untitled

I've avoided writing anything for a while, the biggest reason being it's often my favorite way to pray. Those who know me well know that God and I have been having a bit of a tiff. Or a standoff. He keeps reaching out to me, as He does always, while I've been trying to avoid noticing. In some important aspects of my life I've been discouraged from sharing that fact. But the fact is, the more I hide it, the stronger the resistance gets. That's not what God intends, from what I was beginning to understand. God intended for us to live in community, not in isolation. Keeping this to myself isolates me, increasing my doubt, my feelings of inadequacy, my fear. Be not afraid, He tells us in the bible 365 times (or so I'm told) - once for every day of the year.

I won't be afraid.

This afternoon I listened to some very compelling words about the importance of two parents, a strong marriage between parents, being a very determining factor in faith. There was a lot more to it than that -- a LOT -- but that's the part that stung, A few weeks ago I heard a homily along a similar line, and it hit me so hard I actually looked up bishops and saints who had single or divorced mothers. I discovered that day that St Helen is the patron Saint of divorced women. That was shortly before or after the day I had to get up and leave Mass because of a reading directing not to feel fear after I'd spent weeks coming to the understanding that 'BE not afraid' could very reasonably mean not to LIVE in fear -- feel it when it comes, acknowledge it, and let it go. I digress....

Today's words stirred a similar flight response, but not as strong, and I consciously made the decision to stay put and see where this ride would take me. To say that staying was difficult is an understatement. Sheer determination kept me there. And a need to understand. As I listened, I felt the resentment that has tried to take root tickle at the edge of my faith. I got angry, really angry, and prayed a simple "speak to me." The truth is, not talking, being isolated from my pain, frustration, confusion, anger, all of it has been wearing at my faith more than the actual events related to the end of my marriage. By allowing the direction of "don't talk about it" to be 'true' (for want of a better word) I'm left to deal on my own with not only the straightforward legal aspects, but I've also been forced to ignore how my faith might be affected. Has been eroded. Quite frankly down to nearly nothing. The fact is, I needed prayer. Still do. I needed sympathy. Still do. I needed to be able to say I was having a difficult day. I needed to be able to say that I was feeling good for the moment, but that could change with a word, a look, a tick of the clock. No one can understand what any of that means unless they've been through it, and honestly, that's the reason I was discouraged from sharing, I'd wager.

One consequence of that 'advice' is that I was made to feel unworthy of love. Irony: I knew I was worthy of love, that I am worth more than many sparrows -- to God. That stuck. I was made to feel unworthy of the love of my family in Christ -- unworthy of the love of my peers in the church I was supposed to feel most attached to, the place I teach teens doggedly that they can always turn. All the while feeling, seeing, that I was being turned away, held at arm's length, unembraceable. I'm eternally grateful to the Father who Loves me for the break in programming we've had. And also for the realization in the midst of today's words that despite the fact that I feel shut out, my home is eternal and more far reaching than one community, one building, one group. I have a home in the Universal Church, and therefore am never homeless.

This is not the first time this sort of thing has happened. When I lost a baby that would have turned 22 last February, I was discouraged from talking about my grief because 'not everyone understands.' Perhaps part of any grief cannot truly be understood by others. But perhaps not enough credit is being given to the power of compassion. Because truly, in the end, it's not understanding but compassion that has healing power. Some of the most helpful people in my circle (most of whom are not Catholic) have never been through a separation and divorce, and therefore cannot truly understand the depth and breadth of the emotions (high and low). However, their compassion comforts me far more than they will ever begin to comprehend. One day I lamented that I was never offered a prayer shawl in the days that I was so lost, hurt, and broken that I wanted nothing more than to be wrapped in love and to have the physical comfort of something - anything - around my body offering warmth. That memory came to mind today, along with the stuffed lion my friends gave me to be my strength when i feel weak, and it occurred to me that he's my prayer shawl. My community is beyond where I thought its boundaries existed.

I'm still searching. But I know I am home in His arms. Always.

always your day

Dear Dad,

More than anything, I wish I could call you and say Happy Birthday. Instead, this keyboard and the phone line in  my heart are all I have. For the past 9 days, I have been wearing my Daddy's Girl necklace, as I do during this 'novena.' Most years I have prayed your rosary every day from the day you died until your birthday. Not this year. I've thought about it, but I had other Dad things on my heart. I've really been missing your hugs, your gaze, your smile. The way you hung your coffee cup from your finger when it was empty, along with the pot, but the conversation was still full. The way you thought nothing of staying in pajamas to talk on Saturday mornings, sometimes into lunch time. I painted my bedroom last weekend, and from time to time wished you were there to help -- mostly with the less fun parts, like the edges and painting around the radiator; the parts you would have gravitated toward. I love doing that stuff you used to do. I'm looking forward to the woodworking projects I have planned in there that would have been your 'things' and that I always wished I could do with you. I still have the dollhouse. Everyone still marvels at the table. You are still here.

We never talked about boys. Your example of who you were to me is all the advice I ever got from you. Since I knew no one could ever be you, or take your place, or calm my heart the way your left arm hugs did, I never tried to find anyone like you. I wish we had. I wish I'd told you about how much that boy in high school broke my heart, again and again. I wish I'd told you how cute I thought that boy at church was, and that it turned out his locker was across the hall from mine. And that he kissed me on my birthday, and was later threatened by that boyfriend. I wish I'd introduced you to the boy in college who had the most beautiful eyes I'd ever seen, and to his roommates who told me their job was to chaperon and protect me, because they wanted to know that there were girls out there like me. I wish I'd shown you the letters from the boy who wrote me every week when he was at boot camp. I wish you could have told me that all those things meant something; that there were lessons about life, love, hope, myself in all of those things. I wish I'd had the nerve to tell you everything. I wanted to be your little girl forever, and you promised I would be. I wish I'd known that that meant I could share grown up thoughts with you, and still know your love mirroring God's love. I wish you'd told me. I wish I'd asked.

Some days I wish I'd paused on that afternoon 25 years ago when you said to me, "We don't have to do this. We could walk the other way." Nearly every day I've wondered if there was more you wanted to say, or if you really were saying what you thought would touch my heart most. Some days I'm angry you didn't push me; other days I am so incredibly grateful that your encouragement was gentle and constant. Some days I figure by now you'd be a cranky old man, grumbling about chores and noise and things that are out of place. But I know you would be my cranky old man -- the one I would defend to the teeth, love fiercely.

Wishes can't change a damn thing. However, dreams can. I still have dreams, Dad, and I still bounce them off of you from time to time, although sometimes I forget to put you in the loop because they involve things we'd never talked about: boys, faults, fears, and overcoming the same. I still dream of introducing you to my friends. Occasionally it's you that keeps someone at a distance -- I ask myself what you would think of someone (I remember the one and only time I ever heard you say that an acquaintance was never welcome in our home again, and I'm glad you said it, but even more relieved he wasn't my guest.) Most of the time I miss you because you liked everyone, or, more realistically, had a real talent for making everyone think you liked them. I admire that more than I ever would have told you. I always wished I could have that gift. Had I talked with you about it, you would have pointed out that I do, I simply use it the way I use it, not the way you did. Had I talked with you about so many things, they would have been clearer.

