Please stay out of the ditch!

Eight weeks ago today, my brother Bud arrived at our home in a terrible state. He had no money and no ID. His wallet and all of his documents had been lost. He looked and smelled like a street person. His home was about to be condemned. We learned that he had been living in it two years without heat and a year and a half without water. My other brother and I knew he had been drinking, and that his life had been in a terrible downward spiral since his wife had left him 5 years ago. Among other things, he had lost the job he had held for over 30 years, when his drinking caused him to do something incredibly foolish. We had no idea how bad things were though, because every time we tried to offer help, he insisted he didn't need it.

When his phone was disconnected last spring, I began stopping at his house every week or two to check on him. I would pound on the door to no avail, and finally go to the side of the house and scream under the window where I could hear him playing a computer game. When he came to the front door, he would never let me in the house, but the stench wafted out and was overpowering.

So when he arrived here eight weeks ago, I was relieved that he was finally ready to accept some help. He moved in with us, and we began our attempts to clean him and his life up. My husband and I have expended enormous effort trying to help him get his life back on track. My dear husband removed from the house: 50 large plastic garbage bags of trash, 20 bags of bottles and cans and 12 bags of filthy clothing, which I sorted through trying to find something salvageable for Bud to wear. Removal of these 82 large bags accomplished nothing more that a pathway through the house, but it was an obvious beginning. When the code enforcement officer came to inspect the house, we had a plan in place for the cleanup and essential repairs, so he did not go forward with the paperwork. He agreed not to actually condemn it, as long as Bud didn't live in it, and we did what we promised to do.

During the first two weeks, we helped Bud determine what in the house could be cleaned up well enough to be used. A huge problem was that the cat had urinated and defecated all over everything which Bud had strewn around in his drunken stupors, depression and apathy. The house was knee deep in "stuff" of all types. We rented a storage locker. My other brother helped my husband clean the items which could be saved, and they were moved out. We hired a professional cleaning company to haul out the rest of the debris and scrub the walls, floors, etc. We got a plumber in to repair the water lines, and a heating company to repair the furnace and hot water heater.

We got on the internet and ordered a birth certificate for Bud. We arranged for him to get to the DMV for a replacement license and to Social Security for replacement of his card. We arranged for a friend to take him shopping for some new clothes, and had a hairdresser work on his long matted hair and unkempt beard and mustache. We got him to the Adult Protective Unit at Social Services and set things in motion for financial help and a place to live. We helped him figure out what insurance policies he had that he could cash in for some money to work with. When the house was cleaned out, we got a real estate agent to come and arrange for its sale.

When it became clear that it would take a period of months for him to get into senior housing, we helped him find an apartment, got his belongings out of storage, helped him shop to purchase what was necessary to function on his own, and moved him in six days ago.

Four days ago, I stopped in to see how he was doing. He had nearly everything unpacked and settled. The aroma of a delicious meal he had cooked for himself wafted through the apartment. He seemed happy, and declared that he and the cat were "at home" here. I was thrilled and so excited that he seemed to be taking hold of his life. He had already made some phone calls that I planned to remind him were necessary.

Last night he called me and was clearly drunk. His speech was slurred, he couldn't remember what he wanted to say, he started to tell me something he had already told me that afternoon when we had happened to meet on the street. When I confronted him, he admitted he had been drinking, but insisted he wasn't drunk.

He had been sober (according to him) for four weeks prior to coming for our help, and during the seven weeks he had lived with us. But, five days on his own and he was right back at it. My heart sunk. I can't really begin to describe my feelings. I slept last night, but thought of him every time I stirred during the night.

After church and lunch today, I wrote down the number of Alcoholics Anonymous and headed for his apartment. He was just leaving to go out for a walk. He wasn't drunk, but wasn't looking any too well. I asked him if he remembered talking to me last night. He said that he did. I gave him the phone number and then reminded him about something that happened when we were kids. He was probably about 7, and I would have been 10.

