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.
Showing posts with label heaven. Show all posts
Showing posts with label heaven. Show all posts
Monday, January 26, 2015
Sunday, November 3, 2013
turn, turn, turn
This afternoon, I closed up the porches for the season (though not the patio--I'm seeing at least one more fireside before it gets way too cold!). The furniture was put away, and the table folded up, the floors swept, and the rug rolled. Many other years, this process has frustrated and depressed me. Getting someone to help me out with carrying and moving, or simply not grumble while doing so has stressed me and irritated me far more than even I thought necessary.
Today, though, was different. The boys went out to rake, and when I joined them, they reminded me that there weren't enough rakes for me to help them. They got the leaves moved (and worked well together, to boot! Bonus!), and I told them I would take care of the furniture. As I worked, I thought about how much had happened on those porches this summer: the laughter, the tears, the growth, the pain. I thought about the prayer, the reading, the learning, the friendships that formed and developed, the wine that was poured, and the food that was shared. I reflected on the moments, the memories, the Love. Instead of sorrow, I felt joy at having spent the time well, and at the prospect of opening up again in the spring. For the first time, the seasonality of outdoor living areas became revitalizing in the hibernation phase.
Last night I heard news of a young woman--the age of our eldest--who died suddenly. Guy and I prayed for her, her family, her roommates and classmates, friends and relatives. We don't know her, but that's irrelevant; we are parents. We care. We talked then about hard topics, prayers, God, trust, peace and lamentation. This morning at church, three of the songs we sang were favorites of Dad's--songs he would either sing out especially energetically at church, or that he would sing at home as he wandered around, puttering. At communion, after we sang, and while the piano continued, I was suddenly filled with the joy of knowing that Dad had been one of the souls there to welcome her home. That's what Dad would do, that's who he was. Once again, I found myself smiling and chuckling while tears streamed down my cheeks as I gazed at the statue of the risen Lord over the altar.
Closing up the porches was a welcome today; a welcome home to the heart of our home. Expanding onto the porches for the warmer seasons is the open armed embrace of our family spirit. Filling them with the people we know and love, and even occasionally with strangers, feels like the group hugs I often crave when I'm out and about. Dad was always involved in those, and in them I felt safe, loved, elevated. In the spring, I hope that I remember today, and the marvelous interplay of emotions and the thankfulness in my heart. More than anything else I have in my life, I am thankful for the faith I have, and for the Relationship made possible through it.
Today, though, was different. The boys went out to rake, and when I joined them, they reminded me that there weren't enough rakes for me to help them. They got the leaves moved (and worked well together, to boot! Bonus!), and I told them I would take care of the furniture. As I worked, I thought about how much had happened on those porches this summer: the laughter, the tears, the growth, the pain. I thought about the prayer, the reading, the learning, the friendships that formed and developed, the wine that was poured, and the food that was shared. I reflected on the moments, the memories, the Love. Instead of sorrow, I felt joy at having spent the time well, and at the prospect of opening up again in the spring. For the first time, the seasonality of outdoor living areas became revitalizing in the hibernation phase.
Last night I heard news of a young woman--the age of our eldest--who died suddenly. Guy and I prayed for her, her family, her roommates and classmates, friends and relatives. We don't know her, but that's irrelevant; we are parents. We care. We talked then about hard topics, prayers, God, trust, peace and lamentation. This morning at church, three of the songs we sang were favorites of Dad's--songs he would either sing out especially energetically at church, or that he would sing at home as he wandered around, puttering. At communion, after we sang, and while the piano continued, I was suddenly filled with the joy of knowing that Dad had been one of the souls there to welcome her home. That's what Dad would do, that's who he was. Once again, I found myself smiling and chuckling while tears streamed down my cheeks as I gazed at the statue of the risen Lord over the altar.
Closing up the porches was a welcome today; a welcome home to the heart of our home. Expanding onto the porches for the warmer seasons is the open armed embrace of our family spirit. Filling them with the people we know and love, and even occasionally with strangers, feels like the group hugs I often crave when I'm out and about. Dad was always involved in those, and in them I felt safe, loved, elevated. In the spring, I hope that I remember today, and the marvelous interplay of emotions and the thankfulness in my heart. More than anything else I have in my life, I am thankful for the faith I have, and for the Relationship made possible through it.
Sunday, September 15, 2013
closed doors, open hearts
 |
| The door and Dad's ladder |
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.
Saturday, May 18, 2013
pen and paper
Often, lately, I find myself faced with a blank sheet of paper. I know what question has led me to it, but I keep wondering what answer it holds. I found myself actively seeking the answer, pushing myself to understand its meaning, questioning my ability to understand or even recognize the answer when it comes. When I realized what I was doing, I made the decision to stop trying so hard, and to just look at the paper when it appeared in my mind's eye. Passive thinking--Pondering (which I have found to be a far more effective tool of faith for me!)--led me to the conclusion that the paper was waiting for dictation. [Which made perfect sense, as that was a reminder of the question in the first place! Why am I surprised by that? Why am I surprised by anything?]
Then I realized there is no pen.
This caused a fleeting panic, but fortunately I caught it before it ran away with my mind and heart. Then I laughed! There is no pen! Why? Because I don't need it yet. Things need to happen first, events need to unfold, hearts need to listen, and souls to speak.
None of these realizations came quickly, and yet they did. There was a late night "conversation" or two that reminded me of the importance of waiting. Not just patience, but waiting. Waiting and the relative passage of time. God's time is transcendent, while ours is relative. In my prayer life, I have been experiencing the joys of that transcendence, but--yet again!--have been having a difficult time translating it to my secular life. In actuality, I should be working on not separating the two; conditioning that will take [relative] time, patience and practice, the likes of which I have not yet seen, I'd bet! I keep telling myself that I believe that I am prepared, but I also know (now) that telling myself amounts to stalling [I'm getting to know myself, day by day] and that I should admit that I either need to jump forward, or get pushed.
With regard to the missing pen: I find peace in my mind when I write. At times, words bump and rush through my head, and I find myself frustrated that I have no time to write them down, or that I don't have access to my keyboard to let them flow out. However, at times when I have questions, I recognize the danger that I might try to make answers as I write, rather than allow them to come in their own time (in God's time, in this case). I'm guessing that has something to do with the missing pen. So many words have bustled around my brain, but instead of trying to get them onto 'paper,' I have let them run freely. Some have continued to spin and swirl, but others have made themselves known, then run through the rocks that filter my skull. What has remained is a calming beauty; an atmosphere more conducive to further pondering.
And a feeling of being beside, neither in front nor behind. I've run from myself for a long time. It's only recently that I have had faith enough in myself to lose myself in my Faith. I have work to do, and steps to take, and things come to terms with, and so very much to learn. But the learning!! There is such beauty in the learning! When I look behind me, I see such a long road I have traveled, and when I look before me, I see even more. And although I keep trying to run that road, I must remind myself that I am, in fact, taking baby steps: wonderfully slow and steady baby steps, and I have never been alone.
Then I realized there is no pen.
This caused a fleeting panic, but fortunately I caught it before it ran away with my mind and heart. Then I laughed! There is no pen! Why? Because I don't need it yet. Things need to happen first, events need to unfold, hearts need to listen, and souls to speak.
