Exhaustion Without Work

 I have a housekeeper.  I've written about her before.  Her name is Debbie, and she comes in every two weeks to "clean".  Why the quotation marks?  She doesn't just clean; she mops up after me.  I make a mess, and she fixes it; or something malfunctions, and she does the legwork to get it going again.  I'm talking about everything from changing lightbulbs or batteries, to putting stuff away before cleaning.  

Deb and I don't share politics, which is why we don't talk about that, but I do love her and rely on her a bunch.  I trust her, and she has never let me down.  In fact, I'm ashamed of myself when I leave something because I know she'll be here, rather than do the extra work for myself.  (Yes, it sometimes happens.)

We aren't talking about a much younger gal here.  She has adult kids with kids of their own, along with some pretty hard knocks in life.  Knocks that would send other people to their knees, but Deb persists.  She is nothing if not resourceful!  We have laughed together and cried together.  In spite of all, she keeps coming back for abuse from me!

Debbie is an organizer--not just a cleaner.  She gets excited when I suggest that we should clean out a closet, or even a drawer, but SHE is usually the one to suggest it.

She was here yesterday.  I'd had some groceries delivered that hadn't been put away yet.  She started right in to stash them where they belong: in the pantry...but...well...the pantry was a mish-mash-mess.  Although I had already told her I didn't want to reorganize the pantry that day, she snuck it in!  In order to find places to put the new stuff in the already-stuffed pantry, she had to move stuff around.  One thing led to another, and suddenly I was sitting on my fanny directing whether every can or box of food should be pitched or kept.  Sneaky how she did that!!!  And voila!  The pantry was not only clean but had room for new stuff and was organized!  I mean, right down to having the cooking soups in one place and the eating soups in another!  Yeah...THAT kind of organized!  

It was a shock to discover that I had five unopened boxes of spaghetti, and two of medium shell pasta.

Then, in order to find places to stash some other things, Deb decided that we should tackle my spice cabinet.  Ya know, I've been told for centuries that spices don't keep, but I only replace them when they run out.  Honest to goodness, I have had spices on my cabinet turntables that are at least 20 years old (maybe more): things that I may have purchased for ONE recipe and never used again.   There were two/three tins of whole cloves and one of ground.  There was dry mustard, thyme, rosemary, allspice, pumpkin pie spice, and some that never saw the light of day ever since they were purchased.  All now pitched.  

And THEN, Debbie cleaned.  Being the Type A person that she is, Deb really got a kick out of ridding the house of unnecessary things.  I, however, was exhausted!  What a whirlwind my Debbie is!  I'm kidding.  I wasn't really exhausted because all I did was sit on my fanny and direct things, but if you think of all "we" accomplished before the cleaning even started, much was accomplished.  My ex would have said that we  "did a big stroke of bizness".  

Yeah, we did!  If it were up to me, it wouldn't have happened, but because of my Gal Friday, I'm lots better off than I was.  It won't get either of us into Heaven, but it sure makes life on Earth a bit easier for me.  Thanks, Debbie!  

Moments of Grace

The meaning of grace, in the spiritual world, is "understood by Christians to be a spontaneous gift from God to people – 'generous, free and totally unexpected and undeserved' – that takes the form of divine favor, love, clemency, and a share in the divine life of God. It is an attribute of God that is most manifest in the salvation of sinners."  In short, it means that your faults have been overlooked, and you have been given a pass to live blamelessly for a moment or two.  I love that.  

I have been a recipient of grace so many times, it's embarrassing.  I think the most significant time was in 2007, when an aneurysm burst in my brain.  According to my medical caregivers, 60% of people who had what I had didn't even make it to the hospital.  Another 20% lived with deficits to walking, talking, and thinking.  The last 20% survived with no deficits at all.  I was one of those in the last group.  That humbles me.  I was airlifted to a hospital in another city before anyone at home even knew I was sick.  Prayers didn't even have a chance to be lifted for me before it became obvious that I was going to be okay...as we say, by the Grace of God.

