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.

The Table

Shortly after Kelsey was born, we moved into a four-bedroom home that was everything we thought we could ever want in house (except it lacked a fireplace). Of course it didn’t take long to figure out that even this new palace had some limitations. The kitchen, although a step up from the kitchen in our former home, was long and thin, not quite big enough to be considered an eat-in kitchen, but we found a table that would work. It, too, was long and thin, with drop leaves on the sides. When we weren’t eating we could put the sides down and slide the table against the wall, creating a small enough footprint that we could still move about the kitchen.

The table came as a kit—unfinished, precut pine and hardware. I would have preferred to stain it before assembly, but the timing didn’t work out, and one day when I came home from work, my husband and my dad had it ready and waiting for me. Eager to get the project done, I purchase a combination stain and varnish that I imagined would save time, and I applied two hasty, uneven coats. Not my finest work by a long shot, but we had a table.

Pine is a soft wood, so it didn’t take long for our family to make its mark on the table’s surface. Lots of it was just the wear and tear of daily use: the accumulated marks of dozens of practice spelling tests, glitter glue that refused to come off, wear marks from placing plates in the same places for hundreds of meals. The table was well used and well loved; day by day we built our family around its edges.

When we moved into our current home, I almost immediately began to think about getting a round dining table, since it would have worked so well in the space, but other priorities emerged, and we continued to create memories over meals and projects. More marks and grooves found their way into the surface, and more family members took their places around the table’s weathered plane, and they, too, have left their mark.

When we adopted, we kept Lewi’s name but not Lily’s. It was a difficult decision, but we were concerned that her birth name would not be well received in the US, so we made it her middle name and dubbed her Lily instead. But in the early days, when she was first learning to write, she would ask how to spell her Ethiopian name, and she would practice with a slow, deliberate hand, her handwriting so strong that she engraving DORKA through the paper and into the tabletop. It endures, as proud and defiant as her spirit—a symbol of who she was and in many ways still is.

We recently acquired a small round table for the kitchen. I would have liked something a little bigger, but the price was right, and it fit into my Prius. With the leaf in it, it’s just about perfect for the four of us who are still living here full time.

With a replacement in the kitchen, I moved the old table to the garage so I could do a little maintenance. The finish had gotten sticky, so I sanded down the top so I could re-varnish it. I didn’t even try to sand out the imperfections; even my sloppy finishing work is still visible. All of these things are a testament to the family, to the story of our lives. We have grown and changed much around these pine planks. It is our flaws that make us who we are.

Second Hand

Summer is the season of the garage sale. This American invention allows us to offload our junk a buck at a time while allowing others to enjoy those things we have inherited, outgrown, or tired of. And we can make a bit of money in the process, which we can use to purchase even more junk.  

I don’t stop for EVERY garage sale, but I can hardly pass a sign without being tempted to make a stop. It’s interesting how often I’ll find the same things at a couple of sales in one day: the exact same jewelry box or similar wall hangings. Lots of people shop for baby items at garage sales, and kids’ clothes are always popular. I usually have a list of a few things that I’m on the prowl for, but generally I go in with an open mind and come out with something. From stocking stuffers to stock pots, from craft items to garden tools, from board games to furniture, I’ve secured lots of great stuff for pennies on the dollar.

Estate sales are the granddaddy of garage sales. Buyers are permitted to roam a person’s home and purchase virtually anything they can see. Estates sales are like time capsules, painting amazing portraits of the people who once lived there. The family’s size, income, faith, political leanings, hobbies, duration of time in the home…it’s easy to come up with a reasonably accurate accounting of the home and its inhabitants.  The stuff tells the story.

Estate sales also feel a little sad, because they are usually held when a chapter of life is closing: a family has been transferred to another state or an older person is no longer able to stay in the home. Once grandma is installed in her new residence, family members take what they want, and the rest—the flotsam and jetsam of a family’s history—is left to be picked over by strangers.

As I sort through the tables of tacky Christmas decorations, I’ll see things and wonder why in the world someone held onto them and why some estate sale dealer thought some sap would pay money for it. Other times I’ll leap on something, wondering how I was lucky enough to find such a great treasure—clearly no one could see the item’s amazing value. One of my great weaknesses is needlework, because I know the effort that goes into creating it. These pieces are usually inexpensive, so I often take a couple home in an attempt to save them from the indignity of becoming rags.

At every estate sale, I inevitable ask myself what it will look like when an estate sale will be held for my stuff. I’m hoping that I’ll be able to offload most of our family “heirlooms” to the kids long before the last round of downsizing, and as I pass them down, I want them to know the story of our things, because they hold pieces of our history. I know that not everything that has value to me will have value to them, or they may decide that in some cases, monetary value trumps sentimental value. I’m cool with that. As long as these things joy for someone, their value remains intact.

The Four

It’s hard to pinpoint exactly when it started. The four of them probably first met when they all played together in the church nursery. By the time they were in elementary school, our families would go camping together with several other church families. During those weekends the four of them—as well as our many other children—would roam the campgrounds in packs or hang out together in each other’s campers or tents.

