Neo-nesting

                                  

The entry below was part of my pondering last fall when the youngest of our eleven nestlings flew-the-coop and went off to college. Today, I broke up the dirt in the window boxes and tucked the perennials into their summer spots. Looking over my shoulder, I  smiled to think that Mother Wren is probably perched on a branch nearby waiting for me to vacate her territory so she can tend to her family plans.

How quickly the seasons roll around again. Paradoxically, while she feathers her nest, I have re-launched another of my  fledglings who came home, packed up stuff, and is off to nest-crafting of her own. Is she ready? Is she strong? Will she remember to take her vitamins and to wear a sweater (and socks and a scarf and boots, since she is headed for the north country)? 

Lord

You promise that a sparrow does not fall without your knowing. You programmed those little hummingbirds to keep flapping their tiny wings to make the 500 mile migration flight of 18-22 hours. You bring the mama wren back spring-after-spring. 

Why should I feel discouraged?

Why should the shadows come?

Why should my heart feel lonely

And long for heaven and home?

When Jesus is my portion

A constant friend is He

His eye is on the sparrow

And I know He watches me

I sing because I'm happy

I sing because I'm free

His eye is on the sparrow

And I know He watches me

His eye is on the sparrow....and the wren....and the hummingbird.....and certainly my children. They are really His, anyway.

                                 

Neo-nesting 

September 2013

I am a mother (not a mom, by the way) experiencing for the first time in thirty-seven years of child-rearing the reality of there not being anyone hungry, thirsty, wet, crying or  following me into bathroom. Preferring to think of my nest as full of memories and anticipation rather than "empty", I am tagging this season "neo" which simply means recent, revised, modified, new and I am navigating the journey with reflections on where I have been, what I have learned and how I can listen to the heartbeat of God for new direction.

I used to be afraid of failing at something that really mattered to me,

but now I’m more afraid of succeeding at things that don’t matter.

-Bob Goff

Change of Season

It is, indeed, a new season. I am stirring the first pot of chile on the stove. Searching for pumpkin-everything recipes. Eager to pick apples, build a fire in the hearth, pull on the down comforter at night. Part of the fall ritual involves putting to bed the flower pots that held the annuals....geraniums, impatience, begonias and that wonderful, prolific  sweet potato vine. I chuckle as I pull the wren nest, now empty, from the window box outside my kitchen. Where has the mother bird gone? For years now, she has waited until the boxes are filled with new spring blooms. I guess she either desires the surroundings to be pretty (as did I when laboring with my babies in birthing-suites instead of delivery rooms) or more likely, she chooses to move in after the decor is settled so our planting does not disturb her nursery project. Then mama wren begins rummaging in "her corner", toting leaves and sticks, preparing her nest before laying the eggs.

I have carefully lifted the nest, almost embedded in the soil, and brought it to the small table on my porch. Here I observe and contemplate correlations between this feathered mama and myself. Here I ponder how she faithfully worked in brooding silence and determination to craft the shelter for her young. They had come and gone so quickly, maturing from inanimate eggs to gaping, squawking mouths that chirped  incessantly (and loudest, I might add, right before they left the nest). She perched on the periphery as a sentinel, fearless in flight toward me or another onlooker should we venture too close to her babies. Then, one day, those young chirppers were silent. They were ready to leave, to try their wings, to take flight. There was no ceremony. No particular cue. But I could see it in their eyes. I think she knew it, too. 

I wanted to be there for the launch, to witness the first flying attempts, to watch her coaching. But I turned my back toward a moment in my own day...and they were gone. No traces of anyone bumbling or stumbling as they took a deep breath, held their li'l beaks and took that first dive. They were ready to fly. One moment they were here and then, suddenly gone. Their Creator had programmed the time and place and forewithal for them to take to their wings. Would He not do the same for those launched from my nest?

And what of the mother bird? Where is she now? Is this considered her "off season"? Sometimes, I see her sitting on the trellis where she used to supervise her young. Sometimes, I think I hear her familiar song or recognize her in flight. No doubt she has a life somewhere, doing something. Her nest, I muse, is beautiful. It is fragile. It is uninhabited. But it is full of mystery and intrigue for me. Although dry and aging, it speaks of faithfulness, diligence, nurturing, protection, and hope. And because every analogy breaks down at some point, the parallel between her life and mine going-forward does not work.  She cannot speak of a heart tuned to listen for His leading in the new season. But just as surely as she will return to the window box next spring, my Creator has a new, revised, modified work to build through me and He will be the wind beneath my wings in the neo-nesting.