None of these realizations came quickly, and yet they did. There was a late night "conversation" or two that reminded me of the importance of waiting. Not just patience, but waiting. Waiting and the relative passage of time. God's time is transcendent, while ours is relative. In my prayer life, I have been experiencing the joys of that transcendence, but--yet again!--have been having a difficult time translating it to my secular life. In actuality, I should be working on not separating the two; conditioning that will take [relative] time, patience and practice, the likes of which I have not yet seen, I'd bet! I keep telling myself that I believe that I am prepared, but I also know (now) that telling myself amounts to stalling [I'm getting to know myself, day by day] and that I should admit that I either need to jump forward, or get pushed.
With regard to the missing pen: I find peace in my mind when I write. At times, words bump and rush through my head, and I find myself frustrated that I have no time to write them down, or that I don't have access to my keyboard to let them flow out. However, at times when I have questions, I recognize the danger that I might try to make answers as I write, rather than allow them to come in their own time (in God's time, in this case). I'm guessing that has something to do with the missing pen. So many words have bustled around my brain, but instead of trying to get them onto 'paper,' I have let them run freely. Some have continued to spin and swirl, but others have made themselves known, then run through the rocks that filter my skull. What has remained is a calming beauty; an atmosphere more conducive to further pondering.
And a feeling of being beside, neither in front nor behind. I've run from myself for a long time. It's only recently that I have had faith enough in myself to lose myself in my Faith. I have work to do, and steps to take, and things come to terms with, and so very much to learn. But the learning!! There is such beauty in the learning! When I look behind me, I see such a long road I have traveled, and when I look before me, I see even more. And although I keep trying to run that road, I must remind myself that I am, in fact, taking baby steps: wonderfully slow and steady baby steps, and I have never been alone.
Monday, April 15, 2013
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.
Thursday, April 11, 2013
things in common
Tonight, we "discussed" the Story of a Soul. Really, the words of Saint Therese of Lisieux were just the jumping off point of, what I found to be, a great discussion on all kinds of "little" things that were far more related than they may have seemed. None of us had finished the book, and in fact, one of us hadn't even started, but Therese is right in saying that her Little Way is Simple. Please note that the word "simple" was used, and not the word "easy!" Following her formula for sainthood is something that she worked at for her whole life. I'm already nearly twice the age she was when she died, and am only beginning to be able to consider my own littleness, let alone embrace my own faults and shortcomings!
My takeaway, as so often lately, is that I am not alone. My journey's rest stops, historical markers, dives and great sights are all being visited by others headed in the same direction. I'm not the only one that's realized a feeling of missing the Lenten season--for the first time ever! And I'm not the only one wondering if that's just a little nutty! I'm not the only one who has worried that having questions, or being confused, or just plain not knowing sets me apart, separates me from those with 'more' faith, or 'stronger' faith. [I just now realized, with my computer on my lap, that some of those people with 'more' or 'stronger' faith might just be louder than me. Just like in my secular life. Why have I always felt there must be a dividing line? Why have I been afraid?] We all have obstacles, and we all need to determine how to face them.
For a long, long time, I faced them on my own. I looked at a problem, and figured out what I would need to do to solve it, fix it, get around it. And it's funny, because typing that, I could hear my husband saying to me, "Use your resources," by which he means, "Call me if you have a question about that," referring to some programs and packages I use at work. It made me smile because the greatest resource I have at my disposal (other than my husband's computer expertise) can be summed up in what has become almost my mantra: Guide me.
The direction is not always clear, and I don't always remember to ask. And I am not always as patient as I probably should be. [can you say, "understatement?"] But I have found that each and every time I have sincerely said, "Guide me," or the more familiar version, "Thy will be done," I have come out in a much better place than I know I would have, left to my own devices. I'm learning. I'm learning to listen for the guidance, and I'm learning to follow. It's slow going sometimes, and there are times when I feel as though I'm stuck, and I'm concerned at times that I will run up against a wall, or some other test, that will wear me down.
Saint Therese says to be as a child; to bear all things that come to you; to admit shortcomings, and honor them as things to work on. The more I work on these things, the more I will find in the story of her short life to inspire me. I plan to read it again. And again. And when I feel as though my progress is slow, I will follow her advice and persevere.
Together with others who need God's love.
My takeaway, as so often lately, is that I am not alone. My journey's rest stops, historical markers, dives and great sights are all being visited by others headed in the same direction. I'm not the only one that's realized a feeling of missing the Lenten season--for the first time ever! And I'm not the only one wondering if that's just a little nutty! I'm not the only one who has worried that having questions, or being confused, or just plain not knowing sets me apart, separates me from those with 'more' faith, or 'stronger' faith. [I just now realized, with my computer on my lap, that some of those people with 'more' or 'stronger' faith might just be louder than me. Just like in my secular life. Why have I always felt there must be a dividing line? Why have I been afraid?] We all have obstacles, and we all need to determine how to face them.
For a long, long time, I faced them on my own. I looked at a problem, and figured out what I would need to do to solve it, fix it, get around it. And it's funny, because typing that, I could hear my husband saying to me, "Use your resources," by which he means, "Call me if you have a question about that," referring to some programs and packages I use at work. It made me smile because the greatest resource I have at my disposal (other than my husband's computer expertise) can be summed up in what has become almost my mantra: Guide me.
The direction is not always clear, and I don't always remember to ask. And I am not always as patient as I probably should be. [can you say, "understatement?"] But I have found that each and every time I have sincerely said, "Guide me," or the more familiar version, "Thy will be done," I have come out in a much better place than I know I would have, left to my own devices. I'm learning. I'm learning to listen for the guidance, and I'm learning to follow. It's slow going sometimes, and there are times when I feel as though I'm stuck, and I'm concerned at times that I will run up against a wall, or some other test, that will wear me down.
Saint Therese says to be as a child; to bear all things that come to you; to admit shortcomings, and honor them as things to work on. The more I work on these things, the more I will find in the story of her short life to inspire me. I plan to read it again. And again. And when I feel as though my progress is slow, I will follow her advice and persevere.
Together with others who need God's love.
Saturday, April 6, 2013
on staying young
Gramma Katie told me, as I was getting set to leave for college, "Never grow up." For twenty years or so, I have interpreted that to mean I shouldn't get "old:" dull, boring, complacent, crotchety. Aging we cannot help, and to a certain extent, major health concerns related to that number and our genetics are out of our control. As a result, I've worked toward a balance between the maturity necessary to fulfill my obligations, and the fun needed to keep me young.
However, the other day, I read this:
Sitting at the table in the Bistro, I suddenly saw my dear Gramma Katie's smile--reaching all the way to her hairline!--and wondered. She was a spiritual woman herself, quietly observing fasts and holy days, and walking the few blocks to Church for morning Mass more often than I ever considered (as a child and teenager) that I would. She told me once that if at morning Mass she learned there would be a funeral, she would often stay, just to keep the mourners company. Then she winked at me and said that she'd also happily enjoy a slice of cake! (These funerals were mostly people she'd never met personally, but for whom she'd prayed, as members of the parish. She enjoyed the funeral Masses as much as the luncheons that followed!)*
I know that Gramma Katie was a reader, and a lover of art, too. And learning. Part of the advice she had given me, I always believed, was related to that willingness and desire to learn keeping the mind and soul young. But the moment I saw her face superimposed on Soeur Therese's words, I wondered if there was far more to the tidbit she was offering. As a teenager, with my life laid out before me in all it's possibilities, had I missed the greater offering of her experience? Was she offering me spiritual advice that it has taken me another lifetime to even touch upon? Could she have been offering me something to hold onto to carry my faith with me as I traveled on my faith journey.
