I Wish You Pain

It seems we are losing more than we are gaining, these days, Visitors. Ever feel like that?

I’m sitting under the mighty Collegiate Peaks, listening to the tumbling Arkansas nearby. A crackling pine bough campfire blazes nearby, and the scent perfuming the high mountain air is soothing.

I’ve just come back from a charity bike ride across the Florida Keys, with a peleton of like minded men and women. It was a worthy endeavor, to support an organization called “Joy International”. The men and women at Joy devote themselves to ending sex trafficking among children ages eight to fourteen.

Read that again. Eight to fourteen.

I’ve spent my entire professional life in the area of family building, and it boggles the mind that in this country I love so much, that we can allow this heinous practice.

But I can see why.

I recently lost someone dear to me to addiction. The fires of his preferences burned away a successful partnership between the two of us. The hurricane gales of his desires blew him far out of the reach of my outstretched hands. The counterfeit still, small voice of his beloved beguiled him to be alone with his heart’s desire, and it wasn’t me.

We do that, Visitors. As a nation, we allow ourselves to get distracted from what’s important. We let our heads get turned from what our God and our better selves know is right, into something that we mistakenly think will satisfy.

Jeff Brodsky, the founder of Joy International, once had someone ask him how a loving God could permit something as heinous as this to exist.

Brodsky bristled and said “HE doesn’t. WE do.”

Exactly.

It’s just the saddest thing.

So as I was driving to this camping spot, I mourned my loss. I asked God for comfort, and as He often does, he gives me music.

Listen to this one with me for a minute, visitors. It’s one of the kindest, most compassionate ballads I’ve heard in a long time.

Here’s an excerpt:

I hope you cry and tears come streaming down your face
I hope this life traps you in more than you thought you could ever take
I hope the help you want never comes
And you do it on your own’

Cause I love you more than you could know
And your heart, it grows every time it breaks
I know that it might sound strange

But I wish you pain
Wish you pain
It’s hard to say
But I wish you pain

I love you more than you could even know
Been here before and I just wanna see you grow
Want you to grow

‘Cause everything that matters most
That’s where it goes by a different name
I know that it might sound strange

But I wish you pain.

From the bottom of my heart, Visitors, I wish you pain.

Much love,

Victoria

Whispering Mitch and the Wasp Bite

Today I had a wonderful opportunity to reconnect again with my professional roots. Most of you know I’ve been teacher forever, and the early years of childhood have fascinated me the most. Very young children are great little organizers. Tiny babies start their post-womb life as little more than garden slugs, or as one of my daughters hilariously says “Noisy little pillows”. Over the course of a single year, these flat-on-your-back little lives leap into communication, standing, walking, and sometimes even little sentences commanding anyone within earshot to produce another cookie.

One of my outstanding staff got caught in the Texas ice storms, so had to sleep at the gate instead of flying back to warmer Colorado. When things like this come up, I gladly step into the position of ‘floater staff’ and circulate around providing break time, and other necessary finger-in-the-dike services. I gave morning breaks, circulating around to each classroom, so the teachers can grab a snack, go potty, and basically take a breath.

When I got to the PreK room, there was the usual bustle of ‘center play’. Center play happens after the start of the day, ‘circle time’ routines, and mid morning snack. Center play is basically controlled mayhem, where kids can pick from self-directed art projects, building blocks, the reading area, or dress-up play. It’s fascinating to watch, as it is an exercise in four and five year old kids organizing their world.

We have one large carpeted area that we use for large motor play. The teacher, in this case me, calls out what activity is OK on the carpet for ten minutes.

“This is now the SOMERSAULT AREA for TEN MINUTES! You can only be on this carpet of you are doing SOMERSAULTS!” Somersaulting children abounded. Except for Raymond. Ray thought it would be a good idea to get the yo-yo from the dress up area and start swinging it around like a ball on a chain.

“Ray! Think that through! That might hurt someone doing a somersault!” Abashedly, Ray put the yo-yo back where it belonged. Desmond snatched the Lego airplane Tyler had been building out of Tyler’s hand. Tyler burst into tears.

“Miss Victoria! Tyler said I could play with this for TEN MINUTES!”

“Des, I’ve been beside Tyler this whole time! He said no such thing! How do we take turns? ” Shamefacedly, Desmond turned to Tyler “May we please share?”

Lastly, as I was preparing to leave to the next classroom, Mitch bounced up to me. “Miss Victoria ” Mitch whispered, I bent low. “Yes, Mitch? ” I whispered back. “I have something to tell you” he whispered again.

Oh my, I thought, this must be important. I picked Mitch up, and held him close to my ear. He covered his mouth with his hands, so no one else could hear. “One time I got a wasp bite!” he whispered.

“Really! That must have been very painful! ” I whispered, puzzled.

“Yes! And I got a BIG BUMP! RIGHT HERE!” he whispered indignantly, pointing to his lip.

“My goodness Mitch! That’s quite a thing!” He nodded solemnly, and started coloring his “R” paper with his red marker.

I left the classroom, and chuckled at the innocent insanity of a five year old. Visitors, it seems like we live in a truly bonkers time. Grown adults actually think it’s ok to try and prevent someone else from speaking their mind. Actual scientists are censored from sharing life-saving COVID treatments on social media. Cries of “Racism!” are abounding everywhere, even in, of all things, the Math classroom. Sometimes, I despair of otherwise thinking adults in this wonderful country of having lost their minds.

It’s a joyful thing to me to help little people find theirs. It actually didn’t occur to Ray to think he might hurt someone with his yo-yo until I pointed it out. Desmond got an insight into the immovability of truth when I called him out on lying, And darling Mitch, well, Mitch just got validation that being weird is OK. He can go through his life whispering to everyone, and maybe the vote I gave him today for non-conformity will take root somewhere in that little psyche, and he’ll do what he knows to be true, and OK, even when everyone else around him is losing their minds.

Much love,

Victoria

Ricky Rebel and the Riot Police

When I was a college kid in the eighties, I had this tradition of sponsoring children from one of those compassionate organizations overseas. God had gotten a hold on me early as far as money is concerned, and I had developed a pattern of sharing extra money that I had. Children’s issues spoke to me, so I sent a monthly sum for their support, and enjoyed the letters and pictures I received in return. One of the children was from Rwanda. We kept up for several years, so I developed a passing interest in the country. I was simply horrified to read about the Rwandan genocide in 1994.

