Lately, I've found myself noticing other mature women . . . wondering if they are older, younger, or about my age. Yes, I admit it, pushing 60 has challenged me. Not that I'm dreading 60, but rather, I've noticed it seems to be the determining age that sets health and activity level for the rest of one's life. From what I've observed, there are those who are still active at 60, and there are those who are markedly older, and slowed down dramatically at 60. I don't plan to stop at 60, but this last injury still has me in recovery mode. Oh, I'm milking, and gardening, and canning, and the usual, but it feels different this year! I've also added water exercises to my daily regimen, which has helped tremendously. I have always used a walking stick on the homestead, but I now have a town walking stick, as well. Does it make me look older, I don't know and I don't care. I'm not worried about appearance, I just want to stay active. I plan to be a vivacious 60!
Last week, I took a short day trip to the Cherokee nation. I just love being there! Although I am truly grateful to live where I do, I very much love Oklahoma. Unlike so many Americans, my great great grandmother was not a Cherokee princess, because the Cherokees have chiefs not kings; therefore no princesses. If someone's great great grandmother was the daughter of a chief, then someone's great great great grandfather was a chief. Now, that's an exciting heritage!
In traveling, there are always stops to be made . . . and at every stop, the gentlemen were just wonderful! Doors were held open for me. Does this make me feel old? Not at all, it makes me feel pretty and feminine. I love the differences between the sexes and take delight that chivalry is not dead. Even once, a gentleman who had already exited before I got anywhere near the storefront, actually went back to open the door for me. More than one young man called me Ma'am, and that never offends me. It doesn't make me feel old at all. It reminds me, some people are still raising their kids to show respect. I like it!
One particular incident, could have been just a bit awkward, as a gentleman and I nearly ran into each other as we exited our designated rest rooms. After our awkward "oops" he just clearly and openly declared, "You are a beautiful woman." I thanked him, and he went on to tell me how beautiful my skin tone is, my eyes, and then launched into his opinion of my hair. As it turns out, his wife grayed early and wanted to cover it, but he persuaded her to leave it natural, as he found it just beautiful. So, his parting words to me were, "Don't ever color or cut your hair, it's beautiful!"
If there were such a thing as Cherokee royalty, I had a princess kind of day.
Tuesday, August 22, 2017
Sunday, August 6, 2017
Ten Years Ago Today
written July 31, 2017
Interestingly, I didn't think it would hit me the way it has . . . Thankfully, after that day, ten years ago, I just never gave it much thought, but today it suddenly hit like a ton of bricks.
I made the conscious decision to sign a paper that would save another person's life, so I was told . . . but in that signature, I also signed away my hope to ever be loved in this life. At that time, life was not about me, and my expectations had to simply go away. I certainly didn't want to shirk my responsibility, but at that same time, I felt the hope to be loved, simply die. It truly is physically painful, but that day there was a more critical situation for two other people. Oddly, those two other people really didn't even like me much, but they needed me, they needed my signature, and they needed my servitude that would last a lifetime. As a bereaved mother, myself, I knew I didn't want Mr. B's elderly mother to experience that horrific pain, and as I considered the five years I'd been with him, it became very clear that . . . he was afraid to die.
The signature I gave was a surgery consent form for Mr. B. The date on the consent form he'd signed had expired, as his condition had been too grave for surgery. The first night in the hospital, he was placed in a medically induced coma and I was not allowed to stay in his ICU room. He continued to decline. The next day, however; I was in there the entire day and night, except through shift change, in which time I raced home to do chores and return. Having brought and placed my prayer shawl over him, I read Scripture aloud through that night, and by the next morning he was showing improvement, but the sorcery of American science is persistent. I refused to sign the consent form that day, as he simply was not strong enough to withstand such an invasive and lengthy procedure. I told the doctor, he needed another day to gain strength. Well, that didn't set well with Mr. B's family, but nothing I'd done ever had, so I stood by my decision, and the surgeon accepted it. Through that day and night, Mr. B did gain some strength. By four the next morning, the powers that be, brought in the consent form. The surgery would take place about 18 hours later.
Instead of the nice tidy divorce I'd asked for a few months earlier, I was signing on to become his caretaker for life. So many potential surgeries had been mentioned that I carefully went over that consent form with the surgeon and even crossed out a few vague statements of consent, consenting only to the surgery Mr. B had first agreed to, which was a total amputation of his left leg. Necrotizing fasciitis is vicious! Flesh eating bacteria, as it is commonly recognized, wasn't in the headlines back then, as it has been more recently. Through the surgery, they took extra liberty, leaving three more open wounds to include the removal of his birthmark . . . presumed to be infection.
