I come from a fundamentalist background, ultra conservative, uber evangelical. It's never sat well with me. Even as a child I had questions and doubts but heaven help the kid who expressed them! As an adult in a traditional church I also had doubts that what I was hearing was the whole truth. But by then the church's value to me was confidence building. I was Mistress of the Church - baptism hostess, kitchen worker, bereavement committee, VBS director, banquet head and all around background detail person. It was easy to ignore the restless whispers in my head that were telling me how off base some of the traditional doctrines were.
In the late 90s my life fell apart. A series of misfortunes, including the pastor from hell, pushed me to the edge of suicide. I came to hate God for allowing the pain. "Donald Trump is a better father than God! He takes care of his children!" It was a very dark time in my life. And the church's pastoral counselor didn't help when he insisted on reading me Bible passages and telling me what I should feel.
At that time, my job was falling apart as well. Dear friends/colleagues were jumping ship. Gerri was my angel and before she left she insisted that I come to her church's women's retreat at a christian resort on the Chesapeake. Yeah, yeah... but she was paying so what the heck. Free weekend away from the husband and children.
First, the Chesapeake is gorgeous. I wasn't prepared for the beauty of it. The resort sits right on the bay with all the smells, sounds and colors one would expect from a movie. You get to the place through a tiny town with quaint, tourist shops, and then along a winding dirt road through a forest.
Secondly, our room was really nice, not the typical hotel room, especially not a christian hotel room. The place had a pool, hot tub, snack bar, thrift shop and private chapel.
We were just in time for the first meeting of the afternoon and our clique got on the elevator to the conference floor. As we got off a young blond woman came striding down the hall with the most beatific smile. "Hurry and get there! The worship is fine!" she said as if talking about a day at the shore. And the worship was fine. I thought I knew what worship was - stodgy, staid, boring songs and windbag testimonies. But this was different. The songs were rocking, the women on their feet, shouting all manner of things from Amen, to Yes Lord to WhaaHoo! Arms in the air, dancing, swaying. I was in love. I was absorbed into groups of women like an amoeba. That weekend I became a Calvary girl.
Fifteen years later, I'm still a Calvary girl. And this is why -
- the same people sit in the same places in this cavernous room, so you know a lot of people by sight and that's okay because you talk to them as if you know them but it doesn't involve an investment in people you might or might not want to hang with.
- it's big enough (2500 a service x 3) that if you want to be known you can be, if you don't want to be known you don't have to be.
- it isn't embarrassing. I can safely invite anybody of any class, gender identity, religion or lack of and know they'll probably have a good time.
- the music rocks.
- it has a support group for everyone - new christians, medical, war vets, pornography addicts, regular addicts, gamblers, Russians and Spanish, divorced adults and kids, bereavement and on and on.
- everything they do is done well. The bathrooms are beautiful, original art work on the walls, a bride's section with private changing room, bathroom and make up mirror. All repairs are done immediately so there's no wreckage to look at. Programs are planned for maximum organization.
- there's a bookstore.
- if you liked a song they'll copy the words for you.
- security is highly organized and secret. Children couldn't be safer in the building. I once saw an Adam Code when a child was missing from the room. Men and women rushed to the doors and locked them. Another team swept through the sunday school rooms. She was found in her brother's room. On the anniversary of 9/11 friendly security people were posted on every hallway. I know some of them carry weapons. The pastor has a body guard, very low key and it's sad that Joe needs one but that's life.
- we get to call our pastor Joe because he's just a guy who does his job well, not a demi god.
- if you're upset and cry you get a half dozen people with their hands on you praying.
- if you go out and sit in the lobby during the service, which I like to do, you see and hear the most interesting people! One guy was on drugs and he sat right next to me to talk about it. One guy was telling his friend how he married a young girl and he didn't want children but she deserved at least one so what the heck. One guy was calling his mother to tell her he had gotten engaged. Thanks - over the phone from the church lobby.
So if you want to go and check out Calvary Chapel, call me. I guarantee you'll like it whether or not you agree with the message.
Sunday, March 10, 2013
Wednesday, December 26, 2012
The Unspeakable
At one of my former daycares, worked an Indian woman, a Hindu, who was one of the wisest, kindest people I knew. We were talking about crime and I was holding forth about what we should do with criminals. Ah, the years when I knew everything! This woman looked into my eyes, and said with a gentle tone, "It was Mother Theresa who said, 'I can't judge you because of the Hitler in me.'" I was stopped cold and I've never forgotten that proverb. Any of us are capable of anything given the perfect storm of circumstances - so it behooves us never to say, "I would never..."
Along with the nation and the world, I am horrified at the disaster in Newtown, Connecticut. For the first two days I couldn't stop crying when it came on the news. I'm was a preschool teacher for 30 years. I see the faces of those precious little ones, and superimposed over them, the bullet holes, the blood, the survivors seeing their friends torn apart. So much misinformation came out as news anchors rushed to be the first to spread the news. Grasping for bits of gossip, interviewing traumatized children. The shooter's mother worked there, they let him in because they knew him, he had ADHD, she was too hard on him...
As it turned out the mother never worked at the school, the boy had untreated Asperger's, he broke a door to get in, and his mother was in the middle of trying to get her son into treatment for his mental illness. The guns were hers, from her collection. She was an enthusiast and taught her boys how to handle a gun safely. Sure, we can ask now how she could keep weapons in the house with a mentally unstable son, but hindsight?