The Rwandan Civil War was between 1990 and 1994, and the genocide happened in a 100 day frenzy between April and July, 1994. People have written books on this subject, so suffice it to say for our purposes, that the nature of this 100 days was between the Hutu, who were in power at the time, against the Tutsi and Twa population. Moderate Hutus were also often included. About 70% of the country’s Tutsi population was exterminated, and sexual victimization was rife. The numbers are dark, as in the violence was so widespread, an exact count is impossible. Dependable references estimate between 500,000 to 900,000 Tutsi were annihilated, and nearly half a million women were raped.

The inhumanity was mind-boggling. A wealthy Rwandan businessman named Felicien Kabuga was the financier of this travesty, and his primary aim was to arm the Hutu population with machetes. He paid for thousands and thousands of machetes to be imported and distributed. Villagers were taught to hobble their Tutsi neighbors by slashing their Achilles tendons first, so they couldn’t run. They would subsequently hack their living Tutsi neighbors to pieces. Children would often do this.

Visitors, what on earth does Rwanda have to do with the current unrest we find ourselves dealing with here in the US? Well, there is a progression here. When I listened to Hutus talk about the differences between themselves and their Tutsi neighbors I found myself resorting to sarcastic disbelief. Hutus farmed crops. Tutsis ran cattle. Tutsis were taller. Hutus had broader noses. Tutsis had lighter skin. Cattle were perceived as more valuable, so a sort of ‘nobility’ was attributed to Tutsis, and Hutus were perceived as less intelligent, and obstructive to Tutsi success.

You can’t possibly be serious, I thought to myself. All of these things amounted to justification for killing your neighbors? You don’t like their choice of professions? You don’t like where they live? You think the shape of their noses, the lightness of their skin, what the radio says about them, makes them less human than you? So that makes it OK to give your children machetes and teach them to chop their neighbors into pieces? That’s an oversimplification, but not by much. It seems to me that we Americans are on the same pathway that starts with dehumanizing our ‘enemies’. Urban Americans ridicule their small town neighbors. Farmers scoff at intelligentsia. Financiers dismiss people who work with their hands. Wake up, people. We have to stop this.

Meet Ricky Rebel. I came across this video with Ricky Rebel catching up on the news. Like most of you, I can barely watch the violent videos of Black Lives Matter rioters torching buildings, beating people and harassing customers in restaurants. Similar ‘protests’ taking place in Portland, Kenosha and Denver are clearly escalating. Graffiti and landmark destruction cover my once beautiful city of Denver, and elected leaders have caved to this destruction. The established constitutional right to free speech has crumbled under the weight of politicians pandering to these violent criminals. Giant corporate platforms like Twitter, Facebook and Youtube shamefully censor everyone who doesn’t parrot the BLM line and then overtly endorse the Biden ticket and cover up the harm that they instigate.

Enter Ricky Rebel. Rebel is a talented performer in LA, who’s opened for Britney Spears and danced professionally in other notable productions. He’s got an impressive resume, and had been blacklisted by Hollywood and the LGBT community because of his pro-free speech and pro-Trump views.

For me, he’s also a remarkably brave young man. Watch the video and pay special attention to the violent Black BLM thug who decks the white guy at the start. It truly sets the mood. Now, check out Ricky Rebel prancing through the riot police.

Rebel, with his blazing red pants and dancing through people who obviously want to do him harm, has demonstrated what most moderate Americans seemed to have lost. Courage. What on God’s green earth has happened to our courage? It’s simply WRONG to torch a building when you don’t like what your elected leaders have done. It’s WRONG to mob someone because they are wearing a red hat. It’s WRONG to graffiti a building with ACAB (All Cops are Bastards- Newsflash, they aren’t) and “Cops are Pigs, Fry them like Bacon”, it’s WRONG to assign blame to someone who hasn’t done anything wrong. (I know a great deal about criminal psychology, friends. Trust me on this, assuming that I’m a harmful racist because I’m white, straight, Christian and middle class does nothing. That emperor has no clothes, and I’ve read every word of White Fragility.)

On this, the eve of one of the most consequential elections in history, ask yourself. Why are streets of LA, Boston, and NYC boarded up? Why are reasonable Americans staying away from polling sites tomorrow? It’s not because conservatives are rioting. We don’t do that.

It’s because the radical left in this country has promised that a Trump win can’t possibly be legitimate, and the only possible response is violence. I, for one, will muster the courage to call this out. If Trump wins in the landslide that I suspect he will, the promised subsequent violence and rioting is WRONG. STOP. THIS is the chance to join Red Pill Black Man, Black Republicans, Colion Noir of the NRA, Candace Owens, Matthew Mcconaughey, Kirstie Alley, Brandon Straka of #Walkaway and the MILLIONS of other Americans who realize that America, with all of her flaws, is a fundamentally decent place to live, with fundamentally decent people. Quit with the manufactured outrage and join us.

You know what I’ll do if I’m wrong, and mysteriously, the media carries that senile old crook Biden to the finish line? I’ll grit my teeth and get the overtime to pay for the confiscatory taxes that are coming. That’s it, because like it or not, he’ll be my president.

Be like me. Have courage, friends. I’m sick of living otherwise.

Much love,

Victoria

Ricky Rebel and the Riot Police

When I was a college kid in the eighties, I had this tradition of sponsoring children from one of those compassionate organizations overseas. God had gotten a hold on me early as far as money is concerned, and I had developed a pattern of sharing extra money that I had. Children’s issues spoke to me, so I sent a monthly sum for their support, and enjoyed the letters and pictures I received in return. One of the children was from Rwanda. We kept up for several years, so I developed a passing interest in the country. I was simply horrified to read about the Rwandan genocide in 1994.

The Rwandan Civil War was between 1990 and 1994, and the genocide happened in a 100 day frenzy between April and July, 1994. People have written books on this subject, so suffice it to say for our purposes, that the nature of this 100 days was between the Hutu, who were in power at the time, against the Tutsi and Twa population. Moderate Hutus were also often included. About 70% of the country’s Tutsi population was exterminated, and sexual victimization was rife. The numbers are dark, as in the violence was so widespread, an exact count is impossible. Dependable references estimate between 500,000 to 900,000 Tutsi were annihilated, and nearly half a million women were raped.

The inhumanity was mind-boggling. A wealthy Rwandan businessman named Felicien Kabuga was the financier of this travesty, and his primary aim was to arm the Hutu population with machetes. He paid for thousands and thousands of machetes to be imported and distributed. Villagers were taught to hobble their Tutsi neighbors by slashing their Achilles tendons first, so they couldn’t run. They would subsequently hack their living Tutsi neighbors to pieces. Children would often do this.

