Today the plumber, Steve, fixed the hot water dispenser and the running toilet. I believe he is a saint. He, of course, would not see the accomplishment of two very minor tasks as reason enough for elevation to sainthood but it is all in your perspective. I was a nervous wreck. This is hard for me to admit since I have worked hard in the past few years to calm myself internally with a wide array of tactics from meditation to horseback riding. All of my skills and sense of centeredness fall by the wayside in the face of drips and clogged drains. Perhaps I will find some closure in remembering that the farmer was not a plumber.

Anyone having spent even a few minutes around a farmer will quickly recognize the confidence, independence and multi-talented nature of this vanishing breed. These are people who often live far away from stores and services. It never occurs to them that they can't fix whatever breaks and they do not entertain the notion of instruction books or experts even if they have exhausted their skills and resources. Even then the problem is likely to be set aside until they come up with another idea. To their credit this usually works - they eventually get "the fix" and the self-fulfilling prophesy is once again achieved and of course strengthened for the next challenge.

My terror about plumbing comes directly from my experience as a farmer's wife. I am now an ex-wife due in part to the disconnect of being a city-raised kid steeped in the tradition of using convenient services and valuing professionals. In retrospect, it is easy to see that it was not a match made in heaven when livelihood meant returning to the family farm in a homogeneous, traditional and rural community. In my defense I married the college student and as we all know love is blind. Two beautiful children resulted from this adventure of city meets country. That being said…some of my most painful married experiences revolved around water pumps going out, drains being clogged, drips, and worst of all toilets. My farmer was not a plumber.

This mild-mannered, skilled, jack-of-all trades guy would morph before my eyes into a maniac with increasingly ugly language. From my standpoint the plumbing challenge would increase exponentially as one component involved would be found broken, requiring a trip to town for a part. Depending on the part this could represent a half hour to town or an hour and a half to the city. The second trip to town was because the first part was the wrong one. The fix would eventually break something else…so the third trip to town was usually my assignment. I was secretly grateful for this job as the site of repairs would by now be flooding. An hour later I would find myself loudly addressing the parts man with a vague description of what was needed. He of course would have an array of 6 kinds of which I could not discern differences. Neither of us wanted to make the call home for further information. I think my volume was part tension about the importance of my mission. I had been unable to bring the offending part to "show and tell" because farmers are often determined to make things work and he was still fiddling with it. They alone will hand carry parts to compare. I expect the other reason for the volume was my loss of hearing from the directions from the farmer. At this juncture in repairs he would be shouting, not at me, but I assume out of frustration. It was my job to separate out the expletives. When I returned home with my best guess (the parts man would later disavow me) often there would be no one in sight and my kitchen, bathroom or whatever was in disrepair would be strewn with more parts. There would of course be no water.

Depending on what farming need or diversion had arisen it might be days before we began the repair efforts again. This is when deep despair would set in for me. I was a mom of two toddlers, one in diapers, living on a farm without nearby neighbors from whom I might easily borrow water.

At this juncture my natural response would be to call a plumber. Despite scheduling delays (we lived in the country) this often would represent a quicker solution than the "farmer way." I did this once. However, the farmer showed up before the plumber, canceled my savior and resumed efforts of his own… furious that I had made the call. I never fully understood whether it was an issue of masculine pride, frugality, or just so totally disconnected from his reality to call a specialist. Perhaps he felt I doubted his ability. I am suspicious though because I did observe that eventually a combine expert might be called for a repair after do it yourself efforts were fully explored and of course after multiple trips to town.

So today St. Steven of Rau Plumbing showed up at my house, one day after my call. He was on time and had all the parts he would need for the repair of both problems in less then a half an hour. He maintained a nice conversation from within the 3 square foot kind of space that could so confound the farmer. It was a bit of a one-sided conversation as I was working hard not to hyperventilate and could not follow the train of thought about the weather. Eventually I broke out in hysterical laughter (tension relief) which I could tell alarmed the plumber a bit until I started to tell him about the farmer. He chuckled, described his uber-talented, handyman dad who would fix anything but plumbing saying "it was an invitation for a drip to become a stream." How wise…..and interesting that the son became a plumber. I guess we each find our way.

I hope this experience today has helped me heal from plumbing trauma. Dwelling in the past doesn't work well for me.

Today God looked down on me.

Merci. (I now know plumbing should be French…artful!) Also close to mercy.

Sanctification is definitely in order.

Eleven years ago my closest friend Penny Johnston died of ovarian cancer after a long and epic battle that left many of her friends and health providers stunned and profoundly affected. I lost a treasured confidante - a woman to whom I had turned many times in the twenty-one years of our friendship. In her final hours she offered me an opening to the divine and the gift of timelessness that I have experienced ever since.

