Anna and me, moments before her surgery.

It's been seven years since I have been in church for Christmas.

I did not grow up in a religious family. In fact, my parents did not go to church. I was baptized Catholic and that was about as far as it went. Around the age of twelve, I began to feel what I later regarded as a "calling" to Christianity. My earliest memory was that of finding a leaflet in the dentist office that had a telephone number where children could call and listen to bible stories. And if you stayed on the line after the story was finished, you could talk to a Sister about any questions you have or concerns about your "life"...whatever those may be at the age of twelve. I had a lot of questions...and a lot of concerns. What those were is another story, but my life up to that point had already held it's share of loss and sadness - my innocence being one.

At twelve I was walking across the street by myself to attend the Lutheran church on the corner and by the age of 16 I had found my way to a country Church of Christ and sealed the deal with a second baptism. I also met the man I would eventually marry. A local Minnesota Bible College student who was preparing for a life of ministry. We dated until I graduated from High School and were married that very summer. We raised five daughters and ministered in Lutheran churches in Michigan, Nebraska, Southwest Minnesota and Wisconsin. The year before our divorce, after twenty-two years of marriage, was the last time I attended Christmas services. I can count on one hand the number of times I have step foot in a church, period.

The service my husband and I attended this past Saturday was good. It was a good service and it was good for me. It was in one of those mega-churches. The kind with gift kiosks and coffee shops. The 18,000 member kind. It's the second time I have been in one. The first time was for more of a production/show and I went there with my mother and a group of Red Hat Ladies. This time was for an actual Christmas church service, with offering, and hymns, and a sermon. Without going into a lot of detail, let it suffice to say that for this service I was at peace. Not that my struggles did not come to mind - but I was in a good place and that place was peace-filled. It's not a traditional place, it's not even what many may find as a conventional place, but it is a place of wholeness, a place of rest and a place of profound spirituality. A place of Creator and created.

At one point in the service, during one of the large screen presentations, a phrase went across the screen and it read, "We are all broken."

We are all broken.

I know where this comes from. I have lived my life of religious dogma. I know the ropes, from beginning to end. I've walked the walk, talked the talk and tried to intertwine black and white into a humanity of grey. I've been saved. Twice, I guess. So my background is deep. Full of good, don't get me wrong. But I do not come from a place of brokenness, nor do I hold the conviction that we are all broken.

This past week my daughter Anna had major jaw reconstruction surgery. We knew it would be a big deal, but seven hours in the OR and almost one blood transfusion later, we had no idea how big. Neither did the surgeon. Moments before they whisked her away he reassured us that after three mock surgeries on plaster molds of her face they were sure they knew the extent of what needed to be done. About four hours into the surgery he called me from the operating room, "I'm sorry Mrs. Johnson, but things are not going as we had planned and it looks like we are going to have to do the lower jaw as well. It will be another three to four hours of surgery. Do we have your permission to proceed?" I told him of course he did, hung up the phone and wept.

In the end, the surgery went well. She spent two days in ICU and was released to our home, where we will care for her over the next two months. The extent of the surgery is beyond what you could ever imagine possible on the human face. Because she is unable to tolerate narcotics she is managing through excruciating pain, swelling and numbness. She is unable to move or control most of her face. I was somewhat prepared for the issue of pain as I know her of her intolerance to pain medication. What I was not ready for was the devastating emotional toll this would take on my nineteen year old daughter. The comment from her upon looking in the bathroom mirror, "Look at me, I'm fucking disgusting!" mumbled through spit and blood, will haunt my mother's heart for as long as I live.

We are all broken.