                                   

Teach us to number our days so that we can gain hearts of wisdom.

Psalm 90:12

Love You, More

I love you.

I love YOU.

I love you, MORE.

I love YOU, more.

I love you, more, cuz I'm bigger. 

That last line was always the trump card when our kids were growing up and we were voicing a love-you-best competition.

                     

Today,  my third son, the first to be carried in my womb and to be birthed by my body, turned thirty-seven. As day breaks, I recall so distinctly how the miracle of his being brand new mesmerized me for weeks. On this morning, the dawn of a new year, I smile as I consider God 's grace and patience with me, in my growing-knowing as a mother, that it is God alone who has held this son's life over the years. God loves him more....cuz He's bigger. It is God's inexhaustible love for both parent and child that is the wonder of it all.

 Fresh home from the hospital, my head rested on a pillow-stack at the edge of our bed,  so that I had only to open my eyes and to reach into the basinette to make sure he was still breathing. One by one, I removed the pillows and, at some point, even turned over during the night. Despite my tendency to want to swaddle him in bubble-wrap to keep him safe, we did eventually moved him into a crib, to the nursery, and even turned out the light. This son did conquer climbing to the top rung of the swingset ladder. He did eventually cross the street alone. He did get his driver's license. Despite my overly -protective tendencies, he  parachuted from a small plane, piloted another and has survived innumerable risky adventures, I feel certain, of which only he and God are aware.

And now, this boy of mine is grown. He's a dad. He has a precious brood of his own. I watch with interest the unfolding of his fatherhood role. He is intentional. He gets it now. He has paced the floor with a crying baby. He knows the relief when the new day dawns on a breaking fever. He has experienced ER visits resulting in stitches and casts for broken bones (and is diligent about rewarding brave soldiers with ice cream). He has stood on the sidelines and cheered, applauded victories and tenderly empathized with disappointment in his children's behalf. He reads to his kids, prays with (and for) them and draws parallels of life lessons that encourage eternal perspective when the  present is overwhelming from a child's perspective. His discipline is fair, consistent and certain. His shoes are worn; his sleep is sparce; his hobbies, deferred, as he quietly sacrifices for those entrusted to his care. He has tasted of the pain of offspring discounting his counsel and begins to wonder how he will stay awake for teens returning home past his bedtime. The lack of sleep when they are toddlers and when they are teen-agers bear a totally different uneasiness.  

Lord,

Thank you for the privilege of being parents, for creating the parent-child relationship that we might more fully know the love of the Father here on earth. Thank you for your faithfulness to humble us when  we tend to operate from our own strength, to discipline us when we stray from your way and your Word, to encourage us when we realize our helplessness to provide for and to protect these children apart from You. Your sacrificial love causes ours to pale in comparison through the tenderness with which You scoop us up, dust us off and set us aright again when we have disappointed You, betrayed your trust and failed miserably. Thank you that you never sleep, never slumber, are always available and that our children can grow up knowing the God-who-is-always-there. Bemusing it is that You would allow your children to write on the lives of your other children. However imperfectly we love and live, You are faithful, Lord. We, along with the psalmist, declare our role a sacred trust: This will be written for a generation to come, that a people yet to be created may praise The Lord.

                                     

My birthday morning text to my son expressed my gratefulness for his life, the delight I have know in watching him mature and my great love for him. His reply:

"I love you, too, Mama....even more because I'm bigger."

Hmmmmmmmmm.......he is bigger than me. 

And he gets it. 

                        

Stops and Steps

I sat with a young mom this morning. She shared about her three kids, in their teens and early twenties, who were all showing signs of distinterest in academics, disillusionment with their current plight and disinclination to take affirmative action. As a hands-on, homeschooling, committed mom she was quick to conclude that the current struggles, as well as every other malady visited on her children, must be her doing. Not an uncommon misperception.  

       

The steps of a good man are ordered by The Lord and he delighteth in his way. Psalm 37:23

Somewhere I read that George Mueller had written in the margin of his Bible near this verse "and his stops, also". Likewise, I penciled his quote on the page of my Bible. Many times over the years, when it feels like someone has pushed the pause button and a child is stuck in neutral, I have been reminded that God is not asleep, disinterested, confused or frustrated. He is at work behind the scenes ordering the next step.

