The most civil of disobediences

 

Most every morning Lainey drags me for a walk, down the street, behind the Library and the school, there's a path through the woods. 

It's quite the spectacular track, dotted with lagoons, ball fields, thick patches of woods, an outdoor assembly area and a playground for kids. 

Over time, I've become friendly with others regularly walking the same path at the same time. 

We greet each other, chat, joke and bring a bit of spark to the day. 

When I miss walks, they notice and they fret, wonder, even pray for me. When I return, they celebrate.

So one of them, Gordon, decided to get everyone together for Bloody Mary's, and a bowl, to celebrate us all. 

And that we did!

I think life's a gift to be enjoyed and not a prison sentence to be endured. Find joy every day is the goal of living. Break out of whatever, or whoever, holds you back from laughing. Even if a few rules are broken.

So today, here's to my friend Gordon, who orchestrated the most civil of disobediences resulting in a community of laughter. 

And here's to all of us trying to have as much fun making joy every single day.

YA VOLL HERR KOMMANDANT

This is not the former drummer for REM but the other one from a long time ago. 

He is leaning over from his berth in the sleeper on a train traveling from the Czech Republic into Poland. 

A few moments after I snap this picture, the train pulls to a halt in the middle of a snowy, black night as the border patrol boards the train to inspect passports. 

Bill Berry and I are the only passengers. 

We've rearranged our cabin by using a screwdriver to take out one of the 3 births so we have more room. The extra bed's in the corridor of the train. 

This is, of course, the first thing the Polish border patrol sees as they bang on the door to demand our passports. 

When we left Prague, we purchased copious amounts of Pilsner Urquell and the empties are rolling around on our cabin floor. 

The train's comprised of six cars and one conductor dressed in a black double breasted coat with gold buttons and matching cap. Two of the buttons are missing from his coat. 

When he brought our dinner, he found the extra berth laying in the hallway and burst into uncontrollable laughter but the only words we understood were "crazy Americans."

Our conductor's nowhere to be seen when the border patrol stops the train. 

Everything is suddenly very still and quiet. We can hear ourselves breath. 

BAM-BAM-BAM!!

Guards pound the door after pushing the discarded bed out of their way, imposingly stand with flashlights and demand our passports. 

This is when it gets weird. 

Wearing only his "tighty-whities" Bill leaps from the top berth, snaps to attention, raises his arm in a Nazi salute and quotes Sgt. Schulz from "Hogan's Hero's" shouting, "YA VOL HERR KOMMANDANT!"

In the bottom berth, I cover my head with my blanket, sticking one hand out so they can take my passport. 

Ignoring me, they inspect Bill's passport for a long time while I stay under the blanket with my head covered. Someone snatches my passport and returns it to my hand a few minutes later. 

Without saying a word, the guard snaps Bill's passport shut and hands it to him indicating we may proceed.  They exit quickly kicking the empties rolling on the floor. 

Pulling the covers down, I see Bill's standing there grinning at me. 

"I should have said 'Seig Heil'," then starts yelling it out loud lest the guards might still be within earshot.  

The old train lunches forward and we slowly start moving. 

"I gotta find the toilet," he says, heading down the corridor in his underwear. 

I fall asleep, clutching my passport, as the train rolled down the track towards Auschwitz.  

Things got really weird after that but that has nothing to do with this picture. 

My Early Buddy

 "Da, who's going to be my 'early buddy' when you die?" Che asks, holding my hand as we walk her to school. 

"I dunno Kiddo. Ask your Mom."

Letting my hand go, Che turns towards Sarah. "Mom whose going to be my early buddy when Dad dies?"

Her eyes lock mine for a second as we share the moment. 

"I have no idea Honey. I hope you'll be sleeping late by then," she answers. 

Mrs. D, our tremendous crossing guard, blows a whistle, yells, "Good Morning! Come across!" so Che quickly
kisses us goodbye and joins 30 other small kids lugging huge backpacks.  

