Eva Marie Everson's Blog, page 2

The Healing Trip (Part 7)

My brother and I didn't always share the same "likes," but one of our common grounds was music. We both loved it and we both loved knowing something about it. This is, however, pretty much where it begins and ends. Van was child of the 70s while I got my groove on with 60s music. When it came to the 70s, I stuck to a lighter rock; Van enjoyed the heavier stuff.We did agree on a couple of groups, though: The Eaglesand Queen. And, we both agreed that there are few guitarist like Joe Walsh or singers who can belt out a tune quite like Freddie. And we both enjoyed watching biographies about the singers and the bands; Van would often save them on his DVR for me to watch (and him to re-watch) with him during my visits "back home." During our last visit--the one in between hospital stays--we enjoyed a biographic interview with Steve Perry. Yeah. He's another good one! Where we differed the most was in my love for an older tune--Frank Sinatra and Doris Day, Dean Martin and Ella Fitzgerald--and my affinity for folk music, both Americana and Irish. After all, my DNA reports that I'm more English/Irish/Scottish than anything at all. But music ... we both loved music. -------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------Clare and I left The Burren and drove on toward Doolin, which is no more than a village, really, on Ireland's west coast. By now the rain had turned to mist and a fog had rolled in as the sun dipped closer to the horizon. If it was there at all. Still, the hour was fairly early.We easily found the B&B where we'd made reservations weeks before. The structure was more cottage than anything else and, for a moment, I felt as if I'd stepped onto another movie set. The stacked stone wall around it, the white-wash paint, the country blue trim around windows, some yawning, some tightly shut. We got out of the car and dashed across tiny bits of rock that crunched beneath our shoes, then knocked on the front door, painted blue like the trim, and waited for someone to greet us.The owner of the house opened the door and hurried us inside and out of the rain, then told us his name as we signed the guestbook. Clare returned by saying, "My name is Clare, spelled like the county.""Ah, yes," he said, his brogue thick. "That will be easy to remember.""And I'm Eva Marie," I told him, my accent American and Southern."Now that won't be so easy to remember," he quipped."Sure it is," I told him. "Eva, like Eve--the first woman. And Marie, like Mary, the mother of Jesus."He laughed, then showed us our room while giving us the "this and that" details.We were both dying for the warmth of a shower, but I asked, "Where's the best place in town for dinner?""Ah," he said. "That would be McGann's!"I glanced at my phone for the time. "We should take our showers and then go," I said to Clare."Oh, no," our host told us. "If you want a seat at McGann's, you'd best be leaving now."So, still wet and cold, Clare and I walked back out into the misty rain. I tugged my baseball cap lower over my face and Clare flipped her hoodie over her damp, blond hair. We stepped to the road and turned right to begin our trek into the village (no need to drive; it wasn't that far). Shortly, we came to an old stone bridge where the Aille River rushed beneath and berries grew on clustered vines strewn with webs that glistened with dew above. I paused for a moment to take a photo and to watch the water gush over the rocks. My breath caught in my throat.There was something .... I couldn't quite put my finger on it.But something...A feeling that I had been there before. That I had peered from this bridge and to that water. Of course, I had not, but I could not help but wonder if someone in my bloodline--some great-great-grandmother or aunt or other relative--had. And if, somehow, the memory had carried from one life to the next until it rested inside me.Within minutes we entered McGann's where we were welcomed by a bartender who asked if he could make us a drink to "help chase away the cold." Shortly, we were led to a table in a back corner and presented with menus. I cannot remember what Clare ordered, but I remember my order very well. Beef stew (the beef soaked in Guinness, I learned afterward), that was so delicious, so hearty, I wanted nothing more than to somehow have it at every meal for the rest of my life (they serve it with two large scoops of fluffy mashed potatoes in the center). As the restaurant filled to capacity and folks elbowed in as best they could, we learned that an Irish folk band was soon to play. We were both ecstatic (although I admit, my stamina was beginning to slip). But then we heard the players warming up their instruments in the next room. Ah, there is nothing like those Uilleann pipes to bring back your energy! The excitement grew in the crowd; like us, they had come to McGann's to eat and drink, yes ... but they had most especially come to hear the music!