Visitors, what on earth does Rwanda have to do with the current unrest we find ourselves dealing with here in the US? Well, there is a progression here. When I listened to Hutus talk about the differences between themselves and their Tutsi neighbors I found myself resorting to sarcastic disbelief. Hutus farmed crops. Tutsis ran cattle. Tutsis were taller. Hutus had broader noses. Tutsis had lighter skin. Cattle were perceived as more valuable, so a sort of ‘nobility’ was attributed to Tutsis, and Hutus were perceived as less intelligent, and obstructive to Tutsi success.

You can’t possibly be serious, I thought to myself. All of these things amounted to justification for killing your neighbors? You don’t like their choice of professions? You don’t like where they live? You think the shape of their noses, the lightness of their skin, what the radio says about them, makes them less human than you? So that makes it OK to give your children machetes and teach them to chop their neighbors into pieces? That’s an oversimplification, but not by much. It seems to me that we Americans are on the same pathway that starts with dehumanizing our ‘enemies’. Urban Americans ridicule their small town neighbors. Farmers scoff at intelligentsia. Financiers dismiss people who work with their hands. Wake up, people. We have to stop this.

Meet Ricky Rebel. I came across this video with Ricky Rebel catching up on the news. Like most of you, I can barely watch the violent videos of Black Lives Matter rioters torching buildings, beating people and harassing customers in restaurants. Similar ‘protests’ taking place in Portland, Kenosha and Denver are clearly escalating. Graffiti and landmark destruction cover my once beautiful city of Denver, and elected leaders have caved to this destruction. The established constitutional right to free speech has crumbled under the weight of politicians pandering to these violent criminals. Giant corporate platforms like Twitter, Facebook and Youtube shamefully censor everyone who doesn’t parrot the BLM line and then overtly endorse the Biden ticket and cover up the harm that they instigate.

Enter Ricky Rebel. Rebel is a talented performer in LA, who’s opened for Britney Spears and danced professionally in other notable productions. He’s got an impressive resume, and had been blacklisted by Hollywood and the LGBT community because of his pro-free speech and pro-Trump views.

For me, he’s also a remarkably brave young man. Watch the video and pay special attention to the violent Black BLM thug who decks the white guy at the start. It truly sets the mood. Now, check out Ricky Rebel prancing through the riot police.

Rebel, with his blazing red pants and dancing through people who obviously want to do him harm, has demonstrated what most moderate Americans seemed to have lost. Courage. What on God’s green earth has happened to our courage? It’s simply WRONG to torch a building when you don’t like what your elected leaders have done. It’s WRONG to mob someone because they are wearing a red hat. It’s WRONG to graffiti a building with ACAB (All Cops are Bastards- Newsflash, they aren’t) and “Cops are Pigs, Fry them like Bacon”, it’s WRONG to assign blame to someone who hasn’t done anything wrong. (I know a great deal about criminal psychology, friends. Trust me on this, assuming that I’m a harmful racist because I’m white, straight, Christian and middle class does nothing. That emperor has no clothes, and I’ve read every word of White Fragility.)

On this, the eve of one of the most consequential elections in history, ask yourself. Why are streets of LA, Boston, and NYC boarded up? Why are reasonable Americans staying away from polling sites tomorrow? It’s not because conservatives are rioting. We don’t do that.

It’s because the radical left in this country has promised that a Trump win can’t possibly be legitimate, and the only possible response is violence. I, for one, will muster the courage to call this out. If Trump wins in the landslide that I suspect he will, the promised subsequent violence and rioting is WRONG. STOP. THIS is the chance to join Red Pill Black Man, Black Republicans, Colion Noir of the NRA, Candace Owens, Matthew Mcconaughey, Kirstie Alley, Brandon Straka of #Walkaway and the MILLIONS of other Americans who realize that America, with all of her flaws, is a fundamentally decent place to live, with fundamentally decent people. Quit with the manufactured outrage and join us.

You know what I’ll do if I’m wrong, and mysteriously, the media carries that senile old crook Biden to the finish line? I’ll grit my teeth and get the overtime to pay for the confiscatory taxes that are coming. That’s it, because like it or not, he’ll be my president.

Be like me. Have courage, friends. I’m sick of living otherwise.

Much love,

Victoria

TobyMac Joins The Adult Table

These days, it seems like I’m surrounded by loss everywhere I go, Visitors. Most of you know that I’m a businesswoman.  I’ve started several small enterprises over the years, the most successful of which have to do with education, childcare, and entry-level housing. These endeavors have yielded a lot of satisfaction and joy, none of them ever employing more than about 20 people or so. I’m in very good company, according the the Small Business and Entrepreneurship Council, firms like the ones I’ve created account for over 80% of existing jobs.

In this day of Covid-19, the political influencers of the spineless variety have elected to pick the winners and losers of the age. Millions and millions of firms like mine say that they have fewer than five months of reserves, and one quarter of us have shuttered permanently already. The capricious, science-free dictates of governors the likes of which Colorado and Michigan have had to endure indicate that five months of closure is within the realm of acceptable, so most of these businesses are not long for this world.

I’ve always had a rabid fear of business debt, so my businesses are likely safe for the time being. My childcare facility is housed at a local Lutheran church, and the congregation has gone overboard in their generosity. My preschool population of families is also overwhelmingly generous, many have paid their tuition in the face of their own job loss, and some have even provided extra for the benefit of furloughed teaching staff.

So I’m relatively safe, as is my staff, for the time being. Yet I survey the outrageous landscape of Colorado governor Jared Polis allowing large businesses like WalMart, Home Depot and Lowes to operate under relatively few restrictions, and Polis ‘making examples’ of small coffeeshops who dare to defy his capricious and unconstitutional emergency orders. I watch Polis give blanket passes to violent and crowded demonstrations. Then, I watch with dismay as my friends who, like me, have poured their lives into their little endeavors, only to see decades of job creation and positive community influence melt away under these shutdown orders.  Doubtless Polis has received much larger contributions from the previously cited corporations, while the little bakery down the street struggles to just make payroll. The unfairness and injustice of this political machination is just heartbreaking, and very, very personal to me.

So I am surrounded by loss on the macro level. The negative energy of this is just draining, and I fear it his only just begun, Visitors.

A few of you know I just completed a graduate degree at Regis University here in Denver. It’s an MS in Criminology, with a heavy emphasis in addiction and psychopathology. Because of this, I’m alert to personal stories of loss like TobyMac’s last October.

