Tag Archives: memories

What A Friend I’ve Lost

09 Sunday Feb 2025

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The quote is from ” C.S. Lewis’ Little book of Wisdom”.

On February 9, 2024, I jotted in a journal, “I visited with Dana, took Apple Crisp. Her MRI report doesn’t sound good”. The visit was following several episodes of illness, visits in and out of hospitals for her, and they were beginning to hone in on the culprit of her suffering. The apple dessert was made with apples she had picked and shared from her backyard and I had canned them. She shared first. All the time.

It wasn’t supposed to be this post. I am supposed to be planning a celebration of cancer remission with the many friends who have prayed for her, visited with her, and hoped with her. But she had lived long enough and served in the field of nursing long enough to know there are no absolutes or guarantees in life. Other than the one she voiced several times: “God is my strength”. On the sunny morning of February 23, I received a text from Dana saying malignant cells were found in her liver. It was not to grieve, but to ask for prayer, and to keep me from having to hear from anyone else what she knew would not be easy to hear. I cried a lot. On the 28th she was home, waiting for a plan; as always, optimistic. As February turned into March, information for plan of care was not as good as she had hoped. Supper, flowers, prayers, encouraging words all seemed so little; so very very little in effort to make the news feel better. A roller coaster ride was to be her life with talk of transplant, then no; surgery, then no; port and biopsies; finally a Vanderbilt team and a chemo plan. Dana was so relieved to finally have a plan. Two Fridays in to Nashville and one Friday home; wash, rinse, repeat.

Throughout the following months we swapped plants, plant pictures and conversed about plants. It was our favorite of the many things we had in common. Time for me passed in the mundane ordinary stuff of life; never take that for granted. NEVER take it for granted. The beautiful ordinary uneventful day to day life that Dana would have loved to be doing, was put on hold. But she kept being the beautiful thoughtful friend she always was.

With each new test/image/plan of care, Dana Lynn Bazzell looked it in the eye, chin up and walked straight forward bravely to meet her foe. I never heard nor saw a moment of wanting pity. In fact she worked to keep the conversations about everything else. And there were a lot of everything else’s to keep us busy because she just loved life. Plants, people, animals, cooking, nursing career memories, nurse assessment of her lab values, and what to eat when we reached our destination, were some of the topics. As many others know, Dana herself made the trips to cancer treatments an adventure, not a job to get done. She just didn’t see how allowing her friends to drive her to treatments, blessed us. She couldn’t stop saying thank you. On June 21, my last time to get to take her to Nashville, she took cookies to my daughter, and gifted me samples of my favorite perfume. I will always think of Dana when I smell J’adore L’Or. It is a beautiful soft gardenia-type fragrance; like her friendship. Gardenia’s were one of her specialties. I hate so much that my knee replacement bumped me out of the travel posse.

I want to say how much I hate cancer. It is a thief, an evil, like sin, straight from the devil himself. Since the fall of mankind there have been sufferings to endure and battles to fight. Dana would be the first to tell us Jesus died to defeat sin and death. Sometimes a cancer cannot be defeated in life, and requires a life to be given to stop it. Dana defeated her cancer February 7, 2025. I lost a friend who encouraged me, taught me how to be a better friend; how to save and transplant seedlings; how to share life. And I’m heartbroken that I didn’t get to keep her.

In one of her last texts, January 29, she said she just needed sleep. Rest now my friend. We will miss you Dana Lynn Harrison Bazzell.

Big Sisters, and other November Saturday Things

07 Saturday Dec 2024

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12/7/24 November Saturday mornings flew by as we enjoyed great-nephew ballgames, birthdays, shopping, and of course the fun weekend our kids are here for Thanksgiving. Preparations for Thanksgiving dinner at our table took time, but SO rewarding as I looked at each beautiful face around our tables; remembered loved ones who used to be here; and counted our blessings poured on so generously, in the life of Jesus Christ. While we missed those who couldn’t be here due to illness, or the natural course of family growth as it should be, I was reminded of the ‘Big Sister’ thoughts I wrote November 15 this year and didn’t get around to blogging it. I miss blogging when I let busy stuff and ailments interfere. Before I get into that, allow me to say how much my sister helped me this year.

