Will? Won’t? Did? Didn’t? Have? Haven’t? Why? Why not? 2021 and the Vaccine Questions

Throughout history, people have been marked by society, both truthfully and fictionally. In Genesis 4:15 we are told that after Cain killed his brother Abel, “Then the Lord set a mark on Cain so that no one who found him would kill him.”  Scholars differ on what that mark may have been, and I’m not educated enough to wager a guess.  Samuel Hawthorne wrote”The Scarlet Letter” in 1850, describing a Puritan woman forced to wear a scarlet “A” as a permanent reminder of her having committed adultery.  In Nazi-occupied Europe, Jews were forced to wear a yellow star, mocking the Star of David, and making it easier to humiliate them, as well as to aid in finding them for deportation.  And, then there is Revelation 13:16-17, speaking of the “mark of the beast,”. “The beast forced all the people, small and great, rich and poor, slave and free, to have a mark placed on their right hands or on their foreheads. No one could buy or sell without this mark...” And again, I don’t want to get into a discussion of Revelation here, as I will be the first to admit I am not knowledgeable enough to do that.

But I have begun to wonder in recent days if that little card people are getting is becoming a mark, or rather those who don’t have the card are being “marked.”  And if you haven’t been on Facebook or seen the news or in general have avoided all public discussions of the Coronavirus vaccine (where have you been??), these little cards indicate that someone has had one, or both, or the only inoculation  necessary to mark them “safe.”  

In almost every situation in which I have found myself recently, whether with long-time friends, casual acquaintances, or even random phone conversations regarding a totally different topic (except the ones saying that my car warranty has expired!), the subject has come up. “Have you gotten your vaccine?” “Are you registered?” “Are you going to get it?” “Did you know you don’t have to be in the right “group” to get it if you go to XYZ pharmacy or drive to ABC town?” The list goes is endless, as everyone has a story.

As days have gone on, I find myself thinking more frequently that my health decisions are my own, and private — you’ve heard of HIPAA, I’m sure).  I don’t have to answer any of these questions, except perhaps with my close family members or medical providers.   For the record, yes, I have registered, but because of my age, I’m in one of the last groups to be called.  I’ve actually had people ask, “Well, you have underlying medical conditions, don’t you??” Um, I really don’t want to discuss my medical history and especially not my BMI with you! Why is that suddenly OK??

Will we get to the point that we chose our friends based on whether or not they are “card-carrying?” Will we take them at their word that they are, or will we want to actually SEE their card? Will places of business and workplaces and even churches decide they are open for card-carriers only? Might we only be able to buy and sell if we have “the mark,” the card?  Is this a violation of of health privacy?

As of today, I’m no longer answering the “vaccine questions”— again unless you’re a close family member or a medical professional.  Not to be rude, but it’s really no one's business except mine.  And when I get called, and decide to go to be vaccinated, I won’t be posting it on Facebook.  (Not criticizing all my Facebook friends who have; it’s just that I won’t.)

The last year has been frightening as we’ve navigated waters that most of our generations have never experienced, although polio and smallpox may have been as bad or worse.  The fears are real, and it’s been long and tiring.  Personally, we’ve lost two family members during the last 10 months, one to COVID, so I’m not oblivious to the reality of this virus.  My fear is that the worst is yet to come, as we start to “mark” the haves and the have nots.  May we all be healthy, safe, protected — and respectful.  

Girls! Girls! Girls!

Boys.  We raised boys.  I know all about boys.  I know blocks, Legos, the names of ALL construction vehicles, the different levels of Little League and their ages, that boys wear multiple layers of clothes at all times, that they will wear almost any color dress pants as long as they are khaki or navy.  I know the difference between the American League and the Natuonal League, what inter-league play is, When the All-Star game is played, and have toured quite a few MLB stadiums.  I know what middle school boys smell like (it's not good), and that having deodorant and USING deodorant are two very different things.  I know that more dirt often comes off on the hand towel than goes down the drain.  And I know that little boys love their moms with a special kind of love, that I wouldn't trade for anything.

When we were expecting our first child, we didn't want to know the gender ahead of time, and we said we didn't care whether it was a boy or a girl, but I think we were both really excited that it was a boy-----and our choice of a girl name was awful, so I was especially relieved!  Six years later, big brother was adamant that he was having a baby brother, and we tried to find out the gender ahead of time, but to no avail.  When the doctor announced in the delivery room, "It's a boy!", I breathed a sigh of relief.  I could do this, I knew about boys.

