Unspoiled

    Every time we come to Kimberley, BC we wonder if the tourists have discovered/spoiled it yet, like so many of the small towns we used to visit here decades ago. When we first went to nearby Radium Hot Springs in the late 1980's, it was like a Canadian version of Hot Springs, Montana. An aging spa facility frequented by the aching aging. Families were also welcome because it was assumed parents were smart enough to tell when their children were getting overheated without needing a published age restriction. The last time we went to Radium, now full of crowds, condos and infrastructure, we had to wait a long time just for a chance to turn right onto the highway. We didn't even attempt to go to the hot springs.

    In Kimberley there are a lot of new condos near the Trickle Creek Lodge where we like to stay, but since we are not there during ski season many of them are unoccupied. And most of the neighborhoods from the town's mining heyday, would only fit a miniature McMansion. So for now Kimberley with its Bavarian themed platzl and its yodeling cuckoo clock mascot, Happy Hans, seems unspoiled. In fact, there are some retro values that I wish we could import back to Montana. People in restaurants here expect to visit with the group they came with instead of scroll their phones. Even patrons who come in alone, look around for someone to talk to. I presume when Canadians want to be alone with their phone, they just stay home. And in the noisy bar/barbecue place where we ate last night, I didn't hear anyone swearing. Similar groups of Americans in that settings can use the F word more liberally than salt, not because they are angry, just because they are decency and vocabulary deficient. 

    We have also seen groups of children playing outside. Admittedly, they might have been trapped inside until recently, snow remains tucked into various areas around town, but it is refreshing to see teenagers who still know how to hang out without video games. Not that I have any illusions that we are in a Canadian version of Brigadoon, Marysville, just down the road from Kimberley has some run down areas like Evergreen has in Kalispell. But because parents aren't hovering around their children and the enclosed bank ATM is available 24 hours, not locked so it won't become a homeless hotel, I assume crime and homelessness are not major factors here. 

    We came here for a break, a little respite before the ankle surgery that will leave me both with and without wheels for several weeks. With wheels as in the knee scooter I will use during the 6 weeks I will be non-weight bearing, and without wheels as in the 8-10 weeks I will be non-driving. I am hoping to do a lot of writing while recovering, unless I turn out to be non-word bearing too. God has given us a restful, wonderful weekend so, though Kimberley remains unspoiled, I do not.

Season of the Lost Boys

    A dear friend who was my kids' writing/English teacher, is downsizing decades of student papers. At the coffee shop where we usually meet, she recently gave me a couple papers Britten and Will wrote while in her class. I don't know where they got their strange sense of humor😉 Since she seldom gets to town anymore, this time she mailed a letter, it was my own, a letter I wrote her in 2008 that she said blesses her when she reads it. And the look back on the "lost boys" season of my life blesses me. 

 

Dear Cinda, 

 

    I am in Springfield, IL with my husband, who is working here temporarily. One of my goals is to do some writing projects I have been putting off. One of those projects is this letter to you. I appreciate so much that you continue to ask about and pray for, Tracy. I wanted you to know how God is using him even in this time of doubt.

   Tracy has always had an empathetic heart for people, and a gentleness that makes them feel safe with him. As Trace drifted into the tattooed, pierced, smoking crowd, we began to meet, through Tracy, many of these "lost boys". I knew they were out there, teens whose parents kicked them out or gave up on them out of laziness or indifference. I had wanted to do something for these kids who huddled together like puppies in a box trying to stay warm. Through Tracy, I was able to.

   Our first "spare son" was Andy K., who had lots of family in Kalispell, but none who wanted him. Tracy asked if Andy could live with us, we reluctantly agreed. Andy was the first of eight young men who have lived with us from 2-18 months, although not more than three "spares" have lived with us at one time. Living at our house comes with rules and parents, so the partiers generally aren't willing to stay even for the cheap rent and good food. My job is to feed them and make them hungry, to act as the mother they never had, and to give them an appetite for spiritual things. I have had more opportunities to share my testimony in the past two years than in the 20 years previous. It is a seed planting ministry, I don't know when the fruit will come, but I am so blessed to be a part of what God is doing. One of the young men is as much a son to me as any of the children God gave me. Through Lance, I learned a little of what the supernatural love of God is like. Another has become my son in the faith and is blossoming like a flower despite being in jail. He was Lance's cellmate.

