Feeling Mixed Emotions about Christmas

Christmas is a confusing time of year for me. It is both a sacred religious holiday and a worldwide cultural and commercial phenomenon. The dichotomous nature of Christmas has caused many to wonder, what is the real meaning of Christmas, including me. One of the most endearing answers was narrated by Linus in the classic Charlie Brown Christmas, which first aired on television in 1965.

Linus personifies the child of great faith, a perfect foil to the ever- questioning Charlie Brown. For Linus, it is simple; Christmas is about the birth of the Saviour, Jesus Christ. It is about showing glory to God, peace on Earth, and Goodwill toward men. I wish I could accept his explanation as readily as Charlie, but it would appear I am more jaded and cynical.

While Linus so eloquently paraphrased Jesus, who said, “Love the Lord your God with all your heart and with all your soul and with all your mind… Love your neighbour as yourself,” I still find myself struggling to make the connection to Christmas. Deciding that Linus lacked credentials, I googled the history of Christmas and discovered some interesting facts on History.com.

Long before Christmas there were holidays during the same time- period. In Scandinavia, Yule was celebrated from December 21st through January in recognition of the return of the sun. In Rome, Saturnalia was a hedonistic winter celebration beginning on the solstice where social order was turned upside down and businesses and schools all closed for a month of excess.

In the early years of Christianity, Jesus’ birth was not celebrated. In fact, it wasn’t until the fourth century that church officials decided to institute a celebration, known as the Feast of the Nativity. Uncertain as to the actual date of Christ’s birth, Pope Julius I chose December 25 in an effort to adopt and absorb the traditions of the pagan holiday, and make it a holy day. The celebration spread to Egypt in 432 and to England by the end of the sixth century. In the eight century Christmas spread to Scandinavia.

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painting of the nativity

In early Puritan North America Christmas was outlawed in Boston from 1659 – 1681. It became an official holiday in the USA in 1870.

Christmas traditions took hold after the publishing of A Visit from St. Nicholas in 1822, and somehow Santa Claus got mixed in with the worshipping of God. Charles Dickens wrote A Christmas Carol in 1843, focusing on the virtue of thinking of others at Christmas. Dr. Seuss wrote How the Grinch Stole Christmas in 1957, furthering the ideals of generosity and kind-heartedness.  At some point, Christmas became a secular holiday with vaguely religious overtones. And while the excessive commercialism of Christmas has been lamented since the 1850’s, the present-day focus on gifts and material preparations has many of us disenchanted.

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An examination of the history of Christmas was interesting, but didn’t seem to help me with my own dichotomous love/hate relationship. I confess, I have struggled with the pressure to make everything perfect. I have felt overwhelmed with the expectations. It seems like each year the Christmas advertising and placement of goods in stores starts earlier and earlier. The Halloween candy is barely removed from shelves before the Christmas extravaganza begins.

Gift giving has escalated from a few special gifts to a mile- high pile under the tree. Santa’s gifts don’t fit in a stocking anymore. Christmas trees have morphed from a fresh tree decorated on Christmas Eve with home-made decorations made by children to a work of art coordinated by the mother of the household. Said mother is expected to be a Martha Stewart clone, who not only decorates trees like an interior designer, but has the rest of the house tastefully laid out with appropriate tablecloths, table settings, hearths and wreaths.

In Christmas’s past, I have allowed myself to be drawn in by these fantasy-laden expectations. I’ve tried to make my lists and check them twice, outside of working all day and my regular chores, and in so-doing I used to develop Christmas anxiety as soon as the fall leaves started to change colour. Planning baking days and lavish Christmas feasts, parties and celebrations. Shopping for gifts, wrapping gifts and sending gifts in the mail. The Christmas letter with attached photos, everyone smiling gleefully in Christmas sweaters and fancy dress wear. Shopping for fancy dresses for Christmas parties, with matching shoes and hair and make-up. I’ve wanted to yell out in Charlie Brown fashion, “What is the meaning of it all?”

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But then…. Parceled along with all of the materialism and mayhem is the magic of Christmas. The nostalgia of a time when I was young and believed in Santa Claus. The memories of going to church and hearing the Christmas story and believing in the miracle of a Saviour. The excitement of seeing cousins and Grandma’s and Grandpa’s, of riding in cars and trains over snow-clad prairies.