I knew NOTHING about raising little girls. I'm not a girly-girl by any means, very low maintenance, not into makeup or manicures or shoes or shopping or dance or gymnastics.  I would have struggled raising girls, I'm sure.  When I was pregnant, I had maternity dresses that had ties on the sides, and Brian and I struggled figuring out how to tie the bows so that they weren't lopsided.  We taught 3-year-olds in Sunday School for years, and if a little girl came to us with her hair clip or bow in hand, we just had to say, "Put that in your cubby until your parents come back."  We sure didn't know how to get it back in her hair!

Fast forward 30+ years, and we've been blessed to add two daughters to our family, by way of our sons finding and marrying wonderful women. I’m so thankful for the Godly parents who raised these girls, and that they and our sons found each other.  They are building strong homes and families, and we are so proud of them.

Nine years ago this week we were awaiting the birth of our first grandchild - a granddaughter, no less!  To say we were excited would be an understatement, at the very least.  I had made her more hair bows than any one child could ever wear (I ended up donating a lot of them, because I had gone just a wee bit overboard.). I taught myself to smock, and made her a couple of things. We developed an eye for all things girl - clothes, dolls, pink Legos (PINK Legos???), ruffles, cute little hats, and those precious tiny baby shoes - and suddenly we were grandparents of a beautiful little girl who stole our hearts.  We dropped everything to babysit, we started the annual “Christmas Craft Sleepover at Pa and Granna’s,” Date Nights at the beach - we couldn’t imagine it getting any better.

But, as happens, she grew, she learned to walk, and to talk, and to say “Pa” and “Granna,” and every stage was better and better.  We collected pictures on our phones, stories on the tip of our tongues, and we could compete with any other grandparent who thought they had the world’s most amazing grandchild!

Almost three years later, sweet little girl had a baby sister, so we had another granddaughter! We got to have double the fun — learning new things as the older one grew, and reliving memories as the younger one became her own sweet little person.  Christmas Craft sleepovers were double the fun, we had “formal dinners,” complete with pearls (except Pa!), and we put on our best wedding attire when Prince Harry and Princess Meghan got married. We were really getting the hang of this girl stuff!  We go to softball games, and basketball, and gymnastics, and school programs - and we want everyone to know they are “ours”.

And now we’re exactly where we were 9 years ago this week - awaiting the birth of another grandchild, granddaughter #3! A completely new dynamic has been added as the first two can’t wait to have a first cousin. We can’t wait to meet this new little one and begin including her in the existing traditions, while adding new ones we haven’t even thought of yet.  It will be so much fun watching the older two with her - at 6 and 9 they are at great ages to interact with her, unlike their daddy who at 4 carried his first cousin across a room upside-down!

Someday, we just may have a boy in this mix of girls, and you know what? That would be great, too, and I’m sure trucks, and baseball cars, and mud would all come back to us instantly.  Grandchildren are a blessing, no matter the gender.

But for now, when is that granddaughter going to make her appearance? Granna’s arms are ready to hold her, and tell her about all the adventures we’re going to have!

Counting by Tens

When I was One,
I had just begun.
When I was Two,
I was nearly new.
When I was Three
I was hardly me.
When I was Four,
I was not much more.
When I was Five, I was just alive.
But now I am Six, I'm as clever as clever,
So I think I'll be six now for ever and ever. --- A. A. Milne

Our granddaughter recently learned to count by 10's.  She can do it fast!  As I thought about my impending 60th birthday, I realized these years seem to have gone by just as fast, so maybe it would be interesting (for me at least) to look at the highlights of each 10 years.

0-10 -- Born. Lived in Richmond, VA, Wake Forest, NC, Burgaw, NC, and Irvington, VA.  Became a big sister, and again.  Started school, first grade (no preschool, no kindergarten), LOVED the fact that I could walk to school in Wake Forest.  Was a Brownie, and a Girl Scout. Became a Christian and was baptized. Started piano lessons.