I wanted to say something vengeful about the dead shooter but the only thing that came to mind was, "Lord Jesus, have mercy!" Wow! Where did that come from? I know what mental illness is like. It's around me, it's in the family, I myself need medication and counsel. I spent 20 years behind a curtain, cut off from the world, seeing it but not being able to participate. When I was diagnosed the curtain was ripped away and I saw with painful clarity how disastrous my life had been up until that point. Was that me who said _______? Did I really ______? How could I have ______!
I feel like I can see the mind video of Adam Lanza. He wasn't capable of seeing life in the abstract, only the individual details. Things like love, happiness, patience, puppies and babies, respect, God - his mind wasn't able to understand these concepts. He adapted, of course, in order to survive. He learned how to play the game. But he was mentally and emotionally blindfolded.
When he grabbed the guns, although he certainly knew what guns were for, and that he would use them to kill, he didn't reason out the consequences because 'reasoning out' an idea from beginning to end was not in his capability. When he broke his way into the school he didn't recognize adults, children, teachers. Age is an abstract concept. He saw bodies. Shooting and killing them were video games, TV shows, not real life human beings. He could have chosen to break into an old folks home, lovers in the park, a daycare or church. Human differences didn't exist in his disordered mind.
It made sense to him according to the context of his brain function. If he had lived he wouldn't have recognized that he had done anything wrong. He would have blamed the police for interfering.
All mentally ill people are not serial killers. Mass murder is still rare though seeming to gain ground. I doubt that I harbor serial killer genes nor do my friends who struggle with mental health issues. But I've done enough harm in my own corner of the world to understand the concept of it being done on a wider scale.
That's why I pray, Mercy, dear Jesus, for this boy, Adam Lanza. As distasteful as it is to contemplate, I see God standing there in that school as Adam put the gun to his own head, holding out his hand and walking his spirit off the scene. Adam looks around in a panic and says, "No! Did I do this?" And God says, "Beloved, come and let's talk." And all over the school angels are lifting children to their feet and dusting them off, gathering them in a group like the count before a field trip, which is kind of what's happening - the ultimate field trip. And their ageless spirits recognize Adam's and he is forgiven on the spot.
Along with the nation and the world, I am horrified at the disaster in Newtown, Connecticut. For the first two days I couldn't stop crying when it came on the news. I'm was a preschool teacher for 30 years. I see the faces of those precious little ones, and superimposed over them, the bullet holes, the blood, the survivors seeing their friends torn apart. So much misinformation came out as news anchors rushed to be the first to spread the news. Grasping for bits of gossip, interviewing traumatized children. The shooter's mother worked there, they let him in because they knew him, he had ADHD, she was too hard on him...
As it turned out the mother never worked at the school, the boy had untreated Asperger's, he broke a door to get in, and his mother was in the middle of trying to get her son into treatment for his mental illness. The guns were hers, from her collection. She was an enthusiast and taught her boys how to handle a gun safely. Sure, we can ask now how she could keep weapons in the house with a mentally unstable son, but hindsight?
I wanted to say something vengeful about the dead shooter but the only thing that came to mind was, "Lord Jesus, have mercy!" Wow! Where did that come from? I know what mental illness is like. It's around me, it's in the family, I myself need medication and counsel. I spent 20 years behind a curtain, cut off from the world, seeing it but not being able to participate. When I was diagnosed the curtain was ripped away and I saw with painful clarity how disastrous my life had been up until that point. Was that me who said _______? Did I really ______? How could I have ______!
I feel like I can see the mind video of Adam Lanza. He wasn't capable of seeing life in the abstract, only the individual details. Things like love, happiness, patience, puppies and babies, respect, God - his mind wasn't able to understand these concepts. He adapted, of course, in order to survive. He learned how to play the game. But he was mentally and emotionally blindfolded.
When he grabbed the guns, although he certainly knew what guns were for, and that he would use them to kill, he didn't reason out the consequences because 'reasoning out' an idea from beginning to end was not in his capability. When he broke his way into the school he didn't recognize adults, children, teachers. Age is an abstract concept. He saw bodies. Shooting and killing them were video games, TV shows, not real life human beings. He could have chosen to break into an old folks home, lovers in the park, a daycare or church. Human differences didn't exist in his disordered mind.
It made sense to him according to the context of his brain function. If he had lived he wouldn't have recognized that he had done anything wrong. He would have blamed the police for interfering.
All mentally ill people are not serial killers. Mass murder is still rare though seeming to gain ground. I doubt that I harbor serial killer genes nor do my friends who struggle with mental health issues. But I've done enough harm in my own corner of the world to understand the concept of it being done on a wider scale.
That's why I pray, Mercy, dear Jesus, for this boy, Adam Lanza. As distasteful as it is to contemplate, I see God standing there in that school as Adam put the gun to his own head, holding out his hand and walking his spirit off the scene. Adam looks around in a panic and says, "No! Did I do this?" And God says, "Beloved, come and let's talk." And all over the school angels are lifting children to their feet and dusting them off, gathering them in a group like the count before a field trip, which is kind of what's happening - the ultimate field trip. And their ageless spirits recognize Adam's and he is forgiven on the spot.
Saturday, December 8, 2012
Defining People, Dividing People
Its fun to people watch! Our world is full of such variety, and good thing. It would be a boring world without it. Gender, race, religion, gender identity - such a garden. But I noticed something in myself that I don't like and here I am telling on myself.
