<![CDATA[GUFFAW THRU LIFE - Growing Pains]]>

<![CDATA[GUFFAW THRU LIFE - Growing Pains]]>Mon, 27 Apr 2026 06:30:26 -0700Weebly<![CDATA[Song . . . "Lost Soul"]]>Wed, 22 Apr 2026 23:31:43 GMThttp://www.guffawthrulife.com/growing-pains/song-lost-soul

My brother wrote this song about our mother, about us, our family. He forwarded it to us yesterday in a group text which, as you can imagine, incited conversations about the past. We admitted to tears when we listened to Lost Soul and we thanked our brother for expressing feelings we all share.

Grief is a convoluted process filled with big emotions we grapple to understand. And often artistic, creative methods assist on the path to a clearer perspective. I am proud of how my brother is processing grief and grateful he is sharing his creative journey and that he is helping us to process our own sorrows..

I hope Lost Soul inspires you to find your own creative way to heal from the hard hits you too may be experiencing. As you listen, crank the volume, allow for tears, look up and open your heart to hope.

Thank you to my brother for giving me permission to share his creation with you. It can feel vulnerable allowing others a look inside . . . especially during a season of grief.

]]><![CDATA[What Is . . .]]>Sat, 11 Apr 2026 20:04:47 GMThttp://www.guffawthrulife.com/growing-pains/what-is"At some point,
you have to let go of what you thought should happen
and
live in what is happening."
- Unknown
]]><![CDATA[Family . . . Foibles ! ! ! Forgiveness ? ? ?]]>Mon, 30 Jun 2025 22:52:58 GMThttp://www.guffawthrulife.com/growing-pains/family-foibles-forgiveness7007306

MOM: Sandra Lee Weikum February 18, 1944. - June 29, 2025

“It is the greatest statistic in the world; one out of every one dies.” George Bernard Shaw

“War does not increase death, death is total in every generation.”    C. S. Lewis
“We face death every day,
It’s the most democratic thing in the whole world that brings us all to the same level; Everybody is going to die.” Billy Graham

Around April 2024, unusual communiques began transpiring between mom and my siblings and me. The doctor’s dementia diagnosis propelled mom into a tailspin of terror.

She’d call repeatedly . . . day and night;
Sometimes cognizant
Sometimes demented
Sometimes fumbling with her cell
Sometimes disconnecting her calls
Sometimes asking for someone other than whom she’d actually dialed.

Her communications consisted of fears and faith, accusations and gratitude, confusion and tears, acceptance and anger, prayer and the universal, “Why?”
Her emotions ran the gamut.

She’d beg me, “Please, move to Montana and take care of me.”
She’d advise me, “I’m moving to Alaska to live with you!”
She’d plead with me, “Please, visit soon . . . before I die?”
My emotions ran the gamut.

My siblings shared of their own similar dramatic interactions with our mother. And . . . their emotions ran the gamut.

After years of struggling from agoraphobia, mom started wandering. The police intervened when mom was discovered crouching behind a dumpster at a nearby restaurant - in her attempt to avoid ‘predators.’ The police assisted, at a neighbor’s request, when, in a state of confusion, mom locked herself out of her apartment. And the police picked up mom from alongside the road when she decided to walk from Montana back ‘home’ to Oregon.

As a myriad of unsettling events continued to occur, my siblings, two of my nieces (who work in health care industries) and I feverishly transmitted group texts and calls. Mom’s affairs were not in order, so it was left to us to wrestle weighty questions amongst ourselves: Power of Attorney, Longterm Care, Financing . . . needless to say, sentiments ran high.

I am the oldest of five sisters with our only brother sandwiched in the middle of all of us girls. We range in ages from our forties to our sixties, we reside in four different states and we’re all locked into routines and responsibilities, which made the logistics, of caring for our mother . . . daunting.

On a ‘normal’ day mom is, to put it mildly, a difficult person. She’s of a disagreeable mind always rushing to anger and accusations and guilting and shaming and issuing endless demands. Mom grew up in a violent atmosphere which set precedence for her own homemaking. In addition, mom’s addictions, along with the ‘proclivities’ of her numerous husband's and lover’s, served to exacerbate the dynamics of our family culture.

Between the six of us kids, we have four different fathers; only one of which stepped up to parent . . . the others fell off the grid. Mom struggled with conflicting hedonistic tendencies and convoluted religious concepts wherein she exhibited a dichotomous moral construct.

At very early ages, each of my siblings and I were either thrust from or we left our mother’s home. There is a fourteen year age difference between my youngest sister and me. Around about a year after my sister’s birth, mom asked me to sit with her at our kitchen table. She advised me that I was old enough to make my own way in life. She confided that she’d resolved to relinquish custody of two of my siblings to their father and she felt fairly certain he’d take one of my other sisters. She intended to give up my baby sister for adoption. But she puzzled over where to place my twelve year old sister.