None of the nasty things that have happened to me have been devoid of grace.  Car battery dead?  Neighbors to the rescue!  Fender bender when I didn't have car insurance?  Cop let me and my car go with a warning that he wouldn't be so generous next time.  (I got insurance that very day and never let it lapse thereafter.)  Lost my wallet?  It got turned in...more than once.  

This one is actually somewhat embarrassing.  I needed a new roof and my newly-selected insurance company wasn't going to cover my home until/unless I did something about it.  I was looking at bids for replacement or moss removal.  Got some bids.  Accepted one, then went to the bank to float a $5k loan.  When the first payment was due, I logged onto my bank's website to discover that no payment was due.  Surely there was a mistake!  I called to inquire what the snafu was and was told, in so many words, that the entire loan had been paid by an anonymous donor.  I was stunned.  My daughter and sister claimed they weren't the benefactors.  I inquired of a few others, only to be denied a definitive answer.  I was so blessed!  I don't know how or why.  I only know that it was a gift I would never be able to repay.  To this day, I don't know how my secret benefactor knew where I banked, or even that I had taken out a loan.  God works in mysterious ways!  I have my suspicions but have no proof.  My bank has kept his/her secret.  From that moment on, I have done my level best to give back grace, just because some anonymous someone once gave me a gift that humbled me.  

When I was visiting my sister and her new-ish husband over the holidays, he had a mild stroke, but came home from the hospital quickly and unscathed.  By God's grace.  We were all praying like crazy, but only after we knew he was in trouble.  That's how I knew that the Hand of the Almighty was involved in his healing.

My daughter was having heart  PVCs--Premature Ventricular Contractions--to the tune of 65,000 per day.  She finally underwent a cardiac ablation procedure, as an outpatient, that put her heartbeats back to normal--and stayed that way.  Yeah...okay...so the cardiologist did the procedure, but Grace made it all work.  You can't convince me otherwise.  Of course, my daughter and grandchildren have halos....

I think Grace is likely an immediate thing.  As you fall off your bike as a kid, Grace determines if you get permanently hurt or not.  So, what if you DO get seriously hurt?  Does that mean the Power of the Universe finds you unworthy.  I think not.  So...does Grace show partiality from God?  No.  Karma?  No.  Coincidence?  Luck?  Serendipity?  No.  When you think about it in ethereal terms, God has created a world that was designed to run itself.  Plants propagate, human parts heal, animals provide.  There is a plan, but we don't know what it is!  We are flying blind, but the Universe knows if we are still needed or not.  It isn't cruel; it's just the way things work.  We can't control it, but we can be grateful when we are the recipients of Grace.  

I'm just figuring some of these things out!

     

Purpose

One of the most asked questions by humans on our planet and in our universe is: Why are we here?  What is the meaning of life?  What purpose do I serve in the vast scheme of things?  Even children ask this.  There is rarely a definitive answer.  

The brain is a marvelously complex machine that has brought us industry, technology, medical knowledge, and the power to help mankind in a general sense, but it is simply too limited in its capacity to understand the seemingly-impossible.  For as long as humans have lived on Earth, no one has really been able to answer what our purpose is.  Science uses facts and hypotheses; religion uses mysticism and faith.  Science tells us that we exist to propagate our species.  Religion tells us that we exist to serve God.  But for what earthly reason do we need to do either?

I'm talking in generalities here.  Let me make this more personal.  In a perfect world, we would have more money during the child-rearing years to provide a home, food, education, transportation, and all of the things it takes to raise children in a stable home.  In reality, most people don't have enough money to survive in a healthy way until the children are grown and the house is paid off, but they strive to do so.  I was/am one of those people.  I over-extended myself to provide my only child with things that she needed in order to fit in with her classmates.  At one point, I almost lost my car and my house because I wasn't paying attention.  I finally made it right, with help.  It took some Come to Jesus moments for me, and honestly, I'm not 100% sure how I managed those tough years, but I did.  Now, long-since retired, my house is paid off, I have more savings than ever in my life (which isn't all that much), and I have a little freedom.  What I did in those years was survive.  That was my purpose.  I wanted my child to have a home she could count on.  Our little bungalow wasn't/isn't much, but I have fought hard to keep it.  And then she grew up, got married, had kids, and moved away.  She and family have embraced a lifestyle that doesn't include a place for me.  And then the pandemic hit.