We met as young mothers of toddlers in a parent cooperative preschool as her son Marc careened into my son Nathan. It was Marc's way of saying hello….one I'm not sure Nathan ever quite understood nor my daughter Joanna who met Marc's bother Andy similarly three years later…the same preschool and the same form of greeting. Both times I remember Penny's exasperated look and sigh of resignation! Within minutes of the first crash Penny muttered the words that in frustration I had felt many times in raising my 2 year old. She said, "I am not sure I am cut out for this." We both loved our children more that everything and then some, but she expressed in those few words the doubt and reality of being a professional woman reduced to helplessness by a child a third your size. We were in a group where these sentiments were not spoken as "good mom's" wouldn't have such feelings. Years later as we both pursued satisfying careers and celebrated successful children we would pause in wonder at how many of our mom's group went on to have 4 and 5 children! Our journeys were similar in sadnesses growing up, parenting challenges and celebrations, and much more. Both of our marriages were in distress. She stayed in hers, I left mine.

After the preschool years we didn't see each other that often, 3 or 4 times a year. Each connection was rich in intimacy and deep understanding. I often wondered if our paths had crossed in another time. She fed me tunafish sandwiches during the painful year of my contentious divorce which she deemed my "ghostly" year… I lost great amounts of weight, often could not keep food down, had great memory lapses, and lost all color literally and figuratively. As I recovered and launched my career as a hospice social worker Penny returned to teaching and became a deeply respected debate coach winning nationally with her team. Her high school students adored her. We saw each other less frequently but remained the kind of friends who pick up right where they had left off months ago. Whenever I was undecided about anything Penny was who I called. She was a practical, no nonsense, direct, "this is what you should do" kind of person!

The tables turned way too soon as we had our usual holiday "girl's night dinner" and she mentioned an upcoming doctor's appointment. It was the worst reality….advanced ovarian cancer. I referred her to Spokane's best oncologist and the fight of a lifetime ensued. She and her mom did this battle together and Penny distanced somewhat from me. I understood at a cellular level that this was because I represented hospice and dying.
She would call with a question now and then, and asked at one very painful and discouraged time if I would see that she died comfortably in hospice care if it came to that. Everything they tried for and with Penny went bad. She suffered enormously, stoically and absolutely without complaint. I joined Penny and her mom in Seattle for one more clinical trial and a stem cell transplant that nearly killed her. She was a walking zombie who had no memory of the "months from hell" as I deemed it.

During this fight when everyone agreed it was over, Penny prevailed. She achieved an amazing capacity to coach debate when she could barely stand up. She declared herself queen of hats when she had no hair. She always looked glorious…her spirit trumping the physical every time. She became a bunco nut. Penny insisted I come right away the day her new "fuzz" hair was established enough for public view. I had never felt anything so soft. We cried and laughed at the same time. She willed herself to be escorted down the aisle at Marc's wedding. She went to a rock concert with Andy and his friends 2 months before her death right after successfully accomplishing an ocean kayak trip because she wanted to. She defied odds and kept going…vomiting 3 to 4 times a day, enduring unbelievable pain, and refusing tubes and hospitalizations.

Penny called one day for me to come. She looked like a ghost with the exception of her eyes which had a depth I had experienced only rarely over my 14 years of hospice work. I would call them "the eyes of God." Never had I witnessed this in someone so agitated by unremitting pain. She was in agony and asked "will you be on my hospice team?" The referral was not an easy one because Penny insisted on continuing her parenteral nutrition. To my absolute horror this slowed down my agency's response time. Penny and I had to manage alone an endless weekend of torture. It was an eternity of my begging for high powered pain medications and home administration in a fragmented system with an unknown doctor on call who couldn't understand Penny's refusal to endure another tube or to come to a hospital emergency room. I became a banshee and we muddled through.

With Monday came the return of her doctor, the late arrival of a hospice team, enough medication for pain relief and my immediate awareness that Penny was in her final hours. It was she and I in the bedroom where purgatory had been visited just the day before. She was calm, coherent, and beaming. The sun streamed through the window and time dissolved. I told her that her body was changing and she smiled in acknowledgement. No fear, no urgency, no requests. We laughed about the day Marc careened into Nathan. I promised that someday I would tell her grandchildren about her. We cried and laughed at the same time. It wasn't sadness…it just was. Spirit expanded and soul filled the room. We shared an eternal space and kairos….and it was fine. At some point Penny's mom and Andy came and Penny asked me to go tell Joni (her oncologist and by this time great friend.) I did her bidding knowing neither Joni nor I would return in time for her death.

From that morning spent with Penny I have experienced a timelessness that is the most extraordinary gift. Everyone says "time goes by so fast" and they mean it. This use to be my experience... but it changed that day. I don't experience time as moving quickly and often I don't experience chronological time at all. I feel depth to the moments I am in …. finding they are as full as I care to experience them. It makes memory difficult for me because apparently this capacity for full experience takes brain space! I guess I just don't mark time in a way that triggers remembering in sequence.

This gift of timelessness came through Penny's eyes. They were a luminous source of compassion, serenity and hope for both of us.

Thank you, dear friend, for your grace and elegance.