This is me...Updating my blog...

Hello, Dear Readers (if there are any of you left!!!).

Something has been on my mind a lot lately, due to various circumstances in the lives of some of my friends (the joy of keeping track of people due to Facebook and other social media!). This thing on my mind is, "What happens to people when they die?"

I hear a lot of the sentiment that when someone we love dies, they become our "guardian angel." My intent here is not to be a gigantic jerk-wagon, but instead to look at this idea a little bit.

I do not believe that people die and become an angel who looks after their loved ones. Why? For several reasons. One of the reasons I don't think this is what happens is because angels are a horse of an altogether different color. We are HUMANS. Angels are ANGELS. In some places in the Bible, angels are described as having multiple sets of wings, though at other places, they are described as being human-looking. I don't know exactly what angels look like because to my knowledge, I've never seen one. The point is, though, that there IS a difference between humans and angels. They have a similar purpose, I think, and that is to give glory to God, but I think they do it in different ways. Anyway, that's a whole other post.

The main reason I think that we do not become angels when we die is because that would insinuate that human beings aren't "good enough" in God's eyes. Sure, we're not good enough in our own right, but because of CHRIST, we are made holy in God's sight. Jesus came to live among us as "Emmanuel," as "God with us." That means that God came as a human being in Jesus the Christ. That means that "regular old humans;" humans like you and me, are redeemable and worthy to God. God makes regular, sinful human beings into beloved children because of Jesus, who came, not as an angel, but as a human. And Jesus REMAINS as a human today. When he ascended into heaven, he remained human. Today, Jesus sits at the right hand of God as a HUMAN. This is an AMAZING thing. This is a humbling thing. This is a loving thing.

I don't mean to be a jerk and dash all the thoughts about "Grandpa being my guardian angel" or anything of the like. What I DO mean to say to you is that Christ is FOR you, even and especially as a human. You don't need to become "extra holy" by becoming an angel when you die. Christ redeems all things, including what we are as flesh and blood.

I figure that the people I've been thinking about when I wrote this won't be reading this blog post. But, I still wanted to think about this subject a little more, and get it out there. What do you think?

Remembering the Beginning of the End

On this date in 2006 was what I call, "The Beginning of the End."

I remember because October 13, 2006 was a Friday and a man died at Restaurant.

Anyway, so October 14th was a Saturday. I was at Sis's house and was sleeping in "my" room when I woke to hear sirens going down the street a few blocks away. I absent-mindedly thought, "I hope that is no one I know." Just then Sis burst into my room saying, "Get up! We have to go to the hospital!" I thought, "OH CRAP! Did BiL electrocute himself!?" (He's an electrician).

Anyway, Sis said that Mom's friend called from the Emergency Department to tell us that she had taken Mom there. Mom had blood in her urine (a symptom called "hematuria). Mom's Friend drove her to the hospital where they performed some tests and then referred her to a urologist.

Fast forward to the urology appointment a few weeks later. Mom was diagnosed with bladder cancer. It ended up being Grade (not stage) 4. Grade speaks to how fast and aggressive a cancer is while Stage speaks to how advanced it is. So, she had a weird Grade 4, probably stage 2 or 3 bladder cancer. The doctor took a scope and burned the tumors off at first. That's how he staged and graded it. The next course he tried was intravesical chemotherapy, which is different from systemic chemotherapy. Systemic is what you're probably thinking of where a person gets an IV for a while and then usually they feel sick and often lose their hair. Intravesical chemo is such that the doctor inserts a syringe into the person's bladder, puts the chemo in the bladder, and then it sloshes around for at least 20 minutes before it is eliminated. After the four treatments were done, a follow up appointment was scheduled.

Just after her chemo ended, I moved to Seminary. I had taken care of her in the best way that I could while I could, and felt called to a new venture. The chemo treatments hadn't been TOO hard on her...They certainly seemed easier than when she'd had breast cancer and had endured systemic chemotherapy. I had driven her to all her bladder appointments and had handed the baton to my siblings.

I probably hadn't been at Seminary for more than a week or so when YS called and said that Mom had more hematuria. I suggested she call the urologist to see what he thought. So, they went back, he burned off more tumors with the scope thing, and it was decided that "Big Surgery" was the only way to get rid of the cancer. So, we convinced Mom to have the surgery, and so it was scheduled.

She had her surgery on March 21st. The procedure is called a radical cystectomy, in which the surgeon did a complete hysterectomy and bladder removal. At that time, the doctor guided her ureter to a stoma on the outside of her body. That's how people without bladders eliminate waste...The ureter goes to the stoma which then empties into a bag that is attached to a person's side. The adhesive gets changed about once a week or so, and a person empties the bag as often as it starts to fill.

But the thing is...Mom had dementia even then. And when she woke up, she was never the same. Looking back, and having talked with some professionals, it seems like she may have had a stroke while under anesthesia. Post-Surgery Mom was drastically changed from Pre-Surgery Mom.

So, that's a long post to basically share a short sentiment-Dates are important for those who grieve. It's been a year and a half since Mom died, and yet I still grieve. I think about her every day, and especially on days like today that hold significance for me and for our family. This date marks "The Beginning of the End" for Mom's earthly pilgrimage. It marks the "jumping in point" for really having to face dementia head on. I'm still learning from this, but also still grieving. I hope that in another five years, I'll have more time and more peace with it all. Peace to you wherever you are in your own grief journeys.

Thankful

I recently got a haircut. I really love when "haircut day" rolls around, which is usually about every 4-5 weeks, since I wear my hair short. The time before this haircut, I tried a different style, but I couldn't style it the way the cosmetician did, and so gave up on trying that one. So, this haircut was a smidge overdue.

The thing was, I am really cheap. I wanted to wait at least a month to get my new haircut. Then I ended up waiting a little bit longer because I had a doctor's appointment.

What? Why should that matter?

I have been having headaches every morning on the top left of my head. They're not horrible, but they're bothersome, especially considering they've been going on for 2 months. So, I finally went to the doctor. After listening to me describe the headaches, the doctor wanted me to have an MRI to make sure it wasn't a brain tumor. This was the second time in about 9 months that the words "brain tumor" have been spoken to me, so I was a little nervous about it all. And, still cheap.