Dad, I was afraid of your insights, I think. I was afraid you'd be right, and I'd be hurt by my own lack of experience. I know now, far too late, that is a hurt that you would have soothed in the way only a daddy can: with the love that a daddy has for his Stephania. I'm sorry I didn't know to talk to you. I'm sorry I didn't ask if you wanted to know. I'm sorry I let myself hide this hurt from you. I'm grateful that telling you, even after you've been gone for nine years, feels right. There was a time when your chair seemed like the best connection I had to you, and a few of your shirts, little gifts you'd given me. Today I know that the best connection I have to you is, and will always be, in my heart, in my memories. The rest is just stuff. The gravy is all around me. In the past few months, I've been missing the gravy. Please continue to intercede for me. I need you now more than ever. Remind me again which of my friends I can find you in. And know that your hug still melts my heart, my hand in yours still lifts my spirits. No boy will ever be you to me. Instead of that being a barrier, I'll make that my goal.

I love you, Dad.
I miss you.
Happy Birthday.

Love, Stephania
xo

joy and sorrow

 Then a woman said, "Speak to us of Joy and Sorrow."       And he answered:       Your joy is your sorrow unmasked.       And the selfsame well from which your laughter rises was oftentimes filled with your tears.       And how else can it be?       The deeper that sorrow carves into your being, the more joy you can contain.       Is not the cup that hold your wine the very cup that was burned in the potter's oven?       And is not the lute that soothes your spirit, the very wood that was hollowed with knives?      When you are joyous, look deep into your heart and you shall find it is only that which has given you sorrow that is giving you joy.       When you are sorrowful look again in your heart, and you shall see that in truth you are weeping for that which has been your delight.       Some of you say, "Joy is greater than sorrow," and others say, "Nay, sorrow is the greater."       But I say unto you, they are inseparable.       Together they come, and when one sits alone with you at your board, remember that the other is asleep upon your bed.       Verily you are suspended like scales between your sorrow and your joy.      Only when you are empty are you at standstill and balanced.       When the treasure-keeper lifts you to weigh his gold and his silver, needs must your joy or your sorrow rise or fall. ~Khalil Gibran, The Prophet

This is reflective of a conversation today. Joy and sorrow are so tightly intermingled, so woven together. Sometimes that idea is soothing, but other times painful, uncomfortable, or downright frightening. There is so much about the connection between joy and sorrow that has been on my mind most of my life, it seems. 

Yet the sorrow we talked about today isn't anything I can fathom. At one point, I said that I know what I would think, where I could have identified some of my pain, if it were me. But at the same time, we both knew, very well, that it wasn't. Harder still, though we both wanted to talk about it with each other, there was something very specific that got in the way -- in both directions. Oddly, ironically, what got in the way is the same thing that led me to the passage above: faith. More specifically, my faith. 

Hearing part of this passage this evening, I immediately thought of my friend. Of her pain, her sorrow, her sharing today. And I also thought of the immense joy that is a huge part of who she is as a woman, as a friend, as a sister. I learned so much from her today as we talked. I could relate to so much of what hurts, but not exactly, and that is okay. There are no platitudes that can help ease her suffering. I can't make any of it better, and we both know that. But I can continue to do what I've been doing for her: I can pray. Where she is afraid, I can pray. When she is angry, I can pray. In her sorrow and in her joy, I can offer prayer for her, because I know she can't right now. I know because she told me. I know because I've been there.

I firmly believe we are all here as people of faith to carry each other through from time to time. Praying and praising is sometimes easy, understandable and free. Other times, it feels pointless, useless, exhausting. When our self-sufficiency melts away into nothingness, and we feel empty inside, sometimes we can pray on our own.....but mostly, for me, the best thing I can find to be a blessing is the knowledge that someone else is doing my praying for me; bending God's ear on my behalf. He's always there, even when we can't feel His presence -- or when we don't really want to admit that we don't want to feel it. He's there. He asks for us, calls us, opens His arms to hold us. 

I wish the wishes could come true. That the facts, the time, the events could be changed or modified, improved. But that's my broken, confused, human self wanting what I think would be best. It will all be as it should be, but for now, we pray and embrace through the now. 

exactly four weeks

It's February. My favorite month. Always has been. That's a wee bit funny, because my favorite season is fall, but that is what it is. That's me. So many wonderful things packed into such a short month! Actually, I think the fact that it's short is part of the appeal for me. Of course, the month starts with my birthday, and sometimes ends with an extra day (a bonus!), so the in between should be super, right? When I was a kid, we always had a week off in February -- time for me to enjoy all the books I'd gotten for Christmas and my birthday, or to go sledding in the 'forest' next door, or simply wander in the snow making trails when I'd gotten a little older and felt the need.

My dad died in February, and his funeral was on Valentine's Day, so for a time I thought that February would never be the same. At some point, I realized I still liked February, despite that pain and sorrow that still hits me (often when I least expect it) not only this month, but throughout the year. I kept it to myself. Who would understand? Who would believe me? What would happen if I shared? I realize now that if I share, I will be true to myself -- thereby honoring Dad.

So there you have it -- I love February!

Dad's birthday was in February, too, and a lot of really neat people I've met have birthdays that begin with 2. A couple of my very best friends (who also happen to be related to me) were married in February. Our first baby was due in February. There's Candlemas Day, and the Feast of St. Blaise. And there is snow while the days get progressively longer. That's what hit me this morning: the sunlight lasts noticeably longer in February. And that's when I realized I could share.

I love February. I love that Dad's birthday was in February, and that this year it's Ash Wednesday. I love that I can see the sunlight on the snow in the evening. I love that it's been snowing! I love that usually by the last day of February our forsythia bush is covered in buds, and occasionally the first crocus pops up unexpectedly. I love that February is short and sweet, and that the dates are exactly the same as March, except in Leap Year. I love that when I think about February, I remember the good stuff more than the bad, and that I know before long we will be complaining about something other than cold. The end of the school year suddenly seems possible, close, and the prospect of lazy summer evenings on the porch or by the fire is close to real.

I love this sweet little month. Even when it hurts.

rejoice for you

Life is a funny thing. A few years ago, I thought my life was the most important thing I had. I was convinced that living my life meant doing more, being more, seeing more. Then I found myself disappointed because there were too many constraints on my resources -- time and money, mostly -- to get out and do. Trying to convince myself that the free stuff would do, I would still get mired in the time part. Nothing could make it all make sense. Somewhere in that time, I did manage to have some sanity and finish my degree -- a time and money commitment that made sense for lots of reasons. Still, I thought there should be more for me to do and see. Time marching on made the whole time kind of frantic. The darktime of winter doesn't help.

At one time, there was no such thing. Growing up, I loved winter. I loved the sun and the moon on the snow. I loved the silence that snow brought to the air; the stillness that only came on a winter evening. The sparkle of individual snowflakes in the air and in a snowbank. True, I loved it all from a window most of the time, but fall and winter were my favorites. An outdoorsy girl I never was, and these were the inside seasons; more time indoors, and more time allowed to sit and read or daydream. The darktime crept in later, living on a busier street, young kids, and staying at home with them was the beginning, but ...

The other day I stopped to visit a friend at work. I see him often, but we rarely get to talk much. In fact, I really only get to talk with him when he's at work and I visit. It seems to be the only time no one else is around to interrupt. We talked shop a little, and then got to talking about some health problems another friend is having. He's often told me about praying for his friends, and how he wishes he could do more for them. As we talked, he said he often asks the Lord before closing his eyes for the night that it be the last time; that he might just be invited to be with Him. As tears sprung to my eyes, I looked at him and made a promise. "When that happens, I promise I will rejoice." I watched as tears welled up in his eyes, and continued, "I will be sad for me, but I promise that for you I will rejoice." And I meant it. I don't know anyone else I could say that to, and mean it as much as I do. He hugged me close, thanked me, and I headed home, grateful to have him as both a friend and an example of faith.

