Proselytizing Robots Armed with Pamphlets

A missionary once said that one of the biggest challenges in her work was first convincing the people (the ones she was out to “bring to Jesus”) that they were basically scum who needed saving—these are my words, not the missionary’s. She worded it more nicely, but the meaning is the same. Then and only then, could they teach them that Jesus was the only savior who could do the job properly.

The idea of that always brings a grin to my lips and a chuckle from deep within. You see, I’ve had the pleasure of being perceived as a heathen who needed a-savin’—along with the rest of my family members as we sat in the front rows at our dad’s funeral. The minister--whom I had asked to be included in the service, out of a sense of heartfelt appreciation for him being with us when Mom died--had turned what was supposed to be a celebration of my dad’s life into a spectacle. He made it into an egotistical “testimony” of how the minister had basically, personally brought my dad to Jesus.

Each of us kids (in front of all the other attendees) was handed a little white booklet filled with a bunch of words about Jesus—I’m sure there was a scripture or two in there as well. Out of a sense of being shocked and awed, plus being polite as we all were, we quietly took them without making a scene. But frankly, if I had a do-over with that experience—I’d have a HELL of a LOT of FUN making a scene!

On the one-year anniversary of Dad’s death, I was walking around Lake Nokomis with my nephew’s girlfriend when we were approached by a young man with a fistful of little white missives, who asked us if we knew God loved us. I replied, “Yes—I know.” I looked him in the eye when I said it—and he understood that I wasn’t saying the words without meaning. I had a sense of Dad having a good chuckle at my expense—and it made me smile to myself.

I don’t like the idea of judging God’s work as poorly done—and when someone judges any one of His Children as being any less than themselves or any others—I get a little irate. Actually, I get a LOT IRATE—extremely pissed. And if my words offend—well, maybe they’ve served my purpose of using them for some shock and awe of my own.

Through the years I’ve been blessed with all kinds of experiences of people who literally wanted to get me to “buy into” their beliefs. Selling belief systems is a business, and don’t try to tell me that anyone who sends a collection plate around isn’t in some sort of business. I’m more inclined to stick my monetary abundance into an unmanned donation jar, than I am with a manned plate being passed around.

And God doesn’t give a crap about money—even Jesus said that, and frankly, I do like and admire and appreciate Jesus a great deal. He’s been a great inspiration and reminder to me of who I am—I just never needed a savior because God/Our Source did a good job from the beginning with all of us, and I won’t ever be “convinced” otherwise.

When I read Jesus’ words I don’t see someone interested in being a suffering, sacrificial savior—I see a Divine messenger in human form who was sharing new perspectives with his fellow beings. He was saying, “Let’s open up your boxes of limiting beliefs. Let’s consider this old idea from another angle, something with more depth and meaning. The Kingdom of Heaven is at hand—it’s right here with you, all the time. You just didn’t see it. You’ve forgotten how to see it, and self-doubt has taken the place of self-trust. You’ve taken a simple, straightforward idea and over-complicated it in your mind, and now you think you’re lost for good. But you’re not. And don’t trust anyone OUT THERE to have your own answers. Trust that God made you in His image in all ways.”

I’ve had people inviting me to their church activities—Bible studies, services—and I’ve had them ringing my doorbell handing me pamphlets and quoting scriptures AT me. They weren’t in the least bit interested in having a REAL and meaningful exchange with me from their heart. They were only interested in saying AT me all they’d memorized of the “tree of knowledge”—instead of sharing WITH me the tales of the real human (the one standing in front of me) who’d been on an amazing and unique journey.

I’m excited to hear all these amazing stories from my fellow progeny of God, and instead I hear nothing but a whole bunch of dry, meaningless mind chatter and “poor, pitiful me” and “saved wretch” stories—and gossip. I feel like I’m interacting with hypnotized robots with pasted on smiles saying syrupy words just going through the motions of living, but actually dead. Okay—maybe “dead” is a bit strong—how about “in a DEEP SLEEP?”

But I can see through the pretense—people can, you know. I once watched a man get down on his knees, and clasp his hands together in verbal, whining supplication to Jesus to enlighten his brother—all this was done in intentional, full-view of me and a few others. We’d all just observed the praying man come into his brother’s place of business and provoke the fight. My eyes rolled then with the absurdity of it, and they still do now. I’m thinking drama queen. And that makes me laugh.

I want to grab the sleepers who are pretending to be “born again” by the collars and make them look me in the eye, because I know there’s a REAL being in there somewhere, hiding away inside of them. Instead, in the past, I either got the “poor, poor, poor little human puppets on God’s string” version, or the one where someone was blaming all the other people in their lives for their sorry life conditions. But I’m done with that.

To give everyone fair warning—don’t come looking for pity from me. I’ll probably grab you by the collar and if I don’t get something REAL right away, I’ll send you packing. I’m interested in talking with people who are willing to take COMPASSIONATE and COMPLETE RESPONSIBILITY for every single moment and aspect of his/her life. You’re all someone to celebrate and if we’re relating with one another, that’s what I’m focusing on.

So—you just got a whole bunch of words from me, but you don’t have to buy any of it, nor are you required to read it. Such as I am…

With love…ME!

Not a Sparrow Falls...

This story is a combination of my own and Kelly’s and Dad’s. I haven’t been sure how to write it down in a way that honors Kelly because this one began with him, and is truly his story for him to tell. It intersects with my own stories that take place later, and those stories have great importance for me, as well. It feels like a bit of a conundrum, but I’m going to start writing and see how it unfolds, then make further choices from there.

I believe I mentioned earlier that Kel had a difficult time with my dad being diagnosed with lung cancer—he’d lost a treasured uncle to the same illness many years before. It was so difficult for him that he chose to let me make the trip home alone to care for my dad, and while I was there, we hardly ever spoke over the telephone. I felt pretty much on my own, in that sense.

And while my poor little human ego said that was “wrong for him to do to me”--the truth is, he gave me the gift of honoring me with the opportunity to take a journey that helped me get really clear about myself. If I’d had a husband holding my hand, giving me a shoulder to cry on over every little thing, I’d never have discovered the amazing things that were in me, waiting for the chance to express. He literally took himself out of my way.

So I write this story, in honor of Kelly—my beloved partner in my journey of journeys of all time.

The last weekend before Dad died, Kel and my nephew drove from Minneapolis to see him. In spite of Laurie’s and my own agreed-upon efforts to make sure we took care of ourselves in order to take care of Dad, I had managed to get run down enough to get sick. Laurie and Terry’s sons had a football game that Friday night so our brother, Tim, came to spend the night with Dad in Laurie and Terry’s camper.

I’m not even sure how it happened anymore, but somehow Dad had agreed to try the camper one more time. He’d tried it a night or so early on and it didn’t feel right for him at the time—but he was in there alone. I’m thinking he probably agreed to try it again so anyone spending the night with him would have a place to sleep, rather than on the floor of his van.

Plus, our brother, Jerry and his wife gave us an intercom to use from the camper to the house. Dad’s anxiety was getting steadily worse, and he wanted someone nearby, in sight most of the time. I remember once not hearing him call us on the intercom, and getting a look from him only a few short minutes later that spoke of having seriously betrayed him by not being there the moment he buzzed me.

He was scared, that’s all—and didn’t want to leave before he was ready and didn’t want to be alone in the process. It’s an honor and a blessing that we mattered so much to him that he wanted us there beside him to the very end. Through my experience with him, though, I discovered that we leave our bodies when we’re ready—we have that choice. We just didn’t know it.

Some believe that they don’t have that choice, that some God out there is making all their important decisions and/or they’re stuck to playing out a destiny set in stone, so one’s free will to make that suggested belief his truth prevails--and they die before they’re ready to go.

Kelly and my nephew were only at Laurie’s one day, and I hardly saw him. He called me when they got back to Minneapolis Sunday night and told me excitedly of the conversation he’d had with my dad. I honestly admit, that at the time, I judged Kel as being selfish—putting his own wants before my dad’s. I didn’t say it out loud to him at the time, but I was thinking, Kel—how could you?

He had asked Dad that when he made it to the other side of the veil, if he would give him a sign that he’d made it. Dad’s answer had been, “I’m not sure if I can, but I’ll sure try.” I can still hear my dad saying those exact words.

Shortly after my mom died, Kelly and I started watching the show Crossing Over—a program where the psychic John Edwards would connect people on this side of the veil with loved ones who had died. I personally liked the messages he shared—they were comforting and they encouraged the continuation of relationships with those who had died, if only to heal, empower and see the gift of the relationship for the parties involved. And it was also filled with the message of unconditional love and gratitude. It was a show that helped me to shift my perspective and consider things from different points of view—to see this life as having more meaning than the things taking place outwardly on the surface.