Cheap, because I didn't want to get a haircut BEFORE the MRI in case I DID have a brain tumor and would need surgery. After all, they would have just shaved my head anyway. Why spend twenty bucks if the hospital would just shave my head in a few days, anyway?

So, last Tuesday, I had my MRI. I have had MRIs before, so I knew what to expect. I just tried to chill out in the tube, and then waited anxiously for the results. Finally, on Thursday, the doctor's office called and said it was clear. What a relief! How thankful am I that these persistent, nagging headaches are not something malevolent growing inside my brain.

So, the day I got my results, I got a haircut. Even though it seems that I'm thankful for the simple thing of getting a new haircut, I think it's something more profound; a gratitude that I could GET a haircut and not have to worry about getting my head shaved. It's a gratitude that I am still pretty healthy, even though I have no answers as to why I have these headaches. But, it's not a tumor. And so, I am thankful-for health and for haircuts.

Realization

I was just reading some older posts and realized I missed some more stuff...

First off: The awesome family related news I alluded to in February...YS got ENGAGED on Valentine's Day! She and her man decided to get married on April 30th at the Flamingo Hotel in Las Vegas! All my siblings except for OB went. It was SO awesome, and I'm very glad that they took the leap. YS's husband is a very awesome guy, and I am excited that he's officially my brother in law. He treats her well, and they seem genuinely happy together.

The other big thing: I broke my wrist in March. Some friends and I went roller skating in SeminaryTown, and within 15 minutes, I had fallen. A roller rink employee was right there when I went down and she said, "Are you ok?" I was afraid of getting into trouble, (odd, I know) and so I just said, "Yeah, I'm fine!" Then I got up and started skating around again, thinking that I had just bumped it a bit. But then, the roller rink announcer said that there were no shoes or coats or sweatshirts allowed in the skate-putting-on-area, and so my friends and I all went to move our stuff to the cubby holes. I sat down and my wrist was still really hurting, and I felt like I was going to pass out. I mentioned that I was really in pain and one of my friends asked if I could move it. I could, though it was sore. So, as I got more and more light-headed, they told me to lie down. I asked, "Do they have free water here?" (I have a penchant for asking stupid water-related questions), and then one of my friends came back with a bottle. Another employee came over with a bag of ice, and looked at my wrist a little. Then, my friends said, "It's time to take Molita to the hospital!" So, we got up and were walking out when the guy who took our money came up and said, "You hardly got to skate, so here is your money back." So, we took our money, loaded into the car, and made the drive across town...

AND BOY, WHAT A DRIVE! Every bump hurt like you would not believe. It didn't really, REALLY start hurting until we got into the car, but man...Yikes. I was saying words that are not befitting for a seminary student to say. Oh, and I was laughing hysterically because I am not very good at crying. So, there I was, laughing and swearing profusely, amusing all my friends on the trip.

When we got to the Emergency Room, I was still laughing, and when I went to the window, I told them my name and that I fell down and hurt my arm. I took a seat by all my friends and we waited. When we got to the hospital, I stopped swearing, but I was still laughing and saying fake swear words (Fudgesicles, shoot, frick, and the like) because there were little ears around. Finally they called my name and my friend Sarah walked with me back there. I was having a hard time breathing well because it hurt so bad and the lady told me I needed to breathe better or my face would get numb. So, they got me a wheelchair to sit in because every time I moved, my wrist would hurt more. Sarah pushed me back to the waiting room after the receptionist took some of my info. Then, some dude came and Sarah took me back to talk insurance. At that point, I was mentally cursing whomever chose to put square tiles down in the hallways because each groove caused me serious pain.

When I was done giving insurance information to that guy, Sarah pushed me back out to the waiting room to wait with Meganne and Matt. Some other guy was waiting for his wife, too, and I think he was thoroughly amused by me. All the laughing, I think, was odd for people to see. While we were waiting, one of the seminary employees came out of the ER with stitches in her face. She'd been at a hockey game and had gotten smashed in the head with a puck! So, we are ER buddies now.

Finally, they called me to come back. And so, Matt, Meganne, Sarah, and I went back to a room. Matt and Sarah were classmates of mine, and Meganne is a music therapist, so I said they were my "Spiritual Care Team." We waited and waited and waited, and Sarah took photos of me on her phone and uploaded them to FaceBook. Before long, people were commenting and the like. Another couple of friends saw the pictures and Sarah's status update and asked if we needed anything. So, about half an hour later, they showed up, Matt went and got them out of the waiting room, and they brought bottles of water, some cookies, and a never-been-chewed doggie toy to replace the decimated water bottle I'd been squeezing for the pain. It.was.EPIC!

By that time, I'd had X-rays, and the nurse practitioner (I guess broken bones don't require a doctor) had talked to me. Medical people who were around would occasionally glance in to see what all the laughter was for, and I think that my laughing made them under appreciate the immense pain I was in (really, you wouldn't think a broken wrist would hurt that bad, but it DOES. It REALLY does)! Finally, about ten minutes before it was time to go, they came in and gave me a splint, and asked if I wanted something for the pain. I said, "YES!" The nurse asked if I wanted a pill or a shot. Meganne chimed in and said, "She wants a shot! It'll work faster and she's in A LOT of pain." It was funny, but Meganne does know about these things since she was a music therapist for Hospice (We even started to write a song about my pain and the experience of it all...She says it helps). So, the nurse came in and I got a lovely pain killing shot, and then was discharged with instructions to go to the bone doctor later that week for a cast. Matt and Meganne and Sarah and I went directly to the WalGreens and got my Vicodin, and when we got back to Seminary, Sarah put me to bed.

Having a broken wrist is not pleasant, but the experience was helped by friends who helped me when I couldn't do things for myself. I am very blessed to have such considerate people in my life. I had people to take me to the bone doctor since I wasn't allowed to drive my own drugged-up self (Thanks, Jealaine and Sarah!). I had people to do my dishes so I didn't have to stack them up for a month. I had a neighbor who would open things I couldn't, and another friend who bought me some bath supplies that would help me be able to bathe more easily.