Although they attended different schools and had dozens of different interests, over time the four girls became best friends. Of course there were the usual girl things—fights and disagreements, alliances and separations, harsh words, immature and hurtful actions, the bitchiness of girls growing up. And there were times when they were just busy and involved in their own lives, but for the most part, the relationships persisted. They loved and understood each other, and they had each other’s backs. They hung out together on Sunday mornings and at youth group, but they also spent time together outside of the church’s walls.  

Allison, the oldest, was the first to graduate from high school. After a semester in college, she enlisted in the Navy. She was stationed in California when she met someone…and then she was pregnant. Last December she gave birth to a baby boy, and she has been doing a great job of raising him on her own, especially for someone so young who is so far from the support of family.

In the meantime, the other three graduated and moved on as well. The two in the middle went off to college, choosing larger schools, although one has returned to her hometown to attend community college. Both the young ladies have had their emotional and academic ups and downs, as has my daughter Kelsey, the last to graduate, now heading into her second year at Hope College.

After several months of failed attempts, Allison was finally granted a leave to come home to introduce Chase to her parents, and all of the rest of us. It was important to Allison that Chase be baptized during her leave, a beautiful testimony to the love and connection of our small church.

On the morning of the baptism, Chase was a perfect angel when the pastor placed water his head once, twice, three times. Allison read a beautiful letter written to her son that communicated her love for God and for the church where she herself had been baptized.

All the girls were there for Chase’s baptism. In spite of everything that had happened in the many months since they had all been together, it was a moment when you could tell that, in the chronology of friendship, no time had passed. They still have each other’s backs, and on this important day, they were there for Allison and for Chase.

Time changes friendships, and there’s no way of knowing how strong or how long any relationships will last. On the cusp of adulthood, these girls are making lots of choices that will continue to move them in different directions. I don’t know if the church will be a touchstone for them in the future, or if time will deepen their faith or diminish it. But for today, I’m grateful for the lives of four beautiful, amazing, flawed young women and the potential that lies in them. I am grateful for a church that fosters friendships and feels like family. And I’m grateful for Chase, a new member of the family, a child of God’s promise.

17

Like most kids, when I was in high school I didn’t let a little thing like the law stop me from experimenting with alcohol. I was a geeky introvert, and a little buzz gave me the confidence to talk to people and helped me to fit in with my crowd of fellow outcasts. A little vodka made us feel a little more cool, a little less odd. So drinking was our hobby, and being teenagers, it never really occurred to us that drinking in conjunction with driving might be dangerous. We thought we were invincible.

So it came to pass that late one Saturday night I was driving with a friend through a shopping district that had shuttered its doors many hours earlier. It was her car, but for some reason I was at the wheel. Although I was a month or two shy of my 18^th birthday, she was the legal age of 18, and had procured for us a large bottle of cheap wine. The bottle, more than half empty, was under her seat; the other half of the wine was in us.

I coasted through a yellow light before I notice the patrol car stopped at the cross street. He flipped on his lights, and I pulled over.

The cop, probably only a few years older than me, asked what we were doing in that part of town, although I’m sure he knew we were just driving, the sport of teens in small-town America. He commented, “Well, you looked like you were going a little fast through that light.”

Now, let’s be clear: I was in an area of town that I had no business being in. I was underage, I was driving drunk, and I had an open container in the front seat. I should have been scared. But I was 17, and I thought I was invincible.

I argued with him.

“I was only in second gear, so I couldn’t have been going over 25,” I huffed.

He should have busted me, but instead he backed down. “Just be careful, and watch your speed,” he said. He returned to his car, and we drove off.

From time to time, even the most responsible teens and young adults take part in behavior that is risky and even stupid—this is part of growing up, and as parents sometimes all we can do is pray that they survive their bad choices and learn from them.  But while white kids can chalk these things up to youthful indiscretion, teens of color rarely have that luxury.

As I look ahead to Lily and Lewi’s teen years, I fear particularly for Lewi, who is already confident and sassy, things that the white community hates to see in a young black man. At this point in life he is known and loved in his neighborhood, his school, and his church. But unless things change pretty dramatically, and soon, as he matures and ventures out into the world where he is not known, it is clear that he will be profiled, stopped, searched, hassled, and damaged because of the color of his skin.

For many black men, the key to self-preservation is zero resistance. They have cultivated a non-threatening stance, a compliant way of answering questions, and a submissive attitude when confronted by authorities.  It does not matter that they were doing nothing wrong, and it doesn’t matter whether the authority figure has the right to confront them, and it doesn’t matter how hostile and inappropriate the questioning. This is the price their pride must pay, and even with a calm and cooperative attitude, it is often not enough. Most African-American men (and women) do not get the chance to encounter a cop and walk away unscathed.

I wonder if I will have to encourage Lewi to be compliant, to submit to any form of white authority, and to calmly take whatever is hurled at him just so that he will he be able to walk to the store to buy Skittles.  It’s a societally approved form of bullying, and I never would have asked my other children to tolerate it. I don’t want to encourage my youngest to be a victim because of the color of his skin.

Kids who are 17 should be able to act like they are 17: a little reckless, a tiny bit defiant. They should feel invincible. Sadly, we have learned—repeatedly—that teens are not bullet proof. Today I grieve: over the tragic death of Trayvon Martin, for a nation where we allow these horrible events to continue, and for my child, who will face this all too soon. May God protect him, because I’m not sure anyone else will.