While my four-month-old knee was not yet agreeable with kitchen duty, I was determined to get the family dinner done well (this year was my turn) but when it had been enjoyed, and we were enjoying one another’s company, my legs and feet were done as well! My sweet sister used her off duty year to jump in and start cleaning up the dishes, and never once complained that her big sister was too stubborn to use paper plates and plastic cups. Enough said.

11/15/24. For all the Chloes and Saras and Emilys and Kathys and Lindas out there, no matter what your name, Big Sisters: (lengthy, from the heart, and sobbing as I wrote)

I know a young lady who lost her little brother about a dozen years ago, and I think about her a lot. I’ve known others who did too – lost a younger brother or sister and learned to hop a one-legged race when they’d been used to a 3-legged race. Remember when you were kids? The weekdays of all our formative years were spent with peers, in class and extra activities. Weekends were sibling days. Maybe that’s why I especially think of siblings on Saturdays. Not long ago my sister and I lost our own little brother, all grown up and “old” to some folks’ way of thinking. But to big sisters they’re never old. We aren’t supposed to lose them.

Sympathy flows for all members of a family who’ve had a loss. My heart has broken for the parents who buried their babies. There’s no need to tell their stories; the lines on their faces and their quiet demeanor speak for themselves and we can’t begin to know their truest feelings. But today’s blog is especially for the Big Sisters.

As the older sister, “Sis” has some experience in grieving too. She hurts for her parents or other surviving family. She hurts at the toys no longer shared; basketball, and blocks, crayons and cars. And bird houses. Big sister is expected to accept the sympathy of outsiders, when she doesn’t even know herself how to voice her feelings.

I can only try to imagine how a big brother would feel. Often a man isn’t expected to break down no matter if he is four or forty. But he must feel a form of responsibility to fill Mom and Dad’s expectations for their children; to fill a void in their hearts which of course, is a shoe nobody can fill. My heart hurts for them too.

So, as an older sibling, I can say from a sister’s point of view, we also feel compelled to be there. Be there for close family members of Little Brother, no matter his age. We want to cure the ills he would have wanted to cure; to fix what he would fix. My sister and I will probably always ask ourselves what could we have done more. But since I haven’t lived in the future of answers, and we can’t live backwards, I don’t know the answer. I only can say, I understand sisters. I get it; when you want someone else to share your memories, or make new ones. When you want your excitement under the Christmas tree to be shared with one more like you. I know how you want someone to join you, or argue you out of, being mad at daddy. I know how your arms ache for a tug of war, or an arm wrestle, or a hug. I know what it’s like to want to cook their favorite dish, but no one else really cares that much for stuffed green peppers, or whatever yours loved. When a sound hits your ears and you recall how little brother fussed about it, you want it to sound louder so you might also hear him fussing. Or her. Little brothers aren’t the only ones who leave us. It can be a younger sister too, and I know these same things go for you, big sisters of younger sisters. I know also how thankful I am to have my younger sis.

A sibling’s passing is a loss with its own identity – often not well understood; probably because we really hate to make Mom and Dad cry more. Or maybe big sis or brother just hasn’t learned how to voice it. Like I said, it’s something like a one-legged race. Something shared is missing. Perhaps one crippling emotion is guilt. Do I feel guilty that my life was easier or longer? Yes and no. It ins’t a true guilt, girls, just something we have no other name for; a gut-felt sorrow that he or she doesn’t get to see you grow old. Things like that. There’s another face to this surviving sibling thing, and it is in some cases, relief they will not suffer further; although it is only a thin cloak of comfort.

Perhaps as a big sister, you were given charge of his care at times, and this becomes a heavy crusty shell we wear when we can no longer make stabbing efforts at helping our charge out of trouble. I still struggle with this. Big Sisters, you are not the parent. I repeat, not the parent. Do not hold onto that shell. Break through it and count, like blessings, the wonder you felt at his birth; at his handsome face; his witty humor; his teaching you to drive a straight shift; any and all good things you shared. You are equals – equally loved and appreciated, whether passed or survived.

It’s okay, in fact desired, by all who love you, that you go on living a beautiful life; one Little Brother would have wanted you to. This is important – you have a right to your own feelings of loss whether or not any are mentioned here. Your loss is unique because your sibling was. No matter how old or young the two of you were when parted, you still lost someone who shared your life uniquely. Whether you are angry, sad, or relieved for them, you are no longer able to tell them about it. But God can. I can’t tell you how many times I’ve pleaded with God to tell my Mama, or my brother, or dad, something so important to me for them to know. Something that my heart craves to tell them. After praying, I feel a genuine calm for the crave, and I know God will let them know what they need to hear. God is always the answer to our crave. Just look into His word. You will be certain to find crave-filling messages, and so much more. He knows our grief and our good, our hurts and our healing, when we trust and turn it over to Him.

