When you least expect it...

A few weeks ago, on a dreary, cold, rainy Sunday afternoon, I had time on my hands and decided to see a movie. I think I have gone to a movie alone a sum total of three times in my entire life, but this day seemed a good time to put another notch in my lone, movie watching belt.

Steve and I loved movies. We were fortunate to enjoy the same types of films and looked forward to our movie dates. Our neighborhood theatre wasn’t far from our house, so we were frequent flyers of this theatre scene.

I’m not sure how or when it happened, but we became friends with Jay, the ticket taker. Jay is one of those rare people who never meets a stranger and never forgets anything you tell him. Since Steve and I were regulars, we were soon on a first name basis with Jay. As we would walk into the theatre, you could hear our names bellowed across the lobby. We were always greeted with a smile and a barrage of questions about our family, and where we’d been. Jay often made our movie experience more enjoyable than the movie.

As our friendship developed, we also learned about Jay. He loved his birthday and would tell us about his plans months leading up to the date. It was Steve who decided to take him a birthday gift and made a special trip to the theatre to deliver it. The joy and delight on Jay’s face was priceless and the blessing, was in the giving.

Jay told us that eating a Chris Madrid’s hamburger was his favorite thing. One afternoon we made plans to take him to lunch. I think it took him three hours to finish his hamburger, as he wanted to relish every moment of our outing.

I haven’t mentioned that Jay is a person with severe disabilities. Jay was born with cerebral palsy. Over the years, even with extensive surgeries, Jay has gone from a cane, to a walker, to a wheel chair. He has difficulty speaking, swallowing and eating. I’m uncertain of his mental capabilities, however, seeing Jay’s memory at work, well, is evidence he is quite bright.

One evening as Steve and I were leaving the theatre, Jay was outside waiting for a STAR Shuttle to take him home. We visited with him, only to find out he had a two hour wait before his pick-up time. Steve, being Steve, loaded him up in our fairly small sedan and took him to his apartment. Jay insisted we come in and see where he lived. It was a small independent living complex set up for people with disabilities. Of course, Jay introduced us to all his neighbors, proud to have friends visiting. His neat and tidy apartment was well equipped to meet all of his needs.

I think it was about five years ago that Jay told us he was having extensive surgery on his back and legs and asked us if we would visit him in the hospital. Steve was going through chemo at the time and had to be careful with his compromised immune system. Hospitals were off limits, so I went alone. When I saw this brave young man’s scarred back and legs, due to years of surgeries, I became inspired by his optimistic view of life, of his warm and cheerful smiles and of his love of the people he encountered on a daily basis. My respect for Jay, after that hospital visit, grew enormously. He asked me that day why Steve hadn’t come with me. I wasn’t able to be truthful with him, instead I told him Steve had a little cold and was afraid he might be contagious.

Jay was never aware of Steve’s battle with cancer and since Steve’s death, I haven’t gone back to that theatre. 

It has been about three years since I have seen Jay, and as I drove into the parking lot that rainy, cold Sunday, I wondered if he was still taking tickets.

Walking into the lobby, before my eyes could even scan the area, I heard the familiar bellow of my name, “Jaannnettt.” I was greeted with his huge smile, his questions about where I’d been, and…”Where’s Steve?” His eyes searched the moviegoers behind me. I knelt down to eye level with this dear friend and told him of our loss. His eyes filled with tears, his voice broke and his response was, “Oh, I never knew…I wish I had known.” My heart tore once again and our loss was tangible.

I gave him a big hug. I told him Steve was in a much better place now and I knew this was sad news to hear. I walked into that darkened movie theatre and sat numb, paralyzed. I thought back over all the years Steve and I had walked into that theatre together. I thought of our first encounters with Jay. I remembered how Steve looked so forward to hearing Jay yell out our names, and how Steve would laugh at every encounter, always asking Jay what movie he had seen lately.

“When someone you love dies, you never quite get over it. You just slowly learn how to go on without them. But always keeping them tucked safely in your heart.”