I love Toby Mac. Toby is the Justin Timberlake of the squeaky-clean Christian set, producing upbeat, lightweight bubblegum pop for everyone, but most often the teenage youth group bundles of insecurity that grace most Baptist youth group meeting rooms. My kids liked Toby until they were about fourteen. Toby had four kids, and Truett Mckeehan, Toby’s oldest, died last October of an accidental drug overdose. Truett ingested what’s called a ‘speedball’, or a mixture of cocaine and heroin, or in this case a synthetic heroin relative called fentanyl.

The idea with the ingestion of a speedball  is that co-administration of the drugs is meant to provide an intense rush of euphoria while hoping to reduce the negative side effects such as anxiety and heart palpitations that often accompany stimulant use. Opioids are depressants, and fentanyl is dozens of times stronger than heroin. Usually the effects of the cocaine wear off long before the effects of the opioids, and the respiratory depression effect is profound. If Truett’s dealer sold him some of the ‘fent’ that’s making it’s way around Denver, the boy was unreachable the instant the drug hit his brain. The part of his brain that tells his lungs to breathe simply turned off. Truett was dead within minutes.

I was dumbstruck when I heard the news. Toby’s music represented a different era in my life, one that was marked by the heady enthusiasm of our young, growing family, a prosperous community, and defined purpose in life. Profound loss was unimaginable.

I look back on that now, and realize what an irritating Christian that I must have been. Listen to this song of Toby’s from that time. Pay close attention to the lyrics.

Big picture? It’s a great song. It’s catchy, aesthetically pleasing, even danceable. The sentiment is awesome. God’s love is calling you. If you’ve lost your way, it’s never too late, sure, you might have scars, but get up! You’ll shine again! You’ll be fine! (sigh. How grating that must have been to the truly grief-stricken.)

I’m not sure there is much more shattering than the loss of a child. Chris’s death was the hardest thing I have ever had to endure. In his last clear-headed days, he would often tell me how glad he was that none of our children had to experience terminal cancer, and how thankful he was that he didn’t have to watch them die. Convoluted sentiment, but I got it. Perhaps you do too- as adults we have a few more tools to wrestle with the unfairness of horrible illness, and reconcile it to the terrifying unpredictability of a broken world.

I think there are fewer tools, perhaps none, to handle the the abrupt, unfair, world-rocking, faith-destroying,  startling death of a child. Truett’s death rocked Toby to his spirit. Gone are the catchy lyrics, the predictable, pleasing drumlines. Listen to this dissonant piece, and turn the lyrics on.

 

Since Chris’s death, I’ve had the honor of befriending lots of people who have experienced soul-crushing loss. Toby’s sentiments are raw, real, and universal.

Did you notice the incessant rain in Toby’s video? Even his glasses are covered, it’s like his tears simply don’t stop. Did you hear his doubt?

“Is it just across the Jordan? Or a city in the Stars? Are you singing with the angels? Are you happy where you are? ”

Toby’s ‘highkey’ and  ‘extra’ looks are gone. He’s just a middle aged man grieving his son. Wailing at the heavens, under the cloudy skies, questioning his God. Is God really good? Can He really be trusted?

You’re allowed to wonder, Toby, and so are you, Visitors.

I’ve been tracking with Toby since Truett’s death, and have seen some wonderful community come around him. Like Marines who ‘leave no man behind’

or 9/11 rescue workings pulling one of their own from the rubble

Toby’s community pulled around him. Toby’s music has changed. There is an authenticity about it, a generousness. Almost as if Toby’s view has lengthened, and expanded enough to include the truly broken, the doubting, and the ‘bruised reed’ that the Bible talks about, referring to the wounded among us. What we all should be, in whatever capacity we can, when we come across God’s broken and hurting people. He loves them more than we can comprehend, and it’s what He asks us to do.

I’m sure Truett is proud.

Much love,

Victoria

 

On The End of This Life, Peanut Butter Cookies, and Listening to Bach.

 

My father passed away yesterday, Visitors. John B. Newkirk, known to his friends as Jack, lived an extraordinary life. He was born in 1920, the last of four children. Dad was a Navy officer in WW2, he led a crew that demagnetized ships in order to prevent them from setting off floating mines the Nazis would use to destroy entrances to harbors and other places.

He and my mother Carol produced four children, of which I was the third. When I was three, as the story goes, I was bitten by a mosquito carrying encephalitis. I developed the disease, and the resulting brain scarring left me with a condition known as ‘hydrocephalus’, or ‘water on the brain’. I was implanted with a device known as a ‘shunt’, which diverted the fluid into my body cavity and lessened the pressure on my brain. This shunt has a steel ‘body’ about in inch or so in length. Shortly after the initial operation, the device developed a blood clot inside the steel body, which necessitated another neurosurgery to clear it.   That started Dad’s wheels a-turning. Dad was a chemist and metallurgist by training, and by his own definition a ‘plodding genius’. He thought that there had to be a better way, and eventually developed a shunting device that had a pliable shunt ‘body’, rather than the steel one I had.

At the time, this was revolutionary technology. Dad went on to develop and patent several other devices for the control of fluids on the body. A device for the eye that helped many with their vision. Another for the ear that improved the hearing of thousands. One for the gut that provided relief for patients with last stage liver disease. People would often fuss about Dad being ‘brilliant’, a charge which often made him chuckle. He simply saw a problem, and plodded along until he could find a workable solution. Lots of lessons to be learned, there.

Dad would have been 99 next month, which by any measure, is a enormous helping of years. About five years ago Dad had a minor stroke, and became unsafe, so we moved him into a terrific assisted living facility.

It was funny, Visitors, Dad and I fell into a routine after that, one that we both found unexpectedly comforting. At the time, my three older kids were either graduated from college, or completely involved in their studies, and my youngest was in the last two years of her high school education.

The demands on my time had lessened considerably, so Dad and I began to spend Sundays together. I’d pick him up from his place, trundle over to church, then spend the afternoon and evening in this extraordinary relational place called ‘hanging out’.

The list was delightfully mundane.

“What do you think, Dad, tacos or burgers?”

“Eh, tacos”.

“Ok, sit tight and I’ll get them, plus your Wall Street Journal and Scientific American’”.

“I’ll be here when you get back!” (snicker, he’d better, as I’d locked the walker in the trunk.)

I’d scurry into the grocery store, get the items for the afternoon, scurry back, and we would adjourn to my house. This wouldn’t vary much, Visitors, perhaps we would add a drive to look at the leaves, a visit to my brother’s house, or park at the handicap spot at Evergreen Lake to watch the goings on there.

Last week, I realized with a start, that Dad and I did this for five years. As the time flowed by, I had a front row seat to the declines of aging. See, physically, Dad did everything right. He never smoked anything, drank alcohol very, very rarely, and lived a physically active life marked by long canoe trips, alpine and cross country skiing, ten k races, and long family bike tours.

