Smoke Signals
I hate tobacco smoke. I hate the way it smells, the way it permeates my clothes and hair, and especially the way it kills. But in this season of my life as a caregiver, cigarette smoke has taken on a new and positive role-as a way to communicate with my terminally-ill sister, Gail.
The doctor gave us the bad news six days before Christmas. There was nothing more they could do and my sister had "weeks to months" to live. Three days later my sister and mother moved in with my husband and me. Together, we would love Gail and care for her and make her final days as comfortable as possible.
There was one little problem: Gail is a smoker. The problem was complicated by the fact that we can't leave her alone-even for a moment-and my mother has asthma and cigarette smoke is one of her triggers. So even though I hate cigarette smoke, that means I have to be the primary patio-smoke-partner. After all, inhaling secondhand cigarette smoke for a few weeks won't likely kill me. Mother could die from an asthma attack.
Our first night out, I wiped down the dirty, wet patio chairs and bundled us up in warm winter coats, hats, and gloves. With her catheter bag hanging from her walker, my sister toddled to the door and I held her steady as we maneuvered the step down to the deck. Our warm breath created whirls of smoke in the frigid air before the first cigarette was ever lit. After safely seating her in the chair, I handed her the Marlboros. Her hands shook as she retrieved a cigarette from the pack and placed it between her pale lips. She flicked the lighter. Nothing. She tried again. Nothing. I removed my gloves, took the lighter, and gave it a flick. Still nothing. I ran back into the house, grabbed the long-nosed grill lighter, and positioned it under the stick of tobacco. Flick! The dirty deed was done. I was hired.
We sisters sat in the cold mist and faced the awkward night together. She puffed and I talked about grandkids, the economy, and how to get four meals out of a chicken. Two cigarettes later I was shivering and reeking of smoke. I helped my sister out of the chair and back into the warm house. I'd done my job.
An hour later, we did it all again. I could feel the resentment rising as I coughed and shivered in the cold rain. Not exactly my idea of quality sister time.
Four days later, my attitude had totally changed. Oh, I still hate cigarettes. I still hate the way it smells, the way it permeates my clothes and hair, and especially the way it kills. But I love the way my sister opens up and talks while we're out on the deck. Yes, much of it is medication and illness-induced confusion and confabulation. But there are times the conversation centers on gut-wrenching hurts and pleading apologies and faith-affirming questions about her new Lord. We've shared our disappointments in ourselves and others. We've shared the celebrations we missed. We've shared a mutual heartache for the years we lost as sisters. And even though the cigarettes remain a sore spot (How can it possibly be time to go out there AGAIN???), they've become a source of communication between two sisters who never had much in common. And whether the communication is written or spoken or simply sent up in smoke signals, the message is the same: Jesus loves you. I love you. I'm glad we're here.
She cries and puffs. I cry and cough. The words float among the smoke swirls...and we have another day of life together.
Luke 15:2 tells us that Jesus "...welcomes sinners and eats with them." I have a feeling He'd sit out on the deck and breathe the smoke-filled air with my sister. He'd probably flick the lighter, too.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Call for Kudos...
It's that time again! Had an article published? Signed with an agent? Received an acceptance? Won a contest? Let us know so we can celebrate with you! Just email me (vondaskelton@charter.net) with the details and your home state and your achievement will be announced in next week's blog.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Melony Brown is the winner...
With everything going on with my sister, I was unable to post a blog here last week. But I do want you to know that Melony Brown, who reads the blog at my website, was the winner of Linda Gilden's book. I didn't want you to think I didn't draw a name from the hat! ;-)
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
And now, as we face a world of hurting people who need the words of a loving Savior, I'm reminded of the challenge Paul gave us in 1 Corinthians:
Even though I am free of the demands and expectations of everyone, I have voluntarily become a servant to any and all in order to reach a wide range of people: religious, nonreligious, meticulous moralists, loose-living immoralists, the defeated, the demoralized-whoever. I didn't take on their way of life. I kept my bearings in Christ-but I entered their world and tried to experience things from their point of view. I've become just about every sort of servant there is in my attempts to lead those I meet into a God-saved life. I did all this because of the Message. I didn't just want to talk about it; I wanted to be in on it! 1 Corinthians 9:21-23 (The Message)
I pray God's blessing on the work of your hands and your hearts,
Vonda
The doctor gave us the bad news six days before Christmas. There was nothing more they could do and my sister had "weeks to months" to live. Three days later my sister and mother moved in with my husband and me. Together, we would love Gail and care for her and make her final days as comfortable as possible.
