Ruth Everhart's Blog, page 18

Thanks for Your Prayers!

Update on the Kidney Transplant

I posted about my sister Susan offering to donate her kidney to a woman named Buddi, a refugee from Nepal who attends her church. I thought you’d enjoy this picture — both women are still recovering in hospital. Thanks for surrounding the procedure with your prayers! Join me in offering up prayers of thanksgiving, and continued prayers for the blessing of complete recovery and full health.

Buddi Suppa, recipient, and Susan Huizenga Cleveland, donor.

Then the righteous will answer him, ‘Lord, when was it that we saw you hungry and gave you food, or thirsty and gave you something to drink? And when was it that we saw you a stranger and welcomed you, or naked and gave you clothing? And when was it that we saw you sick or in prison and visited you?’ And the king will answer them, ‘Truly I tell you, just as you did it to one of the least of these who are members of my family, you did it to me.’ ~ Matthew 25:37-40

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In Honor of 9/11: The Flight 93 Memorial

Shanksville, PA

My husband I frequently drive between Michigan/Ohio, where our parents live, and our home in Virginia. For years we’ve been promising ourselves we’d stop in Shanksville, Pennsylvania at the Flight 93 Memorial. But by the time we get close we are invariably tired of driving and just push the last three hours home.

This August we spent an extra night on the road, so we visited the memorial on a sunny Sunday afternoon. I was so glad we did. Today seemed like the right day to tell you about it. Maybe you will feel inspired to make the detour some time if you can.

An interpretive center tells the 9/11 story in a concentrated way. The afternoon we were there the exhibits were thronged, but the room was silent. The assortment of visitors was similar to what you might see strolling the National Mall in Washington DC: retired couples in golf visors, parents with school-aged children plus a stroller, a throng of boy scouts in khaki uniform, men and women wearing black leather and Harley Davidson logos, Amish families in their distinctive white caps and straw hats, a woman or two in hijab. A cross section of America.

The exhibits featured brief media pieces — newscasts and so on — with the images we will never forget. Small groups would watch and listen together, then move on with somber faces. I didn’t trust myself to say even a word to my husband, fearing my words would catch in my throat and become a sob.

I had read the story of Flight 93 before, but was struck anew by some of the details. What unbelievable information the passengers had to piece together. None of what they heard on their cell phones made sense, yet they grasped what was happening. And how quickly! The passengers even took a vote: Would they storm the cabin or not? That single fact — the vote — seems unspeakably good to me. What a pure gift of civility, in a moment that would seem to have no moment for such things. Yet each one could speak in their own voice, and then they had one voice. One resolve. They acted with astounding bravery.

Each one of them is truly a hero. To gaze out over that sacred ground is to know this in a new way.

The memorial is “in the middle of nowhere” — as we like to describe countryside. The interpretive center is at the top of a hill that looks out over the crash site, which was a farmer’s field, and has since been sown with wildflowers. In the picture below you can see two walls which delineate the flight path of the plane. The interpretive center is not visible, beyond the crest of the hill.

At the bottom of the hill is a plaza and a wall with the names of those who died. Visitors can walk a winding path down the hill, through the wildflowers, or they can drive to the lower plaza.

On the other side of the plaza is the actual crash site, which is open to family members, but not the general public. A large rock marks the approximate spot where the plane entered the earth and buried itself, upside down.

As the literature describes it: A common field one day. A field of honor forever.

To close, let me share a snippet of prayer, from a longer prayer which was published in the Presbyterian Outlook for the 15th Anniversary:

God of grace and God of glory, on this the 15-year anniversary of the terrorist attacks of 9/11, grant us the wisdom to remember the lessons from that tragic day that make us more Christ-like. Drive away from us any vengeful urges, any hate-filled sentiment, any whisper from within or without that goads us to return evil for evil.

As we look back and recall where we were, who was with us and how we felt that fateful day, may those vivid memories compel us to acts of kindness, words of love and demonstrations of community. May the myriad of images of helpers – firefighters, police officers, pastors, office workers, ordinary citizens – be the icons that inspire us to be helpers, too. May texts and voicemails of “I love you” and “You are everything to me” assure us that love always has the last word, but that we should never wait to say it.

For the complete prayer, visit the Presbyterian Outlook.