(Funny story, Colorado Visitors. We did the week-long Ride the Rockies tour once when Dad was a mere eighty years old. On one of the seventy-mile days, Dad was swept off the course by a kindly police officer.

“Sir” the officer said as he stopped Dad going up Fremont Pass. Dad was at the tail end of the pack.

“Sir, it’s getting dark, and it’s not safe to be out here now. You’ll have to get in the car and come with me”.

Dad did, and groused about that for YEARS.

“By golly, that’s a PUBLIC ROAD. I can ride on it in the middle of the night if I wanted!” We’d roll our eyes, and eventually gave up pointing out that the officer likely prevented a very messy Dad versus Truck scenario.)

Staying fit and active was very important to Dad. So he did, and in his nineties I got to see that brain dysfunction can be a very unsettling consequence of a long life.

For the first few years of our Sunday visits, Dad and I would have delightful, chatty catch-ups about the kids and the world at large. I’d tell him about the goings-on at the preschool I direct, about various real estate projects I was involved in, and all kinds of other things.

Eventually, I noticed that these conversations became more repetitious. When my kids would visit on school breaks, I noticed that Dad would need a few moments to connect who they were, and what they were doing at his place.

Once, not too long ago, he called my oldest daughter by my name, and had trouble recognizing me. The decline had begun in earnest. This saddened me greatly.

Caring about the very old requires a great deal of flexibility. Dad could do less and less as the years rolled by. Walking up the four stairs to my house became less mundane and more dangerous. Moving from the walker to the car became a cautious affair. Loading the wheelchair into the trunk ‘just in case’, became a wise thing to do.

Toward the end of his life, our time together centered around long drives to beautiful places in Colorado. One recent Sunday, I suspected that it would be a feat to successfully transfer Dad to the car, so I thought it best to make it special. I baked some lovely peanut butter cookies, the kind with the big Hershey kiss in the middle.

I packed a box of those, a drink and some sunglasses. Several of the helpers in Dad’s place successfully transferred him to the car and we set off to Summit county. We ambled up the highway westward, and admired the scenery. Dad’s conversation had become a bit lost and disjointed, so I suggested classical music.

I handed him the cookies, and amped up the Bach. We drove along companionably, munching cookies, and I noticed a look of contentment had settled on Dad’s face.

He didn’t have much to say, more likely couldn’t say much, and it was OK. Humans do best in relationships, and Dad and I were on the home stretch of our relationship here on Earth.

What happened after that was an exercise in obligation and paying our debts. American Visitors, have you noticed in our culture that we have been veering off a sense of responsibility in recent years? Doing our own thing, behave however you want, all laws and any sense of morality is off the table? And God forbid, you should judge anyone for anything?

I just can’t stand that.

See, the past few weeks have been very difficult for me. Dad died incrementally, a slow sense of letting go. Gradually, Dad lost interest in eating and drinking, and lost the ability to care for himself.

Practically, that meant I had a hand those things. I would hold his hand and aid the helpers in changing his adult diaper. I would feed him applesauce. I would hold the straw to his mouth and encourage him to sip.

I would be part of the conferences to make sure that he had no pain or anxiety, and in the last few days, wheeled him around his living space, and chat with him as we sat in the sun.

This was difficult for me, and it was my obligation, a debt I gladly paid. After all, didn’t he feed ME applesauce? Didn’t he make sure MY diaper was fresh? Didn’t he wheel ME around to places in the sun, and have limited conversations with ME?

We lose a claim to decency if we ignore debts like that, Visitors. Sometimes, love  means muscling up and doing hard things. This was hard for me.

So, here I sit. I am sad, but I am far from heartbroken. I’ll miss my dad, and our years of Sundays. But as a Christian woman, I believe with all my heart that my dad feels much better now. It gives me great satisfaction to know that he’s running, jumping, singing and dancing with my mother in the presence of our Lord.

Godspeed, dear Dad.

Much love,

Victoria

 

 

 

 

 

The Last Ride Down the Hudson

 

It was as if Lawrie had only two children.

Two, instead of four.

The time was last April, and we were in Albany.  My children, who are much better Christians than I, insisted that we attended the funeral of Lawrie Lierheimer, my late husband’s mother. She had led a long and fruitful life, passing away of age-related illnesses at 87. I had my doubts as to whether or not Chris’s remaining siblings would even notify me, relational pathology  can have lifelong grip.

Those of you who have been with me for a while know that Chris’s father, Lawrie’s husband, was an imprisoned pedophile. He was ‘outed’ in 1986, and in those less enlightened times, spent a mere ninety days in jail as punishment for the hundreds of little boys lives that he wounded. (He spent it in solitary confinement, as even prisoners have a code, and child molesters are hated uniformly. It was feared he would lose his life at their hands.)

As the decades rolled by, both Chis and I lived lives reflecting the idea that hard times and poor choices aren’t minimized by hiding them. Chris was perpetrated on by his father, and the impact of this overshadowed his entire life. He struggled to live well, and made no bones about the fact that his father made that very difficult. Chris led groups of other male survivors of profound childhood sexual abuse, spoke to police academy trainings, and mentored other men in the same position. All of this did not sit well with the brother and the sister, who would have rathered he kept his experience secret, and  have him join them in the same, shameful closet.

It was not to be, and I supported my husband wholeheartedly. I had earned the appellations ‘religious freak’ and ‘bad influence’ from them- which, in my better moments made me laugh. In my less generous ones,  made me want to lacerate them verbally, over and over again.

But his family had notified me. The spirit of God can soften even a hardened heart like mine. After thirty years of backstabbing, ugly, relentless mistreatment from them I couldn’t find it in mine not to consent to join them in mourning their mother. Besides, Lawrie had been topically kind to my children, and on the whole, they had pleasant memories.

So, we went. The church was one of those cold, stained-glass, barely attended Episcopalian edifices, filled with grey heads and well-meaning East Coast intellectuals.

My children and I ghosted through the requisite ‘family’ obligations, genuinely happy to meet with a few of the more remote Lierheimer family branches. The immediate family met the usual hateful performance standards, with one  befurred aunt making a nasty comment about one of my daughter’s brownie consumption. (She herself, known for a lifelong eating disorder).

We sat through the reception of local guests, the service in the drafty, cold church, and clattered down the uneven, stony steps. The basement of the church had been bedecked with artifacts of Lawrie’s life. Books, her diplomas, travel mementoes, all graced the tables for viewers to see. Everywhere one looked, there were pictures of Lawrie and two of her children. Two. The living ones. An older brother, his family, and Lawrie. The younger sister, her dogs, and Lawrie.