Did she, in her own 'little' way, plant that mustard seed?
My favorite Bible story has always been Matthew 19:13-15. The one where Jesus says to let the children come to Him. It's just three short verses, but when I was a kid, I had a picture book [when I was a kid--haha....the book still sits on the shelf by my bed!] of the story, and I had my parents read it to me again and again, until I could read it myself. All this time, I've honestly thought He literally meant "children." A few months ago, at Faith Matters, in a discussion about Mary, I made the personal connection to "being as children."
Learning is a beautiful and glorious thing, and making connections to one's own life and experience is the most wondrous of all! Thank you, Gramma Katie, for your love and wisdom, that you still share with me 25 years later.
However, the other day, I read this:
Even amongst the poor, while a child is still small, he is given what is necessary; but, once he is grown up, his father wil no longer feed him, and tells him to seek work and support himself. Well, it was to avoid hearing this, that I have never wished to grow up, for I feel incapable of earning my livelihood, which is Life Eternal. (St. Therese of Lisieux, The story of a soul: the Autobiography of The Little Flower. Kindle edition, Location 2770)
Sitting at the table in the Bistro, I suddenly saw my dear Gramma Katie's smile--reaching all the way to her hairline!--and wondered. She was a spiritual woman herself, quietly observing fasts and holy days, and walking the few blocks to Church for morning Mass more often than I ever considered (as a child and teenager) that I would. She told me once that if at morning Mass she learned there would be a funeral, she would often stay, just to keep the mourners company. Then she winked at me and said that she'd also happily enjoy a slice of cake! (These funerals were mostly people she'd never met personally, but for whom she'd prayed, as members of the parish. She enjoyed the funeral Masses as much as the luncheons that followed!)*
I know that Gramma Katie was a reader, and a lover of art, too. And learning. Part of the advice she had given me, I always believed, was related to that willingness and desire to learn keeping the mind and soul young. But the moment I saw her face superimposed on Soeur Therese's words, I wondered if there was far more to the tidbit she was offering. As a teenager, with my life laid out before me in all it's possibilities, had I missed the greater offering of her experience? Was she offering me spiritual advice that it has taken me another lifetime to even touch upon? Could she have been offering me something to hold onto to carry my faith with me as I traveled on my faith journey.
Did she, in her own 'little' way, plant that mustard seed?
My favorite Bible story has always been Matthew 19:13-15. The one where Jesus says to let the children come to Him. It's just three short verses, but when I was a kid, I had a picture book [when I was a kid--haha....the book still sits on the shelf by my bed!] of the story, and I had my parents read it to me again and again, until I could read it myself. All this time, I've honestly thought He literally meant "children." A few months ago, at Faith Matters, in a discussion about Mary, I made the personal connection to "being as children."
Learning is a beautiful and glorious thing, and making connections to one's own life and experience is the most wondrous of all! Thank you, Gramma Katie, for your love and wisdom, that you still share with me 25 years later.
Sunday, March 17, 2013
home sweet home
"There's no place like home." Iconic dates and phrases were part of the topic this morning. At first, I wondered how it would relate to the story of the woman who was brought to be stoned.* Ingeniously, and yet so obviously, it was stated that she must have been thinking something like "there's no place like home" while waiting to hear her fate. The homily went on to talk more about the importance of home. It was hard, but I managed to wait until after the sermon was over to mull things over (ponder them!), and find the connections in my own life.
It's St. Patrick's Day: another one of those days that make me think about Dad, and the relationships each of us had with him. A day that marks my first time standing up, too, and becoming the honest-to-goodness oddball I have always been meant to be. (And not minding in the least, since I'm no longer working so hard at the impossible: fitting in.) That's a good story, but not one for today. I'll just sit here and smile about that first small victory.
Thinking about Dad, and hearing Dorothy's iconic words brought me down a memory lane that has brought me to where I am today. An unnecessarily curvy, windy and bumpy road, in all likelihood, but my road nonetheless. When I think of Home, I think of a place where there's Love Overflowing...
For a long time, home was far away. I would get stressed, upset, lonely, dark, I would say, "I just want to go home!" Probably at least 90% of the time when I'd say that, I'd be standing in my own living room. Why I had a need to "go home" I didn't understand. That I was likely hurting my family saying it, I realized. It wasn't until we returned from Dad's funeral, and Guy said to me, "Now you won't ever be able to go home. I'm so sorry." At first, I was confused: Mom still lived in the house I'd grown up in, and I didn't think that I really meant the house anyway. Then he said, "Dad was home to you, wasn't he." It still brings tears to my eyes, because of how true the statement, how painful the realization--about home, Home, and me.
So much has changed since then. I used to cry every time I listened to that song from The Wiz. More because it hurt to think that Home meant Love than anything else. I didn't realize Home is not about a place or a space on this planet. "Living here, in this brand new world/Might be a fantasy/But it taught me to love/So it's real, real to me" The Home I have now is certainly not a fantasy (it's taken far too much work, vulnerability and honesty to be anything but Real and True Love), and it is certainly not a place or space that anyone else can touch or see on their own.
There really is no place like home, and it really is a place where love overflows and is filled with affection. Home, now is not only where my heart is, but where Guy's heart is, too.
*That whole stoning story is more amazing every time I hear it. Every time, I realize some other reason that there was no way stoning was the answer. Long ago, I realized what the priest today said: "Donde es hombre? It takes two...." Today, I realized that Mary could well have suffered the same fate. In between are many small realizations. Read the story. Wonder at the amazing power of the simple action of writing in the dirt.
It's St. Patrick's Day: another one of those days that make me think about Dad, and the relationships each of us had with him. A day that marks my first time standing up, too, and becoming the honest-to-goodness oddball I have always been meant to be. (And not minding in the least, since I'm no longer working so hard at the impossible: fitting in.) That's a good story, but not one for today. I'll just sit here and smile about that first small victory.
Thinking about Dad, and hearing Dorothy's iconic words brought me down a memory lane that has brought me to where I am today. An unnecessarily curvy, windy and bumpy road, in all likelihood, but my road nonetheless. When I think of Home, I think of a place where there's Love Overflowing...
For a long time, home was far away. I would get stressed, upset, lonely, dark, I would say, "I just want to go home!" Probably at least 90% of the time when I'd say that, I'd be standing in my own living room. Why I had a need to "go home" I didn't understand. That I was likely hurting my family saying it, I realized. It wasn't until we returned from Dad's funeral, and Guy said to me, "Now you won't ever be able to go home. I'm so sorry." At first, I was confused: Mom still lived in the house I'd grown up in, and I didn't think that I really meant the house anyway. Then he said, "Dad was home to you, wasn't he." It still brings tears to my eyes, because of how true the statement, how painful the realization--about home, Home, and me.