I pray God’s richest blessings on all the big sisters and brothers, and little sisters and brothers who will spend the holiday season without that One, and every other season, too. Let’s be grateful for every good day spent with him. We are allowed to forget the ugly days if there ever were any. I try to remember there are some who never had the joy of being a sibling. Yes, there is much for which we can say, “Thank You Lord”!

“The Lord is near to the brokenhearted and saves the crushed in spirit.” (Psalm 34:18)

Homecoming: When Good Things ‘Hit Home’

20 Sunday Oct 2024

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Saturday, October 19, 2024 When I picture ‘homecoming’ I think of autumn leaves, parades and people. You probably think of football games, fraternity/sorority reunions and corsages; the usual image. What we both have in common here, is people. Often, it occurs to me at the end of the day, how much of the day has a common theme. One thing leads to another and soon it makes a circle.

From the time I walked the golden leaf-strewn Ninth Street to our third grade class, and throughout the years’ homecoming parades at the very same vantage point, I have expected to see autumn leaves falling for homecoming. In fact, the rustle of leaves is as much a part of the parade as the drums and sirens. People of all ages line up to watch, laughing and waving and scampering through leaves to gather up candy thrown from the parade floats and vehicles. I missed all that this year. Several reasons contributed to my not being there, but the weather was not one! One of the most amazing autumn days ever, has graced our hometown with sunshine, breezes and the high temp of 72 degrees. Perfect homecoming weather! Remembering the years we have watched the parade while shivering in our mittens, or bumping umbrellas and tracking wet leaves into the car, it hit home how much I was missing today; along with missing my daughter who missed coming home due to Covid. She cares too much about us to risk bringing illness home.

My homecoming experience this year was a bit different for me. It has been sixty years since our Murray State University School of Nursing began. It was the Department of Nursing when I attended, and has grown to become a prestigious school in its own right. Thanks to a dear friend who asked me to go, we attended an informal brunch in Mason Hall this morning. A brand new building for the School of Nursing is in the making, so this is likely the last time I will get to be in the halls of what was my home away from home for three years, over three decades ago. As I stood there, looking at the familiar plaques, graduating class pictures, classrooms and such, it came home to me how fortunate I was to have an excellent school so near home; one where I received the education I needed to begin a meaningful satisfying career, albeit my second career. By that time, I had two children in school and my husband and I were self-employed in farming. Embarking on a new career as a non-traditional student was scary, but exciting. Talking to a few of my favorite instructors today, it again hit home, how supportive and encouraging these professionals were in helping develop new nurses. They not only provided education in knowledge, but also demonstrated a focus on the value of human life; professionalism. I know beyond a doubt I was blessed with the best.

At the brunch, I was privileged to see several whom I’d known as co-workers, or in some other capacity as we all strove to carry on the tradition of building competence and character in not only future nurses, but in each other as well. I felt fortunate to be in the company of such caring professionals. That, too, actually came home to me, as I met a former patient in attendance today. She told me how important I am to her, and even though my place in her life was a tiny spot, it was a very meaningful spot. Beside her stood her lovely daughter, the baby I was able, in some small way, to help bring into the world. This baby grew up and has become a healthcare professional herself, and was able to say she has heard her mom speak of me fondly. She knew her mom had been cared for by a team who gave their best. That; that is what we as nurses hope to do; to help the time our patients are with us, to be good for them. A state of wellness, whether it started out badly, or great, (as in expecting to take home a new baby), can always be made better. Today’s homecoming activity certainly helped my state of wellness to be better, if only in the good memories. But to be reminded of how we can pass on the caring attitudes of others from one season of life, into later seasons to care for still others, really hit home for me today.

I’ll rustle through some leaves soon just to enjoy a Murray autumn. But for today, I enjoyed rustling through fond memories, and being reminded how fortunate we are when someone cares enough to help us through some tough times, or help us build our future. As for the friend who asked me to go today, she was my clinical director for 17 years. Both retired now, we continue a friendship I treasure, and before I knew her, she knew my dad who drove her daughter’s group of cheerleaders in his little yellow bus, gaining the respect and love of her family. Isn’t it funny how the past comes home!