I haven’t written in the past several months. Some of you have been so kind to ask why I stopped writing. I have no real answer other than the words were simply not there. A friend posted the above quote from an unknown author on Face Book today and suddenly I knew there was at least one more story in me. I think I owe it to Jay and always, to Steve.

For what it’s worth,

Janet

James 1:14 “Yet you do not know what tomorrow will bring. What is your life? For you are a mist that appears for a little time and then vanishes.”

"We'll always have Paris..."

What was the movie and who spoke that line? 

Was it just last week that we were drifting down the Danube River, a group of us sitting on the upper deck of the Amadocle? Sipping wine, and enjoying the incredible view, someone in our group of new friends began asking movie trivia questions, and the little game began. Volleying one question after another, the answers were light, fun and came easy for those of us sitting and enjoying a lovely afternoon. 

“We’ll always have Paris.” Oh, that was easy, “Casa Blanca.”  Bogart, Rick telling Ilsa, Bergman, that he had accepted the fact they would never be reunited again, instead, what they had experienced in Paris would be with them always.

They say that timing is everything. Well, this timing was one of those blind sighted moments that opened up a flood-gate of memories  and a flow of tears within me. 

Let me back up, October 2008, Steve and I made our annual trip to Europe. We rented a car and traveled through Croatia, and into Austria. We drove along the Danube River, and after three wonderful weeks, our last stop was Vienna. Steve spent long hours planning this trip, mapping our route, finding beautiful places for us to stay. He loved the planning. I loved the adventure. We had one of our greatest trips that year, and one month later Steve was diagnosed with Stage Four Glioblastoma Multiform. That was our last trip. The rest is history.

Austria with Steve 2008

June 2014, a group of friends discussed taking a European long boat river cruise before the Christmas holidays. Time and life got in the way and that trip never happened. This past summer, my good friend, Robbie approached me asking if I would be interested in taking that trip in late September. Sure, of course, ask no more, I’m in. Robbie did all the planning and I was just glad to be going along. I knew the Danube and Vienna would entail some of the same places Steve and I had been. Well, I knew this in my head, but I’m not sure it registered in my heart, until that afternoon we sat on the deck of that long boat, playing movie trivia.

Robbie & Janet Mondsee Austria

Robbie & Janet Prague 2015

“We’ll always have Paris.” The statement was innocently spoken. It was at that moment, I looked out and saw the most incredible view of the vineyards of Austria. Our boat was passing Durnstein, which had been our favorite of all of our stops in 2008. Oh no, the tears sprang in my eyes. I quietly rose from the group and moved to the boat’s rail. I watched silently, as we quietly sailed past some of the sweetest memories I had shared with Steve.

We docked in Melk, Austria. A tour was offered of the beautiful centuries old abbey and cathedral. I opted to spend this day alone. I took a tree lined path into the small village. I walked through the gates of this ancient little town, down the cobblestones streets, letting the cool fall breeze take me back to 2008. Steve was by my side. I could feel my hand in his. I could see the twinkle in his eyes and the smile spreading across his handsome face as he excitedly told me of this place, home to Richard the Lionhearted. Steve brimmed with the history that he so loved and could easily recall. I walked past places we had eaten, the lovely castle where we had stayed. I spent that day allowing myself to be absorbed in the most precious memories of our last wonderful trip. 

On my way back to the boat, I noticed a beautiful old church at the top of a small hill. Walking in, sunlight streamed through the lovely stain glass windows. Prayer candles flickered, allowing me to find a seat in one of the old well-worn pews. I was all alone except for the organist who was playing in the balcony high above me. The magnificent pipe organ’s music filled the church as I sat in perfect stillness. The tears streamed down my face, but they were tears of the greatest joy, because I will always have “Paris.” I thanked God for all the precious memories I will always have with Steve. I thanked God for bringing Steve into my life and for allowing us to share a love that will never die. 