Holding hands as we return home, Sarah mimics, "Who's going to be my Early Buddy?" and we burst into laughter as we dissect it. 

Che was so matter of fact in how she asked, as though "Did you pack my lunch Mom?"

"Hopefully, she will be a teenager and not need an Early Buddy," Sarah quips.

We laugh again at our "Love Child" before wandering into speculation over how Che processes things. 

Later, our friends Mike and Hania are passing through town and take us out to a dog friendly lunch. 

"How's Che doing?" they ask. 

"Well," Sarah laughs answering, "this morning she asked who's gonna be her 'Early Buddy' when Mike dies." 

Hania and Mike stare with blank faces as Sarah and I crack up at the comedy of it all, until we realize we're the only ones laughing, giggle to a stop and resume talking. 

We have our own language I suppose and that includes Che, who handles things in her own unique ways, like freely bringing up very practical questions.

I'm almost always up when our daughter wakes, regardless of the time, so if I'm not around to sit with her in the predawn darkness, who will?

Che has complete faith in Sarah's answer and moves on and we wait to see what she'll want to know next, amazed, proud and in marvel of the ways she works things out. 

I missed her school Art show because I had to be at the Mayo Clinic for my monthly injection and a MRI. Sarah explained where I was, brushing it off as no big deal, and Che was cool with it, insisting only that she be allowed to wait up on me to get home. 

We learned the test results and the cancer's grown but otherwise I'm doing great! Except for continuing to drink, I'm the perfect patient. 

"Da, I don't know why but I feel like crying and taking a nap," she explains after a friend's birthday party the next day. 

Sarah and I share the look and since then we're content to be together at home. Che plays with her friends but quits earlier than she used to so she can be with us. 

Nothing's really changed though they'll be more trips to the Mayo Clinic in our short term future. That, and I'm not enjoying the red wine I like in the afternoon. 

Putting Che to bed, Sarah and I watch a movie where, like everything we watch someone has Cancer or dies, the guy dies. 

Sitting on the sofa, Sarah and I sit in silence staring at the screen. 

"Well," I snicker. "That was good."

Sarah gives me the look, and our eyes meet, and I see another entire Universe full of love, and we explode in uncontrollable laughter that lingers for the longest time, well after the blackness of night. 

Ready or not

"I  don't know," Dad sighs irritably. "What do you think Mike?"

Mom, David and I are in his Hospital room where he's been quiet until now.  

"About what Dad?" I ask, putting a hand on his knee.

His hands are in his lap and he's wringing them as though washing.  

"I think I'm ready," he says softly, sucking all the air out the room.

The room is dim, monitors are beeping, hallway noises intrude but it's as quiet as when the earth was without form and void in darkness. 

"OK Dad," I say, watching him watch the wringing of his hands, "if you're ready, that's okay."

David rushes over and tells Dad Jesus is ready for him if he's ready to pray, which David does as Mom moans and then quickly collects herself. 

Dad moves to Hospice and for the next 3 days all manner of family and friends visit to say goodbye. 

At the same time though, he's telling us about others who are long dead, calling some by name before sliding off into a seemingly private conversation with himself.  Three days after moving to Hospice, Dad dies. 

A few years later, now doing Hospice work, I visit for a patient whose wife asks to speak with me privately after I'd met with him. 

"I can't take this anymore," she softly cries. "I am ready.  I want to go before him.  I don't have a preacher. Will you be my preacher?"

A few short months later, I hold Liz's hand as she dies, leaving her lost Dementia husband behind.

Like Dad, Liz confesses she's ready to die. 

I find myself pondering what exactly it was they were ready for?

Certainly both indicated they were ready to stop living life as they'd always known it and, perhaps, that's all there is to it. 

They were sick and tired of being sick and tired and decided to stop.

I can wrap my brain around that. You can't see things getting any better so you surrender, accept it, stop participating in being sick and tired. Everybody reaches the point when they stop beating their head against the wall, opting for something, ANYTHING, else! 

