Movie and Mountain Moments

For whatever reason, I’ve begun to think a lot about resolve lately.

I’m picturing those movie moments: when Maverick threw Goose’s dog tags out to sea in Top Gun, when Rose let go of Jack while floating on the driftwood and called for the lifeboat to “come back” in Titanic, when Carl lightened the load so his house could float over the mountain range in the animated film Up. These moments represented a turning point of some sort when loss turned into strength and motivation.

Of course Hollywood has to make all of this happen at one point in the movie. In real life, I think it happens as a thousand points that stack up.

I’m embarrassed by some things I haven’t finished or done (still working on a headstone; still working on thank you notes) and grateful for (and surprised by) some things I have done (kept indoor plants from the funeral days looking good; commandeered Dane’s iPod Nano, which was a sacred lifeboat in chemo days; now using the full bed, especially since Pud has joined me for the fall season).

There will be a point when I will draw strength from memories and my and Dana’s relationship. I’ve already had the strangest sensations of processing things the way Dana would: asking the pointed questions of friends, seeing the bottom line on things quicker than usual (Dane was the queen of cutting to the chase). There really is a process of absorption that occurs, and that’s a nice surprise.

While I’m a long way from the “movie moment,” I guess it’s a good sign that I’m at least thinking about resolve. Of course as I say that, I think that this past Monday, for whatever reason, was a record-setting day of missing Dane. And I guess that’s what this whole journey is about: recovering from loss while navigating the huge hole in your life.

On my recent trip to Montana (Glacier National Park), I set out to make it a trip of resolve…to begin the process of drawing strength from this experience, trying to build channels that help emotions flow from valleys of heartache to vistas of resolve. Mountain hiking seemed to be a good place to do that. But here’s what I learned. You can’t force this. Maybe I was just too distracted by the physical valleys and vistas before my eyes to worry about the valleys and vistas in my heart. If so, that’s fine. Snow-covered peaks and mountain streams have their own restorative power. So I didn’t have that legal pad session I was looking for when bullet points of resolve were flowing as fast as I could write. But I did have this happen.

My last hike of the trip was actually an after-thought. I was on my way out of the park, but noticed the clouds were breaking (it had been raining). I saw a trailhead for a trail I had had my eye on all week, so I pulled off and hiked. About 30 minutes into the trail I noticed something: silence. The other trails that week either had fellow hikers or rustling leaves from the wind. I was now on a desolate, moss-covered, fern-covered, old-growth forest trail. There was absolutely no breeze. All was still. And so I decided to stop and have about a 5-minute silent retreat.

In those few moments I realized something rather monumental: my mind is noisy. It’s busy. It moves from one thing to the next. I long ago diagnosed myself with ADD/ADHD (I became an ADD authority as a youth pastor). The grief process has taken the ADD to nuclear levels. Maybe it’s the mind’s default defense mechanism, which can be good. But in those moments of silence I heard the mental noise that I’ve been tuned into every minute of every day for the past many months. So while the noise might be protective, it’s also been keeping me from hearing, from processing, and probably worst of all, from praying.

And so, I made a commitment—a point of resolve if you will—that I will work to clear my mind of busy, noisy thinking, and try to make room for God to get a word in, at least edgewise.

That micro silent retreat was a nice gift. I’m not throwing dog tags into the sea, but I’m grateful for the slightest point of resolve, even if it’s just clearing the smallest space in a cluttered mind. Thankfully, God works with small things; a mustard seed comes to mind. And one thing I have definitely learned so far: if I’m to get to any point of resolve or strength, it will have to come from whatever God speaks into my heart and mind.

Speaking of being “tuned in,” I’ve been listening a lot lately to country music. Those folks know pain. Dana and I had connected on and with country music in our dating days (Travis Tritt was the gateway), and so I find some comfort in that music. And there are some GREAT songs out right now! Maybe this has contributed to my noisy mind. But as a funny twist, I leave you with the photo below, a picture of the radio station call name for the country station I listened to in Montana.

Thank you for your prayers, thoughts, and support.

Barry
(And the picture at the top was taken moments after my micro silent-retreat hike--Lake MacDonald at the Apgar Village, Glacier National Park.)

