Marina’s fall that tore loose muscles, tendons and ligaments in her rotor cuff prompted a decision we had been postponing and reluctant to make: we needed to be closer to help in the future. Further, if I had been the person incapacitated, Marina would have been hung. Where could she go? Assisted living facilities are full. A senior apartment complex in Osceola has a waiting list of more than 200 people. A nursing home and with a seeing Eye Dog? We don’t want that. Even further, I am not ready for living in one room.
So we bought a stand-alone townhouse in Gateway Meadows, a development (the kind we swore we’d never live in) on the eastern edge of Osceola, a town we know from having lived there for a dozen years. Marina had her counseling office there and walked to her office and to the Aquatic Center with both Gretel and Andy, her guide dogs. I served two terms as president of the Osceola Seniors at the time we built the civic building and had to stand firm for our own space in the building. Our future home is unfinished as I write this (yes, it is NEW, which Marina thinks shows God’s sense of humor to give a new home, Marina’s first ever, to a woman living her last years of life) but is supposed to be ready by our closing on May 29th.
On top of the new house, our present home on the edge of Bone Lake, sold for the asking price in two days. Since then, we have been packing and packing and packing and packing and I’m sick and tired of packing stuff. Along with packing boxes, we have been downsizing. Since we can’t get into our place for another two weeks, I’ve been using a storage garage as a “staging” area for some things that may, eventually, find their way into our much smaller space. Our present house is deceptively large. Tonight, I began the task of taking things off the walls in my office. My office is well equipped and is the best home office I’ve ever had. I will miss it. One item that went into my scrapbook tote is a folder with pages of slots for business cards. Going through it took me back to memories and of people. The cards ranged from folks in Washington, D.C. with impressive official jobs to international organizations to more local business heads to graphic artists, photographers, videographers to. . . . Well, you get the idea. It reminded me that I ran hard. I got around. I always ran hard, no matter my calling. Even as a pastor, with less than full time pay, I was able to succeed in print with articles and monthly columns in two magazines, as well as pieces in other publications. Yes, I ran hard.
But today I’m feeling my years. I’m not running hard, just trying to move us from one place to another. I find I’m moving like an old man: short steps, slower steps, a bit halting as I move around the house. In Osceola today, I tried to lengthen my stride as I walked from the car in the parking lot to the grocery store door and to the gas station’s cash register. I had to be conscious about it. And I don’t like it.
Another damper was a brief conversation with Ted, a friend, now consigned to hospice care. I connected with him by phone at Regions Hospital in St.Paul. He is very weak. If we were to drive the 2 hours to Regions, we would have no more than five minutes before he would be too exhausted to continue. As a pastor, I’ve seen this scenario before. Our moving schedule will not permit a visit in St.Paul; perhaps he will be moved closer to us. Ted also served as a pastor and has understood the calling, so visiting over coffee periodically always has been enjoyable. Pastoring can be a lonely calling. You can’t have special friends in a congregation, even though there are people you relate to more naturally the others. Other pastors? I’ve found many with monstrous egos and great insecurity, which has been disappointing. That was not Ted. I’ve been asked to do Ted’s funeral. I’ll quote in it a line Ted used once: pointing to the casket, Ted said “He’s not here. He’s with the Lord.” It’s a great and simple summary of a Christian’s life.
Marina and I took a break on Saturday to join what turned out to be a mob of people celebrating the marriage of Troy and Jeunai Davidsavor. It was an outdoors event on the grounds of their home that featured several varieties of their BBQ’d chicken, a band, and a host of familiar and unfamiliar faces that reflected the variety of people known by the couple. It was a good to get away from packing boxes for a bit!
Oh, coming up on June 2nd, with apologies from the staff at WPCA-FM, my short story readings will resume at 6 p.m. on 91.3 FM. It turns out that station boss Bob Zank had fallen and broken a hip. In the uproar, LuAnn, who runs the station with Bob and is married to the guy and wound up doing unscheduled nursing, blew by inserting my story slot into the pre-programmed evening broadcasting. No apologies were needed; the omission is understandable and, as I’ve said often over the years WPCA has broadcast my stories, I am grateful to them for the opportunity few writers ever enjoy.
Part of this move is that our pontoon boat is going to the Camping and Education Foundation. That ends another chapter in my life. I’ll talk more about that in the next blog.
And did I mention the reading at River Stone Book Shop? We had the usual turnout for story readings at 6:30 Thursday nights: six people. That’s OK with me. I like reading my little tales and I’ve delivered “the whole load” to a single person, who happened to be the Librarian at the Chisago County Library in Lindstrom, Minnesota. My high turnout was 60 people at a fundraiser for St.Croix Festival Theater. Maybe I like reading the stories because I know the author?