Or maybe they chose nothing else over being sick and tired, just acceptance of death. 

I certainly can't blame them. 

They were fighting the good fight but abruptly reached out of the ring to ring the final bell themselves, which is certainly not what anyone expects. 

"Liz," I ask, sitting on her bed, holding her hand, "I understand you're ready but I'd like to ask you something."

Her eyes are closed and she squeezes my hand. 

"What exactly are you ready for?"

The only sound is her breathing, the slow rise and fall of her chest beneath a pale blue nightgown. Her hand remains in mine. 

"I see them," she whispers, as though sharing a great secret. 

"Them?

"Them," she says with a half smile before falling asleep. 

It's natural for those near death to have visions of family and friends who've died. They seem to function as a sort of welcoming committee for someone fast approaching death.  

Come to think of it, my Grandfather told me of marvelous trips he was taking with long dead relatives as I stood beside his bed listening and asking, "Who," "What" and "Where"? 

Is this what they are so ready for? 

A family reunion?

No dead relatives are dropping in on me yet but I wonder about these things, old memories rising from their graves in my mind, usually in the middle of the night when all's quiet and still. 

"Today I set before you life and death ..." the Bible says, "so choose life that you may live" but the unsaid but implied opposite is also an option, so you could choose death.

"DA," Che's voice cracks in the predawn morning chasing these prayers away.  

In the darkness I rush to her room, kiss the top of her head and we cuddle on the sofa as the stars begin fading. 

Sarah floats in, beautifully dressed for the day, ready to dive into another impossible list of things that must be done now.

"I want Mom's favorite toast for breakfast Da," Che announces as light pours through the windows chasing away the darkness.

Recalibrating

 

"I bet Micheal's glad he didn't go," she says. 

"She" also has cancer and knows the unmitigated joy of missing a regularly scheduled appointment.  

In the car with 16 yr-old-living her-best-life Cassidy, they breeze by the house just after we'd returned. 

Leaving for the second visit in three days for the Mayo Clinic, Che's excited for a day with Mom and Dad doing fun things together in Jacksonville while Sarah and I are "focused and prepared."

Just across the Thunderbolt Bridge, Sarah zips in for gas and notices the tire pressure light's on and pulls up to the air pump.

My wife is both buff and bad ass which is always exciting. 

Putting air in the car tire, her amazing strength breaks the nozzle and air rushes out the tire. Using Super speed she puts the cap back on, drives us to Goodyear before the tire goes flat, makes arrangements for a replacement, cancels the appointments, walks us home and makes lunch.

A Wonder of a Woman, I tell you.

Che's totally bummed and sulks. 

I'm as giddy as I was skipping Mrs. Johnson's 12th grade English class at Groves High School because I was totally unprepared for her insistence of completing homework before attending so I opted to drink beer with Gene Prevatt instead. 

I now open a Budweiser in Mrs. Johnson (now Petricio)'s honor and my good fortune.

At the same time, Sarah's already recalibrating, redirecting her focus, preparing for other things that must be done. 

Che mopes before laying on the sofa lost somewhere on her IPad. 

I want to party! 

Naturally, a train wreck of collapsing emotions happen over the next few hours. We live life raw, close to the bone, grasping for normal things when nothing's as it was before. 

For the next two days, we hold up at home, retreating into ourselves for long bouts or squeezing tightly together to watch a movie. It's one or the other.  All or nothing. 

Gradually, over three days, each of us rally after fighting like hell to get back near the "normal" we were living before. 

It's hard. 

The appointments are now rescheduled, Che's a whirlwind of energy again, Sarah's doing wondrous multiple tasking and I'm back to concentrating on the two things I need to do.

Stay alive. 

Have as much fun as I can which means finding the daily joys of simply being here!

It's hard work no matter how well you are or how sick you might be!

When I went back to Mrs. Johnson (Patricio)'s class, I still had to turn in the homework. I'd merely deferred my obligations.  

