5/31/2109 Caring Bridge

So...grief it is! Accompaniment

Journal entry by Al Negstad — a minute ago

One of my friends responded to last night's post, about writing so much about grief, via email, by saying he'd been called "Pastor Death" because he did so much teaching about it. 😀 Another friend wondered, via email, why I'm drawn to articles about grief; is it to learn or is it empathy?   This I have to think about...but, perhaps some of each.
   In his book Life's Final Season: A guide for Aging and Dying with Grace, Richard P. Holm, MD, tells of a patient in his 90's. This patient had sixteen debilitating medical conditions and was now approaching death. He writes, "I advised the family, especially grand and great-grandchildren, to all come and see him, hang out with him for awhile and try to bring some fun into his room. I thanked the daughters for the opportunity to care for him (and their mother) over the last twenty-five years.  Two days later Mr X slipped away comfortably during the night.  During those two days the nurses reported to me that the family filled the room with laughter, grandchildren played on his bed, the family sang hymns each night and, in the end there was joyful weeping.
    "When filling out the death certificate, I dutifully listed dehydration and malnutrition with all the conditions listed (16 of them), but the best answer would have been, 'advanced senescence'.' In other words, almost every organ system as failing simultaneously due to advanced age."  P. 273
    What a beautiful story of accompaniment over his final days.  Each year the school at which I teach in Thailand does a beautiful, all-school, farewell for me on my final day of teaching. When the festivities have concluded most of the teachers, and sometimes the entire student body, accompany me to the car that is waiting to carry me away!  It's a powerful experience.
     Joanne died at home in our condo. Pastor Mary, who is exceedingly wise, led a blessing of the body.  When the attendants from the funeral home arrived to take Joanne away, Pastor Mary suggested we accompany her to the waiting hearse.  So, we all walked with her down the hall, into the elevator, across the lobby, out to the parking lot until she lifted into the hearse. This memory continues to comfort me and I am grateful for Mary's wisdom.


Takk for alt,

Al

Pictures from the Thai school farewell.

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5/30/2109 Caring Bridge

" You write about grief a lot!"

Journal entry by Al Negstad — a minute ago

When my lunch companion today said, "You write a lot about grief,"  three minutes later when I finished laughing I said, "Well, that's where this all started isn't it?  Life, in the land of grief."  This started some internal reflections for me.
   First, I thought "Do I write too much about grief? Is this unbalanced, moping in the land of grief?  Does it suggest that it is time for a change in direction?"  This bears more reflection.
   Second, it reminded me of how I am different since I entered the land of grief.  Today I was paging through a copy ofTime magazine, given to be by friends.  The article that 'jumped out at me' was the one about a father's book, written after his one-year-old daughter died after being struck on the head by a falling brick while she was sitting on a bench with her grandmother.  Grief stories now draw me in.  This attention to stories of grief is different. This is not what I noticed before I entered the land of grief.  
   This new awareness of grief is not all bad.  It has made me more sensitive to other's grief and the prevalence of loss and grief around me.  Is there a danger in becoming morbid?  Perhaps, but that's a risk to be taken with increased sensitivity.  'Sadder but wiser' would be an outcome for which I'd wish.

   I've been saying goodbye to my elementary school reading groups.  With some luck many of them will be in one of my groups next fall.  The plan to finish today was foiled by 60, pages of, To Kill A Mocking Bird, left to read with some 6th graders.  "Mocking Bird" has such an interesting ending that it's important to finish but the book requires much interpreting for 6th graders.  They are very bright so its fun so see 'the lights go on' as I explain some of the things that aren't clear to them.  Four in the 7th grade group have been with me for 3, years. In the first two years with this group we had 400, vocabulary words!

Takk for alt,

Al

Picture 1, 5th graders and picture 2, 7th grade...one camera shy,

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5/29/2019 Caring Bridge

May 29, 2019

Journal entry by Al Negstad — a minute ago

Yesterday's post was a brief excerpt of Bee Yang's love poem.  I encourage all to read Kao Kalia Yang's book The Song Poet.
    