I know there are those who judge all psychics as being charlatans—but every set of people has those who are legit and those who are out to swindle. It happens in science and it happens in religions and in governments, to name a few. As far as I’m concerned, life is full of challenges for each of us humans, and I’d rather get up each morning believing in something deeper, more loving and meaningful than what we’ve been taught. Survival of the fittest, that someone needs to lose in order for the other to win, that we’re just a bunch of disappointments to our Creator/Source, and that this life is about proving one’s worthiness so we don’t go to hell—well, those ideas simply don’t work for me. Something deep inside me says we’re so much more than that—and don’t settle or compromise for any less.

Dad died just a few short days after Kelly’s visit. Kel was in the midst of taking some college courses, so he didn’t come home again until the day before Dad’s funeral—he didn’t participate in the arrangements.

Right as the minister began the service a sparrow flew into the Ludlow community hall—and flew among the flowers, landing on the baskets of potatoes and vegetables gathered from Dad’s garden. And it made its way circling over the family. Now the minister, not knowing Dad all that well, didn’t get it, and actually glared disgustedly at the bird. But Dad’s closest family and friends knew its presence had meaning. No one else knew what Kel had asked of Dad, but my brothers and sisters and the grandkids recognized that bird as somehow being connected to Dad and possibly Mom. We have pictures of it.

After the service in the hall, we all drove up to our family farm just across the border in North Dakota to bury Dad’s ashes next to Mom’s on the Big Hill. The flowers Dad, Laurie, Kelly, Dave, Bonnie and I had planted the previous Memorial Day around the grave site for Mom were still thriving, even through all the dry heat and winds of July and August.

Before Dad’s diagnosis, he’d call me in Minneapolis from the top of the hill to let me know that all the flowers we’d planted (many of which I hadn’t expected to live up there) were growing. He had to have been hauling water—but no water was hauled the entire month of August. We’d even had a prairie fire that month in a field across the road.

On the drive to bury the ashes, I asked Kel if he thought the bird was his sign. He replied, “Yeah. At one point I almost expected it to land on my shoulder.”

When we returned to the hall for lunch served by an amazing community of people from around Ludlow, our little sparrow was still there, hanging out around the baskets. And it stayed with us until some time around 2:00 PM. As we were leaving, the bird left the building, too.

Kel left right after the lunch to return to Minneapolis. I stayed a couple extra weeks to finalize a few things with my sister. Even though my beloved cats were there, I wasn’t sure whether I wanted to return to my old life in Minneapolis. I had a feeling of no longer belonging anywhere—all I wanted was to be left quietly to myself in order to come to terms with all that had happened. I felt just lost—everything that seemed to have mattered before didn’t matter at all. I seemingly had no desires or passions or ideas of a possible future. And I wanted to separate myself from people, especially those who seemed to want something from me.

Laurie and I stopped at Dad and Mom’s mobile home to sort through a few of Dad’s things before I left. We found an obituary from Dad’s mother’s funeral. Dad and Grandma Pearl were very close—she died September 4, 1983; and her devoted son died September 4, 2003--exactly 20 years later.

I remember walking into my kitchen in Minneapolis six weeks after I had left. Kel was welcoming, and our cats were there to greet me, but I felt like I was in some type of time warp, or other dimension—I was unsure about whether I wanted to be there. Neighbors wanted to see me to pass on their condolences and I just wanted to be left completely alone. I was so empty feeling that I didn’t feel I had any kind of reserve left inside of me for myself, much less another person.

I had felt pretty much torn apart trying to see others’ needs and wants were met while looking after Dad, and then the funeral meant, for me, just another something I had to do to fulfill still more wants, traditions, beliefs that weren’t my own. I didn’t want nor need a funeral service—others did, so it was done. I wanted to make sure no one felt left out or unheard. I just remember the sense of putting my nose to the grindstone to get it all done, so I could be done.

A couple of weeks after my return to The Cities, Kel told me there was more to the sparrow story. When he asked Dad for a sign, his intention was to ask him to give him a sign at a specific time and date—around 11:00 AM, five days after he died—but at the last minute, decided not to voice that part of his request. Dad died September 4, and we had his funeral September 9, beginning somewhere around 10:30 AM.

I never quite understood how a minister could miss so entirely the significance of the sparrow’s presence. The words--“Not a sparrow falls that God doesn’t know of”--continually flow across my mind. I don’t know where I got them—I thought I read it in The Bible, but I can’t seem to find it there now. Regardless—it makes me feel like I have compassionate company, that I’m not as alone or as worthless as I once believed myself to be. And that’s comforting. And that is how I felt in Dad’s company—and how, I believed, a lot of people of all walks of life felt in his company.

Thank you, Kelly—thanks for giving Dad a reason to focus on getting to the other side quickly. You asked him to do something great—a way to be of service after his life as Dean was gone--with the belief in him that he could do it.

And he did it…he reminded us we’re listened to and we’re so NOT alone…no matter how small or insignificant we think we are...that our lives are valuable—even if we’re perceived by others as being “a dirty bird.”

With love, Dad...

A Blue and Golden Moment

A dear artist friend of mine, Marsha Lehmann, inspired me with the idea of a "blue and golden moment"--she had done a painting of a little cowboy--Small Adjustments--dressed in blue jeans and shirt with a background all in gold. I saw that painting and it brought to mind life in western North and South Dakota--a life filled with expansive, cerulean-blue skies and the fields of grain and hay ripening to a deep golden ochre. I get out in that openness and it invites me to take a deep breath of its sweetness and to open up my heart, to embrace the life dancing all around me in its myriad forms.

As I was writing about her painting, I began to recall many of the works of Vincent Van Gogh--and I had a strong sense that he would have understood my concept of a blue and golden moment. It's a moment so exquisite--so intensely joy-filled and golden--that the thought of its departure in the next breath causes a pang of deep sadness and tears--blueness. I've had many such moments, but the one that jumps to the forefront is a Tuesday in early August, 2003.

Just the weekend before, I'd made the long drive alone from the Twin Cities to my brother-in-law's and sister's farm in order to stay with them to help care for my dad, who'd been diagnosed with lung cancer the previous Monday. My mom had passed away 21 months earlier, and it had been really difficult for my dad without her, though, he really did try. He was just so lost without her. He'd chosen to not take any treatments.

I met Dad at the Gateway Inn Restaurant Saturday morning. As I was sitting in the booth awaiting his arrival, two of his friends talked of taking Dean (my dad) down to Deadwood to gamble one last time. I didn't like the assumption that he wasn't going to be around much longer (and them talking about it so openly in my presence when I hadn't seen him yet), but I stuffed it down and kept quiet. This is not to point fingers at Dad's friends--they had the best of intentions--it's just my attempt to convey my emotional state and thoughts at the time.

Finally Dad appeared and slowly, agonizingly, made his way down what seemed like an awful long distance from the front door to our booth. I quickly rose and went to meet him halfway and to give him a hug--but the hug felt like it back-fired on me. I seemed to be too close to him, robbing his precious air space--and guiltily I stepped back, so afraid that I'd harmed him.

That was the last hug I gave my dad in that way. I found a replacement for it, which turned out to be a good thing, but that's a whole other story.

Other family members were coming out to my sister's farm to see Dad about the same time of my arrival so the days were busy from the start. Dad had been set up with some supplemental oxygen tanks that he and my sister had been shown how to use--but he only had it on hand at night, and used it only to walk from his van, where he was sleeping, to the bathroom in the house. Laurie and Terry's home was newly built with freshly laid flooring, carpeting and freshly coated woodwork--plus it was an extremely hot, dry summer so the fumes from the glues and coverings were curing off. Anyone who's challenged with breathing knows how much worse it feels in those conditions. So, Dad was, for the most part, camping out in his van. He came in the house for meals and to use the facilities, but he was more at ease in his van.

I need to point out that Dad sleeping in his van was not a new thing. He'd done that from time to time even before Mom died, when he had trouble with feeling closed-in and with breathing. He began having difficulty getting his air years earlier and had doctored for it--even quit smoking after a lifetime of it--after getting into a grain bin that had some mold-tainted dust in it. In short, all of us understood that his van was pretty much his home.

The night before Dad was to leave the next morning with his buddies for his gambling trip (his sister had even given him some money to gamble with earlier in the day), he told me he was concerned about whether he should go on the trip or not. He was afraid of hurting his friends' feelings by not going, and feeling afraid that he would be hurting his kids and family by risking the trip and possibly dying while he was away from us. I ultimately left the choice up to him, but I also understood that his friends were important to him, too, and I reassured him that we (his kids) would be okay and support him whatever he decided was the thing to do.

The next morning his anxiety level was such that he couldn't make it up the stairs to the kitchen without assistance. His friends showed up and assured him that they'd stop in Buffalo (about 17 miles away) for breakfast, see how he felt there, and then decide whether to go on down to Deadwood. We sent an oxygen tank along with them, just in case--and off they went. I was anxious, but I also believed he was in good hands. I just knew how concerned he was with leaving from our talk the night before, and I felt his struggle as my own.

Terry and their three boys--an eighth-grader, freshman and sophomore--had gone out to a field, south of the place to pick up square bales that the boys were selling. After Dad left, Laurie invited me to go out with her to join them. They had nearly completed a load on the trailer when we reached them, so after a few bales more, the boys climbed onto the stack of bales and we climbed back into our vehicle and followed them over to the shed to unload.

