to a place like hell. During that same time frame, the other siblings found Jesus in ways that I still long to learn.

Our newly-saved family seamlessly pivoted from alcoholic dysfunction to sober dysfunction. Studies indicate that an ingredient in many long-term healthy marriages is light-hearted teasing... to laugh at our own and each other's idiosyncrasies. We all have them! With my parents, hurt feelings could occur at any moment, for the littlest and most unpredictable reasons.

In other words, our parents' marital dance was awkward, like 24/7 walking on eggshells. Even 45 years ago, there was no doubt who the tempered denial activist would be... the middle child. In 1973, during the last, more lengthy, and greater distance apart of their three separations, I was the senior-high middle-sib who begged for asylum, and lived 5 months with a discrete bestie. Hers was the "real McCoy" family that modeled what stable could be.

Living with my bestie was during the same time-frame of the invitation from another high school acquaintance to view A Thief in the Night... the horror film mentioned above (in hindsight, secretly set up by Mom during my parent's long-distance separation). I confess, overwhelming fear was the selfish motivation for accepting Jesus into my life. Fear issues overpowered carefree rebellion and blatant sin during vulnerable teen years. Asking genuine forgiveness for sin was delayed, for about 25 years! It was actually during insecure mid-life that I faced, head-on, issues that were blocked from view because of fear. With blinded eyes finally opening, I fell to my knees and faced elusive denial, over and over and over again.

The seriousness of that decade and its lasting affects were denied, in subtle ways, with no organized meeting whatsoever for direct closure. It was treated like the chaos... Never.Ever.Occurred. Mom individually offered a typical ACOA book to us, but I brushed my copy off as unnecessary (plain and simple denial); otherwise, in Dad's mind traumatic incidents never did occur. He was numbed or soused during the most intense moments. Since compact recording devices were few in the mid-1960s, and cell phones to record videos were as imaginary as a Dick Tracey Facetime-like watch; in Dad's judicious mind, and others who deny, the horrible aspects of inebriated activities like door banging, sexual tensions, and chaos were over-exaggerated.

When a tree falls in the forest, and its landing is not heard, did the tree really make a sound? and did the ground really shake? To prove that the ground really did shake, I had the middle-school inspiration to secretly record from my upstairs bedroom, using a tech-y jam-box (a gift from my parents, that Mom maybe hoped I would use for that purpose... but never verbalized?) onto cassette the sounds that sporadically filled our night-time home. If Dad could be convinced to listen to the playback, he would understand and stop drinking. Brilliant! The next day's playback was muffled and faint, but still haunting. It scared the pubescent zits out of me. My fingers quickly fumbled to erase the evidence, as well as any potential visits into my bedroom from imagined boogeymen.

In our childhood home, "Noah" did not hide in his tent. Like a freight train plowing through in the middle of the night, we were emotionally lacerated, especially the younger three. Dysfunction and denial, plus a lack of timely nurturing, created lasting emotional weaknesses. I hear cries from my parents' graves: "We were caring parents with good intentions, and we did so many things right. But now we finally get it. Denial is the worst thing ever!"

Being quietly tucked or situated in the birth order's invisible middle (like an undercover mole), I was at the vulnerable point of impact, old enough to remember yet young enough to not understand. Located right where a whole egg normally hits the bowl's cracking rim. The place where fissure occurs, denial is unjustifiable, and impact goes beyond repair. Sometimes yesterday's lunch is a forgotten memory, but impacting events from childhood are forever stuck in my mind. Those who might have helped soften the blow, Mom and two older siblings, were distracted. Being "untrained," and the Least.Likely.Nurturer.Ever, I regret not being there emotionally for the younger siblings; but the thought never occurred to me.

Because of yet another low blow to our already challenged family... 62-year-young Mom's 1990 sudden and unexpected death in a car wreck... scrambling took place and mysteries were left unanswered. While in its shell, an egg cannot be scrambled, no matter how vigorously it is shaken. But once the shell is cracked or broken and its contents are released, yolk and white become vulnerable. At that time the unprepared ages of her adult children, the 6 left-behind siblings, ranged from 29 to 39. Age-wise, we were adults, but most of us were stuck in a time warp.

It was like the memory of Mom too quickly vanished off the face of the planet, because Widower Dad was a fine catch and soon entered the dating world. Within 15 months he re-married, reluctantly squeezing Mom out of his essence to accommodate for a blended scenario (which, for older children, isn't easy-peesy-Brady-Bunch-ever-after). Any hope for delayed closure was lost with Mom's tragic and premature death. Life is stuck or stunted in reverberating ways.