"On this day (May 29) in 1830 President Andrew Jackson signed the Indian Removal Act into law. It was the first legislation to diverge from the previous official U.S. policy to respect Native Americans' legal and political rights. Jackson announced his policy by saying 'It gives me great pleasure to announce to Congress that the benevolent policy of the Government, steadily pursued for nearly thirty years, in relation to the removal of the Indians beyond white settlements is a approaching to a happy consummation.'  He also said, 'Toward the aborigines of the country no one can indulge a more friendly feeling than myself, or would go further in attempting to reclaim them from their wandering habits and make them a happy, prosperous people.'

"The policy primarily affected the five tribes: the Cherokee, Choctaw, Creek, Chickasaw, and Seminole nations of the the southeastern United States. In 1823, the Supreme Court ruled that white settlers' 'right of discovery' superseded the Indians' 'right of occupancy.'  The five nations resisted nonviolently at first, and tried to assimilate into Anglo-American practices of education, large-scale farming, and slave-holding, but to no avail and about 100,000 Native Americans were forcibly marched thousands of miles--sometimes in manacles--to lands west of the Mississippi, most of which were deemed undesirable by white settles. As many as 25 percent died enroute.

The Cherokee nation battled the Removal Act in courts of law, and the Seminoles of Florida battled literally: Chief Osceola said 'You have guns, and so have we. You have powder and lead, and so have we. You have men, and so have we. Your men will fight and so will ours, till the last drop of the Seminole's blood has moistened the dust of his hunting ground.'" From The Writer's Almanac 5/28/2019
What do contemporary Native Americans think when they use a 20$ bill?  If wisdom is using the proper name let's call it genocide.


Takk for alt,

Al

5/28/2019 Caring Bridge

Reminded Of Gratitude

Journal entry by Al Negstad — a minute ago

"If you're so old, why do you have a hair?" was the question one of my sixth grade reading students asked me a few days ago 😊. "That's easy" I said, "genetics".  Today he asked "How much longer do you think you'll live?"  Another student quickly replied "104". 😁 Then he asked if I had short term memory issues.  The boy who asked the questions is the most curious of all my readers. I told him never to stop asking questions.
   These questions caused a surge of gratitude as I contemplate how blessed has been by life.  My spiritual director quoted me something that I only vaguely remember that went "If only...that was enough. If only...that was enough."  It was someone recounting their blessings.  That sent me to a memory of something Kao Kalia Yang wrote in the biography of her father, Bee Yang, written in collaboration with him,  The Song Poet.  Incidentally the book is now being made into an opera.
   One of Bee's songs is an incredibly beautiful love poem to his wife.
   "I've yet to tell you all the things that you don't know.
   "I loved you when the Pathet Lao soldiers came into the jungles of Laos with their guns and shouts, their threats and their warnings.  We had been married for just six months. To save the women and children the men had to run....
   "I loved you when I pulled my hand free and saw the look of hurt on your face, to be replaced by fear because the soldiers had discovered we were there....
   "I loved you when I found you again, thin and pale, with our child strapped to your chest, your hand curved around the small globe of her dark hair, supporting her fragile neck....
   "I loved you when I heard you cry in the middle of the Mekong River because the silver necklace your mother had given you had slipped from your neck and you could not free your arms from our child to grab it in the strong current....
   "I loved you during our first night in Thailand, sitting beneath the United Nations compound, our child strapped to your chest, when I heard you whisper, 'When we get to the refugee camp, I want papaya salad'..... (ten verses later)
  "I loved you when you did not cry as we boarded the orange bus for America. You sat straight in  the seat and you held Dawb in your arms, and when you looked at me there was no fear in your gaze, only a determined focus on the future....(four verses later)
  "I loved you when we stood up on the bridge, overlooking Highway 94, side by side, in our American clothes. We wore jeans from the thrift store. We had on sweaters whose sleeves bunched at our wrists.  The church basement jackets were too big and too long....(seven verse later)
  "I loved you when you said we had to move because our little girl Taylor had gotten lead poisoning in the small moldy house, and there was no room to breathe....(seven verses later)
  "In 2003, I realized I had never written you a love song"

   This should make a fine opera.  It's a bit of an opportunity to walk in another person's shoes, and for me at least, provokes a profound sense of gratitude.  Even in the land of grief I know that I have been richly blessed!