Not one photograph of her oldest child who died tragically of Acute Lymphocytic Leukemia at the age of seven. Even more telling, not one of her middle son Chris, my husband, who died of colon cancer at 44. No photos of his prolific career, none of Chris and his mother in significant childhood events, none of her holding Chris as a baby. None. I couldn’t believe it.

“Mom, it’s like they erased him.”

“Mom, where  are the pictures of Dad?”

“It’s like he never existed.”

My children were are as stunned as I.

Visitors, it’s dismaying to me how the word ‘triggered’ has been co-opted. It’s really a very useful psychological concept. When a bullet is ‘triggered’, a hammer hits the explosive side of the metallic cartridge, and the resulting explosion sends a harmful metallic slug into the target, causing all sorts of damage, and perhaps, preventing more.

I was ‘triggered’.

I turned, wrathful, to one of my more peaceful daughters, who had tears in her eyes. Seeing that, I simply had to take a breath and unclench my jaw. I had a choice- make a scene, verbally berate these people in the presence of their scantily-attended service attendees, or swallow my wrath for the sake of my wounded children. These people so richly deserved it. They so abundantly deserved heaping helpings of my very articulate, cutting ire. It would be so satisfying. It would also add another wound to my children who had already been hurt by these people, yet again.

I elected instead, to speak to the brother privately. I pulled him aside- What gives? I inquired. Where’s Chris? Talk to the sister, he said.

So I did. I pulled the sister to a quiet corner. Where’s Chris? I asked.

The torrent of self-righteous, indignant nastiness shouldn’t have surprised me. I had been subjected to decades of this, after all. Who was I? What right did I have? How can I be so critical? And on the day of her mother’s funeral? Watching this woman’s face curl into a mask of defensive nastiness I felt nothing but disgust-for myself.

When would I learn? Good grief. Three decades of abuse, and here I was expecting them to be kind to me, even rational? We had taken the time and expense to travel from Denver to Albany, surely that merited consideration?

Nonsense. I sighed inwardly, weary. I was 54, first subjected to their nastiness at a mere 19. I was hopelessly slow. They would never change, I could never influence them, their best place was in the hands of a compassionate God, to which I confined them forever.

At the end of the day, we gathered our belongings and went to the train station to catch the 617 train out of Albany, arriving at Penn Station about two hours later. The Empire service is a beautiful route. It runs beside the Hudson river, passing picturesque, historical towns with names like Rhinecliff and Croton- Harmon. Chris and I had taken that route often, chatting about the historical paths of American explorers, and admiring the foliage and atmosphere of the small towns racing past.  We had adventure after adventure, saving our hard-won cash for museum admissions and half price theater tickets to be found in kiosks in Times Square. There’s nothing like a trip to New York, it’s simply alive.

My adult children were asleep in the lounge cars, the emotional wear of the day had worn them out. So I sat, and as the miles clicked by, I felt an ebbing away of a lonely past. A past that had been filled with joy and adventure, and marked by a separation caused by crime and violation.

I had been loved by my husband, and mutually treasured by the four children we had produced. I would never, ever be accepted or loved by his family, and I needed to stop caring.

I watched the Hudson flow by, watched the familiar trees and scenery  rush past my vision, and felt the past slipping, permanently, away. As I sat with this, I realized with a dawning sense of the grace of God, that it was OK.

Life, for now, was simply great. My children were healthy. They were making good choices. My mother was with her Redeemer, I got to spend every Sunday with my dad. I had good friends, enough food, a roof over my head, and endless possibilities.

They were just far, far west of the Hudson.

With much love,

Victoria

 

 

Comfort Care in the Age of Opioid Abuse (Or “What Happened in the ER the Day I Broke My Face”)

Sometimes, enduring a bad time is about pain reduction, not elimination.

So, Visitors, I have these two little dogs that we rescued about a year after Chris died. My children were bereft at the loss of their father to cancer, and at the beginning of Year Two, I decided that they needed something else to love. Enter Mia and Gigi, a bonded pair we rescued from the local shelter. For dog lovers, Mia is an Italian Greyhound, and Gigi is a dachsund/IG mix. She’s an odd-looking little thing, sort of like a dachshund on stilts.

      I have this routine where I clip their little retractable leads to the support columns on the outside deck for short periods of time before I start my day. Being nervous little things, they often get entangled around the posts and each others’ leads.  That morning I squatted to untangle the mess, and had a lead in each hand. Unbeknownst to me, I had left about a four-foot portion of the tiny, threadlike, nearly invisible lead strung up between two of the support posts, about three inches off the deck.

This makes for a very effective tripwire. Boom! Down I went like a felled tree, catching myself with my face. I lay there stunned, face down,  as a pool of blood collected beneath my head on the deck.

As awareness returned, I realized I was very badly injured as I hadn’t braced myself with my hands. I staggered upright, hazily trying to locate my phone, blood gushing everywhere. I found my phone, and called the nearest daughter for help. She dropped everything, and headed over. I then called the paramedics and bled a trail out to the front of the driveway where I waited for them to arrive.

Now, here’s where it gets interesting, Visitors. For those of you who don’t have a lot of experience with trauma or illness, I want to tell you there is a great deal of MENTAL activity that is influenced by the PHYSICAL past and present, and vice versa. What happened next is also pretty bloody and descriptive, so be warned.

Before I called for help, I blearily tried to assess the extent of the damage in the bathroom mirror. To my dismay, I could see the outline of my teeth through the split in my lip. Instantly, I was catapulted back to the day in October where I helped a young boy through an automobile trauma that involved a massive hand-sized piece of flesh that had been stripped from his exposed skull. (See “On the Short, Sweet Life of Liesl Wiebe” in the search bar above”. ) The tear in my lip was that deep, and the triggering flashback was completely paralyzing for several minutes. Classic PTSD response.

After that waned, the wash of pain that flooded over me was simply dizzying. I grabbed a hand towel to press to my face as I went outside to wait for the paramedics, weeping uncontrollably. I tried to control my breathing, knowing that if I tensed up and made the pain worse, I would likely lose consciousness and fall again.

One first responder  arrived in his own car, and through tears I got out what happened.

“I am so sorry this happened to you!” he said, as he proceeded with the exam.

“Me too!” I wailed.

The next set of paramedics arrived in an ambulance truck. I repeated the story through the bloody towel.

“Good grief,” said a burly one, who seemed in charge. “Well, your nose is likely broken, which is painful as hell, and that lip needs quite a few stitches.  I’m so sorry!”