Although I talk to my daughter every day online, the only thing that has saved me from deep, deep depression is my daily dose of Zoloft and my grandchildren's visit last August.  I had convinced myself that I no longer had a purpose in life; couldn't walk much, couldn't stand for long, had breathing problems.  I had a deep-seated fear that I was never going to see my daughter again.  (That still haunts me when I close my eyes at night.)  Without her, what purpose do I have?  I'm not rich.  I can't do much.  Do I just sit here and take up space, breathing air that just gets exhaled with no fruition other than self-preservation?  

I know, I know...I am aware that there are things I CAN do.  They just have to be meaningful to ME relative to those I love.  I just need to know that the world isn't finished with me yet. 

My St. Louis Holiday, Part VI (New Year's Eve and Departure)

 Although the New Year celebrations are big for the Russians, including my Russian-born son-in-law, many (if not most) of us old folks can barely stay awake into the new year!  This was one of those times.  I was still at my sister's in Missouri.  She prepared a yummy meal, and we just dissolved into the evening.  

Bro-in-law Jim went to bed upstairs with his book very early in the evening.  Shari had a country music NYE bash on television downstairs.  I'm not a big fan of country music, but I endured.  One of the hosts for the evening was a dude named Derks Bentley.  (Who names their kid Derks??)   In any case, the new year came in; Shari and I cheered and hugged: then went to bed.  As I understand it, Jim was still awake.  We all made it through!

I left for Indiana on Tuesday, January 4th.  It was sunny but cold.  I had only one snag when I got off on the wrong interstate but quickly corrected my error.  I was home by 4:30, Indiana time, to my little house-on-a-slab.  All was well.  

I'm still not totally unpacked, but I have restocked the larder and have made a to-do list to choke a horse!  I have no Christmas tree or decorations to take down.  Thankful for that!  Still, just mopping up after six weeks gone is a formidable task.  Continue to wish me luck!

Many thanks to Shari and Jim for putting up with me for six weeks.  I tried to be a good guest.  Really...I did!

My Neighbor Fred

 Taking a break from the details of my St. Louis trip, which is probably boring to most, anyway.  I am choosing today to write about my neighbor across the street.

(I am writing from home, BTW, having returned less than 48 hours ago.)

I bought my little house-on-a-slab on Walton Drive in March of 1992.  My then-12-year-old daughter and I moved in at the end of that March as single women.  In my case, I was NEWLY single.  It was uncharted territory for me.  We had many adjustments to make, and we did.  It was slow and hard work to figure out our new reality, but we managed.

My neighbors across the street were Fred and Sharon.  Both were older than I, but neither looked it nor acted it.  In fact, it seemed to me that, as the years passed, I was the one who was aging.  They never did.

I was still teaching then, and Megan was in 7th grade.  I was running full tilt to keep up with job and kid and house, meals, laundry, cleaning, and (of course) the lawn.  Over time, I came to know Sharon and Fred, casually.

More time passed.  I had cats.  If I needed to be at my dad's in Illinois, Fred would come in and feed the felines.  They got a cat.  I occasionally watched over Binkers so they could take a trip or two.  We also collected each other's mail in our absences.  We had traded house keys.  And so it went.

My daughter eventually got married and had two children, then she divorced her husband and moved in with me, with the kids, for awhile.  She and I remodeled the house to make room for everyone to have their own room.  Then they all moved out.  I was alone, so I made up a sheet of contacts for everyone to have should something happen to me.  Fred and Sharon got one of those.