We've recalibrated now, back in the trenches of living, fighting for joy everywhere we find it, squeezed together, giving it everything we got!

Mastering New Tricks

"Da, you're going to die if you don't hurry!" Che scolds as I trail behind her on our walk. 

When you're old and sick it's important to exercise and learn new things. 

Che helps by throwing out motivational and inspirational quotes to inspire me. 

Old dogs also have to learn new tricks so Sarah's always after me to master new things. 

So, in the words of the late, great, David Crosby, "I'm old. I'm stoned. I'll give it my best shot."

So I'm proud to share with you things I've mastered recently.   

1. Having the volume up on my ear buds and missing the delivery person ringing the doorbell, thereby missing the package that requires a signature. 

2. Instantly appear in front of Sarah and absentmindedly block whatever she's trying to do.

3. Writing her a love note and making it about me. 

4. Maintain an intense hunger for meals from people and places that no longer exist.  

~ Follow me for more tips on aging gracefully ~

The passing of words

"Never ever thought I'd be holding a freeze dried Duck head and yet here I am."

I wrote that on Twitter based on a real life experience. Those are my fingers in the photo holding one.

"Man! It's a bitch to have things to write but with no energy and little focus, it's not books, speeches, sermons or blogs anymore ... Only Tweets ... which no one likes."

That's another Tweet I wrote.

I've heard it said that "Twitter is for people who can't write paragraphs" and, I suppose, that's me these days.

"It's hard admitting that books as we've known them are becoming obsolete and will soon disappear entirely."

A depressing Tweet I wrote but it's true as the glories of cracking the binding on a newly purchased tome, the aroma of ink on paper, the touch of the cut edge of a single page on my fingers and the disappointment in closing a book and tenderly placing it on the shelf has been replaced by Kindle.

Libraries don't have as many books these days.

The Book stores still open are morphing into novelty shops for an increasingly diminishing group of collectors who are dying off.

I do not despair because I've been blessed to waste hundreds of hours of my life engrossed in books, majestic Libraries and marvelous booksellers all over the world.

I wouldn't be "ME" without these investments and wonder how Che's generation will read for pleasure? 

I'm sure whatever the methodology, it will be cool but, it pains me she'll likely never experience the orgasmic joy of finding a long desired book in a musty smelling bookstore, with worn real carpet to sit in as every facet of what's being held is joyfully "experienced" as I immediately open it up, sit on the floor and "get lost."

But "A one hitter is completely different in baseball than in Weed."

I didn't write that Tweet. Somebody named Jay Davis did.

It may-or-may-not-be James' photograph beside what may-or-may-not be his name because on Twitter nobody's who they say they are, yet people share the truth as they see it.  I find it great fun and that's where I spend the vast majority of my social media time now.

"Instead of cigarettes this week I bought a couple of albums and a small villa in the south of France."

I wish I'd written that Tweet but "WhatserName" did as it cleverly states the high cost of everything that everyone's, not just Sarah and I are, experiencing!

"Hictoryhaggis" tweets "The wheels on the bus fell off kids" and I can't agree more!

I miss the hours spent with a pen in my hands or, for the last two decades, fingers flying over a keyboard; prayerfully waiting on the words; the miracle of creation as words come from nowhere and I struggle to organize them because they come so fast; Sentences becoming paragraphs that turn into pages as stories are born and, "the word becomes flesh."

It's always been a big part of who I am and it's hard admitting I'm not that anymore.

"Thank God those days are over!"

That's something I say a lot so I'll probably tweet it now that I remember.

Sarah's forever challenging me to stay focused on the present, where I'm at and who I'm with, and not be perpetually distracted by things that suck away my energy or distract my attention with frivolous thoughts.

"Like with most everything else, my wife is right," I may Tweet but haven't yet.

I don't have it in me anymore to paint stories with words though I can still manage to assemble coherent sentences several times a day.

The way I see it, God made Twitter for me!

