Snake Eyes, I Lose; Lucky Seven, God Wins

So I wrote my post about a Garden... and started it overnight, like I do many of these posts. I scheduled it to post the next day, June 1, 2010.

You know, LIFE is a gamble. We roll the dice, and get surprises all the time. Having babies, finding THE ONE to spend it all with, death, taxes... all have a way of just showing up when you least expect them, and whether you want them or not.

The surprise for me for June 1 was that my Dad died.

Yes, four months after my Mom passed away.

Yes, I was, to say the least, devastated.

I am still fighting the depression. I am still struggling to understand it all. I am not in a good place these days. But... I went back and read the entry after Mom died. I really do know who my friends are. I really know they are still around. I really know that I have no clue what life will bring next, tomorrow, or eventually.

I really know that my parents were certain that I was going to be OK. Maybe not today, probably not tomorrow, but soon enough, and for a long time. They raised me to be strong, self-sufficient, and persevering. They raised me to care, so they knew this would not be easy.

Dad died of Stage 4 Renal (Kidney) Cancer... and heart failure due to the fluid building up around his heart and lungs. That fluid was more cancer, trying to take over. When they found him, collapsed in the hospital room, they tried to revive him. Three doctors tried CPR. His body had given up the fight... and I am pretty certain his spirit had lost the will to live. His "fight" died with Mom. Sis said that when she and Bro went to go identify his body (uh, really?), that he had a smile on his face... an amazingly happy smile, that they had not seen in months. I think he knew where he was going, and that Mom was waiting there for him.

I never had any doubt that if there is a heaven (like I believe there is) and if any human has any chance of going there (I believe that Jesus gives us that chance), then my parents were going there. Others have told me they thought the same. My parents believed, and used every moment to live out that belief. They shared their meager blessings with any in need, even when it meant not eating as much for dinner that night. Dad fixed stuff. He tinkered around and found new life in things like cars, refrigerators and washing machines. Mom taught children for many years, and only retired when her lack of health forced her to. They showed Jesus to everyone they came in contact with. Their lives were bold and unashamed, yet simple and sparing.

We had a Memorial Service for Dad on June 26. I made it very clear to the officiant that there was to be no preaching. Mom's memorial was too "come to Jesus" for my taste. I don't think she wanted a church service, she would have preferred a good old-fashioned "singing". So we modified Dad's service to be more fun, more stories about him, and less "churchy". There were scriptures read, and there were a few preachy thoughts, but they were balanced, and not a "final call" for those in attendance. It made his brother laugh, which made me very happy.

Dad was a simple man, but never stupid. He learned all he could about everything. He knew amazing amounts of trivia, but could still talk to a child. He knew much about the Bible and the church, and could discuss the most in-depth meat-and-potatoes subjects, but he also knew the milk basics. He had very little tolerance for the milquetoast mediocrity that so many people have these days. He had an amazing vocabulary, and often used my spelling words within a week of my getting them when I was a child. I learned from him, and not from school or even Sunday School, the meanings of words like "usurp", "delineate" and "propitiation".

Dad used his knowledge of the medical field, that he gained in Vietnam, to help Mom. When she had toes removed, he learned how to dress her wounds. This meant that the nurse, who would have to visit other patients on a daily basis, could come just once a week to clean and measure and check the wounds. Dad was always very careful with Mom, and precise about her medications. He built his own graph to track her blood sugar and pressure levels, and what medicines he gave her.

I knew my Dad had preached a few times. He had notes from several of those lessons. I suppose I could ask the church for recordings, if I got brave enough to listen to them. One of the note papers had a kite design on the back. Dad was always doodling. He enjoyed kites, and designed his own box kite. He was pretty impressed with himself, until he found a book with a picture of his kite on the front of it. He hadn't known that others had designed this style of kite before him.

He also designed and printed his own targets for his shooting. Dad was an excellent marksman, and was always learning more about being a gunsmith. His hobby was to buy old military surplus, or antiques, and shine them up, and reload ammo for them. He had black powder rifles, and BB guns. He had rubber-band repeat shooters, and dart guns and even a crossbow. He built his own stocks for barrels he had, and taught my Bro and me how to use, clean and respect firearms. He was mindful of the Second Amendment to the Constitution, and how it protected the First.

