the art of canning peaches...

 at least in one's mind.

Every August my mother and father would roll into the graveled driveway of our then farm home, ladened with two bushels of vine-ripened peaches. They had stopped by the peach orchards on the way to my house while I was at home making preparations by pulling out the pressure canner, the quart-sized jars and the new lids.

So is this why I have had a strong desire to can peaches this season?  It has been at least a decade since my mother and I would spend the last of our summer days canning peaches. We anticipated the joy of canning peaches together every year. I still hear in my mind's memory the dancing metallic sound of the weight as it jiggled atop of the pressure canner and the sight of the many quart jars of peaches stored on my pantry's shelves.

Even before I opened my eyes to the haze of the morning's light spreading into my bedroom this morning, the very first glimpses that stirred in my consciousness were of my mother's face, she was wearing pink and she was smiling. And I thought of those late summer days we would spend canning peaches once again.

 But now September has arrived and the peach season is past.

the power of words and song

Every morning I pick up a turquoise blue journal with the words, "With God Everything Is Possible" etched on the outside front cover. It is a journal I kept this time last year and it records the every day pithiness of my days as well as those last months and days of my Daddy's life. I am purposely each day reliving those times through the words I wrote over a year ago. It might sound peculiar to someone if they have never actually experienced the death of someone close, someone whom you are responsible for as the main caregiver. But for me it brings a certain realm of peace and surety. Not of completion necessarily, just the provision of the amazing surge of His grace and mercy.

My mother's behavior a year ago caused an anguish of soul that was very difficult for me to bear. I got to the point that even eating became difficult. Her illness along with her circumstances of change and medications had caused her to be very abusive with words. Even though it was necessary for her to live in a facility, due to her proximity I was responsible for her care and upon a daily visit I would leave crying with hurt and not knowing what to do. In the meantime I was also managing my home, my children including homeschooling and very occupied with the care of my bedridden father who was living upstairs dying of cancer. Now why am I recording all this now?  Because I want to convey with total abandon and truth that the thanksgiving, joy and peace that flows from Him is real and I am only made the richer from this seemingly hard thing my life. James 1:3 states, "Consider it pure joy, my brothers, whenever you face trials of many kinds, because you know that the testing of your faith develops perseverance." It is unexplainable to those who do not know the power of His Holy Spirit as the treasure it is living in these earthen vessels. His grace and mercy is as real to me as what I can clearly see with my eyes. It cups me and holds me close. It strengthens, encourages, and never lets go.

Now it is winter again and I am sitting here with my dear mother. No longer are her words abusive. She is at times as sweet as dripping honey thanking me with her upturned eyes looking into mine. There are  times of great confusion and talking incessantly without really communicating anything. Other times, which are getting more frequent, are bouts of hallucinations. These personally are the most difficult for me.

Yesterday, she was scared. Bringing her comfort with my words did not work, so I went to the piano and I played hymns. Those old hymns of the church, the ones I knew she knew and somewhere they must still be back there in her consciousness. I played those familiar tunes and as I sang those ageless words I could sense His peace pouring into me too. I got up from the piano and went to peek in on her. Her eyes were closed, for awhile anyway.

Joy is not gush; joy is not mere jolliness. 

Joy is perfect acquiescence, acceptance, and rest 

in God's will, whatever comes.

~Amy Carmichael~

May the God of hope fill you with all joy and peace as you trust in Him so that you may overflow with hope by the power of the Holy Spirit.

Romans 15:13

grace links

Now that mother is living with me here at my house she is surrounded by loud talking, the barking of a dog, constant conversation, giggles and laughter, the sound of the piano being played, all ages of people either coming in or leaving through the several doors throughout my house. She lives in the midst of school lessons, the girls squabbling with correction given, the voices of song and appreciations bestowed. She hears the familiar and poetic words of the Psalms as they are read to her by someone sitting in an armchair by her bedside.

Can I even begin to explain the depth of unexpected emotion that squeezed me tightly this afternoon?  I was spooning vanilla pudding from a cup into her partially opened mouth when Rose began playing "Amazing Grace" on the piano. I could have wept with the beauty of that simple moment. Many times I feel as if I can only manage baby steps in the fields of His grace, one small step in front of the other. But those times when the waves of His grace come washing over me it leaves me unabashedly soaring deep and wide.

" He will my shield and portion be...as long as life endures".

as the world turns

It is an up and down kind of world these days with Mother.

I sit on the edge of her bed in order to get eye to eye contact. It satisfies something in both of us, something that can not be divided, a world of us.

How I miss her.

I seek relationships with women my mother's age. I find myself gravitating toward them, not expecting to replace my mother by any means, but just the comfort of women the age of my mother is, well comforting, like a warm cloak on a cold night.

