Being a Dad

     I make cards on a Hallmark computer program that enables me to customize. This year I decided the Father's Day card I made for Reed should include a poem. The poem is bittersweet, as all things have been since Trace died, but by God's grace, the sweet is gradually overtaking the bitter.

 

Being a Dad 

 

I wondered how you would take to it 

       . . . being a Dad.

You didn't have the advantage I did, 

of feeling your child inside you.

Our daughter was not as real to you

until she was born, 

and the nurses could barely

pry her out of your arms. 

 

Years later, on your arm,

walking her down the aisle 

I saw the look on your face--

you did not want to "give her away"

more like get her away 

from this barely grown groom

who dared to take her

from our home.

 

Will introduced me to the 

mysterious world of sons,

where you knew better than I

what to expect. Although Will

seldom behaved as expected.

And we realized Will should have been

his middle name, his first name

should have been Strong. 

 

Then came Tracy, who inherited

my compassion, your skills,

and from both sides of our family,

a predisposition to addiction. 

He shared so much with me, 

but in the hardest failures of his life

turned to you, and you were there

  . . . being a Dad. 

 

Father's Day 2026 

 

 

 

 

Father's Day Gifts

    I wrote this poem for my Dad's Father's Day card this year, but I won't publish it until he has received it in the mail. My Dad is very healthy for his age, but he will be 99 next month, and I realize that whatever I need to say to him, I should probably tell him now. None of us are guaranteed tomorrow. I did not specify in this that my Mom was mentally ill, but I wrote this for my Dad, who needs no explanation. And I hope that perhaps this may speak to people whose circumstances were different from ours, yet familiar.

Father's Day Gifts  

It is hard to buy Father's Day gifts 

for a man as satisfied with what

God has given him as you are,

so this year's gift is mostly my words.

 

For us four siblings, raised when

dads went to work to support their kids

and moms stayed home to nurture them,

Dad was the bond that held us together.

 

He showed us the value of 

honoring our future wedding vows

regardless of reciprocation,

appreciation, or mental condition. 

 

He showed us sacrificial love

by coming home to a family

who needed him, instead of

pursuing his own happiness. 

 

Dad is the reason we grew up

to be responsible, resilient people,

and to find the fulfilling relationships

that he chose to give up for our sake.

 

From Dad we learned that happiness 

comes from attitude, not circumstances,

that love is a commitment, not a feeling,

and to be content with what God gives us. 

 

Father's Day is a reminder, 

not about the gifts we give you,

but about the gift God gave us

by making you our Dad. 

 

Father's Day 2026 

 

 

 

  

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Learning by the Seat of My Leg

    I am half way through six weeks of my right leg being non-weight bearing following ankle surgery. I thought I would be using crutches, having underestimated the changes between the 50 plus body I had for my knee replacements and the 70 minus body I have now. My shoulders, even the new one, are not up to crutch duty, my left leg can sock, but not hop, and I am a little off balance (no surprise there). These deficiencies must show, because my podiatrist strongly recommended I use a knee scooter. I always thought those were for the younger crowd. I have not ridden a scooter since  . . . I have never ridden a scooter. 

    At first it was awkward, like a junior high dance. Where am I supposed to hold you? When is it okay to let go? How fast are we supposed to move? The latter was written right on the handlebars:  Recommended speed: Normal walking 3.6 km/h (2.24 mph). I can actually reach that on the straightaways, even inside my house. It is the first time I have been able to go normal walking speed in years. Imagine how fast I could go if we didn't have carpet. Now I love my knee scooter. The brand is called BlessReach, so I call my scooter Blessie Blue. Here are some of the things I have learned:

 

