Sunsets

 

Every sunset whispers that endings can be as beautiful as beginnings.  Unknown

The week gone by gave rise to whispers in my soul about the beginnings and endings of life.  

The family gathered to celebrate my brother's life - and grieve it's ending.  And so, when many friends and family were together at Lake Eunice before the funeral, we enjoyed sharing stories of the past as well as the exuberance and laughter of the next generation - the children, grandchildren and great-grandchildren of Vern and Donna Aaker.

I try to reach back 80 years in my memory to when we were growing up on the farm - a simpler time.  Then I try to imagine what life will be like for these children over the next decades.  Feelings of nostalgia are mixed with hope and some degree of trepidation about the future.  

Though I won't be around to see that future fully evolve, the warning signs are evident.  Smoke from wildfires have been a daily reminder to us all around the country - of drought and global warming.

But the theme of this week was joy and gratitude.  This was a time to celebrate a long life and enjoy the legacy Verne and Donna left behind.

At Lake Eunice

       

About fifty years ago a young couple drove east out of Fargo following the map on county roads crowded by corn fields on both sides looking for an obscure lake called Eunice not far from Detroit Lakes, Minnesota.  They had heard of a property for sale from a friend who had a cabin on another lake in the area, so why not take a look?  What they found was a small lake with just a few cabins and a nice lakeside property with an old garage sitting next to a narrow dirt road with a field of corn on the other side.

Vern and Donna hatched a dream that day – wondering if they could convert this structure into a place where they and their young family could spend summer days at their very own cabin, swimming, fishing, and just doing what folks have always done at a cabin in Minnesota.  And so, they did just that.  

They transformed that garage into a simple cabin, added patios around which flowers and annual plants took root, and where tall trees have sprouted and a pontoon boat floats next to a dock where the water is gently lapping on the shoreline  Here this couple, their three children Cindy, Karen, and Mark  who with their spouses added seven grandchildren who with their spouses have now added fifteen great grandkids – adding up to a family of 35 – all have many pleasant memories and a nostalgic connection to this lake.

Today I am sitting in this simple cabin just a week after my brother Vern passed from this life, and six weeks after Donna’s death, flooded with my own memories.  It is quiet here today, which I cherish, as we wait for the arrival of my sisters and the whole gang of their family.  It will be good to be together sharing the memories of this place and thankful that Donna and Vern realized that dream of long ago.  We will hug each other, tell stories, laugh and cry, and just stare at the lake, watching for the loon to pass by and know that this is happiness – just being here.

 We will gather in a few days for a funeral, to celebrate how through their lives Vern and Donna demonstrated values of faith and the true meaning of family.  I will sing for my brother, “Come to Me all who labor and are heavy laden. And I will give your rest”.  Words he knew well from scripture.  He was laden with memory loss in the latter part of his life, and Donna took on a burden of caring for him, willingly and with great love.  They knew these words from Jesus.  “For my yoke is easy and my burden is light”.

A chapter has closed but the story will continue for this lovely family.  There will be many more days at “the lake”, as Mark and Tracy continue caring for this place and keeping this legacy. And maybe I’ll be back again.  I hope so.

Falling

 

 

My annual wellness checkup always includes the question “Have you fallen in the last six months”?  An important question to which I can truthfully respond; no, I haven’t; though it is estimated that over 14 million older adults fall every year, and many do not report it to their doctor.  Falls are the leading cause of injury for adults ages 65 years and older. Maybe much more for those over 85, like me.

When I hear about someone taking a bad fall, or see it happen, I experience a visceral reaction – a kind of shudder inside my core even before processing it mentally.  A gut reaction – empathy. 

For some time, I have been empathizing with my brother, now 92, and the numerous falls at home which led eventually to him getting into a care center where the staff tries to mitigate the risks of falling.  We are comforted to know he is now well cared for.

Falling has jumped to the top of our consciousness because of what recently happened to my niece, Kari, when she fell through a roof of her house in Mexico down to the concrete floor below severely injuring her body.  An awful accident with a painful aftermath of surgeries for broken bones, internal injuries, blood loss, and more. A fall that takes seconds changes a life for months, maybe years - who knows for how long.  After weeks of treatment in hospitals in Mexico, she has been medevacked to Seattle where she is in the care of doctors at a top-rated trauma hospital.  We follow her road to recovery through updates from loved ones and she is in our daily consciousness and prayers. 