Though She evidently sold it to Elon Musk for a gazillion dollars and he's as crazy as everybody else who's in charge of something these days and, I find, it's lots of fun to watch and read.

"Well Hell! I'm high but there's no horse!"

That is one of my Tweets!

I think it's hilarious but no one else has.

It's okay.

I'm having a good time anyway.

"I've done a lot of things in my life and can talk about most of them," is another one of mine but the truth is I've already told all my stories and they're in some libraries, a few antique booksellers and scattered across cyberspace if anyone's interested in tracking them down.

My job was to tell my story and everything's done except the finale that Sarah and I are writing together.

"Siri, clear my calendar," Coach Rusty tweets, "I'm stoned and forgot all my passwords."

I can relate that this part of my journey is all about spending energy and maintaining focus on life's most important things and that doesn't leave much for anything else. 

"Not bragging but I slept 10 hours last night which is 7 more than my cumulative nightly average over the last two years. Now my cumulative average is 3.0002/hrs sleep/night!"

That's my Tweet this morning and I think it's hilarious, though no one else agrees yet, full of truth (though I admit the math is totally made up) and says lots about how Sarah and I live.

"I don't know how people can believe in miracles," Wilde Thingy tweets, "after all those times miracles didn't happen?"

I get what he's saying. We've certainly prayed for lots that never came to anything.

Yet, here I am!

We're one Hell of a Miracle and I don't want to miss it as it's happening.

I hope the same for you!

Road Trip

 "Mom? Dad? Can we like go somewhere for a couple of days and get away because my friends are really stressing me out and making me mad?" 

Che's been playing outside with neighborhood friends when she abruptly sends them home, storms inside and utters this in frustration.

Sarah and I wonder how much of our struggle she internalizes, forever looking to make sure she's growing up normally as possible, whatever that means. 

So the girls are skipping work and school for a "family trip" for my Chemo injection in Jacksonville. 

Che's pretty stoked about skipping Kindergarten which makes us laugh! 

Lord knows, if it's genetics, she gets it naturally. 

Sarah found a family farm with, I swear to God this is true, with "lions and tigers and bears."

Oh my!

"Unless you become as a child," tossing aside all practicality, societal expectations, religious norms and political dogma just to be together and maybe have some fun, "you cannot enter the Kingdom of Heaven."

So, we're doing this as a Heavenly road trip as we know how to orchestrate. 

The funny thing is Che's so excited, it's hard for Sarah and I not to be contaminated by her joy and Sarah and I find ourselves smiling though, it's a terrible intrusion of the daily demands of life. 

"I'm so excited," Che says.  

Sarah and I are so tired but, happily so, in no small part because, our little revolutionary keeps turning things wonderfully upside down. 

Valentines Day starts now!

"Valentine's Day Da," Che asks, "spell it please."

I call letters and she kicks off the celebration at our house, making it official by writing it on our blackboard door, before going to school. 

It's an absolutely glorious and wonderful, sunny and warm, deep blue sky void of cloud winter's day. 

"Last year", Sarah Elliott says, "I made a list of the restaurants I wanted to visit and we didn't do any of them. Let's go!"

So we do. 

"Tacos + Tequila" is everything we want for our first date in months and months. 

We delight in the Tacos and the Margarita (check out that very hip glass), the excellent vibe of the place but mostly each other on a marvelous winter's day. 

We laugh, talk about the kids, the Chemo shot later this week, attending a Drum Circle tomorrow and baking King's cake. 

These are precious moments. 

"Enjoy every sandwich," the late Warren Zevon said. "Don't consume life unthinkingly. Savor every mouthful, every moment, no matter how ordinary or common."

That's our plan this Valentine's Day celebration which starts today and ends whenever Che gets around to letting us know. 

Striking the Pose

Che's sitting beside me on the sofa.

Her feet rest in my lap. My feet rest on the ottoman. She's playing Roblox on her IPad and I'm as high as the price of eggs, streaming "Adeem the Artist" through the new earbuds Sarah got me.