During that frantic time -- which sometimes tries to steal my peace -- I never could have said, or even thought, such a thing. During that frantic time, I was not looking for peace, as I thought I was. I was looking for fullness, for something to fill what was missing in my heart. What I've learned, slowly and late, is that when Augustine talked about the God-shaped hole in our hearts, he nailed it. It didn't matter how many places I went, or how much stuff I had or did, if I couldn't share it with Someone who was right beside me the entire time, there was no point. My friend has shown me that in small things that he does, that he says, in the way he sees each person he talks to as the only person in the world in that brief moment. There will be a day when I miss him, the touch of his hand at Mass in the morning, his smile crinkling his eyes to slits, but in the meantime, I will continue to pray for him. He reminds me of Dad; his arms always open for a hug when I need one, and his attention focused when he questions me.

My birthday is next week; another reason I loved winter. February is nice for a lot of reasons: it's a short month, it's full of birthdays (me, Dad, Uncle Flash, Washington, Lincoln, just to name a few), and it's pretty quiet, other than a groundhog frenzy at the beginning and hearts and flowers in the middle. When Dad died in February a few years ago, I thought that affinity was going to be gone. There are times when there is still a sharp pain in my very being when I think of him, and I have to admit, he's the first one I thought of as I left my friend's shop. but I'm beginning to find joy even in that pain. My heart has him to miss, and that's a great gift. I've been able to picture him welcoming so many others to heaven. And I've begun to learn to let him go so that I can become the woman I am.

There are people who come into our lives, and we learn from them, we lean on them, we grow because of them. I blessed to have so many.

full of grace

On this date, seven years ago, my father opened his eyes for the last time as my sister and I sang to him a prayer to Our Lady. It was 3:05. Today, an alarm goes off on my phone each day at 3:05 as a reminder to say a little prayer: "Jesus, I trust in you. I will sit at your feet and listen to you speak." It has little to do with that day, and yet everything.

I was devastated at that moment. Standing at his bedside as his heart beat its last, I felt that I'd been cursed with the experience. The last thing I wanted to remember about that day was that moment. But my sister, when she looked at the time, cried out that it was the hour of Divine Mercy. I had no idea what she was talking about, or why she found it to be so fitting that we had been singing the Hail Mary at that moment. It would take years of searching for me to realize the power in that moment. And now, after seven years, I almost wish I could experience it all again so that the memories could be different.

The first thing is that I wasn't even supposed to be there. I had an appointment to get my hair cut at noon, and after that, the earliest I could hope to arrive was around 5:30. Dad would be fine, after all, and it was silly to change everything just because he'd been taken to the hospital. But I'd cancelled the appointment, and left at 10. My sister was surprised to see me. My brother had arrived before me, and had been visiting--sitting vigil, I realized. I was taken aback by what I saw in Dad's corner room of the ICU. When we heard that another brother's flight had just arrived, I offered to pick him up, but since I was the newest arrival, I was told to stay. Brother left to get brother while sister stayed with sister. Still two siblings outstanding, and none of us wanted to believe.

Not really knowing what to do, we chatted awkwardly, then began to sing together. Eyes opened, eyes searched, eyes closed, heart stopped. And I was filled with tremendous guilt. My brother had gotten there first; he should have been there. My brother had just landed; we should have waited to pray. Mom should have been holding his hand; not us. Who wants to be there to see someone they love die, anyway? Guilt gave way to anger, frustration, pain, sorrow......questions.

So much has happened, has changed, has been explained since then. So much has healed my soul, although there is still -- will always be -- a gaping hole where he would be in my life. When I have questions or complaints about life. When the boys do wonderful or irritating things. When I just need to hear his voice, feel his hug, see his silly dance, feel his shoulder under my head.

Not long ago, I read about a volunteer initiative at a hospital that ensures that no one dies alone. These people sit waiting on call or in the chapel at the hospital and sit with those whose families are not available, or who don't have families, and love them to the next world. Sometimes with prayer or song, sometimes in silence, but always with a hand to hold. The article warmed my heart, and made me long for the opportunity in my own community to be a part of something so generous, so loving, so beautiful, and I realized I had turned a corner. Being there at that bedside was a blessing, whether I wanted it to be or not. I still wish my brothers and my other sister could have seen him before he died, and I still wish I could share a cup of coffee or a glass of wine with him, but the most important thing is that we were there, and we recognized his life in his death.

I've since learned so much about Divine Mercy, and about mercy in general (though 'in general' does not begin to address the beauty and magnitude of God's mercy) and I am so awed by the timing and the significance of the moment. After seven years, I'm willing to say that I would not give up that memory, despite years of trying to forget. Thank you, Lord, for answering that prayer in the way that only You know is best.

closed doors, open hearts

The door and Dad's ladder

The porch project was started a year or so ago, and is, as of today, just about finished. But the biggest part of it was even older than that. Some time ago, we moved a door and a window, flip-flopping their positions to make more room in our kitchen, and also on the porch. It took a while to get all the trim reapplied, and there was  a bit that didn't quite fit right after the move. At this point, I should probably clarify that when I say "we moved," I really mean that Guy, Dad and a good friend took a sledgehammer and a saw to the side of our house, while I took the kids to a park to play; and that the trim was finally applied with my sister's help. But it was Dad who often said that he would rework the trim sometime, and then paint. Something else always came up, or the weather just didn't co-operate, and the tidying up was put off again and again. The last time Dad was here, he mentioned it, saying that if he felt better, he would tackle it.

I painted it yesterday.

Some days I miss him more than others, and often the timing is inexplicable. This weekend I miss him, and it is completely and totally explicable. I've been having discussions of faith that have caused me to really dig deep into what I know, what I've learned, and what I know I am able to share. There was a time when I would have followed up the discussions with a "debriefing" with Dad. Of course, that time was long, long before the door thing, but the discussions still serve as a reminder that I won't hear his voice at the end of the day. Painting the rafters on the porch--the aim of this weekend's project--also involved using Dad's ladder, which bordered on rickety when he left it here for us, and has certainly not gotten any better! (As far as I can tell, it's no worse than it was, but we should probably get a new one one of these days.) Pulling the ladder out to work on a project always gets me thinking of him, and about the fact that usually I disregard his #1 rule about using a ladder: ALWAYS have one of your kids hold the other side. I never knew if it was for safety or for company, but I loved when I was the kid holding the wrong side of this ladder.

The door is broken. We can't use it to get in the house, although we could use it to escape in an emergency. Dad hoped to fix that, too.

As anyone who has suffered a profound loss knows, there is no recovery. The pain ebbs and flows, and you (hopefully) learn to surround yourself with people who can allow you to ride the tide. Painting the door frame was a big thing. But only to me, I'd wager. I still need to scrape the paint off the transom, which won't take long, but will probably remind me that yesterday I took a 1" sash brush loaded with paint and covered up his penciled note "facing out." The real reason I hadn't painted the trim before. Yesterday, with the first coat of paint, that hurt far less than the second coat today, but I started in that corner today, whereas I had finished there yesterday. The reminder at the beginning today gave me time to remember, to think, to ponder, to pray.

I remembered going with him to help build the playground at church; a parallel to the project Guy was helping with today at church, where I later joined him.