Plans B, and imitating a tree

Yes, I took the moon picture, on a trip to Montana this past July. It was shot from my perch at the fire tower through a hunter’s spotter scope, using a camera with a broken viewfinder (another entry in the long list of “nothing is easy”). I was guessing on the camera aim. The trees in the foreground are on top of a ridge of mountains about 5-10 miles away. Now imagine watching the moon set in about 60 seconds with this view. I was watching trees overtake craters in one of the most graphic real-time experiences with the rotation of the earth I’ve ever had. Other than the fact that it was taken in Montana, this picture has nothing to do with the subject of this post. Simply, it’s one of the coolest things I’ve seen.

When I was packing for this Montana trip I grabbed two books, one that I was reading as part of the recovery journey, (Plan B: What To Do When God Doesn’t Show Up the Way You Thought He Would by Pete Wilson, a really good book; more on that down the road) and the other by one of my favorite writers, Anne Lamott. I was reading Wilson’s Plan B on my flight to Montana and at about the half-way point in the book, and probably somewhere over North Dakota, Wilson quoted Anne Lamott from one of her books. Curious to see if that was the book I brought, I shuffled through my carry-on bag to find that it wasn’t the same book. But the book I did bring startled me. It was also hauntingly, coincidentally, maybe divinely, entitled Plan B (with the subtitle, Further Thoughts on Faith.). So here I was heading to Montana for some grief recovery and restoration, and I have two unrelated books entitled “Plan B.” God, You are funny.

And then, on my flight into Missoula I was sitting beside a retired gentleman whose wife was seated across the aisle. About 20 minutes before landing she handed him a stack of papers. I wasn’t trying to be the voyeur seat mate (although I think we all have that tendency deep down inside, at least I hope we do and it’s not just me) but I noticed the words “Glacier National Park” at the top of the top page. Those words always jump out at me like my own birth date. Dana and I had loved Glacier. We hiked there about four years ago when my family (mom, dad, Beck, Rick, KatieMaggieandMiles) celebrated my folks’ 50th wedding anniversary in that park. It was on that trip that Dana and I decided we needed more of Glacier in our lives. We were diagnosed with her recurrence that next month. We did, thankfully, get to return to Glacier last year for a wonderful, special trip. In fact, the header photo for this blog is from a hike on that trip.

So I asked my seat mate if they were heading to Glacier. He said, “Yes, we’re going there for 10 days. We’ve never been.” Through moist eyes I assured him he will love it. Then I turned to my window to let the tears flow. And that’s when it struck me: Here I was lugging two books entitled Plan B, and this gentleman was living my Plan A. I had one of the strongest tinges yet of unfairness come over me.

It’s possible that God was simply softening the ground for a couple things He wanted to show me while I was in Montana. The previous blog post “Lesson Learned along the Trail...and Journey” contained one of those things. Here was another.

I was able to take some wonderful, beautiful hikes through the Bitterroot Mountains. Around my third day of hiking, and probably my fourth hike, I realized that every trail wound through areas that had experienced some kind of fire. Some fires were long ago (15 years or more). Some were recent (one of my favorites, the Kootenai Creek Trail, had a huge fire even since we had hiked it within the past five years). And all were widespread.

It wasn’t long then before I was making the connection between these trails and my philosophy on this journey: I will run toward the fire [see post: Running Toward the Fire]. I began to feel that I was now doing this philosophy literally as I passed charred and fallen trees.

As devastating as these fires were, there are beautiful phenomena that happen after fire has swept through a forest. One of the trail heads had a permanent info board that explained the ecological miracles that take place, enabling a forest to regenerate. In fact, people hiking these trails today are seeing things they would not have been able to see without the fire. God built in many regenerative tripwires that are triggered only through fire.

The analogy speaks for itself. Yes, I would rather not have experienced the raging fire and still be on my Plan A. But I’m not. And so, as I navigate the Plan B that has been dealt to me, I will look for, anticipate, and embrace any tripwire I can find: eternal perspective, God-given strength, God stamps—experiences and lessons I would not have experienced without this painful journey. Admittedly, that’s easier said than done. But at least it’s now in writing. For me, that’s a start.

On one of the hikes I noticed a huge cedar tree that was very charred yet appeared strong and healthy. I simply told myself, “I want to be like that tree.”

