Diggy's Blessing.

Peggy Joyce McDaniel La Grone: December 3, 1939- November 10, 2013

from her Celebration of Life Service on November 14, 2013

First United Methodist Church, Oak Ridge, Tennessee 

Mother Father God, I come to you today broken and full of sorrow, reaching for joy. I call out to you for blessings…. Blessings on the heavy hearted, the ones who sing out of tune or with tears running down cheeks. Blessings on the ones who stumble, who can’t make words come when they want to say, “I am sorry. I love you. I wish I knew how to help.”

Bless the girl who grew up in Deep East Texas and fell in love with a young man who bought her a Dr. Pepper and spent the rest of his life with the goal of trying to impress her. Bless the girl who became a woman who taught school, married, became a mother, cared for own mother through illness and great loss, of her brothers and of her father. Bless her dear sister, loved and lone.

Bless the woman who embodied the radical hospitality of Christ – whose personal viewpoint and politics evolved to reflect the world in which she found herself, a world where families were torn apart by poverty and by war. Blessings on her for working to end them both, for setting the example that her own children would go on to follow.

Blessings on those children who grew up utterly sure of love they were loved, of the grace they were given, even when – especially when – they least deserved it. Bless the daily communion dispensed by way of motherly love and bedside hot cocoa and cinnamon toast. Bless the quarters taped to paper lunch sacks and encouraging love notes on napkins.

Blessings on this family. Bless them in their anger. Their anger with you, God. Their disbelief, their hurt, and their canyon wide missing of the one they cannot comprehend losing. Bless their old saddle shoes in a hat box in the basement, their Pinewood Derby cars and letters home from camp and from college and far away cities. Bless their little child selves in such pain at their beloved Mother’s long suffering, the unimaginable loss, the duties that call them to tend to children of their own who are afraid to go to sleep, even when their little bodies won’t let them cry.

Bless the grey hairs and the exhaustion, the doctors and the nurses and the tearful care takers who weep and shudder. Bless the hand needing another to hold, the shawl needing shoulders, the wheeled chair with nowhere left to roam. Blessings on the remembrances of words she seemingly just spoke, like, “My daughter who sings has come back.” OR “I love you so much I think my heart might explode.” OR  “Thank you.” And at hearing her as yet unborn grandbaby’s chosen name, “Leo the lion.”

Bless the father and husband of near fifty years whose heart is not just heavy, but broken, for he has loved her since they were almost children themselves. Blessings on him, God. Bless him and bring him comfort. Bless the brown recliner which holds respite from gravity’s pull and from the big too-empty bed. Bless the tears that go unwept, as well as the ones that baptize chins and cheeks, and shoulders of tall husbands, of wives ready to bear children, of sisters and of brothers, of small children like cats in laps. Bless the grandbabies who adored their Diggy. The youngest of whom only know or remember her as sick and as dying. Bless them.

Bless them all, God. Bless them. And most of all, God, Bless her. Bless our Diggy, the one that you know by name, by the sweetness of her Spirit, the enormity of her heart. Bless her, God. Bless her freedom from suffering in a broken body and from the shackles of her precious damaged mind.

Blessings on her, and on her people, all of them. The ones related by blood or by marriage or because she claimed them as friend.

Bless US dear Lord. Blessings on us when we falter, when we ask why, when we are not sleeping for nights upon nights and we know that life will never again be the same. Bless us at this time when faith is scarce, forgiveness just a word, but the love that loves that can’t stop loving goes on and on and on.

Blessings on THAT--  Blessings on what she taught us by the way she lived, and in what she ardently believed, through even the worst of it all….

Bless that love that goes on loving in this sweet little messy God filled life.

Amen. 

Preparation.

When something, or someone, is coming, it's time to get ready.

Be it the arrival of the innocence of the Christchild, or of longer days full of light, Santa Claus, or the open ended and hopeful possibilities of the impending New Year.

Here in East Tennessee, we are readying. Mother has her first week of chemo treatment down. She and Daddy are both a year older-- we have feted and celebrated them, though Daddy has requested not to have his now traditional ice box fruitcake in honor of him. (The rest of the family is sad about this, so I may have to pull one out before we depart for the next leg of celebration northerly, where I will make it yet again.)

This will be the first time in my memory without a true Advent wreath to light at Mother and Daddy's here on Christmas Eve. We will certainly have to light a candle tonight, and it would give my heart great joy to hear our son read the birth story from his Uncle Jeffrey's childhood Bible, which lives in the room upstairs in which we sleep here.

As I write, Mother is drinking tea and eating a cookie brought us by a neighbor at home in Nashville, and a pumpkin muffin brought here by my sister in law. My Mister has helped The Boy hang his series of (eight) Santa letters -- some directive, some requesting. They are even now creating a snack for the reindeer.