I remember with fondness simpler times, when all that I found in my stocking on Christmas morning was the Grover puppet I’d been pining for, a candy cane and a mandarin orange. And I was thrilled. I remember when my children were little and how fun it was to watch them excitedly anticipate the arrival of Santa Claus as they laid out cookies they’d baked and carrots for the reindeer.

At some point, when I started living my life for me, things changed. I jumped off the Christmas commercialism carousel and allowed myself to experience Christmas in whatever way felt good for me. I’ll never forget the amazing Christmas we shared with my brother and his family in Maui. My first Christmas with Mister was relaxing and stress-free; we went to see the movie, Les Miserable in the theatres and ate Pad Thai and papaya salad for Christmas dinner.

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Santa Claus

Now that I’m in Saudi Arabia, it’s even easier for me to make the choice to celebrate Christmas how I want to. It’s also easy to let go of something old to make room for something new. Looking back, I am so grateful for all the traditional family Christmas’s I enjoyed, hectic or not. They were a gift. At the same time, I am excited for a romantic Christmas in Bahrain, just me and my husband. No tree and no presents and no big turkey dinners. Just love, which, to me, is what Christmas is really about.

That’s what I’m choosing this year, but who knows what next year will bring? It would be wonderful if we all felt free to choose what we believe and how we celebrate, at Christmas and all through-out the year. It would be wonderful if we carried the spirit of Christmas with us all the time, not waiting for this one time of the year.

 

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Merry Christmas from me, Mister & Lola

 

I have a vision of a world like that. Where peace reigns and people accept one another’s different ideas, beliefs, religions and politics and rejoice in the beauty of humankind every day.

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Until then, I’m feeling mixed emotions about Christmas.

Feeling Blessed for the Gift of my Relationship with my Mister

It was bound to happen eventually. I think my last blog featuring my sentimental feelings for Lola opened the floodgates. That, and I’ve been having a hard time of it lately, and in such times, I tend to lean on my Mister, who is my rock. So, without further ado, I shall share my story of falling in love and perhaps a few words of wisdom along the way.

 

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Me & Mister

 

In the beginning, I wasn’t looking, but there he was. In fact, when I met my Mister, I was enthusiastic about exploring the world as a single person. I was open to meeting new people and sharing experiences, but I certainly had no inkling of making a pledge, far less a commitment.

 

I had left Calgary after thirty years and my marriage of twenty- two years in October of 2011. My eldest daughter was ill at the time, and she and her husband were on a healing journey abroad. They were looking for someone to sublet their home in Cowichan Bay, BC, and I was the lucky candidate. I fell in love with the healing aura of the land, home to the first nations people, a place where nature unfolds in abundance. Little did I know, I was about to fall in love again.

 

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Me & Mister in Panama

 

My daughter’s good friend, an amazing and talented social worker like herself, as well as a cupid it would be revealed, took me under her wing when I arrived. In February of 2012 she called me to say that the father of one of her past clients was in town to support his daughter, on compassionate leave from Saudi Arabia. He didn’t know anyone and since I, not having found employment, had oodles of free time, she wondered if I might show him about a bit. I was more than happy to make a new acquaintance so she gave me his contact information and we set up a lunch for the three of us to meet.

 

Our lunch was rather hurried as they had an appointment following, but I enjoyed both of their company. Mister paid the bill, his treat. It was my first experience of Mr. Generous, and being of a similar generous minded heart, I suggested we meet again so that I could return the favour. We made plans to meet at a new restaurant in Duncan, just the two of us. From the moment I arrived to the moment we left together, I felt an ease and flow, like I’d known him forever. We talked nonstop in a fluid exchange of ideas on a wide range of topics. Time seemed to lose it’s hold and before we knew it three hours had passed. Our spirits recognized the connection between us, but it took a little longer for our hearts and minds to catch up.

 

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Me & Mister in our first rental in Victoria

 

 

We met up next for a dinner which included my mother who was visiting from Calgary. The three of us experienced a fluid, joyful connection, where once again, it felt like we were all old friends. At one point my mother started rubbing her arms, asking us did we find it a bit chilly? Mister excused himself politely, went out to his car, and returned carrying a sweater that he placed gently over her shoulders. I found out later he had only purchased said sweater that afternoon. Mister earned his first and most enduring nickname, Mr. Charming Pants.