By the way, I am writing this post on the eve of my second trip to Montana this year. This time, back to Glacier National Park. Let the looking, anticipating and embracing begin. I think.

Lesson Learned along the Trail...and Journey

Over these past months I’ve been experiencing first-hand what can only be described as the many faces of grief, each face being a different factor you have to deal with. To give a few examples, there is:

-the loss factor
-the longing factor
-the raw miss of Dane factor
-the “crap factor” of things you have to do (i.e., headstone)
-the fear factor of the future

I’ve likened these faces to a horse race: every day, sometimes every hour, these faces are racing each other, each striving to be the dominant feeling. In the first few weeks of losing Dane I felt like these faces were flashing across my mind like a strobe light. As time has gone on, each face settles in for awhile, a couple days, or a week, before another takes the lead. Right now the dominant face of grief seems to be this: the feeling of being torn from Dane, with all our “millipede” connections dangling like fresh wounds. It manifests itself in the sense that, as many couples feel, I was one with Dane; we became a blended entity and now I am so very not one. And it’s not a simple loneliness (I really haven’t been racked with loneliness), but a heightened awareness of simply not being with Dane. I’m the one, of the two of us, who is still here. She is on the Other Side and I am very much not. And it’s not simply a spouse lamenting the loss of a spouse; it’s Bear lamenting the loss of Dane. As I’ve mentioned, we had declared our love to be a top five love of all time. So now, what does the surviving half of that love do?

This made me ponder a question that Dana seemed to answer for me when I was on a recent trip to one of our favorite places in the world: the ranch of Burnt Fork Ministries, a wonderful place lovingly stewarded by our friends Randy and Kay. Here was the question: What would Dane feel/think if she was aware of the heartache that I was experiencing? What might she say to me?

I went to Montana with three distinct purposes: to see some great friends, to hike some beautiful trails, and to explore the night sky (my newfound hobby that is helping me connect with something that’s been around a lot longer than my and Dana’s love). What better place to explore the night sky than in a state nicknamed “Big Sky Country”? And it lived up to its billing. In fact, you might say I got to hike the day and the night: walking scenic trails through canyons and along mountain streams by day, learning constellations as I hopped from one formation to the other through and around the Milky Way by night.

Many merciful and gracious things happened to me and came to me on this Montana trip. I’m planning to post it in small bits. Here’s the first small bit:

On one particular night, a night that seemed emotionally heavier than the other nights, I stared at “our star” in the Big Dipper and posed the question I’d been pondering: What would Dane feel/think if she was aware of the heartache that I was experiencing? What would she say to me?

I was surprised by what entered my mind and my heart: I pictured Dana in her splendor thinking about that question. In fact, her current surroundings of splendor have everything to do with the response. I’m going to write as I heard the response, in Dana’s words:

“Bear, about your heartache and your pain: I’ve seen where this all leads and it
really doesn’t matter how much you hurt. I’ve seen how and where you will end
up. It doesn’t matter how hard things are for you now. It will be worth the
pain. Bear, of all the crap I endured to try to beat that crazy cancer, it was
worth that pain. It’s actually not even on a comparable scale. It doesn’t matter
how much worse things get for you on Earth; it doesn’t matter how much deeper
the heartache gets; it doesn’t matter if you get a bad disease yourself. In
fact, just to stress the point: I won’t even waste time trying to comfort you.
All I can say is, it really doesn’t matter! I can’t wait until you see how worth
it it all is!!! I SEE it. I SEE the forever! It’s real! Bear, it’s worth the
pain. It was worth all my pain/suffering. It doesn’t matter how hard it gets. It
WILL be worth it.”

I don’t quite have words yet to describe how this answer has comforted me. I can truly say, it has settled me down. When a face of grief tries to own me, I can look it in the eye and say, “It doesn’t matter how bad this gets; it will be worth it.” Maybe it’s just that our final reward is so much more certain to me now.