But, I think one of the other highlights of having an awesome orange cast, was the fact that I got so many awesome people to sign it! The day I got it on, my new bishop was at the seminary to meet me and the other WND assignee and his family. So, in addition to many friends who signed it, Bishop Mark Narum also signed my cast. And then, the president of the seminary and his wife ALSO signed it (He's an ex bishop and his wife is just freaking amazing anyway). AND THEN!!!! Because the president was new, he had to be inaugurated in early April. And WHO does the inauguration of a new seminary president? THE CHURCHWIDE BISHOP!!! So, when that day rolled around, I walked up to Bishop Hanson and I lifted up my arm and I said, "Will you sign my cast?" He said, "Sure!" And I handed him my Sharpie and he signed it right in the palm, where I had conveniently left him a space. It was so funny and awesome for me. I mean, how many people can say that Bishop Mark Hanson has signed their cast? I almost wish I'd saved the thing when they took it off...Almost.

So, that is what has been happening in my life. I hope things have been good for you all, and that none of you have broken any bones lately. And if you have, my sincere sympathies are with you.

Wayyyyy too long...

Sincerely, my apologies for not updating with any sort of regularity. I have thought often about the need for updating, but simply have not gotten around to it.

Much has happened in the months since my last post. I graduated from seminary in May with my Master of Divinity degree. I had interviews with two different parishes and because both issued me a call, I had to discern to which one I was called. The Holy Spirit absolutely led me on the decision, and I am happy and excited about where I find myself.

I was ordained at my home church in Illinois on July 30th. My old pastor came back to be the preacher at the service. I thought it was a great sermon, and I am SO glad he was willing and able to be there for such an important day. Two ladies from my new congregation made the trip from North Dakota to Illinois to be present with me on my ordination day. I thought THAT was so awesome! That's a really long drive. I also had several family friends there, old friends from grade school and high school, and of course, many fantastic and supportive people from my home parish. I experienced a lot of love and affirmation that day, and I give thanks to God for their presence in my life and in the world.

I start my new call tomorrow morning. I'm so excited that I get to start on a communion Sunday. This is a humbling calling, and it is my hope and prayer that I be a good pastor for these people and their community. They seem so amazing, and I hope that we have a good time together.

Something really neat about my new congregation (one of many, many things that makes them flippin' sweet) is that when we were interviewing, they told me that they were the only church left in the town. This being the case, they said they wanted their pastor to be a "COMMUNITY PASTOR." They wanted to make sure the pastor would not sit holed up in the office all day every day, but instead to get to know not just the members of the church, but also of the village. I thought that was incredibly mission minded, and amazing.

Anyway, I already feel very welcomed at the congregation, even with my limited exposure to them. J and I went to the Finn Hall Annual Steak Fry tonight, and that was a good time. It's a very Finnish area, and they take pride in that. The church has deep Finnish roots, so this old German is going to have to learn about the Finns. One thing I learned is that the Finns can be very "sisu," which means, "stubborn or determined." Ha ha. Thanks to the congregation council president for telling me that one.

Seriously though, I am considering myself very blessed by all of this. I am excited, and a little scared (as I always am with anything new), and I hope that I am a good pastor. I hope I don't make any huge mistakes, and that I can be an effective and engaging preacher and teacher. I have many hopes, worries, and ideas, and I am hopeful that the Christ who walks on water will beckon me also onto the surface, and will catch me when I begin to sink.

Movin' on Up

Well, hmm.

Today was a big day for senior seminarians in the ELCA. Most of us got our regional assignments today on a piece of paper in an envelope in our mailboxes (that's how we did it at our seminary, anyway). I already know my region and synod because J is a rostered leader and bishops don't like to give up their rostered leaders. It's been kind of nice to not have to worry about where I'm going, but again, I find that I ventured away from "the norm" on this one. I didn't have to worry about doing CPE in between junior and middler year because I did an extended unit my first semester here. I didn't have to worry about being flung to some state about which I knew nothing for internship because I was married (though there was anxiety regarding the question of whether or not I'd actually get to live with my new husband). And now, I know where I'm going for first call because J is a pastor. I find it slightly odd that each step along the way, I've had a slightly different experience from a lot of others. Oh well. The majority of my classmates are waiting to see what synod they'll be assigned to. Bishops can start calling on March 3rd for most of us, though one region is earlier, and one is later. Please continue to pray about this.

I'm looking forward to first call. I like North Dakota well enough. The people are great, the scenery has its own unique beauty, and the winters are...interesting. The ONLY thing I really dislike about North Dakota is that it is 800 miles away from my family. I have always been very close to my sisters, and I think we all three are grieving that I will not be around much for the next (at least) three years (probably). Yet, the call of God to serve the Church is not always full of sunshine and roses. Certainly, I don't think I am DOOMED because I won't be near my sisters (and brothers and nephews), but I have realized even more fully these past 11 months HOW VERY IMPORTANT family is. I will miss my sisters, but I have hope that someday J and I will move back to be closer to them. I don't need to be ridiculously close, but 13 1/2 hours is a bit excessive.

Anyway, I keep reminding myself that we get vacations. We have phones and webcams and some of us keep in touch via Facebook. And, I am married and love my husband and want to live with him. And, it's also kind of fun and interesting in its own way that I am the only one in my family who is flung far and wide.

I know that many of my classmates are having similar reactions to their own assignments; a mix of grief and excitement and wondering what is next. I know that some of us are happier than others, and I know that many of us are in different places regarding accepting the changes coming our way. But most importantly, I know and deeply trust that God is present through all of this. The Holy Spirit has called and continues to call us to be messengers of the Good News of Jesus Christ. I know it because I see it and live it every day as I live in community with my amazingly talented and thoughtful classmates, and as I live in community with the wider church and the world.

Please continue to pray for all seminarians, their families, and the places to which we will be called. God hears our prayers.