 

We decided it was time for another date, just the two of us, as both of us recognized some feelings were budding. We met at a pub in the area. During our conversation, I casually asked him if he knew what values were most important to him in life. He thought about it for a few moments, as is his way, and then he replied, “Open, honest, integrity and character.” I almost fell out of my chair. I had just spent considerable time reflecting on my values and had created an authenticity outline. The first two, and most important values I identified were open and honest! I could feel the electricity of synchronicity in the air. It was so palpable, that as he went on to explain how he felt open and honest communication was vital to building trust, I interrupted him to ask him to kiss me. Rather than be offended at my rude behaviour, he knew it was my heart impatiently opening to him and he obliged.

 

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Me & Mister in our garden in Riyadh

 

Recently I was looking over old emails and I discovered it wasn’t long before we knew we were in love. At one point, we both were suffering from horrendous colds, but still couldn’t be kept apart. Mr. Charming Pants arrived at my door with the classic chocolate and wine, along with the not so classic tissue and Tylenol. We snuggled on the couch and watched a movie, our sea-lion coughs erupting every time we laughed. My good friend Virginia noted my high praise and accolades, along with the serious amount of time we were spending together, and referred to Mister as “your Saudi Prince” and “Super Dave.”

 

When Mister had to return to Saudi Arabia for three weeks at the beginning of March we started using the love word with one another in our email communication. I still hesitated on offering a commitment, preferring somehow a pledge. I admitted my feelings rather candidly to the cashier at the grocery store, when I was rushing to pay for my purchases before closing. I apologized for my tardiness, explaining that I was too busy falling in love to get my chores done and she swooned right along with me.

 

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Me & Mister @ Noowick

 

As time went along we became deeper in love and soon knew we were destined to be a couple. Mister earned new nicknames along the way, including Mr. Taking Care of Business, Mr. Five Hands, and Mr. One-ups. I’ll leave the circumstances of those titles to imagination. I had a few nicknames of my own, but the two most popular were Ms. Bossy Pants and Ms. Sensitive Pants. We often spotted two deer together when we were driving back and forth to Victoria. When I googled deer wisdom, I discovered that if a deer crosses your path they are helping you walk the path of love with full consciousness and awareness. Deer teach us gentleness, the ability to listen, the power of gratitude and giving, and the beauty of balance. How appropriate.

 

Two mule deer bucks with velvet antlers interact

I had the pleasure of meeting Mister’s mom and dad, as well as his brother, in Vancouver that May. His mom walked over to me, took my hand in hers, and with a beaming smile proclaimed, “It is a pleasure to finally meet the sun in my son’s life!” Her loving acceptance of me seemed to seal the deal, and that July we decided to move in together, along with his daughter, in Victoria. Many people warned us it was too early and we were jeopardizing our relationship, but it only strengthened our pledge to a commitment. At the same time, I fell in love with Kara. But that is another story for another blog.

 

Christmas of 2012 Mister’s mom and dad flew in from Winnipeg to join us in Whistler for a family Christmas. As we drove from the ferry, the boys up front and us girls in the back, Julie took my left hand and sang, “If he liked it then he shoulda put a ring on it.” I couldn’t help giggling at her precocious gesture. On Christmas day as the family was gathered around our tree opening gifts, I was passed a parcel from Mister in the shape of a ring box. All eyes were on me and the tension was thick. I opened it, my heart pounding, to discover a beautiful set of silver hoop earrings. Mister never once considered I might think we were about to get engaged. Two days later, when our company had departed and we were alone together, he produced a second ring box, this time with a ring inside, and proposed. I accepted without hesitation and we were married just a few weeks later.

 

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Me & Mister on our wedding day

 

It was and is a whirlwind love affair. We have been together now for almost five years and I still feel as over-the-moon in love as those early days. My Mister is my best friend. We enjoy one another’s company more than anyone else’s. We rarely argue. Me being be and him being him naturally suits us. We don’t have a desire to change anything about each other. Some of that is the wisdom of being older. Most of it is the blessing of a union that feels heavenly blessed and Divinely orchestrated.

 

So yeah, I’m feeling blessed for the gift of my relationship with my Mister. And by the way, it turns out the name David means beloved.

Feeling Warm-hearted for my Loyal, Furry Companion, Lola

Anyone who is a dog lover will likely relate to the sentiments expressed in this blog. I apologize in advance to those readers who don’t understand how some of us dog owners can become so attached. But for everyone who has met her, there can be no doubt that there is something special about Lola.

