Cards

Cards were a huge part of my family growing up. I remember my grandparents sitting around their table playing cards with other adults on long evenings, laughing and dealing and having such a grand time. Rook was a favorite game and even still when we all go home for Christmas, we are often gathering around a table to play a raucous game of Rook.

When I was seven years old, I sat at the feet of my grandma as she tried to teach me to play solitaire. I remember her patience as she struggled to get me to comprehend the concept of black on red, red on black. Finally, she became exasperated (I was only seven) and said, "You're too young still, Vonda. I'll teach you in a couple more years." But I was persistent, shaking my head, and saying, "No, Grandma. I want to learn now." And so she tried again...and again...until finally I understood how to play the game.

When I was about ten years old, I played solitaire by the hour at my father's feet. But at this time in my life, my hands were small and fingers weren't quite nimble enough to shuffle. And so I would play a game, hand the deck to Dad, he would shuffle, hand it back to me, and I would deal the cards once more. By this time, I had learned several different games of Solitaire so I would rotate through them one by one: the clock game, the pyramid game, the color game (I'm not sure of the technical names--those were my inventions). Round and round it would go.

My parents fought a lot during those early childhood years and so when the fighting began, I'd grab a deck of cards and find solace somewhere in a corner of the house, playing and playing and playing. When Dad wasn't there to shuffle, I would sort the cards with my own shuffle invention by simply creating three piles that I randomly divided cards into so that they were no longer in any specific order.

By the time I was twelve years old, my grandpa started joking that my parents better keep me away from Vegas or I'd stay there as a dealer. I had a deck of cards with me everywhere I went. By now I'd learned single hand solitaire--a game you can play by just holding the deck in your hands--and so I could play effortlessly wherever I happened to be. I became a one-handed solitaire whiz actually--whipping through a deck of cards in practically seconds and keeping track of of random facts: how many cards left at the end of the game, how many 4-card-releases per hand, etc. Cards were my 1980's version of today's cell phone: they provided a beautiful way of escape.

When I became personally acquainted with Adventist kids as a teenager, I was baffled by the fact that most of them had no clue how a deck of cards came together. They didn't understand that an Ace can be either high or low, that there are four suits with specific names ie clubs rather than puppy dog feet; that J means Jack. These cards, in their minds, were of the devil and steer clear at all cost. I laughed at their silly perceptions and dealt out 7 piles, black on red, red on black.

Recently I have been thinking about how cards have played such a huge part in my--and my family's--life. My dad is aging--turning 79 this month. His health is not what it used to be. He came to visit this summer and we went to the Biltmore house. I pushed my dad--my tall, handsome, strong father--in a wheelchair as it hurts him to walk long distances now. He had hip surgery recently as a hip injury in his twenties haunts him now. And then this past week my stepmom had to rush Dad to the emergency room twice because his blood pressure skyrocketed and he wasn't able to even stand. When they told me this story, I said, "Dad, what's wrong??" He replied, "I'm gettin' old."

It breaks my heart.

I recognize that losing one's parents is part of the cycle of life--one of those facts that you can't resist nor change. And once your parents are gone, you're next in line.  And with my dad's recent health issues, this fact of life is looming closer each day. I find myself recoiling, crying, fighting...inside.

I'm not ready.

I'm not ready to say goodbye to this man whom I adore, whom I admire, whom I treasure with every cell of my body.

And of course, I may have time left. We may (hopefully) still have a few Christmases together or visits where evenings stretch long before us as he watches basketball on television and I read a book on the couch; where the gas fireplace spills heat into the living room as we quietly talk about mundane things; where he sleeps in his chair, feet propped up, while I quietly talk to Jo as she knits nearby.

Life is a deck of cards. We are dealt a hand that we have absolutely no control over. With that hand, we have choices that dictate how the hand plays out. If you play black on red, red on black, maybe those cards will be kind to you and, in the end, you'll win. But if you make a different choice, say you slip up and play black on black, or try to peak under the pile to figure out which card you should move next to give you a "leg-up", well...sometimes that hand may not go so well. Sometimes you lose. And frankly, regardless of how well you play, you just never know how it's all going to play out.

Frankly, I'm sad for how the game has been played where my dad is concerned. I feel like I lost in far too many respects--for over thirty years. I'm not willing to lose anymore. I'm not willing to have any more regrets or lost opportunity. And yet...I have no choice.

All that I can do is accept.

But regardless, I am clinging to this last hand. I am hoping and praying and clenching, hoping that this hand is good to me, this hand wins.