Memorial Arboretum

Bishop Rev. Dr. Megan Rohrer asked, "In the midst of the AIDS crisis people found ways to lament, celebrate beloveds and memorialize the magnitude of the disaster. How will we communally grieve all we have lost to COVID?"

She posted a picture of herself, in a mask, walking in an outdoor space amongst pieces from the AIDS quilt.  We are at the 40th anniversary of the realization that we had a new disease, the disease we would call AIDS, that was stalking the gay population, so her picture and her question seems poignant.

My first thought did go to quilts:  gathering frayed fabrics and turning them into a larger, more meaningful creation, one that has a larger purpose.

Here's what I wrote.

I was thinking about COVID, how it robs people of breath. What might symbolize breath, lungs, community, those things lost, appreciation for those things regained? 

I have a vision of an arboretum or a garden in each city, with a place for names, with meditational spots for people to sit and process or simply be with their grief. I see a labyrinth where people who need movement to process life have an opportunity, and a labyrinth seems symbolic of this disease too--we're at different places on the path, we may feel separate and spaced out, but we're together. 

If each community/city across the nation and world created their version of an arboretum or garden, with native plants, we'd help heal the planet in other ways too.

And then I continued to think about this idea.  

I like that this kind of memorial could have spiritual overtones or not, depending on who is there to experience it.  And it would be ecumenical.

I like the idea of large trees, of creating memorial spaces that preserve large trees.  That seems important as a symbol, but also to the health of the planet.  I spent some time on Sunday driving through housing complexes that have gotten rid of all the trees, and how depressing that is.  

I'm also thinking of the newer research that shows that trees are more communal creatures than we once thought.  They are not solitary bulwarks.

This kind of memorial, a garden and/or arboretum, would require some amount of care.  But if we couldn't be sure the care would be there, a community could create a wild pasture/woodland/desert kind of approach--let the natural process take care of itself.

Days of Death and Leaves

This morning, I went to Facebook, as I often do first thing, as I often wish that I didn't.  I try to justify my Facebook scrolling as a spiritual practice, but I often forget to do the thing I resolve to do, which is pray as I scroll. 

Some days, there is much praying to do--and I'm not even talking about people's political posts.

This morning, I went to Facebook and found 2 different friends had posted about the death of their mothers.  What are the odds of that?

One mother was sick and in hospice, so the news wasn't unexpected.  The other mother wasn't sick, but she was 89 years old.  I wrote messages of sympathy while I prayed.

I think of a few months ago when my friend sent me a Facebook message saying, "My mom died today."  I knew that she was sick, so I wasn't surprised.  I replied right away.

I am fascinated by how we are using these new technological tools.  I know more immediately when someone has died--or at least, I do if I'm connected that day and/or if the algorithm thinks it's important enough to show it to me.  I can offer sympathy immediately.

As with past tools, I am aware of the inadequacy of offering sympathy, whether by way of cards or Facebook message.

This week, I have already been thinking about this time of year in the higher latitudes, when autumn closes in and begins the shift to winter.  I think about the feast days of All Saints and All Souls.  In this time of the time change, the day seems to slip away even faster, which makes me also think about how quickly the year has slipped away and in an even larger sense, how quickly life slips away.

Let me resolve to seize the life that is left.  Let me appreciate my loved ones, particularly my mom, while we're all still on this side of the grave.

Fierce Joy: A Nonviolent Form of Resistance

Like many of us who went to bed with the shooting of El Paso, Texas on our brains only to wake up to find that there was ANOTHER mass shooting in Dayton, Ohio--I, too, have been left gobsmacked by 2 mass shootings in one day--less than a day. Madness. I wonder if people felt this way in the late 60's/early 70's when there was so much violence: assassinations, bombings, etc.

I don't have any ideas of what one might do. I'm not sure I think that stricter gun control will help. We have fairly tough gun laws now.

Of course I think it all speaks to a deep not-wellness part of our society.  I think that technology leaves us isolated--and now, even worse, leaves us ANGRY and some of us don't have good ways to handle that. I don't really know how to deal with that as a society, just as much smaller communities. And fixing things in smaller communities, like our households or our schools, can't protect us from the ones who aren't interested in the fix. I can still be gunned down by an isolated crazy person who decides to shoot up a school or a church or a grocery store.