11-20 -- Graduated high school, went to UR, so back to RVA.  First "jobs"---babysitting, lawn-mowing (not a favorite, but my brother needed a driver to get him to some of his jobs), school secretary in the summers during college, math tutor/homework helper, church organist (don't recall getting paid for that one!).  Learned to drive, loved driving my mom's Renault with 5-on-the-column!  Met a guy at college named Brian Lee. 

21-30 -- Graduated college, BS in Math. Went to work in the actuarial department at Home Beneficial Life Company. Had my first apartment, and drove a 1970 Plymouth Fury.  Married Brian Lee. Moved to Herndon, VA for about 6 months, then back to RVA. Went to work at Life Insurance Company of Virginia, actuarial department.  Bought our first house. Became a mom. 

31-40 -- Rebuilt our house after a fire. Became a mom again.  Worked as a church organist. Substitute taught preschool. Substitute Math teacher.  Became baseball fan, saw lots of MLB games and stadiums.  Vacations to Atlanta, Disney World, Lancaster, PA.  Learned to quilt.

41-50 -- Bought our second house, Midlothian, VA.  Had a child graduate from high school and college.  Vacations to New England, Toronto, Niagara Falls, Cooperstown, Kentucky, Disney World, Grand Canyon, Caribbean, Emerald Isle, NC. Always crafting.

51-60 -- Second child graduated high school and college, both graduated seminary. Bought our third house, Glen Allen, VA.  Gained a daughter! And again! Became Granna! And again! Went back to work fulltime, Baptist General Association of Virginia.  Watched both kids buy their first, and one a second, house.  Great traveling,  Colorado, Alaska, Key West, Cozumel, Acadia, Prince Edward Island, Quebec, Emerald Isle, Charleston, SC.  Got new knees.  Started the annual Christmas Craft Sleepover at Pa and Granna's.  

These are just some highlights----there have been 21,915 days to my life.  There have been fun moments, funny moments, sad moments, joyful moments.  It's impossible to capture them all in a few short lines, but it's been a great life so far!!  I'm blessed to have a great family.

So what will the 61-70 paragraph say?  Hopefully that I've retired, found lots of time for crafting, travelled, and made lots more great memories.

10, 20, 30, 40, 50, 60---Wow, that went fast.  But I still don't feel like a grown-up.

Chicken Salad for my Heart and Soul

In January of 1984, I was due to deliver our first child at the local hospital.  For some reason it seemed that everyone I talked to mentioned that I would have to eat their chicken salad while I was there, because it was apparently amazing.  So, for weeks, as I packed my bag and anticipated the arrival of our baby, I practically was salivating as I waited to have this renowned sandwich.  In labor by 5:30 AM on the morning of the 23rd, excited over the (I thought) impending arrival of our little one, we left for the hospital.  Surviving over the next 18 hours with ice chips, even during the lunch hour when my husband went to the cafeteria and got, what else?---a chicken salad sandwich, everyone----everyone----promised me that no matter what time that baby finally arrived, they would get me the long-awaited sandwich.

Baby wasn't swayed at all by that promise, and after a long day trying every labor and delivery option available, he arrived at 11:02 PM via Caesarean section, and general anesthesia.  If you've ever had surgery, you know that means your first meal(s) are clear liquid.  Chicken broth. Red jello. Hot tea. Apple juice. Lemon Italian ice.  Next meal: Beef broth. Green jello.  Hot tea. Cranberry juice. Cherry Italian ice.  Five days in the hospital, and I never got my chicken salad sandwich.

Fast forward to March, 1990, and we're waiting for baby #2.  Scheduled Caesarean this time, so no empty promises of my sandwich being ordered right after delivery.  But this time I was only in the hospital three days, and it just wasn't long enough for the clear liquids to end and the hospital menu to offer chicken salad.

Over the next years, Brian has become quite the chicken salad chef at our house.  I boil the chicken, and he picks it.  Technically, he hand shreds it, which I think is the secret.  I add salt, pepper, chopped onion and celery, sometimes a dash of Old Bay, and just enough mayonnaise to hold it all together.  It's not unusual for me to boil 6 chicken breasts, so we enjoy Pa's World Famous Chicken Salad for several days, either on fresh white bread or seeded rye.

