Returning to St Teresa

Additional time for writing turns out to be an unexpected benefit of self - isolating.  The sun is streaming in through the kitchen windows, highlighting little nuthatches and chickadees pecking away at their breakfast in feeders attached to the glass. I watch the birds and watch the cats watching the birds, forgetting for a moment that the world struggles against a tidal wave of infection. 

The cats have resigned themselves to merely watching the birds after several weeks of ineffectual clawing at the glass. Jack now sits unperturbed while they dine only feet from his head but Rex wanders around the kitchen muttering under his breath. Rex's annoyance burst through this morning when he unerringly attacked the most valuable object in the western world - the downstairs toilet paper roll. He sat on the back of the toilet and glared at me while depositing three-quarters of it onto the floor. We are attacked from without and within!

The Dravenstotts are being cautious and embracing the advice of medical professionals who recommend self-isolating for 14 days. Despite the parents' wariness, our children are still vectors of contagion, having gathered with friends as recently as two days ago. Daniel went out to play whiffle ball at the park - a seemingly harmless endeavor - but came back to show us videos of the boys clasping hands to form a human trampoline and taking turns throwing each other into the air. There was no six feet of distance between them, needless to say. I joked to Rob last night in macabre pillow-talk that Daniel hadn't succeeded in killing me yet but was still hell-bound to do so. A stern lecture on personal space was delivered at breakfast.

And yet...the times weigh a little heavy. Each night I turn to my favorite prayer, which St. Teresa of Avila wrote in the 16th century. You can find it written in many versions, but this is the one I say (if you don't believe in God you could substitute "love" or another unifying word):

Let nothing upset you,
Let nothing frighten you.
Everything is changing,
Only God is changeless.
Patience attains the goal.
Who has God lacks nothing,
God alone fills all our needs.

"Everything is changing" is both a promise and an acceptance. The world has always been thus and in this time of tumultuous change is no different. Let us hold fast to the things of most value, our love for one another and our hope.  Be well and be safe, and take some time to watch the birds. 
xoxo
Laura

Finest Hour - Repost from Gretchen Schmelzer

I did not write the following post but found it deeply moving when I read it yesterday on Facebook. For those of you who are not on social media, I wanted to share these positive and uplifting words.

This Can Be Our Finest Hour-But We Need All Of You


by Gretchen Schmelzer | March 11, 2020

For the vast majority of people nationwide and worldwide, this virus is not about you. This is one of those times in life, in history, when your actions are about something bigger. They are about someone else. They are about something greater, a greater good that you may not ever witness. A person you will save who you will never meet. 

You may be healthy, and your kids may be healthy. Your parents may be healthy. Everyone around you seems fine. And all the things you planned and the 2020 spring you thought you were going to have has been completely undone. You have to work from home. Your conference is cancelled. Your semester is over. Your work is cancelled. It all seems fast, and out-of-proportion and disorienting. You look at each action and think—but it would be okay if I did that. It’s not so big. We worked so hard. They would be so disappointed.

Your losses are real. Your disappointments are real. Your hardships are real. I don’t mean to make light or to minimize the difficulty ahead for you, your family or community.

But this isn’t like other illnesses and we don’t get to act like it is. It’s more contagious, it’s more fatal—and most importantly, even if it can be managed. It can’t be managed at a massive scale—anywhere. We need this thing to move slowly enough for our collective national and worldwide medical systems to hold the very ill so that all of the very ill can get taken care of.

Because at this time of severe virus there are also all of the other things that require care. There is still cancer, there are still heart attacks, there are still car accidents, there are still complicated births. And we need our medical systems to be able to hold us. And we need to be responsible because our medical systems are made up of people and these amazing healthcare workers are a precious and limited resource. They will rise to this occasion. They will work to help you heal. They will work to save your mother or father or sister or baby. But in order for that to happen we have very important work to do. ALL OF US.

