Chris Loehmer Kincaid's Blog, page 167

The picture of health

 But we are citizens of heaven, where the Lord Jesus Christ lives. And we are eagerly waiting for him to return as our Savior.  He will take our weak mortal bodies and change them into glorious bodies like his own, using the same power with which he will bring everything under his control. Philippians 3:20-21 New Living Translation

The other day at work I was asked to attend a meeting to brain storm ways to bring a new model of health and wellness to our patients. One of our doctor’s had recently given a presentation to the community on the “circle of health” and the goal was to further that idea. To achieve proper health all these different factors are involved, such as weight management, proper nutrition and exercise. Other things such as your spirituality, stress management, outlets for creativity and having a purpose in your life are all equally important.
Because my brain never shuts down and I can take the tiniest tidbit and expound on it, I changed the circle of health to the hierarchy of health. It looks something like this.
*Person who is the picture of health – is physically active, mentally sharp, emotionally stable, eats right, gets enough sleep, enjoys their job, volunteers, has a loving family, etc, etc (as if this person exists)
*Person who eats ok, works out occassionally, 
but has a lot of stress at home and at work
*The vast majority of us
*Person who smokes two packs a day and eats most meals at McDonald’s
*Person in a vegetative state in long-term care
The question is where on this list is someone who has died. When I was first picturing this in my head, the first thought is to put a dead person on the very bottom of the list, right? That would be where a lot of people end up, people who are not saved, who do not know Jesus Christ as their Lord and Savior.
For me and for other believers, I would put the dead on the top of the list. Except of course, those are people who are only dead by the world’s standards. As Christians we are on top of this list because we are very much alive in heaven. That is the only way this couch-potato, junk-food lover will ever get to the top of this list.
Lord thank You for giving us our human bodies, with all of the frailties and weaknesses. Thank You for making these bodies temporary and for providing us with the perfect bodies once we reach Your kingdom. Amen The Windmill is legend in our town. No one can hardly wait for it to open in the spring to get the first ice cream cone of the season. There is a biking trail that takes you there from town. Can you really burn off those ice cream calories on a fourteen mile round trip bike ride?

Show your courage

“Courage doesn't always roar. Sometimes courage is the quiet voice at the end of the day saying, ‘I will try again tomorrow’.”  Mary Anne Radmacher
I end a lot of my days feeling as if I have not roared all day, have not made a noise, have not stood up and been counted. Most days I crawl in bed wondering just what I did that day. Have I ever had a day where I was courageous? (Except for that little interview LIVE on TV last week, which I promise I will not bring up again.)
But I think that every day we do have courage. Even if it is just getting through, or getting by. We waited patiently in line at the grocery store. We didn’t retaliate at the inattentive driver who almost took us out at the stop sign. We smiled at a stranger. We laughed at an elderly gentleman’s joke which wasn’t funny.
And tomorrow morning, if it is God’s plan for us, we will get up and get out of bed. And have many more of those moments.   And when you can't roar, it's OK to purr. 

The final week

Since the first of February, I have been writing about my dad’s life. Since it is March already, I will wrap up this series of stories. 
In April of 1993, Dad was up all hours of the night, sometimes becoming belligerent, sometimes just wandering.  He would put things, mostly his dentures, in the strangest places, sometimes it was in the linen closet amongst the bath towels, sometimes it was in the birdfeeder. 
With the support of us four kids, Mom finally made the decision to put him in the nursing home, on an Alzheimer’s unit. She checked him in on a Friday morning, April 22. He seemed to adapt rather quickly, contentedly pacing the halls with the rest of the residents. 
Mom told the staff that she had started puréeing his food because he would sometimes choke on whole foods.  It’s not that the staff ignored her comments, or that they thought they knew better; things happen and they are not anyone’s fault.  Saturday night, while eating his dinner of whole food, Dad choked on something.  It wasn’t long before the nursing home staff realized he had aspirated some food, resulting in aspiration pneumonia. 
Sunday morning, Mom got the phone call – Dad wasn’t doing well. The physician on call wanted to put in a feeding tube, he didn’t feel there was anything else that could be done. Both Mom and Dad had decided long before that they never wanted a feeding tube.
Eventually, Mom was able to reach their own doctor, and he agreed to admit Dad to the hospital for IV fluids and antibiotics.
Four days later, Dad was still in the hospital when his doctor came in on rounds as usual, asking Dad how he was doing.  The other three days that week Dad hadn’t responded.  That morning he clearly answered, “not so good”.  Mom and I looked at each other. Was this a good sign? Or not?
Later that afternoon, while I was visiting Dad, with Mom at his side, she got a phone call from one of my cousins. My cousin and her husband had planned a trip to Alaska to see her brother, but with my dad not doing well, she thought they should cancel.   
Mom, though, told her several times over the phone, “You should go, we will all be all right, you just need to go.”
Shortly after Mom hung up the phone, Dad let out at a slow breath. Then nothing. After a few moments, he took one more breath, in and out. Then nothing. Finally one last slow breath, in and out. Then nothing.
Later, Mom recalled the conversation with her niece. She felt sure that her words were what let Dad peacefully slip from this world. “You just need to go, we will all be all right.”
And somehow, we were.   