1. I know the best way to transfer to/from the bed, toilet, shower, car, and most of the furniture. Still working on refining transfers to motorized carts at stores.
2. I am learning to organize tasks by line of reach, especially in the bathroom. I brush my teeth, wash my face and put on face cream on the way to the toilet. I put on my nightgown, grab meds, and drop my dirty clothes in the hamper on the way to bed. Scooters do not turn on a dime, more like a manhole cover, so I try to anticipate everything I might need from any area of the house before I leave it. Up until now, forgetfulness was the best exercise I got.
3. I can pull the cords on the ceiling light and fan with my reacher, which I have named Jack.
4. Even giving him a list that includes brand, size, price, aisle, and sometimes pictures, grocery stores are mostly unexplored territory for Reed. Unless I go with him, I need to lower my expectations that he will recognize good produce or bring home the sale items.
5. Reed has been hiding his talents from me. Although church friends have brought in several dinners for us, Reed has fixed bacon and eggs, even French toast (his idea!) for breakfast. He also knows how to do laundry (with some coaching on sorting and cycles). And, like those men I see in commercials, he knows how to clean a house.
6. That leads me to the most important thing I have learned while semi-recumbent--I DO NOT GET TO HAVE MY HOUSE MY WAY! 

    Reed does not think like me, load the dishwasher like me, clean like me, fold clothes even to my extremely low standards, etc. But he does help me shower, finds and fetches dozens of things I need, is my chauffeur, built a scooter ramp on our front steps, and has a great cup of coffee waiting for me at breakfast. The price of having things my way is doing them myself and, although I am getting my energy back, and Blessie and I are discovering how to do more things together, I have also learned that when you don't have a leg to stand on, you need to sit some things out. 

 

On This and Every Other Day

 

On This and Every Other Day 

 

We cannot tell the ones who've gone

how much their memory lives on

in flags that fly upon their graves,

in speeches given, veterans praised,

but most of all through families

who gather because they are free, 

on this and every other day

through the life you gave--

Memorial Day.

 

5/25/26 

A Leg Up

    To get things off on the right foot, I must explain about my right foot. My right foot went wrong a year ago when occasional soreness turned into rolling, popping and pain. Despite an unhelpful orthopedic visit, physical therapy and laser treatments, my ankle's stability was on its last legs. I had to wear high top winter boots to walk outside. Year round! As happens in later years, I wound up taking a break from one malfunction to treat another, so tolerated my tottering ankle until I could have my stiff, painful left shoulder replaced. Since that surgery and recovery went really well, and I was unwilling to suffer through another summer in winter boots, I scheduled an appointment about my ankle, this time with a podiatrist. Though I was not expecting another miraculous recovery, I had decided if surgery was needed, I was willing to break a leg. 

    The operation was six days ago. As with my shoulder, after the nerve block wore off, the pain was not as severe as expected. That is the upside. The downside is that my right leg cannot bear weight for six weeks. I had planned to use crutches after surgery as I did after my knee replacements, though that would have been hard on my shoulders, however in the dozen years between those operations and now, my sense of balance is on the skids and my body's ability to hop up and down steps has legged it out of my here. So my happy homecoming after surgery involved butt scooting my way into the house. There was a time when Reed could have just carried me across the threshold, but back then I could just have hopped to it. 

    Now I have traded my right leg for a knee scooter. Adjusting to getting around this way has looked like an awkward mating dance, but I have found the secret of not accidentally putting weight on my off duty leg is to put my leg up on the scooter before I grab the handles. Actually, God gave me a leg up on this un-bear-able time through last year's bathroom remodel that turned it into a walk-in shower with a built-in bench, without which I would be both unclean and unhappy. And in more recent sovereign circumstances, before my shoulder replacement, it would have been too painful to pull myself up by the scooter handles. Unsurprisingly, God sovereignly sutured these separate circumstances together so I could have the best possible outcome. But now it is time to shake a leg and finish this blog. Maybe my experience will help someone else without a leg to stand on, get a heads up on getting a leg up on knee scooters. 

 (If you noticed an excessive amount of idioms in this blog, it's because I just couldn't help pulling your leg.)

