Making a Wastepaper Can

In the fall of 1964, I was a student at a hospital-based nursing program in a Chicago suburb.  It was my senior year.  One of the patients I cared for was a real character.  His diagnosis was “fever of unknown origin,” but there was clearly a secondary diagnosis of dementia.  He said and did things which made no sense at all.  I’m not sure the poor old guy had any idea where he was.  I never knew what they decided regarding the fever, and he was discharged.

A few weeks later, I was scheduled to spend six weeks at Cook County Tuberculosis Sanitarium in Hinsdale, Illinois, to learn about infectious disease as part of my nursing education. We all looked forward to that affiliation, because the sanitarium was in a lovely rural setting.  The grounds were beautiful, and the food served in the cafeteria was a cut above normal institutional food.    

One of my assignments was on a ward where things were pretty relaxed.  The patients did not have positive sputum cultures, and most were up and around their rooms and dressed in street clothes.  No isolation techniques were required, and there were no critically ill or surgical patients.  Lo and behold, my senile old friend was a patient there.  Apparently, they had determined that the unknown origin of his fever was tuberculosis.

In the room across the hall from senile Old Guy were two men in their 30s who had been partners in an undertaking business.  They had both contracted tuberculosis from a corpse with which they had not exercised proper precautions.  They were jokesters and a bit flirtatious with nurses.

One day I walked into the elderly man’s room and found him sitting in his chair.  He had the wastepaper can from his room between his knees, and he was carefully tearing small strips of newspaper and folding them over the edge of the can.  I asked him what he was doing.  He replied, “I’m making a wastepaper can.”

Next, I went in the room across the hall to check on the two guys over there.  They were craning their necks trying to see into Old Guy’s room and figure out what he was up to.

 “What is he doing?!” they asked.  

With a smile and a shrug, I explained that he said he was making a wastepaper can. 

They didn’t need anything, so I went on about my business with other patients.

Sometime later, I entered the room with the two careless undertakers again.  They were both sitting in their easy chairs with their wastebaskets between their knees, tearing strips of paper and folding them over the edge of the cans.

They looked at me gleefully.

I was speechless.  I hooted with laughter, spun around and left the room unable to say a word.

Raucous laughter from their room could be heard down the hall.

I guess when one is confined to a hospital for weeks or months, there are a variety of ways to amuse oneself and pass the time.

Provision

Here are the fire and the wood,

But where is the lamb?

I look to my father who tenderly speaks:

God Himself will provide the Lamb.

I carry the fire of guilt and the burden of sin,

Where is the sacrificial lamb of atonement?

I trudge upward with the heavy load,

Must I lose my life on the mountaintop altar?

It would not be an undeserved death,

My sin condemns me and demands payment.

I look to my father who tenderly speaks:

God Himself will provide.

Centuries pass with man heaping sin upon sin.

When will the crooked me made straight?

I look to my father who speaks through his tears:

I myself have provided.  My Son is the lamb.

God himself will provide the lamb.

God himself will provide.

God himself.

The Name of Jesus

What happens when you speak the name?  I suppose that depends on why you are speaking it, and the attitude of your heart. 

Several years ago, I stood between people speaking the name of Jesus for contrasting reasons. 

My husband’s family’s business, which manufactured drip irrigation, had begun in a converted greenhouse behind his parents’ home.  At a point where the business was moving to a new location, one machine was still in the structure behind his parents’ house, and one employee was working there alone with the shift foreman coming there to check on him during the evening.  The guy, for reasons beyond understanding, reach up under the guard meant to prevent entrapment and got his hand caught in the mechanism of the machine.  My mother-in-law was home alone and heard him crying out for help.  She called my husband, and as it happened, my mother was at our home that evening and could stay with our children, so that I could go with my husband. 

My husband called the factory manager who knew how to release the machine, but until he and the ambulance arrived, the man’s hand remain wedged in the machine.  I was standing behind him, and my mother-in-law was behind me.  The man repeatedly said, “Jesus, Jesus!”  He was NOT calling out for help from Jesus.  He was “using” the name.  My mother-in-law was whispering “Jesus, Jesus” prayerfully.  The contrast was striking.

