Winds blow, but cannot destroy what is inside

Today is another significant day for my family– eight months ago on the 22nd a terrible cyclone rushed in, left a path of destruction and changed the color of our lives forever.

I do not like to call these days “anniversaries” because I feel that word should be reserved for occasions of celebration. The day my only son died is certainly not cause for festivity, but nonetheless, it is a monumentally significant day.

When I call our tragedy a whirlwind, I think of the personal devastation tornadoes leave behind for residents and helpers to dig through and clean up. Eight months and one day ago, I saw my life as a neat and tidy little house. It could be one of those cute houses from the story books with large front porches, dormer windows with lattice work, and white picket fences.

We felt we had it all, relative security: a strong marriage, two handsome children who follow all the rules and make us proud at every turn, a house almost paid off, and a couple cars in the garage. Just as tornadoes come in with little warning and rip lives apart at the seams, changing the very lay of the land, the tragedy of losing our son has done the same.

About the time Roger and I were married, his uncle and aunt lost their home to a tornado in Northeast Ohio. This was not just a home, but one that Roger’s grandfather built by his own hands during the Great Depression. He built the tiny house and added on as years progressed and prosperity built. His son also added to the house with intentions of keeping up the family homestead.

The tornado ripped through some time in the mid-1980s – taking out a path of homes. The family’s belongings were strewn unceremoniously about the property with what was once valuables and treasures reduced to dumpster fodder. Little by little the family would return to their home site and gather what they could recover from the waste. They collected, cleaned and repaired as best they could to begin from scratch and re-build their lives.

Soon, a group of volunteers from the Midwest – if memory serves me, from the Mennonite faith, came out and helped the actual home rebuild. A few years after the tornado, Roger and I visited his uncle and aunt and they were living in a larger, nicer home on the same property. This was not the home build by Roger’s grandfather, as the original home could not be salvaged, just bits and pieces of memorabilia from their old life placed among the new things.

At eight months since Nick’s passing, Roger, Elise, Scott, and I reside somewhere in between the gathering stage and maybe a baby step beyond toward rebuilding. We work through grief in our individual ways and on our own time tables. We pick up pieces of our former lives, just as tornado victims – then try to create some sort of a mosaic of what used to, know we will eventually have to rebuild.

Acceptance that the pieces we gather from what we know as life will never come together as a whole again is the most difficult part for me. I miss my son. I miss the wholeness our family embraced just last summer. I want to turn back the clock and change events; this will never happen, but the facts remain that our options are now to keep gathering relics – protect the memories and gather the materials needed to rebuild our lives.

The information I read about families in grief tells me that we will rebuild. The new lives we construct and nurture will be solid and good. Our family will grow, and our family will heal. We stay close to each other and continue to carve out a new “normal.”

Just like tornado victims and victims of so many tragedies around the world, survivors learn the process of rebuilding one day at a time.
While today is a significant day, I chose to not dwell on the dreaded 22nd. I followed my regular routine and even finished out the afternoon by knitting on the front porch with friends. While winds blow in and cause devastation, we always have the chance to look ahead to brighter days.

As steam rises, cares float away

At the end of a good day, or the end of a lousy day, no therapy works better for me than a long soak in a hot tub.

My love for a hot evening bath did not begin with me, nor – I am happy to report – does the legacy end. My mother was a school teacher and every night after school, she would take her bone-tired self to the hall bathroom, fill the tub and “wash off the day.” During her bath time, we knew better than to knock on the door. When she came out revived, she was more than happy to take on motherly duties, but until then – forget it.

Recently, on the hunt for a new apartment, my daughter directed her dad and me to the Website for a possible rental. As we perused floor plans they marked, Roger noticed one apartment had a stand-up shower and no bath tub. Deal breaker. Elise winds down at the end of the day in the way she was brought up; she takes a good novel and fills the bath with water as hot as she can stand and allows the cares of her day to melt into the bubbles.