 

    

     

 

Second Chances

    The rich young ruler, whose encounter with Jesus is recorded in the three synoptic gospels (Matthew, Mark, Luke) has become some pastors' poster child for blowing one's opportunity to be saved. But why assume he had no second chance? Mark 10:21 begins, "Jesus looked at him and loved him . . ."  Does the love of Jesus displayed and described in so many places in the New Testament fit with the one chance wonder sermons often preached about this man? In researching/googling this, I learned that church tradition identifies the rich young ruler as John Mark, the author of the gospel of Mark. But since we don't know that for sure, and we do know how awkward it is to keep repeating rich young ruler, let's just call him Rich Young and assume he did not walk away from Christ sad forever. That fits better with  other parts of the Bible in which the Lord offers many, often unused and always undeserved, opportunities for repentance.     The Lord gave:

 

• The people of Noah's time 120 years to believe and be saved, despite knowing none of them would. 
• Numerous prophets preaching repentance to the Israelites before, after and during captivity.  
• Even horrid Herod Antipas 1- 2 years to repent by listening to John the Baptist.  
• Saul the dying testimonies of every Christian he had martyred, beginning with the angelic face of Stephen, as an opportunity to repent. And when none of those experiences got through to him, Saul got a smack down from his Savior and an offer he could not refuse.
• Fickle Felix a two year opportunity to trust Jesus through Paul's teaching. 
• Ditto for Festus. 
• The Roman guards chained to Paul, literally his captive audience, one-on-one invitations to believe in Christ, and many did.
• Me, who fought the Holy Spirit's conviction for an entire year, hundreds of chances, until at last I gave up my struggle, gave in to Jesus, and gained everything in return.  

    God gave Gentiles like the Roman rulers and ordinary people like me, multiple invitations to believe in Jesus. Though "Rich Young" may have missed his opportunity to be listed among Jesus' disciples the day he walked away, I am confident He gave Rich a second chance at salvation. Even Pontius Pilate who squandered his chance to do the right thing concerning Christ's crucifixion, was given a few years after that in which, though it seems unlikely, he could have repented. So if we must have a poster boy for walking away sad irrevocably, eternally, it is Judas.

 

10 Things We Won't Hear Jesus Say

1. What are you doing here in heaven?
2. You lived years past the time I chose for you to die because of your healthy lifestyle. (An unbelievable amount of Christians believe this) 
3. I had no idea that would happen.
4. A person I chose for salvation before the foundation of the world went to hell because you didn't witness to them! (Making someone's eternal damnation dependent on one frail believer's one time obedience)
5. Oh, by the way, that is the one sin my death did not pay for. 
6. I chose you because I foresaw that you would choose me? (Who would be sovereign in that case?) 
7. If you don't accept the mission I have called you to, I'll just choose someone else. (Ask Moses, Jonah, and Paul how that turned out)
8. I came back to earth because everything was out of control.
9. If you stop loving me, I will stop loving you.
10. If I had known you would commit that sin, I never would have saved you. 

     If the above statements were on a true/false test, most Christians would ace it. Shucked down to the cob they are obviously false. Still, many believers live as though some of these are at least partially true. We doomscroll the internet to find hidden things to worry about, and despair as if God is not aware of man's secret agendas and conspiracies. Both the world and the medical establishment assure us that we can control our own health and lifespan, but there is a big difference between stewardship of our bodies that helps us feel better, and controlling our time of death. When Jesus said in Luke 12:25, "Who of you by worrying (taking thought KJV) can add a single hour to your life?" He was not looking for a show of hands. It was a rhetorical question. We are not that powerful.

     Many Christians stagger through life carrying the load of blood-guiltiness, believing God will hold them accountable if they don't witness to someone and that person goes to hell. Scary! This is based on Ezek. 33:6 where God makes Ezekiel his watchman to warn his people to turn from their wicked ways or Ezekiel would be held accountable for their blood. There are many reasons (primarily context, access to the Bible, and many other scriptures) that show their grim interpretation is wrong. Although it is important to obey God when he prompts us to share Christ, the conviction and faith necessary for salvation are things only God can supply. And the idea that God could elect someone for salvation but we can prevent that from happening, is hubris to a heretical degree. We are not that powerful.

   And though it seems fair to us that when we turn our back on the Lord, He turns His back on us, that only reveals our limited understanding of God. His love, forgiveness, faithfulness, and mercy are too vast to measure on a human "fairness" scale. Shucked down the the cob, all these errors have one thing in common--low view of God, high view of man. We are loved far more and understand far less than we can comprehend. But I know this, when I get to heaven I do not want to hear Jesus say, "Nice to see you, I'm Jesus, I don't think you know me very well."

