Life in the black hole....

For most of my life, I have struggled with a condition that is rarely discussed in polite company. That isn't due to shame or embarrassment on my part, because I feel neither, any more than I would be ashamed or embarrassed to admit I once had a brush with cancer or a burst colon (I have had both.) My condition is not something to hide. On the contrary, I think it is something to be brought out into the light of day and discussed, so that people will both recognize it and learn what it means to struggle with inner demons so powerful they can be terminal.

It doesn't go by one name - there are many variations on the theme - but it all boils down to one thing, mental illness, a term which makes people squirm and look away.

My own personal demon is severe chronic depression, a mental illness with lifelong implications and far reaching consequences, not only for me, but for everyone close to me. It has affected my ability to cope with everything in my life, and has colored my journey since I was a pre-teen. It induces fear in the people who love me, wondering when the next episode will occur and how bad it will be, and it affects my ability to navigate life, including holding down a regular job, being a mom, and interacting with people on a daily basis.

Like most true mental illness, severe chronic depression is not a one off event, a single incident of feeling down or blue. Depression, when you struggle with it as I have, is a lifelong battle against a demon that rages inside your head, threatening your very existence in a variety of ways. [Colorful language makes people uncomfortable, just like mental illness makes people uncomfortable. But ultimately, only by bringing it into the open can it be addressed, and that is what I try to do.]

Most of the people who know me well know about my struggle. I don't hide it, in fact, I talk about it frequently and openly, trying, in my own way, to shed light in the darkness. But it is a difficult topic on which to gain traction, because most people know so little about it, and don't want to think about it, so they turn away and change the subject, as if ignoring it makes it less real. People giggle nervously when I refer to myself as crazy, rushing to negate something which I know is, at least in part, uncomfortably true. [Just for the record - I know I have a mental illness. You don't need to make it okay by denying it on my behalf!]

I often use addiction as a frame of reference when trying to explain it to people, because most people are familiar with addiction as a condition. [Ironically, addiction seems to be more acceptable and more understood than a condition of the brain which is beyond our control and often our understanding. Personally, I find that frustrating and infuriating, but at least it gives people a base to start from.] I don't think you are ever "cured" of depression or any other mental illness, any more than you can think yourself out of an addiction. If you struggle with a mental illness, it will always be there waiting to attack your thoughts when you drop your guard. You must be on the lookout for the signs at all times, because otherwise it sneaks up on you like a cat burglar and steals your life before you even know it's there.

Why bring this up now? Because the last couple of weeks we have seen the very clear evidence of what unchecked mental illness does to the human it inhabits, and it makes me sad. But I also think it's an opportunity for everyone to finally start the discussion about what mental illness is, and what needs to be done when someone is out of their own control because of it.

Don't get me wrong, I am as guilty as everyone else for watching, and I am ashamed of myself for not being able to look away. I'm not usually a celebrity watcher, and Charlie Sheen isn't a celebrity I would ever have given the time of day previously. But his rather spectacular flame out has gotten my attention for the very public nature of the fireball he has become. He is everywhere, impossible to ignore, and every time he opens his mouth I have felt more sympathy for those who genuinely love him as they watch this spectacle unfold.

But as we all wantonly speculate on what is driving this train wreck, drugs, alcohol, mental illness, it is clear to me that more is at play than simple addiction. Charlie undeniably suffers from some form of mental illness - I think he has all along - and watching him racing out of control to the bottom is painful for me, because underneath it all, I sense a deep pain driving his erratic behavior, and in some general ways, I identify with it.

Although I don't struggle with the same demons he has inside his brain, I do understand being in the throes of mental illness, and it's not as simple as just thinking yourself free. I have had people tell me to just "snap out of it," to "appreciate what you do have," to "stop being so negative." If only it were that simple.

Speaking for myself, depression is a lonely affair with oneself. Your world is reduced to one thing, and one thing only, escaping from your personal pain. Nothing else matters, because that chronic pain is so overwhelming, you cannot see beyond it.

When I watch Charlie Sheen, hear his words, see the effects of his behavior on others, I see the same basic thing at play. He is out of control in his behavior because inside himself, he is out of control in his own head. He is running as fast as he can from his own feelings and emotions, because he doesn't know how to deal with them.

