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.
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.
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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.
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