The window of time that passed, between this life altering conversation and when mom did finally ‘move’ me out of her house, was filled with inconceivable stresses. In the midst of one of mom’s innumerable outbursts of rage, she armed me with a few items of clothing and sent me off into the world. With a ninth grade education, I began a new life; I quit school and started working days at Herfy’s Burgers and nights at Taco Bell. I slept on the living room floor of an empathetic soul who offered me the hospitality of a temporary shelter. And . . . the years that followed were frothed with difficulty — as was my relationship with my mother.

Around midlife, mom was diagnosed with mental illness. This illumination helped to slowly transform my resentments from a burden of bitterness into a more empathetic state of heart and mind as my traumatic childhood experiences began to take on some semblance of sense.

In mom’s 70s, her demeanor toward me began to shift. After years of mom setting matches to bridges and scoffing into the flames, an insurmountable loneliness shrouded her life. Mom’s looks no longer attracted a following and the apparent ‘comforts’ she derived from these entanglements. So, she started to reach out to me. We shared a tenuous relationship filled with nebulous boundaries and a patience that required my love express itself beyond the emotions she evoked.

After her dementia diagnosis, mom eventually moved into a Memory Care Facility where she received much needed assistance. However, this proved merely the beginning of a whole new set of challenges. As the disease ravaged, mom displayed aggressive behaviors where she cursed at staff and residents, destroyed property and threw fits of temper. Mom was removed from two different facilities and when she was placed in the third and final Care Unit, they had her so heavily medicated, mom literally could not even hold up her head.

During our last conversation, when mom still had some cognition, she cried and between sobs begged me to visit. After flying home from this last work assignment, I loaded up my car and drove from Alaska to Montana where I found my mother in a near catatonic state. Left in soiled diapers and dirty cloths and drooling and shaking and stinking - negligence of mom’s care was evident! Family feuding broke out, confrontations with staff ensued, tensions ran high!

"Above all, keep fervent in your love for one another,
because love covers a multitude of sins.”
1 Peter 4:8

      “What did mom ever do for us!?! Aside from giving us life?”

I contemplated this question as I did not have a ready answer. I could relate with my sister’s accusation. However, recanting mom’s attributes had never worked for me in transforming my bitterness; my world view realigned my perspective and helped me to release mom from expectations she just could not meet. Whether mom was right or whether she was wrong was irrelevant.

For my own mental health, my own personal development, my own spiritual growth . . . there was no other option for me, I had to forgive mom. By releasing her, I freed myself. I stopped expecting mom to be motherly toward me, I accepted reciprocity would not ever be a part of our relationship and I learned to love mom on a deeper level.

Mom died Sunday. My brother called me to let me know and we both cried for our mother and over our own personal loss. Tears come to my eyes even now as I write. I grieve for the life I think my mother could have had, for the fractured relationships and collateral damage she left behind and I grieve because my mother is no longer here. She was a part of my life, even with all of the challenges she brought to our relationship.

For most, family is a gloriously, messy community synonymous with forgiveness - that's the deal this side of heaven. And . . . it can be said my mother required a lot of it. But then, when I look into my own heart and reflect upon the errors in judgment I've made along my own life's journey, I find that I too may have needed a bit of forgiveness a time or two from those I love.

Imperfect as she was, my mother taught me faith. Though she did not walk out her faith in Christ with absolute trust, her gift has helped me navigate the troubled waters of life. My mother was a beautiful woman who loved to sing and dance and write and create art. Today she is in heaven and I can imagine she is dancing and singing before the God of creation who has kindly and lovingly welcomed her home. I love you, mom. I will see you again someday and I look forward to that joy.

]]><![CDATA[Perspective . . .]]>Fri, 22 Nov 2024 11:30:39 GMThttp://www.guffawthrulife.com/growing-pains/perspective

Colony of Walrus Cape Newenham Alaska Nov 21, 2024

The day is slowly waking. Mountains lay silhouetted against an emerging muted blue. A half moon graces the morning sky. I hear the soft lapping of the Bering Sea as its water ebbs and flows along the shore here at the Cape. The Brook that crashes its way down the hillside is no longer audible when I pull up to the Weather Station - for a beautiful icy pattern’s silenced its song for the season.

I sit in the warmth and quiet of the Observation Station where I’m keeping watch on weather patterns and disseminating to the pilots that fly in today. Large windows open my view in North, East and Southerly directions; the vista is mesmerizing. Across the sea, from where I sit, snow draped mountains reflect the early light. I am not yet able to see the sun’s golden orb, but soon I’ll watch its rising as it makes its way up over the craggy mountains behind our camp.

Sleeping on our beach, just below the Weather Station, is a colony of walrus. I slip my boots off, rest my feet on the desk and watch as dark heads bob in the cove. I decide to drive down to the beach and take a picture or two. I attempt a sleuth approach toward the lookout but the walrus startle at my presence and rush for the water.

Steam rises on the cold morning air as they grunt and groan and push and waddle in their panic. They climb on top of and fuss at one another and oddly, instead of making a beeline toward the ocean, they funnel in behind their leads in their escape. Off to the side, away from the herd, lay unmoving two walrus snuggled together. Long after the others flee, these two slowly pad and grunt their way to the waters edge.