 

 

Wanna Bet?

     I have often wondered why there is no "thou shalt not" in the Bible about gambling, which most Christians consider a sin. A long standing sin. Assuming Eve lived about as long as Adam, 900 years, and was fertile from the time she was created, even knocking off a few centuries for menopause, she must have given birth to hundreds of children. I am sure that as the novelty wore off for Adam, and the older kids grew to maturity, there must have been some betting going on about whether Ma Eve was having a boy or a girl. Even if this scenario never happened, gambling has been around a long time. Not the casino, slot machine type of gambling, more like throwing dice or racing farm animals. 

    However, not only does the Bible not prohibit gambling, the examples of it in the form of casting lots show it as a means of accomplishing God's purpose, even through unbelievers. In Jonah, for example, casting lots was how the sailors knew the disobedient prophet was the cause of the terrible storm. Even the Roman soldiers casting lots for Jesus' clothes during his crucifixion, crass as that was, were fulfilling prophecy. The Israelites found Achan responsible for their defeat in battle by casting lots. The allotment of land to the 12 tribes was decided by casting lots. The breastplate of Israel's high priest contained stones called the Urim and Thummim that served as a  means of determining God's will. As Phillipe said to the Lord in the movie Ladyhawke, "How can I learn any moral lessons when you keep confusing me this way?"

    By gambling I do not mean bringing a box of diapers to a baby shower for a chance to win a door prize or paying a quarter for a bingo card that may win you a candy bar, there is no risk at stake or motive of greed. Gambling is a sin when a parent uses the money meant to support their family to place bets, when they steal to get the money, and when it is motivated by greed or covetousness. Gambling is an addiction when the endorphins released overpower the negative consequences to the point they cannot stop. But my main problem with gambling is theological--since God is sovereign, there is no chance, random or luck, so gambling is a waste of time and money. And I don't play cards, which the Bible does not condemn either, simply because I can't keep track of what everyone else has played and that is an important part. So I choose to cast my lot with the one who holds all the cards, the King of kings. And to those who think they know why God chooses to use random, gambling-like means to accomplish His plan, I say, Wanna bet?

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 

 

 

Sorrow's Choice

   The weeks leading up to this fourth anniversary of losing Tracy have been especially busy. Between that and return of winter weather, we hadn't made a plan for how to honor his memory. At my two presentations about him last week, the comments made by those who spoke to me on the way out made it clear that his story had touched lives. I sold a lot of books, mostly Lament, which is about losing him, and received personal responses about those as well. Learning how to publish Lament is the only reason I even thought about publishing my other books. But are those the spiritual fruit the Lord is bringing from Tracy's death?

    This anniversary fell on a Sunday, so we went to church of course and, since the weather was warm and sunny, visited the cemetery. Just before leaving the house, I remembered how early Easter is this year, so we brought the flower crosses to put by his gravestone. I tried to write a poem about the meaning of flowers on a cross, but didn't like the way it turned out, so I quickly wrote this one to go with the picture for my Facebook post.

 

 

 

                                                              

Sorrow's Choice  

 

Four years you've lived in heaven today.

I miss your strength, your smile, your voice,

but every day I have a choice

to sit in sorrow that you're gone 

or seek the joy that lingers on.

I know which you would choose for me,

and so my heart waits patiently.  

 

 3/22/26 

Women's Connection--Final Version

 

   I published a different form of this blog many months ago. This is the final version that I presented this week. Thanks to the guidance of one of my writer friends, it is shorter in many areas and now has an outline, which I needed for clarity to make sense of my own life events. My life story divisions are: Journey to Faith, Journey through Grief.   

My Women’s Connection Testimony

      Happy St. Patrick’s Day! I don’t know if I’m Irish or not, but I’m wearing green earrings so you can’t pinch me. I see a lot of my friends here, thanks for coming, but for anyone who came because you heard they were having lamb, prepare to be disappointed. I’m the Lamb. Prayer: Lord if the story you have written in my life can help someone here with the story you are writing in hers, I pray for your Spirit to use my words. Thank you for letting me honor my son's life and memory today. A writing teacher once told our class not to put on our book bios how many generations our families have lived in Montana because no one outside of Montana cares. But since I am in Montana, I feel free to say that my great grandparents homesteaded in eastern Montana in 1913. Who else here is from Wolf Point? When I was one, my Dad got a job with the Highway Department, now called the DOT, so we moved from Wolf Point and followed his job to a series of small towns in western Montana.