I think of various writers and theologians who have said that despair is the deadliest of the deadly sins--of course, many of them use different language, but it boils down to this idea. And a fierce commitment to joy is a way of beating back despair.

So, on to happier subjects.  Let me think of things that I can control, things that bring me joy.  The butterfly garden isn't as active as it once was. We haven't been able to see any more butterflies being born since that first week when the 36 caterpillars went into their chrysalises and then emerged. But that's O.K. For one thing, it's given the milkweed plants (the only food the caterpillars that become monarchs eat) a chance to recover. I go out to the plants several times a day, and so if nothing else, it's solace for me. And I do think it makes the concrete wasteland of a parking lot just a bit more beautiful--and there's a tiny green space, where before there wasn't.

It's the teeniest, tiniest way to save the planet, but it's one of the ways I can do it right now.

And it's a larger project even than taking care of the planet. It's a kind of self-care that seems increasingly important in these days. I've been taking joy in some cooking and of course, writing. I think it's important to find joy where we can--a different kind of resistance to the evil in the world.

So today, let's commit to whatever brings us fierce joy.  Let's use our fierce joy to combat the forces of hate and violence in the world.  Let's create a world that's so much more appealing than the one offered by those forces of hate and violence.

Week of Losses

This has been a week of loss.  On Monday, I heard about the death of John Singleton, director of Boyz in the Hood and other important films.  I was struck by how young the director was--50, just a few years younger than my age of 53.  The death of someone in my age neighborhood always spooks me a bit, but especially when they've done important work and could have done more important work, if given the time.

It spooks me even more when a younger person dies.  The news of the death of Rachel Held Evans hit me hard yesterday.

She had been in medical trouble for a few weeks, but because she was 37, I thought she'd pull through.  She had flu, got antibiotics, and her brain started having seizures.  She was put into a medically induced coma, and on Friday, her condition worsened.  She died yesterday.

I first became aware of her through her blog, and her blog was always my favorite of her writing.  I read Searching for Sunday, underlined a few spots, but ended up passing the book along, as I knew I wouldn't reread it.  I've been trying to remember if I read her book about Biblical womanhood--I feel like I might have.

But I'm sad about the work she won't be able to do now.  I know that her work gave many people hope in the face of doubt, and I thought it would be interesting to see how she weathered the storms that come with mid-life and old age.  She had already shown refreshing honesty in the face of serious questions and opposition.

I'm also stunned that she was in the hospital, but died anyway.  I tend to see the hospital as a place to avoid at all costs, so I'm surprised at my surprise.  I'm also fretful because a friend of mine is in the hospital with some sort of intestinal blockage.  I'm spooked here too.

It's been the kind of week with all sorts of reminders of our mortality, along with other losses.  I've had lots of weeks of stress at work, and my spouse found out this week that he will not even be interviewed for the Philosophy position that was open at his favorite campus. 

In many ways, so many of our dreams and fervent hopes have come true, like this house.  But this week reminded me, again and again, that time is short, and it could come crashing to a halt all too soon.

We ended the day by listening to the Chanticleer CD How Sweet the Sound: Spirituals & Traditional Gospel Music; I am listening to my spouse sing along on "Amazing Grace," his beautiful voice merging with the awe-inspiring voices on the CD. It was appropriate for a day when we lost Rachel Held Evans, an amazing voice gone too soon, and a week of other losses.

Mourning a Mother Who Isn't Mine

This morning, as I reached for cumin to spice my refried beans mixture that I was creating for lunch, I almost chose the curry powder.  My mind zipped around a bit, thinking about most of the curry dishes that I don't like, and then a soup from long ago that I did like.

And suddenly, I stood in my kitchen, staring out the window at the early morning darkness, mourning a mother who isn't even mine.

Long ago, when I worked at a community college in South Carolina, one of my colleague friends had her parents down for a visit.  Her mother was teaching her daughter some soup recipes, and my friend brought us the extras. 

We ate a soup made of grated apples, potatoes, yogurt and cumin, which was so delicious that I got the recipe and made it for years.  I always blended it for luxurious smoothness.  The ingredient list sounds boring, but the soup is wonderful.  I'll have to dig it out of my files.

I thought of the path travelled by my friend, her mother, and her daughter.  The mother is still alive, but lost to Alzheimer's.  My friend has told me all the ways that her mother is no longer the mother she once knew--for example, once she hated applesauce, and now she can't get enough.  And yet, the mother she knew is still in there somewhere.  Once they sang hymns together--somehow the mother still knew them, even though she wasn't sure she knew her daughter, my friend.