Our butter is room temp for pie crusts and for our favorite holiday cookies which will be baked up this evening for Santa and the rest of us, too.

I have addressed a second raft of Christmas cards, and last night before bedtime, our Boy wrote all the letters to Santa, and today once his father arrived, we've begun to make our time honored Santa Box (in which the big man delivers presents to the La Grone children and theirs.)

The questions at bedtime included, "Do you believe in Santa? What would you ask him if you could? I'd ask him if he's real. And if he has magic dust."

I think about how sometimes we wonder are YOU real, God? Do YOU have magic dust? Is Jesus real?

I made my own peace with that some time ago, agreeing with myself to let the mystery be. I have tried to impart this open hearted belief in believing to my child. The willingness to allow ourselves to be steeped in a love even bigger than Van Morrison's love that loves to love that loves to love.... The ability to say, "What?!" and then create a stronger purpose for holding on another year when a friend says "Santa's not real, my parents TOLD me."

Does it matter if you call your belief Santa or God or Christchild or New Season?

I am not sure it does, to be honest.

I choose to believe. I choose to hold onto faith, to expect Light. To await the miracle of the Christchild with wonder and with reverence. I choose to believe that chemotherapy may help my sweet mother by shrinking her brain tumor. I choose to delight in cookies and ice box fruit cake, letters to Santa and wrapping bits and bobs like books and lipsticks and handmade treats in colorful paper, with, I have to believe, all the love and wonder of the three kings with their gifts of frankincense, gold and myrh.

I KNOW they came to see Jesus as a toddler. That they didn't actually appear at a manger bed while cattle were lowing and angels hollered, "Hark!"

The timing on this is immaterial to me, because I have chosen preparation. I have chosen the kind of love that can not be explained, but can be felt right here among the ones I cherish, the ones close to birth, and the ones closer still to death.

We are waiting. We await. We stretch our hearts larger yet again, and walk into darkness unafraid, expecting Light.

Happy New Year!

We are ready to usher in Twenty-twelve.... the old ashes have been added to the fire, the blackeyed peas are on the stovetop with the bone of Christmas ham. There'll be greens and cornbread, deviled eggs and iced tea, also some oyster chowder from the Mister's familial tradition.

I have -- as of the end of the week -- received word that I will return to my job for the remainder of the year (hurrah!!) and our precious Diggy has but two radiation treatments left and upcoming appointments with her specialists at Vanderbilt. The boy is ready to return to first grade, the Mister is in job search mode, and I feel certain he will find just the right thing.
We had a wonderfully restorative Christmas with my family -- simple, quiet, family filled. Three things that do NOT tend to go together with my family, and yet we pulled it off!

The Mister got in a quick trip northerly to visit with his people, including his sister in from London (the boy and I remained here to complete the school year and to have him cycle through the vestiges of a viral infection before heading to see Diggy, whose fragility necessitates healthy visitors.)

The Mister and I have watched some of this year's series, the old BBC miniseries, I, Claudius.

We have embarked on a major clutter busting project, wherein I've determined to rid myself of all but the most precious books and CDs, to gain space and lessen our capacity for dust. The Mister hasn't agreed to follow suit completely, but he's on board to eliminate and consolidate a bit, for the overall health of our family. And after a decade, I readily admit that the man still surprises me. I love that about him.

Happy New Year, friends!! May 2012 be a year filled with riches of the heart. My son's precious wishes, made last night at our bonfire were NOT for a Wii and a bunch of toys, but for 1) Diggy to get better very soon, 2) us to get our house moved and organized (switching around some rooms to accomodate current family need) and 3) for a LOT more family time. Those are the things that make his six year old heart sing. May you find your very own version of whatever those wishes, hopes and dreams are for YOU.


Twenty-twelve, we are ready.... let's get to it.

The Guest House






This being human is a guest house.


Every morning a new arrival.






A joy, a depression, a meanness,


some momentary awareness comes


as an unexpected visitor.






Welcome and entertain them all!


Even if they're a crowd of sorrows,


who violently sweep your house


empty of its furniture,


still, treat each guest honorably.


He may be clearing you out


for some new delight.






The dark thought, the shame, the malice,


meet them at the door laughing,


and invite them in.






Be grateful for whoever comes,


because each has been sent


as a guide from beyond.






~ Rumi ~

Merry Happy Wonder: 2011 version.

Our boy was the first child to visit with Santa at Wednesday night's Cub Scout Pack holiday banquet, as he had rushed forward when the youngest den of the pack (Tigers) was called. (Bold, our boy.)

