Another Memorial Day

I wasn’t going to do a special blog for Memorial Day; it seems too predictable. And what can I say that hasn’t already been said. Yet here I am.

This weekend in church, in the Pastor’s sermon, he revealed that he doesn’t personally know anyone who died in combat. I immediately thought of my cousin Ben, which naturally made me start crying, so I thought I should pay tribute to him.

Honestly, I don’t remember ever meeting my cousin Benny. I’m sure I had, but I was little when he went off to Vietnam, and he hadn’t been living around here at the time. Somehow a couple years ago, one of Ben’s nephews was able to find an eye witness account of the day Ben was killed in May 1968. Click here to read it in its entirety.

The account is tough to read for someone like myself with no military background, the descriptions of the weapons and the abbreviations. But when I read the details of the moment Ben was shot, chills run down my spine.

“I saw him struck right in the head from a small arms round from the front and all the poor soul did was raise both hands and put them up to his ears as if to cover them and he fell back into the turret. I was so shocked by that indelibly etched snap shot of death, as I have called it ever since.” P.J. Ronzo

I was too young to remember Benny, but I remember crystal-clear the day I heard that Ryan Adams had died. The son of a co-worker of mine, he died in combat in Afghanistan in October 2009. I can still see the anguish on his mother’s face, his father fighting to stay strong. I can hear taps playing. . .

Can you?

Just Accept the Good Stuff While You Have It

The LORD has done great things for us, and we are filled with joy. Psalm 126:3 (New International Version)

A week ago, we received some fantastic news. My husband was offered a full-time job, the first one in nearly nine years. In 2002, the factory where he had worked for over 20 years, the place he had planned to retire from, shut its doors. Since then, he has worked several part-time jobs, plus been my incredible housekeeper. Then a week ago last Friday, he got the call we’d both been praying for.

As if that weren't enough, my son finally got the letter which I had been praying for. UW-Platteville awarded him his bachelor’s degree. I don’t know why it means so much to me, probably because I so badly want my bachelor’s degree, or just because so few people in my immediate family have their college degree (is there anyone?). In any case, I am so proud of him and wish him the very best. Now he just needs to get out there and get on with his life; he has so much to offer.

I want to just bask in this happiness. Praise God that things are finally turning out for us. Then those nagging thoughts creep into my mind. Something bad is going to happen now. What is it going to be? When will the other shoe drop? I try to force that negativity out of my head, but it’s either me or just plain human nature to not be happy just being happy.

Heavenly Father, thank you for all of the goodness you shower down on us. Help me to be more appreciative of all the gifts you have given. Let me accept today for the beauty it holds.

In the House of My Great-Aunt and Uncle

Over spring break 2008, my mom, my daughter and I ventured to Virginia to visit relatives. It had been exactly thirty years since I had been there, but as we got closer, the streets of that small Virginia town became more and more familiar. I recognized the house, a low brick ranch, right away. And the smell. It’s not a bad smell, but one I always associate with their house. It reminds me of hot asphalt, but Mom said it was from the insecticide everyone there uses.

I would have recognized my mom’s uncle anywhere, too. Age had slowed him a little bit physically, but his blue eyes were as bright as always, his mind sharp as pin. His wife of 75 years hadn’t faired so well; Alzheimer’s disease had taken its toll. Being ever the southern belle, she smiled and laughed with us when appropriate, but over all, she didn’t connect with our conversation.

Their daughter had made arrangements for round-the-clock help to keep an eye on both of them, assist with meals and housework and whatever else needed to be done.

Val, still recovering from her bout of food poisoning, retreated to the car to sleep. She hadn’t been out there long, when the evening hired-help showed up. Mary scooped Val up and ushered her back inside.

“I found this little girl out in the car. She say she been sick, and the back seat of a car ain’t no place if you sick. I goin’ put her to bed and git her some lemon tea.”

Val followed Mary into the bedroom and dutifully crawled into bed. When it was time to leave for the evening, Val really didn’t want to go. She found southern living quite to her liking. At the time, though, she had not seen any true southern living.

Val, later that day, at the home of our cousin.

The Curse

Val in the mountains before the curse struck her.

Did you read this blog? Or the one I wrote the next day? You'll need to read those to understand why this is called the curse.

Over Spring Break in 2008, my mom, my daughter Val and I drove to Virginia to visit my mom’s relatives, including her uncle who had just turned 100. We left on Saturday morning, accepting the fact that we might not make it there in two days. By suppertime on Sunday, as we drove into Danville, Virginia, we decided that right after dinner at the Kentucky Fried Chicken, we would find a motel for the night.