Our thirty year old son has just completed a series of seven exams on his journey to become a registered  architect. He can now sign his name on drawings. He is authorized to put those AIA letters behind his signature. He has reached a goal. But there were pauses. We sometimes laugh now remembering the interludes that seemed, at the time, to be the long way around the block. 

                                  

This young man, not quite ready for rigors of college fresh out of high school, took a gap year and went off to a one year Bible school in Sweden. Back at the ranch, after playing ball for the school team and possibly putting some Bible study under his belt, he ventured onto the college scene.  The school, the major, the relationships...none of it went well. This son was in for a pause.

During this time-out, our boy worked nights at Home Depot, built swimming pools in the daytime, and bought clothes. I remember peering into his closet where every week beautiful new shirts were added to those already hung in a perfect row, one inch from each other. I wondered where he was going to wear them because he was always working. The pregnant pause produced lots of stuff money could buy and plenty of debt, too. 

At some point, with lessons learned in the school of hard knocks, next steps became clear and this young man with a passion, poured himself into the study of architecture. Faith grew in the God who had been with him in every standstill. There was no free lunch at our house, so he worked tenaciously on both the academics and the resources to attend school. He made stellar marks, graduated, and won himself a full scholarship to an Ivy League school for graduate work. Now, in his element and exhilarated by the hard work, he earned his Master's degree.

                                   

Not long ago, I ran into an old acquaintance who inquired about this particular son. "He's doing great," I responded. "He is an architect and living in New York City." The gentleman smiled and nodded his head in a that-makes-sense kind of way. "Your son and I were working together building swimming pools when he decided to go back to school. When I asked him why he had decided on architecture, he just responded, in a matter-of-fact manner, 'Well, my mom said she thought I would be good at architecture.'"

I truly do not remember the remark. Instead, it seems like I was prone to chastening him for doodling over cartoons when he should have been memorizing vocabulary words...or reminding him to put his dad's tools away when he was finished with his project...or cautioning that the amazing bike jump was dangerous. Still, his gifting did not go unnoticed. He was meticulous about organization and detail. He loved construction and would beg to watch big machines doing their roadwork. On his fifth birthday, his heart's desire was to have a truck come to his party...with a driver in it! He drew fantastic cartoons, printed his schoolwork in penmanship that looked like it was computer-generated and displayed creativity, ala the pet cemetery across the creek in our  backyard, the treehouse built with his dad when he was thirteen, and the brick-bordered herb garden designed outside my kitchen. 

                  

There is so much our kids do not seem to hear. "Take out the trash....reduce your speed on a rainy day....remember your homework." We must sound like a broken record at times. But God is at work in spite of us.  He is with our kids in the standstill, the recess, the lull. In the stillness of the stops, He is at work ordering their next steps. And sometimes, He even allows a mother to speak a word that opens a window....or a door...and invites a child into the future.

                    

                               

                                 

Tough-skinned Mamas

The Bible says that mirth is God's medicine. Indeed, while it may be beneficial to laugh and to not take ourselves too seriously, there seems to be a consensus that acquiring thick-skin on the mothering journey is also advantageous. Children that you love, for whom you would give your life, to whom you are committed beyond reservation do say the darnedest things. These are kids that love you back but that, in the innocence of child-likeness or the thoughtlessness of adolescence or the busyness of adulthood,  blurt out blatant stomach punches. Some leave us almost breathless.

With shrieks coming from the nursery one morning many years ago, I ran to comfort a distraught toddler awakening from a nightmare. Rocking and consoling my child who was notoriously a bit of a grumpy Eeyore when waking up,  I tried my best to cajole him. "I am so sorry you were frightened. Mother's here now. What was your bad dream about?" "YOU!" came the unexpected reply. Groan. When the day starts on that note, you know it is going to be an uphill climb.