This was the calm before the storm, as moments later, he had Public Meltdown of the Year over a broken candy cane (Santa had given it to him.) I ended up literally having to carry our boy out of the sweet little neighborhood church that hosted the banquet with him kicking, screaming and crying. When he nearly flung both me and him down the stairs, his father took him and I took over the Fiesta platter on which we'd brought brownies. 

My Mister ended up putting him in the car where he cried more, thrashed, kicked the doors and dashboard..... until a good while later, he calmed, and I was able to climb into the backseat to monitor him while his daddy drove us slowly home with a steady hand on the wheel. 

Having had virtually no experience with this when he'd been working away from home seven days a week, this was a first for my Mister to experience this full on and IN THE WORLD of other people. I felt as though I'd been transported back to the first four years of my child's life and it could have been any day of the week: on a trip to the public library, at a park, in the grocery store or the KMart or the Target, or in the bank parking lot on Charlotte Avenue near the Nations section of town (you know -- the one with the gold dome....) It could have been during or after a presentation I was giving for Mothers Acting Up or during the time I was trying to write a grant or a web recipe for community action. It might have been over brushing teeth or putting shoes on, a trash can that was rolled on its side or any other item that was out of place and therefore disturbing. 

To my dear child's credit, he has weathered rather a lot. In recent months he has seen his beloved Diggy grow incredibly ill. He has been away from his mother while she worked fulltime away from home, finished grad school, graded papers in the evenings and in the wee morning farmer's hours... He has lived through having had a father work away from home seven days a week during near the entirty of his life until just last year, when grad school took over, and then this semester become the more available parent at home. He has been toted to and from two different preschools, weathered his mother's lay offs and job searches and a flooded out home and a move. 

He has begun elementary school, learned to read (very well,) participated in extracurriculars, and this year has enjoyed before and aftercare at our wonderful PTO run school care program. (Can I just say? we are soooooooooo fortunate with our boy's school and his teacher who is extraordinary! and the before and aftercare program which is stellar!!)

Our boy is also a bit high spirited, and strung tight. A lot like his mother, AND his father, too. (One of us is a stealth high maintenance person, one not so much.) 

And so, I fault him hardly at all for the upset. For the getting overstimulated on holiday treats and decorations and Santa and all three of us out at an evening activity on a school-night (exceptionally rare!) and the remaining hour plus crying in mama's arms over all the things listed above. "I hope you DON'T go back to that school!! You never play with me. You only do homework and grade papers and you don't love me!"

This boy, he is our emotional barometer and our angel. He is profane AND sacred. 

He is the manifestation of the purest love we have for each other, and the hope we hold for the world, and the faith we have in the Universe and in God and in each other. 

But even more than any of that: our boy is just a six year old boy with boogers and a sassy mouth and a love of Harry Potter and rock music and his dog. He's a kid who likes to climb trees, run with packs of wildly laughing children, eat crisp apples, dig in the dirt, kick soccer balls, earn Cub Scout badges and beads and belt loops. 

And it's all OK. 

Merry Christmas. Happy New Year. 

We're the Babcocks. 

You may consider this our holiday card for 2011 as to be frank about it, making a holiday card and sending it out has been last on my list of priorities this month what with finishing my degree, winding down teaching this semester and trying to renegotiate my interim contract (still not sure if I return in January or if I need to find a new job.) It's the first year we've ever NOT had a tree, have forgone putting up the full on decorations, and certainly you will find no elf on the shelf here. 

The bits of idle time at my hands have been wasted here and here, as the laughs have been needed a great deal. Laughter and prayer are close to the same for me. And as my friend Jay says, "Laughter is my religion." Er, for me, it's a spiritual expression, and keeps me going like nothing else. Laughing is being in communion with God and with humanity.

So ho ho ho!! And ha ha ha. 

With lots of love from here to wherever this may find you, 

XXX

peo

A prayer of Thanksgiving.

Thankful for a rich if imperfect marriage. For a beautiful funny intelligent and delightful child. For my siblings so dear to my heart. Our father for his generosity and tenderness, our mother for her inspiration and courage and boundless love. Thankful for my nieces three, so precious. For the perfectly perfect in laws who I love more than I imagined possible. For friends both far and near, without whom this journey would be lonely and less colorful. For the best dog companion a woman could ask for. For sweet potatoes and good teeth and a job. For doctors and nurses and other caregivers, and especially for the ones helping Mother fight and grow stronger. For God, from whom all blessings flow. Amen.

Shared history.

 

The pink tree and village are from our first married Christmas -- we found them at the Otsego Antique Mall in southwestern Michigan, a place we visit nearly each trip to the Mister's hometown. He wore a jacket from there for our wedding.

