Author: Kathy S. Parish

Born-again Christian, mother, grandmother, and great-grandmother, I'm happily married and mother to 2 living children (one lost to suicide), 3 grandchildren, and 3 great-grandchildren keep my life interesting. I have learned to embrace life lessons that accompany age, welcoming graying hair and the resilience that comes with experience and faith. Three independently published novels give voice to the greatest love story of all, Christ's sacrifice on the cross for us. May you be blessed by what you find on this site!

An elephant in the house

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There’s an elephant in this house. It (I will not dignify it with gender!) is huge, gray, and impervious to all my efforts to show it the door. It took up residence ten years ago, but we, through the grace of God and expert medical help, were able to relegate it to the attic, where it slept and, unfortunately, appears to have gathered strength, for its next foray into our world. And, crash back in, irrespective of the hearts and minds and emotions it was devastating, it did, and took up residence, which I do hope and pray is temporary.

That elephant, you see, is depression, and a stronger, more persistent interloper is hard to find. It took up residence with a dearly beloved child. But never think that depression is a respecter of persons. Once it enters the house, its presence is felt by all. Each individual experiences it uniquely, but no one is unscathed. There is no swifter road to a personal battle with depression than seeing one’s child sucked into the dark void of its depths. There is no more certain road to a personal experience with depression than grieving over a child’s helplessness and hopelessness and, again unfortunately, observing that child’s sometimes tragic efforts to escape from its pit of darkness.

The other salient point to recognize about depression is its cloak of invisibility. Everyone knows the elephant is in the house, sitting or standing in the corner, rather lonely in its isolation. Because, though everyone is thinking about it, feeling it, hating it, no one is talking about it!! There seems to be an inherent human tendency to believe that, if it’s ignored long enough, it will just go away. WRONG!! The only way to weaken, and ultimately defeat, the elephant, is to acknowledge its presence. That which we fear can defeat us. Envision the big gray elephant as simply a bully who needs only to be confronted to be defeated.

The psalmist gives life to depression’s form and substance in Psalm 77:1-2:

“I cried out to God for help;
I cried out to God to hear me.
When I was in distress, I sought the
Lord;
at night I stretched out untiring
hands
and my soul refused to be
comforted.”

Yet the writer of Lamentations (?the prophet Jeremiah) speaks a message of hope in chapter 22, verses 22 through 24:

“Because of the Lord’s great love we
are not consumed,
for his compassions never fail.
They are new every morning;
great is your faithfulness.
I say to myself, ‘The Lord is my
portion;
therefore I will wait for him.'”

It is my experience that the only way to deal with the elephant is through faith. It is only through the grace of God that we can push that big gray elephant back into the attic (or basement or cellar or wherever we can relegate it to). But when faith falters, and the elephant is treading roughshod on the hopes and dreams of a loved one (or our own hopes and dreams), what are we to do? My top ten strategies:

1. Pray.
2. Enlist other prayer warriors.
3. Demonstrate unconditional love to the elephant’s prey (so, if you are the prey, that means loving oneself unconditionally!).
4. Maintain as much normalcy as possible.
5. Talk about the elephant. Recognize its presence, the reality of its influence, and don’t be afraid to call it by its real name.
6. Pray some more.
7. Share your hurts, worries, and fears with trusted family and friends.
8. Read the Bible–it is rich in messages of comfort.
9. Do whatever you do to escape from the elephant’s attack–read, write, cook, sew, train for a marathon, go dancing–you fill in the blank. (Guess which one I chose!)
10. Pray without ceasing.

Please don’t leave with the impression that I am writing as an expert. This is not an instructional piece, but more of a catharsis for me. I am tired of the elephant cohabiting with my family. I am ready for it to leave. And I am going to do all of the above (and anything else I can think of) to relegate it to the far corner of our world with the stated intent that it should, “Go away, you big bully, and don’t you ever, ever come back!” I hope and pray it works this time.