“Thank you.” I said. I could feel a bit of mental clarity returning.

“What’s your pain number now, dear?” said another as he pressed my neck and spine.

“An eight.” I said, muffled through the  blood-soaked towel. “Unaided childbirth was a nine.”

“Ohhhhh, shit! ” he muttered.

I laughed just a little, wincing through streaming blood. I could feel my body unclench a  bit with that tiny bit of empathy, and a voice in my head assured me that this will end, I will feel better in the not-too-distant future. I was certain I was headed for a cascade of ‘the good drugs’ if I could just hold it together a little longer. Opioid Heaven, here I come.

The men gave my daughter detailed instructions for the ER, and informed her that since I didn’t lose consciousness, an ambulance ride wasn’t merited. I was happy enough to ride in with her, and was loaded into a wheelchair when we got to the ER.

When I got assigned to a room, a friendly nurse bustled in and performed his assessment.

“Well, that looks like shit and must hurt like the devil. I’m so sorry! Let me tell you about my aunt who got tangled up in HER dog’s lead and broke her hip!”

He compassionately related a similar story of injury, concluding with his aunt’s bouncing return to good health. I could feel myself relaxing a tiny bit more. This will end.

“So you think I’ll live? They can stitch me up soon, right?”

“We see stuff like this all the time, hon. These doctors are good.” I could breathe a little easier.

So I waited, and shortly a red-haired, competent PA came in and did his assessment.

“OK, here’s the plan. We get you stitched up and we will take several scans to look at your head and neck to make sure that’s OK”.

OK. So, what followed was pretty gruesome. He injected several doses of lidocaine into the wound, and I crushed my compassionate daughter’s fingers into a powder during that.  She chattered away and held my hand until the medicine took effect.  Then, he gave me two internal stitches for the inside of the lip, and six to stitch up the outside.

After that horrible procedure, I started to feel a little more like a human being again, instead of a walking mass of pain.

I then saw two sets of imaging technicians, one for CAT scans and one for X-Ray. Each had a compassionate story to tell that involved freakish accidents with pets. I smiled at each one, grateful for the diversion. I felt a little more at ease with each one.

Finally, six hours after the stitches were in place, I realized that the lidocaine was wearing off, and a big bass drum was beginning to play in my head.

“Nurse, may I please have some pain relief?  This is getting bad.”

“Of course.” He promptly scanned my bracelet and dispensed 500 mgs of naproxen, and over the counter anti inflammatory drug, and a single Norco, one of the slightly weaker opioids.

Oh my, I thought. This will be an experiment in trust. I didn’t think that was anywhere close to enough to mitigate the chaos starting in my head.

I downed the drugs, and in less than an hour the pain began to ebb. The capable nurse came in again, and gave me the wonderful news that incredibly, my nose wasn’t broken!

Visitors, what can I say. I like to cook, I like to eat. The prospect of not tasting my food for months until my broken nose was healed was depressing. This whole freakish episode threatened to plummet me into incredible depression. The news that my nose wasn’t broken was welcome indeed. Then my boyfriend arrived – code name, Stockholm- hugged me and held my hand some more. I relaxed a little more.

Eight hours after those whole interlude began, the PA came back to my room. My nose wasn’t broken, my neck and spine looked normal, and I had one upper lip again instead of two.

Oddly, I discovered that all of the compassion and kindness had helped. The single Norco and naproxen had reduced the pain from a shriek to a dull roar, and with so many people around determined to help me, I discovered that I could handle this mess with a minimal amount of chemical intervention. It’s almost as if people are good medicine.

Go figure.

American Visitors, I’m sure all of you know someone, or of someone, who has been touched by this opioid epidemic.

MY particular set of problems that day produced an amazing amount of excruciating pain. The gentle touch, the encouraging word, the capable presence of professionals and friends, all of these things helped to de-escalate the pain to a point where a minimal amount of pain-relieving medicine was necessary. Isn’t that interesting?

I can handle this, as a group of pop philosophers once said,”with a little help from my friends”, and much less help from the opioid bottle than I thought.

The takeaway from this terrible day? Get messy. Call your friends. Offer to help. Go to the hospital. Hold a hand. Use swear words, feel for your friends, be sorry for them, you just might influence a positive  outcome much more than you think.

Much love,

Victoria

 

 

Death in the Back Country- The Wrenching Loss of Sam Failla

“Hey Sam! How’s it going?”

It was the end of November, and the ski season at Vail was just starting for me. Nearly two years ago two of my daughters had decided to become preschool ski instructors at Vail, Colorado. The training was pretty grueling, eight days of in class and on snow instruction, capped by several days of ‘auditing’-watching other instructors, before you were given a class of little ones to teach to ski.

My daughters came home with romping tales of little ones of all nationalities and encouraged me to join them the next year. Why not? I thought. Since their father’s death, if my children ever asked me to do something athletic or adventurous, or anything that brought us together, I would move heaven and earth to make it happen.

Sam Failla’s tousled head bent over the pizza he was currently inhaling. Two little boys sat in front of him at the cafeteria table, gazing up at Sam adoringly.

“Great, Victoria! You working?”

“Nope! Just getting my skis. How was your summer?”

“Epic! I took this awesome trip to Asia!” Sam regaled me with a hilarious account of a journey he and several other ski instructors had taken to interesting spots in Thailand, Cambodia and other engaging spots on the Far East. I listened with interest, and marveled at the youthful energy Sam exuded. The world truly was his oyster.

Sam Failla was another reason why I did this part time job at Vail. The money wasn’t great, to be sure, though the skiing was unmatched. Teaching at Vail attracts an invigorating crowd of risk-takers, boundary pushers who step outside their comfort zones. Most times, these were post graduate gap-year takers, either high school or college age.  This gang was free-wheeling and inclusive, and a lot of fun to be around.  Often, there were middle aged part timers like me, striving mightily to hide the fact that our rickety knees could usually stand up to three or four days in a row, before having to go home to ice and Advil. (God forbid the twenty-ish types should get a glimpse of THAT!)

Sam Failla was a great representation of this group.  Sam was 24, I was 53, old enough to be Sam’s mother. In the rest of the non-ski teacher world, these athletic, accomplished kids were too cool to have much to say to a different generation. Not so with Sam and his peers. Sam, in particular, was loud, jolly and energetic. He was a full timer at Vail, and jumped into his work with overflowing alacrity. I’d see him patiently encouraging kids on the smallest bunny hill, and leading a group of little ones to a mountain class, all with a giant smile under that messy hair.

