Instagram is Instafun!

I love me some Instagram.  Although I haven't been blogging much in the last couple of years, I have been pretty busy on Instagram.  It is a quick and interesting way to connect with people and share vignettes of your day.  It doesn't take too much effort which is what I have needed as I learn to live with lupus.

Here are some recent shots from my Instagram feed.

Her head is as big as my lap. #LapDog

Ruh Ro!

I'm not a real phlebotomist.  I just play one at UCLA.

Pardon me while I get my snorkel and flippers.

Snoozin'

Inviting...

Don't mess with Mama Mia's apricots.

I told her no.  She didn't take it very well.

Stop and smell the roses.

Apparently she thinks I've crafted enough for the day.
She keeps nudging me from underneath the table.

Can you see them?  #TinyTangerines

Who needs kids?  She follows me everywhere...even to the privy.

Tell me...are you on Instagram?  Why not?  Put your username in the comments.  I'd love a peek into your daily wanderings.  Come see me on Instagram at Rainydaydiamonds.

Someday, when she asks, I will tell her...

I love Jesus.  He loves me.  He told me how he would like me to live my life.  He even made sure to write it down.  He told me to hate sin in myself and others.  He told me to abstain from immorality...even flee it like Joseph.  He told me not to lie, cheat, steal, covet, worship other gods, get drunk, have sex before or outside of marriage and never, ever, with another woman.  In fact, he deals pretty harshly with that kind of stuff - even taking the lives of rule breakers.  I try to live my life the way he asks me to, not because I'm afraid of the consequences, but because I'm so dang thankful that he loves me and rescues me from myself time and time again.  I don't want to disappoint that kind of love and devotion.

So what do I do with the fact that my niece is gay?

My niece is hardworking, kind, smart, loving, loyal, tenderhearted, committed, funny and has integrity.  AND, she is gay - actively living a gay lifestyle in a committed, monogamous, married relationship and adopting a child.  Her wife is an amazing woman.  She is filled with grace, not in a theological sense, but in a way that allows others to be who they were created to be.  She feels deeply for the joys and sorrows of others, she has vision to better the futures of others.  She loves people and that truth radiates from her presence.  Without her, my niece would have been lost, perhaps lost to us forever, so great was her pain and angst.  She says this woman "saved her".  For that I am thankful.

So what do I do with the truth that my niece is gay?  

As a Christian who believes the Bible and does not espouse gay marriage, what do I do with that?  

Do I preach to her the evil of her ways?  

Do I refuse to acknowledge her partner?

Do I inch away from her each time she sits near me?  

Do I grudgingly congratulate her on the addition to her family, using air quotes as I utter the word family?  

Do I simply avoid the situation altogether?

I'm not particularly sure there is any other answer than to love her AND her wife AND her daughter.  I will do life with her.  I will rejoice when she rejoices and weep when she weeps.  I will laugh and cry, eat and drink, work and play with her.  And someday, when she asks, I will tell her about Jesus.  In the meantime, I will pray for the Holy Spirit to trouble her soul, for the Father to draw her and for Jesus to save her.  AND her wife.  AND her daughter.  Because that's what HE does.

"He has showed you, O man, what is good. And what does the Lord require of you? To act justly and to love mercy and to walk humbly with your God."  Micah 6:8

On a scale of 0 - 10, I'd say today is a...

It seems I live my life by the numbers.  400 mgs of this.  2.5 mg times 8 of this.  2000 mg of that.  6000 IU of this.  20% of that.  All in pursuit of the elusive ZERO.

At any give moment, I am in pain.  Most days it lurks just under the surface of my consciousness effecting my mood and energy level but not at the forefront of my attention.  On days like this Mama Mia often asks me if I'm in pain.  I stop and think a minute and answer in the affirmative.  She just nods and says, "You were moaning."  I guess I moan and groan under my breath and don't even realize it.  I'd call this a 3 or a 4.  Other times, the pain greedily absorbs all of my attention and drives me to my bed where sleep is the only respite.  I'd call this an 6 or 7.  Only one time, thankfully, has the pain reduced me to tears.  I called that an 8.  Pain, you see, is measured on a scale of 0 - 10.

