The Glorious Muddle

glimpses of grace in the messiness of life

June 13, 2023

The Book in the Middle

Announcing the long-awaited arrival of Two Lights of Hope, the middle book in A Cold War Trilogy! Like any parent with a middle child, I feared this middle one might be overlooked. Sequels often are. The newness of the firstborn has worn off, replaced by sheer exhaustion.

But it’s here. It’s a good story. And I want to celebrate its arrival!

It’s nothing short of amazing that this book exists. Last August, I had two books that I’d finished writing—during the pandemic—but hadn’t published, They nagged at me. These books collectively formed a cloud that weighed heavily on my goal-oriented self.

I’d interrupted Two Lights of Hope, my sequel novel that I love, a story I’ve poured my heart into, to write Sentenced to Life when asked by our prisoner friend. With both books, I felt that God had put it in my heart to write them. He gave me the vision. He called me to this work.

I’d completed both books and hidden them away on my computer, but I was too tired to do anything more with them. How could I when I was and am so busy caregiving; when my life feels consumed at times by this sacred and difficult duty?

But dementia is a long, cruel disease. And I’m no spring chicken. I couldn’t keep waiting and putting things on hold that I believe God had put in my heart to do.

When I first heard the double dementia diagnosis, my heart sank. That was in the beginning of the pandemic. I’m three years into this journey which started with caring for two parents; now it’s one parent. I didn’t know how I’d survive, if I’d be any good to them, if impatient me would have any patience at all.

But somehow, I did survive and I am surviving.

One of my life verses is I Thess. 5:24: “Faithful is He who calls you, and He also will bring it to pass.” I believe God called me to be both a caregiver and a writer. So far, he has enabled me to do what he’s called me to do. I trust that he’ll keep on giving me the strength and grace that I need. He always has.

Somehow, Sentenced to Life got published last October. That took a lot out of me, and since then my mom’s health began to decline steadily. How could I possibly drum up the energy to do that grueling process all over again?

I honestly can’t explain it, but it happened. God provided professionals to help me shape up my book, friends to serve as beta readers, and motivation and drive to get it done. We turned out a quality product that I am proud of: Two Lights of Hope. I couldn’t be more excited!

Today, this week, I celebrate the arrival of Two Lights of Hope. Welcome to the world, little one!

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April 27, 2023

The Story Continues

I’m thrilled to announce the upcoming birth of my second novel, Two Lights of Hope, Book Two in A Cold War Trilogy! It will be released sometime this summer, so stay tuned to find out exactly when as that becomes clearer.

The Storyline

The story picks up with Adriana Nicu, a teenager in Communist Romania in 1988. Life becomes increasingly dangerous for her as she and her friend Gabi seek answers to a forty-year-old mystery. Their mission: find an old green wardrobe intended to be a Jewish family’s way of escape from the Nazis, and maybe—just maybe—find out what happened to the family after they disappeared.

In her quest for the truth, Adriana must learn who to trust as she navigates her ever-changing world—where ordinary citizens become spies and informants, either for the all-powerful Securitate or for the growing Resistance. Along the way, Adriana finds herself confronted with evil she can hardly imagine. Yet, through an old Jewish man and the banned books she secretly reads, she also encounters love, faith, and hope in a dark world where some lights never go out.

New characters join the ones readers love from the first novel. Adriana’s narrow world expands when she travels outside her borders for the first time—to Yugoslavia—and meets someone from America.

While being firmly rooted in the oppressive Cold War era, the novel looks back on the terrors of the Holocaust: two horrific periods in history. Adriana finds that even the smallest glimmer of hope can break through the darkest night.

The Series

My original vision always included a series of three novels. I have named them A Cold War Trilogy. The cover for the first novel is so beautiful that I had to get the same cover designer, Megan McCullough, for the second one. And then I asked her to also design the third novel, to keep the theme consistent. I love what Megan did!