I thought about the limbs we were going to remove at Mom's even later today, and how that was a project Dad would have done. Then I came to the really difficult realization that he would not have done it. I remember him as he was, which is a blessing. Today was the first time I really thought about the fact that he, too, would have aged. Even if he was here today, we still would need to get those limbs, in all likelihood. That's a hard pill to swallow. And that's when I really felt broken. I figure he was holding the other side of the ladder, and that he's the one who knocked the brush bucket off a couple of times, trying to get my attention. It worked. I got the message.

The door is still broken, and probably will be for a while. Dad was our handyman, and our teacher for tinkering. One of these days, we'll have someone fix it up, but in the meantime, it's just a wall anyway, so it's no big deal. The trim on the outside looks good, even if it doesn't fit right. Next, I'll paint the threshold (which could get tricky, and could take another year!), but that has no special significance to me.

My heart is broken, too. But the thing I've found is that if I let it, the broken part becomes an open part. When I feel that hurt, when I miss him, I've learned--at least on days like today--to allow the goodness of his example to flow into that space and fill it with the joy of his being. This morning we left church with Ode to Joy in our ears. Dad loved that one, and would dance his way out of church after it. Ode to Joy was the recessional at our wedding, and Dad danced his way to the receiving line. That joy, that silly dance that he couldn't NOT do--that's what filled the open part today.

love never fails

As part of the spiritual book club at church, I am reading Paul, a novel, by Walter Wangerin, Jr. It is fictionalized, and is, I've been told I'll find, clearly not Catholic in nature. Still, the reason it was chosen was to give a perspective on the life of a man that a dear friend calls "a great Bible dude." I'm enjoying the story, told from the perspectives of many of Paul's friends and followers, as well as Paul himself.

Some of the parts that affect me the most are not related to Paul's teachings (at least, I haven't seen the connection yet!) per se. I'm becoming attached to Prisca in particular. She and Aquila, tent-makers by trade, take Paul in when he arrives in Corinth. She taken in by his voice and teachings. In her musings, she begins to touch on deep feelings that I can relate to, regarding grief combined with anger and bitterness.

So then I was suffering something infinitely more killing than loneliness. Anguish of the heart. Violent, physical spasms of guilt. Poor Aquila watched with a heavy-handed helplessness. Do you know?--I felt such sympathy for him in those days. And there was a part of me that wanted terribly to comfort him. But it was the smallest part. I couldn't help my husband either, could only cry, would not control my tears -- causing him his own sort of loneliness. (p. 211)

I could feel her pain. I could feel her desire to reach out to another who was grieving. Prisca's father had said cruel words to her about her mother's death, wanting to make her feel as though she was the reason; that their leaving Rome may have contributed to her death. The reasons for Prisca's pain were much greater, on a much grander scale than any pain I have suffered. And yet, the pain of shared loneliness is something I am familiar with.

For Prisca and Aquila, the cycle was broken by the arrival of Paul. In many ways, I can relate to that, too. Paul wrote and taught of Love. There is nothing greater than Love. But Love needs an entrance. That loneliness combined with guilt built a wall; reinforced a barrier between two hearts. I've been there, feeling as though I should comfort, but wishing (who am I kidding? Demanding!) for more comfort toward me.

Like Prisca, I now realize that an outpouring of love is what allows comfort. And an outpouring, and acceptance, of Love. One comes from those around us, who may or may not know and understand our pain, but are willing to listen, to hear, to cry and laugh, to hug, and even to ask difficult questions from time to time. The other comes from Someone Greater. One who does understand our pain and suffering, and would never minimize it, but can help us to put it into perspective.

I am forever grateful to a dear person I consider a friend who insisted that Love Heals All Wounds. He was right. I'm pleased to be in the transcendent company of one who heard those words first from Paul (where, honestly, I had heard them, too; I just had never thought to apply them to my own life when it really counted!), and then went on to share them with others. At least in this story.

Regardless, the lesson is the same. It is real. Love is Real.

from above

Confidence of man in man is the fundamental sanction that upholds every secure title to wealth.

I saw this while walking downtown today; it is carved along the top of the Finance building across from my building. A few minutes before, I read some comments from a couple of friends, and a couple of people I didn't even know, regarding Kermit Gosnell, his patients, his victims......These friends and I have been having a very difficult time processing the information, the news, the pain associated with the story.

At one time, I would have thought that those most affected by news of late term abortions could be pigeonholed: militantly religious, mostly. At one time, not even bothering to learn anything about any abortion procedures, let alone late term, I truly believed in the need for abortion to be legal, but only because I knew that women would have them--legal or not--and I foolishly believed that if they were legal, they would at least be done in a safe environment.

That was before I lost a baby of my own. That was after the two times I feared I was pregnant, but wasn't. For the most part, I simply avoided the topic at all costs. I put my head in the sand, and then busied myself with the family we later started. I've been having second thoughts about my younger idealistic fantasies about the ways of the world. Then I heard about this man in Philadelphia. Originally, I heard about him a few years ago: a short little something about a guy performing partial-birth abortions--delivering the head, severing the spinal cord, then removing (rather than delivering) the rest of the baby. Apparently, since most of the body was still inside the mother, he was not murdering the babies, he was simply performing a variation on a perfectly legal and acceptable procedure. I was discomfited, but naively believed that his was an isolated case. Further, since I never heard anything else about it, I allowed myself to believe that it was over; that everyone knew that it was awful, and that it wouldn't happen again.

About a week or so ago, a friend posted a story. For a couple of reasons, I decided I needed more proof, or for certain friends to verify.....for the news to pick up the story. I had forgotten about hearing it all before. Until those things happened, I wasn't even going to read the story. Could be about anything. Turns out, more than just the friends I hoped would clarify started posting. Then I not only read the story, but watched a documentary-in-progress, and realized that I had been fooled for so long about the clinical cleanliness of abortions. My world has been turned upside down, my soul cries, and there is a strange feeling in the pit of my being. I couldn't explain it, or find words to express the anguish--the first steps in healing and moving forward.

Then I read the comments, and saw the words (literally!) above, and I realized what I feel. I've lost confidence in my fellow man. Not the people near and dear to me that I can share this with, but the people who could have addressed this more clearly, made more noise. I live in the state of Pennsylvania, for Pete's sake, and never heard anything about the hearings happening just a couple of miles from my home. Nothing in the news, on 20/20, on the cover of some magazine at the grocery store. The mainstream media has instead been concerned with trivia.

As for the comments......my prayers are for the mothers, the patients, the families. I pray that the babies comfort those here suffering a loss, of any kind; that they have found peace in Heaven; that their presence there can somehow work toward restoring faith for someone. As a nation, as a world, I wonder if wealth is even a possible descriptor in the future. I am small; I am but one. I see a wealth of faith in my close friends, my family of the heart. I pray that each and every one of us can spread just one spark of faith, of confidence, to restore the wealth of human spirit.

The rest of the quote carved on the building:

The foundations of general prosperity are laid in the industry and integrity of the people.

 I hope so.

a missing birthday

Today was Dad's birthday. In emailing with a couple of my siblings, and talking with Guy, I've discovered that this anniversary week has been a particularly tough one for the general "us." Most of the anniversary milestones I've experienced have been more joyful, amazing or awe-inspiring than sorrowful, so I was quite unprepared for this. The first anniversary of our wedding, and the boys' first birthdays were all amazing milestones that almost came as a surprise, as in, "How could this time have passed so quickly already?" Then at five years, we would look back at the major changes we had gone through as a couple, as parents, or as children. This week's retrospection is still painful, still sharper than I could have imagined, though not as constant or throbbing; still an ache like a pebble in my shoe that sometimes works its way into the tip of my shoe so I might almost forget it's there, then suddenly gets jarred loose by a certain step or change of direction. After five years, I would think I would feel different, although I really am not sure why: on my fifth wedding anniversary, I felt like myself, only the changes in my life were shared with someone; as each of the boys turned 5, I marvelled at their development from infancy, and rejoiced that they had some level of autonomy, of independence, their own personalities, but I didn't feel "different."