Like a fractured wrist that heals a bit off, off enough to negatively impact handling overhand turns and overhead lifts, maneuvering in this world is not the same. Items can be dangerously dropped, and some movements create joint pain. And, too, for the innocent victims of a person's "harmless" drunken spree (or sprees), and for those who should be kindred but for one viable reason or another are not because of seductively distinguished and "saintly" denial, maneuvering in this unpredictable world is a bit off... with issues that create pain. Specifically, communication and trust/advocate issues that, to be frank, probably would have developed even if raised in the most perfect of homes (a revelation, post-mid-life. Many of my disassociated thoughts have already been shared in a plethora of blogs).

After writing through the wilderness, taking the longest route ever, and circling Jericho seven times, I am the one surrendering. Studying a stomach's navel is senseless, and totally figuring out our complicated past is, as well. I first-hand get how denial works and feel empathy for Blasey-Ford. I believe the incident happened the way she shared it, because I first-hand witnessed my father's black-outs, as well as the how and why of follow-up denial. Black-out allows a normally responsible and intelligent person to perform uncharacteristic acts; acts they are rarely required to own up to.

Hope for closure led Ford to bravely "come-out" in front of the world; to knowingly face ridicule and threats. For the sake of others, she decided it was worth the risk... no pain, no gain. Like a physical wound, emotional memories rarely magically disappear without proper closure, and so she tried. Ford is one of the braver people I know; because like Clinton's Lewinsky and Thomas' Hill, Ford now day-to-day faces a scary world that knows the deep and dark Kavanaugh part of her.

Ford is prettier than presented at the hearings. Maybe downplaying her appearance is a strategic form of protection? Her essence, and even those large, over-sized spectacles re-kindle memories of treasures lost as a result of family dysfunction and denial: Face-to-face interactions with my long-lost and still estranged younger sister. And also a younger brother.

... You see, we don't know how to interact, and we're afraid.

A 45-year relationship with Jesus Christ in e-ssence is now based more on love and trust rather than fear and rules. He gives reasons each day to trust and love larger. That safe relationship is why I live, learn, and continue to naively yearn for the remote possibility of connecting with all five siblings.

A middle-schooler's innocent hope 50 years ago was for that simple cassette recording of night-time happenings to heal Dad's addiction. The supernatural provided for Dad's physical sobriety, and we have come full-circle. Heritage bravery is needed, and the supernatural is again implored. We are no longer spring chickens. Time is tick - tick - ticking for follow-through closure... six siblings need to connect. Like Dad, we have honed the art of denial and still champion it. For reasons too complicated to explain, connection frightens the zits out of a few of us.

Sisters are different flowers grown in the same garden

DO Steal My Thunder: Remembering

I'll pay you a dollar if you go on the Lazy River... I said to one of my Grands while we were at a nearby pool together. 

The deluxe, indoor city pool had bells and whistles, like a tall spiral slide and a lap pool lane with a gentle current called "Lazy River." On-and-off during our 2-hour swim I tried to bribe our almost 5-year-old to experience the Lazy River, but received the same unwavering answer: No. He was too short for the slide, so it seemed like an activity he would love. Perplexed, I persisted. We will stand right next to you the whole time, on either side of you.

Just a few days later the reason for his insistent No's came to light. In Colorado, just the month before, our boy was excited to go on a water park ride with the exact same name, "Lazy River." People floated the narrow and slow current on individual-sized circular inner tubes. His little booty slipped down and into the center of his tube, trapping him more than momentarily, with the water level almost to his mouth and nose. He couldn't push his body back up, and that helpless feeling naturally terrified him enough to remember. 

After Lazy River, our Grand would claim
"There is no spoon," or Mermaid

A pre-kindergartner's lesson from that scary event: Since boys are not fish and rescue mermaids are just pretend, DO steal my thunder. It doesn't matter how much fun Lazy River is, it is called Lazy River. Even though the ride has no inner tubes. Still, no way. 

Poor little guy! I tried to bribe him into what he remembered as an unsafe position, to potentially put him back into a flashback situation fighting for his life, (call it deja-vu or PTSD-in-the-line-of-emotional-fire fear... it was real). He learned to not trust any Lazy River. If, on the other hand, his lesson was to never trust adults or swimming, that would be called neurotic. So, eventually he will be fine. Less than one month was way too soon for him to climb back up on the saddle. His respect for water will hopefully remain, but the fear will subside.