Takk for alt,

Al
  

5/27/2018 Caring Bridge

Apocalypticly Wet

Journal entry by Al Negstad — 43 minutes ago

There was a large cattail slough a short distance north west of the farm where I grew up.  Our farm fronted U.S. Highway #81, Winnipeg to Mexico, and the slough lay along the west side of the road.  Beginning in 1984 wet years commenced in eastern South Dakota.  My memory of growing up was always waiting for rain, as crops suffered.  In 1940 the average rainfall at our farm was approximately 19 inches a year but now it's about 30.  This year,  who knows, perhaps 30 already!
     With the slough in our possession, and the increased annual moisture, it transmogrified into Lake Joanne.  Twice Highway 81, was raised 5 feet because of rising water with the lake at least 12 feet deep and a popular fishing destination.  A few years ago Lake Joanne rose until it flooded the highway.  The S. D. Department of Transportation put in ditch to drain it to Lake Sinai, and, on to the Big Sioux River.  Property owners along the river objected and the ditch was filled after the lake level was lowered.  Now Lake Joanne is once again over the road.  The water level may be high enough that the lake is flowing out naturally.  This drama on Highway 81, is just one marker of how extremely wet it is. 
    Having just returned from a weekend in The Little House On The Prairie the old timers I consulted, all of whom are about my age 😉, say they've never seen anything like the rain this year.  Some farmers have some or all their corn planted but I don't think any soybeans are in the ground.  Some corn that has emerged is now in standing water with the latest rain...it was raining when I left S.D. today.  Sitting in church yesterday I though perhaps the pastor should organize an ark building party, but how long is a cubit and where in S.D., is there gopher wood?  Then there would be arguments about admittance and you know what happened to the unicorns.     With no end of this rainy weather in sight I have little idea how this will end.  It once rained for 40 days and 40 nights but that was a long time ago.
   Yes, Joanne liked her namesake. 😀 

Takk for alt,

Al

These two brothers seen at the Volga, S.D., Historical Museum, were the earlier school pictures.
     
    

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5/26/2019 Caring Bridge

"Monuments to a lie"

Journal entry by Al Negstad — a minute ago

   There are moments when I read that, what I'm reading, almost takes my breath away.  Sometimes it's the beauty of the prose but other times it's an exposition of the truth made so clear that it's breathtaking.  That's how I felt when I read Pete Candler's Monuments to a lie, May 22, 2019, The Christian Century.  Read for your self and make your own judgment.
   "IMAGINE THAT YOU or someone you know participated in or in some way enabled a horrific act of sustained brutality and that, in order to erase the memory of these misdeeds, you then attempted to convince others that what you fought for was not a reason for penitence but rather a cause that God would vindicate.  Imagine that this historical erasure was so through that many people came to believe your cause was morally pure. And imagine that you built monuments to your self-deception and were able to convince others that these monuments were now a sacred part of the landscape of the very same nation that you sought to extricate yourself from.
    "This, arguably, is the logic behind the Lost Cause and its many monuments to the Confederacy--totems of a 150-year campaign to historically reimagine the meaning of the Civil War.  The years from 1890 to 1920 marked the high point of this campaign, led by the United Daughters of the Confederacy, the Sons of Confederate Veterans, and other groups which today protest 'heritage violations' of their ongoing program of public commemoration.  And they have not lost: Confederate revisionism, in the soft form of preservationism, as opposed to the blunt force tactics of rallies and protests, is now the province of local, state, and even federal governments.
   "Two weeks after the Confederate battle flag was removed from statehouse grounds in Columbia, South Carolina, in July 2015, the North Carolina General Assembly passed a law protecting 'monuments and memorials commemorating events, persons, and military service in North Carolina history.'...the Cultural History Artifact Management  and Patriotism Act was clearly aimed at granting asylum to Confederate monuments and memorials around the state, based on the notion that, as its proponents argued, to remove them from the courthouse lawns and university quadrangles would be to 'erase history.' The flag episode in Columbia was a catalyst for a storm of neo-Confederate protest, which intensified during the 2016 election cycle and came to a head at the Unite the Right rally in Charlottesville in 2017.  The sharp reaction against the Charlottesville rally did not mean that all was lost for the Lost Cause. Far from it.
    "In December 2018, the Smithsonian Institution found that taxpayers had contributed over $40 million to the preservation of Confederate sites.  The Department of Veterans Affairs, a federal agency, spends millions of dollars each year in order to secure Confederate cemeteries in Virginia, and the Federal Management agency contributes thousands for 'protective measures' for Jefferson Davis's former home in Biloxi, Mississippi."  P. 34.
    Al says, if the beginning of wisdom is to call a thing but its right name let it be said that the Dixie Flag is the banner of traitors defending the institution of slavery. 