Just "ducking" out of the spotlight

I did my interview for my book on WJFW, our local TV station, this morning. I kind of figured I wouldn't be in any shape to write coherently after that, so here are pictures of my most recent dumb hobby. No, I don't collect ducks, I just collect their pictures.   Sitting Duck  Lame Duck  Viking Ducks or maybe Duckings   Monkey Duck  Biker Duck  Lucky Duck  A little bit of everything Ducks Then, holy waterfowl, there are over 400 ducks on this table. Where to even start? Oh, that's right, I was helping set up a fundraiser for Kinship Friday night and we had the ducks all lined up to purchase for the chuck-a-duck. You mean, I can't take any of them home? I guess that is why I don't collect ducks, only pictures of ducks. 

Just like a movie script

Last week, on February 20, my dad would have been 98 years old. I’ve been writing all month of what little I know about his life before he married Mom.
In the fall of 1944, the depression was releasing its gripe on the nation and he was able to get a job as a school bus driver, making $58.20 a month.  His route was long, 40 miles round trip, twice a day. 
One winter afternoon, as Dad was driving the bus full of kids home, he overheard a group of girls talking about the basketball game that night. One of the girls, Margaret, wanted to go, but she didn’t have a ride. At that point my dad interrupted the conversation.  “I have a horse”.
The high school girls must have looked at him and said “what?”  Margaret, though, rose to the challenge.  When they got to her house, she ran inside and asked her dad’s permission to go to the game that night.  My dad drove her home later in his mother’s car.  He had just turned 30; she was still 17.        
Doesn’t it sound like something out of a movie? She graduated from high school and turned 18 that May. They were married by the justice of the peace on July 6. And the rest as they say is history.

Suffer? Who Me?

What to write about today? Oh, there’s Dino, to the rescue once again.
For Lent, I was talked into giving up chocolate. A co-worker of mine, who is not nearly the chocoholic that I am, wanted someone else to share in her misery. But that is the whole idea of giving up something for Lent, not that we should ever suffer, but we should make sacrifices. No sacrifice we make however will ever compare to the ultimate sacrifice that Jesus made for us.
What does this have to do with my dog Dino? He loves cat food as much as I love chocolate. As I was sitting here on the laptop trying to think of something to write, I could hear him on the other end of the basement eating the cat’s food. I snuck around one side of the basement to catch him, but he heard me and scooted around the other way. Silly dog.
Good thing he doesn’t have to give up cat food for Lent. He pretty much always gets his own way. He is one dog who doesn’t have to think about going to heaven in the afterlife; living in my house is heaven for him right now. Hmm? Think that will be us when we get to heaven, being spoiled daily by the Master?
I consider that our present sufferings are not worth comparing with the glory that will be revealed in us. Romans 8:18 (NIV) I'd say Dino doesn't suffer much. 