I tend to make snap judgements about people based on appearance or tone of voice. I hate that I do that and I'm immediately sorry and change my thought pattern, but that first reaction is there, negative stereotypes. An obese man went by on the store Scooter. "Probably ate himself into obesity." Talking to someone about their diabetes - "Well if they'd lay off the sugar.." Screaming children - "spoiled brats". The cranky old woman - "Old battle ax". Anyone who doesn't look like me and mine - "Am I safe?" "Just like a _______ to ______." When the fact is, I don't know the medical history of any of these people. I don't live in their homes. I don't see what happened just before they got to Walmart, or what's waiting for them at home. I don't know their personal histories or tragedies. How can I judge on the basis of a 4 second glance?
Forty years ago my mother got cancer. By the time they found it and operated, it had spread everywhere. (By a miracle she recovered and lived for another 30 years.) I was going to lose my mother in the worst possible way. And I had only just had a baby who would never know this remarkable woman. I went to the grocery store, in a daze, and knocked something off the shelf. Didn't even realize it. Until an elderly lady walked up to me, a stranger, and said, "I saw you knock that down and you didn't even pick it up. You're the reason prices are so high." I burst into tears and said, "My mother is dying and I can't see straight!" And she said, "Yeah right." and walked off in disgust. I have never forgotten how that felt. One can knocked to the floor defined me.
Ten years ago, my father died and I took mother to the grocery store. He loved to shop and this store was the last place he had gone. We took his suit to the funeral home, then to Superfresh. Inside the door, helping my crippled and mourning mother into the Scooter, I met someone I've tussled with from time to time. He said in a monotone, "Hellohowareyou". With tears in my eyes I said, "Not so good..." That's all I got out before his whole expression changed to one of disgust. He turned and walked away. I know he didn't know my father had just died. But his first response was to assume it was old negative depressed Martha again. He defined me by my emotions.
Today I was speaking with a businessman I know and like. Very good man. Who is gay. Femininely so. I felt the thought rising and stopped it before it saw the light of day. His gender identity doesn't define him. It doesn't even enter into the equation. It hasn't got anything to do with anything. But something in people, not just me, reacts so nastily to the person who doesn't meet our moral standards or our stereotypes of what a man and woman should look like, talk like, walk like, feel or behave. What is it in humans that makes them define a person by their mannerisms or personal life? Fear? Probably.
I'm not perfect and I'll probably do it again. But I'm in there trying!
I tend to make snap judgements about people based on appearance or tone of voice. I hate that I do that and I'm immediately sorry and change my thought pattern, but that first reaction is there, negative stereotypes. An obese man went by on the store Scooter. "Probably ate himself into obesity." Talking to someone about their diabetes - "Well if they'd lay off the sugar.." Screaming children - "spoiled brats". The cranky old woman - "Old battle ax". Anyone who doesn't look like me and mine - "Am I safe?" "Just like a _______ to ______." When the fact is, I don't know the medical history of any of these people. I don't live in their homes. I don't see what happened just before they got to Walmart, or what's waiting for them at home. I don't know their personal histories or tragedies. How can I judge on the basis of a 4 second glance?
Forty years ago my mother got cancer. By the time they found it and operated, it had spread everywhere. (By a miracle she recovered and lived for another 30 years.) I was going to lose my mother in the worst possible way. And I had only just had a baby who would never know this remarkable woman. I went to the grocery store, in a daze, and knocked something off the shelf. Didn't even realize it. Until an elderly lady walked up to me, a stranger, and said, "I saw you knock that down and you didn't even pick it up. You're the reason prices are so high." I burst into tears and said, "My mother is dying and I can't see straight!" And she said, "Yeah right." and walked off in disgust. I have never forgotten how that felt. One can knocked to the floor defined me.
Ten years ago, my father died and I took mother to the grocery store. He loved to shop and this store was the last place he had gone. We took his suit to the funeral home, then to Superfresh. Inside the door, helping my crippled and mourning mother into the Scooter, I met someone I've tussled with from time to time. He said in a monotone, "Hellohowareyou". With tears in my eyes I said, "Not so good..." That's all I got out before his whole expression changed to one of disgust. He turned and walked away. I know he didn't know my father had just died. But his first response was to assume it was old negative depressed Martha again. He defined me by my emotions.
Today I was speaking with a businessman I know and like. Very good man. Who is gay. Femininely so. I felt the thought rising and stopped it before it saw the light of day. His gender identity doesn't define him. It doesn't even enter into the equation. It hasn't got anything to do with anything. But something in people, not just me, reacts so nastily to the person who doesn't meet our moral standards or our stereotypes of what a man and woman should look like, talk like, walk like, feel or behave. What is it in humans that makes them define a person by their mannerisms or personal life? Fear? Probably.
I'm not perfect and I'll probably do it again. But I'm in there trying!
Thursday, December 6, 2012
The Reason for the Season
I remember Christmases past. The earliest memories are of sitting under the tree, (yes I was that small), and somehow, somehow the whole tree fell over. Ornaments were made of glass then, there was no plastic and predictably, shards spread across the carpet, adults came running. I do not remember being punished or made to feel bad. Mother spoke gently to me and I felt such guilt I didn't do it again.
I remember when, around Thanksgiving time some of my dolls disappeared. I asked where they were and mother said they had all gone to the hospital. "ALL of them? At one time?" Yes, it was contagious. "Well what did they have?" Mumps. I couldn't let it go. It worried me terribly that my babies were sick and I couldn't help. Meanwhile I was banned from the basement. There were sounds coming from there all the time my father was home. On Christmas morning, when the family descended the stairs en mass there under the tree were eight cradles, with my eight babies, all wearing new outfits and one extra each.
I remember piles of presents. But going back in my mind, there was one big one, usually a doll, and lots of small things - a hairbrush, shirt, dolly bottles, coloring book. It looked like a mountain of gifts, and although it was exactly that, they were negligible items from Woolworth.