    My younger brother was born in Philipsburg, MT in a small hospital that did not recognize the damage that RH factor had done to his body. RH factor refers to the protein that makes your blood type either positive or negative. When an RH negative woman carries a baby with RH positive blood, the mother's body reacts by forming antibodies that attack the baby. This is more likely if there have been previous children because the antibodies grow stronger with each pregnancy. By the time my brother's health issues were obvious, Roddy had already been damaged by cerebral palsy. He would have hearing and speech problems, mental and physical disabilities all of his life. The doctor said he would not live past seven and, if he did, would be unable to do or understand anything. He recommended putting my brother in an institution before we got too attached. 

     Fortunately, God was not limited by this pathetic prognosis and Roddy is almost 66 years old. Last year I helped him sign up for Medicare and later this week, for Social Security. He graduated from special ed. at Sentinel High School, and worked as a janitor until he retires this month. He still lives in his Missoula home with my now 98 year old Dad and, though Dad is still mostly able to take care of the house and yard, Rod has taken over responsibility for driving. He is a Griz fan, loves all kinds of music and stereo equipment, recently bought a new car, and most importantly, trusted Christ as his Savior as a young boy. I had the privilege of leading him to the Lord. 

    I was six years old when my sister came into the world, two years after Roddy was born. Our Mom developed a psychosis during childbirth that would last the rest of her life. Although she was not diagnosed with schizophrenia until I was 14 and she had, what was then called, a nervous breakdown, I essentially lost my mother when I was six. At that time treatment was basically tranquilizers, which did not do anything for a patient's delusions, hallucinations and paranoia, but made life more peaceful for the rest of the family. I’d like to read you one of the poems that should be on your table now. 

                                                  Beautiful Economy 

On March 25, 1960

 my brother was entering this world

 in a hospital too small to recognize

 the danger he was in.

 A blood disorder had given him

 cerebral palsy.

 He would never hear, speak, learn or move

 the way most people do.

 The damage was irreversible. 

 

On October 8, 1962

 my sister was entering this world

 and my mother was leaving it

 for a world of conspiracies and intrigue.

 For unknown reasons she became

 paranoid schizophrenic.

 She would never reason, feel or function

 the way most people do

 The disease was incurable. 

 

 What kind of God

 would give my father

 a handicapped son

 with a mentally ill mother?

 The kind who knew

 my dad would spend

 most of his life

 alone in his marriage,

 but together with his son.

 Through the long years

 they would always have each other.

 

 Nothing in this world

 is ever wasted

 in the beautiful economy of God.

 

    I don't want to give the wrong impression here, most of my life was quite ordinary. I went to high school, babysat, did chores, and had part time jobs like everyone else. I had a little more responsibility for helping raise my younger siblings than many of my friends, and seldom had anyone come to my house, but most of my life was normal. And the part that was hard--the anger, the sorrow--I stuffed away into a secret place inside.

    Early in their marriage, my Mom converted to a different religious group. Like everything except biblical Christianity, it taught that you must work for your own redemption. My Dad didn’t convert, but my older brother and I were raised in that denomination. Although many schizophrenics' paranoia focuses on the government or law enforcement, my Mom's main delusions centered around her church so, when I was 14, Mom asked me to leave the church. I believed I was in the true church and intended to go back when I left home. But God used that request from my mentally ill mother as a turning point in my spiritual journey.

    Away from the teachings of my church, I began to create my own god in the cafeteria style that is still so popular today. I incorporated evolution, of course, ancient aliens were popular at the time, as was something about the lost continent of Mu, although I can't remember anything about it. But a create-your-own-god is not like a build-a-bear workshop, there is nothing tangible to hold onto when you are finished.

