Proper Sorrow

(Top: Betty Edwards Coffman, Mr. Barnhill,
Flo Edwards Clanton, Maxine Edwards Blackburn;
Bottom: Georgia Edwards Rogers,
Anna Edwards Olson, Mary Edwards Putman)

My Aunt Betty died on Thanksgiving.
She was 95, and by all accounts, she was ready to Go Home. My mother wept when I told her that her older sister had passed. And now only two remain.

Why do we cry when people pass?

“Bett,” as she was known to the family, lived a long, full, blessed life of service to others. She was trained as a nurse, and at one time was in charge of the nurses in a large hospital system in Houston, Texas. She had seen it all, from births to deaths, and everything in between. She was ready to go.

Why are we sad when our loved-ones are no longer suffering on earth?

Aunt Betty had been going blind for several years. We used to play Scrabble together with a giant-sized version of the game. You could read the tiles from across the room. Bett had to hold them under a bright lamp she perched on her dining room table so she could scrutinize the characters.
For a while, the mother-in-law of one of Bett’s nephews lived with her to help her prepare meals, get dressed, and other basics of life. That went on for a couple of years until the caregiver required care of her own. Then Bett moved in with a granddaughter in the small, Central Texas town of Hamilton. She still beat me at Scrabble plenty of times.

Why do we mourn when a loved-one has escaped the physical frailties of this life?

I spent many summers at my Aunt Betty’s house. Truthfully, I think she and my Uncle Herbert were the only ones who could tolerate my pre-adolescent behavior. My cousins and I got along famously together—that’s a blog post for another time, after the statute of limitations has run out. I guess, for my cousins, that statute has expired with the demise of their mother.

Bett drove a 1960’s era Studebaker Lark. It was baby blue, had a standard transmission with three-speeds on the column, and no air conditioning. She used to take my cousins and me to the drive-in movies in the summer, and we’d lay on our bellies on the top of the car with its heavy-gauge steel roof to watch the show. There were no indentations on the top. We’d tell her, “drive like you’re running out of gas,” and she’d pop the clutch in and out and make the car lurch and pitch. We thought it was hilarious. I’m certain my uncle, had he known, would not have been as amused.

Why do we count it a loss when bodies wear out, minds begin to turn to mush, eyesight dims, and strength wanes until a final breath is taken, and a spirit is released from its earthly tent?  

I think it’s all about perspective. And when we mourn a loss, are saddened by a death, and weep for the dead, we’re missing the most important point in the universe. That loved-one is no longer in pain. The blind are now seeing with a clarity never before experienced. The maimed are whole, the crippled are strong once again, and the spirit has been returned to its Maker.

The Apostle Paul noted that he longed to die to be with Christ—even though he knew that to remain on this earth to continue the work of the Gospel was more profitable for the saints to which he wrote in his epistle to the Philippian church (1:23):

“…I am in a strait betwixt the two, having the desire to depart and be with Christ; for it is very far better: yet to abide in the flesh is more needful for your sake.”

Paul also wrote of Hope to the Thessalonian church (1 Thess. 4:13-14, 18)

 “…I would not have you to be ignorant, brethren, concerning them which are asleep, that ye sorrow not, even as others which have no hope.  For if we believe that Jesus died and rose again, even so them also which sleep in Jesus will God bring with him…Wherefore comfort one another with these words.”

My mother had five sisters and one brother. All but one have now transitioned from the imperfect to the Perfect. All were believers in Jesus Christ and His power to save. And while I am selfishly grieved that I will no long play Scrabble with Bett, and I am profoundly saddened that my cousins have lost their long-suffering mother, this sadness is tempered—even replaced—by the awesome realization that Aunt Betty went to sleep on Wednesday night, bed-ridden and blind, and woke up Thursday morning to see Jesus in all His glory with eyes that will never fail.

 

 

Biking Like Biden

 

Much ado has been made of late of the cycling accident sustained by President Joe Biden. Two things immediately come to mind: I think it’s excellent that a nearly 80-year-old can still get on a bike; secondly, toe clips are serious business, and not to be taken for granted. I’ve had my own share of run-ins with them.