Like I said before, I know where this comes from. No need to explain the theology to me. I was a bible college student and a pastor's wife for too many years to have missed this one. But if there is anything I could do over in my life it would be this - I would ingrain into the hearts of my children at every moment, at every bedtime prayer, at every bible study, at every meal, at every teen-age teary eyed night-time tucking in, at the end of every boyfriend, at the heart of every mistake and every tragedy - that they are NOT broken. They WERE NEVER  broken. That the Creator, whoever and whatever that may be to you or me, is incapable of creating brokenness. We are what and who and how we are to be in this very moment in our life. Period. To fight or not accept this fact has only one end, and that is suffering. How can we be anything other than what we are ? This is a fight against reality we will never win.  I would tell them that there is nothing about them that needs to be "saved". I would tell them that all that resides in creation and Creator resides within them. I would tell them that in the depths of their despair and fear that they are powerful, and whole and that all that they need in this life resides within the miracle that they are. That yes, we do need others in our lives. We need doctors and therapists and pastors and friends and family... but these people do not make us whole. They simply bring us back to what has always been there to begin with. They bring us back to ourselves. And this is anything but disgusting. This is anything but broken.

I spent a lifetime thinking that I was in need of being saved. I spent a lifetime looking in the mirror and believing that what stood before me was not good enough. I spent a lifetime correlating my pain with having "fallen away", believing that if I was more faithful, I was somehow a better human being, I was closer to whole, I would know peace. I would reserve my spot in the mansion.

These days, I don't live my life in the black and white. I live in the grey. I am totally okay with not knowing most things in this world. I believe in something bigger than me - Creator, Universe, God, Father...I don't have to put a name to it. Neither do I need to judge, justify or kill for my belief. And I simply don't get those who do. But this is the deal, we are not broken. I am not broken. You are not broken. In the midst of of your despair, you sorrow, your discouragement, your fear, your failure, your hopelessness, your desperation...

You are NOT broken.

You may have made a mistake, you may be depressed, you may be feeling angry, you may be lost, you may be mean and bitter, you may have lost your legs or fallen sick to a life threatening chronic illness...you may be a lot of things, but you are not broken. You are beautiful, and powerful, and a miracle of creation. Fully existing as all of the Universe would have you to exist. Just as you are. And if you can only learn to love, truly love who you see in the mirror and the moment you are in, you will find your way back to yourself. You will find peace. And in that peace you will find the true miracle of Christmas.

You will find love.

Peace,

  

Oliver

I don't like going to the vet...I never have. Today was no different.

This is Oliver. Oliver showed up on our deck sometime in September, or maybe it was August, I'm not really sure. It was sometime near the end of the summer because we were already trying to come to some decision as to what to do with her if she was still "hanging around" when the weather turned cold. She never left.

Yes, Oliver is a she. We found this out a little over two weeks ago when we had to take her to the vet. We had somehow gracefully slid into the understanding that she was here to stay. And now she was sick. Or so it seemed. Excessive drinking and salivating led us to suspect she had some sort of kidney issue. Two hundred and fifty dollars later we were assured she was just a thirsty, salivating, perfectly healthy two year old female cat.  I had exceeded my pet budget for the month, so booster shots and spaying would come later.

I have to admit, this was not a real popular idea with myself nor my husband. Two dogs and a cat already seem overly sufficient. Adding another pet, that will most likely be with us for the next 13 years, was not the direction we wanted to be heading pet-wise. But it's a difficult spot to be in. You don't euthanize an animal that just seems sick. So you figure out the most inexpensive way to find out what might be wrong and go from there. Getting the "all okay" meant bringing the cat back home. I think it was at that point that I let Oliver into my heart.

Two weeks passed and mental adjustments had been made by all. Oliver was officially part of the Johnson/Buresh clan. Which truly was not much of an inconvenience to our daily activities because Oliver prefers to be outside. Out of 24 hours, I would guess that Oliver maybe spends 4 of those indoors. The rest are spent stalking and hunting the various mice and birds that frequent our bird feeders and surrounding woods. A real hunter, she's quite the antithesis to our Jeni, who prefers longs naps in the sun and full bowls of Indoor Formula Cat Chow.

The middle of last week, after spending a full day out and about, Oliver came in holding her front leg up. Unable to put any pressure on it, she hobbled to her usual spot in the spare bedroom and stayed in for the night. Three days later both legs on one side were not working properly. Four days later she walked in a completely arched back position and meowed in pain as she moved. This weekend she could barely crawl to her food. The progression, heart breaking to watch.