To recap: In One Degree of Freedom, Adriana’s life has been decided; she will be an engineer, like it or not. But when she walks through her aunt’s blue wardrobe into a room hidden in the wall and filled with stacks of forbidden novels, her world expands and her life begins to strangely parallel those of her novels’ heroines. Adriana starts to rethink things she’d always been taught as truth.

Adriana learns that the second of three seemingly-magical wardrobes, a green one, vanished during World War II. Readers will left wanting to know if the wardrobe will be found, if the country will become free, and if Adriana’s budding romance will take off.

In Two Lights of Hope, Adriana still reads books in her secret room, as she does throughout the series. And the novels she reads still speak to what she is experiencing. When you read the titles on the spines, you get an idea of the theme of this new book.

Two Lights of Hope finishes with the world gearing up for revolution. That’s where the third novel, Three Colors of Courage, will pick up.

If you haven’t read it yet, now’s a good time to pick up a copy! It’s available for order wherever you buy your books.

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March 23, 2023

No Regrets Caregiving

My mom turned 90 in style with a big family party. Even more birthday cards arrived after this photo was taken.

My mom has had three trips to the Emergency Department already this year. She’s had twice as many falls. Every time the telephone rings, I tense up. It’s often a nurse, and it’s often bad news.

In the final months of my father’s life, when he was in assisted living an hour away and Mom was living with us and needing around-the-clock attention, I posted frequently on social media. It was my outlet, my way to process and communicate with friends far away.

One time I posted that I felt like Dad was being left out and so I managed to squeeze in a short trip up the mountain to see him, even though I was tired and stressed with caring for Mom.

The responses I received made me feel loved and cared about. My friends gave me strength and courage to keep going.

Some friends would affirm my decision.

“You’ll never regret spending time with him.”

“You will always be glad you took the time to visit him.”

“What you are doing is holy work and it’s important.”

Other friends would offer me an excuse, a way to let myself off the hook.

“You have done enough, more than most children would do.”

“Nobody will fault you. Anybody will understand if you don’t go next time.”

“You’re paying for assisted living. They are there for your dad so you don’t need to be.”

As I read their responses, I noticed a difference in who wrote them.

The first group had been caregivers themselves, sometimes many years earlier. Their input counted more for me because they’d lived it. They’d done it; they’d suffered; they knew what it’s all about. And they could speak from certainty about how to give care with grace.

It also told me that they did not regret their own choices, years later. They’d given of themselves sacrificially, and they’re still glad they did.

That doesn’t mean the second group got it wrong. I appreciate what they had to say. These friends’ concern was for me. They were encouraging me to take a break and remove some of the burden from my shoulders.

The trick is balance. As a caregiver, if you don’t take care of your physical and emotional health, you won’t be able to be there for your person. You need to find an equilibrium that works for you. I need to make sure my husband and I get some time together. And that I get some time alone.

The second group was trying to tell me it doesn’t need to always be up to me, alone. There are times I cannot go and do, for a host of reasons. When those times arise, I will entrust my mom to the Lord and try not to worry.

I’m not the one in control here.

But for now, for this season, caregiving is my calling. I am certain this is what the Lord wants me to do.

And so I will continue to go to the hospital, visit the assisted living. I will keep going and doing and giving, because it’s the right thing. It’s my mom. I don’t want to miss this final and sacred chapter of her life.

All we can do is show up. We try to be cheerful and helpful, to treat our loved one with grace and dignity. Caregivers, if we can do that, we’ll have no regrets.

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February 15, 2023

Walking off into the Sunset

Photo thanks to Jason Blackeye at Unsplash

RIP Barnabas (Barney) Hutchison, The Encourager

I think my cat died two days ago. Let me start over: I know my cat died two days ago. The reason I said “I think” isn’t because I’m stuck in the stage of grief called denial, but because it happened in such a romantic, perfectly scripted movie-ending sort of way, a way I’d never heard of before, that I have trouble believing it.