Why the expectation today? I wish I knew.

Lately, we've been talking about the future, about careers, and goals and such, partly as a result of an assignment at work, and partly because it's been a while since we reassessed and reevaluated together. It's been interesting, because I've been remembering long forgotten talks I had with Dad. While Guy knew that I had always wanted to be a helicopter pilot, he never knew that I had considered being a social worker or a psychologist. I'm not exactly sure where those ideas came from back when I was 17, as I had no experience with any of those occupations! But never once did Dad question the notions; rather, he and I would rationally discuss the pros and cons, the practical and the wild. He wanted what was best for me, but he also wanted me to be fulfilled--something that is a bit more elusive than happiness, I think.

I hope he knows how fulfilled I am today. I know he is in heaven watching over us, but I often wonder how much he can influence what happens, the "luck," the breaks, the doors and windows. Each time I look to the night sky and see Venus before any other star, I know his love is there, magnificent and shining through God's glory. And every time I see a streak of color in the sky, hear an unexpected bird call, or make that ridiculous hiccup noise he always made (and which I was never afflicted with until 4 years and 11 months ago!), I know he is ever present, and telling me something. Mostly "Slow down and enjoy. Chat and savor the coffee. See as many sides as you can." I remember him as dedicated, committed to whatever goal he set, and I find myself falling short at times. And yet, I do feel fulfilled--in the moment. I know there is more for me, and I plan to seek it out, to work toward my dreams, no matter how oddball they may seem. Somewhere out there is just the right spot for me; I know without a doubt because I have found one of those spots now. Like a cultivated flower, though, I will outgrow my current milieu, and need to be transplanted. Until then, I intend to soak up whatever nutrients I can, reach for the sun, stretch my very cells.

And occasionally water my roots with my own tears.

as old as you feel

Gramma Katie drove herself to the hospital 25 years ago, probably with no intention of ever going home. She grew up in an era when going to the hospital was at least as dangerous as staying home; an act of desperation. The last time I saw her, over Christmas break, she'd been coming down with a cold. I remember talking to Dad in January sometime, and in an offhand comment, he told me that she still had the cough, it was just hanging on, making her drag a bit. I sent my love. I probably even sent her a get well card. I was a freshman in college, and she'd been a part of my life forever.

When we were really little, my sister and I would spend weekends with our other grandparents. We also stayed with them for a week or more while the rest of the family drove out west. We had no idea, really, where "out west" was, or why they went, or even why they left us at home. (Now, after travelling all over the country with my own brood, I've begun to understand why they would have left us home! Still, we all jokingly bring it up every time we can when we are all together!) We were told to be on our best behavior, and we certainly tried, but with no one else to play with, and with only the toys and games Grammy and Grampy had around, after a while, we started to act more like ourselves. Which wasn't particularly "well behaved." Close in age, we fought, disagreed, and pouted often. I don't know how many times we stayed there, together after that. I do know that my parents never went on a long vacation like that again until we were very much older!

In between, we spent many weekends at Gramma Katie's. It was easier to behave there because she made it very clear that if we didn't, there would be no Pepsi with lunch, and there was no way we would be able to stay up to watch Love Boat and Fantasy Island. (I remember once I was sent to bed before Fantasy Island started because I had said something mean to my sister. I have no idea what it was, why I said it, but I clearly remember that she had made a rule, and stuck to it. I sat on the steps and cried before going up to bed, hoping she would relent. I'm proud to say she did not; instead, she ignored me completely. She was stronger than many women I know--including myself.) Lunch meant lively conversation and America's Top 40 on the radio, or Bandstand, I'm not sure which incarnation it was, but it was on, and part of our lives there.

Growing up, we called her "Grammy with the white hair" to distinguish her from our other Grammy, who was "Grammy and Grampy Grammy." It was quite a relief, actually, when in junior high or high school, when interviewing her on the porch for some kind of school project, that she told us about growing up on a farm with her brothers. About being chased and tackled by a goose that pinned her to the ground and started pulling her hair out--her brothers didn't know what to do, and figured the goose would kill her. They finally chased it away. She said they always picked on her and gave her a hard time: about being a girl, about being a baby, about having brown eyes, or scraped knees, or anything else. She laughed, as she did about nearly everything, and said they were pretty rotten, and always called her Katie, which she hated. Then she looked down and said that she missed them terribly. All of them, and everything about them. We asked if it would help if we called her Katie, an idea that she thought brilliant. Thus, she was reborn, sometime in her 70's, as Gramma Katie. It took some getting used to, and to convince our brothers and sister, but it fit her so well.

I asked her once why she never went out to dinner with the neighbor who was always so clearly sweet on her. She said that once, she and Grampa Henry were sitting on the porch talking, and she mentioned to him that if anything ever happened to her, she expected that he would find himself a new wife, and he would have her blessing. His response: Okay. That's it. No, "I'd want the same for you," or "I'm sure you would find someone, too, eventually." Just "Okay." She took that to mean that when he said "Until death parts us," he meant both of them. She said she didn't mind, really, she enjoyed being on her own.

They met on a blind date, that she said went terribly. She was older than him, nearly a spinster, actually, and figured he could do better. At the end of the evening, she told him not to bother calling when he came back to town. He had other plans, he called again, wooed her, won her, and ultimately bought her a beautiful engagement ring from Tiffany's in New York. She loved to mention that fact, that it was from Tiffany's in New York, and sometimes she'd laugh afterwards, and other times she'd just look at it and smile, eyes shining. From her I learned the value of seeing the love enclosed in the stone, the special effort in choosing just the right one. The size, shape and price matter far less than the "why." When I gaze at my own engagement ring, I feel how she looked: special to someone.

She had a way of looking at life that made it fun to be. For another project, I asked her what her nationality was (I knew Grampa Henry was Irish), and she said, proudly, that she was a Mutt, and that I should be proud of that fact, too. I laughed, and told her that my teachers would probably not like that answer, so she went on to explain. It seems the little Eastern European town her ancestors were from had had borders change around it so many times, she had no idea what nationality they were. When some of them were born, it was Austria; others, Hungary, or Czechoslovakia. It was easier, and made more sense to her, to think of herself as an American, a Mutt. (This is, after all, a melting pot, right? And why were those people in school trying to separate us all out again?) To further complicate the national background question, she was raised Eastern Orthodox, and was taught that when a girl marries, she becomes one with her husband: his home, his family, his faith. Therefore, when she married this Irish Catholic man, she became, for all intents and purposes, a Roman Catholic, and a rather unconvincing Irish woman.

One of my personal mandatory stops before leaving for college was at Gramma Katie's house. It was one of the few times I was there by myself. It was the most beautiful late summer day, sunny, breezy, and just the right temperature. We sat on the porch, where we had watched so many thunder storms, read so many books, heard so many stories, drinking lemonade, and talking about futures. She was so proud of me going away to school, moving forward in life, meeting new people, and having new adventures. I told her I would miss her most of all, and I meant it. With her smile, her laughing eyes, her beautifully wrinkled face, her determination, she was an amazing role model--and a fantastic cheerleader, attending dance recitals, school and church events, and always asking about my friends, my classes, my life, and telling me about hers. As I hugged her goodbye, tears in my eyes, she asked me to make her a promise never to get old and boring. (probably paraphrasing George Burns, who probably would have met his match in her!) She told me she was very serious, that so many fun kids go off to college and with the learning they do there, they get old, serious and boring. I laughingly promised, and she knew that I meant it.