   It is wonderful to know that, in spite of Tracy's disobedience (and mine), God can meet us, and use us, right where we are. I hope this is an encouragement to you. Thanks for your prayers,

 

                                                                                           Connie 

 

   Since the last of the lost boys left, I have heard from only one of them. He is doing well, making a good life for himself in spite of his very broken family. When the season of the spare sons ended, the Lord asked me if I could love them like He does, for years at a time, without getting anything in return. I told Him yes. Nearly 18 years later, I am still saying yes, content in the knowledge that not one of them are lost to God.

 

 

Shaping Up

   The running gags in the later decades of our marriage are that when people ask how long we have been married, Reed tells how many years, but adds, 50 with the chill factor. Mine is that I am giving him 50 years to shape up or I'm out of here. We are joking of course, when we married at age 20, we knew we were in for a life sentence. But actually, after 48 years of marriage, Reed has begun to shape up. I think part of the reason is because he is cutting back at work. I cannot really call what he is now doing retirement, if I tried to throw a retirement party for him, he would probably be too busy to come. Reed is working on airplanes as much as ever, just different airplanes, and in different hangars. The other change is, now that he is no longer a director of maintenance, in charge of both aircraft and hangar, he has begun to notice more things involved with our home/hangout. Fortunately, he is not one of those husbands I had been warned about who retire and decide to become the household manager and "improve" how his wife has been doing things for decades. It is more that since jet maintenance is no longer the continual subroutine playing in his brain, he has begun to notice other things. 

   Things like--the dishwasher needs unloaded. He was always willing to unload it when I asked or when he heard me doing it, but he never noticed it on his own. He has not only learned where most things go, but sometimes puts them in a more logical place than where I was putting them. Similarly, he always helped clear the table after dinner, but it was mostly a one trip effort. Then he would wander off to do something else regardless of how much was still on the table. Now he keeps at it until things are put away, even at holidays when, in the 40 to 60 minutes to it took me to get leftovers put away and clean up the kitchen, our guests had finished visiting and were ready to leave. I like feeding people, but getting to hear what is happening in other people's lives, feeds me. After everyone said goodbye and left our recent Easter dinner, Reed went into the kitchen to finish cutting the meat off the ham bone, load remaining items in the dishwasher, and hand wash the roaster and pans. This is usually my least favorite part and he could tell I was tired from all the food prep the previous day.

   Another way he is shaping up is the discovery, after 48 years of marriage, that Reed knows how to vacuum! He actually does a more thorough job than I do. When he was working, I was lucky if Reed made it home in time to set up chairs and tray tables for our twice monthly 7 p.m. small group. Now he tries to leave the airport at 4 so he will have time to vacuum before setting up. Who knows what hidden talents I may discover about my husband in the future?

   Our 50th anniversary will be in June 2027. Plans for it depend on what kind of shape my ankle is in since it is difficult to travel without walking. After our anniversary, Reed will have to revise his chill factor joke to 55 years, but I am not going to raise the 50 year deadline for him to shape up. Whenever and wherever we choose to get out of here for that milestone, we will do it together.

 

 

A Bone to Pick

     I am thankful for orthopedic surgeons. Having had both knees, and now a shoulder replaced, has added mobility and reduced pain that would have crippled me before artificial joints were available. Nevertheless, I have a bone to pick with them. I did not meet an actual orthopedic surgeon until I was 24, though I really should have before because my left kneecap had been dislocating since I twisted it badly when I was nine. Although having a kneecap go awol while walking was extremely painful, since it always went back into place, this was not considered worth the cost of a doctor visit at the time. Besides, my body adapted by keeping my left leg from fully straightening so the kneecap was less likely to slip, and making my right leg compensate for everything my left leg could not do. When it finally dislocated so badly I could not walk without my leg bent 30 degrees, I saw an orthopedic surgeon. The operation was called a patellar transfer, which involves moving the patellar tendon and stapling it in place. The good news is, it fixed the problem, the bad news is, at that time laparoscopic surgery was in its infancy and my surgeon was not comfortable doing surgery with an infant for an instrument, so I wound up with a nine inch scar that looks like an ugly, white caterpillar crawling up my left knee.

    But that is not the bone I have to pick, it was that the doctor was so convinced the cause of my problem was my female anatomy and not the childhood twisting episode, he almost operated on the wrong knee. Fortunately, the hospital had me do my own betadine scrub before surgery. And since, when he opened the skin for the operation, my kneecap popped off, I hope he clued in that operating on the wrong knee would have left me without a leg to stand on.

    Another non-funny bone experience happened in my early 30's. After months of lower back pain that was not sharp, but nagging, I saw an orthopedic doctor. He, of course, ordered an x-ray, told me I did not need surgery, to live with the pain, and that for good measure I should probably give up the nurse aide job that I had just certified for. Though my medical training was limited, I thought there was probably some middle ground between those two options. I had never been to a chiropractor before and didn't know what I thought of them, but I had a friend who worked as office manager for a chiropractor so gave him a try. After two adjustments, my back pain was gone.