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Please Pray for a Kidney Transplant

my sister Susan is the donor

Susan speaking at Dad’s Memorial Service. 6/22/16.

You know how some people would “do anything for you”?

My sister Susan is making that phrase real. She is donating her kidney to a woman who attends her church.

That’s right — one Sunday during Announcements, it was reported that Buddi, a refugee whom the church was assisting, needed a kidney. Without a transplant, she would not be able to have her young daughter join her in this country.

Susan thought — Wow, I could help Buddi AND her daughter, and what could be cooler than that? So she had the test done and the match was made.

Susan told me about her plans a few days after we had the memorial service for our Dad. We were sitting together in church — she attends the same one as my parents — and she elbowed me and said, “Look at that woman in the communion circle, wearing that purple outfit — I’ll tell you something about her later. Her name is Buddi.”

I will resist calling this a “kidney stone.”

What she told me was rather shocking, and to be honest, I wasn’t ready to hear it, not right after we buried our father.

A few weeks later I was in Michigan’s upper peninsula, walking along the shore of Lake Superior, when it struck me that the rocks were as smooth as I imagine an organ to be. I searched for two rocks that seemed the right size to be a kidney. I left one with my mother, and brought the other one home to keep on my desk. I hold it as I pray for my sister. Sometimes when you don’t know what words to use, it’s good to hold something and be silent.

The surgery is scheduled for Monday, September 12, at 7:30 a.m. at Mercy Health St. Mary’s in Grand Rapids, MI.

Please join me in lifting up prayers for a successful outcome for both donor and recipient! Pray as you will. My prayer will go something like this . . . .

Gracious God, watch over Susan and Buddi during their kidney transplant. Be with the surgeons, that they may be skillful and precise and effective in their work. Be with the nurses and all medical personnel, that Buddi and Susan may be surrounded by competence and care. Alleviate their pain. Grant them safety under anesthesia, and successful surgeries. May they each make a full recovery. May Susan’s left kidney begin the work of filtering Buddi’s blood, to restore her body to well being. May Susan’s right kidney take up the work of its sister organ, and be adequate to its task. Please Lord, grant successful surgery for both of them, and full recovery for both of them. Be with the loved ones who wait for news, especially Susan’s husband, and our dear mother. We pray this knowing that you are the Great Healer. We commit Susan and Buddi to you. Amen.

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Counting Dad’s Days

Week 1 & Week 2

Dad’s medications were already organized by the time I arrived at the house, dispensed into two identical trays which had been labeled with a Sharpie: Week 1 and Week 2.

I noticed the organizers on the dining room table, and for a moment wondered which of my sisters had filled the plastic compartments — my older sister Mary Lynn, who’s a nurse — or my youngest sister, Susan, who’s a hospice chaplain? I didn’t ask because it didn’t matter. And there was so much else to know.

How to help Dad in and out of his hospital bed, for starters. Mom had asked us to move Dad into his chair, now that he’d woken up from a nap. The hospice people had shown Susan how to move Dad safely. We used a wide webbed belt that clipped around Dad’s chest and had large cloth loops attached. The loops would give us something to grab onto. So Dad sat up and Susan clipped the belt around him. Then we got positioned, one of us on either side of our father.

“Slide your whole forearm under his armpit, like this, and use your other hand to grab the loop, like this, and 1-2-3-UP!”

Hold. Pivot. Re-position. And gently release him into the chair. Get him comfortable with pillows.

“Do we leave the belt on?” I asked. “Or should I slip it off?”

“Leave it,” said Dad. “For next time.”

“Does it remind you of that passage in the gospel of John?” I asked Dad. “About getting old and having a belt put on you?”

Dad didn’t respond at first, and I thought I’d been obtuse.

“I’ve been thinking about that passage all day,” Dad said. “About going where you do not wish to go.”

I kissed his cheek. Then I looked around and blinked. The small den was crowded with unfamiliar equipment. Besides the hospital bed, there was a snakes-nest of oxygen tubing, a wheelchair, a portable commode, and an adjustable bedside table.

When had all this happened? Something was wrong with time. Time had stopped. Or maybe time was spinning, like a frozen computer.

Hadn’t I been with my parents just two months ago? I counted the weeks in my head. Yes, exactly eight weeks ago. We’d spent hours in this room, only there was no hospital bed. Dad had been sitting in his comfortable chair playing Scrabble on his Kindle. He would look up to ask if some combination of letters was a word and I would shake my head No. Then he’d say it was, and play it with a crow of triumph.