This is not to excuse anything he has said or done. There is no room for excuses when you threaten others or destroy people's security. Mental illness is not the reason he has threatened his loved ones, or put their lives at risk, and most mentally ill people do not threaten anyone except themselves.

But I do recognize the frantic search for something, anything, that will make him feel better, and the destruction that goes along with that. Like addiction, it rules your life and your behavior, and it won't stop until you are ready to confront it and do the work to make the changes within yourself that are required.

I have had to accept that my journey out of the dark pit into the light is one that will not end until my life ends. I flirt with the edge constantly, looking into the abyss with curiosity, not because I want to, but because I can't help myself. I liken it to a black hole - it sucks up everything in it's sphere, and you simply cannot help being drawn in. It's not about what you want, the force is greater than your will.

Medications help enormously, and I have finally learned, now that half my life is over, to accept that help the moment I realize I'm dangling over the edge of the darkness again. I have perspective, because I have fought my way out of the all encompassing fog more than once, and I know it is possible now. I have learned to call my therapist, the tremendously talented David Miller, and go in for what I like to call a "tune-up," an opportunity to hear him tell me, once again, that I am not actually crazy, and what I'm feeling is temporary.

But I am disturbed that in the 21st century so many people still have 18th century ideas about mental illness. The taboo of talking about it is literally killing people. They are less afraid to put a bullet in their head than they are to admit they need help. How can that be in an enlightened time, I ask in bewilderment?

I would like to see this disturbing celebrity flame out turn into an opportunity to talk about what mental illness really is, what it does to the human spirit, how it affects people who struggle with it, and how lives are changed when it is a part of their world. Charlie Sheen hasn't elevated anyone with his money, his previous antics or his award winning show where he apparently (I have never seen it, so I can only go by what I've read) plays a more sympathetic version of himself. But Charlie, and his family and friends, have an opportunity to start a conversation in this country about what mental illness is and how it affects people, regardless of how much money they have or what resources they have at their disposal. That is a conversation that needs to occur, and it would be one way for him to redeem what little is left of himself.

And he needs redemption, not for us, but for him. Because it will give him a reason to get better, which is good for his family, no matter how the rest of us feel about it.

I am fortunate, because in the midst of a crushing illness which occasionally threatens my very life, I have the love and support of people who don't hesitate to tell me I am sick and need help. In return, I think I owe it to them to be honest about my illness, and to talk to others about what it means to struggle with the inner demons that are as life threatening as any other potentially terminal illness. Because make no mistake about it, mental illness is terminal without treatment. Suicide can be fast or slow, but it ends the same way no matter how it is accomplished.

Charlie Sheen has a unique stage from which to discuss the effects of mental illness. I am not so delusional as to think he will, but how I wish he would. If an out of control celebrity can turn his life around, imagine what the rest of us could do. Come on Charlie. You are one man who can move millions. Do it for your kids, do it for your family, do it for you. It would be the comeback of the century, and we would all be better off for it.

The only sex I want on the beach is in a glass.....

Since my divorce five years ago, I have learned something, much to my amusement, and have been waiting for just the right moment to share it with the world. Valentine's Day seems like the perfect occasion to spread this fun news.

Single women my age make everyone nervous. Or at least the divorced ones seem to.

They say knowledge is power, and this is a powerful truth I'm sharing with you today. Whenever a middle aged divorced woman walks into a room, a ripple of discomfort wells up, and everyone starts to worry. I've never had so much control, and I'm not gonna lie, I'm enjoying it. Who knew being scarlet could be so entertaining?

However, in the spirit of sharing the love that is Valentine's Day, I offer here some words of comfort to dispel the panic that ensues every time a middle aged divorced woman makes a public appearance.

Married women my age get nervous because they are afraid I'm after their own particular version of Prince Charming. Ladies, I'm thrilled you have found your one true love, but I'm not really into balding, middle aged men who think farting out loud is an accomplishment worthy of applause.

Married men my age get nervous because they are afraid I'm going to put ideas into the heads of their wives. Interesting factoid. Single women have the longest average life span, married women the shortest. I don't know. Just throwing it out there. Something to think about.

Single men my age get nervous because they have been told that all middle aged single women are desperate, and they are afraid I will try to cozy up with them, when what they really want is someone half my age to make them feel half theirs. News flash. That lightning survey from a few years back that you cling to like the Bible? It was conducted by men, and the women all lied because they didn't want you to know how much fun they were having without you.