I blew out the bass on the old ones having used ever hack I could find on the Internet to give them more volume. 

Sarah's working, trying to stay on top of the forty Developmentally Delayed clients she manages who are scattered across the County.    

"Da," Che sweetly asks, "can you and me maybe go somewhere and get something?"

"Sure," I answer, throwing her feet out of my lap, though I really don't want to because I have no energy whatsoever.  

Deciding to push her stroller as our Dalmatian Lainey drags me, we head towards the playground down the street. 

Before we leave, Che has to change from what she's worn all day to special attire for our walk.  

"You look elegantly bad ass," I tell her. 

She strikes this pose. 

Interviewing Death

I'm here with Death, also known as the Grim Reaper, The Destroyer, The Hooded One, The Angel of Death, & The "God" of Death.

Death's always around and SHE's agreed to answer a few questions.

The first thing to know about the Grim Reaper is she's a woman. 

Honestly I'm a bit surprised and I don't know why I presumed Death is exclusively man work so I want to begin by apologizing.

"Oh that's all right. If I think people are too sexist I just take them ... you know what I'm saying?"

I nod and wait. 

"You're still here so I'm alright with you," she smirks. 

I exhale a sigh of relief. 

"Besides I don't know why everybody's so shocked to find out I'm female. Like all women I'm into fashion and set the trend to dress in black ages ago! That's why so many women dress in black today and I'm happy to see it crossing over sexual lines and men dressing in black too ... especially in large urban areas and across Europe."

"So is this where the phrase 'dress to kill' comes from?"

"Of course," she flashes a brilliant grin. 

"I've got several questions everybody's always wanted to ask you so do you mind if we get right to it?," I forge ahead. 

"Not at all."

"Good! Okay first question ... Beatles or Stones?

"Well ... obviously The Rolling Stones."

Because of "Sympathy for the Devil"?

"No! Because I'm so sick of the opening riff of 'Satisfaction' it inspires my work. That's why I haven't taken Keith Richards ... I think it hurts him more to listen to that damn opening riff every single day he's alive."

"I see."

"Next question ... you seem to work in 3's ... meaning people seem to die in 3's ... one ... two ... three ... why is that?"

"Honestly it's because I like Sudoku. I can't get enough of it. So three at a time is all I can manage before I take a break and play some more."

"Sudoku? Really?"

"It's better than wasting time on Facebook."

"Right. So ... why are you so white? I'm wearing sunglasses just to conduct this interview. Don't you ever get out in the sun? Have a little Beach time?"

"Well I do own a time share in Myrtle Beach which I'm always using to comp customers ..."

"Wait! Comp Customers? Who's your customer?"

"Funeral Homes, elected officials and televangelists."

"Of course ... um ... what can we expect from you in the future?"

"More of the same. It's a pretty boring job but ... it's a living."

"That's funny," I laugh. 

"Oh?" she asks in a not so pleasant way and the interview is abruptly over. 

Death disappears and I'm left alone holding my pipe in one hand and a glass of red wine in the other. 

It's good I'd asked all the important questions already and I'm satisfied with the results.

Leaving the table to find Sarah and Che, I stop dead in my tracks as Alexa plays the opening riff to "I can't get no satisfaction."

Striving for Normal

 "Da, let's make special cards for each other," Che says dropping paper, makers, crayons, scissors, stickers, glue and a couple of hundred pipe filers. 

 "Hold on," I answer as I grab my pipe and head outside for a quick minute. 

When I return, everything's laid out and our daughter's gluing stickers on paper so I watch what she's doing, grab what I need and do my own version of what she's doing.

She intensely concentrates and doesn't say a word while I'm utterly mesmerized by the colors I'm putting on the card I'm making.

Sarah's in bed recovering from COVID and in a strange plot twist our roles are reversed and I'm the Caregiver!

For two-and-a-half days, Sarah sleeps and things could have spiraled out of control with Wonder Woman down but Cass, Che and I go on acting as normal as we know how.