No doubt we have all taken our mother's cork under a time or two. I recall a particular blunder when I was probably eight years old. Mother and Daddy did not often go out (I mean, where is there to go in Bucyrus, Ohio, alias SmallTown, USA?) but this particular evening, they had a date, just the two of them. Mother floated down the stairs like a princess, wearing those notorious high-heeled pumps that carried her petite frame so nimbly, all clean and good-smelling, twirling in a dusty pink and black print, full skirt. She wore a black blouse that had elastic circling the short sleeves and the scooped neckline and a wide, stretchy black belt wrapping her tiny waist. The style, I believe, at that time was called a "peasant look". I had never seen anything more exquisite. Wide-eyed, I pronounced  adoringly that my mother was as beautiful as a gypsy. I truly could not think of a description that would be more fancy or fun. My mother's smile faded just a tad (she knew I meant well) and I am pretty sure that little outfit was retired at evening's end.

                                     

Another time I announced to my teacher, who was matching names with food items to be brought to the school carnival, that my mother was making the potato salad in the bath tub. Ever after, even when she became the president of the PTA, my mother endured teasing because she had jested about needing to mix the large quantity in the tub. I, the kindergartener-in-the-know, had taken her literally. 

My friend's bout with cynicism was at the mercy of her son who has recently become infatuated with a young lady. When asked to describe "Miss Right" he announced that she was nothing like his mom,  that he would never want to marry someone like his mother. Although, a brother tried desperately to smooth  things over, the young man with stars in his eyes, stuck to his guns. While Prince Charming is very close to his mom,  he, nevertheless, would not be persuaded to retract his statement. Just weird marrying someone that reminds you of your mom, I guess. But I will bet it happens more often than those cavalier suitors recognize.

My own offspring have humbled and pummeled me along the way. I have overheard remarks like, "My mother makes the best" (my heart was swelling with pride during a split-second pause)....."cereal." Or here is another, "Did they have old-fashioned toys when you were little, or were they all new then?" And "I love you so much. I'm glad the Indians didn't kill you when you were a little girl." (Me, too. Pocahontas and I had it made!)

Grandchildren help with the added epidermis layer, too. A grandson recently plopped onto the sofa, and exclaimed,"When was the last time someone was on this couch? I just sat down and all this dust flew up in the air." (Technically, he dive-bombed to his seat and we prefer to refer to those little particles floating around as "sunshine" streaming through the windows.)

So, as our skin gets thicker (more wrinkled, too) maybe like the velveteen rabbit we are toughened up but more soft and mellow inside knowing we are loved. Afterall, a mother is supposed to be the one who extracts the intended meaning from the words and "with a breath of kindness blows the chaff away". Besides, the little love notes we save & tuck between pages of books to re-discover later, often misspelled and grammatically disheveled, make the spoken faux pas worth it. 

"I love you Mama. I will tickle you in the morning."

"I love you so, so, so,  HO, HO, HO much" (tied to the Christmas teapot)

"I hop you will lik ths pctur. You r my favrit. You r the goodest muthr."

                                      

                                          

Lord

Grant me the grace You extend to me in my oft carelessness of words. Help me to form the mind of Christ as I respond to loved ones, to not look solely on the outward appearance [expression] but to look on the heart.

1 Samuel 16:7

Gift from the Sea

The waves come sooner now than then,

Relentlessly......again. Again.

I used to catch my breath between

And now the swells seem twice as keen

Be Thou my Rock on which to lean.

The waves tumultuous, varied hue,

Some sparkling, effervescent, new.

Though tis not Fate from which they come

At times the musings where they're from

Leave spirits dulled and senses numb.

Teach me to breath along the way

Amidst the waves of storm or play.

When threatened by the undertow

Or choking in the tides that flow

Thy grace that I may fully know.

                                  

On a day nearly two decades ago, the lines of this poem came to me as I walked along the shore. The details  of life's circumstances on that day are unclear in my memory. History today. But I penned the words that are now glued  to the back of a black and white photo of tumultuous waters and stuck picture and poem together between the pages of my Bible. I reflect on them often. 

Twenty years ago, my oldest sons were just emerging from their teens. I still had a baby in arms and children sprinkled every age in between. Baseball games and ballet recitals. Bicycles, skates and doll  carriages in the driveway. Someone was eating their first  solid food, then sprouting a first tooth, or saying their first word. Another was taking first steps, or reading a first book, or winning the geography bee...getting braces put on their teeth...acquiring a drivers license...getting braces taken off their teeth ...applying for college. The transitions occurred predictably as each child wove  their way through developmental plateaus  with a kind of rhythm. But one day, when I turned my back, the consecutive changes turned into simultaneous swirling. The waves were gathering momentum and looming larger with tsunami symptoms.