I too have called out “the name” in such distress that I could not even pronounce it clearly.  Almost 20 years ago, I was awakened from a sound sleep having an allergic reaction to a prescribed medication I had taken at bedtime.  I had been on the medication for months without any difficulty.  But, this night my entire body turned bright red, and I had difficulty breathing.  I thought my mouth was dry and asked my husband to get me a drink of water.  Actually, my tongue had swollen and was filling my whole mouth.  Eventually it protruded from my mouth, and my husband and a first responder said it was blue.  

At some point, I realized just how much trouble I was in, and unable to speak clearly, I cried out, “Hep me. Theethus!”

An EMT arrived and prepared to put in an IV, but before the needle was in, I felt my tongue shrink back to its proper size.  At that point, I had been given some oxygen, but no other treatment.  My only explanation for the abrupt turn around in my condition is that Jesus understood my appeal even though I couldn’t speak his name clearly.

A Christian friend, who lived across the street from us at the time, happened to be up late and saw the ambulance at our house.  She called and asked my husband what was going on.  She told me later, that she got right down on the floor before the Lord and pleaded with him for my life.  My husband had awakened our son, who was a teen at the time, so that he could open the door for the emergency workers and direct them upstairs.  Our son later said that he had been praying as he waited and paced.

What happens when we speak the name of Jesus?

The name is sweet to the ear of a believer.

The name brings comfort.

How sweet the name of Jesus sounds in the believer’s ear.

It soothes his sorrows, heals his wounds. And drives away his fear.

What happens when we call upon the name of Jesus?

The name is powerful!

Philippians 2:10-11  That at the name of Jesus every knee should bow, of those in heaven, and of those on earth, and of those under the earth, and that every tongue should confess that Jesus Christ is Lord to the glory of God the Father.

Memories before Birth

I have mentioned this topic before, but in view of the recent change in the New York state law regarding late abortions, I want to expand on it.

Both of my biological children claimed to have memories of being in my womb.  Both expressed these ideas between the ages of 2 and 3, and then apparently forgot them as they got older.

My daughter and I were looking at a magazine and talking about the pictures when she was about 2 and ½.  We came to a picture of a baby in the womb.  I said, “This is a picture of a baby in the mommy’s tummy.  The baby floats in water in there.”  She replied, “I remember.  I scratched my fingers to get out.”

This was startling, because late in the pregnancy, I often felt a fluttering sensation as though her fingers were tickling me from the inside.  I had always imagined that if the bag of waters broke, it would be near the opening of the cervix, but one night as I was trying to go to sleep, I felt a popping sensation on the right side of my abdomen in the area in which I normally felt the moving fingers.  I felt the warm liquid flowing down my right side toward the cervical opening.  I grabbed a towel and stuffed it between my legs just in time to catch the gush of the amniotic fluid.  Did she really remember this?

In my son’s case, there was no picture which triggered his comment.  One day, he marched into the kitchen and out of the clear blue declared, “When I was in your tummy, I could not hear your voice, but music fell on my head.”  I probably should have asked a follow-up question, but I was so surprised that I just stood there trying to wrap my head around his statement.  He did not describe this sensation in a way that made it likely he had heard a comment by someone else.  It was as though, he had felt a sensation in the womb, which he now recognized we call “music.”  During the pregnancy, I often sat down at the piano and played and sang.  I continued to sing in a choir and sing solos during that time.  He apparently could not hear distinct words, but he must have felt vibrations which were pleasant.

Suppose instead of pleasant vibrations, a child feels an assault that terminates his life?

I have read the argument that a woman should not be made to continue a pregnancy that is discovered not to be viable in the last trimester.  Just because it is not viable, does not mean the child cannot feel pain!  If my daughter knew she was trying to get out, and my son recognized music, might not any child feel agony as life is snuffed out?  Wouldn’t it be better, if the pregnancy was allowed to continue…perhaps with an early delivery?  If the baby didn’t start to breathe, his end would at least be peaceful.  If he lived briefly, he could be held and know love for a brief time. 