When Elise was a teenager, we lived in a house where the hot water tank was probably not adequate for the size of residence. As the evenings would progress, and one of us would make an oh-so-subtle move toward our respective bathrooms, the other would drop whatever she was doing and sprint to get first dibs on limited hot water. I have so say that sometimes regrettable words were uttered to the winner of the daily quest.

I did not see the house we bought last summer in person until the day we closed. Miles separated Roger and me, and the Internet provided plenty of pictures to give him my stamp of approval. The master bath is a product of renovation and originally served as a small bedroom. The renovation has a bath tub placed up a tiled stair (very dangerous when wet) and in a corner with large windows on both walls overlooking a huge oak tree in the woods.

Every evening, I climb up the slippery stair and down into a bath tub that would fit a small family – together. When giving a tour for a friend recently, she asked if I ever use such a large tub. Are you kidding? This dream bath corner has a place for books, candles, and numerous beauty products that get moved when I clean around them. I slide in, hit the hot faucet and forget any cares that might have bothered me just a few minutes prior.

Have you ever noticed that conflict from a novel heightens when your muscles are soaking in soapy water? It is true. When reading inspirational literature, the text jumps out and grabs my heart as steam curls up the pages. Even metaphors and literary devises seem more alive and creative with water stains melding the words together.

I have bathed in tiny apartment bathrooms; hall baths after slimy toddlers were dried and put in bed, wooden outdoor tubs in Asia, and more. The luxury of the surroundings helps, but it is the feeling I get from submerging just to the neck in hot water without interruption causes me to close my eyes, forget the surroundings, and allow relaxation to consume me.

After all, appreciating a hot bath at the end of a good or lousy day is how I was raised. I cannot help but enjoy.

Bing and her tilted halo

Evenings have taken a new twist in our house, and we are looking to the sky for possible answers. When I write “twist,” I do mean in the literal sense, as Roger gets down on the floor and contorts his body in all sorts of directions at Bing’s beckon.

Bing, whom we embraced in the household a year ago this week, came as the shyest and most timid four-month-old puppy I have ever seen. She was afraid of everything and shuddered at the sound of a cricket. The sight of another dog evoked pitiful howls and true panic attacks.

She did become comfortable with Clover last summer when Nick lived about 45 minutes from our Tennessee house, and came along on all visits. During the tragic and sad events that brought Clover into our home last fall, one blessing is that she and Bing became immediate soul mates, and Clover has brought Bing out from the umbrella of timidity.

When a puppy turns a year old, typically, the battery starts to lose a little charge. Bing certainly cannot be described as overly active, so at 16 months, when she began a siege of strange, unusual and downright goofy behavior, Roger and I have spent the last couple weeks of evenings looking at each other with the puzzling look of bewilderment.

Something has gotten into Bing and we are scrambling.

No one loves the pursuit of a good game like Bing. Whether the game centers on a Frisbee, a ball, or a laser light we call “Mr. Green,” Bing loves to play the game. We often confine Clover during Frisbee throw because Bing is forced to play wide receiver. Clover pulls no stops in her own game of interference; a referee would bench Clover, and we often do.

I don’t know if the warm nights have jazzed Bing, or if she has reached an age where she really understands the games and their pursuit, but when the dust settles and we relax for the evening, Bing’s alights with uncontainable carryings on.

Typically, anytime either of the dogs grabs a burst of playful energy, they invigorate the other to raise the bar for fun. Lately, this practice has taken a turn. Our evening ritual includes Roger and me having after-dinner downtime on the porch. The dogs play in the yard and this sometimes involves us, and sometimes not. When we are ready to go in the house (it gets chilly in the evenings here in Michigan), Bing and Clover take their places on their respective dog beds in the living room.

So, recently, when we come in the house, Clover settles into her spot and takes a breather while Bing tears through the house at breakneck speed unraveling the carpet and unearthing every chew bone, ball, or torn-up toy she can find. Balls roll under furniture quite often in our house where they collect dust for up to a few weeks before discovery. Bing now darts from couch to chair to buffet to desk in her quest to release the captured rolling toys. This brings both Roger and me quickly to our feet as we do not want the furniture marred with Bing’s long toenails and voracious paw swipes. We find our faces on the floor with hers pressed against ours, as she defers to opposable thumbs for assistance.