                                  

I cannot remember the issues that concerned me so and inspired the poem. Yet, I remember the expanse of ocean as vast and magnificent as it is today and the sense of being anchored in the assurance that its Creator, whose footsteps are in the deep, would and could sustain me. He is the same yesterday, today and tomorrow. He can turn the tides, and does. He knows the way I take and my sighing is not hidden from Him. Those fragile-looking seagulls inspired me to face the wind. 

                              

A young friend having just birthed her fifth child shared with me genuine joy over her everyday days. At the same time she reflected that life had never been so difficult. "This is what I always wanted to do when I grew up," she mused. " I have always wanted to be a wife and mother and I am living my dream, but I have never had so many children at so many different ages and stages before....and it's never been this hard." Then she looked at me quizzically, as if a light had gone on, "Or else, maybe I made the last stage more difficult than it needed to be." 

Profound. My young friend was surprised to hear that her words had struck a chord in my heart....that her plight is right where I dwell today. I have never had so many children (and grandchildren) at so many different ages and stages before. The numbers (and waves) are certain to increase just as surely as my capacity for white-water rafting diminishes. I have often made it more difficult than it needed to be. The letting-go and learning to trust is a process. The stakes become higher, the climb more steep, the way more narrow. It is well. It is well, with my soul.

                                     

Psalm 107

      23Those who go down to the sea in ships,
            Who do business on great waters;

      24They have seen the works of the LORD,
            And His wonders in the deep.

      25For He spoke and raised up a stormy wind,
            Which lifted up the waves of the sea.

      26They rose up to the heavens, they went down to the depths;
            Their soul melted away in their misery.

      27They reeled and staggered like a drunken man,
            And were at their wits’ end.

      28Then they cried to the LORD in their trouble,
            And He brought them out of their distresses.

      29He caused the storm to be still,
            So that the waves of the sea were hushed.

      30Then they were glad because they were quiet,
            So He guided them to their desired haven.

      31Let them give thanks to the LORD for His lovingkindness,
            And for His wonders to the sons of men.

                                       

        

Home Grown

 

                  

Sparkly sliver and glistening crystal water goblets going clink when the ice water is  poured. Linen napkins are creased deliberately and a delicate orchid anchors the table-center. Fragrant teas being poured through strainers into china cups awaiting sugar cubes and a host of accompaniments on which to feast our eyes and palates. Tea at the Ritz, a rare but favorite treat for me and my daughters. This year we celebrate the birthday of Diana as she turns the page to begin her twenty-fourth year. (For all who know  well that I do not do numbers, let me clarify that I am perfectly aware that she turned twenty-three.) 

We speak of many things. Female gibberish about the outrageous costume on the young lady at the next table, the precious family of four generation tea-takers including a child's doll clustered at the fireplace setting, and the carefree ease with which some of the guests seem to weave in and out of what we consider an almost surreal adventure. As we are prone to do on birthdays in our family, one of the sisters asks Diana to reflect on a highlight from the previous year and to share goals for the year ahead. When I inquire about favorite childhood birthday memories, Diana playfully responds, "The ones when you were home." Gales of laughter erupt from my daughters, but I hesitate before I can join the spontaneity of the teasing.

Birthdays are a big deal at our house. We begin the countdown at least a week ahead. Is there anything else you still want to do as a ten year old? This is your last Thursday to be eleven. Presents are not a spectacle, but the celebrant choosing the menu and cake-flavor with your picture-fan front and center are the order for the day. So, how could this child pull up the birthdays of my absence as those most memorable? 

Eventually I laugh. Harrumph. (You know how mothers are.) Indeed, I did miss two birthdays out of the twenty-three. Once, when I took the oldest sister to England to visit the school she would attend after high school and another when in Hawaii while Dennis attended a conference. This child, by the way, had a stash of little surprises to open every hour on the hour to assuage my guilt complex. 

Nonetheless, I was grateful for the message and for the track record. Grateful to have been able to be home with my children. Grateful that they noticed when I wasn't there. Grateful that even though I missed the mark in many ways, I heard the Lord's prompting that my presence was important. Sometimes, on those "Alexander and the terrible, horrible, no-good, very bad, day" days I would quip that I could be wearing high heels and carrying a brief case and threatened to put my crew on the next yellow bus that came down the street. But they  knew I was joking. I was home, where I wanted to be even on "those days".