So far the only pain meds I've used are the anti-inflammatory that is a daily friend and extra-strength Tylenol.  I am one of the lucky ones who haven't had to use narcotics.  I'm hopeful I will be able to avoid the use of these drugs as I have been blessed  *snort* with a high pain tolerance.

Recently, my doctor has put me on a leave of absence from work to try and get a handle on my lupus.  I am able to function at work, but it takes everything out of me.  I rest diligently over the weekends and begin to feel much better, but by Tuesday afternoon, I am toast.  Two steps forward and three steps back.  With the new meds I am on, we are making progress, but I need some space to rest and give my body a fighting chance.  I also need to get off the steroids that can have nasty side effects.  Taking so much time off was a VERY hard decision for me because I feel like I'm letting my students and staff down, and I have never been a quitter.  But finally, Mama Mia and my doctor talked me into it.  I will be off at least until the end of May but perhaps even until next school year.  And you know what?

IT'S WORKING!

I snagged the elusive ZERO for the first time in nearly 2 1/2 years.

For two days last week, I had ZERO pain.  Zip!  Zilch!  Nada!

For the second time, the pain has made me cry.  This time tears of thankfulness and hope.

That, on a scale of 1-10...is a TEN!

*cough* *cough* Pardon me while I blow the dust off...

Things tend to get a bit dusty when left unattended for nearly nine months.  *sneeze* *cough*

Life has been a bit...busy?  Yes and no.

Life has been a bit taxing?  Yes and no.

Life has been a bit...

Well, let's just say it has been full of challenges and pain and frustration and learning and fatigue.  OVERWHELMING FATIGUE.

Nearly three years ago, when I began noticing swelling in my feet and lower legs, then my hands, then my face, I never could have predicted that I would find myself living with a chronic illness.  But that is where I am today.  I am LIVING with a chronic illness.  An illness that will never go away.  An illness that has no cure.  An illness that COULD, but in all probability WON'T, kill me.  An illness that can be kicked into remission.  But one that will return and flare as it wills.  An illness that will never again allow me to have "fun in the sun".  An illness that, at times, robs me of memory and words and the ability to think clearly and quickly.  An illness that, while a result of Original Sin, is not a result of any particular sin on my part.  An illness that is not because I NEED to learn something.  But an illness that WILL teach me a great many things.

So, while life has been busy...new job, monthly 200+ mile trips to UCLA, remembering when and how and where to take all the new meds and supplements I'm on...life has also been slower.  I am no longer able to accomplish what I used to.

And, while life has been taxing...see above...it has also been less active.  There have been months where I have been unable to do much more than work.  Literally coming home from work, eating dinner and falling into bed only to sleep till the last possible moment before getting ready for work in the morning.  Weekends spent in bed, sleeping 18-20 hours a day while my immune system worked overtime killing the very cells it was created to protect.

My mom has been my rock through all of this.  She has gone to every single doctor's appointment with me...Every.  Single.  One.  She has washed countless loads of laundry when my arms were too sore and weak to lift the clothes from the washer and hang them to dry.  She has prepared my breakfast, lunch and dinner nearly every weekday for two years.  She has changed my sheets when I was sick TIMES THREE with a cold, the stomach flu and this disease.  She even ventured out to the store at 6 o'clock on a cold, winter morning to buy grape popsicles to rehydrate my pathetic self when the multi-tasking I had done all night on the toilet *ahem* drained me of all moisture.

This weekend I feel the best I have felt in a long, long time.  Perhaps the doctor has found the right combination of medications.  Perhaps my immune system has decided to say "Uncle" and take a breather.  I don't know.

But I do know that in the last three days this is the list of all I accomplished.  It may not impress you, but it near brings me to tears.