 

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Lola

 

Lola came into my life ten years ago. She was born into a litter of six pups at Pooch Palace, a dog breeding facility just outside of Calgary, Alberta. A friend who had purchased her sweet-natured dog from the Palace had recommended them. From a humanitarian perspective, I know the better choice would have been to check out the local animal shelter but I can’t in all honesty express even a drop of regret when it comes to the circumstances that led me to adopting this lovable creature.

 

We went to the Palace with open hearts and met so many adorable puppies, we thought at first it would be a difficult decision. Then we saw Lola. She was only five weeks old, not old enough to leave her mother, and no larger than a compact box of tissue. I picked her up, attracted by her caramel brown fur and white tuft at the forehead, and she snuggled into my chest like she belonged there. I fell in love with her in that moment, her tiny puppy heart beating next to mine.

 

It was quite the procedure to bring Lola home. We had to be approved, and to do so required filling in an extensive application that outlined our commitment to owning a dog and making the time required in our schedules to train her properly. She wasn’t ready to be weaned until she was ten weeks old, so every weekend for five weeks I made the hour drive, often with one or two of the kids in tow, to go and visit with her. While we were waiting there were purchases to be made of dog food, grooming supplies, and stuffed toys. Choosing a name was another ordeal that involved a computer spreadsheet of possibilities generated by each family member and a democratic vote.

 

Finally, the day arrived and the whole family drove with excited anticipation to pick her up. It was a chilly November day in Calgary and we bundled her up in cozy blankets.

 

When we got her home we immediately took her outside in our backyard to begin the process of training her. I never anticipated how fast those short little legs could go, nor did I judge how large the opening between our fence and the culvert was. In mere minutes Lola, had escaped into the neighbour’s yard. I heroically jumped the fence, a stunt I’m sure I would have difficulty replicating, scooped her up and brought her home amid a flurry of kisses and admonishments. Immediately I found an old piece of lumber to wedge into place, blocking the escape route. It wasn’t long before Lola picked up on the procedure. It has been a perk to have a dog who not only knows to do her business outside, but prefers to make her deposits in locations outside of her own yard’s boundaries.

 

Lola developed a variety of skills over the years. At puppy school, she was extremely motivated to perform any trick that involved receiving a treat. She learned how to sit, lay down, leave it, and her most impressive, give a kiss. She has an uncanny knack of discerning the sound of a cheese package being opened. When I attempted to teach her how to use her nose to ring a bell on the wall to indicate she wanted to go outside, it was a colossal fail as she only saw it as an opportunity to gobble down the chicken strip that was the treat given for ringing it and proceeded to ring the bell all day, regardless of her need to go outside. Even after we took the bell down she would go over to the place on the wall where it had been hanging and bump the wall with her muzzle in hopes of chicken treats. Silly dog!

 

Lola accompanied our family on numerous camping trips across Canada over the years. She didn’t like to join the other dogs frolicking in the lakes or ocean tides for sticks, having an aversion to being cold and wet. But she did and does love to roll around in anything stinky, including dried up old fish corpses on the beach or bird poo littering the grass. Not one of her more endearing qualities, I admit. Despite not liking her bath, her frequent rolling tendencies require that she have one often and her good nature has her accepting her fate with a somewhat sad look of resignation.

 

Lola was my loyal companion when I suffered a deep episode of depression. She never questioned my mood swings or abandoned me when I was irrational. She loved me unconditionally, her tail wagging enthusiastically in greeting when I returned from the hospital. She would lay in bed with me when I had no energy to face the world and alternatively accompany me on my long brooding walks through the ravine.

 

When I left my ex-husband and my comfortable suburban life in Calgary, moving with what I could fit in my sporty red Mazda 3 to start over on Vancouver Island, Lola was with me. Driving through the mountains with the explosion of fall foliage all around us, the sun-roof open and Michael Buble crooning “It’s a new life,” Lola sat on my lap and took all the changes in stride. When I arrived in the Cowichan Valley, alone and on my own for the first time in thirty years, Lola was again my faithful friend, accompanying me on walks through the orchards and down to the pebbled beaches and curling up on the end of my bed at the end of each day.