In doing a free association with the word fall in my mind, I am brought to a memory of the most miraculous fall survival story in history – at least that I know about.  It happened in Peru 55 years ago. 

In 1971 we were living in the Peruvian jungle, near the city of Pucallpa.  When we first went there, we drove for several days over the high Andean mountains from Lima to get to this rather ugly jungle town on the Ucayali River, a tributary of the Amazon.  Subsequently it was much easier and faster to take a flight of a little over an hour between Lima and Pucallpa, looking down as we flew over and marveled at the vast expanse of rain forest that is part of the Amazon basin.

On Christmas Eve, 24 December 1971 LANSA flight 508 took off from Lima destined to Pucallpa, with a plane full of passengers excited about going home for the holiday.  About a half hour into the flight the plane was struck by lightning in a severe thunderstorm.  The aircraft crashed in flames into the jungle, killing 91 passengers. But there was a survivor - 17-year-old Juliane Koepke, daughter of German zoologists Maria and Hans Koepcke. In her memoir, “When I Fell from the Sky” by Juliane Koepke, 2011, Titletown Publishing, LLC, written 40 years later, she recounts the experience of the crash and the fall.

“…. I suddenly see a blinding white light over the right wing. I don’t know whether it’s a flash of lightning striking there or an explosion. I lose all sense of time. I can’t tell whether this lasted minutes or only a fraction of a second: I’m blinded by that blazing light. With a jolt, the tip of the airplane falls steeply downward. Even though I’m in a window seat all the way in the back, I can see the whole aisle to the cockpit, which is below me. The physical laws have been suspended; it’s like an earthquake. No, it is worse. Because now we’re racing downward. We’re falling. People are screaming in panic, shrill cries for help; the roar of the plummeting turbines, which I will hear again and again in my dreams, engulfs me. And there, over everything, clear as glass, I hear my mother saying quite calmly: “Now it’s all over.” Today I know that at that moment she already grasped what would happen. I, on the other hand, grasp nothing at all. An intense astonishment comes over me, because now my ears, my head—no, I myself am completely filled with the deep roar of the plane, while its nose slants almost vertically downward. We’re plummeting. But this nosedive, too, I experience as if it lasted no longer than the blink of an eye. From one moment to the next, the people’s screams go silent. It’s as if the roar of the turbines has been erased. My mother is no longer at my side and I’m no longer in the airplane. I’m still strapped into my seat, but I’m alone. At an altitude of about ten thousand feet, I’m alone. And I’m falling, slicing through the sky … about 2 miles above the earth.”

When she came to, she was sitting, still strapped into the seat, and amazed to be alive.  Apparently, the thick canopy of the jungle trees had cushioned the fall, and she landed on the forest floor in the midst of wreckage having no idea where she was.

What we remember of those days is the anguish of the local families waiting for some word of their loved ones, the frantic search efforts with small planes criss crossing the rain forest looking for and not finding any glimpse of the wreckage because of the thick jungle below. Nothing was found and there was no news for days.

And then, we heard about a miracle… Juliane had survived the fall and had embarked on an 11-day trek through the treacherous Amazon rainforest, battling injuries, hunger, and the elements until she finally came upon local woodcutters who brought her out in their dugout canoe.  There is more to say about this story and much has been written – there is even a movie. One thing sticks in my memory is that she only had a loaf of Christmas cake with her but didn’t even finish it.  She was totally focused and determined to walk out of the jungle, following small streams to bigger streams and eventually to a river and out to the world beyond.

 I think of an interesting incidental connection here.  Six months before the airplane crash, when Kari was four years old, she came with her parents to visit us in Pucallpa, and the plane they flew on was (probably) that same aircraft on the same route over the mountains and jungle between Lima and Pucallpa. There are a lot of “what ifs” in our lives, aren’t there? 

Right now, somewhere in the world there are people falling and people healing from falls. Determination and bravery come to mind as I think about Juliane’s journey out of the jungle. And the same for Kari’s path to full recovery.  Juliane reflects in her book about trauma and healing.  Kari is brave and determined; headed for healing from her terrible fall and, we believe, it will happen. That is our prayer.   

 

 

 

 

How the Coming of Electricity Changed Everything

 

My current “favorite author” is Niall Williams!  A favorite changes over time, of course, but I am glad to have discovered this best-selling Irish writer and just finished reading two of his books, “This is Happiness” and its sequel “The Time of the Child”.