My polar poem

Kathy S. Parish2 Comments

This weather, it seems,
conjures polar extremes
to my mind–

First the great polar bear,
I envy his hair–
how warm he must be
to plunge into the sea
with no fear of cold air!

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Warmer memories, for me,
are the times I would be
cuddled close with my Joe,
as Christmas came close
on a ride we would go!

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Our minds opened wide
as this train we did ride,
my grandson and I,
whispered, “We believe,”
all to hear the bell’s chime.

But now, horror of horrors,
a new term I’ve learned–
polar vortex, it’s termed,
and springtime is spurned
as the ice is upon us.

I look out my window
at skies solid gray,
not a hint of sun’s ray
at the end of the day,
and cold winds start to blow.

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Icy sleet unrelenting,
then lightning so bright,
with thunder that follows
punctuating the night
with its rumbling.

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Lightning with rainstorms
we see often enough,
even snow thunder rarely,
but sleet thunder, really?
What meaning? we wonder.

Global warming, you say?
Climate change,
here to stay?
Winter, please go away–
I am pleading!

Yes, horror of horrors,
polar vortex is here!
What a weird weather year
we are living!

Life is greener……..

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grass is greener

Meet Lily. She’s a charmer. Notice she demonstrates that universal perspective–somehow the grass always looks greener on the other side of the fence.

It does for me as I pursue a career as a writer, anyway. Observing the professional layouts and intellectual content of my fellow bloggers’ work blows me away. (That’s a compliment to each of you.) I have to be careful that it doesn’t make me feel somehow inadequate. I am, after all, an amateur at this. In addition, I am an amateur whose “central organizing factor” is running on empty. You’ve never heard of central organizing factor? Please, allow me to enlighten you.

We all have very busy lives. We women, in particular, tend to want to be “all things to all people”, and we will knock ourselves out trying. Marriage, parenting, work, homemaking (do we still use that word?) and trying to find time to pursue our passions and dreams depletes our central organizing factor. (I didn’t coin that phrase–a good friend did–but I do love it!). We want to excel at doing it all and look beautiful and serene in the process. If any thing gets left on the back burner, bottom of the list, or, in good Scarlett O’Hara style, left to be thought about tomorrow, it tends to be our stuff. Maybe it’s time at the gym or reading that book that’s been on your nightstand gathering dust or sending an appreciative e-mail to a dear friend. Or, just maybe, it’s developing expertise in the field of our dreams, which for most of us bloggers is writing. And, generally, for me, it seems to be carving out the time to blog and work on that next book.

Some days I just know I am running low on the ability to structure my day. I seem incapable of getting all the things on the to-do list done. I am overwhelmed by the magnitude of my responsibilities. Numerous worries intrude into my consciousness. Those are the days I know my central organizing factor is low. There are too many demands sucking it dry. Suddenly I realize that I am about to fall over the edge into the pit of helplessness and hopelessness. And that’s when I jerk myself up and, giving myself a little pep talk or reality check or scolding, whichever seems most appropriate, I somehow keep on keeping on. At that moment in time, that is the best I can do.

Maya Angelou said, “Do the best you can until you know better. Then when you know better, do better.”

Let me see if I can apply that wisdom to my situation: The art and science (and, yes, this computer stuff is a challenging science for me) of blogging can only be developed by doing. Just dreaming accomplishes nothing. The same applies to writing (and getting published)–just keep working has to be my mantra.

But, more importantly, faith and health and relationships and time to smell the roses are not to be neglected. How will I know to do better unless I spend time with the Lord and His instruction book on living the best possible life? A little dust on the tables won’t matter in the long run. Whether I take care of this body will. And relationships make life worth living. Living in the moment, alert to all of the beauty and love and possibilities that surround us is imperative. And I must remember the words of Edward Everett Hale:

Look up and not down;
look forward and not back;
look out and not in;
and lend a hand.