Takk for alt,

Al

Pictures:  The Little House on the Prairie in March and the view from the front steps this morning.

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5/25/2019 Caring Bridge

No Shortcut!

Journal entry by Al Negstad — a minute ago

While he was working at The Alban Institute, Roy Oswald, wrote a monograph he called Running Through The Thistles.  As a farm boy growing up in Canada he'd walk across large summer fallow fields barefoot.  When confronted by a huge thistle patch he'd have to make a decision; should he try to tip toe through the thistles or run through them as fast as he could?
    Running through the thistles was his metaphor for the way some ministers leave their congregation; just get it over quickly and move on.  He argued that that was not good for either the minister or the congregation.  With the grief work incomplete neither the congregation nor the pastor could helpfully engage with the future.
    Bison made me think of Oswald's metaphor.  Bison you say?  Yesterday a classmate dropped in for a visit; one who, for fifteen years, raised Bison.  Bison came up in our conversation as did my recent controlled burn of some grassland.  He said that, while deer and antelope will run in front of a grass fire, bison wait until the fire approaches and then run through the fire to what has already been burned.   As fire advances through grassland the actual flames are only about 5-10 yards deep.  Bison run very fast so in a few seconds they are through the flames and out behind the fire line.
    Running through thistles, or Bison running through flames, both could be metaphors for one way of dealing with grief; let's get over it quickly and move on.  This may appear to be the easy way out but the short term gain will likely lead to later complications.  T recently reminded me of a quote I used awhile back "What if the darkness is not the darkness of a tomb but a womb?"  Valarie Kaur.  This suggests that it is in the darkness of profound grief there is an embryo of life. Embryos develop slowly and so the new life that grows in dark grief may slowly evolve; just give it time.

Takk for alt,

Al

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5/24/2019 Caring Bridge

How Should We Live?

Journal entry by Al Negstad — a minute ago

The journal, The Christian Century, asked pastors and writers what book has helped them understand what it means to live the Christian life.  L. Gregory Jones, dean of Duke Divinity School, named Fyodor Dostoevsky's The Brother's Karamazov, as his choice of book. Jones writes,
"...in a world in which sin and evil continue to afflict us in horrifying ways, the novel's portrait of faithful Christian life is indeed extraordinary....His response is to show that the most faithful way to engage evil is through holiness, refracting the light of Christ in all that we are and do.  Alyosha glimpses such a life in Father Zosima.  By the end of the book, Alyosha has become an exemplar himself while his brother Ivan, full of righteous anger, has gone mad."  Christian Century, May 22, 2019, P. 30
     This brings to mind Mahatma Gandhi and Martin Luther King, Jr., overcoming evil by absorbing it.  With a couple of my elementary school reading groups we read Buddha Boy, by Kathe Koja, a young readers novel.  Jinsen, aka Buddha Boy, enters a new high school after a violent past.  He steadfastly refuses to retaliate against the bullies who pick on him.  We all wanted him to stand up for himself but he refuses, practicing non-violent resistance as did Gandhi and King.
      Yes, I do not have to be scratched very deeply to find the violent revengeful self lurking within me.   