I wonder if I thanked Steve enough for planning such remarkable trips. Did I take for granted the time he spent pouring over details, ensuring our trips were the best they could possibly be? Was I appreciative of the fact that Steve loved watching me experience all the marvelous things that traveling the world offered? Did I simply assume we would have years of these wonderful trips? Oh, how I now wish I could say thank you just one last time to my precious husband for all the of these amazing trips. How I wish I could share many more wonderful memories with this dear, darling man.

Sadly, I can’t turn back the hands of time. I can’t live in the past, I must go forward into the future and be thankful, grateful and incredibly blessed because “We’ll always have Paris.”

Steve Vienna 2008
 Janet Vienna 2015

For what it’s worth,

Janet

Phillippians 1:3 "Every time I think of you, I give thanks to my God."

There's something about Judge Judy...

What is it about this show that has me smitten?

Could it be Judy’s long black robe with her little lace collar? Hmm, I think not. I mean if I made a reported $47 million dollars a year I might put a cute crisp white shirt under that black robe. It would have a great collar that flipped up with terrific cuffs that could be turned back in a most fashionable way.  Maybe I’d add some fabulous, yet “Judge-like” earrings and a statement bracelet, or two. A much cuter look to accompany that black robe. Judy, I’m telling you, ditch that tacky little lace collar.

Could it be her wrinkle free face and neck? Maybe, I mean at 72 years old, the body parts that stick out of that black robe are looking really good. I might suggest she find a better hair stylist. Again, to have a show that’s run 19 seasons and is number one in syndication, well, you’d think she could find a “do” that was worthy of her high ranking standards.

No, it’s not Judy’s appearance that keeps me tuning in daily. I realize watching back-to-back episodes of Judge Judy might be considered…mindless? A waste of time? Silly? Yes, yes, and yes. Perhaps I should do something more meaningful with my weekly afternoons…care for little crippled children, feed the hungry, clothe the naked…read a book. Those would all be worthy aspirations, but not during the hour of 4-5 pm, Monday through Friday. 

So what is it about Judge Judy?

Could it be her use of yiddish? Judy handles all these bubbe meise court cases with such chutzpah. The schmutzy litigants seem to kvetch so, that it often causes a kerfuffle in the courtroom.  Say what…? I do love Judy’s use of the Yiddish.

Could it be Judy’s quick sassy, sarcastic comebacks? Might it be the way she rolls her eyes so that no words are necessary? Is it possible that Judy can blast through any ridiculous situation and arrive at a decision that leaves litigants with their mouths wide open in disbelief…until they hear Officer Byrd, ”That's all. The Parties are excused, you may step out.”

 “Real cases. Real people. Judge Judy. The people are REAL. The cases are REAL. The rulings are FINAL.”

Okay, I admit, I love it all, but why? What draws me to watch this show that is way too much like Jerry Springer with a gavel and an Officer Byrd (I do love Officer Byrd). Why do I love Judge Judy?

I think everyone can recall a time in life when you found yourself in a situation where someone, let’s just call him “Chuck,” says something so outlandish that you are speechless? You know, a time Chuck is so wrong. Maybe he’s flat out lying, maybe he’s simply being a jerk, maybe he’s over exaggerating, and you know it. Maybe Chuck has just leveled, embarrassed or humiliated you to the point that anyone walking by could easily scrape you off the pavement. The list of maybes could go on and on, but we’ve all been there, right?

So you leave Chuck. You walk silently away, in disbelief that Chuck is being so “Chuck.” It’s only after you have left Chuck that you say to yourself, man why didn’t I tell him this, or if only I had said that, and then dole out one of those Judy-isms. Bam! That’s it. That’s the reason I love her so much.

It’s so fun to watch my dear Judge Judy in action! Oh how I want to spew forth Judy-isms to the Chucks of the world, but I stop short. I remember I have a faith that asks me not to be critical or judgmental, rather, to see Chuck as Chuck, to be forgiving, tolerant and loving. Instead of wanting to level the Chucks of the world, my desire should be to smile at Chuck, send up a little prayer for him and go on my merry way.