Eight weeks ago. No oxygen tubes. No hospital bed. No hoisting him around with a belt.

Once Dad was settled, sister Susan told me to follow her. She picked up the Week 2 organizer and stowed it in the bathroom closet, saying that Week 2 was a long way away. Then she quizzed me to make sure I knew what she’d done. Maybe she had noticed the dazed look in my eyes.

Then we sat down at the dining room table and she picked up the Week 1 tray. There were five compartments for each day: mealtimes, bedtime, and “as needed.”

“Mary Lynn and I filled this the other day,” Susan said. “But everything has already changed. We’re going to discontinue most of his regular meds. There’s no point with taking heart meds and cancer meds. All that matters now is the pain meds.”

She pushed Week 1 aside and picked up a small bottle.

“This is liquid morphine. It’s very fast-acting.” She showed me the measurements along the side of the flat syringe. “I’m still not real comfortable using this, so it helps if there are two of us. You can hold it while I draw it up.”

I had been silent, stunned by her words. Now our eyes met and I wanted to be helpful. After all, I’m a pastor too. I’ve been around death before.

“Then we drop the morphine on his tongue?” I asked.

“Not the tongue — aim for the back of the mouth. So it doesn’t drip out. Every drop is precious.”

Susan closed up the morphine and set it beside Week 1.

I stared at the plastic box. It didn’t matter who Sharpied those words, or who filled the compartments. Week 1 was a guess, nothing more. A hope. An approximation. A matter of dispute.

Week 1 was a futile effort to organize what could not be organized.

Not one of us could number Dad’s days.

Belt or no belt, Dad would have to go where he had to go, where he did not wish to go.

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Week 1 & Week 2

Counting Dad's Days

Dad’s medications were organized by the time I arrived, dispensed into two identical trays which had been labeled with a Sharpie: Week 1 and Week 2.

I noticed them on the dining room table, and for a moment wondered which of my sisters had filled the plastic compartments — my older sister Mary Lynn, who’s a nurse — or my youngest sister, Susan, who’s a hospice chaplain? I didn’t ask because it didn’t matter. And there was so much else to know.

How to help Dad in and out of his hospital bed, for starters. Mom had asked us to move Dad into his chair, now that he’d woken up from a nap. Susan said the hospice people had shown her how to move Dad safely using a wide webbed belt that clipped around his chest. There were large cloth loops attached to the front and back of the belt, to give us something to grab onto. Dad sat up and Susan clipped the belt on him. Then it took a moment to get positioned, one of us on either side of our father.

“Slide your whole forearm under his armpit, like this, and use your other hand to grab the loop, like this, and 1-2-3-UP!”

Hold. Pivot. Re-position. And gently release him into the chair. Get him comfortable with pillows.

“Do we leave the belt on?” I asked. “Or should I slip it off?”

“Leave it,” said Dad. “For next time.”

“Does it remind you of that passage in the gospel of John?” I asked Dad. “About getting old and having a belt put on you?”

Dad didn’t respond at first, and I thought I’d been obtuse.

“I’ve been thinking about that passage all day,” Dad said. “About going where you do not wish to go.”

I kissed his cheek. Then I looked around and blinked. The small den was crowded with unfamiliar equipment. Besides the hospital bed, there was a snakes-nest of oxygen tubing, a wheelchair, a portable commode, and an adjustable bedside table.

When had all this happened? Something was wrong with time. Time had stopped. Or maybe time was spinning, like a frozen computer.

Hadn’t I been with my parents just two months ago? I counted the weeks in my head. Yes, exactly eight weeks ago. We’d spent hours in this room, only there was no hospital bed. Dad had been sitting in his comfortable chair playing Scrabble on his Kindle. He would look up to ask if some combination of letters was a word and I would shake my head No. Then he’d say it was, and play it with a crow of triumph.

Eight weeks ago. No oxygen tubes. No hospital bed. No hoisting him around with a belt.

Once Dad was settled, Susan told me to follow her. She picked up the Week 2 meds and stowed them in the bathroom closet. Then she quizzed me to make sure I knew what she’d done. Maybe she had noticed the dazed look in my eyes. Then we sat down at the dining room table and she picked up the Week 1 tray. There were five compartments for each day: mealtimes, bedtime, and “as needed.”