We lived out in the country and went to school on the bus. We waited for the bus on the opposite side of the road from our house where there was a large open field along which an unusually deep ditch had been dug. It was much deeper that the ditch on our side of the road. For reasons I never did comprehend, Bud loved to crawl down in that deep ditch. I cannot count the number of mornings that he did this while waiting for the bus. He inevitable slipped in the slime in the bottom of the ditch and got his slacks all muddy. My mother would come running out of the house, haul him back in to change his slacks, and hurry him back out as the bus pulled up in front of our house. On some occasions the bus driver waited as Bud came running back out the driveway.

One morning I distinctly remember, Bud announced to me that he was going to crawl down into the ditch. I said, "Bud, don't do that. You know you will slip in the mud and get all dirty."

"No, I won't slip this time."

"Yes, you will....you always do."

Of course, he went ahead and crawled in the ditch, and there was a rerun of numerous other mornings.

So today, I reminded Bud of this story, and concluded with, "Bud, please don't crawl back into the ditch!"

He smiled and said he knew what I meant.

We talked for a bit longer. He tried to deny that he had a problem. We parted as he was saying, "Yes, I do know that "de-nial" isn't just a river in Egypt."

Oh, how I hope that this time, he stays out of the ditch.

Cleaning the House

One of the hazards of cleaning for me is that it leaves me with lots of time to think. It's not like vacuuming or dusting or mopping the kitchen floor requires a significant percentage of my brain's capacity. So, my brain gets busy on other topics.

I have a really big old Victorian house with 11 rooms and four full bathrooms. Since my husband and I now rattle around in here with some rooms rarely being used, I don't clean every room every week. But, yesterday and today, I did clean everything on the first and second floors. The third floor is a guest area, and gets cleaned when guests are coming.

If I manage to discipline my mind, I can use cleaning time productively to think about and plan out new projects. I can spend the time praying for family and friends. I can make a mental "to-do" list and hope I don't forget the items on it before I get a chance to write them down. All of that does require the input of positive mental effort...otherwise, I ruminate.

I struggle against this tendency, because it isn't productive to worry about things I can't change, to try to figure out the unexplainable, to puzzle over what seems to me to be a foolish decision by someone I know, or to wallow in self-pity over someones past offenses against me. All of these scenarios are really a reason for me to pray. The trick is in disciplining my mind to focus on my concerns in a positive way rather than a negative way.

And (she sighed) this is a lesson I have to keep relearning.

Changing the Bed

This week when I changed the bed, I put a different blanket on it. The next morning as I made the bed, I asked my husband if he had noticed that there was a different blanket on the bed.

No....he hadn't noticed.

I suspected as much, because he hadn't made a comment about it.

I expressed surprise that he hadn't noticed, but then again, men do tend to be oblivious.

I was sort of shaking my head thinking that there's no way on earth I wouldn't notice that the blanket was different than the one I had slept under for years, when he dead-panned, "Well, I suppose I would notice, if there was a different woman in the bed."

The River on a November Afternoon

I don't think that I have ever been out on the St. Lawrence River in November...until today. An unseasonably mild afternoon precipitated a decision by my husband to take our boat to Alexandria Bay to be winterized and to take a quick spin on the river first.

The sky was an icy blue with wisps of white clouds when we launched at Keewaydin State Park. The campground is closed for the season, so no one else was in sight, except for a porcupine feeding on something along the side of the entry road. At first the motor did not turn over and it sounded like the battery might not have enough power to accomplish the task, but after a few tries, it roared to life.

During the summer as we leave the marina, numerous boats can be seen both up and down river, and sometimes the water churns as their wakes bounce off each other. Today, although the wind created some choppiness, we entered the main channel without a boat in sight. The lack of leaves on the trees increased visibility. We could clearly see the American span of the Thousand Islands Bridge up river and Boldt Castle down river.

Heading down river first we passed many grand summer homes, boarded, shuttered and otherwise closed for the season. The resorts along the river, which bustle with activity in summer months, were quiet and parking lots empty. No crowds stood in downtown A-Bay waiting for the next tour boat.