Once the ball has been set free, she takes off like a firefighter in pursuit of flames for a few seconds until the ball finds itself lodged again. Repeat process.

Last night after Roger bravely endured a tough Father’s Day, Bing and her antics were in full play. He questioned me about her caffeine intake and slid down to the floor to pet her and bring her under wraps. Meanwhile, Clover who never turns down a party invitation, watched angelically not batting an eye at the scene’s frenzy.

Out of nowhere, a random thought struck me. Clover is almost never innocent of mischief, and Bing is almost never an instigator, but loves to follow her doggy sister into the abyss of trouble. Could this be the energy of Nicholas’ spirit goading Bing to her frenetic level just for the sheer fun of watching us chase her? Is it possible that he is playing her like a puppet on a string to keep his dad and me active in the evenings when we are typically quiet and blue? Funny, how Nick’s beloved Clover quietly observes, innocent of all charges.

When I shared the thought with Roger, he smiled and agreed that it would follow Nick’s dry wit to drive us batty with a revved up poodle. Nonetheless, we may just look at Bing’s goofy gallop just a little bit differently tonight.

Be still and allow the quiet to speak

“In the midst of your daily storms, make it a point to be still and set your sights on God. Let God be God. Let him bathe you in his glory so your breath and your troubles are sucked from your soul. Be still. Be quiet. Be open and willing. Then you will know that God is God.” - Max Lucado from The Great House of God

I recall many years ago listening to a speaker share with an audience that she makes it a habit to keep the car radio in the off position, and when driving alone, she always keeps the passenger seat free of bag debris. With no built-in entertainment distraction, the speaker said the quiet allows her to meditate and the open seat reminds her of God’s presence.

That very day, I turned off my car radio, and it was only a short while that I sorely missed National Public Radio. In the hustle bustle of those days, with children and job, I quickly discovered that car time was my only truly alone time. I practiced and eventually taught myself to use that time as quality meditation.

Now, years later, I regret saying my hand bag and shopping bundles do clutter the front seat, and where I never regained my car music habit, the cell phone is a constant companion. I offer apologies to those with whom I share the road.

Today, I sit alone on my porch and read these words by Max Lucado. As I read, I listen with intention to the sounds around me. We have an abundance of crows near the house and I enjoy their “caw caw” coming from different directions and the ensuing answers. A lawn mower away from my sight, but within earshot disrupts the calls of the birds, but creates a dull and quiet whir in the distance.

A water fountain just off the front porch calls my attention to the sounds of falling water, and pulls my consciousness temporarily away from the lawn mower drone. Hearing the water reminds me of continual replenishment. The level of the water does not rise or fall, but flows through a filter and pump that keeps the level even and the flow steady.
As I devote my intention to listening, I notice squirrel chatter voicing displeasure in Bing sleeping in the shade of a tree. The wind creates movement that drowns out the water as I try to keep the sounds of machinery from disrupting nature’s stillness.

The lawn mower finally pauses and cacophony turns to symphony complete with bird song, water, and wind.

Somehow, in our society, we are not programmed to steal even a few moments away for the sheer luxury of listening. I did with great intention today and I can attest to Lucado’s assertion that to bathe in the sound of stillness, to allow God to be God does indeed suck the troubles from one’s soul and leave it open for peace.

Oh, but as I opened my eyes from my quiet vacation, I discovered Clover’s white beard black and my impatiens unearthed from a pot. I will dedicate moments to quiet tomorrow, but I believe I will keep my eyes open.

The joy of the moment

We braved a bee sting to the face, spent evening time by the pool when the sun’s rays offered mercy, shopped for last minute necessities, and watched delightful black lines overtake the enormous to-do list on the refrigerator.

