The Broken Road

So, my church closed. Bill and I have attended Hope Reformed virtually all of our married lives. We were drawn there by the people, by the choir, by the commitment to social witness. We both served in a variety of capacities over the years, and our three older kids were baptized there.

It has been a great church for a million reasons. There were also struggles, some of which it eventually became impossible to overcome. Even as we watched the decline, even understanding that closing might be “the best” direction, the closing seemed to come suddenly, abruptly, with a kind of rip-the-bandaid-off feel. And then we were done.

Every loss, every grief is different, but each also brings up past loss and grief. In this closing I remember the closing of the denominational magazine I had served for many years, which also came about with swiftly and unexpectedly. In the loss of this church I also remember the loss of loved ones, particularly the loss of my stepmother and my mother, great ladies I still miss every day.

The church building will see new life as a church start. The new occupants will have a use for the furniture, the toys in the nursery, and the pans in the kitchen, but will have less use for the plates emblazoned with Hope’s monogram, the art donated by members long gone, or 50 white table clothes. So a few weeks after the final service, members were invited to stop by the church and carry home the flotsam and jetsam of 75 years of ministry.

Of course I went; I am a scavenger by nature. It also seemed important to honor these relics by keeping them in the family. The story of the church and its works still lives in these things: vessels used for God’s service, just like the people who worshiped and served there.  

The best part about the morning was reminiscing with the people there: remember this event, that person? There were pictures from youth groups in the past, the church’s original blueprints, some fabulous fancy coffee pots, and a couple of fake Christmas trees. We laughed and shared and clung to these last moments together. I love these people, and I will miss them. We will keep in touch some, I am sure, but we will ultimately go our separate ways. And that is grief.

Later that same afternoon, my niece was married. Well, technically she’s my step-niece, the daughter of my stepbrother, but when my father and stepmother married, they made a concerted effort to blend the families. When Dad and Mickie married, all of their kids were adults, so we never lived together under one roof, but in the early days of their marriage those of us who were local got together about once a month. And as we married and had kids, we managed to merge into one family. The kids, especially, saw no boundaries; they loved getting together, and still do. As close as some of them were, they always made room when cousin Elizabeth was in town from Florida, or when suddenly two cousins were brought in from Ethiopia. They had learned from Dad and Mickie that family is fluid and beautiful, and that a bigger circle brings greater joy and more love, not less.

Almost all of those cousins were present for Olivia’s wedding, along with their significant others. We got them all together for a picture, and I was struck by the beauty of it. When my mother died, I couldn’t have imagined that my understanding of family could be as large as it is now. When Mickie died, I couldn’t have imagined that, more than ten years later, we would still be as close and connected as we are.

Without the brokenness that comes with grief, we would not have this present joy, these relationships, this family. The brokenness of the past opened the door to new life and great love. I would have never chosen this path—my mother’s death—to get to where I am now. I still miss her, and still see the injustice in her painful death at a relatively young age. But I see the gifts that her death provided me: a deeper appreciation of life, and deep and loving relationships with people I might otherwise never have even met.  

My church family is about to be deployed to other churches, and I have no doubt that they will put their considerable gifts to service in these other congregations. They will carry on, and they will meet and love and cherish new people and new programs. As for me and my house: after working for a denomination for several decades—a tenure that did not end well for me—my people and I have had a bellyful of organized religion and probably won’t be church shopping anytime soon. But if I’ve learned anything, it’s never say never. I believe that there are good days ahead, and that sometime in the future, today’s brokenness will open wide to become the jagged path to great joy and great love. As always, I live in Hope. 

Closing Time

By Kelsey VanEyl-Godin

Today, my church is closing. I haven’t been a dedicated member in years, so this should be easy. Despite not being an enthusiastic church-goer, this is still tough. Church was a place of memories. It was socialization. So many of my friends growing up were from church. We bonded over camping trips and Sunday School, over pizza Sundays and Degage. Though I was not a consistent member, I know my church would have done anything for me. I know the people there love and support me no matter what.

Church-going has been difficult for years. Starting in high school, when I got my first job, Sunday mornings felt like my only time to relax. God and church were not a priority. Once I went to school, I avoided church altogether. Despite going to a Christian college, I never once attended chapel or “The Gathering” (Sunday evening service). I can count the number of times I’ve been in the Chapel on one hand (Not including my half-semester class that took place in the basement). I did try to attend a church for a while my senior year, but even that fell to the wayside during my 20-credit semesters.

One of the reasons church going has been tough is because I struggle to believe in God. Though I have never felt particularly close to God, I appreciate what they represent to people. No matter your religion, God is a person you can turn to when you are faced with a crisis, and God will do their best to help you. Whether you enjoy praying, attending church, reading the bible, going to “Jesus camp,” or any combination of those, God is important to many people.

I have also struggled with feeling accepted in the Christian community. I am a VERY liberal person, and sometimes I feel like there is no room for me in this pew; there isn’t enough bread and wine for me during communion. While I know that not all Christians are super conservative, I have this nagging feeling that I don’t belong.

Church and God are not exclusive; you can believe in God and not go to church. You can go to church and not believe in God. There is no right or wrong way to do religion. When I think of church, I think of the times spent during youth group, eating pizza and playing “Dr. Dew pong.” I think of trying to convince our Sunday School teachers to take us out to eat instead of having class. I think of the camping trips our cluster took, and how fun it was to all hang out and play games and take walks and talk to each other about everything. I think of baptisms and communions, of old hymns and new ones, of all the people who have come and gone over the years. I love my church, and the little community it provided for me over the years, so separate from the rest of my life. Saying good-bye is never easy. I will miss this building, and all the people inside. Thank you. You may be closing, but you will always be my church.

Forward

If you voted for Trump, I’d like a few words with you. These are not intended to be angry words, but are words of advice from my own experience. It’s probably not a surprise to you that I was an Obama supporter. My support and trust of him led me to neglect my duty as a citizen. I wasn’t always paying attention to what was going on in DC (or even in my own state), and in retrospect, there were times when I wish I had challenged him, provoked him, or encouraged him on various issues.

So I would like to encourage you to pay attention to what is going on in the Trump administration and the Republican dominated Congress. Really pay attention to what is being said, what is being done, and how things are being done. Many who did not vote for 45—and even some who did—are voicing concerns over many things, including:

• ·         Some of Trump’s picks for cabinet posts and advisors. Many of them have a long and very public history of support violations of civil rights or who have spoken publicly against the agencies they are now in charge of (I’m looking at you, Betsy DeVos). If these people and their policies offend you or make you nervous, speak up. It’s your right and your responsibility to keep an eye on them; they work for us.
• ·         Repeal of the Affordable Care Act. Repeal will actually hurt people, and that probably includes people you care about. Outright repeal, even partial repeal, will be a disaster for many, and will not likely save money for your average working person or small business.  Get the facts and speak out.
• ·         The disrespect for care of the earth. Science is real. National parks should be preserved for the next generations. Wildlife is important. All of these things are under attack by the current administration, so if these things matter to you, speak up. Call your senators and representative; contact the White House. Make your voice heard; that’s how democracy works.
• ·         The constitution—the document upon which our government is built—is not being respected or upheld. The uptick in hate crimes against Jewish and Muslim people, threats against the press, and some pending legislation that would limit everyone’s right to assemble are threats to all of us. Freedoms are shared and protected, and if they are curtailed for some of us, they are for all of us. The courts exist to protect us and to uphold the law, and if our leaders do not head them, our democracy is in peril. This is not hyperbole.

No matter who you voted for, stay educated on the issues important to you. Discern the difference between opinion and fact, and learn to research the latter—or at least read the whole article, not just the headline. Fact checking is pretty easy with Google; be sure to consult a couple of sources and/or experts. Test out different news outlets. All have some bias, of course, but there are several that consistently do good journalism.

Please don’t repost things that are not fact-checked, and please treat everyone—even those with whom you disagree—as children of God. This means no name calling and no calls for violence against them.

No matter who you voted for, don’t feel that you have to support everything that elected officials are doing. This is how democracy works.

We as a people are evolving. This is painful work for everyone, because it means we must let go of some things, and change is hard. But there can be better days ahead for all humanity if we work together at this evolution. I really don’t want anyone left out of this movement; I want us all to feel appreciated, heard, respected and, yes, loved. So pay attention to the way the world is now and the ways that it is changing, for good and for ill. Then set your sights on who we can be in the future and work toward that. We won’t all agree on the way forward, but it would be wonderful to build on common ground. Slashing and burning programs doesn’t give me much hope, but the idea of building something new together: that’s the stuff that dreams are made of.