Gratitude fills my heart for this peaceful start to my long work day.

I celebrate both my birthday and Thanksgiving here in remote Alaska where I work at Cape Newenham. I confess, yesterday I battled a case of the grumps in spite of all the birthday wishes and love sent to me by the people I love. I grumbled to a couple close friends who listened and encouraged and lovingly reminded me of the value and power of a grateful heart. In sixty-one years of living, life rarely unfolds as I envision, but when I maintain a grateful perspective and let loose expectations not serving me well, I see . . . with greater clarify that life richly supplies all that I truly need and I see that this gloriously messy life . . . is good.

]]><![CDATA[Across the Cove . . . Across the Miles . . .]]>Wed, 15 Nov 2023 16:39:45 GMThttp://www.guffawthrulife.com/growing-pains/across-the-cove

Morning Light

I look out the kitchen window to check how much shoveling is ahead of me this morning. The neighbor's lights greet as they cast long shadows across the snow covered cove. Sunrise will illuminate in a couple of hours. But for now, a warm concoction brews in my French press.

I've fond memories of shoveling winter's white with my youngest. Like me, he enjoys menial tasks. We'd often chat as we worked or we'd simply enjoy companionable silence.

My son is long since grown and lives in a different state where he's building a life with his family. But though he no longer accompanies me on chilly mornings, today he is very much near in my heart.

]]><![CDATA[Veteran's Day . . .]]>Sun, 12 Nov 2023 01:04:04 GMThttp://www.guffawthrulife.com/growing-pains/veterans-day

God bless America land that I love. Stand beside her and guide her through the night with the Light from above

The Fourth of July, to me, always represented food, fun and fireworks. But standing at attention, listening to the National Anthem, watching our flag wave against a brilliant sky, I could not stop the tears from rolling down my cheeks. Having had been recently deployed to Iraq to serve at the beginning of the war campaign, It was unfathomable my own child was embroiled in this conflict.

In the wake of 9/11, I hung on every word the media transmitted regarding the Middle East. I felt terror at the thought of the atrocities my oldest son was experiencing. Then, to double my fears and anxieties, when controversial news hit the airwaves regarding our military personnel's conduct and United State citizens turned on our soldiers, my youngest enlisted in support of his brother.

Thank you, Jesus, both of my sons made it home at the end of their service.

“And the truth is that all veterans pay with their lives.
Some pay all at once, while others pay over a lifetime.”
- JM Storm

Today, I honor my sons and those of my family who served and all our veterans who paid an incomprehensible price to secure our freedom, our quality of life.

My oldest son served in Kosovo and Iraq
My youngest son served in Iraq and subcontracted in Afghanistan
My niece served in Korea
My nephew served in Afghanistan
My daughter-in-law served in Iraq and Afghanistan

Veteran's Day and July 4th's holiday hold greater meaning because of you. And though thank you sounds so hollow, I thank you. You are dearly loved.

My Oldest - 2004

My Youngest - 2003

]]><![CDATA[Dichotomy . . .]]>Thu, 02 Feb 2023 01:57:13 GMThttp://www.guffawthrulife.com/growing-pains/february-01st-2023

Plumes of smoke, exhaled from drags off of her cigarette, mingled with wafts of White Shoulders, Granny’s signature perfume. Mom’s grandma wore heavy, dark rimmed glasses and a short-cropped, curly, red wig. She spoke with cryptic tongue and advocated progressive opinions. Granny was a larger than life personality.

Her visits incited frenzied responses from my mother who’d scurry about our house in preparation for Granny’s arrival. During one of mom’s flurries, she informed me that, at the cost of family relations, Granny betrayed with her sister’s husband, that for a price, men paid for the ‘pleasure’ of Granny’s company and that Granny pushed further against social norms by conceiving a little girl out of wedlock with a man of a different ethnicity.

Granny eventually settled down with a quiet Italian. And Gramps adored her, or so all of his catering to her demands appeared to my child’s mind. Like Gramps, I too accommodated and interfaced shyly with life . . . and Granny doted on me. She was my advocate when I grappled at knowing how to stand up for myself.

I’d often puzzle over the contrast between Granny’s fierceness with others and her gentleness toward me. The colored choices of her past did not seem to align with her protectiveness of and vulnerability with me. I felt timid toward Granny and yet I trusted her. I loved Granny, I admired her strength and I appreciated the soft areas of her heart that she entrusted to me.

Granny’s daughter was beautiful. She had wavy, jet black hair and a milk chocolate skin tone that I wished I'd inherited. She was soft spoken and frighteningly stern. Mom warned my sister and me, when leaving us with grandma, of her mom’s harsh discipline. I’ve memories of Jen falling into grandma's hands. Somehow I escaped her indignation.

When I was in the fifth grade, grandma reached out to me and Jen. She brought gifts and she also offered to us the benefit of some of her life experience. Though grandma had only completed an eighth grade education, learning was her life long ambition. And she advised us that listening was a key toward her garnering knowledge. Somehow I understood that what she shared held value and I’ve carried her wise words with me these many years.