Probably the only thing better than savoring a good moment is to think back and allow the memory to wash through good moments savored. My daughter, Elise and her husband, Scott, were married on June 19 last year. They were living in St. Louis at the time and we still occupied the family home in Middle Tennessee; her dad, Roger, lived in Michigan where his job relocated. Younger brother, Nicholas had an apartment in Murfreesboro where he was a student. The magical week before the wedding with so many tasks at hand, Elise and her dog, Riley came home. Roger took vacation time and drove south, and Nicholas brought his pup, Clover to join in the party.

I could not remember the last time our whole family convened at home with a common goal and no outside distractions from work and school responsibilities. The daunting task of readying the house and yard for the wedding festivities is now a fond memory, but those who braved the heat and weeds (Roger and Nick) worked feverously.

Elise recalls swimming laps in the pool to firm up the triceps before they would be highlighted in a wedding dress. She tells me remembers Nick putting down the power sprayer, Roger abandoning his clippers and all of us sitting by the pool to chat and take in the day as she swam. I do not remember this moment exactly, but having her share it with caused warmth to wash over me at the specialness of spontaneous family time.

We learned early in the week when she developed a sun rash that this bride did not need the golden tan and she would stay out of the brutal Southern heat during the day. One evening soon after the sun rash eruption, we took a walk around the neighborhood. Naturally, a bee flew in from planet nowhere and stung her on the face. After getting the bride-to-be in the house, naming her “Calamity Jane,” and packing the sting with baking soda, we decided she needed quarantined, as a random meteor might fall from the sky and break her foot.

One evening, when the bee sting was still an issue, we drove to Murfreesboro because Nick wanted to show off his first apartment. We ordered our family-favorite pizza and watched brother and sister’s nearly identical dogs wrestle on the tiny living room floor. Funny, it seemed somewhat similar to how a young Elise and Nick used to duke it out when contained in a small space and under the microscopic watch of too many adults.

A meticulous list maker, Elise’s before-the-wedding epic master list ruled the household and all its inhabitants. She categorized the list, as I recall, by daily jobs and placed initials of the person responsible for completion and deadline time. The list, as much as we liked to poke fun at it, assured a smooth progression for the very important week, and kept tempers at bay. We knew what we had to do and we did it.

By this time in the big week, in-laws, a groom, and various relatives began to arrive. Our time together as a four-person unit came to an end, and we welcomed its expansion. The big list gave way to required black marks indicating jobs complete, and by week’s end, we felt refreshed, revived, and so tight as a family unit.

The big day arrived with the bride unscathed. No sun rash, bee stings, broken bones, or undocumented cases of scurvy. Her wedding experience will hold fast in my memory as one of the happiest days of my life. We laughed, shared stories, and savored the moments.

I am thankful to God that we do not know our futures, and that our responsibility and privilege is to enjoy moments as they come. This week gives me joy in resting on the memories, and hope for the future.

Knit one, purl two - with reckless abandon

At the risk of sounding old, my favorite moments involve rocking chairs and knitting needles working in tandem. Both success and mistakes occur while knitting and rocking, and I sometimes confuse the two.

Evening summer breeze refreshes here in the Great White North, and last night, as I knitted and rocked to the sound of bird calls, I looked down and spotted it – the dreaded hole. A hole is a hole, no matter how great or how small. Once a stitch is dropped, growth potential is endless, and the source of the problem must be addressed.

So, I popped the needles out from rows of 211 stitches, and I gingerly pulled, and I pulled, and I pulled. A strong tug means hundreds of more stitches to remove and rework. Now to tear down stitches and reknit is part of the process, and an important part of the process. My knitting history embodies every bit as many mistake stories as ones of success. In fact, some of my most gruesome mistakes produced knowledge that brought some of my most proud accomplishments.

In knitting, I challenged myself and early on, took on projects that were far above my ability level. To fail at a challenging task is to learn and increase skills. If I could only return skeins of yarn or get new yarn credit for stitches torn down – row after row.

In early spring, I found a pattern for a summery lacy vest. I really liked the pattern, so I splurged and bought the good yarn to complete the project. As with any lace inserts, reading the pattern and working it can be very tricky. This pattern has the knitter start from the bottom of the sweater and work toward the top. I did and followed the directions to a T, even though they did not sound right. I read and reread, and in the end, I trusted the experts and forged ahead with my needles every evening for a couple hours and about two weeks.