Election

If you’re firmly committed to voting for Donald Trump, there is no need for you to read any further. Your choice is your choice, and history has proven that no facts, no opinions, no memes, and no articles are likely to change your mind. And so I will not try and, if you choose to continue reading, I would appreciate it if you would not bash my support of a different candidate. I personally have worked hard to remain at least polite through everything, and I think I deserve the same consideration.

For you undecideds, those who are vacillating, and those who are considering a third-party candidate, let me tell you why you should vote for Hillary Clinton. Not just against other candidates, but for someone who has the potential to be a great president for the United States.

It seems that, in every presidential election, I have heard people say, essentially, “Well, neither candidate is perfect, but so-and-so seems to be a slightly better choice.” And some years I would agree; presidential candidates seem evenly matched on maturity, experience, and the desire to listen to both the people and to wise and expert counsel on the tough stuff (like math and science). I try to vote for the person who I think will do the best job for the nation as a whole: leaders who will promote unity, build the economy, protect the earth that God has given us, and work toward justice in the US and abroad. I look to people who have experience, who have potential for growth, and who have a servant’s heart. The president has a tough job, and if he or she isn’t in it to serve, it’s not a good fit.

I love and admire Bernie Sanders for many of these reasons, and I appreciate that he carries on, continuing to do what he can to serve the people of the United States. That’s also why I am a supporter of Hillary Clinton. She cares deeply about this country and the people in it, and has the skills and experience to be a good, maybe even great, president. What do I like about her? Lots of things.

She’s a woman. I love that in a leader. Women lead in different ways than men. That doesn’t make her weak; it makes her strong in different ways. She leads from a place of collaboration and compassion. These are gifts, not liabilities. She understands that, together, we are stronger.  

She’s a listener. I love that in a leader. She pays attention to what’s going on in the hearts and minds of the people, and she’s willing to listen to experts. Once she’s listened, she responds thoughtfully. She’s also willing, after due consideration, to change her mind on issues. We call this growth. It’s not a bad thing.

She’s a Christian. I love the way she witnesses to her Methodist upbringing in the way she treats people and sees policy. Those who know the presence of a higher power tend to think big-picture and to remember that it’s not all about them. I think that Clinton carries this in her bones; she can talk the talk, but she’s really good at walking the walk. In most things, I see her as kind and gracious. (And a caveat: many cannot reconcile Clinton’s right-to-choose position on abortion with Christian faith, and I appreciate that concern. That said, I don’t think legislation will end abortion, and even if it could, I don’t think the president has the power to make it happen. This always seems to me an issue designed to distract us from the real work of the presidency. We’ve had several pro-life presidents since Roe v. Wade, and as far as I know, not one of them has made its reversal a priority. It’s a campaign wooing tactic, and it works.)

And now back to Clinton. I like her because she endures. I love that in a leader. She’s been scrutinized on every single step she’s ever taken and criticized by people no matter what she’s done. From her marriage to her cooking skills to her wardrobe…none of which have a damn thing to do with what kind of a leader she is…she’s been dodging stones cast on her every day of her life. Even when it comes to the other stuff—big issues like Bengazi or deleted emails—endless investigations (where she has always shown up, answered questions, and complied with everything asked of her) have revealed no wrongdoing. I think if she had some things to do over, she might do them differently. But in spite of all the muckraking—the name calling, cheap shots, half-truths, and outright lies—even with ALL of that, she still wants to serve the American people. She doesn’t need the presidency: she’s had a rich, full life. The presidency is not a trophy for her, but a way for her to put her considerable gifts to work for all of us.

She understands politics, and that’s important in a leader. She knows the law, and she understands the job of the president; she will be able to hit the ground running. I know that politics is a dirty word for some, and that sometimes we say we’d like to clean house, start over, get rid of career politicians. The truth is, in general we don’t choose to vote them out. Do we need reforms? Definitely. Lots of things in this country are broken. I hope that this election is a wake-up call to all of us on our own deep pain and dysfunction. And I hope that President Clinton will lead the way to helping us change, so that we can have a better future together.

This election has been the duel of the sound bite, and feels to me that we have lost sight of the long game.  We’ve focused on some stuff that doesn’t matter: on the most recent bit of dirt, or perceived dirt, on either major candidate. We need to stop that and concentrate on the road ahead. The internet is a wealth of information and misinformation; be informed, and don’t just rely on one source or one friend’s Facebook post. Look at the long game. I don’t want to go back to some nostalgia-fueled concept of when America was “great”; I want to go forward, together, toward even further greatness. Hillary gets that. She gives me hope. That’s why, without apology, I’m with her.

Trunk space

When I was a kid, my mom had an old trunk that she bought from an estate sale. Before I left for college I claimed it as my own, and since then it's traveled with me to every dwelling, serving as storage, seating, table, and conversation piece until Phillip took it with him when he left for college.

Before Daniel moved out a few weeks ago, he and Shay were shopping for a coffee table, but when area thrift stores didn’t yield anything, I suggested they look for a trunk, since storage space is always at a premium in apartments. He wrinkled his nose at this suggestion, so I told him to take the coffee table from the basement.

With the coffee table out of the way, I figured maybe I should replace it…with a trunk. The kids hang out in the basement and, because it gets cold down there, we keep a lot of afghans and blankets handy, mostly piled in a corner where they collect dust, cat hair, and possibly spiders. I figured a trunk would keep them cleaner, neater—off the floor, anyway—and could also serve as a table.

I began watching Craig’s List for bargains. There were some amazing trunks out there, and a lot of them had amazing prices—certainly more than I wanted to pay for a place for the kids to prop their feet. A rustic trunk was snapped up before I could claim it, and I emailed about a cedar chest but I got no answer. And then I discovered a steamer trunk: not wood, but sturdy, in good shape, and bright blue. And the price was right.

I shot off a message, and yes, the trunk was still available. After a few email volleys, we agreed to meet. It’s probably the writer in me that compels me to compile back stories for people before I meet them. Her name was Jessica, so I figured she was early 30s. Her choice of vehicle led me to believe she had a large family, and when her email signature included a Bible verse (that she had edited to include exclamation points), I pegged her as a home schooler. Not that there’s anything wrong with that.

She was already waiting when I pulled into the gas station where we were meeting, in her Yukon that bore smiling stick-figure kids—five of them. A couple of the kids were in the car; Jessica got out and popped the hatch, and there was the trunk, exactly as expected. She helped me get into my car, explaining that she had hoped to do something creative with it over the summer, but with a new baby all the homeschooling, she just hadn’t gotten around to it. I handed her the cash and we parted ways.

I got my treasure home and vacuumed it out. Lily helped me lug it downstairs and position it in front of the couch. I tossed in the freshly washed blankets. Done. Couldn’t be happier.

Except I’d become a little addicted to looking at Craig’s List trunks, so I went back online and noticed that a trunk I’d been eying had dropped in price. It obviously needed a little love, but no more than lots of other trunks priced at four times the money. The description, however, told the story: the trunk was locked, there was no key, and the owners had tried to drill the lock, so the lock was damaged.

It was such a great deal, I didn’t think twice before shooting off an email.

When I arrived at the address, Sean had already moved the chest out onto the porch. He told me that when he and his wife purchased it from a friend, there had been a key but it was broken, and his drill had not been powerful enough to break the lock. He and his wife were offloading things because they were going to put their house on the market. They didn’t have another house in mind; he thought they would rent for a while. Something about him made me wonder if they were on their way to the mission field, but I didn’t ask. We loaded up the trunk and wished each other well.

Bill’s drill was strong enough to bust through the lock, which probably wasn’t original to the piece, although it matched the hinges, so I’m guessing both were replaced in the 80s, during the height of the country decorating trend. Inside the trunk was a beautiful cedar lining and a tag that offered $150 in replacement value for moth damage from Caswell-Runyan in Huntington, Indiana.

Hand-crafted cedar chests existed before Caswell-Runyan, but none were massed produced before the company began in 1906. The company closed in 1956, and the styling of my trunk suggests that it was constructed sometime in the 1920s, probably about the time my grandparents married. I wondered if my grandmother had a cedar chest, and I imagined the young bride who used this chest when it was new to collect the makings of her new home. I pondered how many different owners had stored their treasures in its fragrant walls and left their marks on its worn exterior over the decades.

In the antiques business they call that patina: a reflection of the piece’s age, and a reminder of everyone who’s ever touched it—its backstory, as it were. We don’t have a word like that for people, which is kind of too bad. We forget that aging is a gift, and that the marks on us are a sign of survival and strength—pain, too, of course, but of pain that did not defeat us. With people, we don’t always appreciate the beauty that comes from imperfection, from the wear-and-tear of hurting and loving and surviving.