I do not have many more memories of grandma after this unique visit. Before I moved to Alaska, we met for a five generation photo after my oldest was born. Later I heard grandma slipped into depression, took to her bed and died in a hopeless state of mind. Though a difficult person to know, I appreciated when she allowed me small glimpses.

Picnic and play with grandma

Grandma, dad’s mom, gave me this necklace when I was a little girl. My parents were in the midst of divorce and not long after their severing, I’d not see grandma again for many years. The necklace carries a mustard seed on the inside and printed on the back is the scripture:
“If ye have faith as a grain of mustard seed nothing shall be impossible unto you.”
Matthew 17:20

Somehow I’ve managed to keep my grandmother’s gift for more than 50 years. This out-of-vogue piece of jewelry is more than a trinket from a woman long since dead. It is a beautiful reminder of a gentle love for a little girl, of a concern for a little girl’s future and of a legacy of Light that helped compass a little girl through many dark days yet ahead of her.

I recall snuggling next to grandma during church services. I’d quietly entertain myself scribbling in notebooks or on the church bulletin or I’d look through my picture bible during the pastor’s oration. If I’d get squirmy, grandma’d smile and provide me with something to occupy my hands and mind; often candy was a part of this distraction. After church, our family members gathered at someone’s home or at a restaurant and I’d frequently sit next to grandma.

A gentle, talkative nurturer, grandma told silly stories and shared her philosophy on life. “It’s a woman’s prerogative to change her mind,” she patiently advised Jen who struggled to decide on her breakfast options. She also encouraged independence. She’d give me and Jen coins to buy candy at a nearby convenience store. Before our journey, she admonished we stay aware of our surroundings and the reasons for such vigilance. Then Jen and I'd set off. Grandma’d wave to us from the living room window and there she’d stay watchful over our bold adventure until we walked back through her door.

Without a doubt in my mind, grandma loved me! She enjoyed my company and my childish prattle and my little girl perspective on life. She looked out for my best interest in spite of the confines placed on her, and on the family, by my parents inability to coparent. She provided me with a spiritual heritage that stays me to this day. I carry her sweetness in my heart. I cherish her memory.

Though dichotomies apart, these women invested of themselves, in their own unique ways, into my life and their offerings were not a waste of their efforts. As a child, my appreciation for them was short sighted. As an adult, slogging my way through life experiences that sometimes set me sideways or even knock me to my knees, gratitude for my grandmothers is robust for I understand the complexities of their gloriously messy journeys through seasoned eyes and grace.

Now, I deposit of my heart into my own grandkiddo’s lives. Though there are thousands of miles separating me from my youngest grand, I daily hold her in my thoughts, daily I pray for my little cherub. My grandchildren may not recognize the challenges or the sacrifices or the budget of time and funds or the depth of love and care and concern that I face and put forth for their very best. But in time, life experiences will develop an understanding, a knowing and they will reflect and glean and garner what their heart’s need from my love.

Heritage is not something we choose. Lineage is bestowed without bias. And for many of us we inherit a gloriously messy birthright. But if we develop the art of extracting the precious from the worthless, we are then better equipped to forgive and even embrace our legacy and we can set forth into our future unencumbered by the past.

]]><![CDATA[Happy Birthday To Me . . .]]>Mon, 14 Nov 2022 09:07:03 GMThttp://www.guffawthrulife.com/growing-pains/happy-birthday-to-me

I met these beauties in my late teens and early twenties - I'm the last one to hit the 60s mark. I couldn't ask for kinder people to grow with through the gloriously messy years. I am grateful.

I planned a couple parties to celebrate this years birthday; one with family and friends and another with sister-friends at a different time and place. Yes, I planned, not one but two, parties for . . . myself.

A sister-friend called awhile back reminding me that my big day is coming up hot on the calendar and she excitedly asked how we are going to celebrate. As the conversation progressed and we compared schedules, we hung up from our chat with the party planning assigned to - me. LOL! So, I issued invitations, delegated meal items and reserved locations.

Then, a work call came through a few days ago followed with an email providing a flight reservation that takes me 230 miles NW of Anchor-town five days before my 59th.

As the peeps in my life are prone to do, they did a little party planning on the fly so a few of us could gather and they organized a bon voyage birthday celebration. Roses and cards and gifts and cake and hugs and laughter and an operatically sung Happy Birthday tune met me at a local restaurant we’ve each frequented for more than 30 years.

In my late teens and early twenties these beauties gifted my life with friendship; a gift that’s kept giving whatever year the calendar reads. So no matter whether I plan my own shin-dig or one is thrown together for me in a lickety-split fashion, I am grateful others care to celebrate life with me.

Here is to another gloriously messy year filled with love and laughter and all that makes the heart sing - operatically.

Silly operatic singers. Such fun people

A week apart, we celebrate our birthdays with sweet friends

]]><![CDATA[Four Generations]]>Fri, 04 Nov 2022 07:31:29 GMThttp://www.guffawthrulife.com/growing-pains/four-generations

My granddaughter practicing her photography and editing skills. Life is good . . .

