A Much-Needed Prescription

With four children, the oldest age six, the twins age four, and the baby not quite a year old, it was no wonder the mom felt frazzled, and she looked it too. Holding her youngest on her lap while the pediatrician checked the baby’s ears and listened to her heart, the mom allowed herself to relax a little in the chair. A sigh, one of those involuntary sighs that she was famous for, chose that moment to escape. The doctor scooted his wheeled stool across the room to his desk, and picked up his prescription pad. He smiled at the mom. “Baby is doing fine. But I’m going to write a prescription for you, Mom.” He scribbled a few lines and then handed her the slip of paper. She read it over.

“Are you serious?” she said.

“Yes,” was the smiling and emphatic reply.

The prescription read: “One weekend with [your husband] and without children at my vacation cabin on Lummi Island.” 

In the four years that her kids had been under this doctor’s care, she’d seen his kindness, patience, compassion, and gentleness with them, as well as his skill as a physician, but to be the recipient of his generosity and obvious concern for her mental well-being brought tears of gratitude. She felt that the weekend away did much to help her hang onto her sanity. A move to another state shortly after meant a new pediatrician but she always thought of him as the best one her kids ever had.

Thirty-some years later she read on Facebook that a certain Noemi Ban, holocaust survivor, would be giving a lecture at Western Washington University about her experiences. Always interested in knowing more about this, she signed up to attend, along with her sister. She pondered the woman’s last name. It was the same as that of the wonderful pediatrician who cared for her children. Could they be related? 

If you haven’t already guessed, I was that frazzled mom. It was this past week that I went to the lecture. And there was the pediatrician in the front row proudly watching his mother, at the age of 94, talking about having hope and love, instead of hate, even after suffering so dreadfully at Auschwitz. I spoke with Dr. Ban for a few minutes during intermission. I said, “You must be so proud of your mom!” He smiled and admitted he was. I went on to express my gratitude for his care of my children, and of me with such an unusual prescription. He said he recalled that occasion and how my husband had done a little carpentry work for him on the cabin to help defray our medical expenses with him as well. He asked about my kids. Then giving me a hug, he thanked me for connecting with him that evening. 

My sweeties, 1984

Hearing and reading Noemi Ban’s story (Sharing is Healing, a Holocaust Survivor’s Story with Ray Wolpow), I realize that it was she who influenced her son to be the kind and generous man who took a personal interest in his young patients and their parents. She raised her children to love life and to overcome hatred, a much-needed prescription in our world. I know my children were just a few out of the hundreds who were benefitted in part by this one woman. I feel blessed to have heard her say, “Life is for living. I love life!” 

Bouquet in the Sand

An affinity for capturing segments of my life through my little camera and trying to be artsy with it led me to join a photo challenge group on Facebook. There are daily prompts that we are free to interpret in our pursuit of a photogenic moment. Then we post our choice on the group page. A couple days ago the prompt was ‘yellow’ and on a walk at the beach I found something that made me ask “Why? What? How?” My sister ‘hinted’ that I should write a story that answers those questions. Thus the following story emerged. Don’t know if the questions are answered but painting this scenario with words gave me some satisfaction and I’d like to share it with you.

Bouquet in the Sand

By Anita van der Elst

January 14, 2013

Rose petals flurry onto the sand, stems flopping in random array along with the yellow daisy and the orange mum.

“How could he do this to me? This is how he ends it? With flowers?” Rivulets on her cheeks mirror the estuary on the bay. She shakes clinging pale pink petals from her fingers; furiously swipes at her eyes with the backs of her hands. A man in a yellow kayak dips his double-ended oar from side to side on his steady way into the marina. It is a soothing sight. For a moment.

She climbs onto the rock jetty, remembers moonlit cruises from this very harbor. Fine dining on the yacht; promises made; whispered words of love—a cliché of clichés. She should have known, seen it coming. Meeting his family that first time gave her fair warning. Their condescension cloaked in political correctness. She ignored it, convinced love could conquer all such prejudice. Hers could. Apparently his could not.

A breeze tosses the twisted branches of the lone tree above her, eddies down, scattering the rose petals, drawing her back to the floral mess. Her heart breaks anew. Romance, once sweet and fresh, now compostable. She cannot bear it, sinks to her knees.

Knowing the impossibility of reassembling the petals, she reaches for the stems, pulling the remaining intact blossoms together, forming a bouquet. Tenderly nestles it between two knobby-kneed roots exposed in the sand. Her heart deserves this memorial.

She faces into the wind, welcoming the tingle on her skin.

Who’s the Boss?

It’s a conversation we have often, my hubby and I.

No, no! Not about whether he’s the boss or I am! No need to answer that question. Ha, ha, ha!

No, my man Eddie was voicing his musings again the other morning as to why he feels that working for someone else in a job has more validity than working for himself.

There must be something about oatmeal that gives me insight. Well, at least this time, because that’s what I was eating just then when the thought came to me. And Eddie recognized my ‘aha’ look and responded with his ‘go ahead, lay it on me’ look. Hey, after thirty-six years of marriage, we’ve got the communication by facial expression thing down pretty well.

I said, “Honey, it’s a life-long pursuit of yours, looking for affirmation from someone in authority, the affirmation you didn’t receive from the ones that were ‘supposed’ to provide it. There are jobs where the boss does give that and there are bosses that don’t. Parents that give it and parents that don’t.”

I suggested looking at Colossians chapter three. Verses 22,23,24 in The Message say, “Servants, do what you’re told by your earthly masters. And don’t just do the minimum that will get you by. Do your best. Work from the heart for your real Master, for God, confident that you’ll get paid in full when you come into your inheritance. Keep in mind always that the ultimate Master you’re serving is Christ.” (Italics placed by me)

I said, “It’s about looking to Him for our ‘attaboys’, our affirmation, even if you’re the boss.”

Later that day I came across the following in my daily email Bible reading and found a great big ‘attaboy’ from God. (And yes, I put it in an email to my husband. He wasn’t close enough for facial expression communication by that time.)

Psalm 147

¹⁰ He takes no pleasure in the strength of a horse
    or in human might.
¹¹ No, the Lord’s delight is in those who fear him,
    those who put their hope in his unfailing love. (New Living Translation)

God created each one of us with different physical traits, stamina, talents, abilities—each wonderful in their own way. And according to Genesis, God said His creation was good. Yet, those physical attributes count as nothing to Him compared to our hearts’ and minds’ decision to put our hope in Him. We all have the same ability to choose to do that. We don’t all have the strong muscles but we do all have what it takes for God to delight in us. From the very core of our being, reverencing, acknowledging Him, placing our hope in His love—the love that never fails.

Whatever my job, or yours, whether we work for ourselves or others, our heavenly Father takes a shine to us doing so with an attitude of looking to Him as The Boss.

Hubby’s facial expression says, ‘got it!’