Senioritis

I just wanted to put it in writing that I'm really not into this semester. Ha.

I am SO ready to be done with school that I am having a really hard time focusing on classwork. Although, all of us are required to do Spiritual Practices 2, which is a class that focuses on our nutrition, spiritual, and exercise lives. I'm digging this because I'm working on losing some weight and so when I'm down in the Re-Formation room (haha, get it?), or when I'm playing on my Wii Fit Plus, I don't feel guilty because I'm "doing homework." Anyway, we shouldn't feel guilty for taking care of ourselves, anyway. I'm also trying to be a bit more intentional about devotional practices, too. But my "devotion time" is usually involves music (specifically hymns), and being musical isn't something I like doing when there is a chance other people might here me. So, I don't always engage myself. Anyway.

Also, there is really good news on the ol' family front... I'm excited, and will tell you later when I am given the go-ahead. And for the record, no-I am not having a baby.

Anyway, that's about it for now. Peace out.

The light at the end of the tunnel...

Well, here I sit, at my desk in my dorm room, realizing that this is the last semester I will ever "get" to live in a dorm. I have, for the most part, enjoyed my dorm dwelling days, though I do find it frustrating sometimes. Such is life.

I realized the other day that I haven't posted on here in a very long time. I think I only had something like fourteen posts in 2010. Woops. My bad; I had other stuff going on.

Since my last post, some things have happened. My hard drive had massive failure in mid-December. I was not able to recover anything from it. However, I did find several of my assignments from last semester still hanging around in my "sent items" folder from school. Victory #1. Also, I found my flash drive and realized that I had EVERY SINGLE FILE from my internship on there. When I was finishing internship, I took my flash drive to my office, put all my office files on there to move them to my laptop, and then never deleted them from the flash. Awesome. Victory #2! Really, there's nothing too horrible that I lost... I did lose three year's worth of Prayers of Intercession, all of my college files, and many of my seminary files. I lost a lot of pictures, music, and a letter I wrote to my mom when she was sick, but that I never gave her. I'm grateful for Facebook because many of my pictures are in albums on my FB page. Since then, I had a new hard drive put in my computer, and have that all squared away. Now I just need to wait for external hard drives to be on sale (or for my husband to let me put my stuff on his), and backup my files.

During the month of January, J and I took an 11-day vacation. We had Christmas with his family in Minnesota, went to Illinois for my approval interview (the last official step with the Candidacy Committee), had Christmas with my family, went back to Minnesota to see J's grandma, then headed home. Good news-I was approved for ordained ministry in the ELCA. I'm pleased about this affirmation, and am pleased that they see the call that I have for this ministry. It is good to be "done" with that.

During January, I also worked diligently on my January Interim (J-term) project. I worked it out with my advisor and school for me to do an independent study. I worked hard, read a lot, thought a lot, and wrote a lot. The final project ended up being 23 pages (including 2 pages of resource information in an annotated bibliography style). The title is, "With Sighs Too Deep: A Pastoral Resource Regarding Dementia." The project was my effort at creating a biblical, theological, and pastoral resource for people to use. My advisor told me that she wanted me to also make it personal, because that would bring it alive for people. So, I wrote and wrote and wrote, trying to integrate the Bible, theology, pastoral care, and my own experience with dementia together in a cohesive, engaging, and helpful way. I was slightly worried when I handed it in when I came back to school because I'd never done an independent study before, and I wasn't sure that what I did was exactly what my advisor was expecting.

I found the paper in my campus mailbox the first week of class. I was on my way to a "clergy tax seminar" on campus. When I got there, I opened the binder (I wanted it to look professional!), and flipped through the pages looking for comments and the like. I like comments because they give me a better idea of what works vs. just seeing a letter or the wonderful words, "CR." Anyway, there weren't too many comments, but when I got to the last page of text (before the resources), I saw that she had written at the bottom of the page. Apparently, I did a good job because the comments she gave me were really humbling. She even mentioned that she would like to see me find a way to distribute my work to a larger audience. She and I are exploring a possibility or two, and in the meantime, I have offered it to people who indicate an interest. I hope that it is helpful in some fashion or another for all who read it. I am passionate about the subject of dementia and of helping people to know God's comforting, redeeming, and loving presence in the midst of such catastrophic forgetting. I'm also excited that it was so well received by my advisor/grader and that she is helping me find a way to distribute it more widely.

Apart from these things, school is back in session. Four years has really flown by. When I was an underclasswoman, all the seniors used to say, "Seminary time really flies!" I always thought, "Yeah right!" But as I sit here in MY last semester, I can't help but agree. It's amazing. I'm excited to serve the Church professionally, and I am excited at what might happen in the future. I realized the other day that people must already see me as "pastor-like." I knew this was the case for SOME people, such as those who I served while on internship, but the realization has deepened. I have been asked many theological and practical church questions in the past few weeks, and I have been involved in several pastoral care and theological conversations with people from back home, as well. About half the time, the people have prefaced the question or conversation with, "I've been thinking about xyz, and I thought, 'Who better to talk/ask than Trisha!'" It's slightly daunting, but even more exciting at the same time. I enjoy it, and am continuing to live into the knowledge that God gifts people for ministry in many ways; one of which is by gifting the Church with teachers and leaders who help shape us.

Anyway, that is what has been going on in my life lately. I hope you and yours are well.

Dream

Ever since I have been a small child, I've always had very vivid dreams. I remember a dream that I had from the time I was around 4 or 5 because it was so vivid, even. Often, I consider it a gift to have such an active subconscious, but sometimes I am troubled by what my brain brings up. But, on the whole, I appreciate the visions of sugarplums that dance through my head.

I think that because of my long history of vivid dreams, and the fact that I remember many of them has helped me become fairly good at decoding what they are saying. Often, I think back to what was on my mind before I went to sleep, and can then figure things out.