So much has changed since then. I used to cry every time I listened to that song from The Wiz. More because it hurt to think that Home meant Love than anything else. I didn't realize Home is not about a place or a space on this planet. "Living here, in this brand new world/Might be a fantasy/But it taught me to love/So it's real, real to me" The Home I have now is certainly not a fantasy (it's taken far too much work, vulnerability and honesty to be anything but Real and True Love), and it is certainly not a place or space that anyone else can touch or see on their own.
There really is no place like home, and it really is a place where love overflows and is filled with affection. Home, now is not only where my heart is, but where Guy's heart is, too.
*That whole stoning story is more amazing every time I hear it. Every time, I realize some other reason that there was no way stoning was the answer. Long ago, I realized what the priest today said: "Donde es hombre? It takes two...." Today, I realized that Mary could well have suffered the same fate. In between are many small realizations. Read the story. Wonder at the amazing power of the simple action of writing in the dirt.
Tuesday, March 12, 2013
how sweet the sound
I did something tonight I haven't done in a really long time. And despite the fact that the line was long, and tears were shed, and there was a little something lost in the translation, and it was out of character for me (though it probably shouldn't be), I do feel better. Freer. More receptive to tomorrow, and the next day, and the next. Balanced. Peaceful.
Forgiven.
In fact, in the middle of sitting in that little room, listening with more than just my ears, trying (really hard!) to not get distracted by the temperature, I felt a beautiful melting of just what was holding my heart hostage. Quite literally. And I actually felt the love and peace that took it's place. I also realized, in a split second, that the choice was mine: accept or reject. I chose to open myself and drink in all the beauty of the moment; to be carried because I needed it for a space of time.
An experience like no other.
A special thank you to the lovely lady in blue who pretty much whacked me over the head. She was right: I did need to go, whether I liked it or not; whether I thought so or not.
Baby steps in leaps and bounds.
Amazing Grace.
Forgiven.
In fact, in the middle of sitting in that little room, listening with more than just my ears, trying (really hard!) to not get distracted by the temperature, I felt a beautiful melting of just what was holding my heart hostage. Quite literally. And I actually felt the love and peace that took it's place. I also realized, in a split second, that the choice was mine: accept or reject. I chose to open myself and drink in all the beauty of the moment; to be carried because I needed it for a space of time.
An experience like no other.
A special thank you to the lovely lady in blue who pretty much whacked me over the head. She was right: I did need to go, whether I liked it or not; whether I thought so or not.
Baby steps in leaps and bounds.
Amazing Grace.
Sunday, February 24, 2013
turnips and kumquats
Lent has been quite a subject lately, for very obvious reasons, and has led to some conversations I've never had before, at least outside of my own family. Lent is something I've always had a tough time with, starting back in elementary school religion class. Fr. O'Brien would come in to talk with us before Ash Wednesday, trying to impress upon us the importance of giving up something significant to us as a Lenten sacrifice. And he always promised us suggestions. Unfortunately, the suggestions were always the same: to "give up candy, gum and pop."
As a kid, my first problem with this was that in our family we never called it "pop." A really, really minor problem, even in my kid mind, but it still made me just want to snicker at the whole idea. My second, and bigger problem--heck, my legitimate problem--was that I didn't like gum in the first place, and we hardly ever had candy or soda at our house, anyway. For a few years, I gave up candy, gum and pop simply because he suggested it, and he was our pastor, and so, in my mind, he must know what's best for us. Besides, if success is guaranteed, so are the associated blessings, right? (Remember, I was a kid in elementary school! I could have used some more personal guidance, I think, but I had no idea that I could ask about these things.)
At some point, I realized my flawed logic, and started to try discerning something more "right" to give up. Generally what happened was that I started thinking kind of late, and didn't really have a nebulous idea until about the Monday after Ash Wednesday, at which point, I would wonder if it was worth it if I'd already missed so many days, so I'd second guess what I'd chosen, and try to double up for the rest of the Lenten season. As a result, I usually ended up frustrated, both by my procrastination and the resulting unreasonable expectations of myself. In high school, I gave up whatever bad habit I may have developed in the previous months.
Then I went away to college, and when a friend asked about Lent, another friend and I declared that we were giving up slapping each other on the back. For whatever reason, we had developed the habit of slapping each other by surprise, and we both knew it hurt. It was probably the most difficult -- and beneficial! -- Lenten sacrifice I've ever made. Since then, there have been others that were hard to keep, but did not change me quite as much as a person: the year I gave up saying the words "Stop it!" to my kids; the year I gave up half-n-half in my coffee, and as a result nearly had to give up coffee.
The other day, I was involved in a quick conversation with a friend who said that perhaps his plan for Lent was a bit more than he could handle, so he was thinking of cutting back a little. Honestly, inside, I agreed, as I know through experience how much time he was committing, and how necessarily busy his life is. However, I also know my own track record with Lent, so I told him I'd been in his boots. I usually make my personal pledge, then worry that I've bitten off more than I can chew. Then I find myself negotiating with God to modify every week. In the end, Easter shows up, unexpectedly somehow, and I feel more guilty than purified because I just couldn't make up my mind.
A few years ago, in a homily or a discussion, the idea of doing instead of (or in addition to--sometimes, I admit, I hear what I want to use. I'm working on that!) giving up was presented. I've done much better with that. Instead of avoiding, or denying, or feeling the need to explain, I must find the time, make the intention to do something specific each and every day. These sacrifices of time have changed me each year since. Some stick more than others over the course of the year, but I feel more thankful for the effort for 47 days (that's another story, too! I don't do the whole "Sunday doesn't count" thing. These things I do, I intend and hope will become habits.....don't get me started!) Over the course of the season, I still find myself wanting to negotiate a bit, but I'm more able to tell myself that I should stay the course; that I do have the time and the energy to do what I've set out to do, if I just do it, without making it a production; just be true.
As a kid, my first problem with this was that in our family we never called it "pop." A really, really minor problem, even in my kid mind, but it still made me just want to snicker at the whole idea. My second, and bigger problem--heck, my legitimate problem--was that I didn't like gum in the first place, and we hardly ever had candy or soda at our house, anyway. For a few years, I gave up candy, gum and pop simply because he suggested it, and he was our pastor, and so, in my mind, he must know what's best for us. Besides, if success is guaranteed, so are the associated blessings, right? (Remember, I was a kid in elementary school! I could have used some more personal guidance, I think, but I had no idea that I could ask about these things.)
At some point, I realized my flawed logic, and started to try discerning something more "right" to give up. Generally what happened was that I started thinking kind of late, and didn't really have a nebulous idea until about the Monday after Ash Wednesday, at which point, I would wonder if it was worth it if I'd already missed so many days, so I'd second guess what I'd chosen, and try to double up for the rest of the Lenten season. As a result, I usually ended up frustrated, both by my procrastination and the resulting unreasonable expectations of myself. In high school, I gave up whatever bad habit I may have developed in the previous months.
Then I went away to college, and when a friend asked about Lent, another friend and I declared that we were giving up slapping each other on the back. For whatever reason, we had developed the habit of slapping each other by surprise, and we both knew it hurt. It was probably the most difficult -- and beneficial! -- Lenten sacrifice I've ever made. Since then, there have been others that were hard to keep, but did not change me quite as much as a person: the year I gave up saying the words "Stop it!" to my kids; the year I gave up half-n-half in my coffee, and as a result nearly had to give up coffee.
