Loving, Caring, Authentic
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Recipes for Life

We offer inspirational real-life stories about PEOPLE OF FAITH AND COURAGE; menus and cooking directions meant to fuel your creative inclinations and your healthy body in the form of MUSINGS OF A MIDWESTERN FOODIE; and ADVICE FOR LIFE from the perspective of those who have lived it to maturity.

If Only I Had Said . . .

If you miss your first chance to say "that thing you meant to say," do go back and say it after-the-fact, before it's too late to say it at all.

Today marks what would have been my father's 101st birthday. In his memory, a short snippet from Loving Zelda, my memoir about caring for aging parents.

Chapter Ten

Dad has his own episodes of controlled anxiety, some of which he lets me in on—a rare glimpse into his private world. But he always has the power to lift me on the wings of elation.

10-13-05: An emergency trip to Cub Foods for tomorrow morning's Maxwell House. I bring home a rotisserie chicken and slide it into the oven to keep it warm. Cut up apples, oranges, and bananas for a fruit bowl, steam fresh green beans, and thaw leftover au gratin potatoes made for a previous meal.

As Dad passes through the kitchen on the way to his office, I explain the dinner arrangements. He steps beside me at the counter, puts an arm around my shoulders, and plants a kiss on the top of my head. “Thank you for taking such good care of us,” he says, and my heart breaks into the Hallelujah Chorus. I lean into his embrace. "Thank you for letting me be here—for the chance to pay back just a little.”

But payback really doesn't describe it, not when my gain is so great. Not when countless opportunities for empathy are tucked into our every day—every days that are at once both mundane and unpredictable. Cycling and recycling the same themes, yet studded with novelties.

10-18-05: After a filling lunch of chili, cole slaw, and cornbread, we three linger at the table enjoying the peaceful, post-meal lethargy. Zelda asks Dad about his childhood pets and he recalls a much-loved dog named Skippy. Says he remembers lying in bed one night when Skippy was ill with distemper, saying to himself, “If Skippy dies, I'm not going to believe in God anymore.” My blood runs icy as he finishes with a bitter, knowing cock of his head, “And Skippy died."

Cramped with sorrow, I say nothing. Why, why couldn't I think to speak the words that come to me now, to say that this tale is the saddest I have ever heard. That the real tragedy is that no one was there to guide him to turn toward God, not away from Him. That the horror of it is too painful to contemplate—a disconsolate eleven-year-old boy rejecting his most reliable source of comfort in a moment of despair.

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Post Script: Months later, in my father's final few days, I took shameless advantage of his weakened physical state to speak gentle words of witness to the Lord's promises, and peace settled around us.