Maybe there are times I wish I had the chutzpah to dole out a Judge Judy like quote, but in the long run I know it would make me feel more miserable than Chuck. I’m thankful I have a faith that tries to keep me in tow. Thank you, Lord.

Judge Judy will always be fun to watch! She says it, I just think it. Of course, she’s got Officer Byrd by her side, $47 million dollars in her pocket, and a television show named after her…makes a bit of a difference, don’t you think?!

So while I may think like Judge Judy, I’m doing my best to try to WWJD.

For what it’s worth,

Janet

Mathew 7:1-3 “Do not judge other people. Then you will not be judged. You will be judged in the same way you judge others. You will be measured in the same way you measure others.

“You look at the bit of sawdust in your friend’s eye. But you pay no attention to the piece of wood in your own eye.”

The forgotten plague...

My mother died quite a few years ago, and there are so many times I wish I could turn back the hands of time and ask her questions from my ever growing list.

Mother lived a long life and passed away from natural causes. By the time she died, Mother was frail and weak, but her mind was amazingly sharp and her memory very much intact. I feel so remiss that I missed opportunities to ask her questions. Questions concerning not just her life, her past, but more, her thoughts, her feelings, her faith, her fears. I want to know more than I know about my mother, but my opportunity is lost forever.

Who was my mother as a person, aside from being my mother? I wonder how many of us baby boomers would ask the same question of their moms? Oh, I know all the stories of mother’s childhood. I saw pictures from Mother’s youth. I heard her tell me about her sisters, her teen years, how she met my father, fell in love and married. I listened to her experiences about living through the Depression Era and WWII. 

What I somehow missed, was understanding who was this person I called my mother. Did I know what kind of friend she was? Did I understand why she had the beliefs that she had? Did I know what made her really happy or very sad? I’m ashamed to say, I don’t think I ever stopped to think about my mother, other than the fact that I loved her because she was my mom.

Syble...in her 80's...at 18, as a young mother, as a good friend, as a wonderful wife

Several weeks ago, I came across a television show on PBS’s American Experience titled “The Forgotten Plague." I nonchalantly flipped past this program, but stopped and turned back. This was a documentary concerning tuberculosis, the deadliest killer in human history. At one time this disease touched the lives of every American family. I turned up the volume, settled in and watched with curious eyes.

This deadly disease holds great prominence in my family history. Both of my grandfathers died of TB, my mother’s eldest sister died at 26 years old of this disease, and my own mother suffered from tuberculosis twice in her early to mid 30’s. I knew a bit about tuberculosis. I knew that this disease had dramatically shaped generations of our family’s lives. I knew of the story my mother told of her own experience, yet somehow I glossed over the enormity of the effect of this deadly plague. My perspective of this story became so far removed from reality, that I lost focus of what my mother had actually endured.

Watching this documentary, I saw photographs of patients with sunken cheeks, too large eyes, gaunt, skeletal; coughing racked their body as they spat up blood and disease filled their lungs. They laid in cold sterile wards, often on screened porches, beds lined up, one after the other. Even though tuberculosis crossed all socio-economic backgrounds, the victims were considered outcasts because the disease was highly contagious. 

I learned about the sanatoriums that housed these patients, my grandfathers, my aunt, and my own mother. I saw footage of how TB patients lived, and died within these walls. I was moved, riveted in my chair, finally comprehending, what my family members must have experienced. 

At 11 years old, my mother watched her father, an East Texas farmer, leave their small struggling farm hoping, to recover from this deadly disease. Patients were told complete bed rest, and fresh air was the only cure at that time. He went to a sanatorium in San Angelo. I remember Mother telling that one day she looked up and saw her father slowly walking down the long dirt path to their home. Weak and so ill, my grandfather wanted to be home at all cost. The cost ended up being great, as my grandmother cared for him for several more years until he died a long and excruciating death from tuberculosis. 

Images from effects of TB 1950

Ten years later, my mother’s sister, Thelma, was diagnosed with TB. My young mother was devastated. This was her beloved sister. Thelma had just started teaching when she became ill and was forced to quit. She, too, left the family home to convalesce in a sanatorium in Kerrville. Thelma died on Thanksgiving Day. She was 26 years old. I knew all of this family history in my head, but I’m not sure the enormity of it had ever registered in my heart.