So what is our work? Yes, you need to wash your hands and stay home if you are sick. But the biggest work you can do is expand your heart and your mind to see yourself and see your family as part of a much bigger community that can have a massive—hugely massive—impact on the lives of other people.

I remember the feeling of helplessness after 9/11 and after Hurricane Sandy. I remember how much people wanted to help. I remember how much generosity of spirit there was about wanting to give, wanting to be helpful, wanting to save lives. And many of you have had experiences since then—whether it was a mass shooting, or the wildfires, or floods. There have been times you have looked on and wondered how you could help. And now we ALL have that chance.

You can help by canceling anything that requires a group gathering. You can help by not using the medical system unless it is urgent. You can help by staying home if you are sick. You can help by cooking or shopping or doing errands for a friend who needs to stay home. You can help by watching someone’s kid if they need to cover for someone else at work. You can help by ordering take-out from your local restaurants. Eat the food yourself or find someone who needs it. You can help by offering to help bring someone’s college student home or house out-of-town students if you have extra rooms. You can help by asking yourself, “What can I and my family do to help?” “What can we offer?” You can help by seeing yourself as part of something bigger than yourself.

When the Apollo 13 oxygen tank failed and the lunar module was in danger of not returning to earth, Gene Kranz, the lead flight director overheard people saying that this could be the worst disaster NASA had ever experienced—to which he is rumored to have responded, “With all due respect, I believe this is going to be our finest hour.”

Imagine if we could make our response to this crisis our finest hour. Imagine if a year or two from now we looked back on this and told the stories of how we came together as a team in our community, in our state, in our nation and across the world.

Your contribution to the finest hour may seem small, invisible, inconsequential—but every small act of ‘not doing’ what you were going to do, and ‘doing’ an act of kindness or support will add up exponentially. These acts can and will save lives. The Apollo 13 crew made it their finest hour by letting go of the word “I” and embracing the word “we.” And that’s the task required of us. It can only be our finest hour if we work together. You are all on the team. And we need all of you to shine in whatever way you can.

This post originally appeared here.

Gretchen Schmelzer, PhD, is a licensed psychologist and a trauma survivor who has worked for twenty-five years with the complex issues of trauma, integration, and behavior change across every level, from individuals to groups to large systems and countries. She has also been a senior consultant with Teleos Leadership Institute, an international consulting firm serving leaders of fortune 100 businesses and major not-for-profit organizations such as the United Nations. She is the founder and editor of The Trail Guide, a web-mag featured on www.gretchenschmelzer.com dedicated to healing repeated trauma and the author of Journey Through Trauma (Avery, 2018).

The Grown and Flown book is here – bestselling guidebook on how to raise teens to independent adults with sections on mental health and happiness, family life, health, and more.

Deepen the Argument

"Choose words that deepen the argument for being alive."
- Padraig O Tuama

My friend and former pastor posted O Tuama's words on his Instagram several days ago and they brought me up short in my scrolling. After many weeks off from this blog I finally received the motivation to come back with the goal of assembling words to uplift and inspire, challenge in healthy ways, or even  admit passing sorrow and loss with an outlook toward gratitude and hope for the future. Lofty goals, admittedly, but the only way I could bring my fingers back to the keyboard.

We are surrounded by dark, blaring headlines, dire warnings and partisan fury. Though I have many story ideas squirreled away from years of dabbling, the plot lines about eco-wars and epidemics no longer appeal. What seemed futuristic in previous decades has now come to pass and visions of hope and beautiful alternatives seem more necessary than scary predictions.

My writing project over the past months has been a gift that lays out such visions of hope. My mother and I have been reading and transcribing the letters my father wrote to her during the 11 months he served in Vietnam -- 50 years ago exactly. Though lonely, hot, far away from home and surrounded by war, Dad focused on his fiancee and castles in the air built on their hopes for the future.

He wrote passages that prod me to reform my sometimes gloomy outlook:
"I am optimistic over the prospects offered by the Paris peace talks. They met for 6 1/2 hours yesterday but nobody said much about what occurred. I take this as a good sign that a real discussion of business is going on and nothing will be said until the results are finalized. I have been an optimist all along and will continue to be one. I think if I weren’t I would lose my mind."

