Among the brightest of women

1 Comment

No doubt we would have been preparing to celebrate Phoebe’s birthday this weekend. While the actual date of her birth fell on February 20, her calendar of festivities filled rather quickly. I imagine this year would have been especially so, being her one-hundredth celebration and all.

Alas, she bid her final farewell at ninety-nine. And for most of those ninety-nine years, we knew nary a thing of this girl from Riverside, California  . . .

We knew her not when entered this world in 1918; when she graduated from Kuna High School in 1935; or when she attended Pioneer Business College in Minneapolis, Minnesota in 1936 . . . when she worked in military communications during  World War II; or when she married the love of her life in 1948 . . . when she lived in New York; or when she returned to Boise, into that grand old house on twenty-second street . . . when she worked for the tax commission; when she raised show dogs; when she traveled about, amassing one adventure after another.

No, we knew nary a thing of her until she joined the “old girls” at “the home.” By that time she’d be quick to shoo away a camera for fear it would make her look old; and she was more than ready to accept her boarding pass to the great beyond–to be reunited with those she loved most of all.

But unlike some who tire of this world, she rarely complained; instead, she chose to make the most of each day. And despite the years that layered one upon another, she continued to have a youthful gleam in her eye.

Perhaps its one of the things that made us fast friends.

Despite our age difference, we shared a love of laughter. We shared a love of clouds and the myriad of ways they dance upon the sky. We shared an understanding that the ache of some disappointments (never holding a baby of your own, for instance) never truly goes away; that you can (and most certainly should) make the best of the hand you’ve been dealt, but a twinge of pain continues to tug at your heart.

I imagine if we had been born in the same place, at the same time, we’d have been inseparable. Instead, she paved the way; she showed me how to grow old . . .

In the few short years we knew her, she taught us the importance of looking your best–even when you can no longer wear the shoes you love, or it takes hours to prepare; that wit remains timeless; that friends and family are your anchors–that you should hug, and say “I love you,” and accept those invitations for as long as you can; that age does not have to dim your spark.

Phoebe, brightest of women–she certainly, lived up to her name.

At her memorial service, her niece read aloud one of her favorite poems:

Life owes me nothing. Let the years
Bring cloud or azure, joy or tears;
Already a full cup I’ve qualified;
Already wept and loved and laughed.
And seen, in ever-endless ways,
New beauties overwhelm the days.

Life owes me nought. No pain that waits
Can steal the wealth from memory’s gates;
No aftermath of anguish slow
Can quench the soul fire’s early glow.
I breathe, exulting every breath,
Embracing Life, ignoring Death.

Life owes me nothing. One clear morn
Is boon enough for being born;
And be ninety or ten,
No need for me to question when.
While Life is mine, I’ll find it good.
And greet each hour with gratitude.

Anonymous

Words she obviously took to heart. And if her life is any indication, it would behoove us all to do the same.

My one and only

3 Comments

Quite out of the blue, whilst sitting in my car in the Albertsons parking lot, I casually mentioned to God that I would like to meet my husband at church.

It’s not as if I had been pining away for marriage, mind you. As a matter of fact, I had quite made peace with the fact I’d never marry. And church? For years I scoffed at the thought of meeting a guy at church. We’re small in number and eclectic in personality. There’s no way.

Little did I know . . .

A few months earlier a fellow started attending our church, simply because it shared the name of his hometown congregation. Of course, I paid him no mind until he stood directly in my line of sight, playing the guitar. Even then, my thoughts did not stray from the strength of his talent.

Even when my mom, ever hopeful, suggested he was kinda cute–I wrinkled my nose and shook my head. “He’s much too serious,” I said.

And when he called a few weeks later, asking if I’d be interested in joining him for dinner, I agreed–fully expecting to chalk it up as yet another first date on my ever expanding list.

Then I sat next to him, and everything changed.

We chatted about a myriad of things: how we come from vastly different backgrounds (he was the jock in high school, I was the nerd; he played in a rock band in his twenties, I toyed with the idea of becoming an ordained minister); how we share a love of books and travel; how we don’t have it all figured out, but we’d certainly like to try.

Now here we are, husband and wife. His presence is as natural as breath. His touch is soothing. His insatiable curiosity, inspires me. He makes me laugh, everyday; he displays his love in a thousand little ways.

And he’s my first (and only) sweetheart for Valentine’s Day.

Forty-three years I celebrated with nary a date. I may have called it quits with a fellow right before, or started dating him right after, but I never managed to have one around for the actual day. It served as annoyance in my younger years; now I see it as perfection for my sentimental heart.

So you see, sometimes you think you’re offering God a brilliant idea; when really, He’s had it planned all along. Sometimes He pens a love story greater than anything you could have hoped or imagined; and sometimes, the one you love, proves worth the wait . . .


The greatest of these

1 Comment

Well, hello there–and Happy Friday!

How’d your week fare?

I sniffled my way through. Which means I’ve been sick roughly 5,000 times within the last year. But all misery aside, I also began to ponder Valentine’s Day shenanigans.

You know, the older I get the more thankful I am this unofficial holiday has remained near and dear to my heart. I’ve my mama to thank for that. She always made it special. In doing so, she made it clear that love, in and of itself, is worthy of celebration.

It’s a point driven home this week as we bid farewell to yet another loved one. After a courageous battle with cancer, our cousin left this world for digs much more glorious. As taps played in all its melancholy splendor, between sniffing and frantically wiping away tears, I thought of his reunions . . . how we were saying goodbye (for now), but he was saying hello once more: to his mom and dad; grandpa Vern; grandma Mae.

For now we see indistinctly, as in a mirror, but then face to face. Now I know in part, but then I will know fully, as I am fully known. Now these three remain: faith, hope, and love. But the greatest of these is love. (1 Corinthians 13:12&13)

The greatest of these; if anything is deserving of celebration, surely it’s that. So if we have them–family, friends, pets, sweethearts–we most assuredly should love on them.

Here’s hoping you get the party started early in the days ahead . . .

xo