Four generations gathered at the table today. We passed around and kissed on the babies, caught up on one another's news and just enjoyed time together. Family is gloriously messy, filled with love and support and disappointments and misunderstandings and the hard work of forgiveness. There is nothing quite like the family to help smooth down our rough edges and to promote personal growth. We invest in one another's lives in ways unique to the family unit. And, I am grateful for the joy and . . . even the occasional tears that make up my own gloriously messy family.

]]><![CDATA[Change Of Vision . . .]]>Sun, 05 Jun 2022 00:51:20 GMThttp://www.guffawthrulife.com/growing-pains/how-i-envisioned

Strolling With My Beautiful Daughters

Four hundred miles west of home, I settle in to work in the Weather Station. The morning sun shimmers off the Bering Sea and the area’s rugged geology speaks to the story of time. Driving to the Station, I stop, roll down the window and listen and watch as mountain runoff roars and rushes down a rocky creek bed toward the sea. And the warm morning air on my skin incites feelings of elation; winter ceded.

On the beach, below the runway and off to the North a bit, a walrus carcass attracts local grizzlies. A few nights ago, a brown brute of a beast walked up to camp and appeared outside my bedroom window. I watched from my safe haven as it meandered partway up the mountain and then veered off toward the East. A red fox took to hunting on a knoll a short distance from the kitchen window at camp and a herd of caribou passed through with their gangly newborns.

After two glorious months off, I feel revived and ready to be back to the business at hand. I look out the windows of the Weather Station, assess the elements and disseminate my observation. I sit back in my chair and as I keep my eyes to the sky, I reminisce on the simple pleasures that shaped my holiday.

* * *

Picking me up from the airport, after a long work assignment, a familiar face greets with her customary, “Welcome home, honey” and friendly embrace. My sweet friend orchestrated an evening of laughter over dinner during a comedy show topped off with karaoke, a fire under the night sky and a slumber party at another friend’s home.

In the beginning, I purchased tickets to travel during my vacation. But, circumstances changed, so, I embraced.

Red faced from blowing up balloons that littered the kitchen and living room floors, my family and I prepared to entertain a houseful of teens. Streamers and a Happy Birthday banner lent a festive air. The barbecue grill smoked out on the patio as a rousing game of Apples to Apples filled the house with competitive laughter. A snowball fight ensued with shrieks and chasing and tackling. And water spilled over onto the deck as the party moved into the hot tub.

Precious moments, sweet interactions and quiet rest filled my time. I picked up one of my grands from their very first day in the work force and we talked and talked away the miles during a road trip to the Peninsula. Peaceful walks, soulful sharing, laughter, hot tubbing, visits and meals with family and friends . . . the Slush Cup in Girdwood, an overnight trip to Homer and a week in a cabin in the woods on Kenai Lake blessed and refreshed.

* * *

Several months ago I carefully set forth my plans for 2022. I calendared out and budget for a ‘semi-retirement’ that necessitates I work a mere half of the year. Thus, I’ve eagerly anticipated checking off a couple of my long-held Bucket List items; pack out and hike the thirty-seven miles of K’esugi Ridge and road trip the lower 48 States. But . . . alas, once again, I face shifts, more change. Instead, I’ll work through my hike this summer and I’ll serve on jury duty this Fall, right in the middle of my two months off, instead of driving the scenic highways and byway.

I do not deny contending with disappointment and a rather grumpy-pants kind of attitude at times. I’d so set my heart on adventure. But I have learned that when things work to erode my aspirations, I am more apt to maintain my peace when I give thanks instead of issuing grumblings. When I appreciate the beauty that makes up my day-to-day life, it is here that I open my heart to opportunities I could not have otherwise conceived.

March Through May did not unfold quite as I'd planned, as I’d wanted, but during my time off of work, life certainly presented me with exactly what my heart needed. In its gloriously messy way, life is so very good.

]]><![CDATA[Bachata And Banana Phones]]>Sat, 05 Feb 2022 00:29:25 GMThttp://www.guffawthrulife.com/growing-pains/bachata-and-banana-phones

A Zillion Sparkles Red on my freshly painted toes, pearly cat ears and a little banana chat start my day happy.

Inspired by the music playing over the speaker system, I gently move to the Latin rhythm as we peruse the isles at the local grocery. My daughter quietly, yet firmly, admonishes, “MOM! STOP! I inwardly giggle, throw off my inhibitions and break out my best dance moves - just for her. She responds with an attempt to ignore me and quickens her pace to leave me behind. I happily follow her stride.

At the produce section I reach for a banana, pluck one off, place it to my ear and try to phone my daughter - for a little chat. “Ring, ring.” I snicker at her side. She rolls her eyes, glares and advises, “MOM! STOP!” I laugh, “Ring, riiiiiiing . . .” and follow her as she moves along the produce bins reproaching me as she tries to focus on her shopping, “MOM! STOP!” I persist, with a louder, “RING, RIIIIIIIING . . .” “FINE!” She declares and storms back over toward the bananas. She rips one off a bunch, places it to her ear and exclaims, “WHAT?” We both burst into laughter and our playful imagining begins.

