Enough

This was written the spring before I was finally diagnosed with Parkinson's.  The meds help so much that most days I have many normal hours.

“Enough”

This morning I lay in bed, trying to get up the courage to get up. I was feeling sorry for myself and began to think of all the things I had lost and the every day activities that are now so difficult, if not impossible, to do. I dreaded finding clothes for today, I could tell my arms would be too weak to pull up the loosest of pants and my fingers too shaky to button or zip. I thought about how I used to sew, knit and design clothing, things I now struggle to teach my children. I began to remember me, as I used to be.

I used to be an artist, drawing, painting, creating, now I have to try to find the words to tell others how to do the simplest of crafts. I was the “Craft Lady”; I loved showing others how to make something beautiful. Now I may be able to prepare but must rely on others to teach and help with the projects. The tremor has taken my talent.

I used to be proud of my handwriting; forming letters was a joy and an expression of beauty. Now neither the paper nor the pen will hold still and the words are barely legible, and writing a check or signing the receipt in a store is embarrassing. The tremor has taken both my words and my pride.

I used to be a long distance runner. I loved to hike and explore. I dreamed of the day we could go exploring as a family. Now I think about each step, telling my left leg to pick up and put down, pick up, put down, making even the briefest of walks mentally and physically exhausting. The tremor has taken my mobility and sense of adventure.

I used to make music, playing the piano and organ for church, and singing for the Lord. Now my hands hit all the wrong notes and singing causes such violent tremors my muscles cramp and I am in agony. The tremor has taken my song.

I used to be able to lift 90-pound bales of hay, work beside my husband and pull a kid, the goat kind. Now carrying a water glass or lifting a shovel full of dirt is a struggle. The tremor has taken my strength.

I used to be a teacher and I enjoyed talking with friends for hours (and we had the phone bills to prove it). Now I shake so violently that carrying on the simplest conversation is difficult, just holding still requires all my concentration so the words don‘t come, and my daughter must hold the phone for me. The tremor has taken my voice.

I used to be self-sufficient, independent, and opinionated (ok, I am still opinionated). I could drive a semi-truck, carry my own plate and go where I pleased, when I wanted, and hit a target dead on. Now I drive only on good days, others fetch what they think I would like to eat, and would you want to go target shooting with me? The tremor has robbed my independence.

And in that moment, as I lay there feeling discouraged and alone, I cried out, “Father, What do I have left?”

Softly came the answer, “My child, You have Me.

My strength is made perfect in your weakness.
My song is made new every morning, listen to it in the voices of your children.
My words are eternal and yours.
My grace IS sufficient for even your darkest days.
My love surrounds you, feel it in the love of your family.
You have Me.”

Then my heart cried out, “Abba, YOU are enough.”

Cheryl Eggers, Old Sawmill Homestead, Nemo, SD, May 2011

Remembering Cameron Moss

I have often posted about my bad days, so it only seems fair to write about the good days, too. The son of our dear friends Doug and Mary Moss, passed away las...t week. Cameron was a special person. The first time I saw Cam was when he was on his way home from the hospital in Denver where he had been flown immediately after his birth. He was so cute and precious, I felt honored to get to hold him. Cam was born with severe birth defects that we knew would shorten his life, but even as he went through many operations, and much pain, he was such fun to be around. As a little guy he would scoot around the floor with both legs in casts, being adored by his three big sisters. When his little brother was born, he was all boy, letting Tyler know who was boss, even after his little brother became his bigger brother, to watch those boys together was a lesson in brotherly love.

We all knew that he wouldn't have a long life and we were privileged to have him here for 33 years, much past what we had been told Today was his memorial service. I wanted today to be about him and his family. That was my prayer.

Today for the first time in months I had NO tremors (or at least not enough to bother). The meds that haven't been working kicked in and worked. Tonight I am praising God.

Thank you, Lord, for giving us a good day to remember your precious child. I know that Cam had come to You for salvation as a young boy, but as an adult he had become angry with You for the pain and physical limitations he endured. I get that. I get that it is hard to accept the limits our physical bodies place on us. I get that sometimes it is hard to remember that we have the hope that when we go home, there will be no physical pain and deformity to slow us down. I get that then we will clearly see that what we saw as limitations or pain was only given to us to bring glory to God and for our good and was part of Your plan. And I get that for some it is hard to see beyond this life. But I know that once we are with You, we will understand that no matter how angry we were at You for the fleeting pain of this life, that anger and despair was never reflected back on us, but as a loving Father You have always been waiting to welcome Your children with loving arms and forgiveness.

For some remembering this is a comfort and a joy, but for some it is hard and it was for Cam. So I thank You for Your Word and the promise You gave in Romans 8:38-39.