The other day, I was involved in a quick conversation with a friend who said that perhaps his plan for Lent was a bit more than he could handle, so he was thinking of cutting back a little. Honestly, inside, I agreed, as I know through experience how much time he was committing, and how necessarily busy his life is. However, I also know my own track record with Lent, so I told him I'd been in his boots. I usually make my personal pledge, then worry that I've bitten off more than I can chew. Then I find myself negotiating with God to modify every week. In the end, Easter shows up, unexpectedly somehow, and I feel more guilty than purified because I just couldn't make up my mind.
A few years ago, in a homily or a discussion, the idea of doing instead of (or in addition to--sometimes, I admit, I hear what I want to use. I'm working on that!) giving up was presented. I've done much better with that. Instead of avoiding, or denying, or feeling the need to explain, I must find the time, make the intention to do something specific each and every day. These sacrifices of time have changed me each year since. Some stick more than others over the course of the year, but I feel more thankful for the effort for 47 days (that's another story, too! I don't do the whole "Sunday doesn't count" thing. These things I do, I intend and hope will become habits.....don't get me started!) Over the course of the season, I still find myself wanting to negotiate a bit, but I'm more able to tell myself that I should stay the course; that I do have the time and the energy to do what I've set out to do, if I just do it, without making it a production; just be true.
Tuesday, February 19, 2013
all for love
On my desk at work I have a little book of prayers, and I choose one to start each day. Usually, the selection is random, but occasionally I look for just the right one to set the tone for the day. Today was a random day, and the prayer was based on Paul's first letter to the Corinthians; the one that begins "Love is patient, love is kind." My minute meditation was also about love, and how loving others genuinely is the only way to true happiness. As I pondered the coincidence, I again saw, in my mind's eye, this morning's sunrise reflected in the river as we crossed the bridge. After a week of heartache tempered by the closeness of our family, this particular message of love was not a surprise, but a welcome shift in mentality. With the love, I felt uplifted, joyful, lighthearted.
Then when I got home, I saw this, and knew I had a blog topic:
There was a day, not too long ago, when I could have let the noise of what get in the way of real and true love. But I made a decision to not only ask why, but to listen to the answer. Interestingly, the more the why, in my case, was determined, the less it mattered with regard to the what. The more I listened to the why, the more the person attached to the why mattered to me. It turns out, the what noise not only blocks out the voice of reason, it also serves as a smoke screen. Visual noise.
Today, love touched a chord, and I know Dad had something to do with it. I've been thinking about the last 8 days, and wondering what the 9th day was. Some of that week I remember, but not all of it. I don't really remember coming back home, for example, but I do, very clearly remember the swim meet that weekend. It was crowded--as in fire-hazard crowded--and I was in no mood to talk to anyone, whether I knew them or not, so I had my earbuds in, and tried to blend in to the wall. I only wanted to see our son swim, and planned to scooch in when he was on deck.
That day I heard a woman complain because her mother wanted to see her child swim. Thinking the idea preposterous, she proceeded, loudly (obviously, since I had music in my ears), to berate everything about her, from the clothes she wears to the fact that she wanted to be involved in her grandchild's life. Disgusted and unable to speak to this stranger, I turned up the volume on my iPod, and cried, remembering the time Mom and Dad happened to be in town for one of the big meets, and drove 20 minutes there, arriving just in time to see the race--which probably only lasted a minute and a half--then drove right back to our house to help with a toddler.
I did push my way forward to see Henry swim that day, and as he climbed up on the block, I was hearing him say to me that he was swimming his races at this meet for Grampa. Determined not to cry so I'd be able to see, I was awe-struck when he crossed himself, then pointed and looked heavenward. That race, and every one since, he has dedicated to his grampa. While tears stung my eyes, I managed to keep them from blurring my vision, and watched as he swam his personal best. All for love.
When I decided to listen to the why and not the what, I had prayed for guidance. I had also asked Dad to tell me what I should do. When my heart calmed, and my mind cleared, and my vision brightened, I knew that I was getting an answer from many directions: God, Dad, Mary, they all were leading me to the importance of why, and the relative unimportance of what. And it has made all the difference.
Love never fails.
Then when I got home, I saw this, and knew I had a blog topic:
Found on "The Marriage Bed" (and slightly edited)...
"Why" something did or did not happen is usually far more important than "What" did or did not happen... but the "What" can be very noisy. Work to get to "Why" if you want change.
I once told this to a newspaper reporter... that the day she learned to ask Why, rather than What, would be the day she became a journalist. Five years later, and she's still writing What stories and has not moved up in her organization. (Soul Mate Marriages)
There was a day, not too long ago, when I could have let the noise of what get in the way of real and true love. But I made a decision to not only ask why, but to listen to the answer. Interestingly, the more the why, in my case, was determined, the less it mattered with regard to the what. The more I listened to the why, the more the person attached to the why mattered to me. It turns out, the what noise not only blocks out the voice of reason, it also serves as a smoke screen. Visual noise.
Today, love touched a chord, and I know Dad had something to do with it. I've been thinking about the last 8 days, and wondering what the 9th day was. Some of that week I remember, but not all of it. I don't really remember coming back home, for example, but I do, very clearly remember the swim meet that weekend. It was crowded--as in fire-hazard crowded--and I was in no mood to talk to anyone, whether I knew them or not, so I had my earbuds in, and tried to blend in to the wall. I only wanted to see our son swim, and planned to scooch in when he was on deck.
That day I heard a woman complain because her mother wanted to see her child swim. Thinking the idea preposterous, she proceeded, loudly (obviously, since I had music in my ears), to berate everything about her, from the clothes she wears to the fact that she wanted to be involved in her grandchild's life. Disgusted and unable to speak to this stranger, I turned up the volume on my iPod, and cried, remembering the time Mom and Dad happened to be in town for one of the big meets, and drove 20 minutes there, arriving just in time to see the race--which probably only lasted a minute and a half--then drove right back to our house to help with a toddler.
I did push my way forward to see Henry swim that day, and as he climbed up on the block, I was hearing him say to me that he was swimming his races at this meet for Grampa. Determined not to cry so I'd be able to see, I was awe-struck when he crossed himself, then pointed and looked heavenward. That race, and every one since, he has dedicated to his grampa. While tears stung my eyes, I managed to keep them from blurring my vision, and watched as he swam his personal best. All for love.
When I decided to listen to the why and not the what, I had prayed for guidance. I had also asked Dad to tell me what I should do. When my heart calmed, and my mind cleared, and my vision brightened, I knew that I was getting an answer from many directions: God, Dad, Mary, they all were leading me to the importance of why, and the relative unimportance of what. And it has made all the difference.
Love never fails.
Monday, February 18, 2013
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.
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.
Saturday, February 16, 2013
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!
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!
Thursday, February 14, 2013
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
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
Sunday, February 10, 2013
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.
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.