Nearly twelve years ago, Steve and I went to the local rescue shelter to get a kitten. We came home with a three-year-old neutered male named Spike (and immediately renamed him Barney). Adopting Barney was one of the easiest decisions we’ve ever made. Barney was sweet-tempered and nurturing. All the little kittens came up to him to be groomed or to snuggle in his warm comfort. The kittens would likely be adopted by others; we couldn’t let this beautiful creature be put to sleep.

The first day with us, Barney didn’t leave the protection of his litter box. The next day, he ventured to the edge of the porch. Next day, he jumped up on the banister and slid down to the patio–the last time he went down that way. Then his world grew to include our back yard. There was no stopping him after that.

Barney made the rounds in the neighborhood, walking all the way up to the main road. He had his usual route and kept to his time schedule. I’d watch him politely walk up driveways and sit on front stoops. Neighbors would tell me, “Your cat came to visit me yesterday.” He’d walk in the park beside me, wait by the garage for me to come home. Barney was an unusual cat.

He was happy with us, but one thing was missing in his life. He didn’t have little kittens to watch over and teach the ropes to anymore.

It was a bright day in Barney’s life when our neighbors rescued a little kitten from a creek and named him Trout. Although they intended Trout to be their kitten, Barney had other ideas. Trout became his little buddy. The two were inseparable but completely different. While Barney liked to roam, Trout never left our yard. They were pals for life and partners in keeping our house rodent-free.

Trout died in June, a quick and terrible death. Barney has been dying ever since. His was a slow death from a broken heart.

This is probably the last photo we took of Barney, shortly after Trout’s death. His sadness shows.

Barney steadily and slowly declined, until the last few days when his decline picked up speed. We’d been through this so recently, we knew the signs. His kidneys were shutting down. We scheduled an appointment with the vet, knowing I’d be the one to go because of Steve’s recent surgery, and knowing I’d probably come home alone.

But that last afternoon was a beautiful sunny February day. I coaxed Barney down to his happy place, our patio, one last time. I tried to brush him–his favorite thing–but he was in too much pain and couldn’t sit still. So I started to walk, slowly and serpentine fashion, to the creek, another thing he liked to do with me. He followed! For a second, I thought, Maybe he’s going to pull through. Maybe the vet can save him.

I petted his sweet head, looked into his light green eyes and shared a long blink (cat language for “I love you”). We returned to the patio. Barney walked circles around Steve and I, said goodbye to Steve. And then he set off again, by himself, for the curve of the creek, in our neighbor’s yard. He walked slowly and purposefully. He never looked back.

As I watched my sweet cat walk off into the sunset (okay, it was only about 3:00 in the afternoon), I had a thought so bizarre I hesitated to say it out loud to Steve. But I couldn’t keep it to myself.

“Barney’s going off to die,” I said. I know cats prefer to die alone, but usually they crawl into the woods or under the house in the middle of the night. Barney just left, on his own terms, with us sitting right there watching him.

He never came back.

It was the perfect ending. He said his goodbyes and he walked off. He saved me the agony of putting him down. Was this a parting gift from Barney, or–as I think–the Lord’s sweet grace to me in the midst of a long season of loss?

I’ve had a lot of pets in my life, dogs and cats. If I told you how many cats, you’d label me as a Crazy Cat Lady, so I’ll keep that to myself. Suffice it to say, I’ve known a lot of different temperaments. No question about it: Barney was the sweetest pet I’ve ever had.

I miss him. I miss them both.

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January 13, 2023

Losing a Little Bit at a Time

When caregiving consumed my days, I wrote about it frequently, and I wrote about my Dad’s dementia that required caregiving. Many people said that helped them. Things have eased up quite a bit for me now that I’m only responsible for one parent, but it’s still a difficult season.

Small losses keep coming. Some days the losses are bigger than others, but each small loss is a grief. Each one is something to be mourned, a series of losses that anticipate the big one to come.