"For I am persuaded, that neither death, nor life, nor angels, nor principalities, nor powers, nor things present, nor things to come,
Nor height, nor depth, nor any other creature, shall be able to separate us from the love of God, which is in Christ Jesus our Lord."

Good bye, Cameron Moss, there are a lot of people missing and remembering you tonight.

Cheryl Eggers, Old Sawmill Homestead, Nemo, SD March 16, 2015

A culture of life...

I want to see Planned Parenthood defunded, but I want more than that. I want abortion to be called what it is, murder. I want my country to fall on its face before God and humanity and cry out in repentance that we are to blame for the deaths of millions and that we will never do it again. I want my country to rise up and be a shining light on the hill and publically state that abortion is wrong and that we will never allow it again.

This means we must embrace a future that holds life as a precious gift, all human life, the life of the preborn, the life of the child who needs enough to eat, the life of the teenager who needs an education and work to grow true and strong, the life of parents who need freedom to build a life of value, the life of our elderly, our sick, our disabled. To see that all stages of life are beautiful and of value.

I also believe that WE must do this. Nor We, the government, but We, the people. This will mean each person looking around him and reaching out to those who are in need. Each family finding another family to come along side and support during times of trouble. It means being a neighbor, loving others as we love ourselves.

And that may be the easy part. Because a culture of life means we teach our daughters that they are more than just a sex symbol, that they have value as a person, that motherhood is something to be honored and not a selfish act. It means we must teach our young men that they are the defenders of life, that being a father is a responsibility and a privilege, that they are more than just a tower of hormones that can't help themselves and that anything someone agrees to is not okay, even if they can be persuaded to say yes. It means that we ensure that all our children have a bright future, and a purpose.

To be a culture of life, we must be willing to change our culture from the heart out. Making abortion illegal is the easy part, changing our culture to one of personal responsibility, one of caring for others before caring for self and pleasure, one of freedom with self-control, that is the hard part and unless we do those things, we will continue down a path that values life so cheaply that killing unborn children for profit is horrifying but legal.

Cheryl Eggers, Old Sawmill Homestead, Nemo, SD 731/2015

Jim Ramey, Good Bye

Do you remember the scene in the movie or book, where the coffin is respectfully carried by horse-drawn wagon from the little country church to the little woodland cemetery with the crowd of mourners following behind?  I would read those lines and wonder what it would be like to be part of that procession.  What would you think of while solemnly marching along to the clipping of the horse hooves on the roadway?  What would you speak of?  What would you notice?

 

Today our community lost Mister Jim (as my family called him) - a great man, a brother in Christ, a neighbor, a friend, a lover of his family and his horses, a true pioneer. It was fitting that he would be carried by horse and wagon from his country church to the woodland meadow cemetery to lay beside his beloved wife.

 

We had just listened to the message and the songs.  Our pastor had given the message Jim wanted us to hear, that he was with his best Friend and was waiting for us there.

 

I heard the funeral director quietly urge us to prepare for the procession by entering our vehicles. We left the church and we watched as the coffin was gently placed into a wagon drawn by two horses, driven by two cowboys.  A third old cowboy quoted a poem written just for Jim, as a rider-less horse rubbed his head against the poet’s leg as if he too was seeking comfort.  Then the wagon pulled away, the rider-less horse trailing behind, horses’ hooves clipping against the pavement.  Only the few unable to walk the long mile to the cemetery moved towards vehicles, the rest were drawn in behind, a fitting tribute to this old cowboy.

 

As we walked that country road through the Black Hills that Jim loved, I remembered how I wondered what this would be like.  I thought of Jim, of who he was, how he would hug me with tears in his eyes.  I hated how it hurt him when he saw me, but loved that he cared that much. I would always tell him that it was okay, and he would gently pat my hand.  I remembered his stories, how his eyes twinkled as he and a neighbor, reminisced about college and how they had won a dance competition. I remembered that we buried her in this same cemetery in 2011. As we walked, my husband and I hand in hand, I listened to the birds, the wind, the insects, and the quiet conversation flowing around me. We passed neighbors, hats in hand, silently paying tribute.  The sun slipped in and out, as clouds kept the walk from becoming too warm and a gentle breeze stirred the clover and wildflowers. There was no hurry, we were saying goodbye. 

 

The old cowboy poet greeted us with another poem, then he and the rider-less horse galloped off into the forest and as the sound of the hooves faded away, final words were spoken over the body and we were reminded that Jim was no longer here, but was already with his Friend and Savior, and his beloved wife, waiting for us to join him.  Then we hugged each other, greeted friends and turned to walk back to the church.  The walk back was quicker, and louder, and you could hear laughter as people remembered the funny things.  Somehow we knew that this day would have pleased Jim, and it was the perfect way to say “until we meet again”

 

It was an honor to have known you, Jim. 

Cheryl Eggers, Old Sawmill Homestead, Nemo, SD 7/26/2015