Younger women, married or single, get nervous, because they know they will be my age someday, and they don't want to think about it. Ladies! I have a secret for you. Being my age is fun. I am finally old enough not to care about what anyone else thinks, as long as I am doing what I think is right. It doesn't really matter to me any more how the world judges my merits, because I have the self-confidence to understand that I am good enough, just as I am. I am here to tell you, the real women's liberation is turning 50, and I'm embracing it.

Younger married men get nervous because they feel like someone's mother just walked into the room and they have their hand in the cookie jar. We don't care. We're just thinking too many cookies spoil your dinner, and they make you fat.

Younger single men get nervous, because they have been watching too much Cougar Town, and think of themselves as live bait. Trust me, gentlemen. Most of us have no interest in being a real life Demi Moore. Personally, I'm too lazy to get the body and I never had the face to begin with. Not to mention, when I have a conversation, I like the person to have the same frame of reference for life. I don't know about other women, but Teenaged Mutant Ninja Turtles as sage authority figures isn't going to cut it for me.

Lest I leave the wrong impression, I'm not a man-hater, and I'm not against being in a relationship, if that is what God has in mind for me. I just know who I picked the first time around, and I have accepted that I am not good at it. (Read abysmal. Trust me. I'm aware. LOTS of regretting at leisure has occurred.)

So I am leaving things up to God. As I am fond of saying, if He has someone in mind for me, then He will bring them through the door and drop them in my lap. That will be my first clue. I don't really see it happening, but hey, anything's possible. Moses did part the Red Sea and Noah built an ark entirely on faith.

For now, like many single women my age, I'm not worrying about men, or finding the one perfect relationship out of all the possibilities in the universe.

I'm enjoying having the closet all to myself. I read at 3 a.m. in my bed because I can. I have popcorn for breakfast and pancakes for dinner. I keep my thermostat at the temperature that is comfortable for me, and I am in charge of the remote control. I don't keep the house as clean as I should, but no one cares. I practice the piano for hours just because I feel like it, and no one complains that I am playing the same piece for the hundreth time. I can go to any event I want to, even at the last second, and I can blow it off at the last minute, and no one knows the difference. I can sit out in my hot tub and contemplate the stars in quiet thoughtfulness without having to worry about what someone else is thinking. The only broken eggshells in my world go down the garbage disposal, my dogs are the only ones who know if I work until 8 p.m. and I never have to explain myself to anyone. (Well, except my kids, who have pretty much learned to just take it as it comes.)

It can be hard to be single when everyone around you appears happily coupled up, especially on a day dedicated to the celebration of what you don't have. (Although, devil's advocate that I am, I would just point out that appearances can be deceiving.) Our culture emphasizes it, everyone seems to be searching for it, life revolves around the possibility of it, people despair because of the futility of not having it. But it is eminently possible to have a rich, full life and enjoy what we do have, even if it looks different than what society tells us we should want.

We don't have a day dedicated to being single, but I celebrate it every time I walk through my door and the castle is entirely mine. Being unhappily married was the hardest thing I've ever done. Being single, simply, satisfyingly, successfully single, can be a thing of beauty and a joy forever.

Oh, and the whole sex on the beach thing? I'll take mine in a glass, with a bowl of chips on the side.

Waiter?

Sister Sister....

When I was growing up, I always wanted a sister. Although I didn't have one of my own, I had an up close and personal look at what it was like to have a sister, because my mother has two of them, and their close and loving relationship was something that I envied.

My mom and her younger sister, in particular, have something special and unique, even for sisters, I think. Although in personality they are very different, my aunt is outgoing and funny and the life of the family party, while my mother is shy and quiet and frequently on the fringes of the action, they have a symbiotic relationship that benefits both of them. They have an easy closeness that defies space and time, built on a lifetime of experiences together which started when they were babies and has continued from then until now.

We had a reminder of that interdependence recently, at the graveside of their oldest brother. They were standing together, each lost in her own thoughts and memories, I am sure, when suddenly, one of them began to silently weep. Without even needing to look, the other one leaned over and put her arm around her sister and hugged her close, and they drew their heads together without a word being said. That unspoken understanding between them, the certain knowledge that they are there for each other, is something to envy, and I do.