“Mary Lynn and I filled this the other day,” Susan said. “But everything has already changed. We’re going to discontinue most of his regular meds. There’s no point. The heart meds. The cancer meds. All that matters is the pain meds.”

She pushed Week 1 aside and picked up a small bottle.

“This is liquid morphine. It’s very fast-acting.” She showed me the measurements along the side of the flat syringe. “I’m still not real comfortable using this, so it helps if there are two of us. You can hold it while I draw it up.”

I had been silent, stunned by her words. Now our eyes met and I wanted to be helpful. After all, I’m a pastor too. I’ve been around death before.

“Then we drop the morphine on his tongue?” I asked.

“Not the tongue — aim for the back of the mouth. So it doesn’t drip out. Every drop is precious.”

Susan closed up the morphine and set it beside Week 1.

I stared at the plastic box. It didn’t matter who Sharpied those words, or who filled the compartments. Week 1 was a guess, nothing more. A hope. An approximation. A matter of dispute.

Week 1 was a futile effort to organize what could not be organized.

Not one of us could count Dad’s days.

Belt or no belt, Dad would have to go where he did not wish to go.

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My Memoir: RUINED

"You are more than what happened to you."

A night of trauma ruined my life — at least that was the lie I believed.

The publisher, Tyndale, says this about my memoir: Told with candor and unflinching honesty, RUINED is an extraordinary emotional and spiritual journey that begins with an unspeakable act of violence but ends with tremendous healing and profound spiritual insights about faith, forgiveness, and the will of God.

Trauma is no trivial matter, and it ripples for years.

But I firmly believe that we are all more than what happened to us.

Do you connect with my story, or know someone who might? Reading my story will address questions like these:

Can a person recover from sexual trauma, or are they forever haunted?
When your life is derailed by events you can’t control, must you live forever furious?
How does a culture of sexual purity affect girls and women?

Sample the first three chapters for free here.

Listen to radio and podcast interviews here.

Scroll through guest blogposts and early reviews here.

My speaking engagements are listed in the sidebar. Please come by and say hello — I love meeting my readers! If you’re in the DC area, I hope you’ll pop over some Sunday at 11:00 and visit my little church!

I’m on Facebook, Twitter, Goodreads. I’m trying to master Instagram. So far I’m a Pinterest failure.

If you’re in a book club, notice the free online discussion guide. I’ll be happy to Skype or FaceTime into your meeting if my schedule permits.

You can order RUINED from an online retailer or local bookstore. The audio version has just become available and you can preorder it now.

If you would like to support my writing without spending a dime, here are some ideas:

write an Amazon review
request my book from your local library (paper, digital or audio)
suggest the title for your Book Club or church group

Thanks for reading! My work is meaningless without readers.

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My New Memoir: RUINED

"You are more than what happened to you."

A night of trauma ruined my life. At least that was the lie I believed.

I invite you to come along with me on a journey from ruin to recovery — through fear and fury and faith. I’m passionate about spreading a message: We are all more than what happens to us.

The publisher, Tyndale, says this about my memoir: Told with candor and unflinching honesty, RUINED is an extraordinary emotional and spiritual journey that begins with an unspeakable act of violence but ends with tremendous healing and profound spiritual insights about faith, forgiveness, and the will of God.

Who do you know who needs to read this book — you? your sister? a friend?

I’ve done some radio and podcast interviews, and you’ll find those audio links below, as well as links to articles I’ve written on the topic of recovering from sexual violence and some early reviews of the book. My speaking engagements are listed in the sidebar — I want to be easy to find because I want you to introduce yourself to me! I love meeting my readers.

I’m on Facebook, Twitter, Goodreads. I am trying to master Instagram. I am a Pinterest failure.

If you’re in a book club or small group, I hope you’ll suggest my memoir as a group read. There’s a free online discussion guide to get the conversation started, and I’ll be happy to Skype or FaceTime into your meeting if my schedule permits.

You can order RUINED from Amazon or another retailer, visit a local bookstore, or request it from your local library. Just get your hands on a copy, and let me know what you think!

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My New Book: RUINED

launches this week

There was a night that changed my life. Do you have one of those? More than 30 years later, I tell what happened that night, and try to lay out the strands of what exactly changed over the next decade.