I loved watching those brothers as they were chatting and laughing with each other, a couple of them chewing on the end of a grass stalk while riding on those stacked golden bales as the trailer and truck made it's way across the golden fields--all of it framed in the bluest sky you can imagine. The image is etched in my heart as well as my memory. It was glorious, and I still get a bit choked up and teary-eyed with the feelings it evokes in me. It was an absolutely loaded-to-overflowing moment.

We got to the shed and Terry unloaded the bales from the trailer while the rest of us stacked them inside. All was going well, when suddenly, I had no air whatsoever. I wasn't gasping for air, but I also wasn't breathing. I made my way out the door and around the corner and slipped down onto the ground with my back against the wall. The next thing I knew tears were rolling down my cheeks and I was sobbing--and finally breathing.

In all the time that it had taken me to drive from the cities and get into a bit of a rhythm as far as helping to care for Dad, I hadn't found a safe time and place to cry it all out. Everything had been stuffed down inside me until that moment--and when I finally got that moment it came packaged in the same symptoms my dad had. I guess that's what you call empathy.

Later that afternoon, Dad and his friends returned home--they were cracking jokes and laughing and having a great time together. Dad's eyes had his familiar sparkle. His feet were swollen (a first), but I was glad he had risked the journey--it had done us all good. And it got me ready for the days ahead.

It had truly been, in all manners of the words--a blue and golden day.


With love and honor, Dad...


The thing about having the blue with the golden moment is that the golden moment becomes even more precious, more so appreciated, by the one experiencing it. Otherwise it probably, sadly, would go unnoticed.

For as long as I can remember, I had been preparing for my dad's departure from this life. As a kid, and later as an adult, I used to have nightmares/dreams of driving down familiar roads that had been so much a part of our life together--only now I was driving them without my dad. One particular dream was actually pretty golden in color as I remember it now. It feels like we had an agreement--and we both recognized it.

The day I called home to Mom and Dad, crying my eyes out because I was burned out with school (I pretty much had walking pneumonia most of the prior quarter and I was emotionally exhausted trying to force myself to fit into a story that just felt suffocating), Dad left in the middle of the night to drive the 6 1/2 hours to Fargo to arrive on the dorm doorsteps at eight o'clock the next morning to take me home. No questions asked.

My parents never told me I had to go to college or that I had to get a job when it didn't work out--I made those choices on my own, and they honored them.

So, after getting the call from my dad and sister, Laurie, that Dad had been diagnosed with lung cancer, it only seemed natural to go home to be with him, though I had no idea how long it would be.

My husband wasn't thrilled with me--I had just completed the first three weeks of a 4-month program in massage therapy at the Aveda Institute, and I withdrew without asking him his opinion. You see, he thought he was finally on the road to having a wife with a career (hard to explain the other version to his peers)--heck, at that time, a job would have been just great--ha! I admit it, I was stubborn, and I hadn't quite fully let myself know why yet--I was enjoying playing the victimhood game of "poor me--Kelly just doesn't even try to understand me." The drama queen role is such a fun, irresistible one, don't you know.

Anyway, after a highly dramatic week of phone-throwing, T-shirt ripping, silent glares, packing like a banshee everything I owned into the trunk of the car, Kel and I finally came to a truce (I'm grinning and laughing here with the memories), and I headed to Ludlow, SD to spend what would unfold to be the last 3 1/2 weeks of my dad's life with him.

Okay--after stepping away for a moment to eat a bite, I acknowledged to myself that this particular story is too loaded and long to get down in one post, so I'm going to segue over to the ripped T-shirt story--I'm dying to share it, and my sister-in-law said she still got a chuckle over it the last time we were together.

Anyway, Kel and I had been glaring silently back and forth for a good part of the week, when finally somehow we started "talking." He was wearing a white undershirt T-shirt and was sitting in the big chair with the ottoman. I don't remember exactly what I said--just the key parts and the jist of what I was thinking at the time. He made some comment about my quitting school without his approval--or my even asking him his opinion. And my response was to straddle his lap on my knees, grab him by the shirt collar, dive straight into his eyes with my own eyes and say, "This is NOT 'F-enheimer' about you! This is MY DAD!"

And I must have been jerking on his shirt with each enunciation because at the end of my little speech his shirt tore off in my hands like a kleenex tissue--it ripped that easily. Caught us both by surprise. The "F" word caught me by surprise--it's not one I normally felt comfortable saying and I know Mom normally would have not been thrilled with my use of it. But in this instance, I felt her laugh--it felt like she said, "You go, girl!" (Remember--my mom really liked my husband,too).

Anyway, Kel kept the shirt as a joking reminder. And now it's been posted for anyone to read.

I'm leaving off here for now. For some reason, this story is going to have to come out in small bits. Every time I write a version of it down, more ah-hah!s come with it and it kind of explodes for me. So it's going to be one moment or two at a time...


"Make me into someone you can love???"


Okay--I'm sidetracking from my story with Dad, it seems, but this is at the top in my thoughts so I'm going with it.

Ripping Kel's T-shirt and using that embarrassingly harsh, yet delightfully wicked word had nothing to do with Kel. It could have been anyone outside of me playing his part--I needed someone to act this internal struggle out with me--and I'm fortunate it was him.

I felt that Mom was proud of me in that particular moment because I'd finally authentically found my words, and they came out short, simple, to the point, complete. I was standing inside of myself, being the real me, instead of the closely-monitored, just existing shell of a human that I was until then.

You see, before Kel came along, I'd lost my first boyfriend in a motorcycle accident--his name was Arlen, and he deserves a story all his own. But for now, suffice it to say that I believed for some twenty years after the fact that I'd royally screwed up with Arlen--taken him for granted--and that God had chosen to chastise and discipline me by taking him away. In my mind, I didn't deserve to be having a life without him, yet I kept waking up to a continuous string of new days.

I had recurring nightmares with Arlen returning or not really being dead, only to find that I hadn't waited for him--I was with Kelly. Arlen wouldn't have anything to do with me then. Needless to say--I hated the concept of love triangles in movies and books.

So, that was the foundation upon which I created the relationship I had with Kelly--I handed myself over to him on a platter and pretty much asked him to make me into someone he could love.

First--nothing like asking someone to do the impossible! But he tried--we tried--and we managed to get ourselves into a miserable recycling rut. Oh, the games we will play with each other, all out of love!

Fortunately, I hated playing the victim role enough that I recognized when I was playing that part. I struggled with trying not to be one, only to find myself still feeling like the victim. I tried sneering at myself, beating on myself, only to find it grinning and sticking its tongue out, taunting me.

Nothing like being an actress so immersed in her role that she couldn't seem to step out of character, even when the play and her script was being rewritten. Old habits--they're comfortable even when you're miserable in them.

Somewhere along the way I realized that beating up on myself wasn't changing anything. I looked in the mirror one day, and realized how hard I'd been working to be good, to take responsibility for my own life--all of it. But in order to do that, I had to actually practice loving myself with compassion.

You know, when God told me to love myself that day while washing dishes, I hadn't grasped at all what that meant at the time. It sounded and felt so good, and it resonated with me--but we were just getting started. It was so easy for me to be empathetic and compassionate with people outside of me--but then to do a one-eighty, and wail on myself like a demented taskmaster when I thought I'd screwed up. It didn't dawn on me to do otherwise, until that day I looked in the mirror and finally saw in those eyes someone who was trying so very hard, yet never being given a break by me!

After that moment though, I was given all kinds of opportunities to practice self-love. Kel and everyone else just wouldn't be either emotionally or physically available certain nights. Physical aches and body pains would force me out of bed in the middle of the night, and then downstairs into another room or into the bathroom, where I had to hug myself with compassion while I cried myself through the intense pain. I had buried a lot emotionally, and the physical pain actually helped me get honest about it. Feel, feel, feel...and breathe...and hold and hug...cry...release...

It's a very human thing to be the hardest on oneself...and a very wonderful experience to finally challenge that and see what it's like the other way...My dad was really hard on himself, while much of the time being very loving towards others, so maybe this isn't sidetracking after all...

Not sure what all I've written, but I'm tired of editing, so I'm posting...


With love, Dad, through your feet...


“Dad—I believe everyone goes to heaven. I don’t believe God would leave anyone behind, no matter what.”

“I think so, too, Babe.”

Dad and I had that little exchange two nights before that last highly confusing, life-changing night together.

I’ve heard it said that being born into our harsh reality is actually more traumatic than dying. And while that makes really plausible sense to me today, right now—it wouldn’t have during those last three and a half weeks with Dad. Our story was ending and my world was unraveling. I still feel all choked and my chest feels tight when I remember back to those times.

I felt like a newly-blind person, staggeringly feeling my way through each loaded moment, questioning and doubting myself every step of the way. But underneath it all was a strange knowingness--a standing-firmness--that I wasn’t going to give in to anything other than the belief that my dad was going to be okay. That ultimately he was always in God’s unconditionally-loving and compassionate hands all through life and all through the transition we call death. And no one and nothing was going to get in his way as long as I was around.