Baby #1 grew up, met and married a wonderful girl.  On our very first visit to the home of our co-in-laws ( that's really the official relationship, although we prefer 'close friends'), we discovered that co-mother-in-law makes an AMAZING chicken salad.  In the past 8 years, whenever we've gathered for showers, birthdays, house moves, or any other large or small event, I knew Cathy's World Famous Chicken Salad would make the day extra special-----and on those moving days  it was my incentive to keep working!  Hers is always served on tender croissants-----I can taste it now!

It's December, 2016, and 10 days ago I was admitted to a different local hospital for knee replacement surgery.  Things have change a lot in 30+ years, and I was barely out of surgery when I was brought a tray of REAL food (truth be told, I was looking forward to at least one of those clear liquid meals----at least for the Italian ice!). Much to my joy, as I perused the menu for the next day, what was available but a chicken salad sandwich!  Decision made!  It was delicious, and when they asked for my lunch order the following day, it was easy-----repeat!  Whole grain bread, perfect lunch.

Yesterday, to my surprise, co-mother-in-law came by with her sister (co-aunt-in-law?), bringing two kinds of soup, rolls, cookies, croissants and chicken salad!!!  I can't wait until lunch today----soup and sandwich and cookies!!!!  Yum.  I think chicken salad may be one of my love languages.

It's only 6:00 AM----wonder if that could be my breakfast??

THIS Week, NEXT Week

So THIS week has arrived, the week when I get new knees!  I've always had bad knees, creaking and cracking since I was a teenager. In more recent years, it's gotten harder to walk, to stand, to sit, to climb stairs----shoot, most of those are practically impossible now.  I've missed out on so many things the past few years, and my quality of life has been affected.  It's meant that  not only have I not gotten to do things, but often my husband has missed out as well, because he's chosen to stay with me rather than to go and do what his legs are strong enough to do.  Three weeks ago I bit the bullet and visited an orthopedist who agreed it was time, and scheduled my surgery for Friday.

I. CAN'T. WAIT.

When people find out I'm doing both knees, their first reaction is usually shock.  Then I explain my reasoning:

• I was scarred by having my wisdom teeth removed over three different surgeries----I'm all for "one and done" now.
• I know this is going to be hard, and I don't want to do one knee and then put off getting the second one done.
• I don't want to miss two recovery periods from work.  Let's get this all done at once.

Several have asked, "Did you injure your knees? Did you play sports in school?" Oh, that is such a funny one!  Ask my brother, who once said as I was attempting to play tennis, that he was going to make a movie about un-coordination, starring me!  So no, no sports injuries.

I'm ready.  My bag for the hospital is about packed, I've been doing my pre-op exercises faithfully to strengthen my calves and quads, I have a borrowed walker, a GORGEOUS hot pink, roses-covered cane for when I'm progressing, a safety bar in the shower, a new shower mat so I don't fall, and a shower bench.  We had taller toilets installed (ahh, should have done that long ago!). I've  got projects ready and stored in a chest next to my chair so I'll have things to do, when PT isn't here 3 times a week!  I have books downloaded to my phone.

I'm ready.  As I sit here at 2:00 AM with a heating pad on my knees, as I have every night for the past several months, I look forward to sleeping pain-free.  I know that won't happen immediately, but from everything I've read and heard, the pain after surgery won't be IN my knees.  I should be able to feel a difference there immediately.  Of course there will be other pain from incisions, etc., but they have good meds for that.  The PT's will have me out of bed and trying to walk just a few hours post surgery, and I'm determined to do everything I can at every session.

This weekend we ran a bunch of errands to get ready.  We parked close to stores so I didn't have far to walk.  In some stores I stayed near the front while my husband went to find what we needed way in the back of the store.  I struggled to climb in and out of the car.  I strained to stand up from the pew in church.  But NEXT week....

Yeah, I know it won't all be better immediately.  I realize there's a lot of hard work ahead.  But my theme is now "NEXT week."  A while back, as our granddaughter was grasping the concept of time, anything that had happened previously was described as having taken place "LAST night."  So I'm adapting her phrase, changing it to "NEXT week," to account for all the things I'll be able to do with my new and improved knees.

Knees are mentioned a lot in the Bible, most often as "kneel before the Lord" or "fall on your knees"----just the thought hurts! (till NEXT week....). But I found several other references that fit:


Isaiah 35:3 Strengthen the feeble hands, steady the knees that give way;

Job 4:4 your words have supported those who stumbled; you have strengthened faltering knees.