We stop at the Butcher’s Counter and consult one another via nanner-phone, ”What would you like for dinner, hon?” I inquire. The butcher smiles and politely asks, “How may I help you ladies?” At the yogurt section, we convert our 'phones' into ‘pistols’. We holster our nanner-guns and compete at the fast draw in an attempt at hitting our targets. And inspired by the music herself, my daughter sings into her nanner-mic along with the music playing overhead. Passerby smile and outright laugh at our antics.

So distracted with play, I completely forget to dance - which is no doubt my girly’s strategy all along. Heehee! Wink, wink! Adulting is serious business. Just ask me, for I know and I can advise on its proper etiquette.

]]><![CDATA[Christmas And . . . The Gift Of Grief]]>Thu, 23 Dec 2021 03:39:09 GMThttp://www.guffawthrulife.com/growing-pains/christmas-and-the-gift-of-grief

Christmas Cookie Concocting & The New Normal December 2021

I load my car with baking goods and supplies, drive partway down the mountain and then, haul everything out. My friend welcomes me from her kitchen yelling, in her Southern drawl, over her two dogs who greet me with barks while jumping at me for attention. I try to push through the fray with both of my hands full while simultaneously trying to shut the front door. With each step I take up the stairs, barking and jumping ensue. My friend and I both command her rowdy canine to cease and desist - to no avail. She orders them outside and I quickly organize before their next onslaught.

Donned in an apron, she heads for the sink to wash a baking project off her hands. She then gives me a hug and we settle into an evening of Christmas cookie concocting. A stately blue and white decorated tree twinkles at us from the living room, Bob Seger and Credence Clearwater Revival rock the atmosphere and I dance over my cookie batter dressed in festive leggings and a red tutu.

Christmases past bore a familiar rhythm for me from one year to the next: hosting gatherings for family and friends, food laden tables, children running to and fro, Bing Crosby and Andy Williams crooning Carols, Home Alone, White Christmas and popcorn, church services and the season set with the focus on Jesus.
Now, there is no continuity, except . . . for the latter.

I flew back to work, here at the radar site, where I’ve been for over a week now and where I will remain until after the New Year. With my family scattered and I did not calendar in for festivities, work feels a preferable way to spend Christmas.

While I was home from the end of September until the first part of December, for a much needed rest after an arduous work schedule, I enjoyed spending time with my family and friends. But I also spent time listening to, praying for and weeping with others who are facing loss from
Death
Divorce
Illness
Work/Finances

Losses . . . irrevocable
Losses . . . fresh and gaping
Losses . . . exacerbated by the holidays

Christmas equates to celebration, but for some . . . a heavy heart is the only offering.

Over the past several months, five friends have lost a loved one to death. A few days before I flew back to work, a longtime friend stopped by my home after picking up her husband’s ashes from the funeral home. She cried from such a visceral depth my own soul was shaken to tears. Over tea, we puzzled on the whys and the what ifs. We spoke on faith and hope and trust. She shared on her love for the man who loved her for more than 40 years; the man whom she will never see again this side of heaven. As she drove away, my heart hurt for my friend and I prayed she finds her way as she mazes through the valley of grief.

There are four years now between me and loss. At the time, I felt incapable of finding my way. I’d awaken from sleep sobbing, gasping for breath in the solitary night hours. I’d break down crying at work and while driving down the road and in public settings. I’d ruminate on the pain and vacillate between anger and confusion and hopelessness. I found grieving to be a gloriously, messy occupation filled with intense emotions I struggled to process through.

But though grief felt a pugilistic foe, I discovered grief to be a teacher.

For I learned, through grief, that the human spirit is made for great love; love that transcends loss and beckons the heart to further expression.

I learned, on a greater level, of the invaluable support a community extends to the grieving heart; for it offers comfort at the onset of loss, but more than this, it provides gentle reminders that grief is not the place to pitch a tent and set up camp.

I learned that grief is a solitary journey of discovery into the misconceptions, the illusions held within one’s own psyche.

I learned, through grief, that the human spirit is tenacious; that it thrives toward life even when it feels it cannot find its next breath.

I learned that grief showcases the human spirit’s quest for existence beyond this mortal moment.

And I learned through grief that there is another chapter and that I must turn to the next page of my story.

Grief is a tribute to love and to the human spirit’s ability to thrive even under the greatest of strain.

This Christmas Eve I’ll share crab legs and scallops and shrimp with five men who are strangers to me here at work in the Arctic Desert. Tradition is not a part of my new normal. But I know from times past that this is not my forever state. This season will give way to another and change will take me on to different adventures.

Whatever Christmas looks like, from one year to the next, I’ve learned to gift to myself patience with my heart and gentleness with my emotions. I allow for tears and even feelings of anger. More importantly, I hold fast to hope for I know that hope does not disappoint. And I remain grateful for the reason for this season; for our Savior who holds us close in the midst of grief and reminds us of our eternal home where no sorrow and no tears exist. Where we will embrace our loved ones on streets of gold in the presence of Love that knows no end.