It was no problem for 16 year old Cassidy as we barely saw her at all.

She may have been here but, she could just as easily be somewhere else.

It's possible she's been in her room the entire time, though whenever I open the door it's impossible to know for sure because it looks like two delivery trucks full of apparel collided and clothes exploded everywhere.

Besides I'm focused on Che who's obviously experienced living life with a sick parent though I'm witnessing it for the first time.

Our 6 year old Love-child stoically goes about business-as-usual, playing with neighborhood kids, singing along to Kidzbop, watching Tiktok, wanting Chick-fil-a for dinner and loving just hanging out with her old man.

But she also quietly slips into our bedroom when I'm preoccupied and crawls in bed with her Mom, kissing Sarah's forehead and whispering to her in the dark.

She's also taken to wearing my tee shirts and wants to sleep in the Living room with me instead of her room which adores.

I wonder if this is what it's like when I'm the one laying in bed for days on end?

Sarah arranged a pre-Christmas 4 night cruise which we enjoyed immensely except that I was in bed for one of them, shivering and sweating in our tiny cabin, while she worked feverishly to entertain the kids, get them out of the room so I could rest while worrying what happens if I don't recover?

I remember Che crawling into bed with me, kiss me on my cheek and whisper "I love you Da Da".

Che tested positive but is asymptomatic and I'm miraculously negative.

"It's the Weed," Johnny O explains after checking in on me. "Keep yourself in the cloud and you're immune to pretty much everything."

I have no reason to doubt John anymore.

"You almost finished Da?"

"No, I need some stickers. You got any?"

She hands me a box full and we resume working in silence on the cards we're making for each other.

I wonder what made her think of doing this?

She well knows the heavy burden of constant caregiving and the physical and emotional toil it takes to keep going when there's no end in sight, so she has us making "special" cards to support each other.

Is this what it's like every day for Sarah and Che?

On my worse days, even Cassidy breaks her routine to ask, "Are you okay?" before walking into her room and shutting the door.

I'm experiencing what Sarah lives every day, except she works full time, carries a full load for a Nursing degree, picks up other small jobs when she can, manages our home and is my caregiver!

I don't do any of that other stuff as Sarah's build a fragile world of near normalcy while I fight cancer and the girls grow up care-free.

Things work remarkably well in our tiny bubble life and, increasingly defying the odds, I'm still an active participant, although certainly not in the ways I wish.

It's all gone to Hell with Sarah in bed with COVID so I'm trying to mimic what she does every day though Che seems to be doing as much "heavy lifting" as I am, which isn't much.

But I can color and make a special card for a girl who recognizes someone needing encouragement when she sees it, so she makes me a card.

She knows she needs it too so, at her insistence, I make her a card. 

"Here you are!" she delightfully squeals handing me a smiling bunny, baby chicken, and flower glued on paper.

"Dad to Clare," she writes beside her multicolored heart.

Happily grinning, I give "the most special girl ever" her card.

Afterwards she falls in my arms and, just as we hug, Sarah calls from the bedroom.

Knocking each other down trying to get up from the floor as fast as possible, she rushes to see Mom.

It takes me a little longer but when I get there, Sarah's sitting upright hugging Che and I lean against the door frame trying to appreciate everything.

By New Year's Eve, Sarah's recovering enough to sit on the sofa with me. 

Che falls asleep as soon as she got in her bed.

At midnight, as euphoric celebration explodes from the football game on television, Sarah says, "We made it! Take a picture" so I do.

The old year passes away.

The new one arrives to find us still standing, defying all odds, holding on to one another, committed and prepared to "choose life over death" when confronted by the two, as the Bible puts it.

So far, so good.

Christmas Dysfunction

 Jacob is fit to be tied when Joseph tells him Mary is pregnant.

"Whose?" he demands.

"I don't know," is the sad reply.

Incensed, Jacob paces around the room trying to imagine Mary sleeping with someone else during her engagement to his son.