To remember is to learn from, especially after major life events, and eventually move on. A still-fresh trauma remains vivid in my memory. It was a super stupid in-home fall, on February 26th, causing a wrist fracture, with a less than satisfactory healing, leaving some everyday wrist motions uncomfortable and tight (i.e., the essential wrist pivot needed to comfortably chop vegetables or slice foods, wiping surfaces, and a variety of other tasks). In other words, it's a good thing chef-ing and window washing are not my day jobs.

During the first few weeks and months, like our little Grand's fear but in a daily way, it was basic maneuvering that felt unsafe. Falling again felt like a very real possibility. Moving through each day, sitting and taking the steps, all felt unsteady and scary. It is easy to feel that way, because the accident was random. It didn't happen while performing a fun or dare-devil stunt; just living, simply and soberly. Turning and simultaneously lowering to sit, into one of our home office chairs; over-shooting the chair because of a defective slipper's toe stub; with a backwards down, down, down trajectory and thud to the ground. The heart pounds wildly and, Oh, no, my hips! Thankfully, the booty's shock absorbers heroically managed the jolt. But one look at a disfigured right hand, and there was no doubt. Despite feeling only minor pain, a trip to Urgent Care was needed.

The fall brought some learning lessons: To turn or pivot first and then sit more intentionally (no pirouette spins at this age); to throw away toe-tip-compromised slippers (even though they were most comfortable); to notice when I feel a bit light-headed because of dehydration or eating fresh mushrooms (they affect balance); to not take for granted my never-injured arm (accomplishing tasks never imagined, like dressing one-handed, and other challenges that non-dominant, rock-star "Lefty" rarely before faced); to slow down, even when late for work or rushed; and, to enjoy every day. No.Lingering.Neuroticism...

Well, maybe just a little neuroticism, especially after almost falling again the other day. It was work-related, inspecting an unfamiliar older rental house. Backing up and forgetting a solo upward step (a crazy place for just one step, but that is part of the unusual quaint-factor of older houses). I was jolted off-balance into the beginnings of a backwards trajectory to down, down. The heart pounds wildly with fear, but somehow I managed to catch balance and not repeat a tumble like February's. It brought scary flashbacks, deja-vu, and self-scolding: Be.More.Careful!!! (Not very specific self-talk, but I knew what I meant and desperately meant it.)

And then, thinking ahead. If global warming holds off, slippery winter is on the horizon... Many of the falls that occur happen during snowy, icy winter. To live, and to love, and to love living, is to risk facing hazards and fear... to (potentially) figuratively fly! Accidents or scary experiences will, unfortunately, happen. If that is the case, healthy lessons can be learned from those events, remembering, and then moving on. 

To move on, mountains of Gilmore Girls-like chatty words combine into sentences, and then paragraphs, within blogs, and are published out into the blogosphere, that inspire others to fly. For example: Aren't daisies a most friendly flower? (You've Got Mail), and thunder rumblings are overwhelming and captivating!

Faith, & Luggage, & Wrists, & Family Reunions

A couple of months ago, I promised that an update would be forthcoming on my wrist and a recent family reunion. The update begins with the story behind this picture of various suitcase experiences flying to & from Florida... and how it relates to faith, and wrist healing, and family things...

On our recent Allegiant flight, my husband and I attempted to save money by sharing a suitcase. Unfortunately, it weighed 50 lbs. so we were charged an extra $50... in other words, nada savings (we thought 50 lbs. was the approved weight, but it was 40 lbs. 😞 ). For our return flight, with perseverance plus the help of our hotel's busy bell hop (and his accurate luggage scale for pre-airport weighing) we strategically moved weighty items and 3 shoes into my backpack (not 3 pairs of shoes, but 3 shoes... the only item left behind was suntan lotion). We hit 40 lbs., on the nose, and managed to save $50 🙂 and I was even able to cram my stuffed-to-the-gills backpack under the airplane's seat.

Luggage, the sequel: When we arrived to Florida after a non-stop flight, our 10-lbs. overweight shared suitcase (that we paid an extra $50 to transport) never came down the turnstile. After talking with the luggage handler, who said he unloaded every suitcase, plus a lengthy chat with an Allegiant representative, who assured us she would contact other airports for our suitcase, dejected and bummed, we returned to the turnstile area to head outside to catch our shuttle. 