I have gone through a similar process with my grandmother, although I didn't live with her, so I didn't experience the same agony.  My grandmother became sweeter as she lost her memories.  I don't think my friend is that lucky.

I'm thinking of all the losses that come into a regular life.  In a way, it's a mournful way to start the day.  I can remember my friend's mother when she was a vibrant woman, the kind of older woman I hope to be. I think of all the mothers I remember this way.

Let me change this mourning to gratitude.  I am grateful to have these examples of how to live a life.  I'm grateful to have known mothers who are not mine.  Although I don't have the daily interactions with my friend that I did when we worked in the same place, we still stay close--a similar trajectory that I share with many friends.  It's s different kind of soup, nourishing in a different way.

Rituals of Grieving

It's been a difficult week at work.  By now, our school's loss of a gifted faculty member has made national news:  on Saturday, Patrick Peacock, a skilled diver with advanced certifications, died over 200 feet underwater in a cave.  Most of us have spent a stunned week trying to make sense of it all.

Of course, on some level, no sense can be made.  It's a dangerous cave, but he had successfully navigated it before.  He had the skills and the equipment--but equipment can fail, and even the most experienced divers can face challenges.  He was only 53.

I've wondered if we'd all be reacting the same way if he had died in a car crash.  Probably.  Our students have made a shrine.  They'd have done that regardless of the method of death.  We'd have cried.  We still would have had a piercing moment when we have to look at our lives and evaluate:  are we doing what we were put on earth to do?

I've been touched by how many students have had his classes and how he has affected them as a teacher.  I've been an adjunct for as many years as I've taught full-time, and I'm happy to know that adjuncts don't necessarily have less of an impact on students' lives.

Tomorrow I'll go to the memorial service.  I've spent the week thinking about the rituals that humans create to help them navigate life's passages.  I listened to Terry Gross interview Jonathan Safran Foer recently on an episode of Fresh Air; she says, "Well, you know, you mentioned ritual and the importance that some rituals have taken on in your life. You write about that in a paragraph in the book, where Jacob is thinking - and this is after his grandfather dies - he's thinking, Judaism gets death right. It instructs us what to do when we know least well what to do and feel an overwhelming need to do something. You should sit like this. We will. You should dress like this. We will. You should say these words at these moments, even if you have to read from transliteration. I think that really captures very well (laughter) how ritual can be very helpful at times when you don't know what to do or what to say or how to dress. And, you know, the Jewish rituals for mourning the dead tell you what to do for all those things."

I suspect that tomorrow's memorial service won't have any kind of liturgy.  I suspect that I will miss it.

To Touch the Face of God

Thirty years ago this morning, the space shuttle Challenger exploded.  I happened to be in a car and heard the news on the radio.  It wasn't until hours later that I saw the footage. 

I was not a fan of President Reagan, but he had some leadership skills that I've come to admire.  The man knew how to deliver a speech, as we might expect from someone who made his living as an actor before becoming a politician.  He was also blessed with some wonderful speech writers, like Peggy Noonan, who wrote the speech that he delivered after the loss of the Challenger.

The whole text of the speech can be found here.  It's a masterful work, from the beginning to the end. He talks directly to the family members of the crew and the other NASA workers.  He talks to the nation's schoolchildren, who would have been watching when the first civilian teacher in space was lost.  He talked to the nation, with stirring words about exploration and the continuation of what's been started.

I continue to be in awe of the conclusion of the speech:  "The crew of the space shuttle Challenger honored us by the manner in which they lived their lives. We will never forget them, nor the last time we saw them, this morning, as they prepared for their journey and waved goodbye and 'slipped the surly bonds of earth' to 'touch the face of God.'"

I find that image of astronauts touching the face of God to be a profound one, and I'm not sure why.  Astronauts go where most of us won't, so that's an aspect.  But I must also confess that I don't spend much time thinking about God as having a face.  What would it look like? 

It's also a very intimate image, an image of love and comfort.  It's the perfect way to end the speech that struck the perfect notes in the perfect combination, notes of comfort and courage and inspiration.

The Fate of the Musical Instruments

My spouse and I spent part of Veterans Day talking about the musical instruments.  What to do with them?