After trusting the confusing pattern and going against my instincts, I held up the front to the back at completion, and sure enough, what I expected came to fruition. The two did not match and the front was about three inches shorter than the back. Finished – and with the expensive yarn. Drat! I took the whole project to a local yarn shop and we sat at a table and poured over the instructions until we found the published mistake. Double Drat!

After a couple hours of figuring out a solution without scrapping the entire project, I carefully picked out the stitches one by one – backward – requiring much greater finesse than the aforementioned tear-down method. To make a long story even longer, my solution worked and I have a completed garment that I have yet to wear – but that is another story.

Mistakes do not define us, they help us grow. In my early days of teaching myself to knit from the Internet and before YouTube, if I had thrown my needles through my living room window as I so many times felt like doing, I would not have the cathartic and healing practice that gives me so much relaxation and peace.

I do not take on this fearless attitude toward mistakes in other areas of my life and wish I did. I am one who can approach new ideas and change with fear. I would like to tackle changes in my life with the same courageous approach that I do working with needles and fiber. So what if it does not work out and I mess it up? I will just rip it out and either start over, or take on another project. This line of thinking would serve me well in many areas of life where conquering fear of failure can be a springboard for growth.

In one of my latest projects, I started making teddy bears. Naturally, the book has three levels of teddy bears and I chose the most complex – I don’t even like it the best, but it is the most challenging, so I had to make it. I figured I could go back and make an easier one later. On our recent trip to Boston, the pictured bear was my car project. Note the legs. There are two, but I actually made four. See the head? Let’s not even talk about the mess-up in knitting the head pieces, but here she is, a cute teddy with the mistakes forgotten.

Yes, I will work on applying that philosophy to my life, and I know at the end of the day I have not only my rocking chair and summer breeze for recovery, but a yellow-dressed bear as well.

You can't always get what you want

Do you ever want something that is just not yours to have? Clover and Bing battle this green-eyed monster on a daily basis and Clover would like to take a small break from her exploits to explain.

By Clover Fender

Bing and I are on a quest that runs us in circles; it seemingly has no end, but we forge ahead relentlessly.

Chipmunks. They have to be the most frustrating and intriguing varmints ever placed in my field of vision. Mom’s bedroom windows run to the floor and give Bing and me perfect view of their home among the rocks against the house. The chippies, as Mom calls them, scurry around like they own the place and drive us canine protectors of the manor nuts.

You see, I am a Wheaten Terrier, so I am bred to pull vermin from their habitats. That is in my nature, but barriers and obstacles like a glass window and the electric shock collar around my neck when I am outside do not help my instinctive nature.

As the leader of my household’s two pack – it is my duty to train and facilitate Bing in the process of our daunting task to eradicate chipmunks. Bing is a poodle, bless her heart. She knows what poodles know and that is to point out birds, squirrels, deer, and yes, chipmunks. I had to teach her that a true protector goes beyond standing like a statue and going on point while the cute varmints take over the place. We are the only hunters in this house and I need help.

Actually, with a little training, we make the perfect combination. She follows her instincts and alerts me to the whereabouts of the dastardly rodents in cute suits, so I can come up with a plan to snuff them out.
After a few sessions of pretty intense lessons, I am happy to say that I have Bing on board with the chippie quest. She finds them, whether we are indoors or out; when inside, pounds her front paws against the bedroom window barking ferociously. Together, we run from living room to front door, to bedroom barking as loudly as possible.

So far, the indoor tactic is not working out for us. We strive to instill fear tremors in the chipmunks, but they continue to lurk about with great hubris and mild curiosity about our noise. I work on deepening my bark, and quickening my lunge from window to window, but so far, the little rodents with fuzzy tails are winning.