In retrospect, my dad had probably one of the most honorable and dignified deaths possible in the context of those times. My sister and brother-in-law, Laurie and Terry, and their sons brought him home to their farm and ranch to live out the remainder of his days. Each morning Terry would take a couple of cups of coffee out to have with Dad out in his van. He slept and pretty much lived in his van, as I explained earlier, due to the curing-off fumes from their newly built house.

One by one, each of their boys, Weston, Jerel and Heath would stop by to visit with their grandpa a moment before heading out to do chores, and then again throughout the comings and goings of their day.

Laurie would make sure he was fed and bathed and ready for the day and cared for in ways too many to list fully enough, and she and I took turns watching out for him at night.

While Laurie kept the home-front running, each morning around eight o’clock, I got the pleasure of accompanying Dad in the short drive in his van to a spot just off the road into Laurie and Terry’s where Dad could get cell phone reception. And Dad would call all our brothers and any other friends he could think of to connect with.

Friends and relatives of all ages from all over the country flew in and drove in to visit with Dad—everyone wanting him to know how much they personally loved and valued him. I loved that they cared so much. Yet at times it was so extremely hot and dry—100+ temperatures, and one day I remember the humidity was only 15% (even I had cotton-mouth that day and difficulty breathing)--and I knew that when you’re sick it gets overwhelming to try to visit. I was torn watching his energy get so depleted while understanding the visits were also amazing gifts meant to honor his life.

On my drive home to spend those last days with him I didn’t know for sure how long he had or even if he was actually going to die. I know people often equate cancer with death—but I didn’t, and still don’t, believe that to be true. And while it seems to be politically correct to blame cigarette smoking/inhaling as the big cause of lung cancer—that idea actually ticked me off--and I've never smoked! Some people live long lives drinking and smoking—and some die young. I've definitely inhaled more 2nd-hand smoke than I ever wanted, but I'm quite healthy, nonetheless.

I’m more inclined to believe it’s about a person’s belief system surrounding the idea of why they’re smoking and whether or not they’re enjoying their life. My dad was blaringly dying of a broken heart—the core reason, I believe, for the dis-ease/cancer in his lungs. And, also—more empoweringly so--because he was ready to end his story.

Inside, I was okay with the idea of Dad dying, but I didn’t believe he (nor I) had to suffer in it, nor did I believe that he had to die unless he chose to. I was set in honoring whatever choice he made, and I tried to convey that to him, but sometimes those words are so hard to find in those moments. This is why I feel so passionate about going beyond the old belief system of death--we've all suffered way too much in this natural process of transition out of our old stories and identities. I'd like to experience it without the traumas and diseases.

I did manage to tell him that I felt that this, our last time together, was meant to be—and he agreed. Not once did he ever bring up me needing to go back to be with Kelly, like he had done with me after Mom died.

Two hours of what was to become my last day of my massage therapy schooling was spent teaching us to do foot reflexology. Learning to give a good foot rub turned out to be the greatest blessing for me in those final days with Dad. Shortly after his return from his gambling trip with his friends, when his feet started to swell, I began massaging his feet using reflexology, where each spot on the foot corresponds to an area or organ in line with it on the whole body. (See archived post from Oct. 2009: A Blue and Golden Moment). The last couple of weeks I pretty much gave him an entire foot rub a minimum of two--and often three—times a day. One each morning to get him up, one after dinner and another to help him sleep at night.

Now, every one of my brothers and my sisters will have a special story about their time with Dad and with our mom—and every one will have its own unique beauty. No one’s story is greater or lesser in importance. The only one I know well enough to tell is my own. I got to have this most precious time, my story with my dad because of my brothers and sisters.

Dad and I bonded during those foot massages in a way far beyond anything either of us expected. After my disastrous experience of hugging him in the restaurant when I first got back to be with him, I no longer allowed myself to hug him for fear of taking up his space or air--and that was a tremendous loss for me. It had always been our custom to kiss on the cheek with a hug, and to wish each other hello, good-bye, goodnight.

I found myself slipping into only what I can call a trance-like state the moment we began the exploration of his body organs through his feet. I could tell by a crinkling, crackling texture whether or not his esophagus or thyroid or lungs were distressed at that moment, and I could relieve that area by massaging it out. And he’d often ask me if I noticed anything in the area of his liver and pancreas, and it would give us both a breath of relief to be able to honestly answer no.

Sometimes he’d have more difficulty getting his breath or getting his lungs free of phlegm and mucous—and his anxiety and panic would spike due to his fear of dying in his sleep, before he was ready to go. I found that by simply holding his feet, looking into his eyes and taking deep, calming breaths myself, would somehow reach him through my touch and slow and calm his breathing and anxiety. Actually, when massaging the point for the diaphragm, we were taught to slide our thumbs from the center outward and then back inward in conjunction with the patient inhaling and exhaling three times--this practice seemed to get us breathing through the whole process in tandem.

Day by day, his condition worsened. He didn’t want to be dependent on the canned oxygen, but his panic attacks got so bad in the middle of the night when he’d stop breathing while he was sleeping that Laurie and I began taking turns sleeping outside with him. Neither Dad nor Laurie nor I realized, until after one particularly hard and memorable night, that we could leave the tank on to help him breathe in his sleep.

I’m not really a nurse-type personality, nor was I there when he was shown how to operate the tanks so I was pretty ignorant on that aspect. Plus, Laurie and I left Dad’s use of the oxygen up to his discretion—neither of us believed in forcing him to do something he didn’t feel at ease with. If we came across a new approach on something, we consulted him first—and then only did it if we had his consent.

We all, and each, did the best we knew how in the moment at hand. I no longer do the "if only-s, woulda, coulda, shouldas."

Love you, Dad...


Ego Agendas, Clashes & Pedestals


About a month before these last days with my dad I met a new friend in the Twin Cities. We talked only once before my dad died and then it took us a couple of months afterward to reunite. But once we did get together, I made a fully conscious choice of being really honest with her about myself. She was my safe, sacred space. She had no connections with my family, friends or the community where I grew up. Anything I told her wouldn't go beyond her, and if it did, the people wouldn't know me anyway.

So, Cheryl, my beloved sister--this one is in honor of you...you were the gift I gave myself that made me able to speak my heart and soul out loud, in a blog on the Internet, of all things...

When you're human, victim hood on some level is seemingly a part of you...and it really becomes apparent when someone is sick and/or dying. You don't even have to be the one who is sick and dying--just a member of the crew is all it takes.

And if you're feeling like a victim, you're feeling powerless, helpless--and you're saying anything and doing anything to try to make yourself feel a bit more in control, a bit more at peace--and sometimes trying not to feel at all. It's quite a game--and I played it as fully and completely as anyone else outside of me.

I observed some people worrying about Dad's spiritual welfare--he allowed himself to be baptized for about the fourth time in his life, the second time within a year, all because someone wanted to "do something" for him, and he recognized that it was a gift he could give them.

He was willing to undergo all kinds of tests by other doctors in order to give another person a bit more sense of having "tried everything," but his physical condition deteriorated so quickly that he wasn't able to withstand the long drives to hospitals that were so far away. Sometimes doctoring can be a full-time job and commitment all in itself--and long commutes can be exhausting in themselves.

And when I started doing the foot reflexology with him, I squirmingly noticed that I, too, had my own personal agenda of trying to heal him. But then, one auspicious night, he gave me the gift of clashing his will with mine--a pair of stubborn "Lewtonschteins," as Dad would have called us. Grin.

It was, possibly, one of the best gifts he could have ever given me. I got so angry, I got real, I got honest with myself. I let go of trying to control the situation.

There was a big emotional tug-of-war going on the whole time we were with Dad. He was a rescuer, and when his rescuees began showing up, wanting more of his time and energies, he was so depleted he had nothing to give them--and more importantly, no desire to continue playing that old role with them. So he began to depend on us girls to intervene for him so he basically wouldn't look like the bad guy.

Also, when a person is sick and dying, I think it's pretty difficult to not feel angry. Anger often is a good signal of feeling like a victim in some way. And then you feel ashamed of yourself for such feelings when you love the ones with you so much and they're trying so hard to keep you comfortable and happy.

Yet that anger still finds its way to the surface, and because of the shame and the fear of being personally rejected--it comes out in even more insidious ways. He wouldn't complain directly to the person with whom he had the beef with, he'd complain to another one about the other--and I got so pissed at the blatant manipulations of us all by him, that I ran crying one afternoon to my older brother to just get rid of my own anger.

Yeah--there I was, doing the exact same manipulation game that my dad was doing--taking my beef with him to another.

But then one night, thanks to my monthly visitor, I didn't have the physical stamina to be the doormat with him that I was thinking I maybe should be with the "poor dying man." Yeah, Dad--I can feel you chuckling now with me, but it was a highly dramatic thing for me that night. I was supposed to be this all-loving, nurturing daughter, and the one night I picked to clash with you you were low on oxygen, in a panic...I replay the scene in my head, and I just know it would have made a very entertaining part of a movie.