 

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Me and my faithful companion

 

Not long after we moved to Longwood we met Tom and Virginia and their dog Bobbi Jo, who became dear friends of ours. They invited us over for Halloween festivities. The adults visited one another, comfortably seated on lawn furniture around a roaring fire, drinking wine or hot rum while children came and trick or treated. A local was giving me a hard time for having Lola on a leash and said maybe in the city such things were necessary, but in the valley, she ought to be let free. I should have known better, but let myself be influenced and wouldn’t you know it, shortly after being set free Lola ditched the party. I was a mess of tears and heart-racing anxiety, scouring the dark streets with a flashlight and praying she wouldn’t be found hit by a car. Luckily a member of the search team found her. She had followed a couple of trick or treaters home, upgrading to a warm and cozy house and in fact was found cuddled up on their couch with the kids, likely thinking herself a clever dog.

 

When I met my Mr., he was of the non-dog loving crowd. Being of an open and honest nature, he never tried to conceal his dislike, but I knew right away by the way he quickly went to wash his hands after she licked them enthusiastically in greeting. As mentioned above, Lola was used to sleeping with me at the end of my bed, so on the occasion of our first sleepover it was all a bit awkward. I attempted to have Lola sleep on her bed in the office, but confused, she kept coming in and whining to get up. I snuck her in on my side, feigning surprise in the morning, but soon confessed and her spot on the bed was accepted. I wondered if it was going to be a deal breaker, but the more we fell in love, the more Lola’s magic transformed him. Mr. has not only developed a fondness for her, I tease him that he is the dog whisperer as he has become so attuned. He often predicts accurately when a sniff means a roll or business and when a bark means someone is at the door or let’s play and he takes very good care of her. Air heart!

 

Therapy dogs are a new phenomenon that is having great success in a variety of settings, and Lola most surely would be a fantastic candidate. As mentioned previously, her unconditional love was a special part of my recovery. She also formed an immediate and inseparable bond with my daughter Kara, allowing her to tote her around and scoop her up for cuddles whenever it was required.

 

When I made the decision to move to Riyadh, there was no question that Lola would be accompanying me. The stack of legal documents that I needed to procure for her entry into Saudi Arabia was almost as thick as my own, and included documents from our local veterinarian certifying her health, documents from the provincial veterinarian society supporting the validity of our veterinarian and documents from a notary certifying all the documents enclosed in the application.

 

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Lola & Me

 

The day of our departure arrived. We were taking off from Toronto Pearson airport, where, for a small fee, I could store Lola in her carry-on bag under the seat in front of me. It was a nine-hour flight to Frankfurt and I was anxious that she might have an accident, so I lined her carrier with absorbent pads. Surprisingly she made it, but then at the airport in Frankfurt she refused to use the pad to relieve herself in the washroom, despite my efforts to demonstrate the procedure for her. After a five hour lay-over it was time to board our plane to Riyadh for another seven-hour flight. Miraculously, that dog held her bladder for the entire duration, including the long line-up through customs. In total, she went over 21 hours and earned her new nickname, Ms. Iron Bladder.

 

I’ll admit, neither one of us was impressed with the desert relocation at first. In May in Riyadh the temperature often reaches forty-five degrees Celsius, and neither one of us appreciated the feeling that we were being roasted in a convection oven each time we ventured outside. The first time I tried to walk her mid-day and she started lifting her paws I tossed aside my flip-flop and discovered the fry-an-egg-on-it heat of the sidewalk, then had to carry her the rest of the way home. It took some adjustment for her to transition from a dog walk that skirted along the ocean and through the rainforest of Vancouver Island to the sand and rubble of the desert. Fortunately, our compound is a virtual sanctuary and the gardeners have created beautiful patches of grass for her to roll around in, not to mention outings to the Diplomatic Quarters and into the desert camping out with her Holiday Mum.

 

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Mr., Lola and me at the Diplomatic Quarters in Riyadh

 

Most days Lola is a low maintenance, low key and mellow addition to the family. She isn’t fussed if we miss a dog walk here and there, especially during the hot months. She likes to gobble down treats as frequently as they are offered, completely oblivious to her expanding waistline. Often it is a simply a matter of moving from laying on one piece of furniture to another. Lately she’s taken to laying around on my meditation pillow while I’m writing in the office, even when her own puppy bed is sitting vacant right beside it. Oh, Guru dog, if only you could talk and share with me the secrets of the universe!