There is much to enjoy in Niall Willams’ novel, “This is Happiness”, set in the village of Faja in Western Ireland in 1958.  Above all it is the writing – lyrical and nostalgic, of a time that Williams paints with lush landscapes and the colorful characters that populate that time and space.  In some ways the story brought to mind my own experience of growing up in a rural Minnesota community during that period.   It reminded me of Garrison Keeler’s Lake Woebegone stories, with the often-humorous descriptions of characters and a time of simpler traditions of Norwegian immigrant culture.  I also thought of the way Lars Myting developed the setting and characters for his saga set in the fictional Norwegian village of Butangen, in his Bell in the Lake trilogy.

It’s the everyday stuff that makes up life and Williams is able to capture its essence through rich, descriptive prose, which sometimes reads more like poetry.  Yes, it was a simpler time that doesn’t exist anymore in Ireland, nor in my home community near Kenyon, Minnesota.  The main character Noe Crowe, in reflecting on life in Faja at one point says,

“At the time you’re living it you can sometimes think your life is nothing much. It’s ordinary and every day and should be and could be in this or that way better. It is without the perspective by which any meaning can be derived because it’s too sensual and urgent and immediate, which is the way life is to be lived. We’re all, all the time, striving, and though that means there’s a more-or-less constant supply of failure, it’s not such a terrible thing if you think that we keep on trying."

For us readers in the 21^st century this novel brings us back to a simpler time before electricity and telephones (though there was one telephone in the village) -a slower paced rural life.  Those who like a fast past plot won’t find it here; rather it is the enjoyment of the many beautiful passages that I was tempted to underline but stopped myself because it was a library book.

The time period in which the story takes place is in the 1950s, when electricity was just coming to the parish village of Faha in County Clare Ireland.  Which is historical fact – Ireland’s rural electrification scheme came a bit later then in the US.

Why does that ring a bell for me?  Because, a decade earlier electricity came to our farm in rural Minnesota, and I have a vague memory of that event as a boy of about six or seven at the close of WWII.  Before electricity we lived in the dark, after electricity we lived in the light.  For the first time we had water from the tap in the house, an indoor bathroom and toilet, a refrigerator and washing machine that greatly relieved my mother’s work, a milking machine in the barn instead of milking by hand by the light of kerosine lanterns. 

The Rural Electrification Administration was created, initially through Executive Order by Franklin D. Roosevelt in 1935 and later codified by Congress as an act of law in 1936.  In my way of thinking that was one of the greatest actions of the New Deal; an executive order that really made a positive difference for millions of rural people! For my parents, the coming of electricity after struggling to make a living off their small farm during the depression, this must have been happiness. 

Well, back to Ireland.  So, what is happiness?  The old man, Christy, who comes to Faja with the electronification company but has an alternative motive of reconnecting with a woman who fifty years earlier he had left stranded at the altar, says,

“… you could stop at, not all but most of the moments of your life, stop for one heartbeat and, no matter what the state of your head or heart, say ‘This is happiness’, because of the simple truth that you were alive to say it”

Williams has an amazing ability to put into words the wonder of love, life and even faith lived out in ordinary ways by the people of Faha.  Reading this book made me feel, well, happy!

 

 

 

 

Breathing Has Been on My Mind

 

When I was getting ready to leave Ecuador thirty-five years ago, I went to a local hospital for an exit physical which included a chest x-ray.  Soon after, the examining physician called with urgency in his voice telling me I had a “concerning spot” on my lung.  He advised me to get that checked out by competent experts, as soon as possible, which I did.  Back in Minnesota I went to the ultimate in experts – the Mayo Clinic!  After more x-rays, a bronchoscopy and lung biopsy, a room full of Mayo doctors looked at the results and came to the conclusion that I had a “spot of unknown etiology” on my lung.  For the next twenty-five years I gave little thought or attention to the health of my lungs. 

When I recently bought “Breath” the best-selling book by James Nestor at the local Barnes and Nobles, the woman at the counter remarked, “this book is a life changer”!  I have now read it, and it is quite a revelation and has prompted me to wonder about the history of my own lungs and breathing – and why I started having breathing “issues” in the last chapter of my life. 