On my way home, I stopped and bought a bottle of bubbles. Those bubbles sat on my desk in front of the window in my dorm room, and I would often have to explain them to visitors and roommates. Occasionally, I'd take them outside and blow bubbles sitting on the wall, looking at the Bay (usually meaning that I was thinking through some problem that was threatening to make me feel older), or in the halls just to crack people up. In February of that year, when the phone call came that the doctors and nurses were pretty sure she'd had a stroke because she'd asked how the pain killers know where the pain is (a ridiculous reason to "know" she'd had a stroke--it was a perfectly normal question coming from her! Clearly they did not know her well enough to be treating her!), my roommate and I blew bubbles in Gramma Katie's honor. And again, a few days later, on February 15, we blew bubbles again after another phone call, although my dear, sweet roommate blew more than I did, because I was crying too much to blow well.

We worried while planning Dad's funeral 20 years later that it would change Valentine's Day forever having the funeral that day. Then we remembered that Dad managed to celebrate his birthday, and enjoy it for many years, despite the fact that his mother's funeral was on his birthday. In Gramma Katie style, he told me he looked at that day as an opportunity to visit with his sisters, and spend his birthday with them and their husbands. Through the darkness, he saw light--a faint glimmer, flickering and sputtering at times, I'm sure, but a light nonetheless. I strive to follow their example in my own life: being positive, devoted, faithful, and young at heart. Sometimes I falter, and some of those times are longer than others, but all in all, I think I've been doing well at keeping my promise.

I love you, Gramma Katie!

your little girl

Dear Dad,
Five years ago today, Guy, the boys and I put a nice, sharp pencil and the Sunday crossword in your coffin with you. This after a good chuckle about choosing one of the readings for your funeral in part because it contained the word "hoary" and we had to look it up. A really good crossword word, hoary. I haven't done a crossword since--not even the easy ones. Come to think of it, I don't think I've really used a pencil much, either; just pens. I can see you, just beyond my eyes, when I look up from my computer. I miss you. We all do.
Five years ago today, we travelled through the worst snow I'd been on the road for in forever. Well, since that time driving home from Rochester, when I figured you must have x-ray vision, because I sure as shootin' couldn't see the road from the back seat! You kept telling Mom that everything was fine, as long as you could concentrate. You could tell those white lies so convincingly! ha! I digress....I have pictures of where the road should be on our way to church that morning. And I told the boys that it was so like you to make sure there was a storm like that! It's lucky we made it to the house in the first place, and then to head to the church--and lunch afterwards! Only you.
Five years ago today, we stood in the snow in the cemetery, huddled together as much for actual warmth as for support. I remember so little of the ceremonies--the funeral Mass or the burial--but I most certainly remember the love, the joy we all share for having had you in our lives, the shared sadness. And I remember the Marines who came, a two and a half hour trip that took them nearly five; how young they seemed, how brave, and determined. In their dress blues, they saluted with rifles as the church bells rang their noon glory. When they folded the flag, they fought the need to shiver, unable to feel their fingers in their dress gloves.
Five years ago today, we invited those Marines to lunch, insisting that they join us, and eat before the long trip back to Syracuse. They agreed, but when we arrived at the restaurant, and they asked me to retrieve the flag for them, I realized they came as much out of a need to properly refold the flag as for the free meal. I was again impressed at the fact that you "survived" the Marine Corps. I wish we could have talked more about your time in the service after Mr. Johnson convinced you that it was something you should be more proud of. All I will ever know is that you were never sure it had been the right thing for you to do. Given that's what I knew from you, why would I be proud of you and so impressed? Because you followed through. You made the best of what you considered to be a less-than-ideal situation, and came through it a stronger man. It was a struggle, but you showed me that some of the important parts of  life are just that: struggles. But the result is as important as the journey.
Five years ago today, we all agreed that Valentine's Day would probably always be very different for us. Bittersweet. A beautiful day to share and remember the love we feel for one another, but also a day to remember losing one of our best examples of that love and devotion. A day on which I am deeply reminded how fragile yet strong loving wholeheartedly can make us. Thank you for that gift--something I never thought I'd say. Rose Kennedy said, "It has been said 'time heals all wounds.' I do not agree. The wounds remain. In time, the mind, (protecting its sanity) covers them with scar tissue and the pain lessons. But, it is never gone." Dad, I think, somehow, whether because of Paul Harvey afternoons or Reader's Digest magazines, you had something to do with my love of quotes. It could also have been your knack for making up convincing reasons and explanations for just about any question under the sun (or moon!). I believe Rose Kennedy was quite correct, although the scar tissue sometimes gets in the way of other healing, stretching and growing.
Five years ago this week, I faced just how much I was blessed to have you for as my dad, my guardian, my mentor, my first teacher, my friend. I love you still, and can see your spirit in the boys, in my dear Guy, in my siblings, and their families. Your legacy lives on. And yet, I miss you. I will always be your little girl, and will always feel like that little girl when I think of you, and when those thoughts bring tears to my eyes; an ache to my heart. The tears are a bit further between, and my insides feel a bit less hollow, but the love has continued to grow. Continue to laugh with us, and guide our feet on the journey. Remind us to take the long way when we can, and to savor the sights and sounds, the experiences of our expeditions. Lead us to the ice cream and frozen yogurt shoppes of life, whatever sustenance they will provide for our souls, minds and bodies. Guide us in love, hope, and faith, all of which you demonstrated to us, unwaveringly. Thanks, Dad. xo
Love,
Stephania

peaceful dove

Tomorrow is our Consecration ceremony, the end of our 33 day retreat. This morning, I realized a personal significance of tomorrow being the day: February 11, the Feast of Our Lady of Lourdes. For the past 33 days, I have known the date, and the Feast on which it was occurring, but what did not occur to me is that meant today is February 10.

Five years ago today, Dad died, while my sister and I sang the Hail Mary portion of Gentle Woman.* As we sang, his eyes opened, and he first looked toward the window, then toward the door, outside of which stood my mother. His eyes locked on her, then closed, and he stopped breathing. A friend of Mom's was there at the time, and "assured" us that it was just a nerve thing; that he wasn't really seeing us, or looking for Mom. My sister and I, however, really believe that he was seeing Mary at the window, and Mom at the door: the two women he would most want to see at that moment. The ICU nurse, when I asked her, said that what science says and what faith says may seem conflicting at times, but that peace is the result.

Dad was quite Marian, I just never really thought about it much. I knew he had what I saw as deep faith, although the more I consider my own faith, the more I wonder how much searching he continued to do. What I know for sure is that he prayed to Mary often; as he drove, in strange cities, as he mowed the lawn. I remember him telling me about Mom asking him what he was yelling about while he pushed the lawnmower in the back yard. He was saying the rosary, but could only hear himself if he said it LOUD! He said that Mom was concerned about what the neighbors would think, with him yelling Hail Marys like that. He kept doing it. (Mom tells that story slightly differently, of course!) Turns out that when he said the rosary, he decided to pray it for all of us, his children and grandchildren. And, in typical Dad fashion, he figured out how to ensure that he didn't miss anyone. In the second stanza of the prayer, he used our names: "Holy Mary, Mother of God, pray for _______ now, and at the hour of death." The first three decades, at the time, went through thirty of us. The next decade was for Mom, and the last for any other special intentions he had.