The Healing Trip Part 6

After more than a week in the hospital, we headed home. The hour was late. Nine-thirty p.m. to be exact. We'd waited all day for the release papers to be filled out, anxious to return to our childhood home. My brother had owned it outright since our mother's death. By the time we arrived there, we'd driven through a rain storm (the Lowcountry had been experiencing a drought until then), slippery roads, and a moonless sky. My little red car sped along between farm fields as quickly as I dared drive. By the time we arrived home, midnight was nearly upon us. We were home only a few days, days filled with doctor appointments, in-home care services, meetings with financial institutions, phone calls with family members and friends, and incessant vomiting. It soon became apparent that he needed to return to the hospital, and so he did. While there, he celebrated his 59th birthday. Our cousin brought a cake, my brother blew out a candle, and the cake was then taken to the nurse's station for them to enjoy.A week after he entered Candler for the second time, he returned home again. Along the way--and I can see where we were perfectly--he vomited into a red Solo cup (we kept them everywhere just for this purpose), then wiped his mouth, leaned back in the seat and said, "I need to talk to Dr. Negrea.""About?""I mean," he said, his voice weak, "how long are we talking about here? Four years? Five?"The question stunned me. Kicked me so low in the gut it took my breath. Hadn't we already been over this? Once? Twice? Perhaps three times? Hadn't we already discussed finances ... the house ... his funeral?I eased the car to an upcoming stop sign and then turned to my baby brother, worn out already from a journey he'd only just begun to take. "Van," I said softly. "You're looking at less than a year."His eyes met mine and for a solitary moment, lingered as if drawing truth from them. "Oh, really," he said. But I knew. I knew I'd lied.I knew ... we'd be lucky to see Christmas.-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------We were lost. Clare had driven eastward for over two hours, leading us out of Dublin toward Doolin where we hoped to walk along the breathtaking Cliffs of Moher before sunset. We'd also planned to visit the Aillwee Cave andPoulnabrone Tomb, located in theBurren(or, Great Rock), in County Clare.Instead, two hours after our departure from Bray, Clare's GPS chimed out, "You have arrived" as we sat in the middle of a farm. Complete with cows. And a barn. And a farmer, who appeared puzzled."Don't worry," I said to Clare, laughing. "It's about the journey, not the destination.""But we're two hours off course," she said, frustration clearly overtaking her voice."So what," I replied between giggles. "Drive on."And so we did. We re-routed and then drove through splendid and lush hillsides. We passed through small villages with thatch-covered roofs and primary-colored doors and stone fences. We entered the city limits of Tipperary where a sign declared that we'd "come a long, long way."This, of course, brought a peel of laughter. Especially after road construction made getting out of the town a tad difficult. Or, as Clare would say it, "A wee bit difficult."But finally, we neared the east coast of Ireland and the Wild Atlantic Way. Storm clouds rolled in as we reached the Aillwee Cave but we managed to duck inside the double doors leading to the gift shop and ticket counter without incident. Within moments the rain came down in sheets, bringing a decided chill to the air. Within a half hour, we walked behind our tour guide between nature's colors and wonder and learned how a man named Jack McGann discovered the cave in 1940 while chasing his dog who was chasing a rabbit. But ole Jack sat on the news for nearly 30 years. Naturally he happened to be at a pub that night, drinking a little too much ale, when the find slipped from his lips. And what a find it was . . . dark, damp walkways . . . dripping stalactites . . . and bear bones dating back over 10,000 years. Clare and I left the cave an hour or so later, dashed through the rain to her car where I donned a baseball cap to cover my soaked head, and then drove on to the Burren . . . to the death portal, or doorway.I'd heard about these things in Ireland from a favorite movie, The Nephew. To see if for myself, though, we had to drive through the Burren, which is made up of glaciated limestone. Desolate doesn't begin to explain it, especially in the drizzling rain. Lovely doesn't begin to define it, either. As I looked left to right and ahead again, I found myself trying to imagine just how long this had taken God to produce. We found a parking spot, stepped out of the car and into the growing chill. I grabbed my denim vest but left my coat and scarf, while Clare was smart enough to bring along her hooded coat. Together we walked along the flat, almost ghostly gray stones. We edged around a stone wall. We noted the flora sneaking between the cracks, reaching for air and life. The wiry, lush grasses that lay wet from the rain, though some swayed within the cut of the wind. Our steps took us higher until, finally, we reached the portal."The bones of over thirty men, women, and children were found here in the 1980s," Clare told me. "One of which was an infant from the Bronze Age."Wow. A baby . . . a wee baby."This is beautiful," I breathed out, because it was. "Holy, almost.""Indeed," Clare agreed.It seems a sacrilege to be there. To take our photos even, though we did. And we didn't care how wet we had gotten or continued to get. How miserably cold the weather had become. Because the timing had been perfect. The getting lost had brought us here at just the right moment. In the gray and gloom of late afternoon. In the sweetness of the air, changed and charged by the rain. In the fact that we were there, alone. All other tourists and visitors had long since walked away. And we were in the midst of something beyond ourselves. God's brushstrokes.Life.Death.None of which could be fully defined or adequately touched.Additional Photos:

The Healing Trip (Part 5)