 This realization first captured my attention when Witt was getting married. One morning I was making the table assignments for the rehearsal dinner and out of the blue an avalanche of extreme sadness washed over me. I was flummoxed with this emotion and the force of its strength. I continued with the task at hand, but my mind and emotions were not synchronized. Then it became necessary for me to make a telephone call to Claires' grandmother to check something about the guest list. After I had hung up from my conversation with her it hit me!  Her place was empty, the sharing of this important memorable event with my mother was not possible and her absence was greatly felt.

My world is not any smaller these days, quite the contrary. It just courses up and down, through and out, sideways and curvy as it turns on its course. I never know what a day may bring but I do know where my hope and strength abide.

This photo was actually taken back in early November, it puts real faces to our world.

the weight of happiness

It does not matter how much extra activity this Christmas season entails, daily trips are still made to visit with my mother. Her ability to be understood or to understand what we are saying may depend on any given day, but we have had some very good visits with her.

This afternoon I crawled in the bed beside her.
She said, "I'm happy now."

Sometimes the small things say everything. 

basketfuls gathered

 I visited mother by myself this afternoon. The children were taking a walk in the woods with the neighbors, vegetable soup was simmering on the stove at my house and the flour mixture was waiting for the biscuits I would make upon my return.

As usual mother would eat very little. If it was not for the high protein shakes she imbibes, her food intake would be extremely low.

I was driving home just when the sky was at its most glorious, streaked with the colors of cotton candy.
 "Thank you Lord" were the words that began my prayer. Tears swelled my eyelids and slid down my cheeks. "Thank you Lord for being able to visit the nursing home, for the nurses, the aides, the staff, and especially for the precious souls I get to see and touch every time I enter into that place."The rewards are very evident to me, my life is only richer. Seeing with the eyes He so graciously gives is a gift.

I read in the newspaper recently how the elderly are a heavy burden in our society, and those words gripped me.  It is not a burden to care for those you love, yes, it is most certainly a responsibility, but one with great yield. I arrive there every day sharing my few "loaves and fishes". But I seldom leave without the gatherings of full baskets.

timeless truths

Back when cross stitching occupied my days, I stitched this picture as a gift for my Mother. When it came time to move her from her house to a care facility and to bring Daddy to my house in order to care for him in his last days, I snatched it off her guest bedroom wall. I promptly positioned it on the sun room windows.

 Now that school has begun back in full, my two visits a day to be with my Mother has inevitably slipped into one visit daily. My aching heart says sitting with her all day would not make it any less poignant. I only get one go at this type of keeping. Constantly I question if I am doing the very best I can. It is my heartfelt desire to honor my dear Mother and to honor my Sovereign God. In the process I want to walk and not grow weary, to run and not faint.

 My mother was a servant. By this I mean she served others well. Her role was to assist my father and she absolutely loved serving her children and grandchildren. Idleness is difficult for her these days, yet she is very limited in what she can do. But I know in her mind she performs tasks over and over. I can ask her what she has been doing and she reports how she has made her bed, or cooked breakfast and straightened up.

When she comes to my house I look for things for her to do, simple tasks. One day I even gave her a  paring knife and some cherry tomatoes to cut in half for the tossed salad, Claire was by her side making the salad. We watched as Mother began popping the tomatoes in her mouth. Redirecting her to the task of what needed to be done was not hard.

When she came to the house to celebrate Charlotte's birthday last week, I gave her the task of putting the candles on the cake. It made her feel useful, a need she retains for being in service to others because some things truly never change.

the Aunts

The telephone rang early this morning, which is unusual and startled me, unaccustomed to its invasion of my morning's quiet.

 It was one of the aunts.

"How is my sister?"

It all started when my parent's living arrangements changed. I became the main contact for all three of the aunts (pronounced ah-nts in my birth state); my father's two sisters, aged 81 and 90, and my mother's sister, aged 75. They all hail from the next state.

When Daddy first became sick and was diagnosed at the hospital, his sisters would call for updates. When he arrived at my home they would call regularly in order to speak to him.  Since his hearing was not the best I would put the setting on speaker phone and carry the phone to his bedside and thus began the so familiar conversation of brother and sister. As I heard the manner in which they carried on with each other, it would fill a portion of me that reaches down and defines family. Of course, they never failed to ask about my mother and her present condition either.

Almost weekly the voice of my mother's sister would come over the distance via phone lines wanting to know how her sister was doing. A special relationship developed with her these past months especially since she lost her only daughter back in January 2009. She has managed to displace the connection I have lost with my mother. Her voice is my mother's and my grandmother's, the females that went before me.

After Daddy died, all three of them would call quite often. I learned to position myself, grief needed like-company and the sharing of a life that had slipped from us wasn't instant like email.

As a grown daughter of my parents, I am also characterized as a grown niece of my elderly aunts. I am cognizant of the fact that they have known my father and mother longer than I have. But the history in the shared span crossed is sweet indeed.

That is why I am utterly thankful for those phone calls. The tuggings in my heart are welcomed springs as I pick the phone up to talk with any one of these three special women... the aunts.

Aunt "Easy", who will be 91 in July. I can only hope I will be as strong in body and mind as she is if I get to be her age.