You might say, "Why, play them, of course."

Once we might have agreed.  Once we moved in and about communities that would have encouraged that:  weekly folk music group meetings, regular retreats, church groups, you know the possibilities.

But now we don't have as many opportunities to play the instruments.  We don't have a house where we can leave them sitting out on the off chance that we pick them up when we find ourselves with 15 minutes of free time.  We don't have much storage space.

And then, there's the larger issue of whether or not we might do good in the world by giving them away.  We've already given some of them to an urban Lutheran church which has a program to try to keep children from being attracted to gangs.

We might give them to that church or we might take them to a retreat center.

How did we come to have all these instruments?  The usual way:  we had some from childhood, some we adopted, some we bought because we saw a good deal or we had an idea that we would learn something new.  We picked up a few along the way because we got them free when we spent a certain amount of money at the big chain instrument store.

We accumulated many of them while my mother-in-law lay dying, a death by medical-industrial complex that took almost four months.  Along the way, I joked uneasily about the buying of instruments as being one of the stages of grief that Elisabeth Kubler-Ross never discussed.  We spent many an evening shopping for instruments, for sheet music, for a variety of supplies like picks, strings, and cases.

We've sent many of those instruments on to new homes.  It just wasn't practical to have a drum kit set up in the living room.  We didn't need several cheap guitars that we didn't have time to learn to play.

The instruments that are left are harder:  the pair of mandolins that we bought ourselves for a wedding anniversary, the interesting drums that we've picked up on our travels, and the extra violins.  I'm not sure what decisions we will make.

I realize that part of what makes it hard is the same dynamic involved in getting rid of books and getting rid of art/craft supplies:  it forces us to come face to face with past spending and with our hopes that never materialized.  I'm not sure which reckoning is harder.

That's why I like the idea of giving all of them to groups that work for peace and justice.  I want that transformative power.  I like the idea that just because the hopes and plans that I had for me didn't work out, that the musical instrument/books/arts and crafts supplies can help others.

What the Dead Teach Us

Earlier this year, my best friend from high school who was also my former housemate died.  I say best friend from high school--but best friend doesn't really convey the bond we had.  I came to the school in the 10th grade, and we weren't friends until my Senior year.  It's because of that Senior year that I remember high school fondly.  We had been lonely, and then a group of us found each other.  If you have spent time hiding out in the library because you can't face eating your lunch alone and then you found yourself having several best friends in your last year of school--then perhaps you can understand how "best friend from high school" doesn't really do justice to the relationship.

She was also a housemate for 4 years--but that phrase, too, doesn't really do justice to what we created.  We were an odd family, but a family nonetheless, my spouse, my high school best friend, our undergrad friend, and me.  We ate dinner together most nights. We remodeled houses together.  We took vacations together.  We did the tough work of figuring out how to live in community, and we reaped many benefits.

Here's what I find odd.  This week was her birthday.  For most of the years that she was alive, her birthday came and went, and I seldom thought of it.  This year, I was keenly aware.

Would I have been aware if her birthday hadn't fallen so close to All Saints and All Souls?  I think so.  I find myself thinking of her often.  Just this morning, I put my raspberries and yogurt in a plastic container to take to work.  I thought of the time that we were at Sam's Club and bought the containers for the communal household.  I felt a tinge of sadness as I spooned the yogurt over the berries.

Would I have remembered buying those containers had she not died?  Yes, I would.  But the tinge of sadness is what makes me take note.  Before she died, it would have just been a thought that flitted through my head, and I wouldn't have taken much notice.

My friend is the first of my contemporaries who has died.  Maybe as more of my friends die, I'll spend even more time remembering all sorts of minutes from my past, earlier life. 

But I am similarly haunted by my grandmother.  For the two weeks before Halloween, I kept catching whiffs of her.  I don't know how to say it any other way.  I'm sure that someone around me was using her soap.  At least that's what the rational part of my brain says.

The irrational part of my brain worries that it's a signal of something wrong with me, that I'm hallucinating smell.  The part of my brain that thinks that I don't really understand death and time and Physics thinks that my grandmother has come back to visit me, that no one else would have that unique smell of Dial soap and a morning of baking tinged by sweat.