Even with its dings and imperfections, the trunk’s wood was beautifully enhanced with lemon oil, a little sanding, and a little stain and varnish. Sometimes just a little love can work wonders.

At some point we might replace the lock, but at the moment that little imperfection is part of its story. I imagine that someday one of the kids will claim it as their own and schlep it from house to house, or perhaps it will wind up on Craig’s List. But for now it has a home, and a purpose, and the unique beauty that comes from a long life.

Still Learning

Long before we adopted two dark-skinned children, I was introduced to anti-racism training. For the past 30 years, I’ve attended lectures and workshops that point out the inequalities in our culture: the peach-colored Crayola crayon that is labeled flesh, as if all flesh is rosy; the high incidents of harassment of African American drivers and the disproportionate number of people of color who are incarcerated; the many ways that the playing field is unequal for immigrants who are not white; the myth that “hard work” will pay off for someone other than white males.

Perhaps it was because I felt well versed in all of this that I imagined that we could, even should, raise dark-skinned children. As experienced parents, we had some idea of what we were in for. We also knew we would face different challenges but, with the arrogance of all new parents, we felt we were prepared. Most new parents believe ourselves to be smart and competent, and we are, but the road of parenting is long, and it is fraught with good days and bad. Before we have children, we imagine that enough love will solve any issue, and that we can protect our children from, or at least prepare them for, what the world will dish out.

And then we learn.

We learn that raising humans is a difficult job under the best of circumstance. We also learn that there are no best circumstances. It takes a village to raise a child, but sometimes the village is dysfunctional. Money and privilege ease many of stresses of childrearing but can create others. Co-parenting is awesome when it works, but awful when there is conflict between the parents. And a peaceful and supportive home life doesn’t cure the warring madness of our culture.

My black son is a beautiful, loving, happy kid. He’s also impulsive and a total wiseass, traits not unknown in our family. Although from time to time his desire to get the laugh gets him into trouble with his parents, as it has with his siblings before him, I would say he gets in more trouble with teachers and coaches than his equally impulsive, wiseass white peers. Can I prove it? No. But my intuition says that if there’s trouble among a group of boys, the majority of blame will land on Lewi.

I don’t want my kid to get a free pass; bad behavior must be addressed, and we work hard to try to impress this on Lewi. So far I have resisted the temptation to associate the color of his skin with higher expectations. I hate to tell my kid that, because he is black, people will judge him differently on pretty much everything, from his behavior to his work ethic to his intelligence to his speech. Because I know it is true, I feel that I must tell them. But it breaks my heart to know that this boy who I love more than my own life will face this sort of discrimination as long as he lives.

As Lewi gets older, I anticipate that the discrimination will be more overt, especially among people who do not know him. Right now he still lives a little bit in the bubble: he is known at school, at church, in our neighborhood, and so people cut him a little slack. But as he moves into larger schools with higher expectations, it is doubtful that the same grace will be extended to him. And I am terrified of what might happen when he gets his driver’s license, when he will be essentially loose in a world that does not care that he is an amazing human but will pull him over, repeatedly, for driving while black.

Seven years later, I confess that I still do not know how to parent my black son. I sometimes wonder if we did the right thing in adopting, in bringing black children into a culture where they face the kinds of prejudice they face here. That said, I know that, on a small scale, my calling is to speak to that prejudice, to try to live into and create the change that must come, to help those in my circle to see what I see, and to give Lewi a space to grow and thrive. I feel small and inadequate in the face of this calling, as I have with every aspect of parenting. But I think I can still learn.    

Writer

For most of my life I have thought of myself as a writer. It’s the descriptor with which I most identify—more than the names that come with family roles, the titles given to me by various employers, even my given name. The self-appointed title on my business cards is wordsmith, since editing is another part of my freelance work, but at the heart of everything, I think of myself as a writer.

It’s been a long time since I attempted a blog post, and lately even a Facebook post is almost more than I can manage. I’ve been busy and stressed and overwhelmed and depressed over issues large and small, all of which interfere with my ability to write, but which make it all the more important that I try to write.

I am pretty sure that I don’t really know what I think about any given topic until I start to write about it. The dance that happens between my brain and my fingers, typing out my thoughts, is what helps me find clarity. If I can read them back to myself in sentence form, my thoughts make more sense to me.

Writing also informs me of how I feel, and maybe that is why writing is always a struggle, even on the good days. Writing is emotive, and it takes a bit of courage to wade into the emotional swamp and feel all those feels. It’s admittedly cathartic, and I’m certain that the best writing has emotion in it, but it’s not a lot of fun to plumb the depths of my soul, especially if I’m having a bad day/week/year/decade already.

And the things about which I seek clarity these days are painful issues that seem to have no resolution. Shootings in Orlando, politics that seems angry and petty, terrorism, wars overseas that wash up broken humans onto our shores…so much sadness, beyond comprehension. And then there are my personal struggles and concerns: worries about my kids and my job, concerns about my church and my community. When I write, I hurt, and still nothing changes.

But the journey is the destination, is it not? I publish my little blog offerings as a form of therapy, and while I love feedback and the affirmation, the writing is the thing that gives me life.  I cannot be who I am—a writer—if I do not write.

Great writers counsel us wannabes to just keep writing. Go at it every day. Not everything will be wonderful or even good—much of it will be discarded. But the habit of writing, like any other good habit, will pave the way for great things to come, or so they say. You certainly can’t run a marathon without proper and consistent training, and you’ll never write something worthwhile if you haven’t cultivated writing as a discipline. So that’s my goal: commit to a schedule where I write every day.

Writing is hard, even on the days when it’s not. It doesn’t matter. We all need to do hard things sometimes. And while I doubt that anything I write will change the world, I do know the process changes me, and perhaps what I write will be of help or value to someone else. And maybe that’s enough. 

Jam

When I was in elementary school, we walked home for lunch every day. Usually my dad was there to make sure we got fed and back out the door in time for the afternoon session. We had a lot of time for lunch: even walking about six blocks each way, I don’t remember being rushed. In fact, some days, if we were out of bread, there was time for my dad to send us to the bakery around the corner for a fresh loaf. Lunch was always sandwiches, so we had to have bread.

The rules on sandwiches in our household were like a chapter of Leviticus (the King James Version): a long list of rules regarding what was and wasn’t acceptable. Thou shalt always butter both slices of bread; thou shalt always cover the bread with a second slice of bread (open faced sandwiches are an abomination); never shall meat and cheese lie together in the same sandwich, neither mayo and mustard: it shall not be eaten.

These rules may have come from my parents’ impoverished childhoods and from not wanting to squander too much on one sandwich, or they may have just preferred boring sandwiches and saw no need for more than one flavor. (I never really did understand the butter thing.) Regardless, we kids were all very excited when we were invited to eat lunch at our friends’ houses where we were permitted to eat peanut butter AND JAM together on the same sandwich. We were living large.

After Bill and I got married, he would make amazing sandwiches by piling on everything we had: meat (sometimes more than one kind!), cheese, lettuce, tomatoes, mayo, mustard, onion, alfalfa sprouts. I felt so guilty enjoying it; it really did feel like I was sinning.

As a kid, one thing that was always on our lunch table was my mother’s homemade jam, which was remarkable all on its own. My mom’s jam was the best, jam so amazing that it has made all other jam unpalatable. There might be high-end jams out there that compare, but mostly other jams just make me sad, and I’ve pretty much given up on them.

My mother made strawberry freezer jam: batches and batches of beautiful red jam, soft-set and stored in small jars with a diamond pattern in the glass. When we’d take a new jar out of the freezer and lift the tin lid, crystals of ice shimmered on the surface. We’d dig in and spread it on the bread, and really, peanut butter would not have enhanced it in any way. Some mornings my dad would get up early and put some frozen bread dough in the oven to bake; then breakfast would be steaming fresh bread dripping with chilled strawberry jam. The combination of sweet and savory, hot and cold, my mother’s efforts and my father’s…it was heaven on earth.

My mom made peach jam in a hot water bath, a much more elaborate process that sealed the jars so the beautiful rosy jam could be stored in the basement. It, too, was delicious beyond compare: a taste like sweet sunshine with a bit of tart. The shelf would be full at summer’s end, and by spring we were carefully parsing out what was left in order to make it last until there was new jam.

This summer, my desire for my mother’s jam finally overwhelmed me to the point that I decided to make my own. I started with strawberry. We bought some beautiful fruit at the farmers’ market and, following the directions, I cut it up, added the SureGel, and poured it into plastic containers, since I don’t have a collection of pretty glass jars. And…it was just okay. Better than store-bought, but not nearly as good as mom’s. It’s hard to know if my work was really inferior (I know I over-mashed the fruit) or if nostalgia had raised mom’s jam to an unattainable level.