For ten years, beginning in the mid 1990’s, I was fortunate to accompany the Houston Police Department Bicycle Relay Team on a series of long-distance rides across these fruited plains. We traveled from Houston to far flung places like Seattle, San Francisco, Edmonton, Boston, Kennebunkport, and Quebec City, to name but a few. The team has also trekked to Alaska—a trip of such timing and duration that I was unable to participate.

The point being, I consider myself somewhat experienced in the safe and satisfactory operation of self-propelled two-wheeled vehicles. And toe clips are part of the secret. Toe clips and toe cleats allow a cyclist to apply leg power through 360-degrees of a pedal arc. Instead of only pushing down as each leg falls through the pedal rotation, clips and cleats enable power on the upstroke—and develops some pretty impressive quad muscles in the process!

The problem with toe clips—and especially toe cleats—is that sometimes one (or both) feet can become entangled or trapped in the fixture, causing such calamity was exhibited by Mr. Biden—and completely documented—for the whole world to see. It was funny…but it wasn’t.
But I can top that.

It was no big deal for me to put in a 60-mile ride when I was training for the Relay treks. Admittedly, I would return home pretty well spent from the exertion, and sometimes “de-cleating” was a challenge after such a ride.

Toe cleats are bolted to the bottoms of biking shoes, and are mechanically “grabbed” by a mechanism on the pedal crank that replaces standard bike pedals. To de-cleat, one must kick one’s ankle outward, pivoting on the cleat. When road grit clogs the cleats, they can become obstinate about letting go…and that’s when things get interesting.

I remember riding up my driveway to the house, coming to a slow roll as I approached my garage, and beginning to twist my right ankle outward so that I could free my foot from the cleat and catch myself on the right side. Only the cleat wouldn’t let go.

Fully stopped, my balance now dependent upon equilibrium, I began to list to starboard, still struggling to free my right foot. I extended my right arm to steady myself against the wall of the house…but over compensated, and began to lean to the left. The left foot was still firmly cleated to the pedal, and so over and over I went, falling onto my left side. Body and bike fell as one, joined at the cleats. I rolled my shoulder to cushion the fall, and allowed the momentum to roll me onto my back.

And there I lay, on my back, legs in the air, and the bike above me, cleated to my feet. I actually laughed at the ridiculousness of the situation, and found relief in knowing no one had seen this ungraceful dismount from my bike. Only I wasn’t really “dismounted.”

I carefully shifted the bike to my left and gently rolled my body 90-degrees…and at that point, my right cleat finally let go.

Told you I could top Biden’s biking blunder.

I once invited the Leader of the Free World to mount my recumbent bicycle. That historic event occurred at the conclusion of the Relay Team’s 2004 ride from Houston to Quebec City, via Kennebunkport, Maine. That’s a story for another time…but I’ve got proof.

 

 

Things My Mother Taught Me

 

 
If you look in our kitchen cabinets you will notice that all the glasses are parked upside down. This is a throwback to my raising, and a mother who told us to place the glasses, cups, and mugs so to “keep the bugs out.” My mom was an excellent housekeeper, but no matter how pristine the kitchen might be, in our corner of Southeast Texas near the coast, all manner of creepy-crawly things would find their way into the cupboards. And so, to avoid having one of those giant flying roaches jumping into your face when you went to get a glass of water, we flipped ‘em over for safe storage against the varmints.

Recently, I was emptying the dishwasher at my parents’ house, and my 92-year-old mother admonished me to align the berries on the sides of the cereal bowls as I stacked them in her cupboard. So maybe there is a touch of OCD-ness there, too.

Mom taught me how to scramble eggs at the age of four, standing on a kitchen chair so that I could see the iron skillet on top of a gas range. I think this was in response to my failed attempts to successfully crack an egg for frying, and the ensuing mess was only fit for the scrambled variety. Mind you, all my cooking lessons were pre-microwave. We cooked by look and smell, texture and viscosity. Dishes were washed and dried by hand by me and my siblings.

Mom can still cook, although it takes her a little longer to get around in her “modern” kitchen. There’s an island in the middle the size of Manhattan, complete with electric cooktop, power outlets, and even a small sink. She’s graduated to microwave ovens and Keurig coffee makers, but still keeps a rudimentary can opener on the counter top. She prefers to hand-ladle cherry pie filling into a dough crust instead of Mrs. Smith’s boxed variety, and freezes every meal’s left overs for later use.

Things our mothers teach us last a lifetime.