And this past Tuesday with my Bible study gang, we ran into this Scripture passage, James 1:12:

Anyone who meets a testing challenge head-on and manages to stick it out is
mighty fortunate. For such persons loyally in love with God, the reward is life
and more life. (The Message version)

And I’m reminded of 2 Corinthians 4:16-18:

So we're not giving up. How could we! Even though on the outside it often looks
like things are falling apart on us, on the inside, where God is making new
life, not a day goes by without his unfolding grace. These hard times are small
potatoes compared to the coming good times, the lavish celebration prepared for
us. There's far more here than meets the eye. The things we see now are here
today, gone tomorrow. But the things we can't see now will last forever. (The
Message version)

You gotta love a version that uses the phrase “small potatoes”!

And as if to put an exclamation point on my “conversation” with Dana, on my last day of hiking I had this experience:

One of our favorite hikes near the ranch in Montana is the Bear Creek Overlook. (I know, “Bear”; but it’s not just because of the name.) I squeezed this trail in as a second hike on the last day of my visit. The overlook is one of the most breathtaking mountain scenes I’ve experienced, and I’ve experienced more than my fair share of mountain scenes. The picture at the top of this post does not do it justice. I spent an hour at the overlook. Then on my way back down the trail, I passed two guys going up the trail on their way to the overlook. They asked how much farther they had to go (a common hiker practice; we all want recon and perspective). I told them about 30-45 minutes. They took a few steps up the trail and then one of them asked back, “Is it worth it?”

I know. It was God-stamp timing.

Without yet making the cosmic connection between their question and my question, I loved being able to say, with almost a giddy certainty, “definitely!” I had personally weighed the effort (the switch-back trail) against the payoff (the magnificent overlook) and could confidently declare that it was worth it. I KNEW they would enjoy it.

It wasn’t until I got near the bottom of the trail that I realized the connection between that conversation and the “conversation” I had with Dane. I had given those two hikers the answer that Dana had been giving me about my journey. Dana would say to me with absolute, giddy certainty that the journey is worth it! She’s seen the trail and she’s now seen the payoff.

It’s definitely worth it.

Sushi, Fellowship and Sunflowers

I’m discovering that there is a second tier of loss in journeys like mine—things you lose as a result of the primary loss. I want to tell you about a wonderful church I said good-bye to this past Sunday.

First, the back story. I’ve been serving part-time as the lead pastor of Centerville Christian Fellowship (Centerville, Ohio) along with a full-time assistant Wes Duff. Wes is a good friend who was part of Dana’s and my college-age ministry many years ago. He and I have seamlessly morphed into mutually discipling each other over the past few years. Our ministry partnership with Centerville has been happening since January of 2008, covering most of the time that Dana and I had been battling her recurrence. Wes recently accepted a position at Salem Church of God in Dayton. While this obviously changed the dynamics of the situation, I had every intention to continue on with CCF. But as the mental mud has thickened, and has shown every sign of getting thicker, I made the difficult decision to step down as pastor. It just seems best for the church in the long run.

CCF is a special place with special people. After it was planted just over 15 years ago I became the “go to” fill in guy when their pastor was away. At the time I could teach Sunday school at my church in Middletown and high-tail it to the church in Centerville (but not without a little nervousness on the part of the sound guy). We enjoyed a special "fill in go to guy" relationship. Then I became their “go to” interim for two stints, the second morphing into the pastoral situation with Wes. Dana and I have loved these folks and I have certainly received more than I gave. During the hospital and hospice months this past fall they formed a literal food brigade. Believe it or not, the one component I was most nervous about duplicating from hospital to home was food---it was nice to simply call food service (you get to order your own meals at Atrium; very nice touch) and everything you need showed up on the tray. But between the church’s diligent food prep/delivery and Mama Sue’s food prep presentation, food was the least of my worries and actually became a positive force in the experience…for nearly three months! That’s long-term meal supply!

About the second week into the hospital stay I came home one night for some supplies and as I pulled into the driveway my headlights beamed over the nemesis of my yard: wild violets. I had a whole fall strategy to eradicate these things. But now, looking at them was another ripping reminder that life was turned upside down and the violets were just another of many tasks I won’t get to. Next scene: 15-ish folks from the church descending like commandos on my neighborhood-sized front yard and pulling every last violet. What a gift. For the remainder of the fall whenever my headlights scanned the front yard, I saw nothing but love. And along those lines, the church descended with the same force on my backyard to rake leaves throughout the fall.