When peaches started to come in, I decided to use my experience to try to improve my average. I went with the freezer jam recipe again, since I don’t have the necessary equipment for the water bath processing. I chopped and measured and followed the directions. Instead of being better than the strawberry, the peach jam was a disaster, never setting up but remaining stubbornly liquid. I was disappointed, but we bought some vanilla ice cream and used the “jam” to make fabulous milk shakes (which were kind of healthy, since they had fruit in them).

Some days I miss my mom deeply. But sometimes I wonder if I miss the idea of my mom. She’d had a hard life and struggled with many things, and the woman I knew as a teenager was still trying to work things out—something that I appreciate now far more than I did back then. There’s no telling who my mom might have become if she had lived beyond the age of 51. Would she have been critical and negative, shaking her head over my failed jam, or wise and supportive, laughing at our ingenuity in using it for milkshakes? Would she have been a doting grandma, showing up with hugs and toys and taking the kids to the movies, or would she have keep her distance? Would she have ever found a way to release her brilliance and her creativity, so evident but so deeply suppressed, or would she have insisted on eating Leviticus sandwiches forever? Could she ever have accepted how loved and admired she was and found peace? Could have gone either way, and most likely some combination.

Memory is a tricky thing. Sometimes it frustrates me that I forget things, but really being able to forget, or at least for memory to fade, is God’s gift, especially for those not-so-pleasant (even horrific) memories we all carry. Nostalgia encourages me to remember my mother’s strength and beauty, and I’m content with that. But I’m not content with my inability to replicate her jam. And so next year I will try again. I’m pretty certain that’s what mom would have done.

Royal Pains

Most Tuesday mornings I volunteer at Meijer Garden (http://www.meijergardens.org/), a really lovely hub where horticulture, fine arts, and education come together to play. It’s one of West Michigan’s best features, and I’m proud to be a (very small) part of the work that’s done there.

My job is as a bus buddy. Bus buddies meet the groups of school children who come to visit and/or participate in one of our many educational programs. Bus buddies hop on the buses as they pull in, remind the kids to use walking feet and inside voices and to NEVER EVER EVER climb on the statues, and then get the kids off the buses and to their destinations in an orderly fashion.

On the good days, it’s a simple job. On the good days, the teachers are organized and have remembered name tags and paperwork and payment and have organized all the lunches into boxes or baskets, and the chaperones listen to directions and pay attention to the kids instead of spending all of their time looking at their phones. On the good days, the weather is beautiful and the buses are well spaced and arrive as scheduled.

Of course, there are no perfect days. As bus buddies, we are used to all the things that don’t go as well as we would like them to, and we work around them. It’s our job. I’ll be the first to admit that I take the job a little too seriously and that I can get frustrated with some of the bumps, but I also try very hard not to let my irritation show with the kids, parents, and teachers. I want Meijer Garden to be a happy place for everyone.

Bus buddies generally work in teams of three, but for some reason Tuesdays are hard to fill, so Tuesdays have been handled by a two-person team. Lately I’ve worked with Susan, who might be my all-time favorite coworker in this job. We talk things over and know the plan, but we both know what to do and when to do it and have no problem scrapping the plan if necessary.

Some days, two bus buddies are not enough, even though we are really good. Fortunately, Rita is a trained bus buddy who works the information desk on Tuesdays, and she’s generally available to come out and help us over the hump.

A few months ago my dad mentioned that the king and queen of the Netherlands would be visiting West Michigan, and that they would make a stop at Meijer Garden. He thought about getting an invite or a ticket for himself but thought them a bit pricey. He wondered if, as a volunteer, I would be invited or might get a glimpse. I chuckled at the thought of me, a lowly bus buddy, amid the glitterati of West Michigan celebs and millionaires. This ain’t communion; it’s PR and politics. I knew I wouldn’t be invited, and I didn’t really give it a second thought.

One Tuesday a team of security people were onsite in preparation for the visit, reminding me that it must be coming up. That’s when I found out what lots of people already knew: the royals would be there the next Tuesday.

I knew that would mean tight security and changes in some of our procedures, but I wasn’t too worried. We were getting toward the end of the school year, so we had fewer and fewer groups, and I figured any groups would be scheduled to avoid a collision with the king and queen.

Then I got the schedule for school groups. Four large groups were scheduled to arrive all at EXACTLY the same time. We were expecting about 600 kids and chaperones at 9:45 and we wouldn’t be able to use about half of our usual drop-off space, couldn’t use our usual gathering spaces, had to bring the kids in through different doors, had to relocate all their lunches—the list of hoops was long.

I was not amused. In fact, I would have to say I was seriously pissed off. For the first time at the garden, I felt abused as a volunteer. I vented to anyone who would sit still: Bill (multiple times), my kids, my boss, my pastor. Such a schedule would have been chaos on a good day; what would it be like when we had to dance around the royals?

But the venting must have done some good, because that Tuesday morning I woke up a new woman. All my grumpiness had disappeared and I embraced my inner fangirl. I put on my freshly washed uniform shirt with pride, and although I took no more pains with my hair than usual (pony tail), I did put on a little lipstick and my orange jacket, since you never know when you might get picked up on some cameraman’s B roll. I reviewed the words of the Dutch national anthem and did just a little bit of research into the king and queen. I was ready for whatever came.

We were blessed with perfect weather. I got there early, and Jess, the staff person in charge of school groups, was already setting up. Then Rita and Susan showed up, and another bus buddy Rita had impressed into service. A few additional paid staff were on hand as well, and a bored docent who wanted to be part of the action wandered out, looking for something to do. I attempted to teach them a little Dutch while we prepared, demonstrating the proper amount of spit needed for each word.  

Then the buses began to arrive—10 total—and we used every single person we had. I can’t say it wasn’t chaotic, because it always is when you’re dealing with first graders (plus teachers, chaperones, and four times the normal number of greeters), but we managed to work around the media and the Secret Service and the Dutch ambassador and get everyone (and their lunches) where they needed to go.

After we got everything put away and my work was done, I loitered a bit, watching the wealthy, the politicians, and local celebrities arrive. I debated waiting until the royals arrived so I might catch a glimpse. I probably should have stayed…just to say I did. But decided to make my way out of there while I still could. Give the rest of the rubberneckers a chance.

It had been a great day, and a glimpse of royalty would not have changed or even enhanced that. Sometimes the preparation is more fun than the party. And some days I’m smart enough to realize it. 

The Plumber

A few years ago I heard a story of recent immigrants to the United States who dumbfounded at the sight of spoiled food.  In the impoverished country of their birth, they had never seen such a thing happen. Only when they moved to the United States did they learn it was possible for food to go bad.  

I think of this every time I notice something fuzzy on a leftover or when my nose tells me there is something rotten in the potato bin. Admittedly, part of it is that I’m a cheapskate and I hate to waste money. But I do genuinely want to honor the earth and the food it provides, and I also know that someone, somewhere, would be grateful for the scraps from my table.

So when I remembered we had a few chicken breasts in the fridge, I was optimistic, even though I was pretty sure they were past their prime. They did not pass the smell test, but after I rinsed them they seemed like they might be okay. I put them in the crock pot on low for a few hours, hoping that whatever nasty thing was growing on them could be cooked out. Even as they were cooking they didn’t smell right, so I was increasingly leaning toward tossing them.

Not quite ready to give up, I took a bite and spit it out immediately. Nope. Not gonna do it.

I turned on the disposal and flushed the chicken down. Then, unexpectedly, I could hear the sink start to fill, and then bits of chicken started coming back up. I turned off the disposal; the water had definitely stopped draining. Shoot.

I grabbed the plunger and went at it. The water stayed put, milky from the bits of chicken floating about. Our home is blessed with pipes with couplings that can be easily removed to check for blockage. I put a pan underneath the sink and began to disassemble, but the force of the water was greater than anticipated, and the warm chicken soup went everywhere inside the cabinet, and a great deal of it on me as well.

The trap was clear. I pulled off a few more pieces; everything checked out. I took a knife and poked at the piece of pipe that disappeared into the wall: nothing. I reassembled the pipes and ran more water. The sink filled again.

At least three more times I disassembled, cleaned out what I could, and put the thing back together, with the same results. When Bill came home after a long, hard day, he was greeted with a mess in the kitchen and a wife who was more than a little upset. Bill thinks like an engineer and often can fix things that I can’t, but he, too, was unable to find the blockage.

I called the plumber early the next day. When I have to call in a professional, I always hope that things are not solved so easily that I feel stupid for calling, but not so complicated that the bill goes into double digits. My hopes were unfulfilled. The plumber was with us all day. ALL DAY. He used tools. He checked schematics. He drilled holes. He seemed almost as frustrated as I was—but of course, he was getting paid for his frustration.