    Meanwhile my older brother, Clell, had been invited by one of the dorkiest boys in high school to some teen Bible studies. My brother, in turn, started inviting me to their once a month parties. Since I had no social life and went to a high school where all parties and most dates involved drinking, a Christian youth group seemed like a safe alternative. Eventually I felt guilty for attending the parties but not the actual Bible studies, so I started going to those too. We were studying the gospel of John. It was in John that I found out there is nothing we can do to work our way to heaven. Jesus was asked that very question by the religious leaders of his time—What can I do to work the works of God? Jesus said, the work of God is to believe in the one He has sent. We do not have a works problem, we have a sin problem, and the penalty for sin is death. Jesus came to pay for our sins by dying on the cross. His Son was God’s love gift to us, the only work we need to do, is to accept that gift. By God's grace, when there was a conflict between what the Bible said and what my former church taught, I believed the Bible. After all, one of the tenets of that faith stated that we believed the Bible was the Word of God. But we didn't study it, certainly not in the main service, and just a few scattered stories from the Bible in Sunday school. 

     Eventually I started attending Sunday morning service, not just youth group. But something happened that forced me to look deeper at what I believed. When my friend Donna and I were both 15 years old, Donna died of hepatitis. Suddenly, death did not just come for old people, it had come for Donna, it could come for me. I needed to know if what I had been learning in the Bible was true. I knew I needed to trust Christ as my Savior, but I did not want to let Him control my life. I wanted the steering wheel. My whole childhood had been driven by my Mom's mental illness. I wanted to control my adult life. Being a teenager, I didn't realize that we never get to hold life's steering wheel.

    Unfortunately for me, the church I attended was one of those that gave an altar call every Sunday, asking those who needed to receive Christ to come forward. I remember week after week, standing for the last song, convicted, resisting, gripping the pew in front of me until my knuckles turned white, but I did not go forward. And the conviction didn't end when I went home. The Holy Spirit is very good at his job and there, alone in my room, trying to go to sleep, He would remind me that I needed to trust Jesus, that the alternative was hell. Still I fought for control. I knew that if I asked the Savior who had suffered and given his life for me, to save my soul, the only right response would be for me to give that life back to him, but I didn't want to. I wrestled with the Holy Spirit for a year. Do I look that stubborn?

     Finally in October 1972, in what was probably the worst prayer for salvation ever spoken, I told Jesus He could save me if He wanted to, but not to expect anything from me. It did not feel like a great spiritual victory, it felt like utter defeat. I could not resist the Spirit's conviction any longer. I surrendered. The next night I prayed a more submissive prayer, but the deed was already done. Lousy prayer, lousy attitude and all, Jesus had saved me that night. The Holy Spirit, who had for so long pounded on my heart from the outside, now assured me from the inside, that I belonged to Him. I’m so thankful for the dorky kid that invited my brother to the teen Bible studies, that taught me the book of John, who led me to the One I had unknowingly been looking for all my life—Jesus.

     I don't want to yada, yada, yada over the next part of my life, but I am 69 years old and only have 25 minutes to speak. So briefly, I lived at home and attended U of M my freshman year because I had so many scholarships, I got money back at the end of registration. It was better than high school, nobody cared about what you wore, if you were rich, pretty or popular. I no longer felt like a guppy swimming in a piranha tank, but in many ways, nobody cared at all. Where I really wanted to go was Western Baptist Bible College, now called Corban, in Salem, OR. And my sophomore year, much to my Dad's objections, I transferred there. It was there I met my husband Reed. In the odd ways of God, Reed had also grown up in Missoula, went to the only other high school, and my little church was actually a split off of his, but we had never met. It was not love at first sight, or even 20th sight, but there is something irresistible about a man who keeps loving you in spite of yourself. We got engaged at 19, married at 20, and moved to Helena, MT where I put Reed through Vo-Tech aircraft mechanic school and have lived off that investment for almost 49 years.