Our appointment was for 8:30, the first appointment of the day, the one you get when you call at 7:01 am.  If I could have figured out anything else to be doing on this beautiful morning I would have. Just getting her into the crate brought me to tears. I had already told the girls that we could not afford any more medical testing. That this is a stray cat and our budget only goes so far. That she might not come home with me... Tough talk last night, but now it's just me and Oliver and my heart is breaking. She has the absolute most beautiful green eyes you could ever imagine and at that moment they were pleading with me to leave her alone. Trusting me.

The vet was very good. The sign in the exam room where we sat read "Every pet deserves a good vet, and we HAVE good vets". Yes, they do. He lifted the top of the crate off so Oliver would not have to be moved.   Ever so carefully he examined her as I held her head in my hands, stroking her face and eyes. In my heart I hoped it comforted her, calmed her. I could feel her body quiver with fear, but she never moved. This once active, inquisitive cat now lay motionless looking directly into my eyes.

It was at that point that I lost it. Apologizing for my tears, I just kept saying, "I'm sorry, I'm really sick and I think for some reason this is especially difficult for me." He was a sweet man, a little unsure as to what to do with me, he simply nodded and said, "It's okay." It took everything in me not to fall to pieces in that exam room. As I sit here and type these words, I'm still not really sure of all that fills this painful space. If I could pick some words out of thin air they might be helplessness, frustration, sadness, anger, fear...a most intense longing for things to be different. Why can't some things just be different.  

In a few weeks my daughter Anna is going to have major surgery to repair a birth defect that only now, at the age of 19, has made itself evident. She will have her jaw broken in multiple locations, upper and lower, with extensive work on her temporomandibular joint and chin. We have been planning for this surgery, which was suppose to happen in August, for over a year now. I have the most intense longing for things to be different. Why can't some things just be different. 

My bedroom window

I sat down to write this piece instead of doing my usual Cyber Monday shopping because I had to. When I put my fingers to the keyboard I had absolutely no idea what I was going to write about. I just knew that the only way to find out was to begin. As I looked up out of my window two bald eagles flew between my window and the pines in my yard. Beautiful, crisp white heads, wings spread, one right in front of the other. Eagles have always been important in my life, representing balance, intuition and spirituality - their presence bringing assurance that the divine is present. A validation of the path I am on, the direction I am going.

A reminder of the Holy.   A reminder to let go.

Oliver came back home with me today. We are fairly certain that something is wrong with her spine. Neurologically, things look good, yet she is in a significant amount of pain and is unable to move because of it. Everything else checks out okay. As to what is wrong with her spine, we don't really know. I have enough pain and anti-inflammation medication to get us through three days. If she doesn't improve by then, well, I'm not sure what we can do next. I'm not really sure about a lot of things in this life. But this I do know - that it can be really painful at times. And that the biggest of lessons can come from the smallest of creatures. And that life is precious. All life. And we can talk big about things, like "not spending money on an animal" and "I know what I'd do" and "If it were my cat I'd take it out back and..." But when it's your life, or your heart, or your health, or your kids, or your pets...well, that big talk gets pretty small when the pain is yours.


I decided to go check on Oliver one last time in order to give you the most current update. I got down on all fours to crawl quietly to the spot between the table and the patio doors where she lay in order to take a picture. This is what I saw in that very moment. She lifted her head and gave me the most peaceful look, almost a smile if you look closely enough. As if to say, things will be okay...just as they are.

Peace,

"Home is where you hang your hat."

I love being home, no doubt about it. I always have. Even when I was a teenager, I would have much rather hunkered down with my family in front of a good “made for TV” movie than to be out with a group of friends. To me, home feels good. It feels safe. It feels comfortable when the world seems edgy and rough. It feels consistent when everything else rushes to change.

In this world of striving – striving to be richer, striving to be smarter, striving to be thinner, striving to be happier, striving to be healthier, striving to BE anyone other than who we are in this very moment - in all of our conditioned discontentment, we fail to see that we are exactly where and who we need to be– in this moment. Yet, how can it be anything different? But if we are in a constant state of striving, how will we ever know? How will we ever become aware of the beautiful fact that we are already there?