In summer months, Boldt Castle and the island it occupies are swarming with visitors, but today it stood surrounded by barren trees, looking lonely and desolate. Passing by, we headed for Mary Island, a state park just off the down river end of Wellesley Island. We have a favorite picnicking spot on Mary Island, but this was a quick trip not allowing time for a leisurely picnic.

We swung around and headed up river in the main shipping channel toward the TI Bridge. There was only one large ship in sight, and ironically we passed it in the very narrowest part of the shipping channel. The Emerald Star out of Halifax glided by us carrying something somewhere. We turned around right under the TI Bridge and headed back to the marina.

Except for a couple of fishermen tucked back in bays off the river, and the Emerald Star, we had this section of the river to ourselves for those 45 minutes. And what a wonderful 45 minutes. The air was cool enough to need a sweatshirt, but warm enough to feel comfortable standing up to let the wind blow through my hair, and figuratively through my head, chasing away concerns and stresses.

What is more, I have just relived it by writing about it, allowing the cares of life to blow off. I plan to fall asleep tonight with the images and sensations created this afternoon still fresh in my mind.

A lonely Golden Delicious apple clings to a bare tree under a cold November sky.

At the Table

You prepare a table before me in the presence of my enemies." Psalm 23:5a

Every day I sit down at the banquet table of life,

Spread before me an array of sumptuous blessings,

Spread around me an array of terrifying enemies.

Confusion

Anxiety

Fear

Uncertainty

How can I possibly choke down the delicious meal,

In the presence of these dangers?

My host sitting at the head of the table,

Is the Master of the universe, the Ruler of all creation.

He has invited me to this feast.

He blesses the meal.

He blesses me.

I eat my fill,

Undisturbed,

By the presence of enemies,

For I am the guest of the Lord of the Feast.

Thank you for this food....Amen.

Impeccable Timing

Today on my way home from work, I took the "low road" along the river, rather than my usual route over the hills on the "high road." The reason for this was the need to place some posters about an up-coming screening clinic which I am holding for men in the community. A number of small population centers on the "low road" have post offices or convenience stores with community bulletin boards.

One of my stops was at a small town post office. After tacking the poster on the bulletin board, I got in my car and started to drive away. The "still small voice" inside my head said that as long as I was in that little town, I should stop and see a couple from my church who live right next to the post office. I ignored "the voice" and kept driving. I turned out onto the main highway, but the urging to visit this couple kept replaying. I hadn't gone far before "the voice" was saying, "Well, you can keep driving, but eventually you will turn around. The farther you go, the farther you will have to backtrack, so why don't you just give in and turn around now."

With a sigh, I whipped into a driveway, and back out on the highway retracing my route.

I visited with my friends for a few minutes. They were doing fine, and I couldn't see any reason why I had had this strong urge to stop and see them.

So as I continued on my way home again, I was saying, "OK...so they didn't seem to be in any need. What was that all about? Hmmmm....maybe the purpose was to time something in my life. Maybe a bridge is falling down up ahead, but now I'm going to miss being on it when it falls."

I arrived at my next location....a convenience store. I grabbed my poster and headed in. I opened the door and stepped into the store at the PRECISE moment when a woman at the checkout immediately inside the door was saying in a loud and angry voice, "**** Hospital is nothing more than a bandaid station!"

She turned around, and there I stood with my poster for a free screening clinic sponsored by **** Hospital.

Ah...life"s interesting moments.

A conversation began. She expressed a great deal of frustration about a family member who was in **** Hospital. She wasn't dissatisfied with the care, but with what seemed to be confusing mixed messages from doctors and different staff members. I listened, expressed understanding, and suggested with whom she could address her concerns. When the very congenial conversation ended, she seemed more calm.

I hung my poster and returned to the car still wondering if there was a bridge out ahead.

No, the bridges were intact. I encountered no downed power lines, no trees across the road, and I'm not really sure why I had an "appointment" with that upset lady, but I certainly was "on time" for it.