My brother would need another "J-Tube" or, as it is commonly called in medical circles, a jejunostomy tube, to receive nourishment. The J-Tube is a soft plastic tube which is placed, in Van's case, through the skin and into the intestine beneath the stomach. Two years ago, when a doctor had placed his first J-Tube, it had been a temporary thing. Something to sustain him until he could, again, eat. This time, it would be forever.Immediately before surgery, his surgeon gave reports of optimism, telling us that he was going to "go in and see if I can't get that bad-boy out of there." That bad boy ... meaning the tumor.The lyrics to "Billy, Don't Be a Hero" fluttered across my mind. Do what you can, yes, I thought. But don't do anything to make this worse. Heaviness sank within my own stomach at the thought. The medical staff from the OR at Candler Hospital came to get my brother late that afternoon. "I'll be right here," I told him as the gurney slid out the door and into the hallway. "I love you.""I love you, too," he called back. And then, I waited. I knew about how long the procedure would take, so I settled in and sent text messages to three groups: 1) the husband and children/children-in-law group; 2) the Kicklighter cousins group; and 3) the Purvis cousins group. In all three, at least one RN resided (and in the Kicklighter group, one doctor), so I knew exactly how much medical jargon to include and how much to leave out. I was immediately comforted by their words of prayer and well-wishes and especially comforted by knowing that one of the RNs happened to be only a mile and a half away tending to her ailing mother, my aunt. I opened my laptop and started working on an editing project that now seemed one-part work and one-part salvation. At least I could think about something else for a while.As the room grew dark, I realized that too much time had passed. I put away my work, got up, and walked into the hallway to the unit station where Van's nurse, a woman I'd come to adore, sat looking at her own monitor. "This is taking too long," I said.Jennifer (not her real name) nodded. She knew of my own medical background, so we'd spoken openly about things. She'd previously shown me X-ray and other results and she had been in the room when the oncologist had given the awful report of terminal cancer. The one my brother didn't want to share yet.After a few minutes of chit-chat, she said, "There he is." I turned, expecting to see my brother lying on a gurney, covered by a pristine white sheet, but instead his surgeon stood before me, eyes brimming with tears. "It's worse than I thought," he said. And then he wrapped me in his arms and squeezed, something I knew was hardly commonplace. "I'm sorry. I'm so sorry," he whispered. "Van is such a good man. This isn't right."I said little before slipping back into Van's room, followed by Jennifer who handed me a still-warm copy of the surgical report that had just come to her desk. I took photos of the pages, then sent them to the RNs and doctor in my groups. Again, I waited. Not ten minutes later, the door slid open and my nearby cousin stepped into a room lit only by the glow from the muted TV overhead. I stood, walked into her waiting arms, and began to sob. "Oh, Nancy," I said. "What am I going to do? What am I going to do?" ~~~~~Clare and I stepped onto the train at the Dublin station, took our seats, and watched the world whiz by as we headed away from the city and toward Bray. Everything about the day had been perfect, including the getting lost. We couldn't complain, we were laughing too hard. Off and on we spoke of the events, but mostly we looked out the window, taking in the beauty of the Irish countryside, the hills and valleys, that slowly gave way to the harbor. Night was descending and a full moon was expected to rise soon, so as soon as we left the station, we got into Clare's car and drove toward the beach. Others had the same idea--to come and watch the moon rise. Or, as Clare so perfectly put it, to "catch the moon." They sat in both small and large clusters; behind us a man and woman snuggled against each other while, up ahead, a group of teenage girls circled a small fire to stay warm.The water continued to ebb and flow along the pebbled beach as it had done the day before, creating whispered words that said, "I'm here ..." and then, "I'm gone." Clare and I eased ourselves onto the dryer rocks, ignoring the discomfort altogether for the splendor of the show. The wind picked up, bringing laughter from the others who waited as did we. I kept my eyes turned toward the horizon where the Irish Sea disappeared like a waterfall, dipping to the other side of the universe. (Click on the link above for my video.) One by one, stars emerged in the orb of the blackening sky. They were brighter here than at home, I told Clare. And closer. For a moment, I thought I saw one in particular wink at me. Reach up ... and touch.And then, slowly, a golden light peeked from behind the indigo waterline so far ... so far ... in the distance. "Look," I said. "There it is!"The moon rose in all its fullness. In all its glory. Around us, "oohs" and "ahhhs" echoed within the breeze, blending with the light crashes of waves upon the shore. We took photos but they did little to truly capture the beauty of watching something so brilliant return from its hiding place, playing peek-a-boo with those who wanted only a moment of its time. And it gave all it could give.The day's events now lay upon our shoulders. We were tired. More than that; we were truly, happily fatigued. We spoke of how well we'd sleep that night, and we did. Tomorrow ... tomorrow we would rise whenever we wanted, have our tea and toast with butter and jam, and then we'd drive clear across the island to the west coast of Ireland to the Cliffs of Moher. Easy enough.But what lay ahead, we couldn't have anticipated.

The Healing Trip (Part 4)