Saturday, February 9, 2013
mystery, militia, love
Usually by this time I have done my morning reading (it's 7:23am), but it's Saturday, for one thing, and, the far bigger reason, I have so many thoughts from yesterday's pondering that I want to put "on paper" so I don't lose them, ever. This final week of the retreat, we have three key words that are meant to sum up the reading (and lessons, and prayers) of a week.Yesterday, one of the words was "Love."
Maximilian Kolbe tells us, "If you have the will to love, you already have given proof that you love. What counts is the will to love. External feeling is also a fruit of grace, but it does not always follow the will." (p. 96) Just the night before, I had caught up on a blog that someone I know has started. As many bloggers do, he had written a post about what his blogs will be about. Part of it struck me as profoundly true, so that when I read the above from Kolbe, I thought of connections in my own life.
I pondered both of these passages. In fact, I was still pondering Mike's words when I started to read Kolbe's, so they kind of melted together in my mind. (Interestingly, this is not like anything I got out of the week we shared with Kolbe. The other two words to contemplate yesterday, Mystery and Militia, were the ones I "got." For me, they must have overshadowed his teachings on Love. I even just went back and skimmed the week, and I had marked nothing of the sort.)
What I have learned about Love in these weeks of soul-searching, and in the months of undirected soul searching I've been doing, is wrapped up neatly in these lines. And yet, without the discoveries I've made in my own self, about me, about my life, about my past and future, they would be just words, I think. They touched me so deeply precisely because I have been looking at the essence of Love myself. I've given Love a chance to heal me, and my broken world. At one time--for a long time, actually--I did think of love as an emotion, a feeling, something I possessed or expressed. It was not until I thought of Love as something solely to give that I began to understand its power, its sheer magnitude.
This is not to say that I was stingy with my love before. I was loving and giving, and wore my heart on my sleeve, and, because I can't help it, I always will, I'm sure. But I used to pay more attention to how that made me feel than I should have. Yes, I carefully noted how our boys were shaping up, thanks, in good part, to the love we showered them with (and expressed not only with hugs, kisses and kind words, but with curfews, limits, rules and groundings!), but, as Mike pointed out, a part of me was looking far into the future: how would this love come back to me when I am old and they are the caregivers?
If you follow me at all, you know that I have been striving to live in the moment. That does not mean that I run around like my son and his friends, doing silly things and shouting, "YOLO!" [YOLO -- You Only Live Once] It does mean that I try to do what's right for the sake of doing what's right, whether it's related to health, exercise, food, our kids, money, work, whatever. The future does not loom so frighteningly at my door now; I see it on the horizon in each sunrise, in the beauty of each new beginning.
How does this all relate to our retreat? I'm more open, more available, to the Love of Mary, her Son, and our Father than I have ever been before. Even with my frequent doubts and questions, I can move forward. Shoot, for me, the moving forward is probably because of my doubts and questions, since they drive me to learn, to grow, to be. As I typed these last words for this morning, the sun peeked over my shoulder, warming the back of my neck. I feel it is a symbol of agreement; a one-armed hug from above.
Maximilian Kolbe tells us, "If you have the will to love, you already have given proof that you love. What counts is the will to love. External feeling is also a fruit of grace, but it does not always follow the will." (p. 96) Just the night before, I had caught up on a blog that someone I know has started. As many bloggers do, he had written a post about what his blogs will be about. Part of it struck me as profoundly true, so that when I read the above from Kolbe, I thought of connections in my own life.
Love can heal the broken world, but love is not a feeling. Love is an act of the will - choosing to "will the good" of everyone we encounter not because of what we can get out of it, or because it feels good or because we want them to treat us well. That is not, primarily, love at all. That's a form of selfishness... it is pride. (Mike Creavey, Willing the Good)
I pondered both of these passages. In fact, I was still pondering Mike's words when I started to read Kolbe's, so they kind of melted together in my mind. (Interestingly, this is not like anything I got out of the week we shared with Kolbe. The other two words to contemplate yesterday, Mystery and Militia, were the ones I "got." For me, they must have overshadowed his teachings on Love. I even just went back and skimmed the week, and I had marked nothing of the sort.)
What I have learned about Love in these weeks of soul-searching, and in the months of undirected soul searching I've been doing, is wrapped up neatly in these lines. And yet, without the discoveries I've made in my own self, about me, about my life, about my past and future, they would be just words, I think. They touched me so deeply precisely because I have been looking at the essence of Love myself. I've given Love a chance to heal me, and my broken world. At one time--for a long time, actually--I did think of love as an emotion, a feeling, something I possessed or expressed. It was not until I thought of Love as something solely to give that I began to understand its power, its sheer magnitude.
This is not to say that I was stingy with my love before. I was loving and giving, and wore my heart on my sleeve, and, because I can't help it, I always will, I'm sure. But I used to pay more attention to how that made me feel than I should have. Yes, I carefully noted how our boys were shaping up, thanks, in good part, to the love we showered them with (and expressed not only with hugs, kisses and kind words, but with curfews, limits, rules and groundings!), but, as Mike pointed out, a part of me was looking far into the future: how would this love come back to me when I am old and they are the caregivers?
If you follow me at all, you know that I have been striving to live in the moment. That does not mean that I run around like my son and his friends, doing silly things and shouting, "YOLO!" [YOLO -- You Only Live Once] It does mean that I try to do what's right for the sake of doing what's right, whether it's related to health, exercise, food, our kids, money, work, whatever. The future does not loom so frighteningly at my door now; I see it on the horizon in each sunrise, in the beauty of each new beginning.
How does this all relate to our retreat? I'm more open, more available, to the Love of Mary, her Son, and our Father than I have ever been before. Even with my frequent doubts and questions, I can move forward. Shoot, for me, the moving forward is probably because of my doubts and questions, since they drive me to learn, to grow, to be. As I typed these last words for this morning, the sun peeked over my shoulder, warming the back of my neck. I feel it is a symbol of agreement; a one-armed hug from above.
Thursday, February 7, 2013
one step closer
Monday is the last day of a journey toward Marian consecration that I have been on. It's been quite an adventure, with emotional twists and turns along the way. Last night, in our small group, we talked about one of the questions we'd been given to help us ponder our reading. It was a question about sharing our homes with Mary, and was closely related, in my mind, to another question on another day about dedicating a corner of our homes or gardens to her. Small group, as you can well imagine if you've read many of my posts, is a tough time for me, and has been it's own weekly rumble strip, if you will. (Fr. Mike did point out in our first video session that the apostles were the first "small group," and made a whole lot happen!)
Anyway, I did have thoughts on these questions. About an hour before class, after a day that was out of my usual routine, I read the pages for the day. (Last minute homework has not been my usual thing with this class--it's only happened twice. I'm as surprised as anyone!) When I finished the pages, and read the questions, my first thought was that I have some Mary statues and things around the house already. But that felt like I was blowing off the question, so I took a breath, and considered where I would or could, or if I would or could, make them more visible. Then my heart shook, and I thought, "Stephanie, you are the house and garden." With the realization that the question very well could be taken figuratively, a few more elements of the retreat fell into place. (I really do picture a Tetris screen in my mind, only instead of the pentagrams falling and shifting to fill in, this kind of cognizance shakes it a little at the base, and the pieces just line themselves up. If only I was a cartoonist, you would see what I see!) I shared with the group. I almost felt as though all the questions and doubts in my own heart were gone.