Linger With Your Memories, But Grow In Their Shade

17 Monday Jun 2024

Posted by in Celebrating, MONDAY MUSINGS

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Mondays, fresh with beginnings and business to take care of, still have the aroma of the weekend; often leaving us pondering how quickly endings arrive. Memories are real, but their sun has set and we don’t profit from sitting idly in their shade. I sat last evening going through photographs from the 1980’s and 90’s as requested by my daughter who conveniently forgot to do so before she left. She needed a family vacation picture from her childhood for a work project today. Old pictures are dangerous! Reminiscing can be sweet or sour, and sadly I notice each time I return to the shoeboxes of memories, that our film and camera, not to mention the lousy photography, have left many memories faded, almost non-existent; not too unlike my own ability to remember!

The fair complexion and auburn hair I once disliked, would now be welcome in place of my more aged appearance. Like so many things, it’s best accepted and not grieved. There are too many situations in life that deserve our grief, so I do not recommend creating more.

Throughout my Monday mountain of laundry, my mind was revolving around the past weekend’s activities and today’s anniversary of my mother’s passing. But there was no time to stop and write and now I’ve forgotten what I was going to say. Mostly, I guess, it is how we ought not to look back too long, as we aren’t going that way anyhow. Father’s Day and our son’s birthday are so close that we often celebrate both the same weekend, and I was excited about grilling Saturday to celebrate our son, and out to eat Sunday to celebrate my husband. Family time is important, and also important, is to stop and praise God for creating family.

So how did all that pan out? Well, not as I planned; heat that could almost have cooked the steak without the grill smothered me on the porch. Our son had worked all day and fell asleep before he came so we waited…waited…The food was good, I will say, but the best part was the four of us sitting in the sunroom chatting. Then, with all my preparations throughout the day, my feet, back, and shoulders were screaming when I tried to put them to bed.

My husband became ill with upper respiratory symptoms and hardly cared how Saturday went, or even if the food was good. But bless his bones, he was up Sunday morning first, coaxing himself to be ready for worship. The rest of the day was good; daughter arrived back at her home safely by mid-afternoon; son back to his home; and husband and I finally got a much needed nap. How old does that sound? I know. It’s sad. But it’s wonderful too! All were safe. We were together. I recuperated and actually found a nice photo which was useful in our daughter’s project.

Then today, the day fifteen years ago on which my mother passed, found me remembering something wonderful about her too. Though there were characteristics about herself she wanted to change, and though her house was often messy with projects, cooking, canning, kids, whatever, she was there. She was doing life in a way that gave her family everything they needed. No time for looking back, she plowed forward through rain or shine, to make time for us all to be together and grow in one another’s shade. On the day our son was born in 1977, my mother was canning green beans, cooking a large supper for us and my brother and dad who at that time were farming and going through a rough patch. My husband and I had landed there two days before while our house was being readied for us to move into, and wouldn’t you know it – Chad came three weeks early, emergency cesarean section. Suddenly Mama had a family of six living there, and a family of five from West Virginia coming to stay to see the new baby. How do you put eleven people in two full beds, two twin beds, and a bassinet? It worked out because of my selfless beautiful God-loving Mama. And several pallets of quilts on the floor.

I am glad to have grown in the shade of my giant of a Mama. Linger long enough with your memories to be thankful; then grow forward.

Home Sweet Home

19 Sunday Nov 2023

Posted by in Celebrating, Life

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No matter how far or near I travel, even for a few days, I grow more appreciative of home. As I reminisce about a recent trip, and watch our cotton candy sky give way to dusk, I feel there really is no place like home.

I was thinking about the comparisons we make, which can be bad, stealing our joy; or good, increasing our appreciation for things. How was this place compared to that? How is home compared to there? How is our traveling compared to thirty years ago? (!) Having some bit of trouble re-acclimating myself to being home, I kept going outside for fresh air and just to look around and appreciate being home. My head felt “fuzzy” which could have been due to four days of driving the up, down and round and round path from Smokey Mountains to Asheville NC and back. It could as well be from riding with the country boy who found the reins and permission to go home. With ears pinned back and the scent of the stables, this steed was not looking back! I do believe he drove it like a rental!