The news that my brother's cancer would end in death hung between us--him in one chair, me in another. Monitors beeped outside his hospital room while inside the television sent a low hum into the empty spaces. We would not be capable to telling anyone what, exactly, was on at this moment any more than we felt able to yet share the doctor's latest revelation. "Six months to a year," sounded somewhere between finite and hopeful. Yet, I knew."I want you to do something for me," I said around the knot in my throat."What's that?" he asked."I want you to help me through this by making sure all your finances are in order. I want you to tell me who you want to have what. And ..." I took a deep breath. "I want you and me to go see Ed Thompson. I want to know exactly what you want when it comes to your funeral."Van agreed. Yes, he could do that for me.A month later, when it had become even more evident that six months to a year was a pipe dream--something doctors say when they know the end is more than a little near--I drove my brother to the funeral home where Ed was to meet us. As I shut off the car, I turned to my baby brother--looking so pale, so thin, so tired--and said, "I'd rather have a root canal than do this."He gave me a half smile. "You and me both."We both took a deep breath. "Well, come on then," I said. "Let's do this."An hour later, we were done ... my brother had chosen his casket, his vault, his visitor book and matching thank you cards. He had also requested that a local group of talent from our church sing "Have a Little Talk with Jesus" because our father used to sing it during the car rides my brother had given to Daddy during his own chemo treatments.His eyes teared up as he made the request ... precious moments I'd never been privy to that would become a stolen moment a few weeks later. All the while, throughout his journey, a single question echoed within my heart: When?"I don't mind dying," he said to me once. "But I dread the journey." ~~~We were lost. No question about it. We had our phones out, our GPS apps up and ready, and yet ... we were lost. We'd even asked locals how to find The Book of Kells, located in Trinity College, and even they steered us wrong. We followed the thick blue line on our phones to a T, but just as we'd reach our destination, the destination jumped to another location. Finally, we spotted a storefront sign that read "Tourist Information." Just outside, in a lovely town square, a local band played for the amusement of onlookers ready to toss a euro or two into an opened guitar case. "I'll go ask for directions," Clare said to me, seeing that I'd become enthralled with the show."I'll wait here." The band played a song and I clapped along, grateful for the respite. When Clare returned, her face held a look of both frustration and relief. "Well?" I asked.She pointed to a wall behind me. "We're actually here. It's literally right there."So, we made it to the Book of Kells, a building of halls holding a book made famous by it's unique beauty and content. This book, an illuminated manuscript of the four Gospels penned in Latin, is housed within the hallowed grounds of Trinity College. Clare and I wove our way through the quad, found a line of multi-cultured visitors waiting to enter the display, became confused as French tourists, and then were finally given entrance. By the time we found ourselves in the cool, nearly silent and reverent interior, we'd been walking for hours, had stood in line for an excruciating amount of time (all things considered), been misunderstood (namely because we'd somehow ended up with the French tour) and nearly sent to the end of the line, had paid an exorbitant amount in our estimation for the entry fee. But, we were determined to enjoy the exhibition. After all, compared to what I'd been through earlier in the summer, this entire day had been both a treasure and a cake walk. And it was something to see, especially the library where some 200,000 volumes rise to lofty heights and where, at its very end, the book is displayed, encased in glass (only, it's a replica, which they don't tell you until you actually get to it and read the fine print). Clare and I snapped photo after photo of the stacks and of statues and, yes, of "the book," and then we made our way to a gift shop where we spent a few euros, then sauntered outside where we walked around the quad for a while, enjoying the afternoon's warmth and breeze. We even gazed on as a young couple had their wedding photos taken outside the chapel. And then, with nothing left to do, we decided to find a little Irish pub we'd walked past about 20 times in our earlier wanderings. (After all, sometimes the getting lost is about what you find along the way. It's the journey, not the destination, that keeps us intrigued. No matter how lost or confused or dreadful it may become.)"Let's go to Kennedy's," I said, "because one of my family names is Kennedy and," I pointed in the general direction we should head in, "because I'm starving.""Same!" Clare exclaimed.Finding Kennedy's was a cinch (I think that, by this point, we could have done so in the dark). And the food was beyond delicious (my first fish and chips!). After our meal and a most delectable dessert, we headed back to the train station, boarded, and returned to Bray ... physically worn out (over 12,000 steps that day!), full as ticks, and remarkably happy even with the little glitch in the day's middle. Tired as we were, and in spite of all we'd done that day--traveling from Bray, getting donuts, touring The Museum of Natural History and The National Gallery of Ireland, getting lost, finding The Book of Kells, dining at Kennedy's, and then returning to Bray by train--there was still one more thing to do.And this was a moment only God could provide.Additional Photos:Within the quad at Trinity College One of the dozen or so statues among the stacksA display within The Book of KellsDelicious Fish & Chips at Kennedy's in Dublin, Ireland!Kennedy's Bar

The Healing Trip (Part 3)