Mom had never met a stranger, they were all just friends she was not yet acquainted with. Dad had never enjoyed crowds, but tolerated them for Mom's sake. After she died, he was very quick to say, "I am done now. Goodnight." and leave. Abruptly. And I think that is how he ended his life, as well.

Bro and I followed through with Dad's wishes to be cremated, like Mom was. We decided that we never thought of them as separate, but together. Their marriage really was a unity. So, we had their ashes mixed together, and then split in half, so each of us could do what we wished with the remains. My portion of Mom and Dad still sit in the box in the pretty felt bag I got from the funeral home in NM. Sis bought a beautiful box to put the remains in... and I will move them... eventually. I have offered part of my half to Mom's two sisters, if they wish to scatter some of the ashes in some special place that means something to them.

All in all, this year has been horrible. And wonderful. Yes, I lost both my parents, rather unexpectedly. But I have found parts of myself that had formerly lay dormant inside. I am much stronger than I ever thought I could be. I have positive outlooks where once only depression lived. I have deeper friendships, and pals who are closer now. I have recently come out of the fog.

The sunshine hurts my eyes, but my skin is soaking up the vitamins. The important things and people in my life are more precious. The less important and downright unnecessary are gradually removing themselves from my space. I can move now (I joined Curves with a friend to add motion to my weeks), where all I did for months was sit and stew in my misery. I can breathe. There is still a weight on my shoulders, but it gets easier to lift every day.

It isn't easy. Mother's Day and Mom's Birthday (she would have been 65) came and went, and I was a mess. Father's Day and my parents' Anniversary (this would have been 40 years) came and went, and I pretended I wasn't a mess. But I was. I still have to face Dad's Birthday (he was going to be 63 this year), and hear all the comments about how I am "too young to face this". I have to think that they died too young, but they had full, rich lives filled with faith, family, and fun. I know people who lost their parents when they were teens... THAT is too young. I don't feel too young at 36. I wasn't ready, but I don't know that anyone can be really ready for this.

My big "regret", if I ever were to hold those, is that I never got the opportunity to give them grandchildren. Infertility sucks when you desperately want a child. Mom had pretty much decided that she would never get any grandchildren. I don't know which hurt more, knowing I couldn't give her what she wanted, or that she had resigned the wanting. Either way, if I ever do have any children now, they will never get to know my parents. And that will be a deficit for my kids, because my parents were awesome people.

From the day they met to the day they married: 4 months.
From the day she died to the day he died: 4 months.

I really believe this is no accident.

This weekend is one year since I squashed grapes, and blogged about it. I believe that it is no accident that I should feel the need to blog now. I got a bottle of the Chateau L'Feet, and pondered the spiritual applications of wine. I was thinking about God, and what it meant to share these thoughts with you. And I think that maybe this blogging thing can come back to me. Slowly. Don't go expecting a new entry every day, or even every week. But please keep checking in on me. I am working on making my life as much of a testimony as my parents gave.

My friend Laura Speaker shared that her family philosophy about death is this: When we go to the garden and pick flowers for our table, we pick the most beautiful, the most vibrant flowers. The ones that end up as our centerpiece are at their peak of bloom, color and scent. Why do we expect God to do any less? The best, brightest and most beautiful flowers in His creation are the ones he picks to come home first. They get to set the table for the rest of us. That table is going to be the most welcoming thing about Heaven.

When I go, I want to have a smile on my face in the last moments. I want people to sing a few songs, bring a few flowers and remember that I tried.

Oh, and make sure to pour a glass of wine. Cheers!

Chateau L'Feet, Vintage 2009, Baby Toes. White Wine. "And I helped!"

Last year, I went to Tres Suenos Winery, and harvested and stomped grapes. This weekend, I got the bottle of that wine.

They call it Chateau L'Feet. Yes, we stomped a few gallons of grapes in the bottom of a 50 gallon drum. I call it Baby Toes, because of a little boy, who was fine stomping, until he realized that he was IN a 50 gallon drum. And it was taller than he was, and he couldn't see anything but grapes and mommy's knees. He started screaming, so they took him out of the drum. He stomped all the way up the side, still having fun, I think, but just a little scared with claustrophobia in the drum. Who can blame his cute little toes? Not me.