Almost.
There was still a niggling concern that I'm not ready. Not immersed. Not understanding. Not really being asked to do this consecration. But something happened today that was more like a smack in the head. I have a Miraculous Medal that a very dear friend (one of my family of the heart!) gave me. It's on a bracelet, not on a chain, so I wear it on my wrist. Every day. I never really understood it as a sacramental until this retreat, but ever since I read up on it, and have paid more attention, I've seen the little miracles in my life that are, absolutely, prayers answered. (Some of them I prayed years ago, but I know that we do not know what is best for us. We just think we do!) Once, over the summer, at work, the medal fell off the bracelet, but I didn't notice until I saw it on the table as a lost and found item. Guy had it put back on, but I just stopped wearing it unless I was getting "dressed up." When the pool season ended, and I started working indoors again, I started wearing it again. For the past three weeks of the retreat, I have been particularly aware of it.
Today I lost it. I think it was a message; an answer to my concerns. (Silly me, I hadn't prayed about them! When will I learn? "Should I?" "Guide me, please.")
It was when I sat down to eat lunch that I realized it wasn't there. My first thought, "I hope whoever finds it, enjoys it and gets blessings from it." Then I started to deflate. I'd been having a difficult day--working on elements of my job I had not done alone, while being interrupted by phone calls I was not exactly sure how to answer. While managing to hold the mild panic down, I was pushing through, hoping that I wasn't getting overwhelmingly behind in my other responsibilities--the ones I really have a handle on. (Again, did I give this up to Mary? Is that not one of the things I'm supposed to be learning to do? Was she maybe nudging me to just say, "Guide me?" Probably!) Just before I noticed, just before a friend joined me at the table, I had been wondering if I should cut my break short to try and catch up, if only in my own mind.
I noticed. I pointed it out. We chatted while she finished her lunch. I resigned myself to the fact that it may be gone forever. I consoled myself by remembering that I could buy another medal and put it on the bracelet. I took a quick walk (after finishing the project I'd been on all morning, and finished after lunch) retracing my steps to the kitchen. I reminded myself to tell the kind man who empties our waste and recycle cans, and ask him to keep an eye out. I even opened myself up a little and told someone I'd met but never talked to; he said he'd keep an eye out. On my way back to my desk, a distance of maybe 20 feet, I thought, "Please let it show up.")
It was there, my Miraculous Medal, on the floor at my feet, in a spot I'd looked three times. As I smiled and held it up to show my workmates, I felt the turmoil in my soul subside. And I knew it was another one of my prayers answered. I knew it was an answer to at least a bit of my self-doubt. There are still some small pinpricks of hesitation; still something that I'm holding back. I don't know what it is, or if it will go away, but I will continue to ponder what is in my heart.
Anyway, I did have thoughts on these questions. About an hour before class, after a day that was out of my usual routine, I read the pages for the day. (Last minute homework has not been my usual thing with this class--it's only happened twice. I'm as surprised as anyone!) When I finished the pages, and read the questions, my first thought was that I have some Mary statues and things around the house already. But that felt like I was blowing off the question, so I took a breath, and considered where I would or could, or if I would or could, make them more visible. Then my heart shook, and I thought, "Stephanie, you are the house and garden." With the realization that the question very well could be taken figuratively, a few more elements of the retreat fell into place. (I really do picture a Tetris screen in my mind, only instead of the pentagrams falling and shifting to fill in, this kind of cognizance shakes it a little at the base, and the pieces just line themselves up. If only I was a cartoonist, you would see what I see!) I shared with the group. I almost felt as though all the questions and doubts in my own heart were gone.
Almost.
There was still a niggling concern that I'm not ready. Not immersed. Not understanding. Not really being asked to do this consecration. But something happened today that was more like a smack in the head. I have a Miraculous Medal that a very dear friend (one of my family of the heart!) gave me. It's on a bracelet, not on a chain, so I wear it on my wrist. Every day. I never really understood it as a sacramental until this retreat, but ever since I read up on it, and have paid more attention, I've seen the little miracles in my life that are, absolutely, prayers answered. (Some of them I prayed years ago, but I know that we do not know what is best for us. We just think we do!) Once, over the summer, at work, the medal fell off the bracelet, but I didn't notice until I saw it on the table as a lost and found item. Guy had it put back on, but I just stopped wearing it unless I was getting "dressed up." When the pool season ended, and I started working indoors again, I started wearing it again. For the past three weeks of the retreat, I have been particularly aware of it.
Today I lost it. I think it was a message; an answer to my concerns. (Silly me, I hadn't prayed about them! When will I learn? "Should I?" "Guide me, please.")
It was when I sat down to eat lunch that I realized it wasn't there. My first thought, "I hope whoever finds it, enjoys it and gets blessings from it." Then I started to deflate. I'd been having a difficult day--working on elements of my job I had not done alone, while being interrupted by phone calls I was not exactly sure how to answer. While managing to hold the mild panic down, I was pushing through, hoping that I wasn't getting overwhelmingly behind in my other responsibilities--the ones I really have a handle on. (Again, did I give this up to Mary? Is that not one of the things I'm supposed to be learning to do? Was she maybe nudging me to just say, "Guide me?" Probably!) Just before I noticed, just before a friend joined me at the table, I had been wondering if I should cut my break short to try and catch up, if only in my own mind.
I noticed. I pointed it out. We chatted while she finished her lunch. I resigned myself to the fact that it may be gone forever. I consoled myself by remembering that I could buy another medal and put it on the bracelet. I took a quick walk (after finishing the project I'd been on all morning, and finished after lunch) retracing my steps to the kitchen. I reminded myself to tell the kind man who empties our waste and recycle cans, and ask him to keep an eye out. I even opened myself up a little and told someone I'd met but never talked to; he said he'd keep an eye out. On my way back to my desk, a distance of maybe 20 feet, I thought, "Please let it show up.")
It was there, my Miraculous Medal, on the floor at my feet, in a spot I'd looked three times. As I smiled and held it up to show my workmates, I felt the turmoil in my soul subside. And I knew it was another one of my prayers answered. I knew it was an answer to at least a bit of my self-doubt. There are still some small pinpricks of hesitation; still something that I'm holding back. I don't know what it is, or if it will go away, but I will continue to ponder what is in my heart.
Thursday, January 31, 2013
and the greatest of these
Not too long ago, I went through a major emotional upheaval, and at the time, not knowing what else to do, I prayed. I've never been a big prayer. I've talked pretty frequently with God (in my own opinion), and not just the "hey, can you do this for me" kind of praying, either. Thanking Him for the blessings in my life has been first and foremost for as long as I can remember. When the boys were very small, I remember praying often for patience, too, which is how I learned the tough lessons about 'getting what you pray for.' It didn't take long for me to realize that if I asked for patience, I would get lots of trying situations to give me an opportunity to practice! Before long, I shifted to more thankfulness: Thanks for the longer naps today; thanks for sending that hug through his little arms just at the point that I needed it; thanks for the gentle breeze while we were walking home.