On my way to Savannah, I called Aunt Janice, my mother's stepsister who, being only a decade older than me, had been like a big sister to me my whole life. Aunt Janice had battled cancer for several years, but all-in-all, seemed to be doing okay. We spoke at least twice, sometimes three times a week and, when we did, our conversations could go on for hours. Aunt Janice entertained with her sharp wit and conversation whether she meant to or not. She could tell a story--any story--and leave you either weeping with grief or laughing hysterically. I rarely wanted our conversations to end, but she would grow tired or I would need to "get back to work."More importantly, for me, since my mother's death in 2010, Aunt Janice had become one of the sturdy docks I could hitch my ship to. As I drove toward Savannah, I knew I would need her now more than ever.The night before my brother's diagnosis, I arrived at her Rincon, GA home--only 18 miles from Candler/St. Joseph's in Savannah. We talked about the possibilities of what lay ahead. She declared that she'd warned my brother that this could be bigger than he imagined but that, she feared, he had played a dangerous game by not demanding the doctors "rush him through."The evening of diagnosis, I called her on my way from the hospital back to her home to ask what I could pick up for dinner. She didn't ask any questions and I didn't offer any information. In some ways, I believe, she knew the worst was coming. Then, after eating, I gave her the prognosis. She pursed her lips as tears sprang to her eyes. She nodded once. It was all she could do.Later that night, just as I crawled wearily into bed, I heard her call my name. I jumped up, dashed down the hallway and into the living room where I found her standing, holding onto a chair. "Honey, can you go to the garage and get my walker? I just don't seem to have the energy to walk on my own tonight."The following evening, I had to feed her dinner; she was that weak. By the next day, she, too, had been admitted to the hospital and, by the next night, I sat in the living room with my cousin Carla, who had flown in from New York. Together, over the next several nights, we two nurses (both professionally and figuratively) spoke of what had transpired medically for our loved ones during the day. We sat. We sipped. We had already begun a mourning we didn't know could exist ... we had not yet begun to plan for it at all.~~~~~~A few weeks after my brother's death and a little more than a week after Aunt Janice had rushed into the arms of Jesus, Clare and I woke up early on my first full day in Ireland. We had hot tea and buttered toast with jam for breakfast, then left for the Bray train station. We were headed for Dublin! Our first stop--I'm not going to lie--was to a donut shop that had the most incredible, inventive donuts I'd ever seen. We scarfed down donuts and coffee, then headed down the busy sidewalks toward the Book of Kells, the number one thing on our itinerary for the day--our faces planted on Clare's phone's GPS, only occasionally looking up to enjoy the scenery of this old but modern city.But ... we got sidetracked by the Museum of Natural History where we were awed by the displays and were yelled at by a security guard who informed us, after seeing Clare touch a zebra, that "the animals are dead, ya know!" We both got the giggles. Gosh, if he had not told us the animals were dead, we would have never known it! Eventually we found ourselves in the gift shop where Clare found a book that would become prophetic. After making a couple of purchases, we headed out, once again searching for The Book of Kells ... only to be stopped again by the National Gallery of Ireland, a building with lack of flare on the outside but that managed to make up for its lackluster once we stepped inside. I could have lived and died there. Rooms stretched on forever, each one with high-peaked doorways leading to another room ... and another ... and another.Never have I seen such exquisite art. Never have I been so overwhelmed by man's talents. A type of hush fell over us as we strolled from room to room, taking in and awed by the various types of art. I created stories as I walked through the hall of portraits--who had these people been?--and was then especially moved by the paintings of biblical moments. At one point we stopped before a massive painting of Jesus and, as we craned our necks to take in the height of it, I declared, "How could anyone study the life of this one man, see what he accomplished--never mind the cross--and not believe."Clare asked me what I meant."Our very calendar is formed around his date of birth. We live two-thousand, nineteen hundred years after his birth. There are more paintings depicting his life than any others. More songs written about him than any other human who ever set foot on this earth. There are hospitals and cities named for those who followed him, including the ones my brother and aunt had been in. If that were not enough, bless God, we have the cross ... and the resurrection."(I didn't come up with this on my own ... the book Who Is This Man by John Ortbergis a must-read!) Although we were not able to see all of the museum, we stopped in the gift shop, made a few purchases, and then set out to find Trinity College and The Book of Kells.This short excursion would become quite the adventure ... and one we had not planned on ... not in our wildest imaginings!Additional photos from the National Gallery:

The Healing Trip (Part 2)