And there’s more. They visited us in the hospital. They relayed rainbow reminders. They walked prayer laps (in the rain!) around the hospital. They sang Christmas carols to us on December 22, the last earthly music Dane would hear in that she was hearing angels the next morning (she laughed at Wes singing the words of one carol to the tune of another---sorry Wes, I had to out you).

They reminded me of the sunflower. And they served sushi.

First, the sunflower. There’s a sunflower patch I would pass on my route to the church. One week a couple years ago the flowers were in their brilliance. I noticed many people had pulled over to snap some pictures and I decided to get in on the action. We were in the middle of a series on fellowship (and launching a new small-group effort). In the series we looked at four things with which we have fellowship: the Father, the Son, the Holy Spirit, and each other. A recurring point in the series was that when these four elements overlap (picture four interlocking circles), a sweet spot of fellowship is created that is irresistible. As I watched people come and go to take pictures of this beautiful sunflower field, I was struck with a gripping analogy: this is what “sweet spot” fellowship looks like. It’s naturally attractive and irresistible. As I developed that point for a sermon I decided to see if I could find further information about the sunflower that might shed more light on comparing irresistible fellowship to beautiful sunflowers. After about two webpage clicks I was struck by the arrangement in the middle of a sunflower, where I saw the logo we had created for the series. The picture sequence below tells it all.











The first weekend Dana and I were in the hospital Jeff and Steve from the church’s leadership board (aptly named, Servant Board) stopped by…with a vase of sunflowers.

Now the sushi. When I shared in Dana’s celebration service I read one of her writings…the one that started all the deer God stamps. At one point in the writing Dana shared her frustration on how the church (in general, not CCF) so easily slides into the same ol’, same ol’ and exhorted the church to do better. As an example, rather than the same predictable missions banquet, why not have a missions salsa dance and serve sushi! Well, at the dinner following the celebration service, we had sushi. Our youth leaders Amy and Matt bought it between the service and the dinner. It’s a church that serves sushi…and I hope it will always be.

This wonderful group of people prayed for us, held us, fed us, ministered to us, cried with us. No matter how despairing and dark I felt in those hard days last fall and winter, I always felt supported and connected. They were patient and generous in giving me leave time to be a caregiver.

Stepping down from this position is another loss in this journey. For now, though, I am confident that God is with me and He is with the CCF congregation. I leave you with the Scripture prayer that we read together as we closed out our service this past Sunday; and it's a prayer I'll be praying every Sunday morning for a long time on behalf of a special group of people meeting at that time in Centerville, Ohio. (This passage was also the benediction that closed out my and Dane's wedding ceremony; for those who were there, you'll hear Don Finto's voice as you read. It ministers to me in SO many ways.)

Ephesians 3:16-21 (TNIV)

16 I pray that out of his glorious riches he may strengthen you with power through his Spirit in your inner being, 17 so that Christ may dwell in your hearts through faith. And I pray that you, being rooted and established in love, 18 may have power, together with all the Lord's people, to grasp how wide and long and high and deep is the love of Christ, 19 and to know this love that surpasses knowledge—that you may be filled to the measure of all the fullness of God.

20 Now to him who is able to do immeasurably more than all we ask or imagine, according to his power that is at work within us, 21 to him be glory in the church and in Christ Jesus throughout all generations, for ever and ever! Amen.

Speaking of Stars...and Rainbows...and Deer...and a Wonderful Lake

I didn’t plan to go such a long stretch since the last post. In fact, I had an “addendum” I intended to add within a day or two of the last post and….well….here I am, several weeks later. I’ve hit a different stretch in the journey. Everything (whether grief related or not) has been difficult. The mental mud has been thicker.

And the God stamp reminders have been scarce. God has seemed far.

Until last week.

But back to scarce. In fact, I even had an “opposite God stamp” day, as in: 1) I was standing in a parking lot looking for a rainbow (conditions were right) and, with eyes looking skyward, I stepped into an ankle-deep puddle; 2) As I drove out of that parking lot with a wet foot I saw a deer, dead on the side of the road, freshly hit. Eyes still open. I felt like I was in the middle of a cosmic joke.

Not only were the God stamps scarce, I was now in a God-stamp deficit.

And then last week happened.