Mom’s attitude about the invaders does not help our situation. She seems to be amused by their playfulness, and does not even mind when they consume huge quantities of bird food. At least eating bird food aggravates Dad. When Bing and I hit the door at full throttle just when we know we can corner them, she never lets us out to follow my instincts and Bings training. She just shoos us away from the door and admonishes us to be quiet.

When we do go outside, the quick little buggers follow instincts of their own and stay in their homes deep in the rock crevasses. Frustrating.
Someone throw me a bone; what is a dog to do?

Sometimes we know exactly what we want. We know what we feel we should have, but what we want remains just beyond our reach. When everything within us says that we should go full throttle, but a larger force holds us back, then it is time to re-evaluate.

There are times when we must connect with the reality that some things remain out of our grasp for a reason bigger than we can see – even when we follow our instincts. Living in the present means to accept the value of what is available and listen to the big forces of what needs to stay – for the time being - outside our reach.

That being said, and truly believed, we continue our hunt for chipmunks.

Even a little, tiny bird

Perusing through the aisles of a craft store often serves as inspiration to me. Goodness knows I have filled many a basket with skeins of yarn, pattern books, beads, and more from a craft store’s whim of whimsy, yet today, something on those very shelves caught my eye to turn my thoughts inward rather than giving me crafting ideas.

“His eye is on the sparrow, and I know he watches me.” Needlework is not my artistic release, but that never stopped me from my passion for reading pattern books. As I looked through the needlepoint books, these words caught my eye in a pattern. I stopped because I recognized the words, then read the entire verse on the pattern page, designed for someone to work the words onto a pillow or a chair pad.

The great hymns of old raise my spirits any time, and I really could fill this blog each day with thoughts and reflections from them. I did quite a bit of “pew time” growing up and had an incredible talent for fixing my gaze toward the preacher while my mind wandered far and wide and to places of intrigue. But when the organ fired up, I would sit taller in my seat to allow the music to wash over me and hear the words I know by heart.

When I saw the words to this song on a pillow pattern, they gave me pause to let out a sigh, right there in the DMC floss aisle of Jo Ann’s.

Why should I feel discouraged, why should the shadows come,

Why should my heart be lonely, and long for heaven and home?

When Jesus is my portion, my constant friend is he

His eye is on the sparrow, and I know he watches me;

His eye is on the sparrow, and I know he watches me.

I sing because I’m happy,

I sing because I’m free,

For his eye is on the sparrow,

And I know he’s watching me.

With my curiosity piqued to know more, I looked up the author and inspiration for these words. A minister’s wife, Civilla Martin penned His Eye is on the Sparrow in the spring of 1905. Martin was visiting a woman named Mrs. Doolittle who had been bedridden for more than 20 years. During the visit, Martin inquired as to the secret for Mrs. Doolittle’s bright and hopeful outlook. She replied: “His eye is on the sparrow, and I know he watches me.” Mrs. Doolittle referred to Matthew 10:29-31 where we are told that God knows every little sparrow and we do not need to fear because he knows us as well and keeps watch over us at all times.

In this wide world of daily busyness and hurries, I find it easy to feel small and insignificant, and I am all too familiar with the tendency to grab onto loneliness. But, as I look around, and even walk down my driveway, there are many people who have rescued this foreigner in a new land. I have new friends who give me familiarity in an unfamiliar place.

Even in our most lonely of times, we are not alone in this world. My windows are open and I hear symphony of bird calls coming in from the woods to remind me that if his eye is on the sparrow, then I know he is watching me.

I did not buy the needlework pattern today. While I can be quite impulsive when it comes to pattern books, I did grab a moment of lucidity and realize that I don’t even know how to work needlepoint. So, while I have no idea why I was reading books from that section, I am glad I came across Mrs. Civilla Martin’s words. They stuck with me and I like that.

Perhaps his time seemed all too brief

I discovered this poem yesterday – author anonymous. I read the poem thinking of my son who passed from life as we know it last fall, and wanted to share this and my thoughts with you.

I Am Free
Don’t grieve for me now for I am free
I have followed the path that God laid for me
I took his hand when I heard him call
I turned my back and left it all.