Our early fiftieth anniversary celebration trip was splendid in many ways, but home cannot be overrated! I brought home touching memories, funny memories, and well, just memories (maybe best left unpacked). But from our front door, we found comfort and beauty like nowhere else. Not because it’s spectacular; no, that was the Biltmore Estate. Not because it is luxuriously accommodating; no, that was the Inn on Biltmore. Simply because it is ours. If there is any comparison to be done, it is only to say, it is better, because it suits us just fine. I found our beautiful Burning Bush hailing from the lawn and Brandywine Maple leaves raining from tree to ground. Our red leaves are no brighter, but no less striking, than those of other areas. But these leaves are here; our leaves. That makes them more appreciated; no prettier, just more appreciated. The drizzle of rain here is nothing spectacular, but so welcome! While in North Carolina, we experienced their severe draught, with disappointment at seeing very little autumn color. Other than a splash here and there of dull yellow, there was a brilliant red oak, common name Scarlet oak. They rather enjoy the dry conditions and were strutting their stuff! Compared to expectations, the lack of color could be a letdown. But compared to the rest of the landscape, those oaks were outstanding! And more appreciated than ever. Otherwise, leaves clung to trees drained of color, and not all the brown fields were due to harvest. A cloud of dust followed a John Deere combine as the soybean crop was being harvested on the Biltmore Estate. Rows of sunflowers surrounding the soybeans hung their big brown faces toward the ground, gasping for a break from heat and dust.

Travel itself can be a larger issue than the destination, so it helps to keep our eyes on the goal. We plan the route and reservations, pack the necessities, and prepare with small GPS screens and chargers, which once was a paper atlas, at least 10 by 14 inches in size. It’s the unknowns that must be dealt with as they arise. Detours; must I say more? To avoid backed up traffic our GPS took us off I65, and onto the ‘scenic’ route. I still feel dizzy just thinking about it. While we slowed down to a new speed limit, there was no stalled traffic and we had opportunity to really see that part of the foothills. On life’s journey, try a detour; even if a forced one. With a different pace you may experience some amazing stuff. Assuredly, if we let God plan the route and we pack according to His instruction, we’ll be prepared for those unknowns – as much as is possible.

Whether the journey goes as planned, or has sudden rounds of ‘what?’, all roads eventually lead home. Our son’s first book he learned to read was called “Home Is Best” which as a toddler, he ‘read’ from memory of hearing it read to him. It began, “East, west, home is best. Sometimes home’s a hanging nest.” It went through many animals and the different kinds of homes they have. Each one is the best. Because it is theirs. Make your home what it needs to be for you and your loved ones’ comfort. Protect it, cherish it, and make it the safe haven from which all can go out and appreciate the world at arms length, and then love coming home.

Likewise, life’s journey has beautiful rewards, as well as its ups and downs. The goal should be getting back home; the eternal home that God has waiting for us. Life can be a fun trip, or the travel may be difficult, but oh, won’t it be great to get home! In Ecclesiastes 12:5, we are reminded, “for man goes to his eternal home, and the mourners go about the streets.” Thinking about the difference age has made in actual road trips, the difficulty of it and adjustments to be made, I realize reluctance to see the vacation end is a thing of the past. We are so ready to get home. Similarly, aging does a miraculous thing about this life thing – we may not cling to it as we did in our youth. The more we roam, the more Heaven is our home.

I try not to get too wrapped up in the trip and keep my eyes on home. Jesus has prepared it (John 14:2), protected it for our homecoming, has forwarded the route details to us in His holy word, and I genuinely believe His presence there will make the trip worthwhile. Trisha

“For we know that if our earthy house, this tent, is destroyed we have a building from God, a house not made with hands, eternal in the heavens.” II Corinthians 5:1

ON BIRTHDAYS, MEMORIES AND HEALING

10 Thursday Aug 2023

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I missed my Mama and Daddy today. I feel like a child. No-one can love you, be interested in you, like your parents. Though I had about a hundred well wishes, never lonely, lavished with family love, and a sister above all others, I long to hear that phone call. I long to sit down to that birthday dinner. The TLC she put into every morsel, gift and hug are incomparable. And daddy’s genuine interest – in my gardening, the kids, and my husband’s welfare – he always took time to listen to my answers and encouraged conversation.

And then, I can hear my brother so clearly, “Hey, this is ya lil brother. hope you’re having a good birthday. love you.” I miss that too.

