Author: Marlys Lawry Page 36 of 54

Granddaughter Lilly, a black belt in Mixed Martial Arts, recently competed in a Tiger Schulmann MMA tournament and captured two 3rd place finishes. On the way home, she FaceTimed and of course she was disappointed because she has some rather nice 1st-place hardware in her room at home.

Photo credit: Pixabay

But by the time she and her dad stopped for lunch and she posted a photo to Instagram, here was her caption:

Win or lose, I left it all on the mats today.

I have a very wise 15-year-old granddaughter.

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Dear newly-widowed Marlys — I’m now 19 months into widowhood, and while there are quite possibly more things ahead to deal with, for the most part I’m feeling pretty seasoned.

You’re a newbie. And you’re overwhelmed. So for this moment, make a cup of Chai tea—knowing how much you and I love Chai—and put your feet up to read this letter. Remember to breathe.

Photo credit: Pixabay

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My first thought—as we were hugging good-bye and someone said, “Why didn’t we do this sooner?”—was that it took something like cancer to motivate us to plan this sibs-and-mom-in-law vacation.

Photo credit: Lonnie Johnson

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While trying to resolve some email issues, I stumbled across a side folder of random email from 2014. The humorous. The heart-warming. The heart-breaking. An unexpected gift. Seeing where I was two years ago as cancer was taking my husband from me, remembering who was there with me, how God infiltrated everything with His unimaginable peace.

In this photo, Hubby had just six weeks of life left (Photo: Kris Johnson)

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Gilda Radner, Saturday Night Live comedienne who died of ovarian cancer in 1989, had this to say about life:

Life is about not knowing, having to change, taking the moment and making the best of it without knowing what’s going to happen next.

Six years after her death, a center to provide social and emotional support for cancer patients and caregivers opened in New York City. It was the first of several Gilda’s Clubs in honor of Ms. Radner — all with brilliant red doors.

Photo credit: Panoramio

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Sometimes when things hit hard and fast — like loss of health or financial security, loss of a home or a way of life, or loss of a loved one — there can be a tendency to wrap our lives tightly around ourselves like a security blanket and stay put; a tendency to not venture out because venturing out doesn’t feel very safe any more.

Photo credit: Pixabay

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In a week of walks along the Deschutes River, I snapped several photos (is it snapped if you’re using a cell phone? shouldn’t it be tapped?). Photos of young guitar player on large boulder; beautifully-choreographed fly fisherman’s cast; fallen tree growing its own green lawn.

As many times as I’ve walked this portion of the river trail—hundreds of times—it seems there’s always something new to photograph. Like this rock sculpture.

Deschutes River trail

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I have two crazy friends—well, I actually have more than two, but these particular two are married to each other—who decided to run a first-ever marathon (Jim) and take on Pole Pedal Paddle alone (Michelle) as a way of celebrating milestone birthdays this year.

Photo credit: Unsplash

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It hung around way too late in the day before I recognized this no-energy-no-interest-in-anything blahness. That’s when I got out my script pad and wrote a prescription for mild depression: Go take a hike. Near a body of water.

Tumalo Creek in Shevlin Park (Photo: Marlys Johnson)

Part of the cure requires that the patient stop somewhere along the path to contemplate all there is to be grateful for: in my case, sound of water rushing over rocks, warmth of sunshine, the ability to move on my own two legs, family and friends to love, family and friends who love me.

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I remember the nurse — after the surgery where we learned the cancer had already spread — who brought blankets and pillows so I could sleep in the recliner next to Hubby’s hospital bed. Because I didn’t have the courage to go home and sleep alone in our bed that night.

Photo credit: Slideshare.net

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