    Last year, when my ankle rolled and sprained so badly I was willing to hobble my way to orthopedic urgent care, I got an x-ray, a loose, heavy boot that I couldn't walk in, and was sent on my way with the unsurprising news that I did not need surgery. I tried both physical therapy and laser on my ankle, but had to discontinue when my shoulder pain won the award for most annoying body part. Having had fair results from two previous cortisone shots in my shoulder, I decided to skip the P.A. potluck and schedule an appointment for an injection from an orthopedic doctor who had a good reputation. He said I did not need the x-ray guided procedures I had at the hospital before because he knew exactly where to put the injection. He did not. The cortisone missed the joint, went into my bloodstream and made my arm and chest red hot, not in a good way. 

    Now back to the ankle portion of my two-for-one joint special, though the pain and swelling have improved in the last year, the stability and muscle strength of my favorite leg have not returned. I have been stuck wearing winter ankle boots or high top tennies for a year. I cannot step on a pebble and know my foot will support me. The only way I can walk on uneven ground is barefoot and, even then, I walk on the outside edge of my foot. For some reason, I did not bother going back to orthopedics. I went to a podiatrist who both my physical therapist and family doctor recommended. He ordered x-rays, asked why no one had done an MRI and if my foot  popped when it sprained, a symptom the orthopedic P.A. totally dismissed. So the podiatrist is doing surgery on my ankle next month. I may be unstable in many ways, but my ankle does not have to be part of the problem. It will be a long recovery, and I hope in the end I won't have a bone to pick with podiatrists either. 

  

 

 

 

 

 

The Cross

     Although I was listening to, and moved by, our church Good Friday service, I found myself slipping into poem mode. I was thinking about the contrast between the sanitized, religious symbol, cross seen in our culture, with the crude instrument of torture it was in Roman culture. The polished pine cross displayed in the front of our sanctuary is nothing like the gruesome one on which Jesus displayed His love.  

 

The Cross 

 

It was not shiny and silver

like the one hanging around my neck,

or pristine and polished

like the one in the church auditorium.

 

It was ugly and bloody and brutal.

It is beautiful and blessed and healing. 

It was the symbol of guilt and suffering and shame.

It is the symbol of cleansing and sacrifice and victory.

 

It was an instrument of death in long ago Rome.

It marks the entrance to heaven, our true home, 

and to the Lord who loved us to death

and, through His power, back to life again.

 

The Cross. 

 

4/4/26 

  

 

 

 

 

Standing By

   I have been contemplating Easter, especially the crucifixion. I often wonder Lord . . . 

 

Would I have stood near you at the cross 

in your hour of need?

Loving you, but surrounded

by those who hate you

a woman, vulnerable, afraid. 

Seeing-- 

 your body beaten, bloody, torn 

Smelling--

 the stench of blood, sweat, urine

Hearing--

 the jeers of persecutors, 

 the groans of suffering

 the sobs of such few faithful. 

 

I fear I would not.

And you, as always, reassure me

that I am standing by you now,

in the time you have chosen for me. 

And that is all you ask of me. 

 

           4/1/26 

 

 

 

  

My Body is Like Jenga

     Due to no popular demand whatsoever, I have written a companion piece for my classic poem from 2024, My Body is Like Costco. Part of my inspiration was the realization that after my left shoulder replacement, my right lower back was no longer chronically tight. That was not the first time I realized that the "equal and opposite reaction" in Newton's Third Law of Motion is true of my body. That does not mean the same joint on the other side of my body is what reacts, it compensates for the problem area at an angle. Left shoulder affects right hip, kind of like another game, Twister. I have not sought permission from Jenga to use their trade name any more than I did from Costco to use theirs. After all, this is a companion piece, not an equal and opposite reaction.

 

My Body is Like Jenga 

 

My body is like Jenga

for every piece that moves,

it thinks it has to compensate

however it behooves.

 

When my arthritic shoulder, 

the left one, locked up tight,

my hip bones readjusted,

putting traction on the right.  

 

This isn't very helpful

the last thing my system needs,

is one more problem area 

whose function it impedes.  

 

Our body "towers" balance

using any means they can,

and when we're young and healthy

that's a great part of God's plan.

 

But when we're old and toppling 

it doesn't work the same.

I think it's time my body stopped

playing its Jenga game. 

 

3/24/26