Whatever loss you face this Christmas, know that you are loved, know that you are not alone and know that you are supported. Reach out and let others in, reach out and let the Savior in, he will comfort your heart this Christmas, I assure you, for he comforts mine.

]]><![CDATA[TIME . . .]]>Fri, 15 Oct 2021 05:53:00 GMThttp://www.guffawthrulife.com/growing-pains/time

SPA NIGHT

Time Flies!

Cliche, I know.

But truly . . . the seasons of life pass so very quickly.

I spent this weekend with a grandchild who use to tea party and build forts with blankets and scatter markers and glitter and crayons and game pieces across my floor while chatter, chatter, chattering at me non-stop. Now . . . we ‘hit’ the mall and paint our nails and wear facial masks and conversations are far more quiet and contemplative. And - ‘grandma worship’ is replaced with the distractions of peers and pressures and just plain . . . growing up.

My oldest grandchild, now in his 20s with a little one of his own, periodically reaches out to chat on the days when we use to play together or . . . we converse on the philosophy and the responsibilities of life. His sister and her husband just gave birth to twins and I beam with pride as I listen to my granddaughter express how in love she is with her littles.

My two youngest grands still excitedly share on the mastery of learning to ride a bike or the discovery of eggs found during an Easter hunt or the latest creation colored, just for grandma.

During my drive home one evening, a call came through from Miss Lou, “Grandma, I can count to 100. Do you want to hear me?” and she proceeds with her demonstration, “1, 2, 3 . . . 98, 99, 100.” I heartily congratulate her achievement which she follows with, “Grandma, I can count to 100 by 10s” and she quickly exhibits her ability. She counts by 5s and by 2s and by 3s (with a little help from gram) and the miles passed quickly as together we built a memory.

If only I possessed the wherewithal to freeze in time the ‘mom devotion’ or the ‘grandma adoration’ seasons; where little voices squeal and tiny feet race toward and small hands slip into my own each time I walk through the door. But life’s momentum merely allows a forward trajectory and letting go of the past, both of the bitter and of the bliss, is imperative to embracing today’s season.

I wake this morning to my grandson’s invitation, “Hey grandma, When do you think you’ll have time to hang out? I’d like to take you to dinner and before you mention money, I’ve got the check covered.”

I cherish yesterday's sweet memories, but today . . . is filled with life.

]]><![CDATA[Mud Volleyball - A Part, Yet . . . Set Apart.]]>Wed, 01 Sep 2021 03:39:13 GMThttp://www.guffawthrulife.com/growing-pains/mud-volleyball-a-part-yet-set-apart

The Mud Volleyball Tournament at the Lions Club at Big Lake in Wasilla, Alaska.

After an arduous month-long work assignment, I’ve five glorious days in town to rejuvenate before flying off to the next one for another month. My first day back, I drive 300 miles round trip from Anchorage to Soldotna. Upon my return, I attend a late-into-the-evening family birthday and after the party, I drive out to the Valley and gather with friends around the fire and camp for the night. On the morning of my third day off, I wake feeling fatigued before I even roll out of bed. But with a full day’s plans set ahead of us, I join the others and head off for the lake.

Four shin high pools filled with muddy water with nets stretched across the middle of each pit
Blaring music
Food trucks
Porta potties lined and at the ready
and an Emcee calling over the cacophony requesting teams rally at their designated courts all work to set the stage for the days event.

The annual Mud Volleyball Tournament, sponsored by the Lions Club, gathers at Big Lake. Twenty-three teams of eight players and two alternates each registered in support of today’s charity.

As competitors work their way through the first set of elimination rounds, we wait for our team’s call to the challenge. I pull my chair close to the portable fire pit, a team member set up between the trucks, and watch the happenings around me. An outdoor game of Jenga towers at the ready near where I sit by the fire. Members of our team play a game of Cornhole while others forage at the picnic tables laden with all manner of yummy snacks. A canine works its way from hand to hand panning for pets from whoever will love on ‘em. And people smile at our little group as they pass us by on foot and on four wheelers and on dirt bikes.

Mesmerized by the flames, feeling weary and subdued, I stare at the popping, crackling logs. A woman on the team, I briefly met a couple of nights prior, walks up and quietly admonishes close into my ear, “You need to give your testicles a tug! Think about it!” and she walks away. Unimpressed, I dismiss this crass individual. I observe as she then loudly cheers at her young twenty-something year old daughter to guzzle her beer “faster! faster!”

Later, as I stand visiting with a friend, this same woman pops her head, in between me and my conversation, over the back of my shoulder and close up to my face, and makes an out-of-the-blue declaration, “I need to train you! I’m going to get a collar for you.”

My friend told me later that . . . I quietly look away and with a finger, move my hair away from my eyes, I turn back to her and state emphatically, “No, maybe I will train you, . . . !”

(I do not conclude with the rest of my thought . . . “To Be Respectful!”)