Special people go, and leave in their wake a void that can’t, and shouldn’t, be filled. It echos with love and I wouldn’t want to fill that up and take it away for anything.

So… this is healing…to accept the void – where memories drop in and stay to warm your heart.

BIRTHDAY BEAUTY
 I awoke today on my 70th, to the song of bluebirds in the air.
 From my front porch I could see them playing everywhere. 
Through the pink crepe myrtles and Mama's maple tree,
 their flash of azure blue is a special gift to me. 
Pink rosebuds have opened to late summer sun,
 and blue morning glories run a fence just for fun. 
 The biggest blessing is, I can hear and see,
 the bountiful gifts sweet nature has for me.   Trisha

“Every good gift and every perfect gift is from above, and comes down from the Father of lights, with whom there is no variation or shadow of turning.” James 1:17

Thunder-struck

31 Friday Mar 2023

Posted by in Nature, Reflections

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Being wakened by a clap of thunder and a streak of lightening, before the alarm sounded, was a sweet and salty mixture this morning. Salty as a coarse eye opener, and sweet as the heavy rain lulled me back to a cozy sleep.

When we awoke for real about an hour later, my husband recalled how storms for him, had morphed through his life from a threatening monster into an actual sleep inducer. My thoughts, however, had hopped on a different train. One specific clap of thunder stands out in my mind above all others. It happened on the day of my mother’s passing from this life. And it was no sleep inducer!

A day in June dawned clear and warm, as most others had, with one exception; my mother was gone. Following all the usual information exchange with hospital personnel, we were drawn back to the house I had seen her leave for the last time, several days before. I ran through the front room and hallway into her bedroom crying her name and as I reached her bed, I begged, “Oh God, please let me hear her voice just one more time. Please, let me hear her voice!” As I gained composure and moved into other rooms, I saw that my sister had arrived and we stood together at the glass door, gazing through memories into her sunroom and backyard. A booming thunder came out of nowhere, surprising us so much that we could only stare open-mouthed at each other and feel the hair stand on our necks; thunder-struck! You make what you will of it; but she and I know what we know.

I’ve always believed God answers prayer; otherwise I wouldn’t pray, I suppose. So, two sides to this coin since that day; was the thunder we heard on a clear day with no rain, wind nor clouds, the answer to my prayer? Did we hear from our mother one last time? Or, on the other hand, was God reminding me that He is all I need to hear? “Do not be concerned for your mother, child. She is with me and you need to take care of the life I have given you until you, too, may enjoy the rest she has found.” Actually now that I’ve said it, I realize the two are the same. I absolutely know my mother would want the Father to tell me those exact words, and if it is in His divine plan to allow the departed a request, she would most certainly call out to her children. And If you knew my mother, you know her calling would be thunderous! Her by-word was, no kidding, “thunder!”

I once thought growing older would make me more skeptical, but I am not nearly the skeptic I was in my younger days. This is not the first time God has spoken through nature, and my friends, it won’t be the last either. From the birds who sing their creator’s praise to the seeds erupting with life in springtime, the Lord speaks of His amazing grace and favor.

Some things I know for sure. It was already said in His word, that in Him we will find rest and peace, and the soul never dies. It is also said in scripture that God hears prayer. Also I know one day I will get to hear Christ call my name, as Mary did standing at His empty tomb. And you know, if we get to recognize each other, I’m going to ask, “Mama, you know that clap of thunder, back on June 17, well, …?”

“This is the confidence we have in approaching God: that if we ask anything according to his will, he hears us.” (I John 5:14 NIV)

Then I heard a voice from heaven saying to me, “Write: ‘Blessed are the dead who die in the Lord from now on.’ ” “Yes,” says the Spirit, “that they may rest from their labors, and their works follow them.”(Revelation 14:13 NKJV)

















					


	





	

								
Remembering Dr. Cook
										

			30
			Monday
			Jan 2023
		

	
	

		

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As paths cross throughout life, some prints make a deeper impact than others, on each of us.  It is likely those who first held our children, made some of those deeper ones. 





The ability to touch hearts comes in many forms, like song writing or painting, but the skill of letting others know they matter, or that they are cared for, may be the most rare form. Eventually we are all going to be known and remembered for something.  