"Why would she do something so foolish? She's marrying into our family, descendants of King David! How could she give up becoming part of the royal bloodline."

A carpenter by trade, Joseph doesn't feel so royal, staring at calloused hands, he struggles to get by though his father holds on his religion during these dark times.

Jacob believes with everything inside of him God is going to raise a new King, greater than David, and he will be born as his own family!

"It could have been your son," Jacob yells though Joseph doesn't respond.

At the moment he feels ... nothing.

Shocked beyond belief Mary's pregnant, Jacob knows the baby's not his grandson.

Engagements last exactly one year for precisely this reason! A pregnancy is hard to have without sex so if she's pregnant then she's slept with someone and it wasn't his son!

Joseph stares at his hands saying nothing.

"Put her away!" Jacob screams. "She is not going to dishonor this family! She is not going to jeopardize the chance the King may be your son! My grandson!"

Joseph sighs.

"And do it quietly! We will not be embarrassed!"

And that's the last time Jacob ever sees his son ... or Mary ... and he never saw his grandson.

Later Jacob goes looking for Joseph and he's nowhere to be found.

The talk is Mary's gone too.

Jacob is incensed!

And heartbroken.

His dream of seeing his own son be the great King had not materialized.

Joseph's a common tradesman, a quiet man, with nothing hinting of royalty about him but Jacob's grandson ... there was the chance the old man could still see it happen ... be part of it as it unfolds ... advising the new King ... HIS OWN BLOOD ... as they fulfill the promises of God!

Instead, Jacob grows old wondering what happened?

The rumor is Joseph took Mary and left.

The old man has no idea where they may have gone ... or why?

Jacob lives a lot longer sadly hearing nothing of a new King born to save them all.

He dies bitter and angry at what could have been.

But this is what he missed.

Joseph and Mary are together when the child is born ... a son.

Strangers come from the East giving expensive gifts of gold, Frankincense and Myrrh, things fit for a King though they never used that word, but they do treat the baby like royalty.

Joseph goes on to have four more boys ... Joseph, James, Jude and Simon ... and Jacob missed five grandsons he would have enjoyed.

Joseph and Mary expatriate, leaving the religion of his homeland for the pagan ways of Egypt where they built their first home.

What Jacob does see is a Government crack down on population growth and every male baby two years or younger is euthanized in the most horrific display of public policy for the common good ever.

Joseph eventually brings Mary and the boys back though he doesn't return home but settles in Nazareth, three hours away from where Jacob lives.

Obviously Joseph never much cares about seeing his old man again ... or introducing him to Jesus.

It's a pretty dysfunctional family dynamic.

But if you look at Jesus' bloodline, it's pretty dysfunctional too.

Beginning with Abraham, the father of  the Jews winding all the way to Jacob himself are five fascinating women.

Women aren't normally included in genealogy lists of the time but Matthew includes them in Jesus'.

Tamar, one of Jesus' great Grandmothers disguises herself as a prostitute to seduce her father-in-law, Judah, so she gets pregnant. Honestly, Judah deserves it because of the way he treated her. It's an ugly affair all around.

Rehab's another, selling out her own people, as a spy and watches her entire city destroyed as a result and then "passes" as one of the chosen people for the rest of her life.

Ruth is a Moabite, which is far worse than being Muslim in America, because her lineage starts in incest!

Bathsheba suffered sexual harassment, abuse and the murder of her husband so that the head of the Government ... the great King David no less ... can screw her.

And Mary his own mother ... Lord only knows how she got pregnant?

That's just the women in Jesus genealogy.

Read about the men leading up to Jacob and, well, it's one gigantic completely dysfunctional mess.

And yet ...

Out of it comes the birth of the Messiah.

"For unto us a child is born ..." is how it's said elsewhere, and if that child can come from such a deviant family tree, then we have it in us too and become everything God intends us to be.

Jesus certainly did or there would be no Christmas celebration.

Perhaps, we can too. 

Maybe that's what Christmas is all about anyway