Lily still hasn’t figured out that grass is grass. She probably never will. Some days I awaken and feel like I can face any challenge. When I don’t feel that way, it’s a clue that I need to refresh that supply of central organizing factor. And, I think the only way to do that is to look up to the Heavenly Father to fill my spiritual cup, look forward to the land of my dreams, and look outside my little corner of life to see where I can lend a hand.

What do you think?

Life Happens

Kathy S. Parish6 Comments

“Bow the knee;
trust the heart of your Father when the answer goes beyond what you can see.
Bow the knee;
lift your eyes toward heaven and believe the One who holds eternity.
And when you don’t understand
the purpose of His plan,
In the presence of the King,
bow the knee.”

You know how it is when you get a song stuck in your head? A constant refrain in perpetual repeat mode playing on the I-Pod of your brain? It’s sometimes VERY annoying, like when it’s the theme from “Gilligan’s Island” or “The Brady Bunch”. But this week, for me, it’s been Chris Machen and Mike Harland’s creation, quoted above.

Early on I attributed it to the fact that we sang it in worship service last Sunday and to the reality that it is, quite simply, a beautiful song with a powerful message. As the week progressed, and it stayed and Stayed and STAYED, repeating over and over as I worked, cooked, showered, did laundry, and tried to read, I felt I needed to consider its presence a little more deeply.

For most of the past year, the answer for me has gone beyond what I can see. And, for much of my life, I have not understood the purpose of His plan. But, I know He’s got one–a special and good one for each of us–writers, nurses, wives, mothers, daughters, grandmothers, sisters, friends (and the male counterparts of each of those terms–don’t mean to leave you out, guys). And, Monday morning quarterbacking, I have been able to detect His hand at work in the events of my life. We want to see the future. We want to know everything’s going to turn out just fine. But the seeing and the knowing is not for us to do. It is, after all, His plan. Our role is to believe, lift our eyes toward heaven, bow the knee, and live the plan. I think those lyrics, so beautifully captured in the melody of the song, reminded me of that, and I needed that reminder.

This is not a discourse on how bad my life is, because it isn’t. As a very good friend often reminds, “Life happens’. A middle-aged, apparently strong and healthy family member is stricken unexpectedly by respiratory failure. Another family member struggles with a seemingly unending bout of depression, which I am helpless to “fix”. There are hurdles to overcome and valleys to traverse, as I wait for the verdict from a literary agent who is considering my first novel. But the reality that I am SO blessed with steady and gratifying work, loving family and friends, a comfortable home, and a faith that never lets me down far outweighs the fleeting struggles of this life.

I think I needed that song last week, and I most likely will in weeks to come. To be honest, my knees are pretty arthritic. The bowing’s not too hard, but the getting up is. However, I surely can bow the head, heart, and spirit, and “Be still before the Lord and wait patiently for Him;” (Psalm 37:7a, NIV).

Blessings to all of you this week!

Book Review: The first phone call from heaven

Kathy S. Parish5 Comments

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Mitch Albom delights once again with the first phone call from heaven, a beautifully written and engrossing tale of a small town in Michigan, where eight “chosen” ones receive phone calls from departed loved ones. The Friday calls reiterate the truth that there is life beyond death, that “the end is not the end”.

As a believer with firm faith in a beautiful life everlasting, a place called heaven, and the concept that our loved ones are never really absent from our lives, the title intrigued me. Granted, the idea that my dad might ring on my smart phone to remind me of his continued existence, refresh my memories of him, strengthen my faith, or remind me of my very real hope for a better world beyond this life was a little farfetched. However, I found this novel to be something more than pleasant “escape” reading.