There is much to recall by many, and here are a few of my memories. I will remember red pickup trucks, roses, and babies, and the encouraging statement “you’re doing a much better job of this than I could do!” for mothers-to-be who were in their pushing stage; but one very important quality Dr. Gene Cook had was taking an extra moment for people. Time, a valuable commodity in a physician’s life, can make a world of difference. A moment of thoughtfulness, like a sympathetic phone call, or writing down the name of a hearing aid specialist for an obstinate nurse who blamed his soft voice instead of her aging ears, was kind, but even kinder was his smile at her denial. That’s just one of a hundred things I remember. 





How many reassuring words from Dr. Cook, calmly escorted a patient through her pregnancy? How many supporting affirmations were given to the heart broken families who waited but did not conceive? How many warm hugs and words of ‘well done’ kept a nurse on her tired feet? Never too busy to hear an update or concern for patients’ changes or lack thereof, he was swift to reply, swift to appear. Many unit clerks and nurses’ jobs were made easier by Dr. Cook’s clear orders and perfect handwriting. As the computer age rolled in, so did his efforts to help us merge the old with the new, one way or the other. (Only the nurses will get that last statement.)





While we have struggled these last few days to wrap our heads around the reality of our loss, indeed our community’s loss, we have sobbed with sadness, shaken our heads with disbelief, and remembered with fondness the man Gene Cook, the physician Dr. Charles Eugene Cook, our friend, Doctor Cook.  Each person who was privileged to meet him will have their own memories, and impressions. To be so soft spoken and humble, he sure made an impact. I can see him now, hands clasped and elbows on knees, sitting in a rolling chair at the nurses’ station, and gently turning his head side to side as a denial of any accolades for himself. He would instead, be watching for the “okay” that the surgery crew was ready for him to enter the cold sterile room where he would quickly and adeptly bring a warm screaming life into the world, by way of cesarean section. There was no waiting on him; he was johnny-on-the-spot! Or, he would be donning gown and gloves, having orchestrated long hours of a successful labor and the eventual delivery of one more new life. Whether one who was first touched by Dr. Cook’s capable hands, or the grateful new parent, or a fellow care provider so glad for the intense concern for excellent outcomes, or just a nurse who was thankful Dr. Cook had her back, we can all say thank you; from the heart, thank you Dr. Cook!





Of all my memories, I want to share this one because it speaks to me of Dr. Cook’s attitude in general. It didn’t take long to find we shared the enjoyment of tending roses. He appreciated the beauty of the few nice specimens I took to share at work, and I appreciated his knowledge of rose care and of varieties. He often asked, “How are your roses doing?” When the virus we called ‘witches broom’  struck so many, wiping out entire gardens for some, we lamented our concerns for it. One day after his asking about my roses, I began fussing about a particular bush I had not pruned in the winter and the resulting growth was quite gnarly; poorly blooming and just a mess. He then stopped me by saying, “Never bad-talk your roses”.  Exactly. And Dr. Cook lived by that rule as far as I ever knew. His roses, his people, whatever he cared about may have gotten constructive criticism, but there was no ‘bad-talking’ them. His level of care for his patients was, well, on a scale of one to ten, a twelve. I believe I can speak for others perhaps who worked behind the scenes with him, and beside him, in assuring you he always wanted the best, not just okay, but the best outcome. For everyone. Every time.





My sincere sympathy goes out to the family of Dr. Gene Cook. “Blessed are those who mourn, for they shall be comforted.” Matthew 5:4

					


	





	

								
Admire the Tinsel – Crave the Ordinary
										

			19
			Monday
			Dec 2022
		

	
	

		

			Posted  by  in MONDAY MUSINGS, Reflections		

		

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And Mary said: “My soul magnifies the Lord,” 

Luke 1:46 NKJV





What delight I have in the average! The ordinary and mundane sparkle like a long ago memory hanging on the Christmas tree. Call me crazy, but I have always been comforted in a way, by the pauses I take to say to myself, “ok, this or that will turn out alright because I’m average; those rare things don’t happen to average folk”. As naive and unrealistic as it is, it has just been a thing I like to think, all my life. Interestingly, Mary the mother of Jesus, considered her lowly and ordinary existence a reason to praise God for the extraordinary! This post isn’t about Mary, but I dearly love the verse, and surrounding scripture showing us how humbly Mary magnified the Lord for her unique, one time ever, blessed experience. I believe Mary was relieved to find her ordinary self was just what God needed to work His wonder, and she did not feel pressured to be more.