Over the Fourth of July I had a chance to take a 3-day vacation on Torch Lake near Traverse City, Michigan. I joined a “family vacation in progress” with the Burns family of Bruce, Amy, their daughter Kelsey and her two friends Mary and Bridgette (and Willie and Coal, the dogs). Amy, Kelsey and friends left after my first day. My and Bruce’s good friends Bob and Scott then joined Bruce and me. Now, before you picture too irreverent of a “guy” trip, you need to know that one of our quests for the week was the making of “Bananas Foster.” A local Cajun restaurant teased us with “we’re out of a lot of things tonight but we do have Bananas Foster”…until it came time for us to order Bananas Foster. They were out. Quest on. And it was good.

I came to realize that this trip also represented a new phase in the journey: going to a place that Dana and I had never experienced, but a place I knew she’d love and that we would have enjoyed experiencing together. This sense started trickling in when I saw the Caribbean-esque water (yes, turquoise, on a lake, in Michigan) and the fishing (Dane was the fisherperson of the family). But the sense flooded over me when I saw Coal the dog (black lab-ish) leap off the edge of the dock for his toy, dive to the shallow lake bottom to get it (knowing not to breathe in), leaving his butt and tail in the air like a duck. Dane would have howled at that sight---we’ve always loved that famous duck move, but then to see it on one of our favorite animals, or any animal besides a duck? Priceless. I laughed a laughter that seamlessly morphed into a little cry. That’s when I became painfully aware of the new phase in the journey.

I had been hoping to do some stargazing on this trip (northern Michigan has a great night sky view) and yes, have a moment with Dane at “our” star (see previous post.) The first two nights were cloudy and by the last night stargazing seemed out of the picture. After I went to bed and got a bit dozy it suddenly hit me that it had been a clear evening, and was probably a clear night. I threw on some clothes, grabbed my flashlight, and headed across the street to the dock where Coal had displayed his skills.

I laid down on the dock, looked up at the sky, and said hello to our star in the Big Dipper. And within the 20-ish minutes I was out there, I saw two shooting stars. That, was a nice touch, and for me, seemed to lock in my moment with Dane at “our star.” It was also the beginning of the God-stamp barrage.

The next day was my last day at the lake, and our third day of golf. As we drove around a corner to the t-box on about hole 15, I looked over to a nearby hillside and saw two fawns. Bruce had already seen them and debated about whether to point them out. (Would this be joyous or sad? Would it destroy Barry’s golf game or enhance it?) My cart partner Bob and I then pointed them out to Bruce and Scott, to which Bruce said semi-jokingly “no crying”…to which I said, “too late.” We all had a nice Dana moment. And then I proceeded to self-destruct on the course. Oh well.

When I got home that night I received an e-mail from my folks that while on their way home from Hueston Woods (a nice state park near them) that day they decided to stop by the cemetery (I trust that I can say “stop by the cemetery” and you know exactly what I mean---proper/possessive nouns make it too heavy). As they drove through the cemetery gateway they saw…two deer, romping around the cemetery, and obviously visiting.

And it continues.

The next day, Thursday, we had “conditions are right” for a rainbow. I’ve been shut out lately in seeing rainbows…just stepping in puddles while looking for them. This evening I was getting drenched while looking. First front yard. Then backyard. Then back to front yard. I felt like a dog in the back of a moving pickup truck going from side to side. And I felt I was on another empty rainbow chase. And then, there it was, rather faint, but there. And “there” in the same position as the first rainbow that got all these God stamps started. I snapped some pictures and then plopped down on our porch swing and cried.

Then yesterday I received an e-mail from my cousins Jim and Stacey who live in Hawaii. They had just seen a rainbow, snapped a picture, and sent it.

I’ve been humbled by friends and family telling me how they think of Dana and me and God when they see a rainbow, or deer, or the dim star in the big dipper.

And now to the “addendum” I’ve been wanting to add since the last post. Two things.

First: I wanted to share with you the tribute that the Atrium Medical Center Foundation included in the program booklet the night of the gala (see previous post). It’s beautiful. You’ll see it below. And I might suggest that if you’re looking for a health cause to donate to, I’d suggest this wonderful foundation.