Finally, he found the problem: about six feet of pipe clogged with all manner of table scraps, the residue of 12 years of our life, the remnants of countless meals slowly accumulating in a plastic tube between the floor joists and the ceiling tiles. He cut the pipe and the goo came gushing out; it could have been much worse, but the clog was in the pipe above the bathroom. The shower and the plumber were covered with it, and the smell knocked me back…a cross between puke, swamp, and landfill. Nasty.

The plumber felt bad about the mess; I assured him I was more than willing to clean it up if it meant I could have my kitchen back. He replaced the pipe, filled the holes, and tested everything to make sure were back in business. It was well past the dinner hour before Steve the plumber pulled out, a fat check in his wallet. And even then he said, with a wink, that the next time I called, he’d let me go through to voice mail.

It was a long, expensive day, and more than once I wish I had just tossed the chicken when I first suspected it was bad. But the truth is, this was not about the chicken, and it was not my fault. There, I’ve said it. From time to time I have to remind myself that sometimes the bad stuff rains down unexpectedly, splattering everywhere. If you’re lucky, the bad stuff can be fixed; if you’re luckier, all it costs you is money. And if you’re really lucky, you can absorb the cost without it cutting too deeply.

At the end of the day—even this day—I am reminded of all the things for which I am grateful: for running water, for help that comes when I dial a number, for our beautiful home that gives us space to commune. Even the muck is a reminder of all the good gifts we have been given. On this day—every day—we are blessed beyond measure.

Dishes

I’ve never been the woman that ropes off her living room unless company is coming over, and I don’t really have things that I save for special occasions, but I do have a number of lovely things that aren’t particularly practical for everyday use. Some were wedding gifts, others were inherited from family members, and others I’ve picked up myself over the years. Mostly they live in the china hutch, but when I host a gathering, I love pulling them out and showing them off.

My oldest niece is getting married in a few months, and her sister Sarah and I hosted a bridal shower for her. I had great fun trolling Pinterest for décor and menu ideas, and I enjoyed cooking and decorating in preparation. Cleaning…well, less fun, but important. My house is never as clean as I’d like, but I’ve accepted that, and I know that being a good hostess is not as much about a spotless home as it is about an open door.

The morning of the bridal shower, I cover the table with an embroidered tablecloth that had belonged to my stepmother; in fact, I think it had originally belonged to her mother-in-law. I spread a second embroidered tablecloth—a treasure purchased for $2 at an estate sale—over the kitchen island where I will set up the dessert station. I often pick up handwork at second-hand sales, because I want to honor and respect the work of the women who created it. The textile arts, in my opinion, tend to be undervalued.

Once the backdrop is in place, I retrieve tiny white china cups and saucers—a wedding gift from a childhood neighbor—from the bottom of the hutch. My neighbor was an avid garage sale shopper, and I am sure that these cups were not new when she gave them to me, which, frankly, I think is awesome. Recycling rocks!

I take out another wedding gift: an enormous glass bowl, a present from the kids in the 9^th-grade Sunday school we taught before we wed. I love this bowl and use it often. When I do, I always remember those sassy, introspective, amazing kids. We lost touch with them, but I know a few things: two of the girls were pregnant before they graduated high school (*sigh*), one of the boys was killed in a car accident when he was 26, and the father of one of the girls died just a few months ago. Much has happened since we knew them, but the beauty of the glass bowl remains.

To serve the chocolate mousse, I pull out my own Crate-and-Barrel dessert dishes, plus a few antique dessert dishes of unknown origin and a few pieces of my mother’s stemware. I’m sure that at one time I would have found the mish-mash of dishes tacky, but now I love it. Matchy-matchy is so 20^th-century.

There are not enough forks in my every-day silver, so I pull out the forks that were my family’s “good” silverware when I was a kid. I’ll also need three stainless serving plates to hold the quiches and my grandmother’s floral bon-bon dish for the butter. We plate and arrange everything: the tables look beautiful.

Our guests arrive—a mix of women new to me and people I’ve known for decades. The room is full of laughter and happiness, getting to know each other and celebrating Beka and the new family that is being formed with her marriage. 

At this shower, also I see and hear and feel the presence of women long gone, women I have loved and women I have not met. I see their artistry in the beautiful tablecloths that have served, and continue to serve, as a backdrop to lovingly created meals. I hear the echoes of their conversations as we sip from the same porcelain coffee cups. I see the reflection of their lives in the metals and the crystal. 

These days, when most women work for their own fulfillment as well as for financial reasons, when men cook and clean and tend to children, these gatherings might seem a throwback to another time: a hen party, a relic from the days when a well-stocked kitchen was the epitome of what every woman wanted. But I see it more as a rite of passage: women supporting women, helping to launch a young bride’s new life, offering our advice and our blessings to the bride-to-be as she enters an exciting new chapter.

When women gather, there is power. Sometimes this power changes the world through advocacy, education, research, or new ideas. And sometimes it changes the world in quieter ways, empowering just one woman and surrounding her with love as she moves confidently into her future. Godspeed, Beka, and know that you’re supported by those who walked this path before you. 

Reading

When I talk to parents who, like us, have large gaps in the ages of their children, they will often say that they are much better parents later in life. They have learned to let “little things” slide and they focus more on enjoying their kids than correcting them.

I can honestly say that I don’t feel that I have changed that much. I am just as bad at parenting as I have always been. I still get grumpy over lost items and spilled drinks, and I still get mad when I have to repeat simple instructions 20 times. We don’t indulge the kids’ every request or sign them up for everything they want to do; we ask them to make choices. When they pair green sweatpants with a red shirt or commit some other fashion faux pas, I will send my kids upstairs to change, although I have always been fairly relaxed about hair, allowing them to choose their own styles and colors (and trying really, really hard not making snide comments). But I still insist the kids eat their veggies, do their chores, and go to bed at a decent time.

I do notice, however, that I don’t worry quite as much about the younger kids’ academics. I help when I can, nag when I must, but I don’t feel the need to push them to be the top of their class. One thing I have learned is that motivation must come from within, and pushing too hard only leads to frustration for me and passive aggressive behavior in them.

I used to try so hard to get the older kids work up to their potential. All of them, smart and talented but not particularly driven, were happy to get by with the least amount of work, so from time to time we would work on an incentive program. When Beanie Babies were popular, I promised my oldest son, Phillip, a new stuffed animal with each perfect score on a spelling test, and for months his tests were flawless. When I told him that I thought he should get two perfect tests in order to get a toy, he decided that was too much work, and he never studied for a spelling test again.

I do believe in education, and I do want my kids to give things their best effort. I want them to understand math and be scientifically literate. I want them to LOVE reading and to be able to put together clear sentences in written form.  But with spellcheck available everywhere, it hardly seems important to be a perfect speller. By all means, I want the kids to learn the difference between there, their, and they’re, but most of the other stuff—eh, not so important.

More than brilliance in the classroom, my wish for my kids is that they learn to be kindhearted and empathetic without being used and abused, that they can understand the give-and-take required of any good relationship. I want them to learn to be good friends, and this is far more difficult to teach this than any academic subject.

Over the years each of my kids has had good friends and not-so-good friends. I know that my kids didn’t, and still don’t, tell me about every time they were bullied or bruised. I also know that, although they are basically lovely people, my kids have been guilty of acts of unkindness—some of it stunningly cruel. It’s what kids do: speak without thinking, act without considering someone else’s feelings. Sometimes it has cost them big, but other times they have been able to make amends. At the very least they have learned from the experience.

Back in the days when I was pressuring Phillip about I before E and all other things academic, he hung out with a kid named Greg. They were friends through high school, but they didn’t see each other much after that, even though they made some attempts to keep in touch. It wasn’t a falling out, just a falling away, as happens when paths diverge.

Enough of their friendship remained that Phillip went to the visitation hours when, at age 21, Greg took his own life. Even looking back at their time together, Phillip did not suspect that Greg would suicide. I don’t know if Greg changed after high school or if Phillip just didn’t see it. I certainly don’t blame Phillip for missing it. Greg had a loving family and several close friends; I don’t know if any of them saw it, either. But I wish someone had, and had found a way to stop it.

I want my kids to read great literature, to understand math, and to know important events from history, but more than that I want them to be able to read people, to understand relationships, and to know themselves. Not that the two are mutually exclusive; it’s certainly possible to be self-aware and a good friend and also to be intellectually well-rounded. But if I have to choose, I want to raise kids who are good friends, who have healthy relationships, and who make a positive difference in the lives of others.