Recently I have found my thoughts circling around the joy of ordinary. It’s a wonder I found my thoughts at all, but that is beside the point. The more abnormal, or out-of-the-ordinary things have become lately, the more I appreciate the mundane normal state of things. Ebb and flow, nice and easy, calm waters; yes, let me live there. I’m thinking we all put our own lives under the microscope occasionally to verify our own ills and isms. There we decide whether we are average or not. We see the tarnished tinsel, the interruptions, the rippled surfaces, but there is always, always, room to say, “wow, it could’ve been so much worse”. Or perhaps not, but I have not been in those rare life-altering situations where I really couldn’t say it. That, to me, is a comfort, and a blessing. Though I have not been so sheltered as to never know tragedy,  as an average person, it was not to be the end of me. 






Grandma Wilkins’ arrangement






Then there are the unusual times when ‘exciting, awesome, or amazing’ descriptors are needed for the days jazzed up with extra helpings of out-of-the-ordinary. Those are our aha moments; our fantastic experiences. We can all use more glitz and glitter – at times. But truthfully, at my age, it is quite tiring to plan and carry out those amazing times. A little bit goes a long way, and then I’m so ready for the usual and mundane. You know why we decorate so early now? It is because the few days of putting up a tree and wreaths and candles and snowmen and Santa Clauses requires a few weeks of recuperation before we can even think of taking it all back down again. I recall when our only Christmas decoration was the tree wrapped in lights, glass balls and silver icicles. It was really doodied up when Mama added an arrangement to the dining room table. Grandma and Grandpa put their little arrangement on the console television cabinet. Though it’s now dusty, dull and dinky, I still have it; a simply beautiful memory.





Surgeries, illness, utility calamities (even our appliances suffered from Covid in 2020-21) and other common, but unexpected bumps in the road are what keep us so incredibly thankful for the days of no incidence; the days of nothing to tell, nothing to sweat, nothing to tug a special plea to God on our own behalf. The best part of those times, is how much more I can focus on praying for all those around me who were not so fortunate as to have a mundane, dull day.





From an average family of five, with average incomes (eventually) and average education and abilities, I found the turbulent times bearable by the thought process I’ve explained above – that since I am average, this is all normal. Christmas would still come because I had an above average mother who made sure it did. Food would still be on the table because I was blessed with parents who had good work ethics. The wheels would roll, the lights would come on and the booboos would heal, regardless of the storms brewing. I’ve grown up now and realize none of that was average. Rather, it was so incredibly blessed that tears form as I think of how to adequately express it. 





This Christmas week I am thinking of all the children who find life so hard and cold that there is no normal, no average, no peaceful thinking. No warm beds, breakfast nor hands to gently wipe their tears. Dear God, take some of my average from my life and use it to soften those little souls.





A few weeks ago the news spoke of a child who had suffered in ways unmentionable, and all I could do was sit and sob for her. I do so now even, realizing hers is not the only case in our world. I do not intend this to be a depressing post, as there are more than enough seeds in the world already for planting heartache and feeling down. I suppose what I do want to relay, is how extremely satisfied we ought to be when we have a most usual, common day.  The gratitude and pleasure well up in me just to be able to look out the window at gifts of red Nandina berries and green wheat sitting dormant through the winter. As much as I want to understand depression and knowing it is very real, it is just beyond my average ability to grasp how one cannot look into God’s beautiful nature – both that of His workmanship and His person – and be lifted out of the darkness into the light of a beautiful ordinary day.










For the past several weeks, especially remembering last December and January,  I have struggled with worrisome thoughts myself, but for every discouraged feeling, there have come more amazing devotionals from God’s word, encouragement from friends and family, gifts of healing and hope for better tomorrows. When you are a child of the King (Lord Jesus); when you have super hero friends and family members; or when you have weeks on end of doing the same thing, seeming to roll one into another, count yourself way above average. It’s okay to tell yourself it’s all average, so you do not live in a bubble of expectation, thus the ups and downs do not burst your bubble; but never forget how special it is, and to be on-your-knees-thankful for the ordinary.







 Every good gift and every perfect gift is from above, and comes down from the Father of lights, with whom there is no variation or shadow of turning.” 

James 1:17 NKJV





Have a blessed, ordinary, Merry Christmas! Love, Trisha