The only problem with that plan was KFC for supper. Or at least the sandwich that Val ordered. Hours after going to bed at the Super 8 on the other end of town, Val started vomiting. By three am, my mom and I decided that enough was enough and we dragged my poor daughter into the car to begin searching for the nearest ER.

The night clerk at the motel tried to be helpful, but in the dark of the night, her directions made no sense. We just started driving, hoping to run across a big blue H sign.

The Danville Regional Medical Center is a nice, modern facility, and I would definitely recommend it if you are ever in the area with a crisis in your car. (They were very obliging about accommodating my monthly payments over the next eighteen months.)

It didn’t take the doctor (was his name really Dr. Dan, or was I sleepwalking at the time?) to diagnose food poisoning and we had no qualms about accusing the Colonel. With IV fluids and Compazine running, Val was able to fall right asleep in her hospital bed. Grandma and Mom, on the other hand, dozed fitfully in our hard plastic chairs, our heads bobbing and jerking, until they released Val at seven am.

First stop – The Windy City

Ines, our foreign exchange student from Portugal, came to live with us over Thanksgiving of 2007. The following spring, her parents wanted to come to America to visit her. They thought that the ideal meeting place would be Chicago, as it seems so close to Tomahawk, when you look on a map. And there is so much to do in Chicago for a week (not for me and my family, but for other people).

Once that plan was set in motion, I came up with an even more elaborate plan. That’s just how I operate.

My mom’s uncle who lives in Virginia had turned 100 that January, and she hoped to get out to see him one more time. Granted, downtown Chicago is a six hour drive from my house, and where the East Coast relatives live is another 16 hours, but that didn’t deter me. It made perfect sense to me.

We left our house at six am on Saturday, March 15, arriving at noon at the Sutton Place Hotel, where the Portugal parents and their two sons were staying with Ines for the week. They treated us to a fine dinner at Gibson’s Restaurant across the street. Way too much food for Val, Mom and me at noon on a Saturday, but we couldn’t really complain.

The worst thing that day was driving in the big city. Traffic, those narrow streets, uck. But on this particular Saturday in March, the river was dyed green for St. Patrick’s Day, so the vehicular and pedestrian traffic was even worse than usual. And do not get me started on those one-way streets. (Yes, I drove up one the wrong way.)

His Presence

I am sorry that I have missed a couple Sundays. That happens when you go out of town three weekends in a row. I haven't forgotten about Easter, though. I wanted to post this one a while ago, but am just getting to it now.

That same day two of them were walking to the village Emmaus, about seven miles out of Jerusalem. They were deep in conversation, going over all these things that had happened. In the middle of their talk and questions, Jesus came up and walked along with them. But they were not able to recognize who he was. Luke24: 13-16 (The Message Bible)

It was Easter morning and the tomb where Jesus’s body had been laid had been found empty. Everyone was talking about it, including these two disciples. A stranger started walking with them and asked what was going on. So they told him.

Much later, after an extended discussion as they walked, the three men arrived in town, and the disciples, still not recognizing Jesus, invited him to dinner.

Have you ever been in a store, or at an event at school, maybe even at church, when someone comes up to you and starts talking to you? You wished you knew who they were but your mind is just blank? Don’t you feel foolish when it finally dawns on you who this person is? Or worse yet, when they tell you who they are?

It’s true that in this occurrence in the Bible, Jesus purposely kept from being recognized. But do you think that there are times when Jesus is an intimate part of your life, and you don’t see him? Maybe he’s not walking down the road with you in the form of another person, but I am sure he is at your side at times and you don’t even know it.

He sat down at the table with them. Taking the bread, he blessed and broke and gave it to them. At that moment, open-eyed, wide-eyed, they recognized him. And then he disappeared. Luke 24:30-11 (The Message Bible)

Jesus, Blessed Redeemer, open my eyes. Reveal your holy presence to me so that I may rejoice in your saving grace.

Like I need more daughters

As a lead-in to next week's blog trip to Virginia, I need to tell you about some of my other daughters.

We've had a total of three girls from Germany stay with us. Our high school German class does an exchange where our students match up with one of theirs for two weeks in Wisconsin during the school year and then two weeks in Germany the following summer. Julia number one in Fall 2003, Julia number two in Spring 2006 and Verena in Fall 2007. They were all great girls, but Verena totally adopted us and even came back for a visit.

Ines, from Portugal, and Meimei, from Taiwan, at the Mall of America. Thanks to all these international daughters, I made way too many trips to the Mall in Minnesota within four years. About the time of this trip, Meimei started going out with one of my son's friends. They are still together and just came over for a visit this week.
Ines lived with us from November 2007 until June 2008. Like a regular daughter, she drove us nuts at times, but like any other daughter, we loved here unconditionally.