Mr. Albom masterfully reveals a glimpse of how the living are changed by the loss of a dear one and how a tangible sign from those who have died is often longed for. The fact that death often robs us of the opportunity for true closure, leaving words of love, apology, and explanation unspoken, threads its way through the novel. He explores the impact that today’s ever-present news media can have on people and towns who become the latest headline. Throughout the book, one finds intriguing historical tidbits outlining Alexander Graham Bell’s discovery and inviting consideration of how his invention has indelibly changed our lives. One soon finds oneself appalled at the twisted perspectives of the pilgrims who descend upon this quiet little town in search of a link to the hereafter. Questions are raised regarding the fundamental beliefs that drive various characters and how those beliefs are changed as events transpire.

The novel is a page-turner of a mystery, a poignant love story, a recounting of wrongs committed and lives changed and restitution made. It was a roller coaster of a read–superficial interest followed by assessment of lifelong beliefs, consideration of today’s love affair with instant communications, an aching need to see evil conquered by good, an irresistible force thrusting me toward the conclusion. I recommend it highly.

And, lastly, I must give notice to Mr. Albom’s last paragraph in the Acknowledgements. I think it speaks volumes about his gift of writing and consistent recognition as a best-selling author:

“Finally–and firstly–anything created by my heart or hand is from God, by God, through God, and with God.”

Well said, Mr. Albom.

The Snowflake

Kathy S. Parish4 Comments

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Dear Phil,

Well, here I am after two days without electricity and, therefore, internet access, acknowledging that I was out of line. After all, I did almost double-dog-dare you on the ice storm and power outage stuff. Guess you showed me! However, we really need to clear up the groundhog in charge of the weather thing. I know this celebrity business and national attention must be a real high for you. After all, you are “just” a groundhog, albeit a fine specimen. But, you and I both know that the legend surrounding you seeing your shadow and foretelling six more weeks of winter is just man’s futile attempt to feel in control of future events by predicting the weather.

And, I have to say I’m really sorry for whining about my little inconveniences. So the power was out for a couple of days? We have a generator. Maybe I couldn’t do laundry and run the dishwasher and cook big meals for my family (which I really like to do when I’m home). But I was warm, had hot water for a shower, hot coffee to wake me up, and lights to read by. I don’t have to have propane to warm my home. My heart aches for the thousands of Americans who are still struggling with dangerous driving conditions and prolonged power outages, propane shortages and skyrocketing prices, and just plain old freezing cold temperatures. So, hey guys, my prayers are with you.

And, I am compelled to acknowledge the true Creator of all things, including the weather. I never really forgot Him, but was impressed anew by the reality of the wonder of His creation when I viewed the photograph shared by a friend this week.

A single snowflake caught fresh fallen on a tree trunk enthralled me with its detail. We humans try to copy nature’s beauty–fragile glittering snowflake ornaments on a Christmas tree, lacy patterns stenciled on a window, papery renditions cut by a child–but we can never match God’s detail. Ours are too symmetrical, too simple, too uniform, one-dimensional. I am reminded of the omnipresence and omniscience of God. He, we are taught, knows every sparrow, every hair on our heads. To be honest, I really don’t think He should bother remembering how many brown, highlighted, lowlighted, or gray hairs I have. I rather think that Scripture is an analogy to impress upon us the reality that God knows every detail of our being intimately, seeing the spiritual heart of each person, seeking a relationship with us, and feeling our pain when we hurt. Whether the hurt is mere disappointment or overwhelming grief or terminal illness, dark depression or the hopelessness of suicidal ideation or the helplessness of addiction, the tragedy of flood or windstorm or winter storm, He shares it with us, and we can look to Him for comfort and hope. After all, He has said, “I know the plans I have for you, plans to prosper you and not to harm you, plans to give you hope and a future.” (Jeremiah 29:11 NIV)

So, Phil, enjoy the limelight but remember who made you (and me) and who is really in control. A snowflake has reminded me.