When we got Dad ready to sleep at night (after the foot rub) in his van, we'd layer pillows in a specific manner to keep him somewhat in a partial sitting position in order to help him breathe and keep the mucus draining downward instead of toward his head. We'd tuck blankets around his feet in such a way that they were kept warm but not pulling his toes downward. We'd rip several paper towels in half and lay them next to him in case he had a spurt of needing to clear out his lungs in the night. We'd place a towel on his head to keep the draft off, and park the van so he had breezes flowing through just right. And then we'd have his oxygen tanks right at hand for him to use as he chose.

By the time this particular night came around, he'd had enough scares of dying in his sleep that I'd left my bed in the house in order to lay on the floor of his van to doze beside him. Laurie and I had just gotten him all tucked in for the night, when, after a panic attack, he decided he'd try to sleep in the room on the ground floor of the house. I think he was trying to go in the house so that I would have a more comfortable place to sleep.

We got all his blankets and pillows and tanks moved into the bedroom and there was a nice breeze coming through the window for him. I was in a sleeping bag next to him on the floor and Laurie had returned to her own bed.

We never did get to sleep. Claustrophobia hit, followed by a panic attack due to lack of oxygen and his "nurturer" was not physically or emotionally in a place to nurture him--I was exhausted, and I'd already awakened Laurie once that night to move him inside. I don't think we were even in there an hour and he was begging me to move him back out to his van.

The clash was on. When I tried to soothe him by reminding him that the big window was there, that he really wasn't in a basement, that he was all right--he got whinier. And I felt myself get ornerier and more unwilling to move from my chosen position--I was at my wit's end. I felt like we'd all been scrambling for days trying to do the right thing by him--and yet it never was enough. And, honestly, Dad was NOT a demanding, cantankerous individual (even sick)--it was just everything all together.

Heck--the reason he was playing the whole manipulation game with us was because he couldn't stand seeing himself hurt us. It may seem cowardly, but I've done it myself. Oh well...

When I dug my feet in to stay, I watched him get up from the bed, grab his oxygen tank on wheels and start to head for the door. I followed him out of the room, leaned against the wall by the front door with my arms folded across my chest and then watched as he opened the door just enough to stick his nose outside and take a breath. Then he leaned out a bit more, slowly edging himself out the door, imploring me to let him sleep in his van. Good martyr that I am, I finally gave in completely--he had parked himself on a chair just outside the door and I had wrapped one of his blankets around him.

I hauled all of his bedding and pillows and paraphernalia back out to the van, tucked him in just so, my eyes sparking and my mouth grim--and as I turned to leave the van, he sighed a sigh of relief and said, "Thank you, Babe..." I rolled my eyes, walked across the yard to my car, went inside and bawled my eyes out.

The next day I told my brother-in-law, Terry, that I didn't think I could handle taking care of him much longer. I was ready to put him in a hospital right then and there. I had no desire to even look at him that morning. Laurie saw to his morning needs and as she did so, he told her sheepishly, "I went against Pen last night." By that afternoon, we'd made up and I was back to rubbing his feet.

In my cry out in the car, I'd realized my healing agenda with him--trying to force my will, my desires, upon his own. With that recognition, I at last chose to let the agenda go--and a transition took place that afternoon as I rubbed his feet. I realized I could love every part of him, unconditionally: the good, the bad, the light, the dark--all aspects and roles of him--and I could do so simply by touching his feet and not trying to change, or fix, one iota of him.

After that night, I no longer had Dad or myself on a pedestal of expectation--we were humans doing and being the best we knew how in the moment at hand. And regardless of the scenes being played out on the surface--messy or nice--I knew REAL LOVE was always there...


Thank you, Dad...I love you...


“Well done, my… Son?…I commend you to…The Father...” I’d move to the next spot on Dad’s foot signifying another body organ or part, and again, “Thank you, my…Son?…I commend you to The Father...”

And on and on, I haltingly went, repeating the strange, unrehearsed, unexpected lines over and over as I moved through Dad’s right foot, the tears streaming from my eyes, feeling as though I was touching every aspect, every moment of him through his feet—and loving him All, and thanking him for it All.

And my head was berating me and ridiculing me for every syllable that slipped from my lips. Son? He’s not your son! Who do you think you are? What’s Dad thinking of you—calling him ‘son’! You should be ashamed of yourself! What are others going to think of you? You’d better keep this whole deal to yourself. They’re going to think you’re crazy, delusional. You are crazy, you know…

But even in the midst of all those self-accusations, I kept feeling it—LOVE, pure and simple--but so vast, so deep, so warm and comforting, so powerful that nothing (what others might say or think of me) mattered.

Nothing mattered.

And so I continued on, “Well done…” until I completed his first foot, looked up and saw that his eyes were closed. I suddenly felt so exhausted all I could do was crawl gratefully into my sleeping bag on the tiny bed in the camper a couple of feet away from him, and close my own eyes.

I awoke a couple hours later from a solid sleep-state, saw it was five in the morning, that Dad was awake, though quiet and no longer moving except to use his eyes. I leaned over him to tell him I was going in the house to get Laurie.

Laurie! I’ve spent the last several years questioning and halfway chastising myself for not going to get her when Dad’s organs began shutting down and when he was going through the hallucinations, begging me to take him outside—it was so cold out—and I knew he was dying. The thought that I should go get her had occurred, but I chose not to.

Honestly, I had spent all the previous days trying to honor everyone else’s ideas, and, selfish as it may sound, I chose to walk this experience on my own—just Dad and me. I believe I needed to take all other’s desires out of the equation, because if another person had been present, I wouldn’t have allowed the previously quoted words and experience to come out. I would have defaulted into my old “little-sister Penny” role and kept who I really was hidden away (especially from myself) inside yet again.

So, Laurie, thank you. I know I probably disappointed you—even betrayed you—and I accept full responsibility for that choice.

Earlier that evening, Dad’s brother had called and asked me how Dad was doing and if he should come. I had spent all that afternoon running last minute errands in town, trying to take care of Dad’s business transactions, getting groceries, running into people who would ask me how he was doing. And I was aware that I knew this was heading into his last hours, but I didn’t feel at ease revealing that to other people—the words just weren’t there. I told his brother to listen to his own heart and make the choice when to come from there because I couldn’t answer him.

Dad was having a hard time swallowing and feeling really congested—I’m thinking it was a choked feeling. In the past couple of years, he’d had some Coke on hand, which he drank occasionally to help in moments like this—he said it helped him “cut the carbon.” That’s a carburetor mechanic talking—one of his many roles. So he asked me for some Coca-Cola that night as I was getting him ready for bed. We tried it, but even the Coke didn't seem to help.

The previous day the hospice nurse had left us some morphine for him to use— just in case he wanted it. Amy had come out to administer an enema for him that day so he was much more comfortable, yet his dignity was still intact with his daughters.

It was around ten o’clock, and I asked Dad if he wanted to try the stuff so he tried a bit—he had difficulty swallowing even that little bit of liquid--then told me to lay down and get some rest. As always in those nights with Dad, I was completely out the moment my head touched the pillow until I suddenly came to sometime around midnight.

Dad was awake and really having a difficult time breathing, he used the urinal all on his own (my back turned) and he was up and down between our two beds. I was opening windows, running the little heater full-blast at the same time—nothing was working. Then he started begging me to help him walk outside and I told him, “No, I can’t.” Little though he was, I knew I wouldn’t be able to hold him up, and it was so cold outside—it just didn’t make any sense to even try it.

In desperation, I heard myself say to him, “Dad—Jesus will come get you…” The words felt empty—like a lie. And as I said the words out loud, I thought to myself, Penny! You don’t know that! Don’t lie to him—don’t spout beliefs you’re not sure of! Don’t get his hopes up expecting something that you’re not convinced within yourself will happen.

As his organs were shutting down, the hallucinations started. He eventually surrendered and laid back down on his bed. The towel we’d placed on top of his head to keep his head and sinuses draft-free was now long gone. He reached over and grabbed a couple of paper towels that I’d torn in half for him earlier, and using both hands, he slapped them on the top of his head and they flapped there off the sides of his head like dog ears. He had such a comical expression on his face, along with the motion, that I felt a little betraying smile on my lips.

I would feel so ashamed of that smiling moment of mine, that it would haunt me for years later. I didn’t think it was the “right” thing to do in such a serious time. But, in looking back, I realize now that Dad would have done anything to get me to loosen up a bit—and especially so when things were so serious. He was known for making himself the butt of his own jokes in order to put another at ease. And I really did need a good laugh right about then.

I think it was somewhere around two in the morning when I asked Dad if he wanted me to rub his feet. He nodded his consent, and so began our blessing of all of him. A couple months later, I was watching a TV drama where a priest showed up at the scene of an accident and said the very same words I’d spoken over and over again through my dad’s feet—it was a last rites ritual. I’ve never attended a church of any kind often enough to have known to say those words—I’m not a member of any organized religion.