I had a dream yesterday that was very odd. I finished my annotated bibliography for a class, took the book back to the library, and sat down at my desk to send it off to the professors. However, I was quickly sidetracked by a horrible bout of nausea (figures, right?). So, I went to lie down on my bed. Soon enough, I was asleep and dreaming this:

I was down in this big basement like room because I was following a bear. It was like I was going into a water level in Super Mario Bros, though it wasn't cartoon-like. It was dark, and I think I had come down a pipe. I jumped off the little platform and into the water. The water didn't really make me feel cold or anything; it was simply something in the dream. As I swam along, I found myself soon enough at this really gross little house that was on stilts to keep it out of the water. It looked all black and mildewy and everything. As the house came into my sight, I also saw the bear I had been following. It was also swimming, but just as I got it in my sight, it pulled this big hose that had a plug on it. I realized it was draining all the water out of the big room, so I went right back to the platform to try to get out, but too much water was already gone. I couldn't get back up onto the platform. Soon, all the water was gone and the bear was backing me against a wall. I was very scared as it continued to back me up until my back was against the wall. But, as I backed into the wall, I looked down and saw a bunch of really long 2x4s right there. As I looked down at them, it didn't register in my brain to pick one up. The bear was snarling at me, and at this point I picked up one of the 2x4s and started swinging it at the beast. Even though the bear was very close to me, I still missed. But, the bear started backing away anyway and then it turned into a less scary thing; a man. It was at this point that I woke up, gasping for breath because I was so scared.

As I lie there in my bed, I thought, "What a strange dream. I wonder what it means." Then, out of the blue, the meaning hit me. The bear was dementia and the big room was grief. The dementia pulled the plug and made me stuck in grief even though I tried to get out of it. When the dementia started coming after me, I didn't know what to do about it and I felt trapped. I saw tools to help and eventually picked one up and used it to help me. I missed because dementia is such a huge opponent, but I felt empowered. When I felt empowered, the bear (dementia) turned into the man (something more manageable). I was fighting it back because I needed to before it ate me up. I kept missing the bear but it kept backing away.

And that's the meaning that came and whacked me upside the head. I have found myself wondering what the water is, but I don't think it had much to do with the dream. I wasn't cold because of it, nor was I drowning in it. It was just something that was. Often, I see water as a symbol for chaos in dreams, but that doesn't fit in this one because the chaos seems to increase with dementia because a person can feel so helpless. I also do not quite know what the gross house was about. Other than maybe the house is symbolic of the brain. The fact that it was covered in mildew (akin to plaques afflicting those with Alzheimer's, or like the blocking of blood vessels due to vascular dementia), and that it was far too small for the bear to live in makes me think that the house is symbolic of the brain. I don't know. Those two things didn't "come to me" the way the rest of the meaning did.

Anyway, I just wanted to share that dream because of the odd circumstances around it. I very rarely wake up gasping for air, but I was really afraid in this dream, and I was also really putting forth an effort to hit the bear with the 2x4. Crazy, I know. But, also an interesting look into my subconscious.

'Tis the Season...

Well, folks, here we are at the end of November. It's hard to believe this year is almost over already. Yesterday was the first Sunday in Advent. Three more Sundays of Advent, and then we find ourselves at Christmas.

This is also the season of "end of the semester crunch." That sounds like a cereal tagline. "Stressy-O's-they've got that great end of the semester crunch." Haha.

Anyway...In chapel today, our senior preacher talked about the hustle and bustle of the "Christmas Season," meaning how secular culture hijacks the month of December to hawk their wares and get out of the red. He talked of how Christ's birth means more than that. These words were a good reminder.

I find it hard to believe all that has happened since last Christmas. I am a person who often measures time by looking at significant events that have occurred. I remember when X happened because it happened near when Y happened, or on the anniversary of Z, or whatever. Since last Christmas, the hubster and I went on the "Tour de Sushi" vacation, Hub and I celebrated our first married Christmas and Valentine's Day, I made the trip back to Illinois twice to be with my sick and dying mother and then for her death and funeral. I chanted in front of 400 people during Easter morning worship as the intern pastor, among other duties I held as an intern until my experience was over on May 30th. Housewifing for a couple of months held my time, as well as another vacation, skydiving, bringing two of my three nephews to stay with us in ND for a week, and then moving back to school the same weekend as a good high school friend got married. My first semester of senior year is quickly drawing to a close, but not before my first birthday as an orphan, and the dawn of "the Holidays" with this same reality for me and my siblings and countless other people in the world who have experienced the death of loved ones this year.

With all of these truths, with all the joys and sorrows that have come this year, the importance of Christ's presence with and for this world is a great truth to remember. The love of God in Christ Jesus is not something that takes away the hurt and grief of no longer having mom and dad, grandma and grandpa, and other loved ones, but this presence IS a reminder that through it all, we are not forsaken. We are not forgotten. The ones we have lost are not forsaken or forgotten. I take comfort in Jesus words in Matthew 28:20, "And remember, I am with you always, to the end of the age."

The world DOES change. Things happen that we wish wouldn't. Pain and happiness mingle together; poignantly at such a time in the year when so much time and energy is spent on "family." And so, with the new reality for me that has only come through my orphanhood, I am learning to embrace "the Holidays," not with a fake, plastered on smile, but with authenticity, with a renewed sensitivity to others, and with the assurance of my Lord and my God: "I am with you always," to love, to forgive, and to offer life where once there was death.

For All the Saints

Today is All Saints Day; a day in the Church where we remember the saints triumphant (those who have died in Christ) and the saints militant (those who are still living).

In chapel this morning, the leaders read off all the names that were given to them of people related to the community who have died since last year's All Saints celebration. What struck me was how MANY names were read off. I personally knew of several of the people, and some that weren't mentioned. But there were a lot of names brought forth to remember this day. What a reminder of the faith around us and how we all live in the ripples.

I am grateful this day for the example of faith that has been shown to me through many saints. This year, obviously, All Saints Day has taken a slightly different bent, and yet I remember my mom at the same time that many people remember parents, aunts, uncles, grandparents, and friends.