I’ll go to parent/teacher conferences this week, and if history is any indication, I expect that the teachers will tell me that my kids are doing okay academically: strengths and weaknesses, but mostly middle of the pack. And then they’ll tell me that my kids are helpful and kind, sweet and funny, growing up to be good people. After the conferences I’ll attempt—as I always do—to offer more help (and nag a little more) with schoolwork. But in my heart I’ll know that the important foundation is already secure.

Sad

Lots and lots of people fight depression. I am one of them. It runs in my family, as do diabetes, heart disease, and big feet. Not much that can be done about the genetics, but if you know your weaknesses, with proper care and attention, it’s possible to avoid or overcome these things. (Well, except for the big feet. For that there is no cure, only acceptance—and cute shoes.)

Much was written about depression in the wake of Robin Williams’ suicide, and I’m not sure I have anything new to contribute to the discussion. That said, I know that writing is therapy for me, and so sometimes I write to help exorcise my own mental demons. And so, dear reader, welcome to my therapy session.

One reason that Williams’ death hit all of us so hard is because it had clearly been such a long struggle for him, and he had obviously done everything in his power to get well. If such a gifted, loved, and loving person, someone with excellent resources, couldn’t beat this disease, what hope is there for the rest of us? Fortunately, most people with depression don’t fall into a well that deep, but it is rather alarming the number that do, even when under a doctor’s care, even with family and friends being vigilant and supportive.

My depression most often feels to me like I am trapped in tall bucket about half-full of sadness. I’m not drowning, but I am surrounded, and I cannot get out. I know that there are things I can and should do to at least make the water level go down, but even when I know that writing or exercising or even cleaning have the potential to lift my spirits, they are the last things I want to do. The sides of the pail are too tall, too slippery. I feel helpless. So I focus on the darkness instead of reaching for the light.

There is a little something stubborn in people with depression. We tend to feel like victims, and with that mentality comes a sense of helplessness, of not believing it is within our power to change things.  Perhaps we are more comfortable living with the sadness that is known than to move into the happiness that could be. Or we may believe that, once we’re out from under the cloud, no one will believe that the cloud was real.

Depression, like so many illnesses, is more complicated and more devastating than we know. We’re looking, as we always do, for the quick fix, the sure shot, the easy-to-swallow correction. It doesn’t exist. It requires a lot of work to overcome. And each case is different; each depressed person is in his or her own pail. Each has to figure out what works, and then stick with the plan.

Depression is as a medical condition, and it deserves to be treated as such. There are medicines available that can be a great benefit, but getting the right meds in the right doses is kind of a trial-and-error thing. And, as a friend noted, the pharmaceutical companies are the ones doing all the research on depression, and it’s likely that their goal is motivated as much by money as by improving the human condition. A pill is not always the answer, is not always the ONLY answer, is not always the COMPLETE answer. As with most medical conditions, a multi-tiered approach often works best.

Talk therapy, with or without pharmaceuticals, can be a huge help, but again, therapists only make money when you’re making those appointments. Talking with friends can be just as beneficial for many people, but even the best friends are bound to get frustrated after weeks and weeks of negative self-talk. And I don’t blame them. I get tired of hearing myself complain. I have a pretty great life, and it bothers me that I don’t appreciate it more. I don’t want to burden my friends with my petty complaints when we live in a world full of atrocities like hunger and racism.

So, what to do? While certainly not a substitute for medical care, there are simple things that can be done to combat depression. Research shows that listing three good things that happened each day (small things, like a call from a friend, completing a task, discovering a new tea) lifts even clinical depression in a matter of weeks. Decades of research also indicate that the act of smiling—even when you’re not feeling it—and doing good deeds for others consistently boost mood. None of these things in itself is a cure (look again to Robin Williams), but all can be helpful.

When I had cancer, there were times when I thought that the treatment was worse than the disease. I wasn’t sure if I could do all of the chemo and all of the radiation. Many people kept me going: doctors and pastors and friends and coworkers and family and even the occasional stranger in the street. But in the end, it was my decision, and I knew that I wanted to do all that I could to get well. Having a goal allowed me to do the things that I didn’t think I could.

So it is with depression. Many, many people have kept me going, listened to me vent, forced me to get out, helped me to find purpose, and I am enormously grateful. But it is still my pail. Some days I am out, and other days I fall back in. And each day I have to remind myself that, even if I’m in the pail, there are things I can do to keep the water from rising. I need to choose to do them.

I also try to remember to do for others as others have done for me. I can’t pull those who are depressed out of their pails, but I can be a listener and an encourager. I can offer to hold them accountable. And I can walk with them on their journeys.

I guess those big feet are good for something.

Thrift

I often describe myself as the world’s cheapest human, which isn’t quite true, but close. It’s not that I won’t spend money, but I really, really hate paying any more for an item than is absolutely necessary. I love a bargain.

While this has been true for a long time, it became even more important when our family income was cut in half a few years ago. Although we hadn’t been living a lavish lifestyle, at that point we had to make some serious adjustments. We had to tighten up everywhere.

Clothing can be considered a luxury, but with growing kids it’s a necessity. While at one time we relied on thrift store purchases for costumes for school plays or for Halloween, when I lost my job and we added two children to the family almost simultaneously, shopping thrift stores for clothing became an important way of keeping expenses in check.

Here in Grand Rapids we have a few thrift stores that support local missions that I frequent occasionally, and I used to shop Goodwill until I learned of the dramatic pay disparity within the company, but the Salvation Army Store is my current go-to. I’m especially partial to the days (about once a month) when clothing is 99 cents per piece. No need to check the tags or do too much math…the perfect shopping experience.

I’m not the only one who takes advantage of these sales, so on 99 days, the place is packed. The entirely inadequate parking lot overflows, so people ignore the do-not-park-here signs at the enormous (often empty) parking lot of the neighboring garden center. I often park in this lot, but I park in a part that isn’t tagged for towing so I’m pretty sure my car will be there when I come out.

The store has an aroma all its own: musty, with a hint of mothballs and grandma’s cologne. On busy days it’s tough to get a cart, but if your timing is right, you can score some wheels. Of course, the aisles are narrow, so shopping with a cart will definitely slow you down. It’s a calculated risk, either way, but if I have time to really browse, the cart is a good choice.

On sale days, I start in the boutique, where the high-end stuff is lodged. I’ve never been a brand-name snob, but I know good quality, and I know that sometimes I can find it sequestered on these front racks. The store puts a higher price on boutique stuff, but on 99 cent days, it’s 99 cents. I check the racks for men’s stuff, women’s stuff, kids’ stuff. I examine the pieces for wear, for stains, and for working zippers. Replacing a button is no big deal, but if I have to replace a zipper it never ends well.

Many people shop together as families. Young children run wild, scream from boredom, or sit on the nasty stained floor and play with the toys that are for sale while mom and dad consult about items they’ve pulled from the rack. It appears that many of my fellow shoppers are recent immigrants; I often hear Spanish, Chinese, Korean, and the languages of Africa, as well as languages and accents I can’t identify.

Because of the ages and genders of my family, I shop virtually every rack of clothing, crawling past other shoppers with their overflowing carts. Clothes are sorted by gender and by color but not by size, so you can spend a lot of time looking and might still come up empty handed. For the kids, if I find something good I buy it even if it’s a size or two large; quality kids’ stuff isn’t easy to come by.

Thanks to some modest sewing skills, sometimes I can repair or alter something to make it work, and I’ve actually refashioned a few things so that they’re quite wearable. But not everything is worth the effort, so I focus on things that have real potential. Even 99 cents isn’t a bargain if you’re not going to wear it.

The lines for the five dressing rooms are crazy long on these days, so I know better than to buy anything that has to be tried on. If I am shopping for pants for myself, I come alone on a quiet Tuesday morning and take my time in the dressing room. For these pieces I have to pay “full price,” which is still a bargain, and way better for my sanity.

When my shopping is done, or when I’ve had enough of the experience, I make my way to the checkout and pull off the hangers while waiting in line, tossing them into gigantic boxes. Invariably I’m caught up in a conversation with other shoppers during the slow crawl up to the register, and I learn a tiny bit about the lives of the working poor. In general they are smart, hardworking, family-oriented, and kind—like most people everywhere. While I feel a great deal of kinship with them, I’m sure that in terms of material wealth I am a millionaire in comparison.

After a half-hour in line, I leave with two enormous bags: six pair of men’s pants, five men’s polos, a few things for the kids, and three shirts for me…for $18. The musty smell fills my car and then my laundry room, where I quickly wash away the stink and the stigma.

Because I do feel it: the ways that we are measured by what we wear. I believe that our outward appearance says something about who we are. And while I’m proud of how well I can dress my family shopping this way, I am careful about how many people I tell. Well, at least until now…

What the heck. Go ahead and judge if you must, or join me at the next sale and score some fabulous bargains. Either way, I’m fine. 