• Saturday
• Took the dogs to the dog park and walked about a mile
• Cooked breakfast
• Showered
• Walked around the Home & Garden show for an hour
• Blew bubbles for my dog to chase
• Ran AN errand
• Sunday
• Took the dogs to the dog park and walked about a mile AGAIN
• Went out for breakfast
• Blew bubbles for my dog to chase
• Monday
• Showered
• Ran FOUR errands
• Wash TWO loads of laundry AND hung it to dry

This may not seem like much, but the fact that I did not nap at all, barely limped when doing all this walking and don't have crushing fatigue, intense joint and muscle pain and crippling brain fog is MONUMENTAL!

I am living with LUPUS, and I fight like a girl...a girl on steroids!

One Pi$$ed Off Teacher

The more I think about it, the more ticked and frustrated I become.  If I hate school these days, how to my students feel?  I know how they feel.  They either hate school more than me, about as much as me, or they love school because they would love it no matter what - regardless of how relentlessly we pound them for THE TEST and bleed everything interesting and the least bit curiosity piquing out of the school day.  And believe me, we have!

From 8:03 to 2:04, Monday through Friday I teach nothing but English Language Arts and Math.  AD NASEUM!  I do it the same way, everyday, every hour, every minute because I have been instructed to use the "adopted curriculum" and forbidden to deviate from it.  I must pound the Key Standards into my students' heads and ensure they have mastery.

We do nothing new, nothing novel, nothing inspiring.

No assemblies (except to "motivate" them for THE TEST)!

No field trips!

No art!

No science!

No history!

No music! (Save for a handful who choose to play instruments.)

No drama!

No outside speakers!

No silent reading with books of their own choosing!

My students can predict each day, down to the second what we will be doing because it has been scheduled and dictated.

Are my scores on THE TEST improving?  Yes.

I teach them daily how to "beat the test" with test-taking strategies.

Can't divide?  Multiply all the possible answers by the smallest number in the problem.  When you get the largest number in the problem, you have found the answer.

Don't know whether to add, subtract, multiply or divide in a word problem?  Look at the multiple choice answers.  If they are larger than the numbers in the problem, you either add or multiply - now do both with all the possible combinations till you find the answer.  If they are smaller, you either subtract or divide.

Are my students equipped to contribute to a democratic society?  No.

They haven't the slightest idea about democracy - no one is teaching them.

Are my students better learners?  No.

I don't teach them HOW to learn; I teach them WHAT to learn.

Are my students more curious than they were before?  No.

Are they less curious and less interested in learning because school is so dreadfully boring and tedious?  Yes.

Would I be willing to work harder and longer for the same pay if I could inspire kids to become curious and fall in love with the wonder of learning?  If I had the chance to fall in love with school again?

YES!

Freed

Last weekend, I returned to Northern California for my father’s memorial service.  Taking a train, a bus and a car, I arrived once again in my hometown wondering how I would be received.  I needn’t have worried.  AGAIN, my Daddy went before me, preparing the way as only He can.

It could have been awkward, oh so VERY awkward.  You see, the folks in attendance fell into one of three categories. 

1.  My family members and a few (very few) friends of my father who knew about me and know me personally.

2.    Friends of my father who knew I existed and knew of the circumstances but also knew some things just weren’t talked about.  Awkward.

3.    Friends of my father and brothers who had no earthly idea who I was, let alone that there was such a thing as my father’s daughter.  AWKWARDLY AWKWARD!

I lost count of how many times his oldest and dearest friends shook my hand with the words, “I didn’t know Dave had a daughter.”  There was the man who was my father’s boyhood cohort in crime.  There was the man for whom my father served as best man.  There was the man who worked for my father for years and years.  But amazingly, I didn’t feel the least bit uncomfortable.  God gave me the grace to simply smile and greet each person warmly without ever feeling the slightest unease.  That, in itself, is a miracle because meeting new people in the best of circumstances is not the easiest endeavor for me.  I just fake it very well.

And then God gave even more.  He gave insight into my father’s feelings for me through the words of the lovely women who lived next door to him for more than 20 years.  She affirmed through recollections of my father’s confidences in her that he thought of me often, regretted the past and truly loved me.  She put voice to my assumption that, after so many years, he simply didn’t know how to redeem the past from his choices and misdeeds.  They simply overwhelmed him.