The Santa is from our second married Christmas, and comes from a little antique shop in Clinton, Tennessee. On the trip we also procured a lovely old standing lamp (very fragile and unweildy, given away when the boy began to crawl,) vintage choir boy ornaments that to this day hang from our tree, and a wind up rooster alarm clock from the late forties or early fifties. 

Our boy refers to any ornaments (and there are still a handful or two left: balls adorned with roses, green foiled pinecones, some spiral decorated balls, and a single precious acorn ornament...) we got for our first shared tree as our "wedding ornaments." Very sweet. 

The longer we are wed, the longer we are a family, the more history we share. The better we get at it all, and the more we're able to incorporate the multiple facets of who we are. 

Happy Christmas, my dear ones.

Traditions.

 
 We all have them. Traditions.



Especially this time of year. That's what I'm blogging about over at Nashville Parent Magazine's site, so check out this first in a series of holiday Tradition! posts.

Of Ceramic Donkeys and Gratitude.

This past Sunday, the Second Sunday of Advent, Ziggy carried a ceramic donkey through the sanctuary to place it with the creche by the altar table. His friend carried a shepherd. They were so proud and careful, soberly coming down the aisle as the handbells chimed from the balconies surrounding us.

Ziggy then tucked into the pew beside us, and proceeded to do a sight word search in the bulletin insert through the service, choosing to remain with us to "work" and to take communion rather than exiting for the children's worship hour. This does not, of course, mitigate the fact that he lay beneath the pew in front of us on the floor, or that in a loud stage whisper he called to his adult prayer friend who was kneeling at the altar after taking communion. Church with our boy is always a spirited experience, his father's jaw clenching, me smiling at other parents with other young wildlings in nearby pews.


I wept through the service.

Members of the Homeplace community, a home for developmentally disabled adults, played a significant role in the morning's worship. Ruby, who helps in the three year old Sunday School class and therefore has been known to us since first we began to attend Belmont, was both baptised and received as a member of the congregation in an official capacity. It was so incredibly moving and beautiful. I am thankful to Sarah, a lovely high school senior who sat with her parents in front of us, for providing me with a much needed tissue to dawb at my eyes and runny nose. Hamilton read scripture about John the Baptist and both tickled and delighted me with his pauses to be sure we were all listening, and that he was taking his role very seriously.

Our worship leaders were so loving and sensitive and patient. None more so than the remarkable Lanecia, she of the beautiful countenance and face, with a hipster twist. Watching her walk Ruby through serving communion was a wondrous thing. 

Too, I wept, because my husband and I had had words that morning, and because Ziggy threw things at me as I drove to church through the snow flurries, the last straw that caused me to pull off the road and have a bit of a come apart. And because I was feeling sick and congested and raspy in earnest. And remorseful that my come apart had frightened my child, albeit momentarily.

When evening came, I took him to the craft night at the church's community center. "Can you just drop me off, please?" he asked.

###

I've had the crud for days, though I seem-- at last-- about to round the corner. My voice is still a scratchy rasp, though the congestion is greatly diminished. I think that my family may be glad of my inability to speak much or well.

So what to do? Neti pot. Drink water. Extra rest. Walk with the dog, have sex with my husband (both boost the immune system.)

And for tonight's supper: sweet potato chicken soup with garlic and dill (yum!!) and a pan of Almost Zona's Drop Biscuits.

###

We're on a spending freeze. Being between jobs and at the end of the year has killed our budget dead. I'll start working for pay again next month, and there'll be student loan money, too. Thank goodness.

###

I hung the stockings on the banister. "We don't have a fireplace! How will Santa get in?" Ziggy wants to know.

###

I've yet to write our year end letter, and wonder if I'll really get it done this year. I give myself permission to let it be if I choose....

###

Another reason for the aforementioned spending freeze is the fact that my debit card has been compromised by someone who has made bogus purchases. Which leads to the cancellation of the card, a filed dispute and a few weeks to get things cleared up and the monies refunded to our account.

If it's not an essential purchase, we shall not be making it. If I haven't already purchased it, if I can't make it or borrow it or trade for it, or somehow pull it together from things already in stock, I won't be getting it for you for Christmas. Or your birthday. Or whatever.

Every once in a bit, it's not bad to simplify. To cut the fat. And to recognize that we have what we need, and much of what we want. And in comparison to much of the world, we are very wealthy indeed.

###

I have completed my first full semester as a graduate student. Yay, me! Classes attended, projects churned out and turned in. Graded, all but one.

###

I am thankful. For all of the above.

I pray for patience. For the willingness to forgive where forgiveness is sought. Including that of self. For the presence of mind and body and heart to be with those I love as fully as possible. To lean into now. To be grateful for blessings both small and large.

I am thankful, not just this Thursday, but always.