As true today as they were in 1969 - we must be somewhat optimistic or we will lose our collective mind. Dad's words from Vietnam motivate me to actively hope and put work behind my dreams for my future and my children' futures. The possibilities are before us if we can only guide one another through the minefield of negative news and make a light for ourselves - and others - to follow.

A Beautiful Life: Julius (Jules) Clavadetscher

POLSON — Julius (Jules) Clavadetscher,  former automotive executive, one-time mayor of Polson, and a loving husband and devoted father, died Dec. 15 from complications of progressive supranuclear palsy (PSP) and Parkinson's syndrome. Montana has lost a dignified, thoughtful citizen but his family and friends will forever have him as a role model.

Jules was born May 3, 1943, to Herman and Ruth (O'Malley) Clavadetscher in Billings, their third and youngest son. After attending Billings Senior High School, he followed in the footsteps of his oldest brother, Greg, and his middle brother, David, to Georgetown University.               

After graduation he attended Columbia University in New York where he received a master's degree in business administration. Then on to his next life adventure, as an enlisted U.S. Army soldier serving his country in Vietnam. He served valiantly and talked little about his time in Vietnam.

When he returned to the United States he set out to find a job and marry the Billings teacher he had met on an arranged blind date. His union with Ann Murdo lasted more than 50 years. They celebrated their 50th anniversary on Sept. 6 in Polson, where they have lived since 2001.

Jules worked for Ford Motor Co. in New Jersey, where his and Ann's first three children -- Laura, John, and Karen -- were born, and in Michigan, where Mike and James rounded out the family.

In the 1980s Jules moved into executive offices at Nissan American Motor Co. With Nissan, the family moved to Irvine, California, then to the Boston, Massachusetts suburbs, before returning to Nissan's then-headquarters in Southern California. The family lived in Palos Verdes before Jules received an assignment in Northern California (Danville), where he was named a Nissan Vice President. From Danville, Jules and Ann moved to Polson, where they built a home in the Mission Bay subdivision.

Jules believed in building and serving communities. He joined the Polson Rotary Club, and he and Ann volunteered at the local food bank. He was a key member of the Greater Polson Community Foundation.

In 2004 Jules was appointed to the Polson City Council and later became mayor of Polson in 2006- a task he took like a duck to water. One of the most satisfying accomplishments as Mayor was working with the Confederated Salish and Kootenai Tribes to reconfigure the pier and parking area at Point Salish Park.

He and Ann cheered on the Griz, the Hoyas, the Wildcats, the Ducks, and numerous sports teams of all colors and stripes.

For the past six years, Jules suffered from Parkinson's disease and related conditions, gradually losing mobility and his voice but never his sense of humor. He participated in a medical trial in San Francisco with the hope of helping to find a cure for future generations. He has donated his brain to medical science in the hope that scientists can better understand the disease and find a cure.

Jules leaves behind his wife, Ann, his children Laura Dravenstott (Rob), John (Carol), Karen, Mike (Pam), and James (Molly) plus grandchildren Aden, William and Daniel Dravenstott of Colorado, Julia, Sean, and Audrey Clavadetscher of Chicago, Michael (Mac), Joey, Tommy, and Mae Clavadetscher of Marshfield, Massachusetts, and Jack, Benjamin, and Connor Clavadetscher of Petaluma, California. Also surviving are his brother, Greg (Martha), brother-in-law Bob (Marlene) Murdo and sisters-in-law Kay Clavadetscher and Pat Murdo. He also leaves behind numerous nieces, nephews and longtime friends from Billings and newer friends from Polson.

In addition to his parents, he was preceded in death by his brother, David, and two nephews. The family would like to thank Partners in Home Health for assistance in the past months.

Cremation has taken place. A memorial service will be held this coming summer. Donations may be made to the Polson Loaves and Fish Pantry, to the Greater Polson Community Foundation, to the CurePSP Foundation, or a charity of the donor’s choice.