At certain times, though, I've found myself despairing. Truly lost in grief, frustration, fear, confusion. Often, I would pray then, but not always, and not necessarily with my whole heart. Sometimes I would turn again to the expected, "help me" prayers, and would wind up wondering when I would get help, find peace, understand. Occasionally (not nearly enough, but I'm a little bullheaded at times), I would hit a rock bottom place. At those times, usually because of some offhand remark by a friend, as a last resort, I would breathe deeply and simply say, "Thy will be done."
After 9/11, that's when I finally was able to sleep through the night. I felt peace instantly. Tears still spring to my eyes when I think of it, the feeling was so intense and so sudden. I remember the most recent time as vividly. I was driving on the highway, and I felt profoundly lost. The GPS was guiding me with the tires, but my heart was racing everywhere. The boys were sleeping or listening to music on their iPods; the radio was on. I'm pretty sure the window was wide open. It was summertime. Aloud, I said, "God, guide me. I'll do what you suggest. Thy will be done." Within 24-hours, I was gazing at the Gulf of Mexico, and I had an answer.
Life is a journey. The destination, though of some import, is only a small piece of the puzzle. My whole life, I've believed that the destination is worth less (not "worthless," just having less worth; less fun) if the trip is ignored. Dad used to take the back roads and lesser highways. When I was little, I thought it was just because there are more ice cream shops on the byways. When we went to Rhode Island for the first time to visit a college, I realized he was taking Route 6 to make the trip longer; to drive home, metaphorically, how far away I would be from what I knew if I went that far away to school. I will always remember that trip as being tortuously long enough to convince me that I could never spend that much time with any of my family members ever again. That journey helped me to make my decision, though not the decision Dad was hoping for, I'd wager. (The end result was okay with him--I loved my life in RI, and there I met the love of my life.)
In my life, though, I've been coasting more than I thought until I looked at the Gulf, at the boardwalk leading to it, and considered how perfection is most beautiful when it is imperfect. That boardwalk made me happy, even though walking on it meant watching out for the boards that were warped or out of place. When I think of the peace I felt there, I can feel the water lapping at my feet, my legs, my arms. I feel the sun as the love shining down on me. The beach and the water were beautifully refreshing, and gave me the strength I needed to make a promise.
In thanksgiving, I promised to examine my heart, and open it to God's graces. I still have questions (plenty of them!) and I still wonder where I'm going sometimes. But there is a trust there in my heart that amazes and awes me. Now I am learning about the joys of believing in more than I did yesterday. Each day is the beginning of another small journey, each of which builds to take me closer to wherever that is. I trust that parts of that journey will be surprises to me--some happy, some sad; some confusing, and some enlightening--but will combine with the plans, hopes and dreams that I work toward.
Faith, at the moment, to me, is a collaboration, and I am ever so thankful for the newness I feel in every aspect of my life. Prayers from years ago--almost forgotten!--have been getting answers (not always "yes," either! and I don't mind!) and more thankfulness, peace and energy has been flowing in. Trust. Trust is the miracle I've witnessed at least twice in the past 6 months. Trust borne of faith, hope, and love.
At certain times, though, I've found myself despairing. Truly lost in grief, frustration, fear, confusion. Often, I would pray then, but not always, and not necessarily with my whole heart. Sometimes I would turn again to the expected, "help me" prayers, and would wind up wondering when I would get help, find peace, understand. Occasionally (not nearly enough, but I'm a little bullheaded at times), I would hit a rock bottom place. At those times, usually because of some offhand remark by a friend, as a last resort, I would breathe deeply and simply say, "Thy will be done."
After 9/11, that's when I finally was able to sleep through the night. I felt peace instantly. Tears still spring to my eyes when I think of it, the feeling was so intense and so sudden. I remember the most recent time as vividly. I was driving on the highway, and I felt profoundly lost. The GPS was guiding me with the tires, but my heart was racing everywhere. The boys were sleeping or listening to music on their iPods; the radio was on. I'm pretty sure the window was wide open. It was summertime. Aloud, I said, "God, guide me. I'll do what you suggest. Thy will be done." Within 24-hours, I was gazing at the Gulf of Mexico, and I had an answer.
Life is a journey. The destination, though of some import, is only a small piece of the puzzle. My whole life, I've believed that the destination is worth less (not "worthless," just having less worth; less fun) if the trip is ignored. Dad used to take the back roads and lesser highways. When I was little, I thought it was just because there are more ice cream shops on the byways. When we went to Rhode Island for the first time to visit a college, I realized he was taking Route 6 to make the trip longer; to drive home, metaphorically, how far away I would be from what I knew if I went that far away to school. I will always remember that trip as being tortuously long enough to convince me that I could never spend that much time with any of my family members ever again. That journey helped me to make my decision, though not the decision Dad was hoping for, I'd wager. (The end result was okay with him--I loved my life in RI, and there I met the love of my life.)
In my life, though, I've been coasting more than I thought until I looked at the Gulf, at the boardwalk leading to it, and considered how perfection is most beautiful when it is imperfect. That boardwalk made me happy, even though walking on it meant watching out for the boards that were warped or out of place. When I think of the peace I felt there, I can feel the water lapping at my feet, my legs, my arms. I feel the sun as the love shining down on me. The beach and the water were beautifully refreshing, and gave me the strength I needed to make a promise.
In thanksgiving, I promised to examine my heart, and open it to God's graces. I still have questions (plenty of them!) and I still wonder where I'm going sometimes. But there is a trust there in my heart that amazes and awes me. Now I am learning about the joys of believing in more than I did yesterday. Each day is the beginning of another small journey, each of which builds to take me closer to wherever that is. I trust that parts of that journey will be surprises to me--some happy, some sad; some confusing, and some enlightening--but will combine with the plans, hopes and dreams that I work toward.
Faith, at the moment, to me, is a collaboration, and I am ever so thankful for the newness I feel in every aspect of my life. Prayers from years ago--almost forgotten!--have been getting answers (not always "yes," either! and I don't mind!) and more thankfulness, peace and energy has been flowing in. Trust. Trust is the miracle I've witnessed at least twice in the past 6 months. Trust borne of faith, hope, and love.
Friday, January 18, 2013
a lovely lady
Dark water swirls around her legs
ripples, rhythmic, icy cold
Rocks wobble beneath her feet
smooth, slippery, hard
The night air kisses her cheeks
ears, eyes, nose
The sound of life in the reeds
waving, swaying, rustling
Why is she here?
What does she see?
She is looking, searching, thinking
Hoping to find
.......
Hoping to find a place in her heart
to give--
freely, completely, openly,
generously, selflessly....
more
Stars shine above
the moon, a sliver
making the pinpricks of light all the more bright.
Each a portal to heaven
but only one way
Loved ones, guide her
lead her, pray for her
That she may pray
and live
ripples, rhythmic, icy cold
Rocks wobble beneath her feet
smooth, slippery, hard
The night air kisses her cheeks
ears, eyes, nose
The sound of life in the reeds
waving, swaying, rustling
Why is she here?
What does she see?
She is looking, searching, thinking
Hoping to find
.......
Hoping to find a place in her heart
to give--
freely, completely, openly,
generously, selflessly....
more
Stars shine above
the moon, a sliver
making the pinpricks of light all the more bright.
Each a portal to heaven
but only one way
Loved ones, guide her
lead her, pray for her
That she may pray
and live
Tuesday, September 25, 2012
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!
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!
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