~ My story includes sexual violence — and the way people react when seeing you reminds them of something they’d rather not think about.

~ My story includes religion, and the “good girl” lessons of faith — and the questions that arise when God seems to have abandoned you anyway.

~ My story includes race — and what its like when your main connection with persons of another race is violent and scarring.

Are there parts of my story that connect with yours?

You can order RUINED from Amazon or a host of retailers — or visit a local bookstore — or request it from your local library.

I’ve done a number of radio and podcast interviews, which are linked below. There are a number of book reviews, and also some articles from my perspective as a pastor. I hope you’ll read, or listen, and interact with me in some way. I’d love to read your review, or hear from you!

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Why Write a Memoir?

and yes, in this case, parents were involved

As many of you may already know, my 90 year old father passed away on Father’s Day. He was elderly, but relatively healthy. His final illness spanned only 10 days. This summer has been a precious time — time outside of time — as I stay with my mother and we all get used to living without Dad.

You can still meet my father in the pages of my memoir. Both of my parents are important characters. We had a complicated journey together — maybe all parents and children do! Writing the memoir opened up the space for us to work through some trailing pieces of story. As my parents read early drafts, we had heartfelt conversations. I changed words and sentences because of their input. I did not sugarcoat anything, but I valued their lens. I am — and will always be — grateful for that process, which helped finish some unfinished business. I thanked them in my book’s Acknowledgements:

I am also humbled by the generosity and moral courage of my parents, Nick and Joan Huizenga, who allowed me to reflect honestly, and sometimes unflatteringly, on a faith tradition they cherish. Our relationship is proof of the healing power of love.

I am so happy that I can honestly tell you this: my Dad was proud of my book. He had a chance to hold an advance copy before he died. He told visitors to his bedside: “I have four daughters, and only one of them is ruined!” He said this with a big grin and a twinkle in his eye, often to their perplexity. After all, there were four of us sisters bustling around attending to him, all apparently in good health ourselves. How exactly were any of us ruined? Everyone just smiled and let the comment pass — as one does around the elderly at times — and the next day Dad had transitioned into the dying process.

Yes, this summer has been emotionally and spiritually powerful for me. For the past six weeks I have been in a private place of grief and gratitude and reflection. My writing has been for my eyes alone. Now it’s time to get back to the public face of writing. My memoir launches on Tuesday, August 2. A flurry of articles and interviews has begun, geared for book launch. Writers may write because we feel called to do so — but selling our words is a business like anything else. We have to find our readers.

Here is one of the first launch articles, which attempts to answer the question: Why would someone write a memoir about a painful experience like rape? The article is over at Tyndale’s Memoir Addict site. I hope you’ll click over to read the article — and share it on social media if it speaks to you.

Also, you may want to take note of some upcoming radio and podcast interviews next Monday and Tuesday, which are listed in the sidebar.

As always, my heartfelt thanks to you for reading.

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This Is How We Grieve

My father died in the early morning hours of Father’s Day, about a month ago. My husband and I have been keeping my mother company since then. We’re grateful for flexible schedules — an upside of being a writer married to a teacher on summer vacation.

As the days pass, we are finding our way to a new normal. Lots of visits with old friends. Everyday tasks. Mentioning Dad whenever it feels right, which is often. As much sleep as we can manage, and a walk every evening.

Now and then we do something fun. Last week we spent a lovely afternoon and evening on the beach at Lake Michigan, at Holland SP. This week we decided to be even more adventurous and took a 2-night trip “up north” to the Grayling, MI area. We walked a one-mile loop through Hartwick Pines SP, enjoying old growth red pines, white pines, and hemlock. Along the way, a sudden late afternoon rainstorm forced us to seek shelter in a small chapel. Sanctuary! After that the path was a bit steeper than we expected, and we didn’t have an umbrella, but we persevered. And at the end, we laughed and had a good meal.

My mother, as always, is teaching me by example. This is how we manage, day by day. This is how we grieve.

The Big Red Lighthouse at Holland SP

An ideal picnic spot!

Walking through the old growth forest at Hartwick Pines State Park.

Stopping at a chapel on the old growth trail during a sudden rainstorm. Sanctuary! Also, Hills!

Friends for more than 50 years.

 

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