I am 87 years old, and most of my life I had no breathing problems, BUT according to research reported in this book, I have been breathing wrong most of my life.  You see, and here is a confession, I am a mouth breather – especially while sleeping.  My asthma was only diagnosed by a pulmonologist a couple of years ago and it has been a moderate case.   Asthma has become a global epidemic and nearly 25 million Americans suffer from it – a fourfold increase since 1980 – the leading cause of emergency room visits and missed school days for children.  Why all the asthma, I wonder.

Breathing freely is such a blessing.  For the last dozen or so years I have been using inhalers when needed to control shortness of breath with good effect. This winter was a breathing rough spot for me and a new pulmonologist prescribed an inhaler that contains steroids -   a warning flag for me, and, not covered by insurance, the cost is prohibitive.  But, with my sister’s help, who happened to be in Columbia, she sent me a six month’s supply (6 inhalers) for less than half the cost of what one month would cost here.  Now I am breathing freely but don’t want to be on steroids indefinitely. With no breathing complications now, I keep a regular schedule of pickleball four or five times a week and go on walks without any problem.

The biggest take away from Nestor’s narrative is the emphasize on nose breathing, pointing out research showing that people who switch from mouth to nose breathing can boost oxygen efficiency by as much as 20%.

One of the most fascinating case studies in the book is that of a doctor in the USSR back in the 1950s who discovered the benefit of breathing less and slower.  Dr. Buteyko helped thousands of patients with asthma and other conditions, such as migraines and hypertension, with a method called hypoventilation.  These people all had the same breathing pattern: they breathed too much.  One review of “Breath” by a medical professional stated “The Buteyko method was never taught to me or my colleagues in medical school or residency, despite being around for decades and having Grade B evidence of efficacy”. 

Using Buteyko’s findings, competitive athletes and everyday people are cited as having increased performance, like a cyclist who lowered his heart rate drastically after just a month of focused nose breathing.  Or the Olympic swimming team that was trained with this method and won an all-time record of medals at the Montreal Olympic games. On the pickleball court these days I have been trying to concentrate on nose breathing – I’ll see how that works out.

Nestor includes a variety of breathing techniques and exercises, some of which I have been experimenting.  I particularly am drawn to using 5.5 breathing.   Called coherence breathing, it is when the functions of the heart, circulation and nervous system are coordinated to peak efficiency while using this breathing technique.  Slowly inhale (using your abdomen) 5.5 seconds and exhale slowly for 5.5 seconds – completely expelling the air in the lungs.  I have been practicing it for some minutes every day.  Experiments show that blood pressure lowers and anxiety level are improved.  It turns out that breathing less and slowly is better for us. Interestingly this rate of breathing results in 5.5 breaths a minute.  I’ve tried it and it’s true. 

There are many personal stories, research and historical studies on breathing in this book, and MANY reviews online.  Nestor is a journalist, not a scientist or doctor, so a few medical professional reviewers have taken him to task for writing on the “new science of breathing”.  But the reviews are overwhelmingly positive.  As of 2022 three million copies were sold and it was translated into dozens of languages. 

For practitioners of meditation and contemplative prayer, slow rhythmic breathing is essential.  It works with the classic Christian Prayer of the Heart – inhale 6 seconds, "Jesus Christ, Son of God", - exhale 6 seconds - "Have Mercy on me, a sinner".  The Buddhist mantra Om Mani Padme Hum also fits the six second pattern.  For contemplative prayer, the prayer of silence, I often use slow and full breaths using the word Maranatha. Inhale Mara, exhale Natha, or another sacred word. 

Finely, what about my nighttime mouth breathing? One stand-out tip: tape your mouth shut at night (seriously) if you’re a mouth breather.  According to Nestor, it works, (for some people).  I am working on it, but not there yet.  Judy is a natural nose breather – I envy her.

How was your Ash Wednesday?

 

 

That’s not a question you will normally hear.  It’s not like “How was your Christmas?” – which everybody celebrates whether they are secular or Christian.  Many may not even take note of Ash Wednesday until reminded when seeing a random person with a smudge on their forehead – “oh yeah, it’s the beginning of Lent”.  Ash Wednesday was yesterday.

The spirit of Ash Wednesday is quiet and solemn. Lent does not have an auspicious beginning – it is to remember that we will all someday return to the earth as dirt or ashes – a reminder of our vulnerability and mortality. 