I should, of course, mention that I do have a wonderful brother, who has provided all the love and support and entertainment one could ever ask for from a big brother. I wouldn't trade him for anything, he is the best sibling I could have ever asked for. I just would have liked to add a sister to the family table.

Living in a very small town, I got to see sisters up close and personal with the girls I grew up with, both relatives and friends, and I saw a variety of relationships and interactions, some good, some not so good, but which I knew, in adulthood, would be warm and rich and loving. I envied them their shared memories more than their shared wardrobe or toys.

I experienced the combat zone of sitting between sisters who were born on the same day but had very different personalities, and didn't hesitate to share with everyone their dismay when they didn't agree on something. (Which, for the record, seemed to be a lot, especially during band, when flutes became weapons with a long reach!) I watched friends serve as role models and mentors for younger sisters. I watched the pride and frustration as older sisters helped younger sisters with advice or direction, and I saw the adoration of younger sisters as they emulated the older sisters they worshipped.

I knew I was missing something irreplaceable, and it made me feel vaguely left out. Then I grew up.

Along the way, I discovered something important. Although I may never know the accidental, if special, relationship of sisters born to the same parents, I do, in fact, have the intentional sisterhood of many women who enrich my life and make it complete. It is an amazing gift of love and caring, and it is sufficient.

I have found sisters of the heart within my extended family, of course, cousins with whom I shared my growing up, and who were there from the awkward stage to the angry phase to the what-is-she-thinking-but-we'll-be-there-for-her-when-it-all-falls-apart period. Although we didn't grow up in the same house, we spent enough time together that I am not sure I could be much closer to them, and I certainly couldn't love them any more. I have shared their joys and their sorrows, felt their pain and their fear, as they have mine. You are stuck with your relatives for life, and I'm happy to be stuck on mine, because I have been richly blessed by the sisterhood I have found within the family circle.

But sisterhood is not only a blood line, or a family affair. I have found other intentional sisters of the heart through the years as I shared my life, and have been privileged to share in the lives of others. I have close friends with whom I can be entirely myself, for better and for worse, because we have been friends for so long the history speaks for itself.

I have friends whose relationship with their real sisters suffers when seen through the looking glass, and for whom the friendship provides a level of understanding that they don't find in their actual family. Somewhere along the line, I realized I am cheating them out of the fullness of the sisterhood we have built together when I mourn over a relationship I never had, while taking for granted the sister standing in front of me.

I have friends who have strong and loving relationships with their own sisters, and who extend that love to a select few outside their circle whom they treat like one of the family. To be included in the family events, as one their own, accepted on a family basis, is a gift of sisterhood built on a relationship that is valued on both sides. I wonder, if I had a sister of my own, would I have found room in my heart for that gift of love?

I have other friends who see me as I am, know my flaws, and choose to overlook and love me anyway. What a gift, to be allowed to live inside my awkward and quirky self, and have someone see the higher self I wish I was. No sister could be more uplifting than a friend who could turn their back on you but chooses to continue to meet life head on with you.

My brother has, in fact, been responsible for bringing a sister into my life, after all, when he married my lovely and beautiful sister-in-law. She has enriched all our lives, not only because she loves my brother and makes his life better, but because she loves us and makes our lives better, too, just by her being in it. I am grateful for the unqualified love she has for all of us, and we are very lucky she was willing to join our family circle and be a part of it. Although we are sisters-in-law, she is my sister of the heart first, and the relationship we are building is one that I treasure all the more for not having had a sister before.

I have a very special set of sisters, my Eve Circle sisters, who are sisters in Christ. We have been together a long time, most of us, a group of women who have gone through birth, death, divorce, child rearing, unemployment, our faith journeys; everything life has to throw at us. Within the circle of friendship we have together is the loving assurance of our shared faith, and the support of women who truly care about each other in the deeper way of family. God is our father, and we are sisters in His family. Although we are all very different, He has brought us together to compliment and contrast with each other, and each member of the circle has something special to share. We shine up the faith that each of us experiences to make it bright enough for the world to witness.

Valentine's Day is coming, and there will be a lot of talk of love and romance. There will be cute pictures of Cupid, and couples everywhere will be celebrating the love that they share. It can be hard to be single during this in-your-face couple time, reminded at every turn that what most people take for granted is out of reach for you, and it can hurt.