There is always the possibility that doctors are wrong too.  I know of a beautiful and intelligent college graduate, whose mother was advised to consider abortion.  I was over 40 when pregnant with my son.  I had to repeatedly refuse amniocentesis and was forced into genetic counselling.  The medical group said they had to be sure I wanted to continue the pregnancy.  Conditions which are treatable prenatally are found through ultrasound which I did not refuse.  The only reason for amniocentesis would have been if I was considering an abortion.  The pregnancy which was by medical personnel considered to be “high risk” due to “advanced maternal age” resulted in an exceptional son.  Doctors are not gods.  They are not always right.

How I wish music fell on every unborn baby’s head and with it the blessing of a mother’s love.  Every child may not be able to verbalize it before the memory is forgotten, but every child may be able to feel it.  Why run the risk of inflicting terror on a helpless baby who is your own flesh and blood?

Thoughts on "My Money"

I was reminded this morning in church of an experience I had over 50 years ago.  One of the assistant pastors announced an upcoming class on Financial Freedom, and it made me think how my attitude about money has developed over the years.

When I was in nursing school in the Chicago area, we could earn money by working on our days off.  We were classified as “nursing technicians.”  I don’t remember what the pay rate was, but in those days, I was dirt poor and trying to save money for my intent of going to college after nursing school.  Of course, nurses do have to work on Sundays, but I made it a practice never to work on a Sunday if I had a choice in the matter.  So, I might work on Saturday when I had the weekend off, but not on Sunday.  I would go to church faithfully on Sundays.  I got to church on a bus that the church sent around to local schools/colleges to gather up students who didn’t have cars.

After working as a nursing technician one busy Saturday, I went to the supervisor’s office to sign out.  She pretty much begged me to work again on Sunday.  She said they were going to be very short-staffed, and she would really appreciate it if I could work again the next day.  I breathed a quick prayer and said, “yes.”  As I thought about this later discussing it with the Lord, I decided that the Lord was asking me to give the pay for that day to him. 

At the time, my church was trying to raise funds to replace the bus that picked us up.  It was developing problems, and a new one needed to be purchased.  A well-to-do member of the church had agreed that if the congregation could raise half the needed amount, he would donate the other half.  When I got my paycheck for working that Sunday, I donated that day’s pay to the bus fund.

Several days later, the pastor of the church contacted me.  He thought I should know that it was my donation that tipped the amount over the halfway point and triggered the matching donation.  Giving that amount could have been viewed as a sacrifice on my part, but it honestly was not hard to do.  I felt very comfortable with the notion that God was going to provide for me.  He allowed me the delight of seeing that my contribution, though relatively small, was significant.

I have never argued with God about my money.  In fact, I don’t view it as “my money.”  Everything I have comes from his kind hand.  I am allowed to hold it temporarily and use it for him.  Having this underlying philosophy changes one’s attitude toward personal finances.  It eliminates anxiety and promotes a grateful heart.  If both members of a couple have this attitude, it totally avoids conflict over money.  I have seen His provision for me and us over and over.  He has met my needs and then some!

Looking to 2019

It must be miserable to live with one’s emotions being driven by the political scene or material well-being or even human relationships.  So many people in this world….even in our country….are suffering.  Some of that is needless.

Do I like every decision that our president has made…no.  Do I approve of everything congress has done…no.  Am I concerned about the “hot spots” in the world that could flare up into open conflict…sure…but I refuse to obsess over any of these.

Do I feel badly about children going hungry…yes….but I recognize I can only do what I can do.  I will try to be responsive to the needs that God puts in front of me.

Are there frightening possibilities beyond my control?  Well, let’s see…there are volcanoes and earthquakes and tornadoes and ice storms, and absolutely nothing I can do about any of them.  There are crazy people running around with guns.  Will I encounter one of them?