My parents never told us Santa knew we were naughty or nice and would reward us based on behavior. The thought that we could influence love and generosity by mistakes made or sins comitted was anathema to my parents. They believed that the idea of Santa was so close to a kid's view of God they never wanted us to make the jump to believing God was the stern keeper of records. In Him was light and not darkness.
And so it went.
For my own children it was the same. Piles of presents under the tree - one big one and many small, dime store items. It was all we could afford. We counted boxes to make sure each girl got the same because believe me, they counted. Each year I would start in October to sew up Barbi clothes. Buying bits and pieces of fabric for 25c gowns, leisure sets, pants suits, fur coats and business dresses would come off my machine. A card of Barbi shoes and purses would complete the gift. One year there were homemade Mickey Mouse hats. One year homemade Cabbage Patch dolls. We had so little money and did the best we could to make sure the girls never knew it.
As an adult my aging parents had little extra but they always took care of me. Every single year they got me a sweater - in size L. I've worn a 1x since I was 30 but mother simply wouldn't believe her 5 pounder was that big. Size Large it would be. They would give me my favorite pens, a hair clip, slippers, socks. David would receive a bath towel in his favorite color with his name embroidered on it. I loved it because they came from these generous, thoughtful people.
Here we are in 2012 and there's no extra money for Christmas. I have everybody's Christmas lists and wish I could tick everything off. David and I promise each other every year that we aren't going to get each other anything (yeah, right). Save the money for Brianna. I hate this. I keep searching my mind thinking where I can get extra money and where I can get knock offs inexpensively. By Christmas eve I will have earned enough from my little job, minus the bills, to provide a modest pile under the tree. I'm very proud of my daughters who have taught their children not to expect a consumer's paradise. They do not bury their children in gifts this one day a year.
But there are other memories of Christmases past. Helping my father search for the perfect tree that we could afford. He always knew 'a guy'. Throwing the tinsel on the tree, my brother would guffaw and step all over the lights, Dad and Mother retelling the stories of the ornaments as they came out of their wrappings, testing the bubble lights, placing the tin foil angel on the top of the tree, hot chocolate and homemade donuts when we were through, Dad reading Luke 2 and praying, carolers, Christmas Eve services, brother ringing sleigh bells to make me think Santa was there, having to stop on the stairs to get an 'excited' picture taken every stinkin' year instead of rushing downstairs and diving in, waiting for each other instead of thinking of our own gifts only, dinner at Granny's or Aunt Jessie's, inviting the neighbors in and us going to their homes to view the gifts.
I've never been one to burble on about 'the reason for the season!' or keeping Christ in Christmas or how much more fun it is to go to church than open presents. Seriously? But I do know there's more to the season than the height of the pile of gifts or their expense. Family, tradition, memories, warmth, the knowlege that we were never outside of our parents or our God's good graces, generosity, creativity, thoughtfulness, celebration. That's the Reason for the Season!
I remember when, around Thanksgiving time some of my dolls disappeared. I asked where they were and mother said they had all gone to the hospital. "ALL of them? At one time?" Yes, it was contagious. "Well what did they have?" Mumps. I couldn't let it go. It worried me terribly that my babies were sick and I couldn't help. Meanwhile I was banned from the basement. There were sounds coming from there all the time my father was home. On Christmas morning, when the family descended the stairs en mass there under the tree were eight cradles, with my eight babies, all wearing new outfits and one extra each.
I remember piles of presents. But going back in my mind, there was one big one, usually a doll, and lots of small things - a hairbrush, shirt, dolly bottles, coloring book. It looked like a mountain of gifts, and although it was exactly that, they were negligible items from Woolworth.
My parents never told us Santa knew we were naughty or nice and would reward us based on behavior. The thought that we could influence love and generosity by mistakes made or sins comitted was anathema to my parents. They believed that the idea of Santa was so close to a kid's view of God they never wanted us to make the jump to believing God was the stern keeper of records. In Him was light and not darkness.
And so it went.
For my own children it was the same. Piles of presents under the tree - one big one and many small, dime store items. It was all we could afford. We counted boxes to make sure each girl got the same because believe me, they counted. Each year I would start in October to sew up Barbi clothes. Buying bits and pieces of fabric for 25c gowns, leisure sets, pants suits, fur coats and business dresses would come off my machine. A card of Barbi shoes and purses would complete the gift. One year there were homemade Mickey Mouse hats. One year homemade Cabbage Patch dolls. We had so little money and did the best we could to make sure the girls never knew it.
As an adult my aging parents had little extra but they always took care of me. Every single year they got me a sweater - in size L. I've worn a 1x since I was 30 but mother simply wouldn't believe her 5 pounder was that big. Size Large it would be. They would give me my favorite pens, a hair clip, slippers, socks. David would receive a bath towel in his favorite color with his name embroidered on it. I loved it because they came from these generous, thoughtful people.
Here we are in 2012 and there's no extra money for Christmas. I have everybody's Christmas lists and wish I could tick everything off. David and I promise each other every year that we aren't going to get each other anything (yeah, right). Save the money for Brianna. I hate this. I keep searching my mind thinking where I can get extra money and where I can get knock offs inexpensively. By Christmas eve I will have earned enough from my little job, minus the bills, to provide a modest pile under the tree. I'm very proud of my daughters who have taught their children not to expect a consumer's paradise. They do not bury their children in gifts this one day a year.