I think of the religious traditions, like Buddhism, that encourage us to be fully present.  I think of those bells and gongs that are designed to call us back.  I wonder if there are less-talked-about aspects of religious traditions that talk about our memories of our dead that encourage us to be present.

But it's an odd kind of being present--I'm more aware of packing my berries and yogurt in the current moment while I'm also plunged back into the past, the hot August day in a warehouse with a cement floor where we made a decision about the best set of storage containers.

Is this a phase of grieving?  I don't remember studying it in Psych or Religion classes.  Of course, back then I'd have been very young.  What did I know of death and grieving?

I also realize how lucky I am to have made it to this solid ground of midlife before having to think about these issues of how grief affects us and what the dead teach us.

Grieving Together

We had planned to gather with friends before we knew that we would need to do some grieving together.  I am so grateful for the fact that we could be together.

On Friday, we got the news that our former department chair had died; for my tribute to her, please head over to this blog post.  But Friday was already a full day, what with a quick trip to Orlando for a Board meeting and then back the same day for VBS.

By yesterday the news was sinking in, and my usual cheery, optimistic self was starting to droop.  I felt like railing against God:  "Carpe diem, carpe diem--right, got it.  I may not have as much time left as I thought.  Message received loud and clear.  Now quit smiting the people I love!"

I've read the book of Job.  I realize the ridiculous nature of my response.  But in the interest of honesty, I admit to this feeling.

We got together with friends that afternoon.  We talked about the fact that our former department chair had hired us all.  We would likely never have met, if not for her. 

We talked about her marvelous laugh.  We talked about the quilting that we had done.  We talked about the miraculous way that she had wanted to move to Virginia, and she had made it happen.

It was good to be with people who had known her and remembered.  I anticipate a few more gatherings like that.

As the day ended, the talk turned to how quickly life zooms by.  One of my friends said, "I just didn't think it would go this fast.  You work and work to get to certain points and then, boom, it's over."

My friends are atheists, so we didn't talk about what happens next.  Is it over?

I am trying to take the larger reminder.  My former department chair was only 12 years older than I am.  I like to think that I have decades to do the things I want to do, but I may not.  It could all come crashing to a halt much sooner than I'm anticipating.

Time to prioritize.  Life is too short for much of the angst that I let swamp me occasionally.  Life is too short to keep procrastinating on some of my writing projects--back to the memoir!  Life is short--I must make time for quality interactions with humans each and every day. 

The Interim Words of Death

I am a Christian.  I do not believe that death has the final hold on us.  I don't believe that death is the final answer or that death has the last word.

But lately I've been in an Ash Wednesday frame of mind.   I'd have been in an Ash Wednesday space even if we weren't at that part of the liturgical year.  I've had news of the death of my favorite undergraduate English professor, a colleague with pancreatic cancer, my best friend from high school with esophageal cancer, and my Hindu writer friend who is in the last stage of kidney failure.

I am feeling frail and mortal and afraid.  I am afraid to admit my fear, for fear that I will seem a bad Christian.

I remind myself that even Jesus was afraid.  It's OK to be afraid.

After all, I'm not afraid of death.  If I fell over dead in a field while I was out on a run, that would be OK with me.  I've lived a good life, and while I still want to do some things, I'm pleased with my life so far.

No, I'm afraid of the pain that so often comes with death.  I'm afraid of hospitals and doctors.  I'm afraid of causing pain to those who love me and have to watch those degradations that happen to my body should I die trapped in the medical-industrial complex.

I am not afraid of death, but I've been assuming we'd die when we're old and in a declining state.  I've been thinking death would be a relief.

But lately, I've been seeing death as a robber and a thief.

Death may not have the final word, but death certainly gets to have a lot of words in the interim.  Our task is to silence that blabber as much as we can.  Our task is to keep our eyes and ears on the alternate reality that the voices of death try to cover.

Being Blessed by Colleagues at Work

I work with a variety of colleagues, many of whom are friends.  They bless me in many ways.  But it wasn't until the other day that one gave me a literal blessing, that is, one that I could hear.  I don't want to discount the possibility that my friends and colleagues may bless me every morning in their prayers/meditations/hoping for the best.

It has been a work week where more lay-offs were announced, which makes us all feel queasy.  It was a week of ugly talk, nasty accusations, dark speculations, and unpleasant meetings. 

In the midst of the Tuesday announcements of lay-offs at work, I got a phone call.  My evangelical friend and colleague said, "Are you safe?"