This community is one that has experienced loss this year. We have grieved the loss of a friend and classmate, the loss of parents (I'm not the only one by far), the loss of loved ones. And yet we still gather to worship, to embrace one another in friendship, and to serve the God who has called us in our baptism to be in this place for a time. We prepare to be sent out in service to the God who calls us to be salt for the earth.

We do so because God has given us people to love and to serve for Christ's sake in the power of the Holy Spirit. For those who have gone before, rest in peace in the love and mercy of Almighty God.

Time heals all wounds?

Well, friends, it has been a while. Dreadfully sorry.

Anyway, the thing I've been thinking about lately is the saying, "Time heals all wounds."

I call the BS card on this one.

Time does not "heal" all wounds. I don't think "time" itself helps, even. What I DO think is that as we REFLECT on the situations in our past, we learn from them. We begin to integrate our new "changed" self into a self that has meaning. Depending upon your situation, the amount of reflection and time varies.

It has been seven months and one day since my mom died. I just keep thinking, "Why don't I feel better about this yet?" Sure, some days are better than others, but when it comes down to it, when I'm sitting in my room all alone, I can get pretty sad. And so I reflect. And I think a part of why I don't "feel better" about it "yet," is that I'm still going through that first year. There are lots of things that enter my mind that are new. For instance, October 14th was a hard day because that was the anniversary of the day Mom's bladder cancer basically invaded into our lives. And the surgery to fix that was what caused her cognition to seriously deteriorate. Another example of "new" things that calls for reflection and grief is something others might find silly. I am a tactile person. I like to touch things. I often run my hand along the wall as I am walking. As I was walking down the hall to my room the other day, all of a sudden, a vision from my past flashed in my mind. It was of me walking up the stairs with my hand on one wall and Mom holding my other hand. The memory was one of fondness, but tinged with pain as I no longer have Mom to hold my hand, and I can no longer walk up and down those stairs.

And still, I reflect. I grieve. I pray for and think of others who grieve. I've said it before, but I'll say it again: Grief work is hard work. And not work that time itself can do.

Memory Walk

The Alzheimer's Association is the leading organization for supporting patients, families, friends, and other caregivers affected by dementia. Their primary focus IS Alzheimer's Disease, although they do help people affected by other dementias. Their mission is to accompany patients and their loved ones through the disease with education, care, resources, and support groups. They also are one of the leading organizations that fund Alzheimer's Disease research to try to find a cure for this thieving disease.

Every year, the Alzheimer's Assocation puts on a Memory Walk in communities across the country. The Memory Walk is much like the American Cancer Society's "Race for the Cure." Walkers register and seek to fundraise in various ways. Then, they go to a designated place on the day of the walk, experience a short program, and then walk along a particular path.

This year, I formed a team for the local Memory Walk in SeminaryCommunity. We sought donations and fundraised a decent chunk of money. I felt very passionately about participating to the fullest because of all that's happened with my family and me during Mom's illness. I walked for Mom. At one point during my seminary career, I went and talked to a lady at the local Alzheimer's Association chapter and she gave me a lot of information, books, an Alzheimer's Assocation bag, and a listening ear. It was invaluable. So, I wanted to help repay the favor.

I also wanted to raise money so that we can get closer to a cure. I've recently heard of some promsing research in Australia. I am incredibly hopeful that these scientists, doctors, and professionals are on the right track so that people will not have to fear the diagnosis of "Alzheimer's Disease" in the NEAR future. I walked for the Alzheimer's Association.

Honestly, I walked also for my family and for me though. My maternal grandmother had Alzheimer's Disease. My paternal grandmother had undifferentiated dementia, and Mom had Vascular Dementia. I do NOT want to follow suit. Also, my oldest brother is turning 50 this year, and I want a cure to be available when and if he is diagnosed. I want a cure for if and when my sisters and if and when I get diagnosed. Losing people slowly to such a disease as dementia is too terrible a thing. I can't imagine what it is like for patients when they still are aware of what is happening. I walked for patients, families, and caregivers all over the world. I walked for you.

So, I participated in the Memory Walk to support the Alzheimer's Association. I was the 5th ranked top fundraiser for this community, and that is something of which I am proud. I walked for many reasons. I hope to walk in the future. It is a tangible thing that I can do to help me continue to process through the grief that still very much affects me. It seems almost appropriate that the walk here was six months to the day of Mom's death. I hope that I can continue to be a voice for those who have had there voices robbed from them by dementia. I hope that I honor my mom's memory, and I hope that someday soon, we can live in the joy of a cure and a prevention of a disease that tries to steal who a person is.

Residence Hall Laundry

Well, here I sit in my dorm room at Seminary. Prolog Week is over, and this is probably the last weekend I'll have for a while with absolutely no homework or reading to do. So, what am I doing to live it up? I am trying to do my laundry.

Exciting, I know. But stick with me here... At Seminary, we get to do our laundry for "free" in our housing units. In the Res Hall, there are three washers and three dryers in the basement. We all share and share alike.

The thing is, there are many people living in the residence hall, and so sometimes there are no free laundry machines. To exacerbate this problem, one of the RH washers is out of commission right now. So, there are TWO washers and three dryers.

I just walked down to the laundry room because I haven't done laundry here yet and I need to wash my sheets and some clothes. But, right now, both of the washers are occupied, and this got me thinking.

It "should" be pretty obvious that in life, sometimes things won't happen exactly the way we want them to. However, I think we forget that a lot of the time. And then when something like all the washing machines being occupied happens, we're reminded of reality. It's not a big deal right now for me to have to wait for a washer to open up. But for some people, especially in our "gotta have it now" society, that would be a HUGE deal. And unfortunately, sometimes reality vs. what we want comes to a head and spills over into our relationships with others.

I remember vividly when I was a middler (2nd year M.Div student) and had my laundry in a washer. I'm usually very intentional about making sure my clean clothes don't sit in the washer for extended periods of time, knowing that other people might be needing to get their own chores done. So, imagine my surprise when one day, someone called me and sniped at me to come get my laundry out of the washer. In a rude way. Even though, I'm fairly certain the washer had JUST stopped.