Takk for alt,

Al

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5/23/2019 Caring Bridge

Marker's In The Land of Grief

Journal entry by Al Negstad — a minute ago

Trygve and  I are in the Little House on the Prairie preparing for Memorial Day.  The Sinai, S.D., American Legion sponsors an annual event with a speaker, rifle salute at the cemeteries followed by lunch.  Their primary focus is on deceased veterans but locally, as is true nationally, the day has gradually expanded to a remembrance of any loved one who has died.  
    The relative position I occupy in the land of grief comes into focus as I reflect on the difference this year compared with last.  Last Memorial Day was about six weeks after Joanne's death.  When the Legion honor guard came to her cemetery I stood weeping at her grave, marked only be temporary sign, though it did have her picture.  Today, when Trygve and I delivered her flowers, the pain and grief, though strongly present, is not nearly as intense as it was last year. Also there is a platform by her stone on which to place the flowers.  Such markers, as this comparison between last year and this, help me understand my relative recovery.  Now I can say that I'm learning to live with my loss.

    This morning I said goodbye to 5, of my 5th grade reading students hoping that we meet again next school year.   We just finished reading Crow, by Barbara Wright.  It's a young readers, historical  novel about the violent end to Reconstruction in Wilmington, N.C.   The title I assume intends to invoke the beginning of Jim Crow laws.  The events told in the book happened but the main characters are fictitious.  Moses, a ten year old black boy is the main character and the story is narrated through him.  I provided the historical context for the students.  Several of my groups have African students but this group was all Hmong (see picture).  They liked the book and it was eye opening for them to see how quickly after the Civil War African Americans were again oppressed.  It is a good book for introducing the reality of white supremacy to elementary students. They were all glad that they read it though they often recoiled at the violence depicted.
    A Google search of Wilmington's history gave no clue about the violent end to Reconstruction.  Several African Americans were killed as white supremacy was violently asserted.  It's perhaps safe to assume that the history available on Google was authored by Caucasians.  Just another example of minorities being written out of the story.

Takk for alt,

Al

Pictures: Joanne's flowers and my 5th grade readers.

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5/22/2019 Caring Bridge

Jean Vanier, founder of the L'Arche communities, died on 5/7, age 90.

Journal entry by Al Negstad — a minute ago

The weekly news magazine The Economist, always publishes an obituary of an interesting person on the last page.  The May 19th, 2019, issue contained the obituary of Jean Vanier.  He was a professor of philosophy but his spiritual adviser suggested he visit mental institutions in France in the early 1960's.  He was appalled by what he found but continued to visit.  To quote from The Economist,  writing about the people he found institutionalized "They cried out to be looked on with kindness, called by their name, not despised, but loved.  He already knew they would return that love, for he felt it whenever he was among them.  And to love was to be with God.
    "Feeling he must do something, in 1964 he bought a small stone house in Trosly-Breuil.  It was falling to bits, with no electricity or plumbing, but it would serve the purpose.  Then he invited two of the young men from the institution, Raphael Simi and Phillipe Seux, to live with him there.  They would share meals and chores and make a little foyeur, like a family.  They said yes at once.  Phillipe had a paralyzed leg, a withered right hand and poor eyesight, and repeated himself constantly.  Raphael, damaged by meningitis, knew only 20 words, fell often and had fits of anger.  Yet in both boys he saw radiance and, most important, tenderness. From his invitation and their acceptance sprang a network of 150 house-based communities in 38 countries, from India to Ivory Coast, from Honduras to Palestine....
    "For him L'Arche was rooted in the following of Jesus.  Whatever was done for the poor, the suffering and the imprisoned was done for him.  For Jesus was vulnerable, and a servant.  He was moved especially by Jesus's washing of his disciples' feet....But his arms were wide open to Hindus, Muslims, Jews and those of no faith at all, as long as they acknowledged that at the heart of the universe, bringing everything together, was love; and as long as they could sit, as he did, beside a young man twisted and immobile from birth, repeating to him simply: 'Sebastien, you are beautiful.'"   P. 82.
 