My day began with an early appointment to get a root canal. The procedure was not overly stressful – until the endodontist said, “Oh Oh - there’s another canal in there – normally a tooth has two and these were treated according to plan, but to find the third (there’s a 1% chance of a tooth having a third) took more grinding and digging around without success.  Don’t worry, he said, there’s another way to get to it, meaning on another day for surgery from the other end with “just a little incision of the gum” – only another $1,000.  

When I got home and started setting out breakfast Judy said “Ash Wednesday is a FAST day” – oh yeah, now I remember.  Lent sort of creeps up on us.  The three disciplines of Lent are Fasting, Prayer, and Alms giving.  I had given some thought to what would be my fast this year – abstention from desserts. 

The thing that went through my mind and prayers throughout the day was taking place in Florida.  But it started for our granddaughter, Leslie and her husband Fil, very early in the morning in Chicago.  They were flying to Florida for a funeral and would come back the same night.  Here’s the story:

Fil comes from a Russian Jewish family; a very large and complicated extended family who mostly settled in Chicago in the ‘90s.  Some of the relatives had migrated to Florida and an unconceivable tragedy struck that family last week.  Larisa, related through marriage to Fil’s family, lived in a condo in Fort Lauderdale with her son Ben, age 18, and daughter Eve, in her early twenties.  An ex-boyfriend, likely estranged and unimaginably angry, came to that apartment last Tuesday and shot Larisa and Ben, killing them both. Eve was not at home.  This killer then drove over two hours to Sarasota where Larisa’s brother, mother and stepfather lived and went into their house, killing them plus a good neighbor who was just checking on them when he heard gun shots.  The shooter then took his own life. 

Leslie and Fil grieved, cried, hugged and consoled many at the funeral for all five of the family yesterday.  Leslie said it was beautiful and necessary to come together.  My prayers were with them from afar.

Last night at our Ash Wednesday worship Pastor Brad said that in this service we were reminded forcefully of the words of the funeral/burial committal service at the death of a loved one: “earth to earth, ashes to ashes, dust to dust”.  The closest parallel in Jewish liturgy is the solemn “Day of Atonement”; waiting to receive, experience and give forgiveness. Ashes are a rich symbol; rooted in ancient customs and practices of grief and sorrow, cleansing and renewal – a symbol of God’s judgement upon sin, a sign of our human frailty and mortality, our humiliations and broken condition, and our need and repentance.

As a Christian I was reminded of the God’s forgiveness daily as we heard it announced at the Lord’s table last night after we received the imposition of ashes.  As these Jewish brothers and sisters grieve and experience deep lamentations and in their own struggles with forgiveness and trying to make some sense of this tragedy, I pray God’s all-encompassing love will surround them now, and in the days to come. 

This was another mass shooting in America, one that was only covered in the local news.  We would not have known about it except for the family connection.  But that horrendous tragedy will remain etched in the minds of many in the extended Velgach family for generations.  Lord, have mercy.

 

 

 

 

 

We, The Drowned, by Carsten Jensen

 

Here’s another Scandinavian, this time a Danish author, with an epic story spanning a century from 1848 through WWII.  I had recently read Lars Myting’s “Bell in the Lake” trilogy and loved the saga set in a Norwegian village that spanned roughly that same century and I was taken by Myting’s writing.  So, I looked on the internet for something that was considered comparable, and this book by Jensen came up.  “We, The Drowned” is a best seller in Europe.  The translation seems good and very readable.

 The Danish port city of Marstal is the setting of this novel about the sea and men who go to sea and women who stay home and live with the anguish of not knowing if their men will return.  If this 675-page book had been separated into a trilogy the first book would have been early sea faring adventures in sailing ships to exotic places all over the world, the second mostly on land in Marstal where the main characters are from, and the third a gripping story of the heroic merchant marine mostly in the North Atlantic during WWII.  The second – middle – part was a bit slow, but the beginning and end were absorbing, sometimes horrific and tragic stories.   Jensen did his research of the historical reality of Marstal (his hometown) and writes gripping depictions of ships going to the bottom of the sea in storms as well to bombing and torpedoes.  There are many characters to follow, and great descriptions of the life of those who were drawn to go out to the sea.  I have not read many books about the seas – never made it through Moby Dick, though “The Old Man and the Sea” was an easy read, but this book is compared by some of the reviews as a “magnificent addition to the canon of seafaring writing”.

There are numerous reviews online, most enthusiastically endorsing this book, so I won’t write a review here, but personally I would recommend “We, The Drowned”.