This morning, it all tied together for me when I looked at the Order of Mass to see what the opening hymn was to be. My first thought was, "That's one Dad liked to sing." Then I could hear him singing it, long before the organ started playing. The next thing I heard was Liz and myself singing. That's when I realized today's significance. I was somewhere between relieved, troubled and surprised--it's the first time that Dad hasn't been the first thought of the day on February 10. In fact, I had just finished saying an extra prayer for Uncle Flash, whose birthday was Friday, and Auntie Em, who still misses him terribly. But I was also thankful, as I'm fairly certain now that both Dad and Uncle Flash have been guiding me through this retreat: they both have always been reference points for me with regard to faith and spirituality (mostly because they were so very down to earth and silly, too).

Tomorrow will be all the more special for me. And with this realization, this difficult week, beginning with today's anniversary, and ending with Dad' birthday on the 18th, will be easier to bear. "Teach us Wisdom; teach us Love."



*Although this version (and all the versions I checked on YouTube) has the Hail Mary at the beginning of the song, we learned with the "Gentle Mother" verses first. We had sung through the whole song, and were beginning to feel Mary's grace in the room when we began the Hail Mary. Through our tears later that evening, we teased each other that Dad just wanted us to stop singing. I love this song.

perspective

A dear friend of mine said goodbye to her sister today. A sister gone too young. I just read her heartfelt eulogy, posted because so many of us were unable to attend the funeral services due to weather, or, as for me, distance. Last night, as I settled in to sleep, I listened to the wind howling around the mountaintop, and couldn't help remembering the weather at Dad's funeral, and how it kept away many of the people we'd hoped to see. I hoped that would not be the case; that my friend's family could be crammed into the church by the many, many people who certainly wanted to be there. Unfortunately, that was not meant to be. I remember that after Dad's funeral, I had some thoughts about the cosmic and spiritual reasons that would necessitate such a small gathering at a time when I would rather be one of a multitude. I wish I'd written them down, because through all that fog of pain, I only have a vague recollection of the notion.

I'm quite impressed at my friend's ability to not only write, but deliver, a moving and timely story expressing her family's love and loss. I am awed by her.

What is most important in life? The impact we have on one another. Not cobwebs in the corners. Not candy wrappers in the car. What matters is what brings us closer to God, to each other, to real, honest to goodness LOVE. What matters is what should keep family together--warm memories of good times, whether frequent or far between.

left arm/right words

Today, I'm feeling it. I'd like to say I don't know why, but I actually have a very clear idea what brought this on. What is "this," you ask? This is the raw, pulsating pain of old grief. For me, new grief was different from what I feel now -- when it was new, it struck at everything: the ticking of a clock, the warm smile of a friend, the memories, the realization of dreams dashed. It was also sudden and uncontrollable pain that caused tears that were explainable. Explainable because anyone who asked would understand where it was coming from; they could relate.

Key points: "anyone who asked" "they could relate"

Days like today, I feel more a need to hide it because most people don't seem to understand -- or want to. Time, and how it heals, is relative, and unless someone is willing to listen with the goal of understanding, their listening will not be a comfort to me. (Perhaps to someone else, because grief and its associated pains are very personal. Very personal, indeed.) Days like today, I wish I could ask advice of someone who is no longer here to enjoy a cup of coffee with the conversation. Not that I don't ask the advice; I do, and I get responses, too, whether you, as the reader, want to (or can) believe that or not. I do get responses. Sometimes they are very clear and concise, and sometimes they are, not surprisingly, much more Socratic in nature, playing to my more natural, questioning nature.

All my life, I've spent a good amount of my time alone either replaying conversations I've had or imagining conversations that I think should be. Some would call the former "dwelling" and some would call the latter "visualization," but in all honesty, it plays from my introversion. So many times I later realize exactly what it was that I wanted or needed to say, but, taken by surprise, I didn't. Replaying doesn't change anything about that interaction, but it does make me feel like I've had my say. Yesterday, I envisioned a conversation I'm really thinking is inevitable, and, actually, very important. In that case, I do need to practice my feelings more than my words, as it tends to be my emotional state that negatively impacts my vocalizations. I have questions that need answers; as much for myself as for those who need to answer. No, that's not true: the answers are probably more important for them than for me.

What I wish I could ask is this: will they answer. At all. Answering honestly is not at issue (I don't think that's possible, as it would change the past and the future). Is there a point in setting the table if it's likely no one will attend? That's the discussion I imagine we would have had. And the reason this brought on today's raw pulsing is not anything more profound than that I'd like a left arm hug after getting nowhere with the discussion. I could really use that. It would be the reassurance that I am me, the sum of my own parts. That I am not overlooked and ignored by those who mean something in my life, just by those who are insignificant in the end. Insignificant because they cannot even bring themselves to rise above.

Fortunately, I have a husband who understands that he cannot replace that hug with his own, but he can supplement with his heart open wide, and his shoulder to lean on when there are days like this. And I have a house full of boys who know my heart, because I wear it on my sleeve here (though not necessarily in public -- that would be too extroverted of me!) at home. They all know me, my moods and my tears, my grief and my joy, and just what it takes to light the spark of joy when I need it most. Even in my most pained moments, I know that I am both blessed and loved.

So, the conversation may or may not occur, and I know that, really, it doesn't matter one bit. I've said what I needed to say -- here in the forum of my kitchen, and, more importantly, in my heart. The rest is what it is.

a great teacher

This morning, I woke to find news that a teacher of mine from High School had been murdered, outside his home. While I was shocked, I continued on with my morning as usual. At work, I told a co-worker, and after finding a news article online, emailed it to her, along with my thoughts at the moment.

I remember, I had space in my schedule, and decided to take some business classes, so I took accounting to fulfill a math requirement, and I took Intro to Marketing as an elective. How hard could it be? I thought, and I figured I would be circulating in a slightly different crowd than usual. Both thoughts were not entirely correct! The marketing information was fascinating to me--none of it was particularly difficult for me, but I ate it up: shrink wrap vs. clam shell packaging; the ratio of soda straw diameter to soda cup as figured by fast food chains; the relative hardness of seating in regard to turnover in a dining room.....all information that ultimately helped me in some of my college classes, though I remember sitting in that back corner of the room whining along with everyone else that it was fairly useless information. (I had a mad desire to fit in when I started that class.) As for the "new crowd," well, some of my friends must have had the same idea, as I don't remember meeting too many I didn't already know there. The teacher was Mr. Poet, and I loved class with him. He was not murdered.

He did, however, encourage any of us that were enjoying his class to join the school's Distributive Education Clubs of America (DECA), which he co-advised with a fairly new teacher, Mr. Keith Reed. Mr. Reed was, I discovered today, reading the news articles, only 6 years older than me. Yet he had the confident professionalism that made him both much older than that and ageless at the same time. And, yes, we all thought he was "cute." I remember even Mr. Poet mentioning it from time to time. I believe he was newly married at the time, and impressively aloof to our admiration. We didn't know anything about DECA, or what we were supposed to do as part of the club, but we would get to spend time with a fun, youthful teacher--and get out of school once in a while! What more could high school seniors ask for? Turns out, there was so much to learn--about business, about competition, and about life.