Second: Speaking of stars, shortly after Dana passed away, my good friends Bonnie and Eric came by the house with a gift. They had named a star with the International Star Registry in memory of Dane. The name of the star? The Deer. It’s in the Virgo constellation (both my and Dana’s birth constellation). Its telescopic coordinates, for any star enthusiasts out there, are: RA14h40m27.63s D-5[degrees]37’25.50”

Maybe you noticed how this barrage of God-stamp reminders came in twos? Two shooting stars. Two fawns. Two deer. Two rainbows. And then to top it off, when I mowed my lawn this afternoon, I saw my second pile of deer dung. I’m not sure what to make of that. Maybe I’ll have that figured out by the next post.

In any event: Rainbows. Deer. Stars. And a star named The Deer.

God seems near.

Wishing Upon A Star

I’ve had a running theme develop these past couple weeks and I’m way overdue for a post. The theme is, strangely, stars.

Ever since breast cancer Round 1 (10 years ago), I’ve had this private thought: In the event that something were to happen to Dane (or me, for that matter) it would be kinda cool for us to pick out a star where we could meet. While a specific star (North Star, a star in a constellation, etc.) is fixed and findable on this side of the universe, it seems, even though it’s the great unknown, it would be easy for the one on the other side to figure out how to get to it. And then we could have a moment with each other, each of us on our respective sides of the star.

When breast cancer Round 2 hit in August 2006, this idea picked up some urgency in my heart, but there was really no good time to suggest it. It would be too spooky. And then when things took the bad turn in the fall of 2009, I simply jettisoned the idea. But then one day in October, for whatever reason, our conversation turned to the stars. So I seized the opening. In Dane's bed-ridden state we couldn’t go out and actually pick a star, so I decided to suggest a star—something simple, but not too cliché like the North Star. I figured the Big Dipper would give us something to work with. So, we had this conversation (I’m using our nicknames; this comes into play later).

Bear: “If anything happens to one of us we should meet at a star in the Big Dipper.”
Dane: “That’s a good idea.”
Bear: “Maybe the star at the end of the handle?”
Dane: “Don’t care.”

The “don’t care” response was probably two-fold: 1) “I’m tired of answering questions”; and 2) anything in the Big Dipper is probably fine.

So, we had a plan.

In February, a few weeks after Dana passed away (I’m still not used to those last three words btw), I was in Florida for a grief recovery trip. One clear night I decided to take a walk on the beach to have the first moment with Dane and the Big Dipper. I had yet to look at it since December 23. It was a beautiful night. The first task however, was to determine at which star Dana would want to meet since we left that rather open-ended. So I gazed into those ever-familiar points of that ladle in the sky just to see if something would emerge. And something emerged. The image at the top of this blog is not a picture I took, but an enhanced image of the Big Dipper. If you know Dana in the slightest, you might be able to tell where my eyes and heart landed. I’ve never noticed (or registered with any significance) that one of the stars is dimmer than the others. Dane would ALWAYS pull for, root for, and pick, the runt of the litter. The underdog. That faintest star connecting the handle to the bowl would have to be our star.

Fast forward to just a week ago. I decided to investigate the stars in the Big Dipper, knowing they probably had names, and wondering if I might find something else cool…maybe even along the lines of a God stamp. The feint star that had emerged for me is named Megrez. So I Googled Megrez (pronounced MEE-grez). I’m going to paste in below what I found:

The faintest star of the Big Dipper, Megrez is in the Dipper's middle, linking the handle to the bowl, and in the bigger picture linking Ursa Major's tail to the Bear's hindquarters. The name appropriately refers not to the Dipper, but to the Bear…

WE PICKED A STAR IN THE BEAR!!

Of course! I’m thinking we picked the right place to meet. And another God stamp for my collection.

Last month I attended the gala for Atrium Medical Center’s (the Middletown area’s hospital) foundation. Dana had worked a lot with and for the foundation—writing much of their newsletter and fund raising material over the last few years. And, she had helped plan this particular gala (it’s held only every three years, so it’s been in planning for a long time) and she had actually suggested the theme: Wish Upon a Star. I know...wow! The foundation invited me as their guest. This was a definite “run toward the fire” event. I enjoyed dinner with the foundation folks whom Dana loved and loved working with; and they loved Dana and loved working with her; I talked with our oncologist Albert Malcolm whom I hadn’t seen since Dane’s passing. He was glad to see me and expressed how much losing Dana affected him, his staff, and this community. I saw many other healthcare professionals who had been along our journey, not only as pros, but as friends. And I saw many longtime friends.