I could not stay another day
To laugh, to love, to work, or play
Tasks left undone must stay that way
I found that peace at the close of day.

If my parting has left a void
Then fill it with remembered joy
A friendship started, a laugh, a kiss
Oh yes, these things I too will miss.

Be not burdened with times of sorrow
I wish you the sunshine of tomorrow
My life’s been full; I’ve savored much
Good friends, good times, a loved one’s touch.

Perhaps my time seemed all too brief
Don’t lengthen it now with undue grief
Lift up your heart and share with me.
God wanted me now; He set me free.

--Anonymous

One of the more difficult days in the wake of losing my son, Nicholas, seven months ago was the day we returned from his sister’s graduation to see the woods filled with life and green leaves.

After a very long Michigan winter – our first, I felt more than ready for the return of life – the return of green. Nick passed away during the season of golden color in the woods. When we returned after laying him to rest at home in Tennessee, the leaves covered the woods’ floor leaving the trees bare.

Fall turned what settled into the longest winter of my life. March came and snow freshened the ground at least once a week. April manifested itself as bone chilling cold and wet. May arrived and cold temperatures clung in the air. The core of my being ached for warm sunshine – I felt it would soothe my sorrow.

We returned from a nine day trip to the Northeast for Elise’s graduation, and found our woods green. Our property morphed from glimpses of green to full-fledged summer. And I wept. August was the last time I saw Nick; underbrush and broad green leaves filled the woods. He cleared brush from the woods as movers unloaded the truck in our new home. After a couple days, Nick drove away from my Michigan driveway in his blue Chevy Tracker with promises to drive safely and that we would make later plans of when and where we would meet up again.

We had no idea that Heaven would be our next meeting place.

The green woods represented life. Life without my son. My logical side knows, as the poet writes, he is free. The illogical side of me accepts him as free, but waits for him to walk through my door and say in his deep tone, “Hi Mom” while scratching his dog, Clover’s ears, then opening the refrigerator door. Seeing the woods look like summer for the first time gave me a sharp jolt of reality that my precious boy is really not with us in life form.

As I read this poem, I remember that we have the sweet memories. We grieve our loss, but he has been set free to soar as high as his soul will take him. The author’s words remind me that God called him home and the life we know is just a drop in an immensely large bucket of water.

I have human constraints that my son does not have, so I will strive to lift my heart and watch for signs that he is free.

When you see a frog on a fence post...

If you are walking through a field and see a bullfrog on a fence post, then know in your heart that it did not get there easily.

In the last 10 days, I have attended two graduation ceremonies. One at Harvard University where my daughter, Elise was awarded a masters in counseling, and one at West Liberty High School where my niece, Christine earned an honors diploma.

I observed many similarities and dissimilarities between the two, such as the band from West Liberty played Pomp and Circumstance and Harvard’s band played a song I did not recognize. Both were very warm, one outside on Harvard Yard, and one in an un-air conditioned gym. The parents and students of one behaved impeccably, and the parents from the other learning institution could stand to learn crowd manners from West Liberty High.

West Liberty is a k-12 school in rural central Ohio, where most of the class of 2011 received diplomas in the same gym where they attended kindergarten orientation. Harvard is a school where a myriad of world cultures mingle together to form a learning community. Yet, the striking similarity I noted at the two graduations is one I alluded to earlier with my country analogy of a bullfrog on a fence.

We saw 7,000 graduated from Harvard on the Thursday before Memorial Day, receiving degrees ranging from bachelors’ to doctors of law, and 100 walk across the stage in the WLHS gym shaking the familiar hand of their principal and clutching their high school diplomas. None of the graduates whose honors I observed got there without help from others and personal sacrifice.

I cannot tell you if more pride emanated from Harvard’s graduation crowd of more than 20,000 crowded on the lawn in folding chairs and watching jumbotrons, or West Liberty’s parents and family members who fanned themselves with programs as they clearly saw the grins of their children as they held their diplomas and shook hands with each school board member. I know I felt my heart melt for the accomplishments and futures of both girls, one I raised, and one who looks like me. Neither walked across their respective stages and into the rest of their lives without hard work, dedication, long nights of study, sacrifice and countless hours in libraries when they would have rather been enjoying sunshine. All of the students have teachers and mentors who guided them along the path to their respective graduations.