But there are other memories of Christmases past. Helping my father search for the perfect tree that we could afford. He always knew 'a guy'. Throwing the tinsel on the tree, my brother would guffaw and step all over the lights, Dad and Mother retelling the stories of the ornaments as they came out of their wrappings, testing the bubble lights, placing the tin foil angel on the top of the tree, hot chocolate and homemade donuts when we were through, Dad reading Luke 2 and praying, carolers, Christmas Eve services, brother ringing sleigh bells to make me think Santa was there, having to stop on the stairs to get an 'excited' picture taken every stinkin' year instead of rushing downstairs and diving in, waiting for each other instead of thinking of our own gifts only, dinner at Granny's or Aunt Jessie's, inviting the neighbors in and us going to their homes to view the gifts.
I've never been one to burble on about 'the reason for the season!' or keeping Christ in Christmas or how much more fun it is to go to church than open presents. Seriously? But I do know there's more to the season than the height of the pile of gifts or their expense. Family, tradition, memories, warmth, the knowlege that we were never outside of our parents or our God's good graces, generosity, creativity, thoughtfulness, celebration. That's the Reason for the Season!
Sunday, November 25, 2012
I Remember Mama
Maybe I should be worried - I've been thinking of my mother and her last weeks lately. No idea what's triggered it. Maybe I feel like the 'mother' part of me is going, going, gone with the advancing ages of my children? Maybe my life here in her house has taken a very Eunice and Jim turn?
I remember the night Dad died. Mother called me around 10 pm to say 'Daddy is very sick and I can't get him out of the bathroom.' Not because he was hogging up his time limit, but because she was, by then, pretty much crippled from arthritis and couldn't support his weight. I told her to call 911, I would meet them at the hospital and David would come get her. She bumped down the stairs on her bottom to open the door for the paramedics and they had to carry her back up. Throughout those hours she sat beside him in her wheelchair, holding his hand. At various times he had private conversations with David and I, saying goodbye and thank you for being a good son and daughter, giving mother into our care. When the time came and Dad began to fly away mother didn't cry. She watched stoically, holding his hand tightly. Then she pushed herself up out of her wheelchair, laid her hands on him and prayed a prayer of thanksgiving for their marriage. I don't think I have ever been so proud of being Eunice's daughter. When I brought her home we lay in her bed, weeping. "What am I going to do without him?" she kept asking.
The answer came a month later. Aunt Martha had moved out of the downstairs apartment, we renovated it for mother and planned to move into the upstairs to take care of her. Our thoughts were that somewhere down the line we'd sell and get a bigger house for all of us. When I took mother on a tour of her new apartment she said, "Well now, I've lost everything. My husband, my home and my independence." I came in the morning for my daily visit and found her sitting in her green chair by the window. She was gazing out at the familiar scene. She turned and smiled at me. "Daddy was here. He said it was ok to come. Do you think I was hallucinating?" "No," I said, "I think he really did speak to you. I'm sure he's waiting for you."
From that moment on she didn't have another sad day. She quietly went about her business.
She developed what I thought was a cold. I made the doctor treat her. 'Rest' was all they would say. It wasn't a cold, of course, it was congestive heart failure that had been coming on for years. The only reason she had lived this long was because of Dad. "Bring her to the ER" said the doctor. I couldn't believe it. I wheeled her in and we had to sit in the waiting room. She kept smiling at a point in the far corner. We finally got to a booth in the ER, undressed, comfortable on a gurney if that's possible, waiting for tests and more doctors. I was reading a book when mother said, "Oh look, there's Daddy." We looked up the hallway in front of us, maybe 30 feet away. A short man stood in profile, wearing the shabby brown tweed coat Dad was buried in, scuffed brown shoes, his arms folded akimbo as was his usual, a thin line mouth expression. He rocked back and forth exactly like Dad did. Mother and I looked at one another, and when we looked back the man was gone. Now you tell me.....
The next week was mother's last. I sat by her bed almost 24/7. Her friends came to say goodbye, sing hymns, pray with her. They brought their children who loved 'Granny the Cookie Lady'. She and I shared the secrets of her life, things I had suspected but didn't know for sure. People from the 40s and their peccadilloes, the stray baby, the children gone wrong. Saintly behavior, grace in the face of disaster. I fastened a picture of Dad in his wedding suit on her tubing so she could see it without moving. One day when I came she said, "He's here, you know." and smiled her young girl's 'I know a secret' smile. She was getting younger by the hour. I was amazed. One would think a dying woman would get older, but no, she was going back, back in their lives together.
On the day she died, I apologized for being such a brat of a kid and she said, "I loved being your mother." I will never receive a gift as precious as that from my dying mother. As they took her up to hospice I put Dad's picture in her hand and she breathed her last holding on to him. Do I think he was there? You bet. She stopped struggling which she had been doing for the last week and with a gentle sigh, drifted away.
I saw her several times over the next month. I had a waking dream where she showed me heaven and answered questions I posed to her. I wrote this all down as it was appearing to me and have that paper framed in my home. One night, about 3 months later, I felt her presence beside my bed, leaning over me, tenderly. She said, "Its time for me to go. You'll be just fine. In motherhood is your salvation." And I have never again felt her presence. I do meet her in dreams when I need her as has happened several times, too many to be coincidence.
And here I am, right now, wanting my mother. Maybe she'll come to me tonight in my dreams?