My favorite life passage is Hebrews 12:1-2a:
Therefore, since we are surrounded by such a great cloud of witnesses, let us throw off everything that hinders and the sin that so easily entangles. And let us run with perseverance the race marked out for us, fixing our eyes on Jesus, the pioneer and perfecter of faith.

As I read further in that chapter tonight (this morning?), I found verses 11-13a:

No discipline seems pleasant at the time, but painful. Later on, however, it produces a harvest of righteousness and peace for those who have been trained by it.  Therefore, strengthen your feeble arms and weak knees. Make level paths for your feet.

I'm ready.  We've cleared paths, readied our house, and I'm focused on the discipline it will take, no matter how unpleasant.

See you NEXT week!

Sandwich

We've all eaten them.  Simple concept, two slices of bread, and something in between.  The bread can be plain or fancy, loaf or rolls, white or wheat.  The insides can be anything-----from PBJ to whatever you can imagine.  Some sandwiches are small, some so thick you can barely squeeze them enough to get them in your mouth.  Some are crust less, or cut into quarters, or better yet, triangles-----PBJ triangle sandwiches just taste different, you know?  The key is, the sandwich isn't known by the bread, it's known by what's inside.  You never have a white bread sandwich-----you have a ham and cheese sandwich.  The bread is what holds it together, but the filling defines it.

Then there's the Sandwich  generation, which is a whole different concept.  I'm beginning to think it's all about the bread, and the filling is just what's stuck in the middle.  Right now, I'm the filling, but I sure don't feel like I'm the defining part.  On either side of me is a generation (or two), one with lots of needs, more than they've ever had in my lifetime, and one with not as many as they used to have, which redefines my relationship with both of them.  While society is telling me the benefits of being an empty nester, I'm learning that the truth is far from that.  True, no one else is living in my house except my husband and I, but between us we have 3 elderly parents with various needs, two sons, two daughters-in-law, one granddaughter and a soon to arrive second granddaughter.

The older generation has needs, and we're the ones designated to meet those needs.  Memories are failing, driving skills aren't what they used to be, doctors appointments have to be made, paperwork needs to be done, decisions have to be made, sudden events happen which require is to drop everything and go.  So there are all of these "have to" things going on, and at the same time there are the just "we need to" visits to arrange.  We manage to plan a visit, honestly, sometimes out of guilt and nothing else, only to be met by "we can't remember the last time we saw you" or "when will you come again"?  In with guilt, out with guilt.  Great visit.

At the same time, our kids are living their own lives, taking care of themselves/wives/families, independently, as they should.  But we find ourselves wishing for more time with them, wanting to know what they're doing, how their lives are going, what their dreams are, what their stresses are, what joys or hardships they are experiencing.  But because we feel so much guilt coming from the 'other side' of the sandwich, we don't want to put our children in the same place that we feel, and we therefore err on the side of staying away, seeming uninterested, so as not to put them in the position that we feel of the "you need to/should/ought to," which isn't the message we want to convey to them at all.  And then we end of feeling out of touch with them, which just makes us sad.

There ought to be a way to balance this sandwich.  I feel like it's one of those where the bread keeps sliding off with the tomato, until you're down to nothing but the filling, except in our case, the filling is sliding away and there's going to be nothing left to give to either half of the sandwich.  And once the filling is off the bread, it's usually pretty unappetizing, lying on the plate.  

I want to have my sandwich, and eat it, too.

Crap and Stuff

First of all, apologies if you are offended by my use of the word crap!

So, we moved.  Everything.  All of it.  Sorted it, packed it, loaded it, stored it, unloaded it, unpacked it, and (for the most part) placed it.  Every single thing we owned.  Every one.  My mind had been boggled for some time over the fact that literally everything we owned had to be picked up and moved.  Think about it!  Of course there's the furniture, and the dishes, and the clothes-----but what about every pen, every paper clip, every piece of paper?  They have to be moved, every one of them.  Ugh.