But I prefer to focus on the love that I have in my life, rather than what I am missing. In fact, since my divorce, I have learned quite a lot about love, and have discovered that I have a lot more of it in my life than I ever realized. I am grateful that there are women in my life who have been willing to fight through the shy, reserved exterior until they found the warm heart within, and who have believed I was worth the trouble it took to get to know the hidden me. Because of them, I have opened my heart, ever so slowly and cautiously, and found that there is love all around me, and that I am richly blessed with sisters of the heart wherever I turn.

So this Valentine's Day, I wish each of my Sisters of the Heart a day of love and respect and joy, filled not with the superficial expressions of love found in the advertisements and the store shelves and useless trinkets that will soon be lost or forgotten, but the deeper love born of shared experiences and full relationships with people who love you as you are, flaws and all. That is the real gift, a gift of the heart, and the only one that will last.

Happy Valentine's Day to each one of my sisters, from my heart.

Dog day afternoon....

You know what I love about dogs? They are who they are, and they don't spend a lot of time worrying about being what society, or anyone else, wants them to be. They act, and react, based on their natural inclinations, and your direction. The only people they worry about are the people who actually matter to them - their pack. Although there are celebrity dogs, you don't find the family pet worrying about what Annette Bening's dog is up to, because it just isn't relevant to their lives.

Thus, you find our mutt in an expensive fur coat, otherwise known as TidBit, running around with dreadlocks in his Papillion ear fringe, his pure bred fur coat occasionally dirty and sometimes even matted, especially after a good roll on the lawn, hair hanging in his eyes, yet still completely pleased with himself, because he has his toy and is ready to play. Gizmo, the actual mutt with an inferiority complex, runs around like a maniac, barking at the wind, still completely at peace with how he is living his life, as long as I'm not mad at him.

The only thing that really matters to either of them is that they have a warm place to sleep and two square meals a day, along with the company of the humans who are in charge of their lives. They are content to let everything else happen as it will, with no fanfare or advanced planning required.

In short, their lives are simple and straightforward. To know themselves is uncomplicated. If only it were so simple to be human.

I have heard it said that life throws curve balls at us. I think life is a curve ball. The trajectory never seems to take me where I expect, and I am always ending up in left field from an unplanned hit when I thought I would be right over the plate.

This week, for example, I had my calendar set, appointments ready to attend, work to be produced. I knew on Sunday when I perused my weekly obligations exactly what would happen through the week, and what I hoped to have accomplished by week's end.

Something funny happened on the way to Saturday, however, and I got nothing accomplished that I expected. We got hit with a blizzard that was both unexpected and fearsome, the worst weather I have seen in Kansas City in the over 20 years since I've lived here, in fact.

Don't you just hate it when the weather people get it right?

They were obnoxious and annoying, warning us for days ahead of time that THIS one was going to be The Big One, The Storm of the Century. (What kind of chutzpah do you have to have to label something an "of the century" event when the century is only 11 years old, I ask you?) That is why I dislike weather people so much. Every time there is weather, it's an "-est" event - biggest, coldest, windiest, hottest - whatever is happening, they hype it until you don't listen any more. Of course, talking about weather is their job, so what else are they going to do, right? But that doesn't make it any more palatable out here in viewer-land.

This time, they gave fearsome predictions for unprecedented snowfall in an area that gets paralyzed by six inches at once. They warned the public to be prepared with extra food and water, in case people lost power, or couldn't get out for days. I rolled my eyes and yawned.

Fortunately, I did think it prudent to make sure I had adequate supplies of fresh food for the rabbit and myself, prompted by a glance at the sky on the morning of the main event. And I did have the ice melt at the ready, just in case the ice storm of the century actually did develop right on top of us. Otherwise, I was pretty cavalier about the whole thing, figuring it was just another non-event here in the heartland.

The day the storm was originally predicted to begin dawned, and nothing. The weather people started shifting, telling us it was delayed, but would happen overnight, then the following morning, then the following evening, and finally the day after that. By that time, I was cheering for a rout, hoping that the whole thing would simply evaporate, and the storm would just be an epic fail, much to my delight and their discomfort.