There was one little problem: Gail is a smoker. The problem was complicated by the fact that we can't leave her alone-even for a moment-and my mother has asthma and cigarette smoke is one of her triggers. So even though I hate cigarette smoke, that means I have to be the primary patio-smoke-partner. After all, inhaling secondhand cigarette smoke for a few weeks won't likely kill me. Mother could die from an asthma attack.
Our first night out, I wiped down the dirty, wet patio chairs and bundled us up in warm winter coats, hats, and gloves. With her catheter bag hanging from her walker, my sister toddled to the door and I held her steady as we maneuvered the step down to the deck. Our warm breath created whirls of smoke in the frigid air before the first cigarette was ever lit. After safely seating her in the chair, I handed her the Marlboros. Her hands shook as she retrieved a cigarette from the pack and placed it between her pale lips. She flicked the lighter. Nothing. She tried again. Nothing. I removed my gloves, took the lighter, and gave it a flick. Still nothing. I ran back into the house, grabbed the long-nosed grill lighter, and positioned it under the stick of tobacco. Flick! The dirty deed was done. I was hired.
We sisters sat in the cold mist and faced the awkward night together. She puffed and I talked about grandkids, the economy, and how to get four meals out of a chicken. Two cigarettes later I was shivering and reeking of smoke. I helped my sister out of the chair and back into the warm house. I'd done my job.
An hour later, we did it all again. I could feel the resentment rising as I coughed and shivered in the cold rain. Not exactly my idea of quality sister time.
Four days later, my attitude had totally changed. Oh, I still hate cigarettes. I still hate the way it smells, the way it permeates my clothes and hair, and especially the way it kills. But I love the way my sister opens up and talks while we're out on the deck. Yes, much of it is medication and illness-induced confusion and confabulation. But there are times the conversation centers on gut-wrenching hurts and pleading apologies and faith-affirming questions about her new Lord. We've shared our disappointments in ourselves and others. We've shared the celebrations we missed. We've shared a mutual heartache for the years we lost as sisters. And even though the cigarettes remain a sore spot (How can it possibly be time to go out there AGAIN???), they've become a source of communication between two sisters who never had much in common. And whether the communication is written or spoken or simply sent up in smoke signals, the message is the same: Jesus loves you. I love you. I'm glad we're here.
She cries and puffs. I cry and cough. The words float among the smoke swirls...and we have another day of life together.
Luke 15:2 tells us that Jesus "...welcomes sinners and eats with them." I have a feeling He'd sit out on the deck and breathe the smoke-filled air with my sister. He'd probably flick the lighter, too.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Call for Kudos...
It's that time again! Had an article published? Signed with an agent? Received an acceptance? Won a contest? Let us know so we can celebrate with you! Just email me (vondaskelton@charter.net) with the details and your home state and your achievement will be announced in next week's blog.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Melony Brown is the winner...
With everything going on with my sister, I was unable to post a blog here last week. But I do want you to know that Melony Brown, who reads the blog at my website, was the winner of Linda Gilden's book. I didn't want you to think I didn't draw a name from the hat! ;-)
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
And now, as we face a world of hurting people who need the words of a loving Savior, I'm reminded of the challenge Paul gave us in 1 Corinthians:
Even though I am free of the demands and expectations of everyone, I have voluntarily become a servant to any and all in order to reach a wide range of people: religious, nonreligious, meticulous moralists, loose-living immoralists, the defeated, the demoralized-whoever. I didn't take on their way of life. I kept my bearings in Christ-but I entered their world and tried to experience things from their point of view. I've become just about every sort of servant there is in my attempts to lead those I meet into a God-saved life. I did all this because of the Message. I didn't just want to talk about it; I wanted to be in on it! 1 Corinthians 9:21-23 (The Message)
I pray God's blessing on the work of your hands and your hearts,
Vonda
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