I planned for this.  Every detail (I thought).  I orchestrated packing, and Goodwill, and trash events.  I figured out a labeling system for the boxes---hot pink duct tape, which just happened to be on the "hurricane preparedness tax-free weekend" when we bought it.  I found a website for room arrangements, so I could decide in advance where everything was to go.  I designated two closets at the old house for stuff that we would need in the interim, and would travel with us in the cars.  I got bottled water for the movers.  I had lists, and files, and folders, real and virtual, of all the details.  I was ready.

Then the truck showed up.  Seemed small to me, but they assured me their best packer was up to the task.  Wasn't long before they were agreeing with me.  They had anticipated our having about 75-100 boxes to move, and we had about 225.  Hmm.  So they had to call for another truck.  Does that scream, "We have too much stuff!!!", or not???   That's a lot of stuff.  Do you have any idea how much stuff is in 225 boxes???

When our first house burned in 1988, I remember being somewhat in shock, but trying to not overwhelm a 4-year-old.  For months he had been saying, "I'm afraid we'll have a fire," and we had always assured him we didn't think that would happen, but "if it did, the firemen would come and we'd be fine."  As I tucked him into a bed in my brother's house that first night, while the firefighters  were still on the scene fighting our fire, I told him that the important thing was that all the people were fine, and that we could get more "stuff."    In the weeks that followed that night, we spent a lot of time cleaning stuff, looking for stuff, crying over stuff, remembering stuff, buying stuff, missing stuff, replacing stuff----but all the while realizing it was JUST stuff.

Years later, we were moving from that house to our just-moved-away-from house, and in anticipation of that move, I wondered out loud if we would be happy.  I said to Cameron, "What if we don't like it there?  What if it doesn't feel like home?", to which he replied, "It WILL be home----we're taking all of our crap!" 

A week ago today, the movers arrived at our new house with both truckloads of stuff, and to be honest, probably a lot of crap.  But it's our stuff, our crap.  As the boxes and furniture piled higher and wider in each room, I wondered if it would ever feel like home, but once they left, we started to tackle it, box by box, room by room.  At times, we approached a box, hoping and praying there would only be a couple of large items in it, rather than a box full of knick-knacks.  At other times, it was like Christmas, finding things that had been packed away for months, and that we had forgotten we had.  But all the while, I kept wondering, "Why do we have so much stuff?" 

A friend once visited our house, and commented that she always loved the way everything in our house has significance.  I often think of that, and she's right about a lot of it.  We have wooden things my grandfather made, oil paint-by-numbers that several grandparents did, quilts made by Brian's grandmother, a collage of leaves from trees we planted in our first yard, a print of a piece of artwork made by Aaron's 8th grade class, another print of Grateful Hill Baptist Church in Jamaica, where Aaron took refuge during Hurricane Emily.  We have a printer's tray, full of tiny keepsakes, all of which had significance at some point, although for some of them that significance is forgotten.  There's the Snoopy from a pair of sunglasses that spent many months lodged in the cassette player in my car----wondered why tapes wouldn't go in.  There are the bells off of both boys toddler shoes, both sets of tubes from Aaron's ears (the Tube Fairy was kind enough to let us keep them!), the plug from the TV that Aaron cut off with scissors as a 3-year-old, a keychain Brian gave me the first year we were dating----lots of memories. 

So yes, my friend is probably right, most everything has significance.  And as we've found new places for it to reside in this latest move, we've reminisced about that significance.  I have managed to come up with one box (so far) of 'this isn't all that significant any more, or at least I can't remember why it was' that we can pass on, but the rest of it stays.  (Sorry kids, someday you'll have to sort it all out!)

So, it might be stuff to you, or even crap, but it's our stuff, and our crap, and it's our house, and that stuff and that crap make it our home, and fill it with memories.  And I'm just going to go out on a limb here, and guess that we're going to add more stuff, more crap, as the years go on----and we're OK with that. 

Come see us----we'll tell you the story behind all our crap and stuff!!

Ecclesiastes 5:18-20

New International Version (NIV)

¹⁸ This is what I have observed to be good: that it is appropriate for a person to eat, to drink and to find satisfaction in their toilsome labor under the sun during the few days of life God has given them—for this is their lot.¹⁹ Moreover, when God gives someone wealth and possessions, and the ability to enjoy them, to accept their lotand be happy in their toil—this is a gift of God. ²⁰ They seldom reflect on the days of their life, because God keeps them occupied with gladness of heart.