In mindfulness meditation you intentionally commit to being fully present in this moment, not trying to improve yourself or get anywhere else, but to simply realize you are already where you need to be. You aren't trying to attain anything - not even mindfulness itself. You just accept things as they are. In Wiktionary, the Wiki-based open content dictionary, they give this definition of the Old English proverb, “Home is where you hang your hat".

Rather than feeling nostalgic or sentimental, one should simply accept any place where one happens to reside as one's home.

If we truly come to a place of acceptance about ourselves, if we stop striving and realize that in this moment we are ALL that we need to be, then home becomes a place within ourselves. Home is wherever we are, and coming home means a returning to our true selves, a place we are destined for. As the poet Cavafy describes in his journey home to the island of Ithaca, finding “home” was not some external place to arrive at, but a place of awakening and enlightenment within.

Keep Ithaca always in your mind.
Arriving there is what you’re destined for.
But don’t hurry the journey at all.
Better if it lasts for years,
so that you’re old by the time you reach the island,
wealthy with all you've gained on the way,
not expecting Ithaca to make you rich.
Ithaca gave you the marvelous journey.
Without her you would have not set out.

I am very thankful for the physical place I call home. But I have also been in a mental state where no matter where I am at; I can’t seem to find my way there. In my days of striving to find a diagnosis, I was further from home than I have ever been. Fear is like the kindling of the past fueling the fire of the future we dread. It keeps us moving outward, farther and farther from home.

Letting go and accepting where and who we are is not some sort of passive resignation. It is your intentional invitation to the unlimited capabilities that reside within. When asked why people are afraid of this acceptance, Jon Kabat-Zinn writes,

Recently, my husband ended a 90 day journey to the top of the Main Street stairway in Stillwater, Minnesota. Funny, as I type that, it sounds like it took him 90 days to get to the top! Actually, the journey was a daily one. Every day as he drove through Stillwater he stopped and climbed to the top of the stairs to take a picture. This 90 day mission took him 143 days. What began as a whim on a cold February morning ended as something much greater - something unknown, yet powerfully significant. He says, "It's a great luxury to do things that don't make sense."

There is a white building on the left side of the street. It towers above all the rest and slopes without reason on the back corner. On the backside of this building there is a pair of windows.




This picture was taken on that very same day. Low lighting and movement producing a haunting reflection on life. These are how days seem sometime. Fleeting, ghost-like apparitions. We try to hold on, as if grasping at smoke. But the Universe has a different plan.

In the heart of Los Angeles, right next to Beverly Hills, there is an area called Sherman Oaks. This eclectic town is approximately 1,975 miles from where I live. In this town lives a piece of my heart. Sometimes a piece so large that its absence takes away my breath. Sometimes a piece so large that I scarcely can hold the joy that it contains.


She and Daniel moved out to California four years ago with an old car, a few suitcases and a roll of toilet paper. They had nothing else...except a dream. A hope. And trust.


Last month I took my first trip to visit Amanda and Daniel. It's crazy what can happen in four years. When I think of all that has happened to me in the past four years - getting sick, fighting for my life, becoming disabled, learning and accepting - and compare it to all that has happened in her life...

I realize that none of us really knows how this crazy journey will go. Not one of us. Yet, we keep walking. We keep loving. We put ourselves out there again and again - being vulnerable - because the risk of losing does not even compare to the gift of being loved. So we chance it. Again and again. When the whole world thinks we're crazy and everyone else gives up. We just keep believing. Because some day...some day.



They are the last two at home. They have known a life very different from their other sisters, although the sinew of sisterhood is more powerful than one can ever imagine. I see it between these two and it is the force that binds them all together, connecting them, holding them tightly through every storm. I see a beautiful trust in the knowing that no matter what, no matter what - they are never alone.

Often times when I talk of Emma and Sara people will say, "Oh, a surprise " But isn't everything in life a surprise? We are lucky that most often during our day things happen to go as planned. Gravity still pulls in the right direction, the alarm clock goes off when it's suppose to, the milk is still in the fridge... But it's all up for grabs, really. Yet we trust.