Thirty

My husband is a great guy. He’s smart, funny, a terrific father, and a great life partner. He is not, however, particularly romantic. Before we became engaged I, like many young women, dreamed of a thoughtful, memorable, write-a-book-about-it kind of proposal, but when I suggested that such a thing would be nice, Bill was clear that he thought elaborate proposals were stupid. He thought things like talking to my father (“getting permission”) and proposing while on bended knee were old-fashioned and sexist, and told me that such gestures would not be forthcoming. So the moment that we agreed to marry could most accurately be described as a non-event, but I said yes anyway.

We picked out a nice ring and started making plans, even though we were both fresh out of college and unemployed. Nothing about our future was clear or firm. We picked a date and planned a wedding on a fairly modest budget. We took a few risks in our arrangements (like planning an outdoor reception with no back-up plan in case of rain) and added a few personal touches, like a carriage ride to the reception. Everything else was lovely but fairly standard: four attendants each but no flower girls or ring bearer,  beautiful flowers, an organist but no vocalist. Great hors d’ oeuvres and a beautiful cake, but no sit-down dinner, no dance hall, and no DJ.

I’d like to say that the wedding went off without a hitch, but actually the hitches are the things I remember best.  I woke up on my wedding day still a little drunk from the rehearsal dinner the night before. As the day unfolded, I sobered up and managed to get everyone and everything in the right places. Except I didn’t have a check for the florist, and I had to make a quick trip to buy shoes for my going-away outfit…but when the time for the wedding arrived, I was dressed and ready to walk down the aisle.

About five minutes before the ceremony, the minister found me to inform me that Bill had forgotten to bring my wedding ring. Just plain forgot it. So I took off my engagement ring and handed it off to the minister, who gave it to Bill, who placed it on my finger right after the vows….which Bill also forgot. The minister helped Bill—poor nervous guy—to stumble through. And then we were married, and were off in our carriage to enjoy our outdoor reception.

That was thirty years ago this week. While I am sure that even then there were weddings far more elaborate than ours, these were the days before Pinterest and shows like “Say Yes to the Dress” turned weddings into the elaborate, insanely-detailed events that they are now. I’ll admit that part of me wishes that we could redo some things—there are some very cute and creative ideas out there!—but in truth we were more focused on our marriage and the life we would live together after the wedding than we were on the wedding itself.  And that I wouldn’t change.

When we got married, people didn’t talk about “soul mates.” Love and compatibility are important, of course, but even the most perfectly matched couples learn that love doesn’t actually conquer all. In every marriage there will be struggles over money and family and any number of issues, large and small. At the end of the day (or week, depending on your standards), someone still has to do the dishes, and you may not always agree on who that should be.

Thirty years ago, I don’t think I could have defined what a soul mate is, but I think I can now. It’s someone with whom you’ve shared a lifetime of everyday memories and some great adventures. It’s someone who supports you through cancer and job loss, and someone who trusts you enough to be willing to lean on you during his or her tough times. It’s someone with whom you have a million inside jokes and shared secrets. It’s someone who encourages you and supports you; someone who loves you exactly as you are and yet still challenges you to be better. It’s someone with whom you share a past, the present, and the future.

Love is a choice, and marriage is the commitment of two people willing to work it all out: for better and for worse, for richer and for poorer, in sickness and in health, to love and to cherish. It’s not particularly romantic, but who needs romance when you can have a genuine soul mate.

One Year

I wrote this piece nearly a year ago. Kelsey was fighting some pretty powerful demons at that time. Today, on the anniversary of what was her darkest day, I'm so happy to see her continue to emerge as the amazing person she is and is becoming. 

For Kelsey, as she turns 19

Since your birth, we’ve shared a love for Disney films. We know all the characters, all of the lines, and of course all of the songs. I know some people blame these movies for their own distorted notions about life and love, but to these people I want to say, “You do realize that animals don’t talk or do the dishes, and fairy godmothers and enchantresses and pixies and flying carpets—you do realize they’re not real, right? Grow up!” These movies are fantasies, to be sure, but I think the stories and the characters are often more complex than we give them credit for.  As we get older, it’s up to us to find the deeper lessons and find ways to apply them to our lives.

I like your new mantra, “I’m the hero of this story.” It’s thoughtful, it’s to the point, and it’s true. You play the most important role in your own life, and that includes taking responsibility for getting yourself out of difficult spots. It means taking initiative and not placing blame, and sometimes it means taking your lumps. Sometimes that means fighting demons and darkness. But I have no doubt that you can win the fight. You are your own hero.

But you’re more than the hero. You’re also the princess: beautiful, kindhearted, spunky, with a great voice (and a tendency to burst into song for no reason). You’ve got big dreams, and with your talent and some hard work, there’s no reason to believe that those dreams can’t come true. You have a lot to offer to the world, and to your own story.

And some days you’re the villain: witty, a little snarky, a little dark. Disney villains in particular are interesting characters and can be a source of comic relief, but inevitably they become obsessed with some long-ago hurt, real or imagined. For them, living in the past is the road to madness. So be careful not to sabotage yourself by dwelling on what was, or what might have been. Learn from the past, but focus on the future.

Also remember that, while you are the center of your own life, you play an important supporting role in many, many other lives. You enrich our stories in innumerable ways, some that are obvious, and some that you may never know. You have so much value to so many, and that value will only increase as you mature. By the same token, there are many who play supporting roles in your life. Even when you’re alone in the spotlight, remember that all of us are only a breath away, and while the scene is yours to carry, we’ll be there to support you when you need it.

Unlike the plays you auditioned for in high school, in real life you’re not assigned a part, but you get to choose the part you want to play in any given scene. You don’t need to be the same person all the time, and each part can be interesting and valuable, but there’s one part you need to avoid playing: the victim. You’re definitely not this. Self-pity does not look good on you, and it has no place in this story.

So you’re the hero, but you’re not some two-dimensional romantic lead who sweeps in at the last minute, but a hero more like Indiana Jones: genuine, complex, and slightly flawed, someone who confesses to making it up as you go. You can’t control everything that happens, but you can control how you respond to events. Learn to respond with grace and courage. You’ve got a great life ahead of you. 

Struggle

It is my nature to worry, and I do it well. When my kids were really young, I used to stress about things like childcare and cloth-versus-disposable diapers. As a working mom, I wondered if I was spending enough time with them and if the time we spent together was of sufficient quality. I worried about keeping them safe and whether we had done enough reading with them so that they would be able to keep up in school.

My dad, an experienced parent, had no appreciation for the depth of my concern. When I would vent to him about my worries, he would smile a little smile and shake his head ever so slightly. “Little children, little problems. Big children, big problems,” he’d say.

I may have been frustrated that he was a little dismissive of my bundle of worries, but I understood what he was saying. Sort of. I also imagined that if I did my work well when my kids were little, that would carry them through to adulthood, and our big kids would not provide me with big problems to worry about.

And it has worked out that way. Sort of. Not a day goes by when one of my kids doesn’t astound me with a profound bit of wisdom, an achievement, or an act of deep compassion that makes my maternal heart swell with joy. They are learning, growing, becoming.

It is just as true that on any given day my kids will say or do something that astounds me with the depth of their stupidity, immaturity, and selfishness. As painful as these things are, I hope, and I pray, and I try to believe that they are learning, growing, becoming through these experiences. But I have my doubts.

In a really old episode of Law and Order (my favorite show), Detectives Curtis and Brisco were investigating the murder of a young woman. Raised by loving parents, she got into modeling as a teen, which led to a world of money, celebrities, and drugs. Curtis, who had young daughters, was bewildered and judgmental: he figured if he raised his girls right, they would avoid any kind of problems.

We all know loving, close-knit families where the kids have been raised right but still make mistakes—lots of mistakes, huge mistakes, stupid mistakes that can’t be ignored. It is the nature of young adults to test limits, and sometimes kids get caught. Others, for whatever reason, are able to avoid the dire consequences of their recklessness. It doesn’t seem to have anything to do with parenting, but more with dumb luck.

Some days I really, really want to return my kids to the bubble of childhood, where I could control them and protect them and attempt to bend them to my will. I want my kids to avoid mistakes and heartache and pain. When I’m honest, see that part of the reason for this is because I believe that their bad choices, bad behavior, and mistakes reflect poorly on me and my parenting.

I miss those days when my biggest concerns were their bizarre clothing combinations, bad table manners, or failed spelling tests. I hope that when I scolded them for these things, they understood that I was trying to teach them about bigger things: about being polite, getting along with others, diligence and hard work, and that small things matter. I hope that these are the lessons that will carry them forward in life.