Sincerely,

kp

Letter to Phil

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Dear Punxatawney Phil,

What is your problem? Above you see the view out my windows yesterday. Those aren’t diamonds hanging from those trees. And it’s even worse today. This whole seeing your shadow and six more weeks of winter thing is really getting old. I’ve been wondering. Why are you so scared of your shadow? Maybe you’re afraid Peter Pan will come and steal it and whisk you away to Never-Never Land? Well, come on, Peter, because then maybe we could get over this whole groundhog in charge of the weather scenario.

Maybe that’s it. A power thing. You like being the center of attention. After all, every February 2nd it is all about you. The world centers on your little hole and the vagaries of sunshine or no sunshine. It appears to me that even without the sun, all the cameras and lights would probably scare you back into the hole, timid soul that you are. Which brings us back to the whole courage thing. And being scared of a shadow. I can attest to the fact that Arkansas groundhogs are of a stronger mettle. I saw one cross the road last month on a sunny day!

And then one has to wonder about the twelve guys in top hats. Top hats? I Googled you, you know. Their positions read like something out of a fairy tale–Rainmaker, Iceman, Thunder Conductor, Big Chill, Sky Painter? They sound a bit grandiose and delusional. You need to be careful who you keep company with, you know. Especially with your timid personality.

Okay, so I’ve vented. Now just let me say that, since I was scheduled off work and didn’t have to make the hazardous trip to the hospital yesterday or today, snow (or ice) days can be enjoyable. They provide unexpected free time to read blogs and write letters to celebrities like you. Time to drink tea and read a book. Time to make cookies for my grandson. So, maybe I should also say thank you. But just remember, if the power lines go down and there’s no electricity, I am holding you (and all those strange guys in top hats) responsible.

So, have a good six week nap, Phil. I’m off to make tea.

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Buddy

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Buddy came to us as a “replacement” dog. My daughter’s beloved black lab, aged and infirm, had been put down just as Cindy was in the throes of severe depression. We were introduced to a three-year-old miniature schnauzer as we were anticipating her return from her third (or fourth?) hospitalization, and planned to have the new pup waiting for her when she arrived home. The vet who connected us with the dog cautioned, “Now, he doesn’t like men. But he’ll be great with Cindy and her son.” And he was. The poor thing’s registered name was Pluto, which was highly inappropriate, and promptly changed to Buddy. (Our four-year-old grandson was quite fond of Walt Disney’s Air Bud movies.) Disney’s Pluto is big; Buddy was a smallish dog. Pluto’s ears are floppy. Not Buddy’s! As a matter of fact, his ears rather dwarfed the rest of his compact body. They had not been clipped when he was a puppy, as is the fashion with dogs of his breed, and he had perpetually erect antennae connecting him to all sound. And, besides, the name Buddy just seemed to epitomize the role of canine pal we expected him to undertake.

We found that Buddy, indeed, was not fond of men. He regularly serenaded my husband with incessant barking whenever he entered the house. Through ten years of cohabiting they never resolved the issue of who was the alpha male. Buddy charmed us with his ability to sit upright for long sessions of begging. It seemed that his bobbed tail and healthy, broad behind provided a solid foundation for his balancing act. He developed a pattern of begging–spin around once, assume the upright begging posture, and bark sharply. It would have been nice to think that his barks were a canine expression of please, but I suspect the more accurate translation would have been, “Look at me! Treat time!” I am the softie at the dinner table, and mealtimes found him by my chair, watchfully waiting for the inadvertent or purposefully dropped morsel, and, if the bite was not forthcoming, he was not above a hushed grumbling growl, just to remind me he was there. He seemed to possess an understanding of numbers up to four. He might be soundly asleep on his bed far away from the kitchen, but invariably knew when meat was being thawed and dinner preparations started. He was particularly fond of doggy steak tartare (ground beef), and expected a minimum of four small bite size portions before retreating to a location out of kitchen traffic to observe the cook at work.