The woman jumps back and exclaims, “That’s hot! Will you put a collar on me? I’ll wear the collar!”

I stare in silent disbelief at this person I do not know speaking to me in a non-relatable manner. She repeats her statement of submission to my silence.

Putting an end to this unwarranted jockeying-for-position foray, I firmly advise, “I may be a quiet person and appear a beta, but I am an alpha and I have no problem getting pugilistic!” My friend and those nearby overhearing this bizarre exchange, laugh aloud . . . The atmosphere falls into a tangible silence.

At the Emcee’s call, team Pitter Patter slogs out onto the court; I take some of the soft dirt edge with me into the water as I move toward my position. I try to not splash as I dance to the rhythm of the tunes that play as I ready to volley the ball back to the black T-shirt clad team on the other side of the net. Thoroughly enjoying this messy competition, wet and muddy, laughing and congratulating, our team makes its way out of the pit after losing our final round.

As I drive the long miles toward home, in spite of the fun of the day, I puzzle over just what contributes to the development of the mindset that confronted me today;
Fear?
Insecurity?
Control?
Bitterness?
Trauma?

Concrete answers elude. But the day’s lesson does not escape me. Proverbs charges, “Above everything else guard your heart with all diligence, for from the heart flows springs of life.”

Maintaining peace when confronted with contention, even overt aggression is the challenge. Meeting provocation head on by establishing, communicating, employing healthy boundaries is essential in governing relationships and, too, is what works to prevent the dam of offense, bitterness, fear from stopping the springs of life from flowing from the heart.

As I shower off the remains of this gloriously, messy day, I mentally “extract the precious from the worthless.” I may not again socialize in the company of this stranger, but if our paths do cross, expectation is established - I’ll boldly hold fast to peace

]]><![CDATA[The Commute]]>Sat, 17 Apr 2021 02:29:20 GMThttp://www.guffawthrulife.com/growing-pains/the-commute

The Office - Weather Station

For two days, we sit in the lobby of a small airport and wait for a salubrious sky. On the afternoon of the third day we board a Cessna Conquest II and fly up into the sunny stratosphere. One hundred eighty-nine miles northwest of Anchorage, we unload the plane and head up to the radar site to begin two weeks of Surface Weather Observation Training.

With METAR Encoding Certificate in hand, I board another Cessna Conquest to fly a 120 miles northeast to a different site. The pilot requests I sit in the copilot seat so I happily settle in up front. He secures the plane, climbs in next to me and begins pushing buttons and pulling at toggles and knobs while I dig for my camera.

After pushing and pulling and tapping and checking with no response from the engine, the pilot informs he believes there’s something wrong with the starter. He reaches for the manual and reads. He closes the book, tucks it under his seat and makes another attempt, to no avail. He then disembarks and I watch while he circles the plane as he inspects the landing gear. The Station Technician, who waits on the Apron until our departure, slowly drives up to and consults with the pilot.

We all load up back into the truck and return to the radar site to wait for another Conquest to fly in a Mechanic who’ll assess and resolve the issue. Hours later, we drive back down to the airstrip, transfer our gear from the disabled Cessna to the one that just landed and once again I settle into the copilot seat next to the pilot who pulls at knobs and toggles and pushes buttons. The engines roars, the propellers whir and we climb the airwaves toward our destination.

At the end of another two weeks, the day of my departure, we await the arrival of various aircraft. The Weather Station is open and ready for dissemination. And as I pack and clean at the house, we hear over the GAG, a pilot call requesting an update on weather conditions. The Station Technician responds with clarity, but there is no reply from the plane. After some moments, the pilot calls with the same request and the Station Technician communicates as before, again with no response in return. After a third unsuccessful attempt, the Station Technician calls from the Weather Station and informs that the radio signal may be stronger at the house and advises me, “You'll have to disseminate observations off the AWOS.” So . . . I pick up the radio and relay my first weather observation with clarity of voice and trepidation of heart to a man thousands of feet above the earth who crackles back, “Repeat?” I take a deep breath, exhale slowly and communicate - with successful transmission to the pilot of a DC6.

The Station Chief and I climb into the truck, drive down to the airstrip and watch, what looks to me like, a plane from a Mad Max movie as it throws up a snowy rooster tail in its wake as it lands. From the warmth of the cab of the pickup, I listen to the McGrath radio station and observe the activity on the Apron. A Cessna soon pulls up next to the DC6; which looks like a VW Bug alongside a Semi. Colleagues from Sparrevohn disembark and everyone gathers next to the Conquest to chat in the wintery air.

On our way back to town, we fly over the Kuskokwim River, past Mount McKinley and along side Sleeping Lady. Light reflects off scattered clouds and snow covered mountains and the glistening expanse of the inlet below. We land in Anchorage and taxi up to a glass door that leads back into the waiting room of the small airport I’d flown out of just weeks before. I walk to the parking lot and shovel the past months worth of snow from off of my car. I sit behind the wheel, place the transmission into drive and head off with grateful heart that life is good.

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