I spotted... not randomly because it would have been hard to see had I not been inconspicuously eyeing every nook and every passersby red suitcase. Faith, and sheer desperation compel you to do things like that (because on-the-spot, fitting-my-body beachwear and exercise-grade gym shoes are close to impossible to find) ...in the far corner of a half-football-field-sized room what looked like a recognizable and (from that faraway distance) tiny red suitcase that was not there earlier. Neatly parked upright and alone, with not a soul nearby, close to the same location where we talked with the luggage handler. We bee-lined towards it, hoping and believing, and before airport security snatched it thinking it was unclaimed or contained an explosive. "Bingo!" but we prefer to call it faith... and even a miracle that we even spotted it.

The Florida sun's vitamin D was good for my right wrist, broken during a stupid fall on February 26, 2018. My dermatologist asked if I was drunk or sober (I never drink, but the tumble did have an inebriated flavor). The wrist healed a bit off and continues to be tight as it still mends. It can take a year or more for inflammation to fully subside. Faith keeps me applying essential oils Valor, ("chiropractic-in-a-bottle" says my cousin), and stretching the fingers to decrease tightness, and intentionally bending at the wrist to keep the soft tissue flexible. Grip strength has improved enough to right-handed squeeze and lift a half gallon carton of bone-strengthening Silk almond milk, to pour onto morning cereal. As I observe and use the wrist and flex the fingers daily, I naively believe it will eventually heal... better and stronger than ever.

And, Florida was a perfect get-away after co-organizing a family reunion (thanks, Nancy R.). It takes faith. Believing that 6 siblings will jump on board together to attend. Like herding cats, because vacations were long-ago set... or daily issues and midnight shifts interfere ... or healing is in-progress... or finances are tight to afford traveling far distances... or, one weary and tightly-scheduled (because of work requirements) 14-hour-DC road-trip attender, with 4-year-old in-tow, arrives on time for food but nail-biting later than expected.

And also, faith believes that weather will cooperate for the outdoor event. But when Chicago area temperatures are predicted to hit 96 degrees, and with humidity factored in it could feel like 107 degrees, having a nearby just-in-case indoor back-up plan for the last-minute change-of-venue was wise. That fortuitous venue, Heritage Church, saved the day for the first-ever Larson family reunion to be fun rather than melting. 

Our East Coast cousin was able to fly in to join us. Her dear Dad, our uncle because of marriage to Mom's sister, over a half-century ago (in 1962), took a heritage photo, using his then-fancy camera's timer feature. Twenty relatives, aged 1 to 65, uniformly yet in squirmy fashion tightly gathered around my parents' living room sofa for that ancient photo shoot. Our "techy" uncle manually focused the lens of the camera set on a tripod, and then faster-than-a-jackrabbit hurriedly slipped behind our sofa to join the back row of smiling men. At impressionable age 7, I was old (or odd) enough to admire my uncle's multi-tasking feat.

A picture is worth a thousand words; and, Mom and Dad and Uncle Dick would be pleased. For 2018, our brother teamed up with our talented professional photographer nephew. They were faster-than-jackrabbits. Thanks for the memories, my dear and diverse family. Memories of mingling and picnic eats; one classy Southern Belle aunt; a 4-year-old budding American Ninja Warrior; laughter and conversation playing indoor Foosball and intellectual Settlers of Catan; children's outdoor tree climbing and squirt gun fights; just hanging together on a record-hot and stifling June 30 day. And in faith (like finding our misplaced luggage, or the complete healing of my wrist) two removed sisters... though miles, memories, emotions, and mental rhythms -apart, will one day reunite to temporarily inhabit the same room, and after 25 long years converse. Mood.

Heritage photo 2018 is captured, naturally, like 1962's timed picture. Meaning faith was involved, to have everyone at least somewhat facing the camera's way. A few were looking places other than the camera's flashing red dot... cooperative, but engaged otherwise. Especially those on the right side of the group distracted by two (5'8" and 6'5") white-attired jackrabbit photographers hustling to their respective smiling places on the left side's back row. Timed pictures do allow for treasured character (and squirmy characters), during a split second moment in time, to be pleasantly and forever captured, together. Again.

2018's "He is risen." It is way more fun to gather for a planned reunion than a funeral.

Photo-op strategically coerced, post-eating & pre-outdoor play. No "hangry" or red & sweaty faces! Indeed.

1962

PT #9: Lose It, Then Use It

One perk of temporarily losing the use of wrist function is to appreciate the brilliance of the One who originally created the wrist (Psalm 139:14). The Craftsman. To observe the intricacy of every wrist movement involved in basic tasks, now dissected and more intentionally performed.

Like assembling favorite scrambled eggs. Does anyone really need a symphony of instruments playing Beethoven's 5th when breakfast preparation in itself is a masterful medley? plus a full-fledged workout of the healing wrist and hand?...