They say that, during childbirth, it’s important for the child to struggle through the birth canal; it’s a healthy thing for the baby, and part of nature’s design. Perhaps it is the same as these kids become birthed as adults; struggle is healthier for the adult in the long run, but it sure is painful for the mother.

Advice columnist Ann Landers said, “It is not what you do for your children, but what you have taught them to do for themselves, that will make them successful human beings.”  Even now, when the law says three of my kids are adults, the jury is still out on what I’ve taught them, or rather, what they’ve learned from me. Whatever it is, there’s still a whole bunch of stuff they will have to learn for themselves.  May God give them, and me, strength and wisdom for the journey.  

2014

Ah, the new year. A time of fresh starts and starting over. My resolutions, unoriginal and predictable, are the same each year, and every publication knows what they are. At the checkout at Target, magazine covers implore: Get Organized NOW! They promise: Lose 20 Pounds FAST! These two “resolutions” have been on my list for every year I can remember. And although I start each year with good intentions, my craft room is a perennial disaster area, and my weight is, too.

As I look forward to 2014, I will try, once more, to get all the photos into albums and my body back to the gym. I certainly will accomplish some things, but it never feels like it’s enough. There is always more to be done or that can be done. It’s not that I’m standing still. My life is rich and full and complicated, with unexpected twists that consume my time and my energy. I have reasons, and I have excuses, for not getting everything done, and sometimes it’s hard to tell the difference between the two.

I am glad that my life is full, even if I don’t always love being on call for the kids or cleaning the bathroom. When I start to feel sorry for myself, I remind myself that I’m privileged to have kids to shuttle and a home to clean. They aren’t burdens; they are blessings. And if I’m feeling pressed for time, I remember that I spend far more time playing Candy Crush and watching Law and Order reruns than I should.  That’s among the reasons I “don’t have time” to get more done.

For years I’ve thought about writing a book, and when I lost my full-time job, I thought that maybe I would have a month or two between jobs to pound something out. Four years later, I’m still looking for full-time work, and still haven’t “found the time” to write that novel. I have, however, filled my time with lots of other things: caring for the kids in a million ways; sewing and crafting; working part-time at a couple of jobs; and writing for hire, through which I have learned a lot and helped to put food on the table.  

Writing for hire has also led me to my current project. I’m ghost writing a book. Since I’ve signed a nondisclosure agreement, that’s probably all I can say about it. My name won’t appear on the finished product, and no matter how well it sells, I will never receive a dime in royalties. And I am totally fine with all of that, because, hey, I’m finally writing a book! Even if no one else knows, I’ll know.

Now that it looks like there’s a real possibility for this dream to come true, it gives me hope for so many other great things to happen in 2014. It feels as if anything is possible! I could actually get organized or be a size 8 (okay, a size 10). But if those things don’t happen, that’s okay, too.

Because I know that the 365 days ahead will be full of wonderful things: accomplishments great and small, unexpected joys, new people and places and adventures. And I know there will be pain and sorrow and disappointments. It will be a year like every other, and like no other.

It’s going to be a great year. Welcome 2014!

Therapy

It started about six months ago, an occasional spasm of pain in my left armpit. Unpredictable and fleeting, the pain is severe enough to be noticeable but not so much that it was debilitating.

When I look it up on Web MD, which is usually pretty fatalistic in its diagnoses, nothing comes up, but because it is on my “cancer side,” I mention it when I go in for my annual mammogram a few weeks later. The nurse checks me out pretty thoroughly, the films are clear, and she suggests it is probably a muscle spasm.

The pain persists, so a month later I mention it to my sister, who is a nurse practitioner. She thinks it sounds like a muscle spasm and gives me a few tips to address the symptoms, none of which I do. I figure that anything muscular can take care of itself.

Months later, the pain has not abated, so I make an appointment with my doctor, or rather, the nurse practitioner at my doctor’s office.  Like everyone else, she asks me questions, feels me up, and has no answers, but since the pain is in proximity to the place where lymph nodes had been removed 15 years earlier, she suggests I make an appointment to see my oncologist.

By now I have already invested about a million times more time and energy into this than merited, but I dutifully call the oncologist, with whom I have had no contact in ten years. I am booked to see the nurse practitioner, who—like all the nurse practitioners I have consulted up to now—is absolutely wonderful.  She recommends physical therapy, an ultrasound, and an MRI to try to figure out what’s up in my pit. She also asks if I would be interested in genetic testing, something we had considered years ago but I put off.

In addition to the annoyance of all the cost and time involved, I’m increasingly aware that I am being sucked back to cancer world, a place that I thought I left behind long ago but that is in fact always thisclose. No matter how far you move forward, once you’ve been to cancer world, it’s intertwined in the fiber of who you are, and it doesn’t take much to pull you back to a dark place of fear and helplessness and endless nausea.

Although it’s fear the drives me to pursue the additional tests, I book the physical therapy to prove that I am fine. My physical therapist, Amy, works exclusively with women at risk for lymphedema which, apparently, includes me. (Seriously, I didn’t know that.) Amy assesses the range of motion in my arm and concludes that there is plenty of room for improvement. As I lay on her table, her fingers find tight knots of scar tissue that I didn’t know were there. The pain makes me cry, but I can tell it is helping. And as she presses deeper, I know that the tears come because she is touching emotional scars as well.

Amy talks to distract me. By our third session, she begins to tell me her own cancer story, which makes my story look like a day at the beach. At age 38 she is a three-time survivor. She’s undergone genetic testing and had her young children tested as well. They all have the gene, and are doing all they can to be on guard. She lives with cancer every day; it’s not just a bad memory tied up in a knot under her skin.

I want to live my life looking forward, not backward, but sometimes there is no moving forward until you deal with the past. My cancer story is only a small part of who I am, but it was a significant turning point.  I don’t want to live in that world, but sometimes it’s necessary to revisit it and to continue to learn from it.

I might be ready to pursue genetic testing. Whatever the results, it can’t be as painful as physical therapy! And it might be helpful to my kids and other family members. So, deep breath…and one step at a time.

And the spasm in my arm? Yeah, we’ve still got no answers on that. But I’m learning to live with it. 

Pebbles

I’m old enough to remember the television show Colombo, where the cigar-smoking detective with no first name seemed to know from the instant he arrived on the scene who committed the murder. Over the course of the two-hour episode he would wear the suspect down, conversation by conversation. The murderers, without exception wealthy and brilliant, were often victims of their own hubris, imagining that this bumbling little man in a rumpled raincoat wasn’t up to the task of uncovering their crimes. But the amiable detective would conduct an interview, start to leave, and then turn around with one more question. His catch phrase, “Oh, and one more thing…” was the signal that he was on to something, and in these questions—these after thoughts—were the points at which he gleaned the most information.

I am living in a season of “one more thing,” a time when the small irritations are mounting and wearing me down. As mother, I have claimed the spot as the emotional hub of the family, so compelling me to feel the feels of everyone in my circle. I might even feel them more intently than the original feeler. Someone I love will get hit with some minor disaster, and just when I’ve kind of moved on from that, another small but painful thing will occur. It feels as if, due to our own mistakes or just the nature of the world, we try and fail, try and fail, try and fail. We’re a little short on good news lately, and without a few upward ticks to balance things out, I feel weighed down with the accumulation of “one more thing.”

Sometimes a crisis of faith comes after a major blow from which there is no coming back: a death, a tragedy, an injustice. But more often, it’s the pebble in the shoe that pulls us off the path of hope. We gimp along, or maybe we stop to remove the pebble, but a few steps later the stone is replaced by another small pain, so we stop again. These small stops and small wounds accumulate until finally it feels that no progress is being made at all, and it becomes tempting to give up altogether. We lose faith that anything can be gained by attempting to move forward. There will only be more blisters and bleeding, and no reward for perseverance.

Sometimes it’s okay—even necessary—to sit and think and wallow (just a little) and maybe even cry. But then, even if there are still tears in my eyes, I have to stop focusing on my feet and lift my gaze a little, and I start to move. Maybe I will notice that I’m on the wrong path and decide to change direction. Or I will see something promising just around the next bend, and I know I’ll never get there if I don’t go forward.

If it is the small things that can bring me down, the small things can also lift me up: a brilliant oak tree dressed in the rich gold of autumn, the unexpected kindness of a stranger, an email from a friend, a bowl of warm soup and homemade bread.  There truly is good in each day. Even on the days when “one more thing” is heaped onto the pile, even on those days when I feel stuck on the side of the road, my life is blessed beyond measure.

It’s time to empty my shoes and be on my way. The journey, even when it’s difficult, is beautiful when we remember that there is always reason to hope.