I am fairly certain that had this woman been a bit more diplomatic and polite about the situation, I would not remember it. But, since she snapped at me and was rude, I DO remember. And in that remembering, I also think about how my actions and words and tone of voice affect how other people "get" me.

So, as I sit here waiting for a washing machine to open up, I am reflective about community and about the compromises and patience which are important to embody. When we "gotta have it now" we are taking away from others who also have a desire to get things done and to live their lives. Unselfishness is important. Politeness is important. This community and every community in which we find ourselves is important. I hope to remember this always, and to live in ways that honor the various types of people in community, as well as myself.

This Old House

My childhood home has been sold. Way back in February, someone looked at it, liked it, made an offer, and that offer was accepted. We wanted to sell Ma's house because nursing homes are ridiculously expensive, and we wanted to pay them. Ma was always very good about paying her bills, and she would not have been happy to know that Pastures was not getting their money. Anyway, so this person made an offer and it was accepted. But, something about banks these days made it so that we needed to wait two months to close on the thing.

Fast forward to March. Mom died. Guess what? Since the house hadn't been closed on, it became the property of my four siblings and me. Wrench in the plans. We're very thankful that the woman who wanted to buy it was understanding, even to the point of having to wait to get all of our signatures on the sheet, get our signatures notarized, and then back to the bank. Fast forward some more to June. FINALLY the house was sold.

As of last Wednesday, the place I grew up is now off limits to the likes of me. It's kind of weird, really. I lived there for 24 years of my life. Most of my memories are from there.

And now, I can't even go there anymore. The tree my dad planted for me (we got them for Arbor Day in 3rd grade) now belongs to someone else. The old crappy shed that I worked on cleaning out now belongs to someone else. The grass I successfully grew on the north side of the lawn (my dad had tried multiple times to no avail) is no longer mine. The walls that have heard the echoes of so many laughs and so many, "I love yous," and so many conversations no longer are mine.

Now, someone else gets to enjoy the shade of my pine. Someone else can store their belongings in my shed. Someone else gets to mow my grass. Someone else gets to laugh, love, and share life within my walls. Their pine, shed, grass, life.

And even though I grieve the loss of yet another familiar thing, I have hope that this woman will enjoy the place and make new memories and bring joy to her home. HER home.

Grief and the Trunk of My Car

Yesterday was my last day in the office at the big church where I am the intern. My smaller church doesn't have a building at all, so all of my office time has been spent at Big Church (BC). BC is a fairly large congregation, replete with two pastors, an administrative assistant, director for Christian education, parish nurse, and me (for a couple more days, technically).

One of the great thing about BC's "staff church" status is that the staff is excellent. Sure, there are tensions between a couple of people, but nothing insurmountable. We all have gotten along quite well during my ten months of internship.

All of the staff have been great to me during my time in North Dakota. In particular, the administrative assistant, whom we shall call "Smiley," has been a wonderful addition to my life. Not only is she a model of efficiency and pleasantness, she is also very, VERY fun, and to top it off, she reminds me of Sis.

Anyway, yesterday was my last office day, like I said. I was reflecting on how I'd been at Restaurant for 10 years and how I'd been at BC for ten months, and how much more sad I was at the thought of leaving BC.

I waited until everyone else left before I went to get the box I had put in my car (Arnold). Even though they knew yesterday was the last day I'd be working with them in the office, I didn't want to upset them with that reminder. So, Smiley gave me a hug and then they all left.

Which brings me to the gist of this post. I went out and got the empty box to put the bulk of my "office stuff" into. I went to my office and loaded my books and pictures and some things into my bags, and then put most of the stuff in the box. Then, I started carrying my things out to my car. I opened the trunk and realized that the only times I ever open the trunk of my car are times fraught with grief.

When Mom was dying, and J and I decided to drive all night, the trunk was opened to put in our suitcases. The day of her funeral, we opened my trunk to put plants and other funeral home things in there. When we needed to head back to North Dakota, I had to put the last box of my stuff from my childhood home into the trunk, full well knowing that I would probably never get to see the inside of that home ever again because someone wanted to buy it. Even though the death of one of the most influential people in my life is different from leaving a well-loved "job," it is still a grieving process.

So, yesterday, as I was cleaning out my office and taking my things to the car, I realized that the trunk of the car is a place, for me at least, where grief's shadows linger. The trunk lid is opened, and in are poured boxes and contents of my life during times of grief and processing, as well as some of my tears and angst.

I knew full well that my internship was a "fixed time-frame" job. That's what it is to be on an internship. I knew that Mom's time was drawing to a close. That's a part of what it is to be a human being with a terminal illness. And yet, these obvious truths did not stop and do not stop the grief. Which leads me to yet another point: Grief is not a bad thing.

Grief is a healthy thing. Certainly, the loss of loved ones, the realization that we don't get to see people who make us laugh and feel loved on a regular basis, and the growing older and losing the things of childhood cause all sorts of different emotions within us. They hurt, often to the point we think it is unbearable. These things cause tears-even for those of us who don't often cry. All this grief and change help us to see that life is not some perfect utopia, but is instead a place where good and bad things happen everyday. But it's healthy. Grieving is healthy, even if at the same time uncomfortable. Grieving reminds us that we have loved and been loved; reminds us that we have made memories that are irreplaceable; reminds us that we are indeed alive.

And this makes me want to go and open the trunk of my car.

Years gone by...

Tomorrow, my father will have been dead for fifteen years.

As time has passed, I have experienced different emotions on this day. Last year, I was out golfing with YS and getting a sunburn on one half of my body. Three years ago, my youngest nephew came home from the hospital after being born. Nine years ago, I was taking final exams in high school; thirteen I was graduating from eighth grade...

This year, I find myself a bit more grief-stricken than in some of the other more recent years. I think this is because of the added grief of Mom having died just two months ago. Because our grief at the loss of Mom is so new, I find myself reminded of the intense grief that came from the trauma of "the accident" and Dad's death. So, I remember and find the grief a bit compounded.