Fred seemed to know all of the neighbors, or knew of the neighbors, and whatever was going on in the neighborhood.  It became a bit of a family joke at my house that "Freddie knows all!"  He would see a service van in my driveway and ask what was going on.  One time, when my sister was visiting, I had to call the paramedics for her.  Fred walked in the front door--much to the shock of the paramedics--to figure out if help was needed.  He began to call himself my "Nosy Neighbor".

As I became less and less able to do things due to health issues, Fred would take my trash cans to the street on trash day and bring them back after the trash truck had passed.  Every day, he would pick up my mail and stick it in between my front doors, sometimes commenting on what was there.  "Your car license sticker is here.  Want me to put it on your license plate for you?"  "Here's your water bill.  If it hasn't gone down, you need to call them."  He just wanted to alert me to special mails, and you know what?  Yeah, it was "nosy" perhaps, but it showed me that I wasn't alone.  I never asked him to do those things.  He just did them out of the goodness of his heart.  

One time, not so very long ago, Fred was knocking on my door for some reason, and he knew I was home because my car was in the drive.  He went home, got my house key, and came in to check on me.  I was napping in the garage bedroom and hadn't heard his knocks.  Next thing I know, he was patting my hand and asking me if I was okay.  I was.  Interestingly, I wasn't even startled.  Was I offended that this "nosy" man had entered my home to check on me?  Not in the least!  I was grateful to know that someone cared enough to check.  That's the kind of neighbor to have when you live alone!

Another time, when my grandchildren were here, my grandson couldn't get the hot water in the shower to turn off when he was done.  He alerted me.  Fred was outside, mowing.  I hailed him to come over to help, which he did.  He found the shut-off valve for the water heater, unscrewed the screw on the hot water knob that was just twirling, tightened it, turned the water back on, and left.  I felt saved!  Thank God for nosy neighbors!

This fall, Fred had somehow injured his foot.  He was restricted in movement.  I found a kid to mow his yard for him, at my expense, in a very small way to pay back some of the myriad things Fred has done for me through the years.  He called me after his injury to tell me I'd have to get my own mail, which I did.  The very next thing I knew, Fred was hospitalized in ICU with COVID, even though vaccinated.  I texted him to say, "If you were going to fall apart, did you have to do it all at once?"  His responses were short.  When I finally asked when he might be released, he said he was "in there" for the "long haul".  Then he was intubated and on a ventilator for a month or more.  His wife and I kept in touch.  "No change."  "Nothing new."  And finally, when Fred was taken off the ventilator and he was still unresponsive, I got the word from Sharon on Dec. 10th that Fred had passed away.  

This hit me hard.  I was in Missouri at the time of his passing and didn't get word of the funeral arrangements in time to be there, but I feel a special closeness to Sharon, whether she feels it or not.  We are now two women alone just across the street from each other.  I was always closer to Fred but not to the exclusion of Sharon.  I want Fred to know, posthumously, that we will stick together.  

For 30 years, Fred was the best neighbor, nosy or not.  I will miss him, selfishly.  He is an angel now with rough edges on his wings...but an angel, nonetheless.  May God be with his family--and me--as we try to manage life without him.  

(Post Script, added after this was first published, I forgot a very, very important incident.)  Several years ago in the early morning, I was walking to the bathroom, and as I turned the corner, my knee blew out.  Instant, massive pain.  I managed to hobble to get the phone and sit down at the kitchen table.  I waited until 8:00 AM, then called Fred's house to ask him to bring his key to open my door, to come in and help me.  Which he did.  I had grabbed a "throw" that happened to be hanging over a kitchen chair to maintain my modesty, since I was only in a top and underwear.  When Fred came in, I asked him to bring me my robe from the bedroom and turn his head while I put it on....then asked if he would go to the pharmacy to buy me a pair of crutches.  He did, on his nickel, so I could get around inside the house.  [I paid him back the next day.]  I then called my friend and co-grandma Judy who took me to the ER, in a wheel chair while still in my robe.  Over a month later, I had an MRI that diagnosed a torn meniscus.  That's another story, but Fred was a part of getting me through the worst.  And I will never forget it.)