My own mother was my mentor through example more than words. During my growing up years in the Leave it to Beaver era, she was ironing when I returned from school or gathering the wash from the line or baking apple dumplings, all in her black, straight skirt, white blouse and high (as in spiked) heels. I remember a season when Mother was asked to be the Welcome Wagon lady in our small Midwest community. That meant she was given a car  to drive to  greet  newcomers, to acknowledge a baby's birth or to congratulate first-time homeowners. She was responsible for recruiting local merchants who donated their wares that comprised the welcome-basket she gifted to recipients she visited on one or two days per week. As I went off to school one morning I asked if she would be home when I returned. Mind you, my daddy's office was in the home, so one of my parents was ever-present. When mother replied to the affirmative, I told her I was glad...that I liked it when she was there when I got home from school. Maybe it was coincidence. Maybe new people stopped moving into our little burg or maybe the dealership that loaned her the car needed it back. Anyway, Mother peeled the welcome-wagon decals off the side of the loaned vehicle and I never knew her to make another call after that day. She knew it meant something to me when she was home when I got there.

There are mothers who wait years for that affirmation, or calculate that when their kids hit their teens, their presence does not matter. Nancy, my friend, waited in  the kitchen each afternoon for that moment her son returned each day from high school. For four years, she busied herself with something--just anything--to be there when he walked through the room, never making eye contact or saying a word to her.  Still she made it a point to be home, to let her interest and love and concern speak what his teenage, rebellious state did not want to hear in words. It would be years later when, in a crowded room, she overheard her thirty year old son telling the group of young parents gathered how much it had meant to him that his mom was always home when he returned from school.

To be ever-present as a mom is not necessarily a virtue. But to be fully present, consistently engaged and genuinely interested are gifts long-remembered. It is not only quality but quantity. Kids thrive on  both.

                                

And so, li'l missy....recently turned "mrs" I am so grateful to have shared this birthday with you. Soon you will be off to Wisconsin with your beloved to start a new chapter of your lives together. And whenever you are and wherever I am, you will always be "home in my heart" on this day.

Where No Oxen Are the Manger is Clean

                                  

Hurry. Hurry, honey.

 I am glad she is backing on out of the driveway before she notices the tear trickling down my cheek. She's driving off so confidently headed into her second semester of college. Head high, shoulders back, chin up, the epitome of humble confidence and measured self-assurance. I want to cry but that smile of hers is encircled with her signature scarf. The familiar toot of the horn reminds me that she loves me and she loves her life. For both I am happy. Grateful.

I watch the tail lights until they disappear over the top of the hill. The youngest child is the last of more than twenty family members to leave, that have woven themselves in and out of the Christmas season. Maybe now would be a good time for my meltdown that wasn't convenient in September when my baby left home. With concern about the readiness of her housing, a sister's eminent wedding and other family drama at the time, I was distracted from fully embracing the reality of my little one leaving the nest. And so with waves of nostalgia welling up inside, I am poised for the floodgate of emotions that all mothers attempt to suppress with the tension of joyfully launching their children and the ache of letting them go. I grab a tissue and head for my perch on the end of the sofa, pulling the afghan and memories close. I take a deep breath and prepare to indulge in good, cleansing cry.

The phone rings. A recorded voice proceeds to tell me how the caller has been trying to reach me to schedule the delivery of my senior citizen emergency alert device kit. OMgosh!  A senior citizen! That's me! How did they find me and just what is an emergency alert device kit? 

Where was this kit when there were at least eighteen people lined up for the shower and we ran out of hot water? Is there a secret alert code to find the giant-size roll of Syran wrap that a kitchen helper tucked away...somewhere? How about a device to meter coffee consumption so the supply meets the demand of groggy sleepers stumbling into the kitchen, or one to charge all the in-house digital devices at the same time? Does the kit have directions on how to gracefully say good-night before someone else gets hungry? And is it considered an alert if one of the grandchildren announces she is eating Mentos and drinking Coke at the same time? What about the emergency of how the health department is going to close us down if we do not do something about excavating our way out of mounds of sheets and towels and wrapping paper and dust bunnies?

Obviously I can do without a pity-party more than I can survive without the senior citizen emergency  alert kit. I laugh instead of cry. Foiled again. No reason for tears when the house echoes with laughter and a literal trail of reminders of loved ones having come and gone. 

Bring on the kit.