On September 28th, 2006, Judge Eric J. Lundell granted me a judgement of divorce from the father of these five daughters. He was my first true love. I met him at the age of 16 and married him at the age of 18. We had so many dreams. And for 22 years we watched most of those dreams come true. We also experienced the painful end of others. There are very few things in this life that shake your foundation like divorce, all horribly painful, all life changing.

In the middle of my writing this morning an old friend from work called to just say hi. She herself has experienced one of these "things" when she lost her husband to cancer a couple of years ago. She talked of how Fall made her reflective. How in that reflection there was sometimes a bit of sadness. She talked of the colors and how the leaves fall off the trees and things begin to shut down for winter, and how that brought about feelings of death. But only a "little sadness" she said, because like the new relationship she now finds herself in, and like the flowers that eventually burst forth in Spring, "things must come to an end so that others may begin."

It is our ability as human beings to take tragedy, in it's finest hour, and turn it toward reclamation. A holy redemption. The freedom to begin again.

I don't even know where to begin when it comes to my "second chance" at life. I think I've only had a dozen or so of them! But if it would not have been for the miracle of love and forgiveness, I would never have had the chance to be the step-mother of Casey and Maddie Johnson.


Being a step-mom is not something you grow up thinking about. In fact, in my day, the only vision of step-mom's were that of Lady Tremaine from Cinderella and the Queen from Snow White...not really images I like to emulate. It's tender, risky business. Hearts are at stake. The hearts of children, of mothers and of fathers. You tread this area like walking through a room full of kittens...in the dark. Slowly and softly.

There are simply no words to describe how blessed I am in this regard. There's a knowing that comes before this kind of love.It's what makes love all the richer. It's like sunshine after the rain. Like spring-time after a long winter. It's what keeps us loving again and again.

I started writing this morning because I was missing my daughters. It's tough sometimes, having kids live so far away and being too sick to travel. When I feel this way I have a tendency to start telling myself stories that are not very helpful. So I thought that maybe if I just started writing, I might work things out. Kind of like the journey that my husband was on - the 90 day journey that I wrote about at the beginning of this article. The one that went from 90 days to 143 days. He didn't really know what was going to become of his mission, he just knew he needed to be on it.

It's when I try to make sense of it all, when I try to ground my feet in something that really isn't there, that I struggle. My husband is so right. It is a great luxury to do things that don't make sense. Isn't that what loving is all about. If you think about it - most days it doesn't make good sense. But we do it anyway. We love, we trust, we hope...and we love again.We venture into the unknown.

No one has taught this to me more than my daughters.


Peace,

The view from our bedroom door/window.

Our first day on the island.

The cabin.

This picture was actually taken on our 2010 trip, but gives you a good idea of where we sat during the storm.

We were standing in front of the window to the left just as this tree went down.

John, the day after the storm hit.

This is the tree that went down on the clothesline.

One of the trees that snapped in the middle.

Ed, making his way through the next tree.

John..."Everything has a process." And so it does.

From left to right: Kim, John, Gloria and Ed. "The Fearless Four"!

Emma and Leslie coloring by sunset.

Keith, finding a few hours to fish between storms.

Adella and I, watching the rain at 5am, waiting for the electricity to return.

The girls playing cards Friday night.

Saturday morning we all awoke at 4:30am with my granddaughter Adella. She was to be the alarm clock and with perfect timing she awoke on schedule. By 6:30 they were packed up and back on the mainland and by 7:30 we were in our van and heading into town. As we rode our fully loaded pontoon back to shore the weather could not have been more perfect. The air was crisp and still, the water like glass, the sky deep blue and the loons, not more than 20 feet away, calling back and forth to each other to greet the morning and bid us our farewell. It was surreal. No one spoke. There was only listening. There was only that moment, in that place, in that time.

Enjoying the last evening on the island after the rain cleared.