Mom has blossomed in the year she’s lived in her new assisted living home. We live five minutes away and visit all the time. She has mild cognitive impairment, so her memory’s shaky, but she’s still Patti. She hasn’t changed.

She’s happy. She’s safe. She’s content. Her faith in Jesus grows stronger every day. She has lots of social interaction and has completely charmed all the residents and staff. She’s cared for and cared about.

Mom will turn 90 in about six weeks. She’s been talking about her 90^th birthday for over a year now. Whether it’s on her actual birthday or not, the next time my brother comes to visit, we will have a party for her. When you turn 90, you get to celebrate all year long. You also have a lot of memories competing for space and time becomes fluid.

After she tells us how much she doesn’t like grits, Mom says the same things every time we see her. Mostly, what she says makes me laugh.

“All my children’s names start with K.” Our names are Kurt and Taryn.

She tells me that when she lays down at night, she repeats to herself “Kurt, Taryn” so she won’t forget our names. She hasn’t yet, but she does get a little confused. In one sentence, I can morph between me, my anonymous twin, her niece, and her sister.

“I had a boy-girl, then another boy-girl.” She just had one boy, then one girl. I think she’s thinking or her mother’s four grandchildren.

“Did you do that or did your sister?” “Did you bring me that or did your sister?” I don’t have a sister.

Usually I say something like, “It’s always me. My sister never does anything.”

“My girls take such good care of me. It’s so much work I need two girls to do it.”

“What are the odds that both my girls married men named Steve? And both of the Steves are having their knees operated on.”

“Pretty rare, Mom.”

She refers to my husband and this other guy as The Steves.

“How are The Steves today?”

“I forget which Steve you’re married to.”

“The good-looking one, Mom.”

Dad would call my mother Patti–the nice version of herself–and he’d talk about the Other Patti. He described the Other Patti as someone who stomped down the hallway and told him what to do.

Other things Mom says echoes my father’s comments the last year of his life. As we drive up to our house, Mom might say, “I recognize this house.”

The next day, she says, ” Did you know ‘they’ had me over for a cookout?” Steve and I are the “they.”

Reminds me of bringing Dad to our house. As we’d drive up, he’d say, “I know this house. I’ve been here before. Did you buy this house from Steve and Taryn?”

I’d say, “No, we didn’t. That would actually have been pretty hard to do, Dad.”

This Christmas was joyful and peaceful at our home, a welcome change from the year before when we spent the day in the emergency room with Mom. She was very disoriented then. Her husband was dying, she had frequent falls, and she hadn’t slept in days. The night we returned from the hospital, she slept about an hour and I slept less than that, on a cot at the top of the stairs so she wouldn’t take a tumble.

The next morning, Mom said she’d figured out who I was. She asked if I spoke French. I said, “Oui, Madame.” She said I was one of the triplets, either Yvonne, Marie, or Annette. Mom was so clear on her details, I figured she was remembering something that really happened, so I googled it. She meant the Dionne quintuplets, from French-speaking Montreal, born in 1934. (The other two were Cecile and Emilie.)

Most days, Mom is doing really well. However, last week, her much-younger sister died. Their baby brother died in his twenties. My mom is the sole survivor. I delayed telling her because we had planned a wonderful reunion with two cousins. I wanted her to be able to enjoy that, and she thoroughly did.

Now she’s dealing with another big loss, just a year after she lost her husband. Sadness is softened by the hope of heaven. My aunt’s death is a loss to me, too. I realize as my mom’s caregiver, I’ve focused so much on how she’s doing, how she’s handling the news, I’ve neglected how I’m doing. I haven’t taken time to really grieve.

Each little loss needs to be faced and mourned.

Isn’t that the way it goes with caregivers? Taking care of yourself–including leaning into your losses–is one of the biggest priorities caregivers need to fight for.

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Taryn R Hutchison

Telling stories to help you soar