It did not work out quite as I had hoped. The ball not only curved, it came back and hit me, then kept going in the opposite direction. Life is funny that way - it has a way of humbling you when you get too uppity.

I have seen storms like this one before; growing up in Minnesota, I am familiar with blizzards. But I have never seen anything like it in Kansas City. We are not Minnesota, and were not prepared for what happened. It brought the entire metro area skidding to a halt, reminding us all that Mother Nature still wins when she has a temper tantrum.

The snow came down, slowly at first, dry little flakes pelting your face as they dropped from the grey clouds overhead. Then they came harder, and the wind picked up. Before we knew it, the ground was covered with white powder, and the snow was flying in all directions, as the 40 mph wind gusts threw it around.

When all was said and done, we got about a foot of snow where I am. Capricious, as blizzards are, it was blown into drifts as high as three feet in some places, while the ground was bare in others. The drifts were wind-swept, standing in frozen waves, crisp and white and brittle looking. The world was a fairy land - I half expected to see the Snow Queen walk through my yard at any moment.

I didn't leave the house for days. Living in the city, with everything nearly at my fingertips, I have lost the ability to plan ahead. I put off getting anything until I am out. I don't stock up, I don't think forward, I don't plan, because the 24 hour WalMart a few blocks away has enabled me to be irresponsible in that way.

When the blizzard hit, the fury of it all reminding us that in the end, nature will have her way, I found an old, now unfamiliar pattern, and stayed home. For days. Natural recluse that I am, I slipped into the comfortable seclusion effortlessly, and it was almost difficult to make myself leave when I finally ran out of something crucial and had to make my way to the store again at the end of the week.

I enjoy life's little interruptions, the diversions from my strict plan that unexpectedly make the journey interesting. While it is good to plan ahead, and it is necessary to set a schedule and have goals, the occasional reminder to be flexible when life curves away from your plan is important, as well.

On the other hand, too much of a good thing is a bad thing. I, for one, have had enough of the long winter, and I am ready for spring, and the renewal that it brings. I think the dogs would agree, because every time they go out the door, they look surprised anew at the blanket of white covering their familiar terrain. But then they jump right in and find a way through, taking life as it comes. I think they have the right attitude, and I will try to emulate that flexibility a little more joyfully this week.

If your life is a curve ball this week, here's hoping you enjoy left field! Batter up!

Dear Dad, I wish you were here....

I spent some time this week reflecting on my father's death, a cataclysmic event in my life which occurred 38 years ago. That is a long time, and it is surprising how painful those anniversaries can still be. At the same time, however, I can also look back now with a lot of joy in the memories of the fun and laughter that we had, and on balance, there is a lot of enjoyment in it.

One of the things I got to thinking about was how little I really knew my dad. Just 12 years old when he died, it is hard for me to see him from an adult perspective. My memories of him are frozen in that time, like an outdated shadow box I can't quite bear to take down. I know some of his character traits, of course, and I have heard a few stories about him that give me some basic insight into what he was like with other adults. But one thing you lose with your parent when they die too soon is the ability to know them as a person, and it was that which I was pondering this week.

One of the most interesting phases of parenthood is reached when your children become adults. You don't necessarily interact with them every day, and they start to become known to you as individuals, with attitudes and opinions and their own way of dealing with life. It is fascinating, as you see what they have learned from you, and what they have chosen to do differently.

I missed that with my dad, and he with me. I wonder if I would disappoint or delight, if I turned out as he hoped, or not. It isn't possible to know, and I'm sure he would say he loves me just as I am, because he was a good dad, and that is how a good dad would feel. But I still wonder what he would have thought in his heart of hearts, because I just don't know.

I wonder, too, what my view of him would be if I had gotten the opportunity to know him as a grown up. I know the essential person would be the same, but would I notice other traits more clearly, once I was old enough to appreciate them, or would my view have remained pretty much the same.

I wonder how well we really know anyone, when it comes right down to it. We know our family members fairly well, I suppose, at least superficially. We know what they like to eat, we know what their favorite color is, we know their likes and dislikes, and perhaps even what their gifts and talents are. But how well do we know the heart of those we see each day?

Would people be surprised at my inner life, I wonder. Would they be shocked at what I am thinking? I pride myself on my integrity, I am as honest as I can reasonably be, but honesty doesn't always mean I reveal every thought and feeling, either. I wonder if anyone would be surprised at the frustration and occasional rage that can be found seething inside me?