In looking back over the years, Father has blessed me greatly through this. Mr. B kept track of the bandaging, which; according to him, lasted 18 months to the day. He got back to driving in about a year. Daddy extended the back porch to give him access to the publishing bus, and by 2013, Mr. B was gathering eggs. In that time, I had my moments of murmuring and k'vetching . . . and a few meltdowns, requiring repentance; but in that time, I also learned a great deal and received a great many revelations and gifts from our Heavenly Father.
I've learned American religion appears to believe our Creator needs a great deal of human help. Although, in these recent years, I've been blessed with some wonderful friendships, I've also learned to live without needing human appreciation or approval. I've learned the difference between being meek and being a doormat. I've learned to walk in the confidence of Messiah. I've learned, what other's think of me, is none of my business and that I am called to be busy about my Father's business.
I've also received an answer to a prayer I prayed back in 2001. I asked Father if He would please show me His heart . . . He has, to the point I can barely take it. I have come to realize how painful it is to love people and not have that love returned. I've learned how very painful it is to give my absolute best, and have it rebuffed. I've also learned, I probably wouldn't have learned any of this, had it not been for what transpired ten years ago.
Interestingly, I didn't think it would hit me the way it has . . . Thankfully, after that day, ten years ago, I just never gave it much thought, but today it suddenly hit like a ton of bricks.
I made the conscious decision to sign a paper that would save another person's life, so I was told . . . but in that signature, I also signed away my hope to ever be loved in this life. At that time, life was not about me, and my expectations had to simply go away. I certainly didn't want to shirk my responsibility, but at that same time, I felt the hope to be loved, simply die. It truly is physically painful, but that day there was a more critical situation for two other people. Oddly, those two other people really didn't even like me much, but they needed me, they needed my signature, and they needed my servitude that would last a lifetime. As a bereaved mother, myself, I knew I didn't want Mr. B's elderly mother to experience that horrific pain, and as I considered the five years I'd been with him, it became very clear that . . . he was afraid to die.
The signature I gave was a surgery consent form for Mr. B. The date on the consent form he'd signed had expired, as his condition had been too grave for surgery. The first night in the hospital, he was placed in a medically induced coma and I was not allowed to stay in his ICU room. He continued to decline. The next day, however; I was in there the entire day and night, except through shift change, in which time I raced home to do chores and return. Having brought and placed my prayer shawl over him, I read Scripture aloud through that night, and by the next morning he was showing improvement, but the sorcery of American science is persistent. I refused to sign the consent form that day, as he simply was not strong enough to withstand such an invasive and lengthy procedure. I told the doctor, he needed another day to gain strength. Well, that didn't set well with Mr. B's family, but nothing I'd done ever had, so I stood by my decision, and the surgeon accepted it. Through that day and night, Mr. B did gain some strength. By four the next morning, the powers that be, brought in the consent form. The surgery would take place about 18 hours later.
Instead of the nice tidy divorce I'd asked for a few months earlier, I was signing on to become his caretaker for life. So many potential surgeries had been mentioned that I carefully went over that consent form with the surgeon and even crossed out a few vague statements of consent, consenting only to the surgery Mr. B had first agreed to, which was a total amputation of his left leg. Necrotizing fasciitis is vicious! Flesh eating bacteria, as it is commonly recognized, wasn't in the headlines back then, as it has been more recently. Through the surgery, they took extra liberty, leaving three more open wounds to include the removal of his birthmark . . . presumed to be infection.
In looking back over the years, Father has blessed me greatly through this. Mr. B kept track of the bandaging, which; according to him, lasted 18 months to the day. He got back to driving in about a year. Daddy extended the back porch to give him access to the publishing bus, and by 2013, Mr. B was gathering eggs. In that time, I had my moments of murmuring and k'vetching . . . and a few meltdowns, requiring repentance; but in that time, I also learned a great deal and received a great many revelations and gifts from our Heavenly Father.
I've learned American religion appears to believe our Creator needs a great deal of human help. Although, in these recent years, I've been blessed with some wonderful friendships, I've also learned to live without needing human appreciation or approval. I've learned the difference between being meek and being a doormat. I've learned to walk in the confidence of Messiah. I've learned, what other's think of me, is none of my business and that I am called to be busy about my Father's business.
I've also received an answer to a prayer I prayed back in 2001. I asked Father if He would please show me His heart . . . He has, to the point I can barely take it. I have come to realize how painful it is to love people and not have that love returned. I've learned how very painful it is to give my absolute best, and have it rebuffed. I've also learned, I probably wouldn't have learned any of this, had it not been for what transpired ten years ago.
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