I arrived at Candler Hospital in Savannah, Georgia early on the morning of Friday May 17, 2019. My goal had been twofold: 1) to beat the heavy influx of traffic between Rincon, Georgia (where I'd spent the night with Aunt Janice, only 10 years my senior and, like my brother, also battling cancer), and 2) to insure that I didn't miss the doctors' visits, which tend to be before office hours or scheduled surgeries. I found my brother's room easily--we'd walked this path before. When I stepped through the open door, his eyes told me of his relief at my being there. Only the day before had he called--the day of his endoscopy--to tell me the grim news. The cancer had returned; it didn't look so good this time. But, as he told me, "I'm okay ..." As I'd driven from my home in Central Florida, leaving not 20 minutes after his call, I had cried out in my sorrow, knowing by a big sister's instinct, that my time on earth with my brother was drawing nigh. Even as the sun dimmed across my beloved marshes bordering the Georgia coastline along I-95, it also set on the two of us, the only ones remaining in our core family.In spite of his illness and the havoc it had spilled into his life over the past couple of months ... in spite of lying in a hospital bed ... my brother looked both content and handsome. I grabbed my phone and took his picture. "I'm sending this out to everyone who is freaking out," I told him. "I'll also post it on Facebook.""Good." he said. "I don't want anyone to panic until we know more." Even after, he wouldn't want anyone to panic; in fact he chose to remain fairly silent about the prognosis until it became evident to anyone who saw him.Later that morning, after the doctors had left the two of us alone, after they had told us the horrible news ("The cancer is everywhere ... six months to a year ...") I collapsed in a chair across from my sweetheart of a baby brother, only 58 years old. I stared at my feet, I allowed my vision to focus on the pattern of the floor, unable to say much more than, "Okay then ... okay ..."My brother called my name and I looked up. Tears shone in his eyes as he said, "I want you to know something ... something I've wanted to say for some time now ..." His lips quivered as he drew in a breath, a precious, precious breath. "You've been the best big sister I could have ever asked for."Tears spilled down my cheeks. "I love you," I whispered, then walked to the bed, sat next to his thinning body, and wrapped my arms around his shoulders. "I love you, too ..." I arrived in Dublin, Ireland on September 13, 2019, nearly four months after my brother's declaration of love to me. My Irish friend, writer Clare Campbell, and I had gone to Bray, hiked up Bray Head, and then driven to the AirBnB we had previously reserved. We met the owner of the home situated in a quaint section of row houses with front doors painted in colorful welcomes, settled in, took showers and then dressed for an evening in Wicklow where we planned to have dinner at a waterfront eatery, The Lighthouse Restaurant. Wicklow is the county town (or, the most important town) of County Wicklow, shadowed and lit by a sun that rose from the water along the east only to disappear behind the lush, rolling hills and jagged mountains toward the west. After parking, we walked along Main Street--so quintessential in its appearance, I felt that I'd been dropped into a movie or television show set anywhere in Ireland. I commented to Clare that this lovely harbor town reminded me of the setting of Doc Martin, one of my favorite BBC shows. For a while we slipped into a few shops, purchased a few baubles and gifts, then walked down a set of ancient (by American standards) stone steps leading to where the River Leitrim gave way to the harbor itself. We dined that evening in the tiny but warmly inviting restaurant, moaning our way through some of the best food I'd ever placed in my mouth! After eating, we enjoyed a cup of hot tea served in a lovely service. As I sipped from its deliciousness, I felt a tension I'd not been aware of sliding from my body. "I'm tired," I said to Clare as we left the restaurant and walked along the harbor ... but it was a good tired. Not one born of exhaustion; this was contentment. I had survived one of life's hardest storms. I had watched a wretched disease eat my baby brother alive until there was nothing left of him to hold on to this life or life left for him to hold on to ... and I had somehow managed to draw enough strength afterward to cross an ocean.Two years earlier, I had not planned this trip to be one of healing, but simply a vacation to treasure and enjoy ... but the healing had begun anyway. As we headed back to Bray and to the house with the purple door where we would sleep over the next two nights, I noticed that the moon---luminous and full---had risen over the North Sea. Too exhausted to chase after it that evening, I made a vow to do so the next. Clare agreed. We were tired and my the app on my phone indicated that I had walked nearly 12,000 steps since arriving that day. Besides which, as Scarlet O'Hara once declared, there is always tomorrow and tomorrow is another day.Additional Photos:

The Healing Trip, Part 1

Two questions loomed during my brother's short illness: 1) How long could the torture of his sickness continue ... how much would it ask of us ... how would it leave us once it had had its way with us; and 2) should I cancel my trip to Ireland, Northern Ireland, and Scotland, set for the middle of September.The trip had been planned for some time--a tick of the bucket list box--and had its beginnings over two cups of coffee in a small cafe along Winter Park's picturesque Park Avenue. The very name summons lovely pictures, does it not? Brick streets, storefronts decorated with every imaginable bauble and frock, every delicacy and pretty for the home. There are bookstores and chocolate shops, cafes and restaurants. Along the avenue, shop owners place bowls of water for pedestrians walking their dogs. There are the elegantly dressed and the dressed down; the sidewalks are nearly always crowded with older shoppers and diners who saunter and mingle as well as students from a nearby private liberal arts college who move and chatter with youth and Starbucks as their fuel. And there we sat, my friend from Northern Ireland, 33 years my junior, sipping on hot coffee and eating pumpkin bread, discussing our mutual work as writers, when suddenly she said, "Eva, if you ever want to come to Ireland, you've got a place to stay."We didn't know then. We couldn't imagine, even as we planned the trip in earnest nearly a year later, all that would transpire before I would ever--could ever--step onto a plane bound for Dublin. We talked about the best time of year, we discussed "time off" and where we would stay the first nights, how much time we'd spend in her home, a quick flight to Scotland where we'd enjoy two days and one night. We watched travel videos and had long "chats" on Facebook as we planned everything down to the minute detail. But what we didn't plan was the phone call from my brother in May--four months before I was to leave--telling me his cancer had returned. And, this time it appeared, it had decided to play hardball.What we never once considered that day was the doctor's words the following day--terminal ... six months to a year--or how it might impact all that careful outlining of my ten-day adventure with my Irish friend, Clare.I cancelled all business trips but one scheduled for October, yet every time I picked up the phone to dial Delta's customer service, to say, "I need to cancel this trip of a lifetime," an inner voice (was it God?) whispered, "Put the phone down."And so I did.The answers came soon enough, although at the time the days seemed endless. “Watching someone you love… die?" wrote Rachel Van Dyken in her book Toxic, "There are no words for how broken that makes a person. It’s like waking up from a bad dream only to find out that it’s you reality, it’s like watching sunlight fade from the sky, like watching death suck the one you love dry, and being powerless to stop it. You may as well try to stop the waves from rolling in, or the sun from rising.In the end, the waves will roll, the sun will set, and death will come. The only thing you have a choice in? How you deal with it…when it does.”When it did was 13 long/short weeks after diagnosis, nearly one month before I was to leave for my trip. And so it was that the answer to Question One gave me my answer to Question Two.My traveling companion (Mr. Bear) and I landed in Dublin at about 10:00 a.m. on a gloriously crisp Irish Friday morning. After securing my luggage and making my way through Customs, I walked into the body of the airport, exchanged a few American dollars for European euros, and then waited for Clare to arrive so that our vacation could begin. Within minutes, she strolled through the wide sliding-glass doors. We embraced, exclaimed that we couldn't believe we were actually here, doing this and then off we went, headed for the harbor town of Bray in County Wicklow.Everything about Bray (Bré in Gaelic) came across as charming and inviting. The morning sun had nearly reached the top of its ascent in a marble-blue sky veiled with a lace of white clouds. Near the shoreline, it shone down on the North Sea, casting diamond glints toward those who strolled along the pebble beach or the sidewalks of the pubs and waterfront shops. Before us, rising like a dome-shaped invitation, Bray Head extended her arms, beckoning me to traverse her incline toward new heights and a new experience. After parking, Clare introduced me to a "99," or soft ice cream cone served with a shortbread cookie extended from its top like a chimney jutting from the roof of a house. I didn't know whether to eat the cookie first or start in on the cone--if memory serves, I opted for the cookie. Soon enough, Clare and I were walking along the smooth path that led uphill, me stopping along the way to take a photo or to inhale the crisp air. Or, periodically to say "hello" to another hiker who either passed us going in our same direction or passed us upon their return to the top. Shortly, the footpath became rocky, carved out by nature rather than paved by man. Ancient rocks jutted from the earth and formed a natural rock climb, which I happily darted up--alone--and then, after casting a glance over the sea and harbor, back down where Clare waited. We came to the remains of a cottage and the location of what was once a "toll booth." Again, I pushed my body to climb the stones, again returning to where Clare waited. We came around a deep curve in the road where I encouraged her to lean against the stone wall where I photographed her, looking young and vibrant, especially with the clouds forming angelic rays shooting toward heaven behind her. When we paused long enough to look out and below, I spotted an old railroad track that disappeared into a tunnel, which Clare informed me would be called a "bla ho" (black hole) in Northern Ireland. (I suppose some letters of the alphabet are simply not necessary, but who am I to judge? After all, I come from a part of the world where the letter "g" has all but been forgotten.)We continued on, climbing higher and stopping periodically to look out, to admire, to breathe in the clear air, until fatigue at having not eaten and having been in an airplane all night, sleeping only intermittently in my excitement, overtook me and I suggested we head back toward town where we'd booked an airbnb for the next two nights. By the time we got back to the parking area, we were both toasted by the sun and parched dry, ready for something to drink. We stopped only long enough to admire the gardens around a home before slipping into the dark cool respite of a pub with a large checkerboard floor, French-blue walls, brass accents, and tables and bar chairs rich with patina, and a kind barkeep who made a logical suggestion for "the American." I dubbed the place my "first Irish pub," because ... it was. But with a pub and a church on every corner of any Irish city or village, it clearly would not be my last.Though tired beyond measure, excitement continued to pulse through me as we headed to the airbnb because I knew that, even so soon after my brother's awful and--for me--untimely death, my healing had begun ...... and there was still something quite special I needed to do.When the time was right ...