 

It would seem that dogs, like people, can adjust to their surroundings and new situations and, in fact, Lola did so with far less drama than me.

 

So yeah, I’m feeling warm-hearted and grateful for my loyal, furry companion, Lola.  

Feeling Sentimental; Missing my Father

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I’ve been sending off query letters every week, hoping to catch the attention of an agent willing to take a risk and represent my manuscript, My Father’s Hands. I write about how my relationship with my father inspired and defined me. I share with complete strangers the depths of my connection and the despair I felt in his passing. Sometimes I write those words with a detached complacency born from repetition and the passage of time. Other times the tears streak down my cheeks as if it was only yesterday.

 

In truth, it has been sixteen years. I hadn’t done the math, but the other day I was showing a photo of my dad to someone and they asked when he passed. I told them in 2000, and it was a shock to me that so much time had passed. Sometimes I speak as if it were a recent event. It is often the case with memories; elusive, fragmented and hazy.

 

At any rate, I’ve decided to honour my feelings towards my father in today’s blog by sharing two poems I wrote about him. The first is now the Prelude in My Father’s Hands, the novel. I wrote the poem for his funeral and it ended up becoming the outline for the book. The second is the Epilogue, which I wrote only recently in my thirteenth and final edit. Together they are the beginning and the end; the story encompasses everything in between.

 

Prelude

When I was born

My father’s hands were young hands.

They held me when I cried

And patted my back to sleep.

They tickled me on my tiny toes

And held my bottle while he fed me.

My father’s hands were perfect

For encompassing a baby girl.

 

When I was small

My father’s hands were busy hands.

They held my hands to show me the

Feel of swinging a baseball bat

And threaded bait onto fishing lines.

They pierced marshmallows onto campfire sticks

And steadied my bicycle when I learned to ride.

My father’s hands were perfect

For playing with a little girl.

 

When I was a teenager

My father’s hands were worried hands.

They wrung themselves together

When I didn’t bother to call

And grasped me firmly when

I didn’t come home at all.

My father’s hands were perfect

For caring about his growing girl.

 

When I was a young woman

My father’s hands were relieved hands.

They could let go a little now,

Making room for my husbands’ hands in my life

While remaining strong for me.

They held my excited hands as I walked down the aisle,

Waved to me when I moved away,

And welcomed me whenever I returned.

My father’s hands were perfect

For setting free his little girl.

 

When I became a mother

My father’s hands were teaching hands.

They showed me the “magic touch” when Michelle was crying,

Wound up the motorized swing when Tamara was colicky,

And turned the pages of Kevin’s favorite stories.

My father’s hands were perfect

For nurturing my children.

 

Several years ago

My father’s hands became crippled hands.

Rheumatoid arthritis bent them, giving them pain.

It was hard for him to do the things he wanted to do.

His hands needed medications and operations.

They became tired and it was my turn to be strong.

My father’s hands were perfect

For loving me.

 

Two weeks ago

My father’s hands became ravaged hands.

Infection spread into them yet they comforted me

As I held them and stood helplessly by his bedside.

They managed, even amid such struggle,

To return my affectionate grasp;

An unequaled gift of love and reassurance.

My father’s hands were perfect

For speaking to me.

 

Today my father’s hands are gone.

They are in God’s hands.

They cannot encompass me, play with me,

Care for me, let me go, nurture my children,

Love me or speak to me.

They cannot give him any more pain.

My father’s hands are perfect,

Forever in my memory.

 

Epilogue

Looking out the window into the dark night sky

I glimpse the beginning of a new and spectacular dawn.

The sky in the east transforms from inky black to rusty indigo.

It slowly melts into magenta, then dissolves into a soft cherry pink,

Creating candy cane clouds.

I gaze transfixed.

The sky seems to speak to me of promises and dreams

Of someplace I recognize

But feels like long ago.

 

Daddy, I remember you.

Playing baseball.

Standing at the plate,

Legs planted firmly,

Expression deadpan.

Then looking over at me,

Sitting in the bleachers;

A conspiratorial wink.

The pitcher releases the ball,

It sails through the air.

You swing the bat.

Crack.

It makes contact.

You drop the bat in the dirt,

And start running.

 

I pray that somewhere in that forever sky

You are running free,

Looking over me,

Connected in spirit for eternity.

 

I pick up my pen,

And begin to write.

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Feeling sentimental; missing my father.