Not everyone likes me.  I have been gossiped about.  I have been left out of things I would have enjoyed attending.  As I have aged, certain of my prior skills have been diminished to the point that I can no longer do those things I once enjoyed.  Gee…maybe I should let myself sink into a slough of despond over no longer being included in these joyful activities.

Wait!  There are people in this world right now who are actually suffering!  There are Christians in countries where great oppression occurs daily.  Some are physically in danger.  They may be tortured or killed.  There are people all over the world…even some I know...suffering with disease that inflicts physical and emotional pain.  How dare I have a pity party? 

A new year is coming.  What will it bring?  I have no clue, but if I go on living, it can be guaranteed that some of what happens in 2019 will be “good” and some of it will be “bad.”  That is, by human standards some things will bring me joy and others will bring me grief.  But God is good all the time, and it is his intent to mold me into the person He wants me to be.  I will not be a lump of clay yelling at the potter, because I don’t like the way he is shaping me.  It is my intent to embrace the pain of being alive.

The outward man does indeed suffer wear and tear, but every day the inward man receives fresh strength.  These little troubles (which are really so transitory) are winning for us a permanent, glorious and solid reward out of all proportion to our pain.  For we are looking all the time not at the visible things but at the invisible.  The visible things are transitory; it is the invisible things that are really permanent. 

(from II Corinthians chapter 4, Phillips translation)

My Beautiful Mother

I lost my beautiful Mother 20 years ago on December 23^rd.  For the five months prior to that day, I had cared for her 24/7 following her massive stroke.  It left her paralyzed on her right side, unable to carry on a coherent conversation, unable to feed herself, and in pain.  Just before the stroke, she was supposed to have surgery to improve the circulation in her legs, but a heart attack followed by the stroke made that impossible.  The circulation deteriorated, and she developed gangrene first in a toe, then the foot, then the leg.  During the last few days of her life, I kept her heavily sedated and watched as the dark discoloration inched up her leg.  I found myself wanting her to die.  I was angry that a pacemaker had been inserted earlier that year.  If not for that, she might have died during the heart attack or stroke which, to me, seemed like a more merciful ending.

For many months afterward, I could not properly grieve her loss.  It took time to rub out the memory of the last few months and recapture the memory of the person she had been in earlier years.  I was glad the suffering person was gone to be with Jesus and was no longer in pain.  Later, I could miss the wonderful person she had been before the illness.

My Mom was one of four siblings who survived.  A baby sister died as an infant.  She was left with 3 brothers...loud, opinionated brothers, who delighted in teasing her.  After World War II, my father and my Mom’s 3 brothers all returned from military service, and all moved in with my maternal grandparents while the men attempted to reestablish themselves as civilians.  I was about 7 months old when they came home at Thanksgiving time in 1945. 

The 3 brothers couldn’t resist using me to torture my Mom.  On one occasion she came in the kitchen to find me sitting in my high chair holding a sharp knife.  When she became a bit hysterical, brother #2 shrugged and said, “She asked for it.”  Brother #3 began attending law school and managed to teach me as a toddler, that if my Mom scolded me, I should say, “I’m standing on my constitutional rights.”  All three brothers were given to using inappropriate words for a toddler to learn.  My Mother put a jar on the kitchen table and told them if they used such words, they had to put money in the jar for my future education.  One time, one of them stuffed the jar in advance and then turned the air blue with a string of profanities.  When I was being potty trained, I would wait until brother #1 was in the shower, and then say I needed to use the potty, because I knew he would come out dripping wet wrapped in a towel, and this amused me.  Poor Mom had a rough go of it for those first few years of my life.