"You aren't gonna drink that, are you?" several people asked. Some of them were grossed out by the thought, as if the fact that my feet, and the feet of many others touched those grapes, and it might taste of feet. Some of them were sounding wistful, as if they would take it and drink it if I didn't want it. The idea is the same. Did I have plans to just let the bottle sit some more, or was I planning to drink it?

I honestly don't know yet. I was planning on drinking it. The BOTTLE is what is important to me. The label has MY NAME on it. This wine was helped by ME, and the bottle was labeled just for ME. The bottle will end up as a centerpiece on a shelf of my bottle collection. I think it would be a dirty shame NOT to drink the wine I helped create. A full bottle of wine is heavy, and the shelf will be heavy enough with all those glass bottles on it.

I pondered God last year, about vines and the vinedresser, and the harvest and how it all was used as a "flannelgram" to teach the church about God's care for His people. This year, I ponder the wine. The waiting. The Becoming.

I wonder how wine was made in Bible times. Didn't they generally squish the grapes by walking in them? Doesn't the age and the fermentation take care of whatever icky stuff was hanging on? Basically, the fact that it is alcohol should kill any germs from any feet in the grapes, right?

When Jesus turned water into wine, I have to believe it was good stuff. The host of the party said it was good, and he wondered why the best stuff was saved for the end of the party. Seems they usually served good stuff to get you happily drunk, and then switched to the cheap stuff, because after you are drunk, you really don't care what you drink, as long as the glasses keep getting filled. Having never been drunk, I have no idea if this is so. I just know what I like, and usually wine isn't it.

The winemakers are a family of God-believing people. They are genuinely nice. They treat their growers with courtesy and respect. They follow the laws of the land, and check the I.D.'s provided by their visitors. They have a fair business, and they make impressive wines, award winning wines. I didn't realize how much I liked sweet wines until I tasted the dry wines they offer. (Ugh. Dry is just too tart for me.) And I didn't ever think I would have a "favorite" wine, knowing how much I detest grape juice in general. Some days, getting through communion on Sunday is tough. And that is one thimble full of Welch's 100% Grape. Usually purple, Concord grape juice. And more often than not, on the verge of being wine (or maybe vinegar is a closer description). Yuck.

Whenever this might happen, I do plan to drink the wine. I might even share a little with Jeff, if he is brave enough to try it. The empty bottle will be my prize. I missed this year, because I checked into it too late. Next year, I plan to do this at least once, maybe twice. I plan to get more bottles of Chateau L'Feet, maybe in RED next time!

This year has been a crazy, tumultuous, lost and even blessed sort of year. All this time, that wine was in a cask, and then in the bottle. Sitting. Waiting. Fermenting. Becoming.

How can it be good if I do not taste it? Consuming the wine seems to be the POINT of it all.

I think this year has been some fire, refining me like gold. This year has not been the calm waiting on God, like the wine. Maybe the coming year will be calm, like the fermentation hold. But then, fermenting is a process, and I bet the chemical transformation is anything but calm. Maybe I HAVE been the wine. I have gone through a transformation, and I will never be the same. A little more tart, a little more rich, a little more depth to my "character". A little fruity note, a little spicy note... some time spent in the cool of the cask, some time squeezed into the smaller space of a bottle.

All the while wondering... Who will find me? Who will taste, and see that the Lord is good? Who will appreciate my more subtle qualities? Will I be the bottle that has had feet in it? (I certainly felt stomped this year!) Has this process cleansed my impurities? Am I sweeter for the time spent, or am I a dry finish?

I don't know all the answers. I know the ONE who holds the answers, and He hasn't really been sharing them with me. I guess I get to do what my Dad always told me to do: Hide and Watch. So, I hide in the shadow of the wings of the Most High, and I watch to see what becomes of me. I am fermenting. I am being enriched by the waiting. I am Becoming a fine wine from the Lord's vineyard.

How SWEET its that?