I once participated in a fun activity among friends, where a sheet was passed, one for each person, and everyone had to write one word to describe that person. They didn't get to see what anyone else wrote until we were done, so it turned out to be a rather good analysis of how people perceive each one of us. I was considered, not surprisingly, truthful and funny. When eight or nine people all use the same words, I guess you have to accept that they are probably pretty accurate.

I wonder, if a sheet were passed about my dad, what words would be used. How would the people who knew him well describe my dad, if they had to choose one or two words to do so?

He was known for his sense of humor, so would it be that? Would it be kindness, because he was, at heart, a genuinely kind and helpful person? Would it be faithful? Or spiritual? Smart? Or possibly a perfectionist? Driven or willful? What words come to mind, I wonder, when his name arises in a conversation amongst his relatives and friends that remained here to mourn?

When I think of him, there is a rich variation of traits, but his humorous approach to life stands out. He found humor in almost everything sooner or later, a trait that I share, and thus appreciate greatly.

It wasn't always funny to me, I must admit, when he was making jokes. When I was little and foolishly crying over something insignificant, he would tease me that he loved my singing, and beg for more. It would make me so mad, but in the end I would have to laugh, because of course, he was right, and the situation usually was funny, when seen in the right light.

He worked full time at the local elevator, and then came home and farmed, as well. His work ethic was undeniable, as he was usually outside before first light and not back in the house again until after dark, while he struggled to get everything done in the day that required his attention.

Sundays were an off day, however, a day of rest, and my family rarely worked on Sundays, other than what was absolutely necessary to keep the animals fed. One year, the hay had been cut and baled, and it had to get put away before it all rotted in the field. I don't know why the timing was what it was, forcing us all to work on Sunday, but that afternoon found us out in the yard, putting up hay into the barn.

It was a hot and miserable task, and we were all out of sorts and crabby about it, while one thing after another went wrong. Finally, the hay lift, which brought the bales from the wagon below up into the hay mow, broke, leaving us without a way to get the hay into the barn. My dad, with his usual dry humor, said he reckoned that this was God's way of telling us to quit working on Sunday, and we all had to laugh. We also took him at his word, and I remember personally running for the house before he could change his mind!

I followed my dad around when he was home as much as possible, and I got to spend more time with him than a lot of girls probably spent with their fathers back in those more distant times. I was in the barn with him most nights, and learned from him to feed calves with a bottle, and to muck out the floor. I saw his work ethic, and I benefited from his endless patience in explaining things to me.

He was a boy scout troop leader when my brother was young, and a 4H leader when I was growing up. He took time for kids, and not just his own. He was there for any kids who needed his attention, and I have heard from a lot of people over the years how much that meant to them. He was especially active in teaching about the outdoor life, and made it possible for a lot of kids to fish and skate and camp. At the same time, he quietly modeled a respect for living right that many of us have taken forward into our own adult lives.

My dad was human, and thus fallible and imperfect. If I am to be honest in drawing this verbal portrait of my father, I have to acknowledge that there were flaws that could be added to this list of accolades. No one knows better than my brother and myself what happened when we fell short of his high expectations, for example! But I also know that my dad set the bar high because he loved us, and wanted us to be the best people we could be. I can forgive him for not being perfect, because he forgave me for the same.

When I look back on my dad's life, I know that it wasn't a story which would write a best seller, or be noticed by those we consider to be important. When he was buried on a frigid January day, (my poor cousin's 18th birthday!) it wasn't national news.

But the church was full of people who knew him, who cared about him, and who missed him when he was no longer here. His wife and children, his sister and brother and in-laws, his nieces and nephews, and his many friends, all of us lost someone that was important in our own small world.

I used to have a recurring dream that my dad came back to me to give me one last hug. I dreamed that same dream for many years, but I was never able to reach him. If I could spend an hour with him now, I would take that hug, of course. But I think I would also want to know who he was, who he wanted to be, and what was important to him.

There are no guarantees in life, and tomorrow is not a promise. Take time to share yourself with those you love. Give someone you love an extra hug today, and tell them what matters to you deep down in your heart. That is the most important gift you can give, and the best gift you will ever receive.