The next morning, I went in the house and woke Laurie. She came out and lovingly asked Dad if he wanted us to call our brothers home to see him, and he said yes. So the phone calls were made and people began arriving. A couple of our brothers lived and worked a good three hours away, and one of them had just become a proud new dad just the day before—so each of his family members took turns sitting with him on their own throughout the day.

I pretty much felt like I’d had my time with him in the night—but at one point when there were only a few of us present yet in the late morning I suddenly had the thought occur that I’d only blessed his right foot. I hadn’t done the left foot--the one where the heart point is—and it seemed so important that I complete fully what I’d started. So I slipped into the camper alone and I explained to Dad that I felt I needed to finish his feet. I pulled up the sleeping bag roll that I used as my stool and I blessed all the points on his left foot.

But that still wasn’t seemingly enough. I felt myself drawn to stand up, walk up beside him and place my hand on his heart, and whisper the blessing. In that moment, he took a great gasp of air—and fearing I had somehow hurt him, I whispered, “I’m sorry, Dad.” And I bolted out the door.

Now, I didn’t know that there was a setting on the oxygen tanks where I could have put it on automatic for Dad that previous night when he was having so much difficulty breathing—basically suffocating. Had either of us known that, we would have done it. My brother Steve made us aware of it when he arrived that last morning—so Dad had oxygen then when I was doing the last blessing, but he wasn’t noticeably breathing. He was in nearly a coma state—but a conscious one where he was still able to communicate with loved ones when he chose to. He literally took a deep inhale of air when I touched him.

Months later, I would be reading one of my books from my massage therapy course. A nurse who worked with terminally ill patients said she often felt intuitively drawn to place her hand on the heart of the one who was passing. She said it seemingly gave them a burst of extra energy that enabled them to stay present long enough to take care of things, so their lives weren’t left with unfinished business. My youngest brother was the last sibling to arrive that day. He got there sometime between seven and eight that evening and he was bearing a picture of his newborn son to show his dad. Dad actually took a close look at the picture—and then peacefully left his body for good sometime shortly thereafter.

Three or four months later, I would read online that if you truly wanted to begin to understand your own self, go be with someone you loved who was in the midst of dying. No one could have spoken words that resonated more deeply with me than those. Things happened in those last days and hours and minutes with Dad that changed me forever—or at least, made me aware that there were things inside of me that were eternal—unchanging, just unrecognized or unacknowledged by me before.

This is only a part of the story…but it’s enough for now…

Thank you, Dad. I love you…SO MUCH!


It was all for me...


Contrary to what my Little Human ego (AKA, God’s Puppet on a Destined String) would have me believe, while trying to save face when she realized I didn't listen to her--I really didn't do, or say, anything that “saved” or “fixed things” for my dad in our last moments together. He didn't need fixing or saving. It was all for me.

Dad’s life was not my responsibility. I walked beside him and with him as far as I could go and not literally join him in leaving—but the choices surrounding his life and death were all his to be made.

When I take a moment, get really quiet, and feel and consider everything that those last moments with my beloved dad meant to me: Well, I wanted him to simply know how deeply I’d been touched by his presence in my life. I’d learned, and I am still learning, so much about myself through EVERY SINGLE MOMENT of our relationship. I wanted him to know as we parted, that I celebrated him--I celebrated us—our dance.

And all that I said and did in those last moments, I needed to express for my own sense of authenticity--for my own peace of heart and mind.

I was operating on the belief I had then, as I still have now: You don’t part from someone without making sure they know how much you love, honor and appreciate all that they have been and are…for YOU!!!

I remember standing in front of the bathroom mirror, shortly after Dad had left our presence for good, and I gazed into eyes and a reflection that felt so different, so deep and wavering, but with a bit of a sense of a glow, a luminosity. I’d moved something intrinsic deep within myself. I wasn’t Penny anymore. All her stories and previous beliefs about life didn’t seem to matter anymore. I didn’t know who I was.

In those final moments with Dad, religious teachings and beliefs, political ideas, business practices, even family and friend issues just flew out the window—none of it mattered or had any bearing.

I KNEW two things—I loved him and I was thankful for him—and that was all that mattered…

Related Posts:
Not a Sparrow Falls...
My Last Waltz with Dad
With Love, Mom

With Love, Mom

Sometimes there are so many stories to share, all which are connected, like an implosion of images and feelings that it renders me speechless for awhile. And then I get to feeling over-full, to the point where I just have to start writing and let something loose.

So, today I'm writing about my mom--a more gentle, beautiful, strong and compassionate soul you'll never find. It was truly an honor to have her as my mother--she saw the beauty of this earth and the people on it and treasured that. For me, she was my idea of a true teacher--I don't remember any lectures or preaching from her. I just remember her living her truth and providing me with an example of living a gracious life.

I remember the one spanking that I got, if you could even call it that. Usually my brother and I were fighting, and we got sent to separate rooms to cool off.

But this time, my cousin and I were jumping on the big bed upstairs at Grandpa and Grandma's. Mom came up and spanked both me and my cousin Pat. It didn't physically hurt, but my feelings were "damaged" and I remember bawling my eyes out while Pat just laughed at her efforts with him. How she kept a straight face, I don't know.

One of the stories in our family is about Mom threatening to leave me in the ditch when I was being naughty in the car. I'd heard the story so many times that what I now think of as memories of that moment might be imaginations on my part. Anyway, true to her word, I got plopped off in the ditch while she drove a ways down the road. It worked--I bawled my eyes out again.

The ditch method and the slight spanking didn't work quite as effectively with my little brother. He was a bit more stronger willed--ha! I remember her being at her wit's end with trying to get him to stop breaking all the eggs in the chicken coop and feeding them to his dog, Charlie (Charlie had a nice, shiny coat). Spankings didn't phase him, so, as a last resort she broke some eggs over his head. I remember him "bawling his eyes out" on the front steps, egg yoke dripping down his face. But, I don't think that worked either.

Mom and Dad had eight kids, but neither of them played "the favorite" game. We were never compared to our sister or brothers--told to be more like one or the other. Mom was trained as a teacher and had taught a couple of years right before and for a year right after she was married. Both of my parents looked beyond the grades on the report card in the sense that I never felt they perceived anyone of us as being unintelligent. Our individual strengths were noted by them, but not bragged about to their peers.

And honestly, I could read, write and spell proficiently, but I had a hard time completing my thoughts and sentences while speaking--not so much at home, but around strangers and at school. Other family members had a wonderful ability to tell stories and were outgoing socially, while others were more quiet but were highly creative and inventive. Mom might call us by our list of siblings' names until she found the right one, but she was aware of the individual she was talking to.

And she loved her daughters- and sons-in-law, too. On the long drive home from Minneapolis the morning she died, my husband said that he felt like he'd lost his greatest advocate with me.

A couple years into my own marriage, Mom and I were driving down to Ludlow, SD to spend the day with my sister and her family. During the drive, I was complaining to her how terrible my husband was being with me--waa, waa, waa! Wise woman that she was, she let me vent, and then said, "Pen, you can say what you want to say about Kel, and that's okay, but I want you to know that nothing you say will change my opinion of him. You've got a good man." You see, her greatest fear for her two daughters was that they might end up with guys who abused them physically--and when we married the ones we did, she was greatly relieved.

Anyway, chagrined though I was in that moment, it was the most powerful gift she ever gave me. And, for the record, I've got a really good man.


"Pearl said, 'Dean married an angel.'" That's what a dear friend and neighbor of ours told us that Dad's mom said to her about our mother.

Mom died unexpectedly early on a Monday morning due to heart failure connected to a gall bladder attack. In retrospect, she'd spent the prior year getting ready to depart this earth--she was visiting old friends and reveling even more in the beauty of the earth and the moments she had left with loved ones. Everything was brighter, more significant.

Intuitively, I'd known she was leaving--I wrote a letter to her the week just before that was driven by the sense that I wanted her to know everything was going to be okay--that while it involved pain, there would be healing, too. I think I knew it was going to be good-bye, but I didn't really want to go there either.

Dad told me she'd chosen to stay home from going out to coffee at the Gateway that Sunday night in order to watch a TV movie entitled, "The Wedding Dress," starring Neil Patrick Harris--a favorite of ours from the "Doogie Howser" TV series. Kel and I were watching the same movie at the same time--a thought that has brought Mom closer and that's made me smile.

She had an attack in bed that night that was so bad that Dad took her the mile into town to the hospital. They gave her something to put her to sleep and told Dad it would be all right for him to go home and get some sleep. She told him she loved him when he went in to tell her goodnight--and his greatest regret, he told me later, was that he didn't say it back to her then. He woke up in the wee hours of the morning and got dressed to go back in to see her, but when he stepped outside of their home he saw a blue star arc upward from town across the sky, and he knew in that moment that she was gone.

You see, he found out something I learned years before when my boyfriend was killed in a motorcycle accident--don't walk away without telling those you love that you do love them (regardless of whether you're fighting with them or not in that particular moment). It might be the only chance you have. And regardless of what's happening on the surface of things, love is always there, through it all.