I do give thanks, as I reflect, that the last words I said to both of my parents were ones of love. After Dad's heart attack, I stayed (relatively) calm, got the car stopped, and stayed in it while YS and our friend jumped out. I stayed with Dad for a few minutes, and only left because YS and Friend were standing by some guy I did not know. I didn't want them to go with some stranger in their shock, so I got out of the car. But, not before I looked at Dad and said, "Dad, I love you."

That day at Pastures, I told Mom several times, "Mom, we love you." And, well, the story about her death is just a couple below this one.

I don't really know what the purpose of this post is. I suppose I just feel kind of alone in the midst of all this. I'm 800 miles away from my family. My friends are spread far and wide. And thankfully, most of my friends still have their parents. I reckon I am trying to get some of this off my chest and out there. I miss my parents.

Everywhere I go...

It seems that everywhere I go these days, "Moms" come up.

This grieving thing is harder than I thought.

Please continue to pray for my family and me.

Sacred Space

*This post could be considered disturbing to some. This is my disclaimer.*

Last Wednesday afternoon, YS called me at the church where my office is. Older Brother the Younger had been to Pastures to see Mom, and while he was there, the doctor came to see her. He said that she was not doing well and that it was probably a "matter of days." YS wanted me to know so that I could plan accordingly. I decided that I would leave for Illinois the next morning to be with Mom and my family to walk together this journey before us.

The rest of the day was spent doing regular "intern pastor" type stuff. We did Wednesday night Lenten worship, and some of us were chatting afterward. The pastors and staff at the church were incredibly supportive of me, and wished me safe travels for the 800 mile trip back to my home communities.

When I got back to the parsonage that night, my phone rang again. Sis was on the other end of the phone. She needed my advice because one of the nurses at Pastures called and said that it was looking like Mom would not make it through the night. She wanted me to tell her if she should go to the home or not. I tried to be "pastoral" and let her make her own decision, but ultimately, Sis said, "What would you do?" I told her that I would go to the home, just so Mom wouldn't be alone. Sis then said she'd go. So, she and YS went to the home, and Jake and I hurriedly packed up and left for Illinois. YS said that while they were with Mom (til about 2:30 a.m.), she told her, "Trish is coming, Mom. Trish is coming."

Jake and I drove all night. The drive from the parsonage to Pastures takes approximately thirteen hours. But we kept going, and we got to Pastures around 11:30 a.m. A CNA took us to Mom's room, where she was on oxygen and largely unresponsive; lying on her bed and facing toward the window showing a beautiful sunny day. She looked to be awake, but aside from her breathing, she was not moving. I leaned over her, kissed her forehead, and told her, "We love you, Mom." Her eyes moved a tiny little bit as I said these words to her. As we remained with her,I held my hand on her shoulder and we watched her breathe. In. Out. In....Out...........In Out In Out. Again, "We love you, Mom." For twenty minutes, we watched her breathe. In...Out...

And then there was nothing.

I tried to feel for a pulse, and when I felt nothing, I pushed the nurse call button. The CNA came in, checked, and then called the nurse. Mom's struggle was over. We spent some time with Mom's body, listened as some of the Pastures staff came in and gave us condolences, and I traced the cross on her forehead, proclaiming the promises made to her in baptism, "You have been sealed by the Holy Spirit and marked with the cross of Christ forever." She waited for me; the last of her many wonderful gifts of which I was the recipient. She may not have cognitively known that I was her daughter, or maybe she did. But I think she waited. For me.

Needless to say, this past week has been incredibly painful for my family and me. I have been a little surprised by the intensity of grief I've been feeling. Don't get me wrong, I really, really loved Mom, but I thought I was "ready." She'd been so unwell for so long, I thought I'd be okay once her death came. But really, I'm realizing that we're never really ready to stop making memories with the ones we love. We're never ready to lose that last connection, no matter the circumstances around the death. It's hard. This grief work is hard work, and so I appreciate the prayers of many faithful people, near and far.

Life in the midst of death

Last Wednesday, YS left a message for me in my voicemail saying that Ma had been taken to the hospital. The Nursing home (We'll call it "Pastures") had called Sis earlier and said that Ma was having high blood sugars, a weird heart rate, was pale, lethargic, and otherwise not doing well. So, Ma was taken to the hospital where she was diagnosed with sepsis and pneumonia.

These two things are the leading causes of death for people with dementia. Therefore, my siblings and I were concerned for our mother's health, although we have been for some time. Her dementia has caused her further cognitive decline to the point that I no longer have to wonder if she knows me because I know that she does not.

I went to Illinois to see Ma over the weekend. It was a long and exhausting trip, but I'm glad I went. My siblings said that she was singing in her sleep. They didn't know the tunes, but were thinking that they were hymns. When I visited Ma, she was sleeping most of the time. She was not singing for me, so I sang to her. At one point while I was singing, "Seek Ye First the Kingdome of God," she folded her hands as if in prayer. She could not say any prayers with me, nor did she sing with me. But, her brother and sister in law went to see her the next day and said she was singing in her sleep while they were there.

I don't say this flippantly, but instead, in awe. Mom was always a singer. She sang at funerals, weddings, community events/dedications, in multi-community karaoke contests, and in church. She sang at home, in the car, and while working in the yard. One of the hardest parts of seeing her mental decline was the fact that she stopped singing. Imagine our surprise when we heard (or heard of) her singing in the midst of such a serious illness.

I'm grateful that somewhere deep inside her blocked and deteriorating brain; in her personality and character, lay her love of music. I'm grateful that the gifts of God in her life continue to make themselves evident, especially as my brother mentioned he thought he heard her sing, "Alleluia, Praise the Lord" at one point. Singing was a way she could reflect the goodness of God in her life. The fact that music has returned to her reminds me of Romans 8:26 where we hear that the Holy Spirit intercedes for us with sighs too deep for words. The Holy Spirit, I believe resides in her and gives her the strength and ability to sing in the life she has left. Even if it goes away again, this time of regained music has been a gift.

Anyway, I appreciate the prayers of those who choose to pray for Mom, my family, and me. Thank you for listening.