The Grace Jar #7

I find it difficult to believe that over two months have passed since I last wrote. I also find it amazing that God had begun to take me to a place where refilling my Grace Jar--a place where previously used grace was not enough--began only shortly before my world turned pear shaped. On May 15, 2019 I first wrote, having only just realized, that my Grace Jar had been depleted. I had no grace to give, only grace to receive--if I would allow it. I began to journal my way through the emptiness. The questions that lingered just ahead of my thoughts. Then, three days later, my brother called to tell me that his cancer had returned in fury. That I needed to come to Georgia as quickly as I could. Several times that evening as I headed up US 95 N, I burst into tears. Even though I had no idea at the time that the better part of the next three months would be spent with my brother, that I would watch him fade away in a swirl of chemo infusions and constant vomiting, and uncertainty, I somehow knew that life for the two of us had been irrevocably altered. My Grace Jar, nearly unnoticed during this time, filled slowly, even though, my perception at times was that God, even as He swirled around me, wasn't present. Or that He was, but He wasn't listening. Or that He listened, but He just didn't answer. Or that He answered, and I couldn't hear him over the din of traffic and hospital chatter and phone calls and decisions that needed to be made. The oddest moment in the three months came an hour before my brother passed from this dreadful life to Glorious Life Eternal. I had watched all night as he suffered, as he gasped for breath. I had watched him draw his naked knees up to his naked chest (he wore only an adult diaper because his skin could take no more than that). I watched as his hands--long and pale and bony--reached for something only he could perceive. I listened as he spoke to someone I could not see over in the corner of the room near the door. Then, finally, as a modicum of peace fell over the room, I laid my weary head against the bed's protective railing and silently prayed, "God, if you are going to take him anyway, do it NOW." Other than gasping, there was only silence."Are you even listening to me?" I asked.My cell phone began to chime. One after the other, as if someone had sent a series of text messages, one sentence at a time. I sighed in frustration, then sat up straight and reached for my phone to discover that nearly a dozen or more people from all over my network of friends and family had texted to say, "God just placed you BIG TIME on my heart. I'm praying!" Among those, friend Susan Simpson also sent a line from C.S. Lewis's The Voyage of the Dawn Treader:But no one except Lucy knew that as it circled the mast it had whispered to her, "Courage, dear heart," and the voice, she felt sure, was Aslan's, and with the voice a delicious smell breathed in her face. Grace comes in all measures. It comes with living and breathing. It comes with dying and the final sigh. It comes in the touch of friends, the love of family, and it comes in text messages. Sometimes it comes in words penned a half a world away in 1952.Yes, in those times when we are not certain that God hears, He does. He hears and He fills up the Grace Jar, even when we are not aware of its presence in our lives.

The Grace Jar #6

The truth startled me--I thought perhaps I had a person or two who I'd let slip under the "unforgiveness" rug. Instead, as I allowed the Lord's Spirit to remind me, the list became almost endless.I'm not talking about the kind of grievances that stand out as significant moments--we all have those and, quite honestly, I find they can be easier to identify and, therefore, take to God. What I am writing about here are the "little things."A word spoken that cut to the core but that I chose to let pass over.A look ...An email ...An unkept promise ...A shrug that meant nothing more than a shrug but I took it as meaning a whole lot more. What if I made a list of the little things ..."As long as you don't keep the list …"I only want to mull over it ..."As long as you don't dwell on it."Well, isn't that the rub? Has my Grace Jar become depleted because I have allowed the small infractions against my person to fill the places where grace once reigned? I have. I can tell you … I have. Yes, there are significant grievances I have to bear against others, but that doesn't give me a "pass" card to harbor anger, resentment, or unforgiveness. And yet those things I find easier to bring to God, even when I do not fully let go of them, some which you would tell me I have a human right to hold on to. But, those little things are sucking the life out of my Grace Jar. So, I have decided to write them down as they come to mind. Then, having acknowledged them, choose to forgive them. Clearly, I have forgotten them … but I have not forgiven them. Jesus did not ask us to forget until we have forgiven. Forgive others as your Father in heaven has forgiven you.Oh, Lord ...

The Grace Jar #5

Then there's that whole forgiveness thing ... There's a verse in the Bible that I think may often be overlooked by many of us. Here's the story: As "the hour" was upon Jesus, He informed Peter that before the cock crowed, Peter would deny ever knowing Him. Peter, of course, said, "No way! I'll never deny you!"But, sure enough, Peter denied Jesus ... once ... twice ... and then:A little later someone else saw him and said, “You also are one of them.” “Man, I am not!” Peter replied. About an hour later another asserted, “Certainly this fellow was with him, for he is a Galilean.” Peter replied, “Man, I don’t know what you’re talking about!” Just as he was speaking, the rooster crowed. The Lord turned and looked straight at Peter. Then Peter remembered the word the Lord had spoken to him: “Before the rooster crows today, you will disown me three times.” And he went outside and wept bitterly (Luke 22: 59 - 62)Look again at the part I underlined. Unless you read this story from Luke's gospel, you miss it. When Peter denied Jesus for the third and final time, Jesus turned and looked at him. Was this an "I told you" moment? Or was this a moment that broke Jesus' heart? Was He trying to convey something to Peter that only the Lord can say to His disciple, as there are things He can only say to us?I believe the look given was one of great sadness. It had come to this ... one disciple betraying Him, another denying that he ever even knew Him. Peter went away and cried. Bitterly, the Word says. Heartbreaking, soul-wrenching sobs. I know those tears; I have also cried them.And then ... Jesus was crucified and buried while Peter and all but the apostle John hid away. Until ... Sunday morning when the angel told the women who had come to prepare the Lord's body that He was no longer there. "Tell the disciples," said the angel ... "and tell Peter ..." (Mark 16:7).Forgiveness was a central issue for Jesus; this was the reason He came. He spoke to those who hardly understood its concept, but He did more than that--He practiced what He preached ... all the way to the Cross. "Forgive them, Father, they don't know what they are doing" (Luke 23: 34) He said as He gasped for breath.Later, Peter wrote about forgiveness--in other words, he "got it." He had been forgiven and, therefore, he taught others to do that which he had learned to do at the Savior's knee. In order to refill my Grace Jar, I had ask myself, "Are you harboring unforgiveness? Any at all?" The answer cut me to the core ...