Rushing's Ramblings

When I lived in South Florida, my friend Richard and I loved to sail on the weekends. Anchored at Coconut Grove Sailing Club was his 40-foot sailboat, which gave us easy access to Biscayne Bay. After sailing all day in Biscayne National Park, our favorite place to anchor for a couple of days was Elliot Key, the northernmost part of the Florida Keys. Many years ago, it was a thriving pineapple farming and sponging community. Elliot Key is now uninhabited. There's nothing quite as sublime as the warm, clear, turquoise waters of Biscayne National Park. Sailing and swimming are perfect antidotes after a stressful week at work. The direction of the wind always determined our arrival time at Elliot Key. We could sail there within a few hours if the wind was advantageous. If not, it would take until after sundown. Even if it was dark when we arrived, I didn't wait for dinner and jumped in the water as soon as we lowered the anchor. Richard was okay with waiting to start dinner

When Paddy and I met Linda several years ago, she could only move a knuckle in the first digit of her right hand. She was utterly helpless and lay in bed 24 hours a day. Paddy had been assigned as her hospice therapy dog. We had already made weekly visits to other patients in hospice, but unlike the other patients, Linda was my age. I was at the other end of the leash, as Paddy did all the work. I learned from all the hospice patients we visited to appreciate each day. Linda taught me not only how to live but how to die. Linda had multiple sclerosis, which caused her to rapidly declined in the last few years. Her daughter admitted her to a nursing home when Linda's husband died. Before we met, she had been in the facility for a couple of years. Linda's daughter worked full-time, had two young children, and could not care for her. Linda shared that she didn't want to burden her daughter and felt living in a nursing home was best for everyone. Linda's primary i

Many of us go back to where we were raised after some years—we might go back physically, but we return mentally, too. I recently attended a Sunday school class at the Church of Horseshoe Bay. When I heard a recording of an old familiar gospel song by Alan Jackson, tears began creeping down my cheeks. I couldn't stop it, hard as I tried. Reagan Lambert was the teacher for that particular Sunday. His lesson was about prayers and praying. Reagan made a statement that resonated with me: "I had a drug problem growing up. My parents drug me to church every time the doors were open." Well, Reagan, I had the same "drug" problem. Only, I deeply resented going to church all the time--Sunday school, Sunday morning church service with Bible classes on Sunday night followed by another church service. That wasn't all--we had Wednesday night church service, too! If there was a revival, we were there every night. The preachers usually spoke from a position of "Hell,