We first noticed a decline in his vision. Then his hearing became less acute. However, his sense of smell never faltered! He began to lose weight, and we found several tumors under his skin and under his jaw. He seemed to lose interest in his food, and could no longer see well enough to catch a tossed treat midair. His gait became slower as his joints stiffened. As his respirations became more rapid and labored, we became painfully aware that Buddy would not survive into his fourteenth year. He never whined and never whimpered. He lost control of his bodily functions, and one could see the confusion in his eyes after he soiled the floor. My daughter said, “He looks so sad, Mom.” And, he did. The big brown eyes which once sparkled with life and enthusiasm for living became tired and weary. The vet said he had some form of cancer, probably a lymphoma, and was developing heart failure and that the end was near. He was, after all, thirteen years old, a ripe old age for a schnauzer.

And so, Friday, January 31st, 2014, we said goodbye. A dear friend who is a veterinary doctor came to our home and, as we caressed the frail shadow of our beloved pet, gently eased his suffering and released him to whatever ever after life exists for our animal friends. I choose to trust that all truly good dogs do go to some sort of heaven, and Buddy, was, indeed, a very good dog.

Perhaps some of you have lost a beloved pet. If so, you understand the bond of companionship that links you together and the heartache of separation. I’d love to hear your story.

Buddy--all ears and heart
Buddy–all ears and heart

I am the pencil?

Kathy S. Parish1 Comment

“I am like a little pencil in God’s hand. He does the writing. The pencil has nothing to do with it.” Mother Teresa

Many times in my life I have been keenly aware of God’s direction–the rather remarkable circumstances through which I entered nursing school (and my profession/life of the past 36 years), the miraculous discovery of the one physician who could salvage my daughter’s life, the indelible influence that my Christian collaborating physician and his beautiful wife have had on my life, and a text message a short while ago from my granddaughter, a beautiful, intelligent young woman of whom I am very proud. She wrote that she has been working on a blog for some time now, but has been timid about sharing the link with anyone. Guess what, dear–your Nana has heretofore been very selective in sharing her link, too! As a matter of fact, my first post pretty much details my ugly fears and uncertainties. I was rather depressed for about a week prior to clicking “Publish”, but, surprise! I have been inordinately happy since doing it. My mind is full of ideas, phrases, analogies–all just struggling to make it to the printed page. And, I am happy. Don’t take that the wrong way. It’s not that I feel important or particularly gifted. I know my blog is not literary genius or food for the intellectual. But it is my soapbox, my stage, and, if any readers show up, my audience.

You see, it is easy to feel that one has little of importance to say. But, perhaps, in God’s eyes, the least of these thoughts timidly recorded is a very big deal. I have often pondered Mother Teresa’s words quoted above. I don’t think the pencil analogy has to do with just words, although words are very important. As a nurse, I think of the words and phrases that evoke such vivid images to us and capture so succinctly the patient situation we are describing. We say, “just fan him with a big white hat,” to mean that there is nothing specific we can do to help that particular complaint, but that the white hat, representative of the good cowboy saving the day, might somehow send good karma his way. Or what about the phrase “she’s crashing and burning”, which inspires in our gut the same adrenalin rush that seeing a plane’s fiery demise might? Although it has fallen out of favor, in my young nurse days the words “he’s low sick” described a patient in the valley of illness with multiple issues and declining vital signs and a grim prognosis. Today “she’s a hot mess” might be heard in the clinical setting to describe the same patient. For me that phrase brings to mind a steaming hot pile of whatever turns you off–a big mess that has to be cleaned up, and the cleaning made all the more difficult because it is, indeed, hot! The patient that breathes the thought, “I want to go home,” and you know he’s talking about a better home than his home here on earth, can inspire a particularly keen watchful wait in the nurse. And then, there is the all-important “just tie a knot and hang on”, because even when the rope is slipping through your hands and you are about to fall to your fate, the proverbial knot will give you a handhold to cling to.

