The Phone Call

There was a voice message on my phone I finally saw and listened to yesterday. Dean had already given me the number to call someone back the day before, but I had no idea how much labor went into the process of getting that number.

The recorded message told it all. Dean was so slow in answering the phone that it went to voicemail and recorded their conversation. The poor phone operator was so patient with him. It took him forever to get the pen and paper to write down her number. And she had to repeat it numerous times for him to get it right. He kept reversing digits, reading it back to her wrong, and she had to correct him. It was almost comical--I kept holding back laughter while listening to it. Why she didn't just hang up and try to contact someone else, I'll never know.

It seems to me that God must have just as hard a time getting through to us sometimes. We drag our feet about answering His call, about getting the message, and even mess up getting it right. But He's a patient operator. He wants us to succeed, no matter how sin has disabled us. I hope I can be a better listener from here on out.

Strange Strangers

Dean and I have been church-hopping for the last three years. Not that we aren't sure of our beliefs, but I'm just not sure how Dean's going to behave in a church setting these days. He's not always appropriate at our house, so why would it be any different at God's house, right?

Fortunately, our city is large enough to support several Adventist churches, so we can find somewhere to worship on those weeks that Dean just insists that he has to have the fellowship of other believers. And I can't blame him for that. It's one of the main reasons for corporate worship, isn't it?

Yesterday we took the chance of staying for a meal at the end of the church service. A really risky environment. I made him promise to be a gentleman, and then we took the plunge to the church basement with many other visitors, mostly local college students. You could tell the meal was tailored for them--haystacks (or Adventist buffet-style tacos).

Naturally these young people were being reticent of being too friendly with the likes of the "big kid" at my side. Not that any were not polite, but it was obvious that Dean was not going to be their choice of table partner. They had their girlfriends and boyfriends to focus on.

There was one lady who sat close enough to us for conversation though. She looked young, but we found out she was in her thirties. She welcomed and encouraged Dean's conversation, and I could see him getting warmed up for some of his famous "stories". She hung on his words, and I was so impressed that she would engage him in the one activity that he craves so much--socializing during a meal.

How many times have I neglected to reach out to strangers--especially the "strange" ones? What would it have meant to someone had I ignored my shyness and just done something as simple as starting a conversation? For some, that's all it takes. With the Lord's help, I want to do better in this area.

The very ones who look least approachable may be the ones who need it the most. Those are the ones I want to connect with. Because those are the ones Jesus would have looked for. He was searching the crowd when He found Zacchaeus up in a tree. How hard have I been looking for someone to invite myself to be in their company?

Before his accident, Dean was the one who looked for someone he felt needed companionship. And now he's the one on the other end. I'm so glad he got noticed yesterday. Jamie (I try to remember names, since Dean can't), you were truly an angel in disguise for an old man yesterday. I wish I could give you a thousand hugs.

Healing Thumbs

Dean's thumb has been a target of his for quite awhile now. At times, his nervous picking at this thumb with the fingers of that hand has led to open sores. Nobody, even Dean, pays much attention to this "thumb picking" until it gets to this stage. When Dean asks for the Bandaids, I know it's time to build his thumb fortress again to help minimize the damage and give the sores time to heal.

The day after his bath aide successfully built a mighty fortress on his thumb (he could hardly bend it, let alone pick at it), our granddaughter walked in with a similar injury from a paper cut. Unknowingly, her mom had fortified her thumb with a similar bandage.

They were quite a pair, both of them sporting white thumbs.

This thumb can be an example of how sin is in our life. We don't pay it much attention until it gets to the "open sore" stage. Then Jesus graciously covers us, ready to keep those nasty fingernails of temptation from penetrating His white robe of righteousness. If we'd only learn to keep this covering on all the time, the healing underneath would be complete.

The Not-So-Super Bowl

This is the first time I have felt driven to write a blogpost right after writing another one on www.caregiving.com. It's called "My Soapbox" there. But the topic is so pertinent and timely, I just can't help myself.

It pertains to the Superbowl game last night. Like everyone else, I get fired up about the game, but from a whole different perspective than most people. My readers here understand all too well the challenges of my life as a caregiver, so I don't have to describe to you what it's like to live with someone with a brain injury and its resulting dementia.

My problem with football is that we are being entertained by watching men, and unfortunately our youth, getting battered in ways that will affect them for the rest of their lives. The most insidious injury though to me is that of brain or head injury, concussions.

They used to call it "getting your bell rung". You can imagine how the sound of that makes me cringe, because it illustrates the lighthearted attitude of past years, before we knew much about the workings of the brain. I heard a TV commentator say recently that we have learned more about the brain in the last five years than we knew for centuries before that.