I remember the night Dad died. Mother called me around 10 pm to say 'Daddy is very sick and I can't get him out of the bathroom.' Not because he was hogging up his time limit, but because she was, by then, pretty much crippled from arthritis and couldn't support his weight. I told her to call 911, I would meet them at the hospital and David would come get her. She bumped down the stairs on her bottom to open the door for the paramedics and they had to carry her back up. Throughout those hours she sat beside him in her wheelchair, holding his hand. At various times he had private conversations with David and I, saying goodbye and thank you for being a good son and daughter, giving mother into our care. When the time came and Dad began to fly away mother didn't cry. She watched stoically, holding his hand tightly. Then she pushed herself up out of her wheelchair, laid her hands on him and prayed a prayer of thanksgiving for their marriage. I don't think I have ever been so proud of being Eunice's daughter. When I brought her home we lay in her bed, weeping. "What am I going to do without him?" she kept asking.
The answer came a month later. Aunt Martha had moved out of the downstairs apartment, we renovated it for mother and planned to move into the upstairs to take care of her. Our thoughts were that somewhere down the line we'd sell and get a bigger house for all of us. When I took mother on a tour of her new apartment she said, "Well now, I've lost everything. My husband, my home and my independence." I came in the morning for my daily visit and found her sitting in her green chair by the window. She was gazing out at the familiar scene. She turned and smiled at me. "Daddy was here. He said it was ok to come. Do you think I was hallucinating?" "No," I said, "I think he really did speak to you. I'm sure he's waiting for you."
From that moment on she didn't have another sad day. She quietly went about her business.
She developed what I thought was a cold. I made the doctor treat her. 'Rest' was all they would say. It wasn't a cold, of course, it was congestive heart failure that had been coming on for years. The only reason she had lived this long was because of Dad. "Bring her to the ER" said the doctor. I couldn't believe it. I wheeled her in and we had to sit in the waiting room. She kept smiling at a point in the far corner. We finally got to a booth in the ER, undressed, comfortable on a gurney if that's possible, waiting for tests and more doctors. I was reading a book when mother said, "Oh look, there's Daddy." We looked up the hallway in front of us, maybe 30 feet away. A short man stood in profile, wearing the shabby brown tweed coat Dad was buried in, scuffed brown shoes, his arms folded akimbo as was his usual, a thin line mouth expression. He rocked back and forth exactly like Dad did. Mother and I looked at one another, and when we looked back the man was gone. Now you tell me.....
The next week was mother's last. I sat by her bed almost 24/7. Her friends came to say goodbye, sing hymns, pray with her. They brought their children who loved 'Granny the Cookie Lady'. She and I shared the secrets of her life, things I had suspected but didn't know for sure. People from the 40s and their peccadilloes, the stray baby, the children gone wrong. Saintly behavior, grace in the face of disaster. I fastened a picture of Dad in his wedding suit on her tubing so she could see it without moving. One day when I came she said, "He's here, you know." and smiled her young girl's 'I know a secret' smile. She was getting younger by the hour. I was amazed. One would think a dying woman would get older, but no, she was going back, back in their lives together.
On the day she died, I apologized for being such a brat of a kid and she said, "I loved being your mother." I will never receive a gift as precious as that from my dying mother. As they took her up to hospice I put Dad's picture in her hand and she breathed her last holding on to him. Do I think he was there? You bet. She stopped struggling which she had been doing for the last week and with a gentle sigh, drifted away.
I saw her several times over the next month. I had a waking dream where she showed me heaven and answered questions I posed to her. I wrote this all down as it was appearing to me and have that paper framed in my home. One night, about 3 months later, I felt her presence beside my bed, leaning over me, tenderly. She said, "Its time for me to go. You'll be just fine. In motherhood is your salvation." And I have never again felt her presence. I do meet her in dreams when I need her as has happened several times, too many to be coincidence.
And here I am, right now, wanting my mother. Maybe she'll come to me tonight in my dreams?
Thursday, November 22, 2012
Thankfulness
Today's the day! Brianna and I have been planning the menu for days, not that it takes too much thought. We're pretty traditional. We know what we like. Normally she's just in it for the turkey but this year she's asked for cheesy mashed potatoes and corn. Okay with me. We had breakfast together, then Dave put his famous orange turkey together and in to cook for it's 5 hours.
Brianna and I will plan our Black Friday journey. We go out at 5 am to Walmart and KMart, then breakfast at Panara. Then sleep all day.
Memories of the past - Mother put the turkey on early, Dad took me to a park. We'd feed the ducks, he'd take pictures, I'd have to go to the bathroom so he'd hold me over a hidden pile of leaves in the woods. I always had to go to the bathroom. Dinner was a big deal. Brother would put away prodigious amounts of food, sister was always serene, I was the wild card - didn't eat much, didn't like side dishes, was too ADHD to do well in a group, I'd get feisty, knock something over. Mother never seemed to mind. To her, that was life in a loving family. We were who we were.
Dinners at Granny's house or Aunt Jess's - quiet, dark houses, 'be on your best behavior Martha Jeanne', foods that I wouldn't touch with a ten foot pole, knick knacks that drove my mother insane that I might decided to play with them and break them, fragile, formal dishes and heavy silverware, linen cloth and napkins, paper thin aperitif glasses always full of crandberry juice which was yucky. BUT - in a circle of people who loved me, had some special treats for me, told wonderful stories about the Old Country. I was part of something bigger than I.
As a young married, dinner at David's house, Thanksgiving was also his mother's birthday, I was assigned a seat next to Aunt Kate who was the relative who was 'difficult' to them (I liked her) and Dave's father, an old Navy man. First I got my finger stuck in the tiny handle of a teacup, He looked at me and said, "What's the matter with you?" and yanked my finger out. Then Jan told me the dishes belonged to her grandmother and 'not a piece has been broken'. Gulp. Then, Art would carve at the table and give you the piece he wanted you to have, not the piece I wanted and he put it on my plate with these words from the military, "Take what you want, but eat what you take." Gulp again. When the kids came along it was my Granny's house all over again - stressed that someone would break something.