Another Circle of Life

Lisa and I both on the right, the night of the banquet.
 Last Sunday, one of life’s many circles was made complete.  
At my first Green Lake Christian Writers Conference in 2010, I met Lisa Klarner. She and I were both in Mary Pierce’s workshop wanting to learn more about writing memoir. I wanted to write about my journey to Africa, Lisa wanted to write about her journey through Social Anxiety Disorder. Our topics seemed so different, we were writing about different ends of the earth, yet what we had to say was so similar.
I haven’t heard much from Lisa over the last two years, and she hasn’t heard anything from me. Shortly before my book came out, I noticed on Facebook that she had published hers. I checked it out and promised myself that I would buy one.
Before I got around to that, Lisa e-mailed me. She had seen that my book also was out and wanted to compare notes on how our respective books were doing. We e-mailed back and forth, sharing insight on this business of promoting our books. Then it dawned on me that I was going to Green Bay this past weekend for a meeting and since she doesn’t live far from there, maybe we could get together.
Who knew thirty months ago that the two of us would someday be sitting down discussing marketing our books?
“Releasing The Secret Pain: Moving Beyond Social Anxiety Disorder” is not only the story of Lisa’s battle with social anxiety disorder, it is a self-help guide, geared towards anyone who suffers from shyness, feels awkward in social situations, or has been bullied. Before reading this book, I didn’t know what Social Anxiety Disorder was. I thought that all the feelings of shyness which I experienced were unique and that no one anywhere on the planet had ever felt the way I did. But now I see that I am not alone in these feelings of awkwardness and insecurity.
There are probably many people out there who can relate to Lisa’s story and can benefit from the treatment options she used to overcome this disorder. If not yourself, someone you know, perhaps a teen-ager or young adult, suffers from social anxiety disorder and would find this book helpful, possibly life-saving.
If you can relate to any of these problems, read this book. It may complete your own circle of life. 
You can purchase Lisa's book at Amazon.com, Barnes and Noble or her website:  https://www.releasingsocialanxiety.com/

Choose Love

“Hatred paralyzes life; love releases it. Hatred confuses life; love harmonizes it. Hatred darkens life; love illumines it.” Martin Luther King, Jr.
 On my Peanuts, a page a day calendar, on the reverse side of January 19/20, this quote  was printed as the Daily Extra. Cool, huh, that not only do I get a cartoon a day on the front side, I get a saying or a puzzle or whatever on the back side. Yea, and I am only up to January 23 on the thing.
Anyway, we can choose to hate, and be consumed by it, letting it pull us down, letting it control us. Or we can choose to love, and find peace and harmony, we can be made complete, we can be set free. I choose love. 

The Tripoli Years

I’ve been writing this month about my father’s life. I have few artifacts from those years; the years were lean and there wasn’t much to keep. My mom has a few items, things my dad’s family picked up at second hand stores of the time. Just dawned on me that second hand stores are becoming more and more popular today; I never thought much of them being around in the thirties and forties, but it only makes sense that people would shop for cheap stuff back then too.
Anyway, here is the most prized possession I have. The ledger which my dad kept when he lived and worked on his mother’s farm in Tripoli.
There are a lot of holes in my dad’s life. His family moved from Chicago to Tripoli, Wisconsin, in 1934. My dad started keeping this ledger in 1939. Sometime in between there, rumor has it, he traveled out west via the railroad looking for whatever work was available. Yep, he was a hobo for a time, but I don’t know any more about it than that.
Sometime during those years he also worked for the Civil Conversation Corps. Don’t know much about that either, except that in much later years, he still talked about the CCC camps with deep respect.
But back to the ledger, coz that I have in writing. A few of the interesting entries included that the income for the month of January, 1939, was $17.88 and the total expenses were $21.90.  The largest portion of the budget for that month went towards groceries for a total of $7.70.   An average of 60 cents were spent a month on tobacco.  In November 1939, someone splurged and went roller-skating, buying a pop while they were there.  The total tab for that night on the town was 85 cents.
The regular monthly income came from the sale of milk. Occasionally they butchered a cow for meat but sold the hide for between two and three dollars. Once a year or so, they sold a bull; in 1940 Guy brought in $35 while in 1942 Andy sold for $80.
Can you imagine? Not quite what my budget looks like today. 

So, what can we do?

All they asked was that we should continue to remember the poor, the very thing I had been eager to do all along. Galatians 2:10 New International Version
When I signed up for that fateful mission trip to Kenya in 2006, this verse popped up somewhere along the line. It surely stuck with me, even as I wondered at times if I was really helping the poor at all. Was I even helping my team mates? Or myself?
I witnessed so much sorrow, so much poverty in Africa. It seemed so overwhelming and what we did seemed like so little. Yet sometimes that’s what counts. A hand held. A smile shared. Just to know that someone cares.
Sometimes the only thing we can do for those living in poverty is to remember them. To pray for them. To ask that God’s will be done in their lives.   Kari and her Compassion child at the Compassion center in Nairobi.   Jen and her Compassion child planting an avocado tree to commemorate our visit, at the Compassion center at Ewuaso Kdong.  Michelle's Compassion child inside his home. Michelle receives a gift from her Compassion child's father.