    We moved to Denver so Reed could get aircraft experience and I could finish college, but became trapped there by the job scarcity of the recession. When we finally got so sick of the traffic, pollution and crime, that we were ready to take off for Montana without jobs, the company let Reed transfer to their Billings facility. Our favorite souvenir of our four years in Denver is our daughter, Britten. In Billings we had just bought our first home and I was seven months pregnant with our son Will, when the company Reed worked for went bankrupt. The other mechanics found jobs that paid as much or better than they earned before. Reed did not. We had no insurance for the coming baby. We were broke and afraid we would lose the house. In case He had forgotten, I kept reminding the Lord that WE WERE THE CHRISTIANS! Why was he blessing these other people? That experience is what I came to call, God's Providential Leading Brilliantly Disguised as Disaster. The Lord knew that where we really wanted to live was western Montana, near our families, and He used all those seeming catastrophes to loosen our grip on our life in Billings so we would be willing to move to Kalispell when a job opened here.

     Our son Tracy was born here. When he was one year old, I was at a Bible study for young moms and felt the Lord telling me He was going to do something different in my life. I thought perhaps he would call us to the mission field. What actually happened was 3 1/2 years of depression. I had reached the point where not only could I not stuff one more thing into my secret place inside, the door had popped open and everything was spilling out. I do not have time here to do justice to that part of my life today, and I do not want to minimize the depression any of you may be facing, so briefly, I fought suicidal feelings with logic and willpower for a whole year. It was one time being that stubborn helped me. I prayed, of course, sang worship songs, but the Lord's plan was not to end my struggle, but for me to walk through the pain into wholeness. That was the something new He had promised. The main encouragement I want to give you is—God is real. God is good. Hang on until life is good again, too.

     Eventually I could pray without feeling like my prayers were hitting the ceiling, go to church and Bible study without feeling like a failure, read my Bible, understand it, and believe it again. Feel all my feelings instead of banishing the hard ones to my secret place. I could enjoy my life again. My children grew up. My daughter met a godly young man at a Bible College in Bozeman, got married and only 14 years later, gave me my first granddaughter, Brie. When the baby was a just a couple months old, my son-in-law transferred from an engineering firm in Helena to the Kalispell branch. They bought a home minutes away from ours and had a second daughter in 2020. My oldest son, Will, who I thought might grow up to be a hunting outfitter, or a hermit, decided to become a nurse. He met his wife Emily at nursing college in Helena. There is an amazing story about that, but I don’t have time to share that here either. To my delight they live in Kalispell also, brought another granddaughter into our lives in 2019 and, as of December 2024, a grandson.

    Tracy, our youngest son, began to doubt his faith in his teens and struggled so much at Christian school that, much to the school's relief, I home schooled him the last three years. But his secret struggle was with alcohol and drug addiction. Things eventually spiraled out of control so much that he was willing to come home to get sober and, when that was not enough, to go to rehab at Rimrock in Billings. Something so remarkable happened on that trip, I want to share it briefly here. By that low point in his life, Tracy doubted everything about his previous faith in Christ. Somewhere between Townsend and Toston, we pulled over on the shoulder of the road so our very anxious son could pace and smoke. He said, "I will never believe in God because I can't see Him and He can't see me." I prayed for the Lord to show Trace that He is real and He is good. At that very moment a car pulled up behind ours on the highway. The driver said he was on his way to a meeting in Helena when God told him to turn around and go talk to us. He encouraged Tracy and prayed for us. Tracy said, "I will never doubt God again because of what He did for me today." God is real. God is good. I want you to know that, too.

    That does not mean his path to sobriety was easy. I even prayed for a time that God would make Trace physically unable to drink alcohol. After he had gall stone removal and, while recovering from that, surgery to remove a tumor on his adrenal gland, I mercifully retracted my prayer. It happened gradually, but we finally got our sober, dependable son back. He was already a skilled auto mechanic, but after helping Reed at the airport, decided to go to the same school his dad graduated from, now called Helena College of Technology and become an aircraft mechanic. Let me read you a text he sent after his birthday in 2021:  Thank you for dinner and my card. I am glad that you can be proud to tell people how I'm doing again and I do work very hard to be a good man now, but I couldn't have done any of that without you guys to help me out. Thank you for helping me to pick my life back up and to be able to go to college and do this. He was near the end of his training there, six weeks from graduating, when a fellow student found him dead in his RV. Fentanyl poisoning. Everyone who knew him was shocked. He had not used drugs in six years. But even in all my brokenness, God was real, God was good. 