There was the year we decided not to go to their house and to make our own. I have a photo of my mother and I holding that turkey and smiling. It's one of my favorite pictures.
I find myself very thankful this year for all the usual things. But in particular, for the worst event that happened to me in the last three years. I've finally gotten to the point where I can see the reason and thank God for it. Yay! 3 years ago I walked into a restaurant in November, slipped and sprained hip, arm, leg and foot. I had to retire from my career, use a cane or walker for a year, go through a prolonged and nasty lawsuit, lose our life savings. We went from okay, to barely squeaking by. Had a breakdown.
2012 - Ah!! I see. The settlement, although small and not at all what I thought it would be, is a nice nest egg, and emergency fund for disasters. And we've had them. I hadn't realized then that I was really at the end of my career. Times change, especially in education and I wasn't up to rolling with them. I have a job now as substitute special ed assistant that lets me be home when I need to be, and when I'm working, it's terrific. I love the kids and have met some superlative teachers. The money isn't much but it buys food and emergencies. And I'm home for Brianna, otherwise she wouldn't be able to join any teams at school.
So I'm thankful for enlightenment most of all.
Brianna and I will plan our Black Friday journey. We go out at 5 am to Walmart and KMart, then breakfast at Panara. Then sleep all day.
Memories of the past - Mother put the turkey on early, Dad took me to a park. We'd feed the ducks, he'd take pictures, I'd have to go to the bathroom so he'd hold me over a hidden pile of leaves in the woods. I always had to go to the bathroom. Dinner was a big deal. Brother would put away prodigious amounts of food, sister was always serene, I was the wild card - didn't eat much, didn't like side dishes, was too ADHD to do well in a group, I'd get feisty, knock something over. Mother never seemed to mind. To her, that was life in a loving family. We were who we were.
Dinners at Granny's house or Aunt Jess's - quiet, dark houses, 'be on your best behavior Martha Jeanne', foods that I wouldn't touch with a ten foot pole, knick knacks that drove my mother insane that I might decided to play with them and break them, fragile, formal dishes and heavy silverware, linen cloth and napkins, paper thin aperitif glasses always full of crandberry juice which was yucky. BUT - in a circle of people who loved me, had some special treats for me, told wonderful stories about the Old Country. I was part of something bigger than I.
As a young married, dinner at David's house, Thanksgiving was also his mother's birthday, I was assigned a seat next to Aunt Kate who was the relative who was 'difficult' to them (I liked her) and Dave's father, an old Navy man. First I got my finger stuck in the tiny handle of a teacup, He looked at me and said, "What's the matter with you?" and yanked my finger out. Then Jan told me the dishes belonged to her grandmother and 'not a piece has been broken'. Gulp. Then, Art would carve at the table and give you the piece he wanted you to have, not the piece I wanted and he put it on my plate with these words from the military, "Take what you want, but eat what you take." Gulp again. When the kids came along it was my Granny's house all over again - stressed that someone would break something.
There was the year we decided not to go to their house and to make our own. I have a photo of my mother and I holding that turkey and smiling. It's one of my favorite pictures.
I find myself very thankful this year for all the usual things. But in particular, for the worst event that happened to me in the last three years. I've finally gotten to the point where I can see the reason and thank God for it. Yay! 3 years ago I walked into a restaurant in November, slipped and sprained hip, arm, leg and foot. I had to retire from my career, use a cane or walker for a year, go through a prolonged and nasty lawsuit, lose our life savings. We went from okay, to barely squeaking by. Had a breakdown.
2012 - Ah!! I see. The settlement, although small and not at all what I thought it would be, is a nice nest egg, and emergency fund for disasters. And we've had them. I hadn't realized then that I was really at the end of my career. Times change, especially in education and I wasn't up to rolling with them. I have a job now as substitute special ed assistant that lets me be home when I need to be, and when I'm working, it's terrific. I love the kids and have met some superlative teachers. The money isn't much but it buys food and emergencies. And I'm home for Brianna, otherwise she wouldn't be able to join any teams at school.
So I'm thankful for enlightenment most of all.
Tuesday, November 20, 2012
Holiday Dinners
Breathes there a child who hasn't had to live through holiday dinners with the extended family? Waiting for dinner while the grown ups socialized, that one relative nobody really wants to invite but, hey, what are you going to do, picking at your dinner while the grown ups ate and socialized, wilting with boredome while the grownups yakked away after dinner, tried to find something to do for the rest of the night but there wasn't much so you got in trouble in one way or another and mother sighed on the way home, "Next time we're leaving you home!" ("Good").
Oh, was that just me?
My earliest memories are of my aunt and uncle's house. It was a beautiful old carriage house, soft lighting, dark wood. I was the baby so everybody was nice to me. Aunt and Uncle were friendly. Granny and PopPop seemed old to me but couldn't have been but 65-70. My parents were laid back and understood that a kid was a kid. For some unaccountable reason, Aunt gave me a pop gun. Okay, she never had children so I guess Auntie took a wild guess and thought an inquisitive little chipmunk like me would enjoy a pop gun. I was enjoying it and imagine that within five minutes of having it everyone was sorry the thing had come into the house. Hey, I thought, my PopPop likes good fun! I'll pretend to shoot him and he'll laugh. He was, by this time, a little weak with ill health, not always catching on quickly. Granny protected and cared for him stringently. I snuck up behind him, put the gun to his ear and let fly. The cork flew out, hit him above the ear, making a loud POP. He screamed, not knowing what to think, I remember him wobbling, people came rushing. I stepped back to observe the action. "Gee, what's with him?" Aunt grabbed the gun away, Granny helped her husband into a quiet room to recover, my mother took me by the hand to walk around outside while she explained my poor choice. And the memory embedded itself in my brain for the rest of my life.