God bless the memory of your servant Jean Vanier!


Takk for alt,

Al

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5/21/2019 Caring Bridge

...in plain sight!

Journal entry by Al Negstad — 34 minutes ago

Laughter erupted from withing me, a deep belly laugh from me, who usually just chuckles, giggles, or snickers.  The best, the sweetest thing about this laugh was the subject; I was laughing at myself.  It was laughter over not seeing that which was in plain sight.
   The context of this merriment was in the presence of my spiritual director, a Catholic sister, only a little younger than I.  With Joanne's death I found more time on my hands.  After accompanying Joanne through 14, surgeries, some broken bones and finally hospice, her death left we with more disposable time.  Fortunately possessing energy and resources, I wondered what volunteer activity I might add to the teaching I do, both here and in Thailand.
    In conversation with my friend, M, about what may be next for me, she suggested asking God at my bedtime and see what happens.  Sleeping well, as usual, (I used to say to Joanne 'good sleep is a sign of a clear conscience. 😊 ) I awakened with no message from God.  Wonderings about possible  volunteer gigs continued over weeks or even months.  Nothing seemed to present itself.
    This was the story I related to my spiritual director.  The ensuing conversation is something I cannot reconstruct verbatim.  But, what transacted is perfectly clear to me.  She told me that my writing had been a gift to her as she agonized with a particularly painful loss and subsequent grief. Then she said "Your ministry is your writing."  That's when I laughed at myself for not seeing that I was already doing it.😁 😂 😁   And, oh yes, M was agitating me to be sure I scheduled in with this spiritual director, while I was a bit apathetic about it.
    Something has gripped me with this writing but, casting it as "my ministry," gives me a shot of adrenaline.  It's not always easy doing a daily blog but re-framing it as my new "ministry" gives me a sense of excitement.  So there it was "hiding in plain sight" while I lacked eyes to see.
    This spiritual director also shared this Mary Oliver poem.

             Prayer

"It doesn't have to be
the blue iris, it could be 
weeds in a vacant lot, or a few
small stones; just
pay attention, then patch

a few words together and don't try
to make them elaborate, this isn't
a contest but a doorway

into thanks, and a silence in which
another voice may speak."

Takk for alt,

Al

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5/20/2019 Caring Bridge

Thoughts On Friendship

Journal entry by Al Negstad — 41 minutes ago

In his book Life's Final Season: A Guide for Aging and Dying with Grace, Richard P. Holm, MD, writes about the importance of friends for one's health. In a section titled Emotional Health: On The Value Of Friendship, he writes;
  "Friends listen, care, support, open-up and, when it counts, are loyal.  Almost like the ethics of medicine: friends try to benefit and not harm their pals, try to do this honestly and try to respect the other person's freedom to choose.
   "There are a lot of quotes about the value of friendship.  An unknown author said 'A friend is someone who knows the song in your heart and can sing it back to you when you've forgotten the words.'...Emily Dickenson professed 'My friends are my estate.'  And of course, Lennon-McCartney wrote and Ringo Starr sang, 'I get by with a little help from my friends.'"  pp. 13-14
    The only thing I'd change from the quotes above would be to make the Beatles's song "I get by with much help from family and friends."  The peace and equanimity I now experience in the land of grief is largely due to the support of family and friends.
    Reading that section in Holm's book caused me to reflect on the gifts of friendship in my life.  Friends are a huge blessing for me and they are scattered around the world.  Many, of course, are geographically near me in Minnesota, Iowa and South and North Dakota.  This gives me the blessing of being face to face with them frequently.  There are many more friends scattered around the United States, and while seeing them is more difficult, communicating with them via mail, telephone and electronic technology keeps us in touch.   Very important to me too, are friends in Norway, Thailand, Cambodia and Australia.   As one might say using Facebook terminology "I've been friended in a big way."  

Takk for alt,

Al

Pictured are friends from Norway, Australia, School and Thailand.  You can see why I'm grateful!

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