Words do indeed speak volumes and are tremendously important, especially to a writer, but actions are important, too. Sometimes the action of clicking “Publish” is more important than we know. For too long I have been afraid of failure. Mother Teresa also said, “God didn’t call us to be successful, just faithful.” If I am, indeed, His pencil, every word typed and published is His to use as He chooses. Perhaps those words might offer inspiration, encouragement, or comfort. It is my job to trust and just do it. What about you? Are you His pencil? How are you fulfilling that challenge? I hope with confidence and with the best effort that is in you.

And that you, dear, dear granddaughter, will go forth boldly to share your knowledge, creativity, sensitivity–so many gifts in one beautiful package! Go ahead, sweetie, blog and broadcast it to the world!

Friendship

Kathy S. Parish1 Comment

This whole adventure of blogging has set me to thinking about who I am meant to be, how I’ve gotten to this point, and people and events that have changed my life. Today I honor one of the great influences in my life–one of those lifelong friends who, though distant geographically, is always present in my heart.

Arlene is one of those people. The only child of loving parents, she was given a name that blended the “given” names of both her father and mother–Arlin plus Lorene equals Arlene. The name is so dear to me that I named my daughter, Cindy Arlene, after her. Arlene and I met during our years in the fledgling nursing program at a Christian college in Arkansas, our home state, 38 years ago. We were among the four married students in our class. I was the most nontraditional of all since I already had two children, ages 5 and 3. We married students gravitated together, but Arlene and I “bonded”. We struggled with endless clinical assignments, skills labs, lectures, exams, and care plans. We studied together, commiserated with each other, laughed a lot, cried some. Arlene and I made a memorable but delicious mess cooking toffee with melted chocolate for a Christmas treat. Her mother gifted me with a lovely Christmas cross stitch piece designating remembrance of friends as a central theme at Christmas–it still graces our home each Christmas season. And, finally, in May of 1978, we graduated with a baccalaureate degree in nursing from Harding University.

Arlene’s husband, Kelly, is a college professor, and his work led them to live in Mississippi, Oklahoma, Tennessee, Alabama. At about the same time after graduation, though in two separate states–she working in the student infirmary at Ole Miss and I at home in my kitchen–we each decided to try regular dishwashing liquid in automatic dishwashers! The result, of course, was a seemingly unending flood of beautiful soapsuds cascading down the front of the machine and into the floor. The fact that it happened to both of us was comforting somehow. Through each of her moves, we never lost each other. Months might go by without a visit, but then Arlene would return to Arkansas to visit family or Cindy and I would load up and travel to each of those states to visit in her home. Arlene’s sense of gracious southern hospitality is unfailing. She is the ultimate gentle southern Christian lady–serene, compassionate, insightful, devoted to serving others. She practiced nursing as a registered nurse, as I did, but she soon found her way into the role of nurse educator, guiding students to understand not only the technical skills necessary for safe nursing but striving to inspire in them the same sensitivity and compassion that characterized her as a nurse. She has a special love for geriatric patients–seeing past the confusion or the querulous nature into their hearts and minds. She was an example of daughterly devotion as she cared for her mother through her battle with cancer and, later, with seeing her father through the hardships of cardiovascular disease and aging. She has become a true nurse expert, author, and presenter, and has been honored by our alma mater as an outstanding alumnus.

I have become a better, stronger, more devoted Christian because of Arlene. She gifted me with a daily devotional book in 2001, and I have read portions of it every year since. It truly speaks to me and inspires me to strive to be gentler, calmer, and always true to my faith. Arlene has seen me through many storms of life–a divorce, the struggles of single parenthood, dealing with my own family tragedies and illnesses–and the happiness of a second marriage “made in heaven”. She is the ultimate prayer warrior, supporting me and my family through the challenges of a child’s mental illness.

Thank you, Arlene, for being my BFF, my confidante, my sister in Christ. I honor you today, your birthday, and thank God for blessing my life with you.