The beginning step requires hand strength plus a tricky wrist-swivel to lyrically dice a portion of red pepper into small squares; observe the slight wrists-bend for a two-handed egg crack; the curved and circular slo-mo (because of healing) but striving for "fast-twitch" wrist-rotate to whip together the egg's whites and yolks, like the circular motion of an orchestra conductor's wand; then, a firm fingertips-grip squeezes the bowl's side to prepare for the lift and forearm swivel-tilt to pour; the seasoned mixture hits a nutrient-infused, pre-heated iron skillet; its sizzle is nothing short of remarkable and music to the ears!

Mark the performance or accomplishment of the culinary moment. Enjoy savory eggs, and write the unscrambled lyrics.

The Fwrist fractured collage

In 6 weeks, IF there is anything to write about, wrist- or reunion- wise... I am in wait-and-see mode.

The Doc: Remarkable? Or Not?

A girl watches Cinderella, or Ever After, or Beauty and the Beast all her life. She lives it; eats it; breathes it; works hard; believes it. Her life will be amazing and turn out happily ever after. And then it does. Remarkable.

Prince Harry + Rachel Meghan Markle = Re-Markle-Ble. Fairy tale princess; tiara; prince; doing good things for others.

And then there are moments to mark, remark, and move on from. Things don't turn out as expected. A dream job is offered to someone else. A marriage ends. Or a variety of other not-so-happily-todays, anyway. One might literally hobble or experience daily pains or impairments in the body. Or have a stiff and gimpy wrist, and the doctor points out a surprise, but it is not a hoped-for surprise.

To work hard and literally pray to hear the words "I'm surprised" from the doctor; specifically from my bone doctor regarding my healing wrist, was the hope. Amazingly, Dr. Volgas actually spoke those very words, about my progress strength-wise and the forward and back bend of the hand at the wrist. But then with a grim expression he added the footnote: "Let's look at the x-rays to show you another aspect I am surprised about."

The re-markle-ble did not happen for my wrist (Fwrist). The slightly tipped and slipped wrist bone's one hope is surgery and a metal disk. But it cannot promise a better outcome. Especially when a patient has metal intolerances to consider. I remember these same discouragements after cancer's diagnosis. But here I am, 12 years later, in some ways stronger than ever.

Progress at the physical therapist will eventually hit a wall and fall short. Plan for re-markle-ble; face reality and move on; and somewhere around the corner there still might be a dreamy or bionic remarkable. The different and unexpected.

I prefer to hold to this intricate promise for my wrist and for my family's reunion after 25 long years: All things work together for good... (Romans 8:28).

PT #7: WOW It's a Halo

Since this wrist-fracture experience began and following the cast's removal, after visit #1 to the physical therapist, my initial three goals were to clap, achieve the yoga prayer pose, and extend my arms in front opened-palm. The clap has returned, and the prayer pose angle has changed from 45 to 60 degrees... Yesterday, Therapist Jill was enthusiastic about the substantial improvement. The most expressive she has been during a session.

I documented goal #3 in three consecutive Sundays of pictures, showing my opened-palm pose. Call me sentimental or superstitious, but the mere thought of permanently losing that relaxed and treasured palm pose creates emotional pain. It is a low-blow, because at the end of Sunday services after Pastor John speaks, in a Presbyterian way (I was kindred-raised), he gives a benediction that as a child I became familiar with: "May the Lord bless you and keep you. May the Lord's face shine upon you and show you His favor and give you peace..."

For years I have eagerly extended both arms for that benediction. Every time it produced goose-bumps; even now, despite supination-impaired Fwrist. Mother's Day Sunday we were too busy for a photo of my progress, fixing a special meal. Later that evening I checked Fwrist's progress on goal #3, discouraged that it looked about the same as the previous week. I actually hadn't noticed that Fwrist was still goal #3 impaired, because the morning's female speaker did not lead a closing benediction. I wasn't reminded of the continued arm-fail. Thursday's visit to the bone doctor might end up being this week's confirmation that Fwrist is still off.

On a positive note, yesterday Physical Therapist Jill prescribed an interesting new exercise. She calls it The Halo. I try to learn from Jill the key, including "what does this one do?" for many of the home exercises she prescribes. Specifically, what to notice to have proper pose. This one needs no other key than to provide much-needed hope. WOW [a reflection of MOM]--it's a halo. A visual reminder that someone's watching over me and our family reunion, occurring after 25 long years.