    His grace was evident even in the way we found out about Tracy's death. Our son-in-law happened to have meetings in Helena at that time and our daughter happened to have invited us for dinner that night. Luke got to Tracy's RV after the first responders, so he didn't have to be the one to find the body. He called our daughter with the news and she told us, so we did not have to find out from some unknown officer looking through contacts on his phone. Throughout Covid protocols I wrote this reference on my mask Ps.139:16 "...all the days ordained for me were written in your book before one of them came to be." I had believed that for many years, but when my son died at age 34, I had to take that truth deep into my heart. Although it is never God's will for a person to use drugs, March 22, 2022 was the time God had chosen for Tracy to go home to heaven. God also provided a special comfort for me that first dreaded Mother’s Day, but I don’t have time to share that story today.

   Two years after Tracy died, our daughter got a call from the Helena prosecutor's office. She was considered a material witness in Tracy's case since she, through late nights going through her brother's computer and phone, unlocked the evidence that convicted the dealer. There are many places in Montana where law enforcement is not even investigating fentanyl deaths, but the Lewis and Clark County prosecutor took the case seriously. We agreed with her suggestion to ask for a sentence of 40 years for the dealer, Neil. His public defender asked for 20 with 15 suspended. But Neil had received many such sentences in the past and always went back to selling drugs. To his credit, he did not fight the charges even though he knew, from decades spent in the legal system, pleading not guilty would have dragged out the case and given him a couple more years with his family before going to prison. His only statement in court was not in his own defense, but an apology to us. This was after sentencing, when it would do him no good. 

    I wondered if I would be able to forgive him. I did not even know what that would feel like. But a month before the sentencing, at our church Good Friday service, hearing again about all Christ had suffered to provide forgiveness for me, God gave me enough love for the dealer to forgive him. Now I knew what forgiveness feels like. It feels like love for the person who wronged you. Neil was sentenced to 38 years. We were glad. He had been selling drugs in the Helena area for about that long. Although Tracy would have been ashamed to have died from drugs, I think he would be glad to know his death kept a man who had been dealing drugs for decades, off the streets of Helena for decades. I think he would have been willing to die a humiliating death in order to save others from dying.

   Writing has long been my coping mechanism, so I poured out my pain in poetry and in my grief journal. Those two eventually became this book, Lament of the Lamb. I give it to people in loss, especially an unexpected loss, to encourage others in grief to trust God and so bring spiritual fruit from our son's death. And I gave my book to the dealer in hope he could know, not only my forgiveness, but God's. I pray for salvation for Neil and his family. 

   After creating the first book on Kindle Direct Publishing, I decided to compile decade’s worth of poems and several years of my blog, A Funny Thing Happened on the Way to Humility into these other four books. I had come to realize even my most ardent fan would not be willing to comb through my computer to look for my poems after I am gone, and the books are much easier to foist off on my children. So although I cannot force them on you, I have brought the books with me, along with the "Heaven" booklets we give out in Tracy's memory. Tracy was very good about opening doors for others, now he lives in heaven, and if there is anyone here who needs to come to Jesus, let his story, and mine, open that door for you today. I would like to read you one final poem. 

                                            Because of Christ

We once were enemies--God and I.

  Though, I kind of liked knowing he was around

  in case I needed him to handle

  something I could not manage on my own.

  In that case, I might ask him.

  But I worried he might ask 

  something of me in return.

  And that would not do.

  I had plans for my life

  and strength of my own to carry them through.

  Or so I thought. 

 

And now we are friends--God and I

  sitting at the same table.

  Not that I did anything to earn an invitation,

  He invited me, must have been a hundred times.

  Until, out of excuses, I finally came.

  His strength, I found, was not so much

  in those grand interventions I planned to ask for,

  but in the small, daily graces

  I hadn't even noticed 

  until we changed from enemies to friends.

  Because of Christ.  

  God is real. God is good. If you would like to trust in Him today, pray with me as I lead in this prayer of salvation . . .