She took my breath away.  Just a few hours earlier, I had gotten a summons to a Wednesday meeting at 12:30.  And here she was, saying, "Are you safe?"

I said, "I honestly don't know."  I told her of the summons.  I said, "I don't think I'm about to be fired, but there's another drama going on that I can't talk about on the phone."

She didn't miss a beat.  She said, "Well, we'd better bless you then."  And she proceeded to do just that, to say a combination of a blessing and a prayer for protection.  I could almost feel her hands on my head as she spoke.

By now you may be wondering where I work.  You may be saying, "I thought you worked at a for-profit school, not an evangelical college."

I do indeed work at a for-profit school, and as near as I can tell, there aren't many Christians there, at least not the ones who have active spiritual practices in the Christian tradition.  My Hindu friend and colleague is more active in her temple than most of my Christian friends I've met at school.  My evangelical friend and colleague is the only one who matches her activities.

We used to have more evangelical colleagues, but they've retired or moved on.  The one who remains is the one who blessed me.  

In some ways, it felt just as ecumenical an experience as the various experiences I've had with my Hindu friend, like going to her house blessing, which I described in this blog post.  I'm a mainstream Lutheran; we are a people who believe in corporate prayer.  If we pray for others, we do it in the privacy of our own homes and usually silently.

I've evolved a bit.  Now, sometimes, I can bring myself to ask people if I can add them to my prayer list.  In the interest of full honesty, I only ask people whom I think will be receptive.  If people are going through a tough time and they're not open to the idea of prayer, I don't want to make their rough time worse by introducing an unwelcome spiritual element. I do pray for whomever I want--I don't think I need permission.  But I don't feel that I have to let everyone know I'm praying, only if I think it will help them.

My evangelical friend/work colleague comes from a different tradition, a much more prophetic tradition.  I find it fascinating, but I understand why she makes some people uncomfortable.  But on Tuesday afternoon, I was profoundly grateful for her blessing.

I thought about the phone, about how often it keeps us apart, but how it can bring us together.  Sure, it might be better if we had been in the same room, if there could have been a laying on of hands.  But I'm glad that she didn't let the distance stop her.

When I went to the Wednesday meeting, I had her blessing in my ears.  I had Psalm 23 as an undergirding.  I thought about the ways that the Psalms offer succor and strength and language for the times when we need to be brave, for the times when we need to lament, for the times when all those needs coincide.

I went to the meeting, and in the end, it was uncomfortable, but it was OK.  It was not the end of a week of unpleasant meetings, but that was OK.  I had the Psalms to counteract the ugly words, dispiriting news and clenched spirits that such a work week engenders.  I had the important reminder that I have supportive colleagues and friends who bless me in so many ways.

We Are Not Our Sadness

I know many people who had a very tough time of it in 2012.  Just because the year has changed, that doesn't mean our sorrow has lifted.

I found this morning's episode of On Being to be quite helpful.  It was a wonderful interview with Roshi Joan Halifax, a Zen leader who has done a lot of work in the areas of both social justice and grieving.

I particularly liked the meditation that was included.  I loved the soothing voice of Halifax say the following:

"So I would like to invite you to put down whatever might be in your hand and to find a position that's comfortable and also that supports you and listen to my words. And if they are resonant for you, if they are helpful, really let them enter into your experience and bring your attention to the breath for just a moment and let the breath sweep your mind and notice whether it's a deep breath or shallow. And recall for a moment now a loss or losses that have really touched you or the anticipation of loss. And now offer some simple phrases: May I be open to the pain of grief? May I find the inner resources to really be present for my sorrow? May I accept my sadness knowing that I am not my sadness?"

It's always a revelation to remember that I can feel my sorrow and grief and that it won't rise up and overwhelm me.

I am not my sadness.


It was also a relief to hear Krista Tippett and Joan Halifax talk about the resiliency of people and how caregiving may enrich us instead of simply depleting us.  They also had a brief discussion of the plasticity of the brain.  We don't stop learning when we're 3 or 8 or 16.  It's a lifelong process.

You'll find lots of great resources here, including links to past shows, as well as a way to listen to this week's show, and the complete meditation.
We are not our sadness:  my reminder for the coming week, which brings back surgery for my husband, which will hopefully bring pain relief--but which is also a reminder that we're not college kids anymore.