I remember looong dinners at Granny and PopPop's house in Philadelphia. I only ate bread and turkey, not all that other stuff. Mashed turnips? No thank you, only I wasn't that polite. Then Granny would give me the lecture about how when she was a girl all they had to eat was dirt and they liked it... Then turning upside down on my chair from boredom, trying not to break the fragile china with the heavy silverware.
And this is what I've got to ask mother when I get to heaven - why on earth didn't you bring toys or something for me? I mean, you knew what I was like. A doll for goodness sakes?
Christmas dinners, while presents were piled under the tree and you had to wait through drinks and appetizers, sit through a boring dinner, then sit through after dinner talk which was dumb stuff, finally get released to get to the reason why you came, other than mother making you. Same thing for my girls at Nana's house - wait, wait, wait, blah blah blah. (I brought toys for them however).
Christmas and Easter dinners here in this house when my girls were young? It was my parents house then and it was wonderful. Dad had a way of making everything magic, sometimes literally. He was a magician among other things. There would be art materials and toys bought just for that occasion, and a Swedish angel candle - you know them, you light the four candles, the angels at the top go around from the heat and ring little bells? Highlight of dinner at Granny's - playing with fire. A dinner served that was child friendly. No mashed turnips.
It's Thanksgiving in a few days and Dave and I are planning our meal. It will be just the four of us as usual. The other two families live hours away. We've asked Brianna to help plan the food so we can be sure she'll eat it. Em will make her famous squash soup. Brianna has no way of understanding how important these feast days are, even though its just us, same old kitchen, same old food.
Holiday meals are when memories are shared, we get to listen to old stories, of grandma and grandpa's childhoods, how mommy was when she was young, you see family dynamics with the popular relatives and the ones you had to reluctantly invite (thank God we don't have one of those. We like all our relatives). We see how the old folks are treated, respected or not. You learn table manners, discretion, how to behave in someone else's home. You see china and stem ware, linen tablecloths and cloth napkins.
Who knew so much went in to holidays at Grandma's?
Oh, was that just me?
My earliest memories are of my aunt and uncle's house. It was a beautiful old carriage house, soft lighting, dark wood. I was the baby so everybody was nice to me. Aunt and Uncle were friendly. Granny and PopPop seemed old to me but couldn't have been but 65-70. My parents were laid back and understood that a kid was a kid. For some unaccountable reason, Aunt gave me a pop gun. Okay, she never had children so I guess Auntie took a wild guess and thought an inquisitive little chipmunk like me would enjoy a pop gun. I was enjoying it and imagine that within five minutes of having it everyone was sorry the thing had come into the house. Hey, I thought, my PopPop likes good fun! I'll pretend to shoot him and he'll laugh. He was, by this time, a little weak with ill health, not always catching on quickly. Granny protected and cared for him stringently. I snuck up behind him, put the gun to his ear and let fly. The cork flew out, hit him above the ear, making a loud POP. He screamed, not knowing what to think, I remember him wobbling, people came rushing. I stepped back to observe the action. "Gee, what's with him?" Aunt grabbed the gun away, Granny helped her husband into a quiet room to recover, my mother took me by the hand to walk around outside while she explained my poor choice. And the memory embedded itself in my brain for the rest of my life.
I remember looong dinners at Granny and PopPop's house in Philadelphia. I only ate bread and turkey, not all that other stuff. Mashed turnips? No thank you, only I wasn't that polite. Then Granny would give me the lecture about how when she was a girl all they had to eat was dirt and they liked it... Then turning upside down on my chair from boredom, trying not to break the fragile china with the heavy silverware.
And this is what I've got to ask mother when I get to heaven - why on earth didn't you bring toys or something for me? I mean, you knew what I was like. A doll for goodness sakes?
Christmas dinners, while presents were piled under the tree and you had to wait through drinks and appetizers, sit through a boring dinner, then sit through after dinner talk which was dumb stuff, finally get released to get to the reason why you came, other than mother making you. Same thing for my girls at Nana's house - wait, wait, wait, blah blah blah. (I brought toys for them however).
Christmas and Easter dinners here in this house when my girls were young? It was my parents house then and it was wonderful. Dad had a way of making everything magic, sometimes literally. He was a magician among other things. There would be art materials and toys bought just for that occasion, and a Swedish angel candle - you know them, you light the four candles, the angels at the top go around from the heat and ring little bells? Highlight of dinner at Granny's - playing with fire. A dinner served that was child friendly. No mashed turnips.
It's Thanksgiving in a few days and Dave and I are planning our meal. It will be just the four of us as usual. The other two families live hours away. We've asked Brianna to help plan the food so we can be sure she'll eat it. Em will make her famous squash soup. Brianna has no way of understanding how important these feast days are, even though its just us, same old kitchen, same old food.
Holiday meals are when memories are shared, we get to listen to old stories, of grandma and grandpa's childhoods, how mommy was when she was young, you see family dynamics with the popular relatives and the ones you had to reluctantly invite (thank God we don't have one of those. We like all our relatives). We see how the old folks are treated, respected or not. You learn table manners, discretion, how to behave in someone else's home. You see china and stem ware, linen tablecloths and cloth napkins.
Who knew so much went in to holidays at Grandma's?
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