Monday, February 18, 2008


Sometimes when I visit her I get a glimpse of yesterday in her eyes. There's that spark of recognition, tiny and short-lived. She tries to talk, but all that comes out is gibberish -- like, "I wonder wh--we--ah--caaaan--my--yes!"

I nod my head and say, "Yes, that's right. And Kendra's baby is due in late June. I'm going to be a grandma again. Can you believe it? Me--a grandma?"

She nods and smiles. "Yes!"

"Krissi's due any day, you know! Won't that be something? Can you believe how many great grandchildren you will have when this is all done? I mean, well, it's -- really something to think about, isn't it."

She stares at me as if I'm the one missing a few cells upstairs.

"It's a sunny day today, see?" I point at the window where the last rays of a rare February sun are coming to rest on the windowpane beside her bed, but her eyes don't follow my finger. Instead, she looks across the room at nothing - NOTHING. What does she see? And what is happening inside that head of white hair, that hair so thin, short, and styled in the most practical way, yet nothing like she would have worn it if SHE'D styled it herself.

Oh, dear Jesus, I'd give anything to watch her comb her hair again.

For no reason that I know of, a sob rolls out of her, but when I look close I don't see tears, just fear and confusion. She gives me the forlornest look. Lord, what can I do for her? I kneel at her bed and sing, "Amazing sweet the sound." And then I whisper, "Jesus loves you, did you know that?" She listens, staring, wordless, of course.

I take her hand and rub it gently. We sit like that for several minutes. She closes her eyes, drifting off again. I stare at the wall beside her bed, then at the dresser piled with books she used to read, greeting cards from well-wishers, her beloved, cherished Bible, a stuffed animal dressed in clothes that used to make her smile.

I look out the window where the snow falls, pure and weightless.

In the other room, four or five residents lie in their recliners with the TV tuned to the cooking channel. The show host is explaining how to make the world's best spaghetti. I picture some of the residents, all ladies, staring blankly at the screen, afghans tugged snugly up to their chins, and others sleeping, mouths wide open to the elements. In the summer, one might worry about catching a fly or two, but not in February. Tillie, the resident bassett hound, stretches out in the middle of the room sleeping her life away. If you take Tillie's age and multiply it by seven, well, Tillie is the oldest resident.

I look at her again, her facial skin wrinkled, yet still smooth and clear. Her fingers are cool in my hand, thin, bony fingers, fingers that once spanned an octave with ease as they tripped across the ivory keys and played the finest melodies. Not just the printed notes, mind you, but with all the improvising in between.

Lord, I'd give anything to hear her play again.

She moans a bit and squirms under the beautiful white, furry throw I gave her for Christmas. But her eyes remain closed. She doesn't know I'm kneeling at her bedside, doesn't remember that I just sang Amazing Grace to her, or that I told her Jesus loves her. Sometimes I fear she's forgotten who Jesus even is, although I have no fears that He's forgotten her.

I bend over and place a kiss on her forehead. "Bye," I whisper. It must be the thousandth goodbye since we learned she has Alzheimer's, and with every goodbye I wonder--is this the last one?

Mom's going to be 95 this May. For 95 years, she's affected lives with her smile, her Godly outlook, her tender, soothing touches, her helpful, joyful, giving spirit. I know one of these days God will stand at the foot of her bed and say, "Come on, my sweet Dorothy, they've had you long enough. Time to come home to Me now," but until then, I will hold her hand and cherish her presence--talk to her unhearing ears--look in her unseeing eyes...

And hope for a thousand more goodbyes.

Shar MacLaren
February 18, 2008

Monday, February 11, 2008


Monday, February 11, 2008 - 10:40 AM
Okay, I just have to tell you about a dream my husband had, but first let me preface this by saying that in 32 years of marriage, most of our hysterical laughter has taken place in bed. Don't take that wrong, please. I'm just saying we lie there and, while we're talking and exchanging stories about our day or week, we start laughing about the silliest things, and pretty soon we're rolling. (Okay, now get your minds back out of the gutter!) I'm serious here.

Did you ever wake yourself up laughing? I've done it many times, but when it happens, my husband's too tired to ask why I'm laughing, so the next morning I've forgotten my dream, which is always such a bummer, especially if it was a good one. Sometimes, I simply wake him up and say, "Listen to this one!" He loves when I do that. Not.

In Cecil's case, If I hear him laughing in the middle of the night, I sit straight up in bed--no matter the time--shake him out of his sleep--and ask, "What's so funny?" ((Ask now while it's fresh in his mind, right? That's the way I see it anyway.))

Anyway, maybe it's because we have two pregnant daughters, one ready to deliver most any day, the other in a few months, that he had a dream about a little orphan boy. (That alone got me laughing.) As the dream went, this little orphan lived in a big, tall building, and for some reason, Cecil was put in charge of the boy one day a week, and I took responsibility for him twice a week.
(Don't ask.) We would pick him up "on our days" and hang out and play games. Awe....aren't we nice?

I'm like 'what was his name-this orphan boy?' Cecil stared at me in the dark. "That's the weird part. His name was Equipple Meter".

At this point I lost it. I'm rolling - no matter that it's 3 a.m. "Equipple what?"

"Meter," he says, chuckling.


"I don't know!"

"How do you spell it?" I asked, hysterical.

He started laughing full out now. "I guess E-q-u-i-p-p-l-e M-e-t-e-r."

"Wait!" I said, turning to my bedside stand to turn on the light and grab a pen and tablet. "I have to write this down! So Meter's his last name or his middle name?" I asked, still laughing my head off. When you're tired everything seems funnier.

He said, "I have NO IDEA!"

See, if you're not tired, you're probably reading this and thinking, these people get the "WEIRD" AWARD!'s what I have written on my tablet word-for-word...
Orphan boy
Cecil 1 X
Shar 2 X
Equipple Meter

I laid the tablet down, turned the light off, still chuckling to myself, and settled back under the covers. Staring at the ceiling, I started back in again. "Okay, so here's the scenario. Let's just say that we both died in our sleep. It was, of course, an unexplained tragedy. Anyway, days later, while our girls are going through our stuff, they find this tablet, and on it, it says, 'Orphan boy, Cecil 1 time, Shar 2 times - Equipple Meter.' They're going to wonder for the rest of their lives!!!!!!" That, of course, brought on another round of laughter!

And so it went - until we drifted off to sleep - exhausted and content.

You must realize this is the man who, several years ago, also awoke in the middle of the night saying, "Oh, that was bad."
"What?" I asked. (I never miss an opportunity to drag out one of his dreams.)
"The milk, the mud, and the mudfat. We had to eat it for days."
"What? I asked. "We had to eat what?"
He pulled the covers over him and turned over. "I told you. The MILK AND THE MUD AND MUDFAT. Oh, I don't know, manna."
I couldn't get anything else out of him. He'd already gone back to sleep.

I wrote that one down, too!

There is NO POINT whatever to this blog except to say this, "THANK YOU, LORD, FOR THE GIFT OF LAUGHTER!" When you created us, you thought of everything, right down to a sense of humor, something necessary for the lifting of spirits and even the healing of our bodies.

Laughter is such great medicine. I hope you have a healthy dose of it today and in the days to come.

Hugs and God's richest blessings of Joy upon your life...