More ‘Letting Go’ Practice

Today I am getting some ‘letting go’ practice. It’s our 3-month scheduled checkup with the leukemia specialist in Columbus, to find out if things are stable or the leukemia is taking off again.

And I am sick.
Too sick to go.

My MAIN roles in going are 3:

1. extra set of ears
2. extra driver, usually taking the wheel for the trip home
3. debriefer and CO-processor on the way home – and believe me, even when the news is good, there’s plenty to process

Forget #1. I would not go in the Cancer Center like this, even wearing a mask. I wouldn’t appreciate someone else showing up, coughing, glassy-eyed, reaching for tissues.

Forget #2. I’m too groggy to do any of the driving.

#3 I could do as passenger, but riding together for 4 hours in a confined space is NOT the most advisable thing. Whether it’s riskier than occupying the same house or not, I don’t know. I only know the doctor told us to avoid close contact with anyone who is obviously sick and I am obviously sick.

Anyway, I chose not to go and even though it violates one of my policies, I think it was the right decision. More ‘letting go’ practice.

MULTITUDE MONDAY: cup of tea

On Mondays,  I share bits and pieces from my Gratitude Journal.

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#308. a perfect cup of tea

I’d forgotten that tea is more than just a hot drink. It’s an intentional attitude-taking. But on Saturday night, when I asked those here  ”Want something hot to drink? Coffee, cocoa, tea?” and the answer was “Tea” I put the kettle on and remembered.

I remembered the cambric tea my grandmother made us girls, an occasion to feel grown up.

I miss the tea parties with my girlfriends when we were teens, after school and before tackling homework. We gathered at my house and sat around the kitchen table.

There were also many spontaneous tea parties after youth group, when we had things to hash out. We esteemed their importance by being intentional – making space, putting on the kettle, choosing cups.

Coffee speeds me on my way.I drink it while doing other things.
But tea is a break.
Waiting for water to boil.
Waiting for the tea to steep.

Tea is for slowing down, considering, processing, pondering, comforting, consoling and, at times, CeLeBRaTing!

All this was in one perfect cup of English Breakfast tea with a bit of sweetener and a squeeze of lemon.

Other delights this week: everyone together….grandkids in jammies….little fingers on the piano I almost gave away…lots of ready hands to help…laughter and squeals of children playing…shopping therapy…plans made for summer family reunion…the comment “No way a person could remember everything single wonderful thing that happened here this weekend” (I agree)….and more HERE.

Six O’Clock Mass

A glimpse into my early encounters with Sunday mornings.
Generally, on Sundays that my family went to church, we all went together at 11 AM, but sometimes I got lucky.

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Some Sunday mornings, while it was still dark, Daddy would peek around the door to my room, reach in and tap my foot.

“Goin’ to early church. Wanna go? Ten minutes.”

I pulled myself together and met him downstairs. We whispered, even after we got outside. Herrick Drive was quiet, the silence broken only by the sound of our car doors shutting, then the engine starting.

I loved going to 6 o’clock mass. No traffic. A parking spot by the door. A handful of people scattered through the sanctuary. Early mass was like a private showing, a sneak preview, a dress rehearsal. Like they were testing the day’s program to see if it ran okay.

And it was short.

Before the benediction was finished, Daddy was nudging me to move out of the pew. Hurrying toward the door, he’d reach for the holy water with one hand as he checked his watch on the other arm.

“That’s what I like. They get you in and out fast, and you’ve got your whole day ahead of you.”

By 6:30 we were seated in a booth at Dick’s Diner, ordering bacon and eggs.

Life didn’t get much better than this. We were out, we were free, and having just come from church, we felt we were about as close to righteous as we could get. It was all too wonderful. And we knew when we got home it would be over, so we lingered.

Dick’s was quiet. When we arrived, there were only a few customers, all of them sitting at the counter, looking as though they hadn’t wrapped up their Saturday nights yet.

I was the only child in the place.

My father held in high regard any waitress who could manage to deliver a cup of coffee without the contents spilling over into the saucer. I held my breath until the coffee arrived safe and sound and in the cup.

Daddy passed me the comic section and we spread the paper out, leaving just enough room for the food.

As it grew closer to 7 o’clock, a steady flow of people came in to buy the Sunday paper. They all seemed to know my father. “Hi, Sarge” some called out. Others just nodded at him and he nodded back. Fifty years later, I am still fascinated at the way men greet each other with the slight tilt of a head.

The waitress came around with the coffeepot. “More?”

“Just a splash,” Daddy would say, but she’d wait for him to say “when” and he always let her fill it to the top. Then she’d leave the check on the table.

When we’d had enough, we collected up the pieces of our newspaper and headed home. We were two clean slates with the whole day ahead of us. I felt rich.