I stayed home with Dad the first couple of weeks after Mom had passed. He had to learn to wash clothes and to cook at the age of 72--and he did really well in the laundry department, but I don't think he had much of an appetite and that makes it hard to cook for oneself. He had grown a field full of corn and potatoes that summer, so he was delivering bags of potatoes to little towns all over the area--I got to go along.

He finally said to me, "Pen, Kelly needs you--you should go home to him now." So I loaded up my car and had one of the most heart-rending good-byes with my dad I'd ever felt. As I drove away out of town, I remember taking a deep breath and telling myself, "We're all going to be okay..."

On the way to Bowman the afternoon of the day Mom had died, Kel and I were turning off the interstate at Belfield, when I noticed a hitchhiker on the overpass. I just pulled over to offer him a ride--something I have never done before. He was headed west and we were headed south so he didn't take me up on my offer, but it was a portent of what lay ahead for me in the near future.

As I was making my return trip to Minneapolis, shortly after leaving Dad, I had the thought that if I saw a hitchhiker in Belfield, I was going to offer him a ride. Sure enough, there he was. I pulled over and he got in--he was going only as far as Dickinson--about 17 miles. He'd been trying to catch a ride south to look for work, but had had no success.

I asked where he was from and he named the town next to where I grew up. I told him my name was Penny and that my mom had died. That I was just returning to my home in the cities--at which point he said, "I know." I hadn't looked that closely at him prior, so that made me do a double-take. But he'd recognized me the moment I'd pulled over. Here was the guy who I had dated a couple of times prior to Kelly.

The last time I'd been home visiting my mom and dad in August (Mom died October 29, 2001), I'd told Mom I'd love to have the chance to see him again to say thanks, because he had treated me like a princess at a time when I didn't feel worthy of it. He was so sweet and considerate of me--what a gift! He was one of those reminders in my life to not pay attention to local gossip about people--people are worth getting to know, one-to-one, clean, bare slate.

Well--sitting beside me in my own car was my blessed opportunity. Thank you, my beloved friend, for changing your direction of travel in order to give me that miraculous moment. There was no way you could have possibly known my heart-felt desire. No one knew--except my mom. I felt as though it was her way of affirming, "Yes, Pen, you're all going to be okay..."

The Road I Took

There has always been a part of me within that has been the observer watching how I played the parts on the outside.

Until this past Sunday's excursion to church, I always thought that some part of me was longing to be a part of a group that gathered together like that--one that had regular get-togethers. This journey has been a really lonely one in some ways--I never really seemed to be able to mold myself to fit any kind of group for much length of time. There's been a bit of a rebel in me who just had to do it her own, sometimes messy, way.

I like sharing and hearing other's stories about life's journeys, but I dislike gossip--to be in the midst of it, much worse, participating in it, sucks me dry energetically. I realized it was too easy to fall into when my husband and I were having a simple conversation where one of us inquired of the other about that person's family member. It was simply the question, "How is so-and-so doing?"

But I realized that question caused my protective defenses to come raging to the front--and I knew the same thing happened when my husband was asked the same type of question by me about one of his loved ones, regardless of what anyone did or didn't do. I also recognized for the first time that no one outside of that person, family member or not, could answer that question--and that what I was doing in that moment of trying to answer it was simply engaging in GOSSIP.

Once I realized what was going on, I explained what I became aware of to my husband and asked him to start talking only about ourselves with ourselves, instead of about other people. I realized that if I wasn't one of the two people in the relationship being discussed then I didn't need to be talking and my opinion didn't matter.

After a lifetime of playing "the meddler", it wasn't easy to let go at first, but once I'd practiced the idea, there was a tremendous release in realizing I wasn't intended to fix other people's lives. To honor them where they were in the present moment--to see the gift they were bringing me by playing that part at that time--was a great deal more satisfying and a whole lot less work and anxiety.

Sometimes someone may be playing out a choice that I am absolutely repulsed by, but because they had the courage to play that part out for me, they helped me by eliminating one choice of my own out of a potential of many. I got to voyeuristically see it without having to experience it. Or maybe I liked the consequences--then it would probably be a choice I'd try myself.

Speaking of not fitting into groups--I really tried the college thing, but I could only go so far with it, and then it was just too much. I got good grades, but it was too rigid for me. I was born the seventh child in a family of eight, and I idolized my parents and brothers and sister to the point that I parroted all of their beliefs as my own. As a result, I was a really good student--teachers generally liked me because I regurgitated with ease everything they taught me--but I had no idea who Penny was or what she believed.

It took me moving away from my family and home and into a city, something that was not easy for me to do--but I found myself, in amongst all those strangers. I had no past reputation to live up to, no expectations, no familiar roles to fall into--a book with blank pages waiting to be written on.

I still tried to fulfill the college degree, but every time I'd end up sick, physically, and emotionally, a wreck. Trying to conform and mold myself into what other's believed valuable and the "right" path just plain hurt, and it suffocated me even thinking about trying to do it all over again. I couldn't restrict and limit myself to that degree again.

I tried afterwards to just settle for a regular job--but I remember clearly asking myself on the floor of that packaging plant, "Is this who I am? Is this all that life is about?" I felt something curl up inside myself and die for a time. I remember after being on the job for a couple years, watching myself and my co-workers go through the routine of our days, robots simply going through the motions, settling for "insurance and financial security" doing a job that was taking us nowhere--like a hamster on a wheel. Thankfully, the the plant closed and moved to Mexico. And so much for security.

I tried more jobs later on, after years of staying home, trying to get pregnant--at least, that was my justification. But, I'd get tired of companies merging into corporations only to treat their employees as expendable, replaceable slaves. The safety bulletins would be posted all over, but the truth was, it was simply in order to comply with OSHA to keep from being fined. The rebel in me was still at the forefront, so I quit trying to be the person I thought everyone expected me to be--and I started looking at what I wanted to do and who I wanted to be in this life that was my own.

It's not been easy staying at home, not working in a manner in which you're rewarded with a steady paycheck. I used to cringe whenever anyone asked me, "So what do you do?" At first I'd just get red and mumble, "I'm home, and no, we don't have kids..." Later I'd just get defensive, and red, and try to joke, "Not a damn thing!"

Then, just lately, I realized I didn't need to justify it. I simply chose it "just because."

Now, I'm not trying to play out victimhood here--I, in fact, take full responsibility for my journey. In looking back, I see all of it simply as me finding my own way in this life. Sometimes I had to challenge the status quo of "getting a career, a man, children." Was that truly what life was about for me?

Something deep inside, all along, has been reminding me not to settle, and she's also been telling me to quit all the self-judgment and self-condemnation for not being like everyone else. And to replace those old task masters with self-compassion and honor and humor--quit taking myself so seriously.

You know, when I was at my lowest-feeling points, I used to look at my old classmates, family members and friends who I thought were "successful" and wonder how they did it. I envied them, and my jealous ego would kick in and I'd tell myself, hoping it was true, "They may look happy on the outside, but blah, blah, blah..." The old adage was true for me--I liked having company in my misery. I felt crappy about myself, thus the rest of the world was crappy, too. I could actually feel myself guiltily taking on that "I'm superior" attitude while I ripped the one I envied apart.

It was just a couple months ago on a drive with my husband, during which we were reminiscing about old classmates and friends (he'd just had a thirty year reunion) that I recognized and made that admission about myself. I realized that, in truth, I was really proud of all of my classmates and friends, many who have successful careers--and with that I wished them happy lives and fulfilling relationships, too. My green monster is gone finally--she dissipated with the simple acknowledgement that she was there in the first place, running my show.

So--I still don't have a job or a career or a degree or kids (and I'm finally liking that, and no longer just okay about it), but I still have this amazingly unique life--this gift of getting the chance to discover and be simply ME!

My observer is still present inside, but she feels a bit more in the forefront than she did in the past--I invited her here. And I am enjoying having her direct and participate in my roles on the stage of humanity--a stage that is truly a GIFT.

Removal of My Chip on the Shoulder

I just decided to see if I could finally do it--walk into a church service, my protective barriers down and my judgmental self adjourned.

I knew that my experiences in such places in the past were created out of my own perceptions and guardedness--and it was a guardedness on my part that felt as though it went way beyond this singular lifetime.

Granted, I remember a friend in the fourth grade who was concerned that I was "going to hell" because I'd never been baptized. Her concern caused me to search my own heart and mind to determine if I wanted to worship a god who made such conditions. I came to the conclusion that God had already baptized me using the rain from heaven. I later read that Holy water used to be the water priests washed their feet in--and I decided my rainwater was the better deal. Grin.

My sister and I used to attend various church services from time to time after my boyfriend's death. A priest and a minister in our little part of the state both gave sermons that I enjoyed. And then one day I got a phone call from one of the ladies in an "outreach" effort, and even though being the shy person that I was at the time, I had no qualms in firmly telling her, "NO! I am not interested!" I remember the silence on the other end of the line. No one was ever going to convert me--ha!