Dave took Friday afternoon off so we could get on the road at a decent time. Our destination - Willow River State Park - about 20 minutes from our front door. Perfect for our "trial run". Plus, the kids had end of the year projects requiring them to be home at different times, so the close destination allowed Dave to shuttle them back and forth. This was definitely not a relaxing weekend, especially for Dave. But wonderful nonetheless!

Camper loaded, we jumped on the two lane highway that would lead us to our final destination. It was a perfect day. Sunshine, cool breeze and nothin' but shit-eatin grins covering both of our faces. And then...


These are the tracks that were left by the car that lost control in the opposite lane and screeched toward us in our lane. Yes, our lane is the one to the right. In the blink of an eye. It was the closest I have ever been to a real head on collision. HOW Dave managed to move the van and trailer over quick enough without losing control still dumbfounds me. Brakes locked, the oncoming car barely squeezed between our trailer and the line of cars in the other lane. The roads were packed! Three cars wide, this crazy driver managed to maneuver his way out of the middle and back into the correct lane without damage. We pulled off into the parking lot of the campground and sat in disbelief. All Dave could say was, "What just happened?" Crazy.

Happy to be alive, we put the near miss behind us and headed to our spot in the woods. It might be good to mention here the importance of looking at all the sites prior to making one's reservation instead of assuming that all spots will look like the ones previously camped at.



I figured out that by leaving the front window cover down, I did not have to look at the highway where we just about ended our lives. Out of sight, out of mind!


This is a picture of Dave's parents, Ralph and Bernice. It is their life and love that made this camper a reality for us. Never will a camping trip go by without this picture at the head of our table. These smiles, a constant reminder of their love for family, for travel and for the great outdoors.



Our first guests were Anna and Evan. They came for supper the first evening and had to head back for jobs in the morning. After supper Dave made a fire and we sat and visited while eating smores for desert. It was the perfect ending to our first day.



Sara was the first daughter to sleep in the camper. This is her pretending to be asleep for the picture!


This is Dave REALLY asleep. Exhausted from the days events, all it took was getting horizontal and he was out like a light!


Sara got to pick out the first breakfast of the trip and she ordered up pancakes. Other than getting used to new heat, a different pan and a sticky spatula...they turned out pretty good.


I think this is the look of satisfaction...and a full tummy.


Bound and determined to get me into the woods, Dave decided that he would take a look around.


And by 5:00pm on our second day, he did exactly that. THIS is spot #2! Smack dab in the middle of the forest! He found a site that did not have a reservation sticker on it, confirmed that it was a "no show" and waited up at the ranger station until five minutes after the official deadline for cancellation.


A man with a mission...


"RRrrrrr....I have created fire!"


Emma was the second daughter to stay with us. Her boyfriend, Tucker, brought her out and they spent the evening around the fire with us. Before Tucker took off for the night we polished off what was left of the smores. It was a wonderful ending to our second night of camping.


This is Emma drinking hot chocolate by the morning campfire. She ordered eggs, bacon and toast for her breakfast, so this is her patiently waiting...


...while I fried up breakfast inside!! My daughter Anna was talking the other day about Dave and how he always has a way of making things easier for people. He's great at fixing things and even better at making good things AMAZING. She then said it would not surprise her if one day I could do everything I need to do from bed...well folks, this comes pretty close!


I'll leave you with a couple of shots that Dave took on his journeys out and about last weekend. With this being our "trial run" and all that it takes to get things set up, there was not much time for relaxing. But he did manage to sneak out Sunday morning and make it to the falls.

We're definitely hooked! We came home that night and immediately started working on reservations for the rest of the summer. Having a small camper means less work inside for me, plus all the comforts of home that make this a possibility for someone who does not always feel so great. As I walked around in the woods on Sunday I found myself on the verge of tears...good tears. I honestly never thought I would be able to do this again. And smelling the smells of woods and campfire, watching parents walk their children along the paths, hearing the birds wind down the day and greet me in the morning - it made me incredibly full. Full of thankfulness and joy to be alive. I told Dave, when we made this decision, that this was one of the biggest items on my bucket list. In fact, it was number one. Now, how many people can say they've checked off number one?

Imagine that!

 





Peace,