So the stark reality is that with football players retiring or leaving the game for various reasons, we have seen symptoms of a disorder that has been identified as chronic traumatic encephalopathy. It has been undeniably linked with repeated concussions that some of these players sustain over their careers in the league. It was previously thought to occur only with professional boxers, but has now been linked with the sport of football as well.

Young people are particularly in danger, and that is the sad part about us dragging our feet about doing something about the problem. We are putting their delicate brains in jeopardy, and all for the sake of the game. I realize sports are good for kids. But there has to be safer methods to foster team spirit and boost self-esteem, without the competitiveness and injuries to their bodies that we are encouraging.

OK, I'll get off my second soapbox today. Read the book "The League of Denial" for more information!

Getting Over the Sleepover

Last night we kept our granddaughters for a "sleepover". It worked quite well until the sleep was over--about 3 a.m. Even though they obediently tried to go back to their makeshift bed of sofa cushions out in the living room and go back to sleep, it just didn't happen. They stayed in the living room, but it seems little sister was a jabbering fool, not allowing sleep to come for her five-year-old sister.

Grandpa couldn't wait to fix their Sunday morning pancakes though, so he went out at 4:30 to start their breakfast. I, of course, went out as needed for my mediation services. There were only a couple of outbursts (by Grandpa, of course), but none of us got any more sleep after that. (Good thing we had all retired shortly after nine the previous night.)

My daughter called to tell me she was coming to pick them up and offered to take Grandpa for an outing, just her and the girls, to give me a break this morning.

Just before they headed out the door, I mentioned that they hadn't had any sleep since 3 a.m. A temporary look of fear swept over her face, but she was locked in. So I have the house to myself. And she has, well, let's just say I hope she survives.

God gives mothers and grandmothers the patience of saints. Heaven knows we need it.

Whose Child Is This?

The evidence is mounting that my granddaughter has dementia. It is evidently of a very early-onset variety, but she certainly mirrors her grandpa's symptoms, the more I'm around the two.

For instance, when my three-year-old granddaughter came in the house the other morning (my turn to babysit that day), she was toting a small pearl necklace with a cardboard toilet paper roll threaded on it. Beaming with pride at her own creation, she offered me her new customized jewelry, a string of pearls with a toilet paper roll dangling daintily in front.

I was only slightly saddened to discover that it was too small to fit around my neck, but she quickly thought that our little dog would undoubtedly love to wear it, so we had to try it on her. I must say it was a perfect fit, even though the string broke within an hour, and we had to retrieve all the scattered pearls and of course, the toilet paper roll before they got lost.

This incident involving the toilet paper roll reminded me of something Dean has been doing for awhile now. I have to bury or hide anything of a disposable nature like cardboard paper rolls or plastic bottles, because he wants to find a place for them somewhere in our house. Not quite the decorative effect I desire, and besides our storage space is pretty limited.

Then he gets in the mood to leave love notes for me all over the house. Very sweet, but somewhat a waste of good notepad paper. And this is something he's always telling the granddaughters not to do. They get in "scribbling moods" too.

I'm not getting too worried about who has dementia and who doesn't around here though. There are days when I'm forgetful, easily frustrated, and generally in a cranky senior mood, or maybe it's a toddler mood, come to think of it. I suppose we are all just human after all. And God loves us just the way we are, with all our quirky, juvenile behaviors. We're ALL God's children!

bought this mug for Dean awhile back and was surprised to find out how much he liked it!

Sweet Respite

Yesterday was an unusual day. No Dean--he was at his day structure program. No babysitting for granddaughter. No pressing blogposts to write or phone calls to make. My housekeeping was up to snuff--no laundry or dishes to wash. The dog had even had a bath and the bird cage cleaned. And there was no shopping or errands to run.

I ended up taking a leisurely shower, watching a few Andy Griffith shows, and calling an old friend. After that I took a nap. Yes, I took a nap. Felt like I'd been on a short vacation.

I'm on a caregiver respite advisory board for southeast Nebraska, and have been "talking" about respite for months now. But yesterday I actually "felt" respite. This is what we're trying to give caregivers, isn't it?

Time to do nothing is really nice. But in most cases it's just respite to get away from direct caregiving to the care receiver. There is such a mountain of things that caregivers do that it's almost impossible to get away from them entirely.

I'm glad I got to experience true respite even ever-so-briefly yesterday. It reminded me of heaven. God can give us a form of rest while we're here on earth (the weekly Sabbath rest), but only when we get to heaven can we feel true rest from sin and cares of the world that we crave so much. That's why I look forward to the Second Coming and that glorious rest we'll enjoy with Him.

Jesus--our sweetest Respite Provider