But I wasn’t prepared for this.

As I perused the items in the event’s silent auction I suddenly saw a sign: “In memory of Dana Shafer.” And there for auction was a basket of knitting, knitting books, and a copy of “Mud Pie Annie,” a children’s book Dana co-wrote with her mother. It was a step-back, take-the-glasses-off and boo-hoo-in-public moment. I didn’t even know the person who had put this together, but I met her before the evening was over. Jane and Dana had worked on the foundation together, but also had become friends through knitting. I was, quite simply, overwhelmed.

At one point in the hospital president’s address during the gala’s program, Doug McNeil said, “and our dreams come true when we wish upon a star.” At that line the entire room became a fantasia of stars reflecting everywhere that then set the atmosphere for the rest of the evening. The room was full of ooos and ahhhs. I wondered if that was Dana’s idea and I had a warm contentment that it was. As I left the banquet hall, the foundation’s director, Mike Stautberg, caught me and said, “I don’t think I told you, that starlight thing we did was Dana’s idea, too.”

I know my girl.

I will look to the stars. I will wish upon them. And I will meet Dane at the underdog Big Dipper star in The Bear.



I leave you with an image of the Big Dipper and The Great Bear (Ursa Major).

Biketour Recap...finally!

I am SOOO overdue with this post! I feel like I created a cliffhanger from the last post, setting up the adventurous New York City Biketour, and then … nothing!

In short, it was an incredible experience, and one that we’re all planning to do again. Things went off without a hitch: no bike equipment failure, no subway glitches with the bikes in getting to the start line, and no bodily injury!

Aaron (Cara’s husband), Phillip (Kirby’s boyfriend) and I awoke at 4:30 a.m. on Sunday to get our gear together and ride the subway from Brooklyn (we all stayed in Kirby’s apartment) into Manhattan. We exited the subway at City Hall Station, rode our bikes south about a mile (with Manhattan traffic, but at 6:00 a.m. on Sunday, it was light, and very fun) to near Battery Park, then followed signs north (riding past Ground Zero) to the start line, which for us was the intersection of Church and Chambers. We then waited for about an hour, and we were off.

When I am looking out over my Cannondale handle bars I'm usually seeing Ohio's Miami River, the Little Miami Bike Trail, and corn rows—straight corn rows in fact. This is all great scenery, but it’s not NYC. There is something surreal about seeing these same Cannondale handle bars in front of Radio City Music Hall, the Empire State Building, Central Park, the Brooklyn Bridge, the UN Building---and all without traffic. We also rode within a block of Times Square. The failed bomb attempt was the night before. It did not faze us 32,000 bike riders.

I certainly had some heavy, teary moments. It was an event Dane and I had talked about doing together, so it was impossible to avoid thinking about how much fun we would have had on this ride---scenery to observe, things to make fun of (gobs of bike helmet decorations), things to say “wow” to. There would have been lots of “helmet hugs,” which is either one of us saying to the other “give me some helmet” and then giving each other a gentle helmet bump.

Phillip rode Dane’s bike. At the end of the trip he commented “Dana was definitely with me,” noting how he has no idea how he was able to finish the 42-mile ride (and the uphill Verrazano Bridge at the end, the bridge that’s the start of the NYC Marathon, and the longest suspension bridge in the U.S., yes, even longer than the Golden Gate Bridge) without help since he had had no chance to do any training.

I had a great time with the buzzins (“beloved cousins”), Cara and Kirby. Lots of reminiscing. Lots of “Dane would have loved this” comments. On Saturday, we were joined by cousin-in-law Monica, the wife of Dane’s cousin Web who had passed away suddenly near last Memorial Day weekend. Monica lives nearby in New Jersey. It was great to see her, and to commiserate with each other on common pain. While we were all having a joyous dinner (carbing up for the ride the next day), we couldn’t help but think that Web and Dana were having some cousin party time of their own, and thinking “Monica, Barry and the Buzzins’ think they’re having fun now? Just wait! They have no idea!!”

I leave you with a few more pix from the event. You can see more by clicking the Shutterfly link on this blog page.

Riding toward the fire,
Barry