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He Touched the Face of God

"On the wings of powerful love and prayer, he burst into glory on his new birthday."
- Father Costello, St. Ignatius of Loyola

"Oh! I have slipped the surly bonds of Earth
And danced the skies on laughter-silvered wings..."
- From "High Flight," by John Gillespie Magee

On Sunday, December 15, at 12:40am, I woke from an unsettled rest as my brother James flicked on the lights and said, "Dad is gone." The bed was barely warm; we had only left my parents' room an hour before, after a sacramental day spent praying, telling stories and laughing amidst our tears. Throughout that day Dad's breathing changed from rapid, shallow breaths to spurts of shallow breathing followed by long pauses that gradually extended in duration and caused us all to turn and watch him with our own held breath. During these pauses, Mom placed her hand on his chest and leaned forward to see if he was still with us.

Miraculously, he did stay with us as all five children arrived throughout the day Friday and Saturday on flights from Los Angeles, Boston, Denver and Chicago. As each person entered the room, my sister, Karen, would update Dad, who seemed to grasp her message and move a little closer to heaven with each arrival. Though afraid of the unknown - none of us, including Mom, had ever witnessed a death - our love for Dad and our family flowed around the room as we encircled the bed, each of us holding on to Dad wherever we could reach a hand, a foot, an arm. He was warm with the effort of his breathing, and  not fully conscious, but his strong spirit held him to the room as we all waited together.

Dad had been ill for years, plagued by PSP (para supranuclear palsy), most likely caused by exposure to Agent Orange during his year in Vietnam with the US Army. Thanks to the careful, dedicated nursing of my mom, his quality of life and his life itself extended long past the deadline predicted by his physicians.  Adjusted as we were to his gradual decline, no one knew when to expect the rallying cry, "Come."  We may have even missed the moment - it came so quickly at the end - were it not for my brother, Michael, whose co-worker approached him a week ago to ask how Dad was doing.

"Not well," said Mike, and his friend urged him to go see Dad without delay. "You have to go now," she said, "You won't regret it."

Mike called my mother, determined that Dad was worse, the hospice nurse had started daily visits and had started Dad on morphine. My brother sent out the alert that time was short and the remaining four siblings made immediate plans to come from around the country, scheduling flights and cars and coordinating with my aunt and uncle in Montana to get to Dad as quickly as possible.  Anxiety settled like angry hedgehogs in all stomachs as we waited for late flights, prayed for the snow to stop and the roads to clear.

The anxiety and fear diminished for me upon arrival as I joined the circle around Dad, reliving childhood adventures with an intrepid father who perpetually urged us to scale mountains both literal and figurative. We took turns reading the Prayer of St. Francis, praying the rosary, and weeping as we assured Dad that his work on Earth was done and that it was okay to go.

My mother channeled a spiritual strength that astonished us, leading both prayers and reassurances to Dad. After boxes of tissues were handed around we again resumed our story-telling and laughter, keeping one eye on the clock as we waited for our last sibling to arrive. Karen kept updating my father, letting him know that John was coming, he was almost there.

John arrived at 9pm with my aunt after navigating a snowstorm and icy roads, and in time to share the circle of laughter and love. My mom sent us off to rest after 11 and James stayed with her and my father, lying on the floor next to Dad and timing the pauses between his breaths in that dark and peaceful room. In a beautiful counterpoint to childbirth, where contractions speed up in frequency and duration, the spaces between Dad's breaths increased and gave way to long periods of pause as his body struggled to release his spirit and give birth to his new life. When he left us and James called everyone for the final goodbye, his spirit lingered in the room while we consoled each other and celebrated the beautiful manner in which he left.

Standing so near the veil between the known life and the great unknown has both blessed and shaken us. In a short time we have grown and changed immensely in a sacramental manner that has further bonded us to one another. We are grateful for Dad's beautiful passage and for this new bond, his final earthly gift to us all.