As I shared earlier, I went to Freeman Education seminars and took part in some activities with other groups of people. I recall one particular incident where a fellow juryman asked me to ask his own question of a defendant in a trial--putting words in my mouth. This was in setting up a common law court--and the man feeding me words saw himself as an older, and more experienced, devout Christian, who was magnanimously trying to teach me the ropes. Bless him for that moment, because it stuck with me.

I did not like asking a judgmental question--it especially did not resonate with me--of another person. I nicely (heaven forbid, I shake things up a bit and make a scene) asked it then--but, afterwards, I was so ashamed of myself for not speaking my heart instead, that I made the choice from then on that that was not going to happen again.

I also discovered I didn't like the mentality of groups of people--they seemed to not think for themselves or from their hearts. So that is why I never joined a Bible study group--I had too many previous experiences listening to what others said various scriptures meant. Too many of them had an ego-driven agenda on either side of an argument.

I determined to read the Bible on my own--and to let the meanings reveal themselves to me personally.

I was born into a family with a very diverse background of Christian faiths. My grandmother (Dad's side) was Presbyterian and my grandfather was Catholic. They chose to allow their children free choice in each one's faith. My mother's dad left Finland partly because the religious structure was so rigid there at the time.

I have Mormon, Catholic, Lutheran, Methodist, Assembly of God, and Non-denominational family members. And then there was our bunch--ha! I kind of relished our "heathen" image.

The truth is, I don't think one of us didn't believe in God, or that there was something greater than our human life. My mom's favorite reminder was, "Never judge another until you've walked a mile in his moccasins." We knew the story of Jesus and I used to try to stay awake until midnight, as a child, in hopes of seeing the Star of Bethlehem on Christmas Eve. We had a Bible and we had a children's book of Bible stories, which I remember looking at often.

I remember going to the movie theater in town to see the story of Jesus. I was really quite young at the time--it's a vague memory but with high impact. Due to the crucifixion scene being so sad and bloody and dark, I said to Mom afterwards (because of what she'd told me about movies previously that were troubling to me), "That didn't really happen, did it? It was just pretend?"

But this time Mom said, "Yes, that did happen."

I was repulsed by that image--to this day, I still shudder at anything that gory. In the early nineties, my husband and I went to a Good Friday service at an Evangelical church just kitty-corner from where we lived in the cities. They gave us all nails to hammer into the cross to remind us of what we did to Jesus--it was revolting and awful--I was already dealing with so much personal guilt and shame. That was like the last straw. I never returned. I was really ticked off at that. I thought church was supposed to be a place of peace, of safety, of comfort. I determined to stick to my walks in the pastures and around the lakes.

*I'm adding in this anecdote in February 2013: 
On my way home from the grocery store, I noticed the sign outside a church on my route. It read:

"God made the first valentine--out of two boards and 3 nails."????

Seriously...humorously...it sounds like an extremely horrifyingly-gory valentine. No thanks!

On my ten-and-a-half hour drive to go home to be with Dad the last 3 1/2 weeks of his life, I had the very strong feeling that Jesus need not have suffered such a horrible death. I believe his death was interpreted as a sacrificial necessity because the cultures at that time practiced sacrifice, and because the powers that were wanted to retain control of the masses. I didn't see the loving Father/God that I loved expecting that from any child of His. And I wasn't expecting my dad to suffer a long, miserable and pain-filled transition from life to death either. And I tried to share that idea with Dad, though I knew it was ultimately his choice as to how it happened--and I was ready to honor him in that.

My dad's transition was a huge life-changing moment for me. One that I will write about later. Let's just say that it's the reason I'm writing all of this now.

So, I had a HUGE chip on my shoulder regarding organized religion. And I worked long and hard to put myself in the proverbial moccasins of those who attend church. I've recognized for a long time that I had to be willing to shift my perspective, though my "little human" ego liked her little podium and her self-righteous indignation and victimhood. I'd been living the drama for so long, I was comfortable in it. It was my default setting.

So, yesterday's journey to church was monumental. Yes, it was still a busy, business-like place and yes, the doctrine and tradition was still there. And churches today are struggling for membership--and I felt that, too. And I felt the deep apology for "being human--a worthless sinner." But beneath ALL of that, I most strongly felt what I'd been seeking all my life, too--every single person there was desiring to be a kind and good and worthy person, just like me.

Everyone has his/her own way of finding the answers that satisfy. Some do it by going to church once a week--and it works for them. Who am I to deny anyone that which brings them personal peace and enlightenment and joy? And some are finding it in religious institutions. I still like my pastures, personally, but I also love connecting and socializing with people, too. I certainly don't want to limit myself to one type of individual who is just like me--I stagnate in that environment. And for me, it's all about growth, love unconditional, compassion, joy and honor.

I finally sat in that pew, breathing easily, enjoying the music and the sermon and people--my guard down, my heart open. And finally--there it was--I felt sincere gratitude for all those church-going individuals who've touched my life--they got me here to this incredible moment.

Conspiracies and Fear

At the age of nineteen, my dad toured the U.S. in a Hudson convertible and met people of all walks of life. He grew up during the Great Depression, saw the government slaughter thousands of cows when people in the world were starving—and spent the rest of his life looking for solutions to counteract the greed he saw running the planet. He loved people, kids and animals. And he loved the earth, and he chose to practice farming in a manner that returned to the soil the goodness that he harvested from it.

A dear friend of his who shared his vision of a greater, more compassionate world once said to Dad, "If I have two nickels in my pocket and someone in the world is lacking, then I have one nickel too many."

Dad took the expression to heart—and made a practice of giving away both of his nickels. We’d buy him gifts for holidays, and he’d pass them along to someone who "needed it more than he did." Needless to say, it wasn’t easy for our mom (a partner in raising eight kids), but she understood his intention and his passion, and she often told me that she learned long ago that it was useless to try and change him, or anyone else, but oneself.

As a result of my dad’s journeys, my siblings and I grew up on world bank and government conspiracies, UFOs and aliens (only made sense to me that God would create more than one type of human life form), stories of the Illuminati and the Tri-lateral Commission—to name a few. Dad would take off and be gone for days on end—I remember him calling to check in with Mom only once—her motto was, "No news is good news." And he had some chilling encounters with some very challenging individuals.

It was then only natural that I would delve into the things Dad talked about in order to, at first, simply make my own contribution to making this a better world. In the early nineties, there was a group in the Minneapolis/St.Paul area called Freeman’s Education, and this was a gathering place for people who were interested in the other side of stories not seen in mainstream media sources.

Dad had always told me to not believe everything that was printed in the newspapers or reported on TV, because all those sources were owned by pretty much the same group of individuals. And often people’s quotes were taken out of context or censored in order to fit the owner’s agenda.

In short, there really is no such thing as "unbiased" reporting by any human, whether intentional or otherwise. How we perceive our personal experiences is always going to influence how we perceive, and talk about, anything from that point on.

I had seen a film (this was shortly after the Jacob Wetterling kidnapping, which happened in a small town in Minnesota in the early 90s) on how some high-ranking officials were "allegedly" using kidnapped children for sexual abuse and snuff films. Now, to be honest, I had no way of knowing whether this film was true or not—I believed it to be so at the time. And it troubled me so greatly then that my taxes were being used in this manner, that I opted out of the tax system for a period of a few years.

That’s a whole other unpleasant period in my life, but one in which I walked away determined to be at peace within myself and to have my own answers to my own questions and to not rely on someone outside of me to tell me what is true or not.

I also came to the realization through this walk, that two people could take the same scripture like, "Render unto Caesar that which is Caesar’s, and render unto God that which is God’s"--and interpret it to mean exactly two polar opposites as to whether or not to pay taxes. I had no way of knowing which was right—they both made sense.

Also, I met people who were so frightened of the conspirators they were fighting against that they had a gleam in their eyes that was just as frightening as those who were "their enemy." It was disconcerting.

After going over here, and then over there, and every which direction someone outside of me told me to go, I finally arrived at the conclusion that all the answers for me would be found WITHIN MYSELF.

This, of course, is the time I picked up the Bible and read it all for myself, and I found scriptures that appeared to say to trust what you know within, instead of anyone outside—and I’ve held that to my heart and used it ever since.

I finally found the peace I was searching for all these years—and it lies here within me.

Yes, the world has quite a bit of chaos going on, but I believe that if I’m running around telling everyone to be afraid of conspiracies, other races, other religions, other sexualities, the devil, or food, water and fuel shortages—then I’m only contributing to the creation of more chaos and rioting, killing and greed—the very thing my own dad had set out to keep from happening.

I choose instead to remind each person that I touch of the power of LOVE--that he/she holds the goodness of God within himself/herself and to remember that. And when life gets scary and overwhelming, remember to go within to that SAFE and SACRED SPACE and just be still, BREATHE DEEPLY, until one’s own sense of peace has a chance to take over the reins of life.

Jesus’s reminder to "love your enemies" kept me searching within myself for a means to genuinely do that, and not just say the flowery words--while, secretly wanting to kill off my perceived enemy, instead.

May peace be with you…the GOODNESS of GOD is...