My first recollections of her were her kindness in caring for me when I was ill, her frustration with my smart mouth, and that she was often exhausted from hard work.  My parents struggled financially during my early years, and Mom worked in the garden and did a lot of canning so that we had fruits and vegetables during the winter months.  I remember long walks, since she never did learn to drive.  I thought of her as serious, but there were times when she was extremely funny, singing and dancing around the house and being a bit of an actress.  She had always wanted to play an instrument, but her parents wouldn’t pay for lessons.  She said they were convinced she wouldn’t stick with it, because her #1 brother hadn’t stuck with his violin lessons.  She played the piano by ear.  I’m not sure how she did this.  I have always had to have music in front of me to play.

Mom was very artistic.  Her parents had wanted her to pursue a career in art, but she wanted to be a nurse, and she did become an RN.  She illustrated a book on baby care that her hospital produced.  She worked as a nurse until after she married my Dad.  But art was a life-long hobby.  She made lovely illustrated songbooks for children’s groups.  She was always interested in helping children with crafts.  As a child, she encouraged me to work on various craft projects.  When I was about six, one of the men who made deliveries to our home (I don’t remember if it was the milkman or breadman) had a daughter who was bedridden with an extended illness.  Mom helped me create a scrapbook of pictures for the little girl.  I cut interesting pictures out of magazines and pasted them in a blank book.

I started school a year before I was old enough.  Basically, this was because I was exhausting my Mother with my constant questions and attempts to tell her what to do.  She begged the school to take me.  I quickly became easier to manage at home, because I always had my nose in a book.  Through my growing up years, she defended my right to read.  My Dad would get upset that I wasn’t helping her with some bit of housework.  She would say, “She’s reading.  Let her read!”  I appreciated her understanding that my brain worked overtime, and I needed to learn new things.

I also appreciated her kindness at times I was upset.  She never belittled my “problems.”  In particular, there was the day in 4^th grade when I came home and threw myself on the bed and sobbed.  My “boyfriend” had made it clear that our relationship was over by pushing me off the school bus seat onto the floor.  She could have made light of my puppy love and childish emotions, but she comforted me in keeping with my broken heart.  She was always available to talk about what was important to me.

When I was a teenager, we went shopping one spring for a new dress for me.  I could not make up my mind between two dresses which I liked and asked Mom what she thought.  She said, “I want you to have both of them.”  I knew my parents couldn’t afford for me to buy both, and I said that I only needed one.  She said with tears welling up in her eyes, “You are the only girl at church who has to wear the same dress every week.  I want you to have both.”  I don’t think I had noticed this.  In fact, I had one friend who was worse off…she wore the same sweater and skirt to school every day!  I knew if I got both, Mom would go without something, but she insisted.

When I left home and went hundreds of miles away to school, she wrote me almost every day.  Her letters were newsy and full of descriptions of amusing events that had happened in the family. I loved receiving them and felt still connected to my family because of them.

After I had finished nursing school and started college, Mom had a serious illness and was hospitalized when I came home on Christmas break.  It was a startling experience for me to realize that a role reversal was taking place.  When I visited her in the hospital, the conversation was not about me and what was going on in college.  It was about her illness and her concerns.  Fortunately, she recovered, and we had many more years of conversations that were a more mature balance in which we each could share our concerns.

When our family moved resulting in meeting the man who would become my husband, she “fell in love” with him before I did….but that is another story!

My Mother was very supportive of me during the years I was raising my own children.  She enjoyed spending time with them which was helpful to me, and she listened to me when I was struggling with some parenting issue.

Everyone who knew her thought of her as sweet and gentle, but let me tell you, you didn’t want to mess with Laurena!   Any man who hassled her was likely to experience her special technique.  She would face the person squarely and shake her fist in his face saying, “Ya see this?”  As he looked at the fist, she would bring up the fist of the other hand and deliver a gut-punch.  While he was trying to recover the air he had just lost, she would say, “That wasn’t the one to watch!”  Both of my brothers will attest to this being true as they have both been on the receiving end.

My Mom….she was beautiful.  She was smart.  She was kind. She was not perfect, but I loved her dearly.  Those difficult 5 months are only a fraction of the time we had together.  With the passage of time, the agony of that brief slice of time has diminished, and I can remember my Mom for who she really was during most of her life.

What a lovely lady!