We’d interact casually in the crowded lunch room, offering to watch each other’s table so the other could use the restroom, comparing notes on the snow, chuckling about the behavior of some of kids in attendance that day.

What encouraged me about Sam was his utter ease with all sorts of people on the mountain. He always had a funny word for his peers, and treated me exactly the same as his post-collegiate buddies. It was delightful to be around Sam, and frankly, gave me hope for the supposedly spoiled millennial generation. Sam was a kind and generous soul, and was truly going places. It was a pleasure to make his acquaintance.

Rest in peace, Sam Failla.

https://www.gofundme.com/db6kw-bringsamhome

 

On the short, sweet life of Liesl Wiebe

 

“Liesl, hol deine haube, es ist Zeit zu gehen!”

(Liesl, get your bonnet, it’s time to go! )

Liesl Wiebe grabbed her flower covered bonnet and tied it around her chin. The charming seven year old scampered across the gravel covered driveway and jumped into the buggy.

“Mutter, kann ich das Baby halten?”

(Mother, can I hold the baby?)

The sturdy Mennonite family fit snugly into the buggy as Poppa Tobias hitched up the horse. It was a sunny morning in Montcalm County, and the Wiebe family was going to church.

Baby Hannah fussed as mother Wiebe adjusted her cheerful pinafore and scolded four year old Luther for unbuttoning his suspenders.

“Liesl, hilf deinem Bruder mit seiner Kleidung. Binde seine schuhe! “

(Liesl, help your brother with his clothing. Tie his shoes!)

Liesl’s cheerful spirit and sunny smile shone in everything she did. She happily took her younger brother’s hand and guided him through tying his sensible shoes.

“Let’s use English words Luther. Hold your laces- the bunny goes around the tree and down the hole, now pull it tight! I’m going to tuck in your shirt now, let’s button you back up, and don’t take them out again!”

Three year old Luther looked adoringly at his capable sister, and snuggled against her in the crowded buggy. Poppa Tobias climbed into the seat, and soon he and his large family were on their way to services. He glanced back at the smiling Liesl, and thanked God again for giving him seven children, seven blessings, seven Gifts from the Lord. Liesl was special, always seemed to be cheerful, ready with a smile or a happy word for the rest of the bunch. Poppa Tobias smiled inwardly. Life was good.

Claude and I chatted in the rental car as we made our way across Montcalm county. This was old stomping grounds for him, he had fifty years of history in this lovely farm country. The colors were still on the trees, a spate of warm weather had made the glorious fall longer lasting than usual.

Lovely fields of verdant winter wheat carpeted the area, bracketed by stands of yellowed corn. Honestly, I thought, this is the breadbasket of the area. Farmers truly are people to know if things go south.

I had just come from a lovely breakfast at the farmhouse of one of Claude’s cousins. Elizabeth was a talented seamstress, and married to Michael, an accomplished taxidermist. They travelled all over the world gathering the skins of the most interesting animals.Together they had raised a crew of four boisterous boys, at the same time dotting the country with her husband Michael’s amazing creations. Exotic animals from all over the world decorated Michael’s studio. Springbok, moose, wolves, and even an enormous giraffe stood guard over their work, and I was amazed at yet another part of the world I knew nothing about.

Claude and I advanced on a local farmhouse, when he noticed something out of the ordinary.

“Wait, wait, what’s going on here? There’s a car down! There are bodies on the ground!” He pulled hastily to the side of the road as my attention to the scene materialized.

A damaged red truck. Ford, F-250, shattered windshield.

A distressed man, clad in work clothes and a safety vest, telephone in hand.

A shattered Mennonite buggy, with yes, several bodies scattered haphazardly on the roadside and in the grass.

Claude- leaping out of the car, the driver of the truck running to him “I didn’t see them! I didn’t see them! ”

Claude, getting the phone and completing the 911 emergency call.

“Lord Jesus, please help us and comfort these children!” I stood, astounded for a few minutes. I counted eight bodies, two adults and six children.

“Airways! Airways! Airways!” I ran to the nearest body, an adult woman. She was breathing, barely.

I went to the man. Breathing, bubbling blood.

I checked the children. Gasp. One was dead, she had to be. Motionless, ruined beyond repair.

Another, undoubedly. Far, far too much damage.

A slight boy, sitting on the ground, a four inch gaping head wound showing his skull. Astoundingly, he was beginning to walk around aimlessly, shrieking at the top of his lungs. He’ll live.

Four other children lay scattered on the ground. A seven year old girl in a flowered bonnet. Two preschool age boys, in plain clothing and suspenders. A tiny baby, eighteen months old at best.

I checked the girl, barely breathing, heart fluttering, blue lips. The other three children were responsive, so I hovered over the girl.

She was breathing, breathing, barely breathing. She had a heartbeat. I prayed over the little one, holding her head in a neutral position, watching the air raise her lungs, watching her face slowly pale.

EMS descended and a capable young man went the girl in the flowered bonnet.

“She’s cynanotic. She’s blue. I don’t think we are going to make it here. ” He attended her while I went to the other three children.

I watched the buzz of activity with the two of the three younger children on my lap.  and Luther Wiebe wept while Petr lay on the ground under my jacket. A large, capable EMS man gently assessed Petr for breathing, and set him up with breathing assistance.

I sang to Luther. Chattered at baby Hannah. Helped them both stay alert and watched Claude coordinate with EMS. Men in plain clothes began to arrive in cars, Claude had the distressing task of breaking this terrible news to the local Mennonite community.

Soon, a kind-faced EMS man told me to hold tight to both of the children, it was about to get very windy.

I looked behind me and several people, some in plain clothing, had made circle in the grassy field behind me. The trauma chopper beat the air above, and I sheltered the little ones against the turbulent air. Poppa Tobias was bundled into the chopper and taken away.

As the chopper lifted, I glanced over at the girl. Liesl Wiebe, the girl in the flowered bonnet, was covered with a blanket. She had just died, just passed into the arms of Jesus as her father flew away into the sky.

God bless you, Liesl Wiebe, 2010-2017. Rejoice in Paradise, dear child of God. 

(Author’s note.  At 8am, Sunday, October 29th, a red F-250 rear ended a Mennonite buggy in Montcalm County. The truck was going around sixty, the buggy about 15 mph. My boyfriend and I are visiting family here, and were the first on the scene, mere minutes after it happened. I have never been involved in a mass casualty event. This was, bar none, the most heartbreaking occurrence I have ever seen first hand. Of course, all of the identifying information has been changed. Please, if you think of it, ask God for comfort for the ‘Wiebes’. And please, pay attention when  you drive.) 

Heartbroken,

Victoria