In DECA competition, Mr. Reed put me in the Supervisory Level competitions, even though I was terrified at the idea of playacting as a Manager. He said he knew that I had more brains than most of the judges, and that all I had to do was be myself and I'd do well. Nothing ever made me feel more confident in high school than his assurance, along with darn good scores at my first attempt at competition! I don't remember how many competitions we went to, although I do remember a hotel stay that was one of the best experiences of my Senior year. Sharing a room with three friends, all nervous about performing well and looking good in our business suits, was good prep for college dorm living! At competition, we would wait in chilly hallways for each other, and at awards, we'd eagerly await each other's scores, and graciously thank "Keith" (or "Keithage," as Jackie referred to him!) for his guidance, to which he would shake his head and say, "You can't call me that, you know." Eventually, it evolved into KEEEEEith! Since graduation, I have always thought of him as "KeithReed;" all one word.

When I'd have boyfriend troubles, he'd tell me to behave "professionally" and "with dignity" so that it wouldn't evolve into drama in my life. I learned so many life lessons from him. From him, I learned the value and importance of discretion, transparency, discernment. At the same time, I learned about teamwork in a work setting, and how it differs from, and is similar to, the teamwork necessary in sports. When Tanya and Jackie made it to National Competition, he encouraged us to be supportive of them, rather than jealous, promising to cheer for them on our behalf, which I have no doubt he did. At that same competition, I was being awarded a DEX scholarship from Johnson & Wales, where I would be going to college. Keith, my parents, and I (reluctantly! I wanted to go to NOLA!!) agreed that it made no sense for me to go on the trip just to accept the scholarship. Instead, Keith walked the stage to accept it for me while Jackie and Tanya cheered him on. Before I even knew what one was, he was my mentor.

I lost touch with him after graduation. (I left that September with the intent of never looking back. Another story for another time.) And with Mr. Poet. Though I have thought about the lessons, and the random information about marketing and merchandising floating in my head, and I frequently thank God that they were part of my development. Keith Reed will be missed by the students he was serving as Superintendent, those for whom he had been Principal, and by us, his early students, as well as by his family and friends. My prayers, and my tears, are for you today. I never could say it in the public school setting in which we knew each other: God bless you. Thank you for all you were, and for continuing to utilize the extraordinary gifts you had!

seeds to flowers

Walking in the rain is my favorite. Not the gushing downpours usually associated with my working outside in the summer, but the gentle, soft and cool rain that comes as a surprise because you couldn't hear it from inside the house. The kind that makes you say, "Oh! It's raining!" and you go out anyway.

At times, like today, the rain is especially welcome. Rain, clearly, has a cleansing quality--washing last night's humidity out of the air, and leaving instead that wonderful rain smell that sustains (many of) us until the next rain. Rain also has a cleansing quality for the soul, and as we walked today, we spoke of some of the more difficult aspects of our youngest days. Somehow, sharing the things that can hurt the most are easier in the rain, less drastic, and ever-so-less painful.

Why is that? Why does rain make me feel more open to hear, more open to tell? Perhaps it's the feeling that the heavens or the cosmos is involved somehow. Or that God has opened up a little, so we feel less alone. Maybe it's the tenebrosity, the lack of light, that makes us feel a little safer, a little more open. A little more loved. It may even be the wetness of the rain itself, enhancing a fluidity in our feelings and emotions. Water seeks its own level, and fluidity in one's soul would clearly move to a more level spot....

And yet, the things we talked about bubbled up from the depths. The overflowed through what felt like the smallest of cracks in a carefully constructed barrier. Things that should have sounded awful, but, with the help of the rain, were diluted enough to be tolerable; not likable, but bearable. Raindrops mixed with tears, and slid away; softly, easily, nearly without notice.

When my father died, it snowed. Like crazy. Like over three feet crazy. By the time we got home, everything had iced over, and we had a heck of a mess to clean up, just to get in our driveway. It was late, it was dark, and we were so very tired. Bone tired from sorrow, driving, and plain old exhaustion. I remember that moving that snow and ice was so symbolic for me. It wasn't rain; it wasn't soft, or gentle, cleansing or pure. It was hard and cold, with sharp edges and so much weight--just like my very core, my heart, my being. I screamed at the snow; threw great big boulders of icy whiteness into the yard with all my might. It helped, but not nearly as much as running water.

Today's rain is gentle and light--not a shower, but slightly more than a sprinkle. And, in the early morning hours of our walk, was just what we needed. Just what I needed. My pains and hurts are no greater than anyone else's, but they are my burden, and mine alone until I share them. The fact that others -- someone, somewhere -- is worse off than I am sometimes discourages me from sharing and lightening my load. Walking in the rain, with someone who wants to hear, equalizes the pressure, and only then can I grow.

Only then can I grow.

on a day like today

Some days I miss you more than others. And often, on those days, I also feel guilt for not truly appreciating you when you were here. I mean, I did appreciate you, but I probably should have told you more often, called you more often. Talked with you about nothing more often. Then I wonder: how often could possibly have been often enough to make up for now?

I know you are there, watching, as part of the night sky--in the stars and the moon.......but I do wonder at times where I am to find you in the daylight. In the times when I am supposed to be cleaning the house, making the bed, brushing my teeth. It's not just you I miss; it's what you represent. A safe haven when I'm scared, angry, confused. Never did you make me tell you what was on my mind, good or bad. We would, and could, talk about anything else to distract, clarify, connect. How many years? How many yesterdays? How many heartaches, headaches?

What I need now, what I crave at this moment, is to hear you tell me, yet again, about the day I climbed into your lap and told you that I didn't ever want to grow up, and you replying that I would always be your little girl, no matter what. No matter what.

No matter what.

You taught me strength, and you probably didn't even know it. Strength of character, forgiveness and love. Honestly, there are some times when I wish I didn't have that strength, but, again, thanks to you, I recognize those times as moments of weakness. And then I recall the lessons in humor and lightness of spirit. That is where I find my true self; my true strength.

I find myself missing you today, because I know I'm not the only one missing you. Look in on me, please, but focus your attention on who needs it most. I'm strong. And I'll find some lightness in today, I know I will.

No matter what.

beach

fresh tears from heaven
mingle gently with my own
sand surrounds my feet

heaven = gorges

It's early in the morning. My favorite time of day, no matter what the season. Today is the first day of summer; the longest day of the year. Always a great day to enjoy sunlight and the sound of birds--especially early with a cup of coffee, and late with a glass of wine and a book. In a couple of hours, I'll be on my way to take my oldest to his college orientation, and my youngest will join me in a cabin at a beautiful state park where we will hike, swim and collect bugs for his summer homework. I'm so looking forward to the time we will spend together: it will soften any pangs from dropping his brother off, and will make amazing--and important--memories for both of us.

There's another special reason for the distraction, and the memories to come. Yesterday, a dear friend's father died. She, and two of her sisters, were with him. I knew the news was coming, but it still was impossible to brace myself for the onslaught of emotions when I heard the news. My heart went immediately to her and her family--where it had been for days, actually, but the funny thing is, I actually felt my heart leave and go to them, breaking in pieces along the way. Moments later it was back, heavy with the weight of grief and pain shared among loved ones. The memory of singing to my father with my sister just before he died fluttered through my mind, and I realized that Dad was surely welcoming my dear friend's Pop with the story, along with a warm man-hug, to the Heaven that I am sure all fathers share.

I cannot feel my friend's pain, but I so acutely understand. She was there, unexpectedly, at my father's wake, and for all these years I've known that I might not have made it through as well without her. I hope and pray that I can be as strong for her.

Bug collecting, hiking, and memory making with my son; this is how I will garner strength, and with all my heart, I will support her because she is my friend.