My own mother was in her early thirties when they first discovered she had also contracted TB. As I sat and watched “The Forgotten Plague,” I could imagine the fear that coursed through every part of my mother’s being. The reality of her life began to take form within me.

In the early 1950’s my parents had two little girls, my older sisters. My father was an attorney for Humble Oil, now Exxon. My father spent much of his time working long hours, his profession was all consuming. After her diagnosis, a portion of mother’s lung was removed and following surgery, she followed in her father’s and her sister’s footsteps, leaving home to convalesce in Kerrville (the same sanatorium where her sister had died). What horrible fears she must have faced concerning her own fate. What sadness, did she experience, leaving her family? How did her faith enable her to walk this terrifying path? Mother never really spoke of these feelings, she only told of the facts, leaving me with so many questions. Oh, how I wish I now had the opportunity ask her. Mother’s health did finally improve, she did come home, and she became pregnant with me several years later. She was 37 years old. 

I have always known my rather exotic birth story. The doctors wanted mother to terminate her pregnancy, stating neither she, nor I could lead healthy lives. Mother’s story was that she and my father prayed fervently about “me” and, of course, here I am. 

There’s more to this saga. Mother was 6 months along in her pregnancy when the tuberculosis recurred. Again, she left her young daughters, and spent the rest of her pregnancy in Houston’s Methodist Hospital. She delivered me naturally. How incredibly difficult this must have been for her. She had a second lung surgery, right after I was born, and lived away from home until I was 8 months old, only allowed to have brief visits with her family. How does anyone live through this experience? What must my mother have felt? The sorrow, the doubt, the fear, the why’s? I never heard her speak of any of these feelings.

Mother survived and became amazingly strong and healthy. I never knew my mother as an invalid.  At 80 years old Mother was doing yard work that I couldn’t imagine doing now. The older I become, the more I admire my sweet mama for all she endured and overcame.

We were blessed that her story was a successful one. I am embarrassed to say that it never occurred to me to question the depths of what she must had lived through, that is, until I sat and quietly watched this documentary on PBS and saw the horrible toll tuberculosis took on so many.

I suppose my curiosity, my guilt, had caused me to ask these questions. Was this simply the way my mother functioned, or was this the way all children were raised in the 50’s, 60’s, and 70’s? Were all moms like Beaver Cleaver's, June? Did all mothers exist only outside of themselves, so selflessly that their children never saw them as human beings? Was it just my own self-centeredness that causes me now to feel I didn’t know my mother well enough?

If only…the if onlys eat at me. If only I had understood the magnitude of my mother’s fears. If only I had asked her, “Who did you rely on during this uncertain, scary time? Was it a friend? Was it your mother? Was it my dad? Was it your faith? Explain to me in detail how you lived through this and survived? Show me how to live through life’s most difficult journeys? Teach me, Mother.

I will never know the answers to all these questions. I pray that my own children know me better than I knew my own mother. I feel that Brent and Brooke know me well, not only as their mom, but on a very personal level. I hope, during their lives, I have expressed to them, my fears, my dreams, my sorrows, my delights, my faith. I pray my children see me for who I am, not simply a mom, or a wife, or a mother, but a friend, a human with flaws, a child of God.

I’m thankful I accidentally scrolled across that PBS documentary. I’m appreciative that I learned more about the horrible toll tuberculosis took on victims, on families, on society. I feel like I have a better understanding of my heritage, my roots, my own sweet mother because I’ve spent these past few weeks grasping the truth, the devastation, the enormity of this forgotten plague.

I come from pretty good stock, while not perfect, I am thankful for a family, a heritage of faithful believers, of courageous fighters, and in one case, a mighty survivor.

For what it’s worth,

Janet

Proverbs 31:30-31  “…a woman who fears the Lord is to be praised. Honor her for all that her hands have done, and let her works bring her praise at the city gate.”