Then there was this lady, a dear friend of my grandparents.  One of the old guard from when the little berg where my father grew up was known more for dinner parties than drug raids.  When the Ladies’ Study Club boasted more members than the Medical Marijuana Cooperative.  She falls squarely into Category Number Two.  Her warm greeting and kind words carried symbolism I didn’t know I needed.  It was as if I was being ushered into my father’s world.  Out of respect for him, they had waited all these years to acknowledge me, and now was my time.  I bear the stigma no more.

The death of my father has freed me.  Not from anything.  My Savior has done that.  It has freed me for something.

To be continued…  

What the Locusts Have Eaten

I'm not sure how to organize my thoughts about the last couple of weeks.  They are still a jumble of ahas and impressions and blessings.  Forgive me if I ramble or jump around from thought to thought, but I want so much to share before the wonder flies away.

In January my sister-in-law called to say my father had come to live with them for health reasons, and there were no guarantees about how long he would be with us.  Because of my own health issues, Mama Mia and I had to postpone any visits until my Spring Break.  However, when my sister-in-law called again a couple of weeks ago with the news that my father was failing, Mama Mia, the Boxer Babes and I loaded ourselves into the SUV and drove 500 miles to the Northern California Coast.

In order for you to understand the potential for awkwardness and difficulties that surrounded this visit, you must know some of my history.  I don't share this to illicit sympathy, for God long ago healed the hurts and revealed time and time again how he has made something beautiful out of the ugliness of my childhood.

When I was not much more than a year old, my father, who already had one broken marriage and two small sons behind him, chose alcohol and infidelity over my mom and his infant daughter.  Hurting terribly, I imagine, he made the decision, when the judge awarded full physical and legal custody to Mama Mia, as judges were wont to do in the late 60's, not to have a relationship with me at all even thought we lived in the same small town.  During my elementary school years, he would park his company truck in front of my house and walk to the neighborhood bar on the corner.  Now through my adult lens, I imagine he ached for just a glimpse of me, but through the eyes of a child, it was salt in a gaping wound.  During my high school years, he lived a block and half away, only reaching out to me – through his third wife – when I was graduating amidst scholarships and awards.  I saw this as too little, to late and chose not to reconnect at that time.  Three or four years later, during college, I contacted him and we became acquaintances of a sort, seeing each other every few years, usually in a bar over coke for me and vodka for him.

Given my beginnings, I am incredibly grateful that God redeems what the locusts have eaten.  I am able to live without bitterness and anger and walk in forgiveness even though at times, I still ache for the little girl who never knew what a daddy's arms felt like or what affection looked like shining in his eyes.  Several years ago, I challenged God to prove what he says in his Word.  “I will be a father to the fatherless.”  I call HIM my daddy now, even addressing him as Daddy in prayer and in my journal.  I am no longer fatherless or even daddyless.  I haven't been for a long time.

I was more than a little anxious about what Mama Mia and I would encounter when we arrived in my hometown.  How would we, a long ago ex-wife and a daughter/sister who had not been “part of the family” be received?  Again, as he loves to do, my DADDY, paved the way.  My brother and his wife welcomed us warmly, made us feel comfortable and blessed us with the overwhelming care, love and compassion they lavished on my father as he lay slipping away, unable to care for even his most basic of needs.  My sister-in-law, whom this man belittled for years, spoke words of affection and love, combed his hair gently and coated his drying lips with Burt's Bees even as he lay unable to speak and respond save for small squeezes of a hand or the barest whisper of movement from his limbs.  My brother, the firstborn and namesake who, I suspect, never felt like he “measured up”, smoothed grey, wispy hair from my our father's thin, pale face, choking up as he listened to the “death rattles” portending a soon coming passage.

Over the next couple of days, Mama Mia and I spent hours with my brother and his wife over meals, sharing conversation and meals and snatching little bits of time with my father here and there.  Our visit ended with Mama Mia and I both content that we had said goodbye and could look back with no regrets.  Five hours into our journey home, my father passed.

To be continued...