Elise met her advisor on the first day of orientation who supported and nurtured her through the most difficult year of her life. When I had the honor of thanking her advisor in person, I could hardly hold back tears for the guidance she gave Elise.

Christine immersed herself in high school activity as much as a student is absolutely capable. Somehow, she ran cross country, marched in band, sang in choir, ran track, and played lead in not only the school musical, but community theater as well. To thank her individual coaches, music directors, and academic advisors would take more space that I allot, but I know there were many who helped that little frog up on her fence post.

While we know a bullfrog cannot make that ascending leap with such precision to land on a small post without strength, will power, determination and help – we also know all of these factors work together to sweeten this grand accomplishment.

With music and jack hammers, our stories evolve

My mind took a gentle vacation this afternoon to a distant land– what seems like a lifetime ago – as normal to me then as the rising sun.

I enjoyed time with dear friends, Alice and Krystal today. I consider any time spent with these two a privilege. They chatted in the most usual of fashion of every day stuff that was the most regular part of my time living in Shanghai and hearing them talk took my mind back to rest with memories in the most wistful of ways.

They are both home for short summer visits before Alice returns to Shanghai and Krystal spends the summer at her home in Bethlehem. As they filled me in of the goings and comings of the transient lifestyle of expatriates – new ones to the community, as well as those who have moved on to other posts, I thought of my time spent knitting on Thursdays in our international group and the stories that emerged. Today was not very different – except we were not knitting, and we drove cars to the restaurant in a strip mall near Detroit.

It was the full-circled Shanghai experience, Krystal shared of an afternoon just a week or so ago. She described the meeting of a culture group in a woman’s home in the French Concession of Puxi, Shanghai. In an old Shikumen house, the hostess displayed a large collection of Chairman Mao statues on the worn mantel piece.

With people from almost every continent on the globe in the living room, a pianist played classical Chinese and Western music. Krystal described the scene in great detail and what an honor it was to listen to the music in such a magical setting with so many interesting people. Shikumen houses, a Chinese version of row houses, several hundred years old and disappearing in multitudes, carry a wealth of personal stories. Dozens of generations of families lived in this multi-level home before a Belgium woman rented it and moved in with her Mao collection and baby grand piano.

I envision the aroma of hot oil and soy sauce as I thought of neighborhood women cooking together at the outdoor community kitchens, with men gathering outside in small gardens with their caged song birds hanging from trees, and playing games on makeshift tables. These communities hold such rich histories, yet in the name of progress, they are being torn down daily around Chinese cities.

What brought the experience last week to full circle, Krystal explained, was the sound of jack hammers resonating behind the music from the piano. Beautiful and soothing sounds of music combined with the raucous noise of build-up and tear-down as background music is a picture of Shanghai – the old and the new melding together into one scene. Construction dust and piano music.

As she shared this story, I could not help but think of my time in Shanghai and how I enjoyed activities such as these. Walking down the lanes of ancient home places – homes in line displaying various degrees of disrepair alongside wonderfully restored homes rented out for exorbitant prices. I remember these homes featuring laundry hanging from the windows next to a groomed front door with expensive statutes to greet visitors.

As memories faded, and conversation switched to another topic, I looked at these ladies, firm fixtures in a special part of my own history, and thought about how life evolves from one scene to another. Just as the Shikumen homes carry rich history, but evolve into different uses and hold new stories, my story evolves – with part beautiful music and part jack hammer demolition.

And through the notes, I enjoy days like today living in the present with special people who helped form my stories.

He sleeps in a storm

The longer I live and observe human intricacies, I have decided that it all really boils down to relationships. How we develop our relationships with people and how we not only treat people, but teach them to treat us, is really the fiber that makes the Earth spin on its axis.

Last night, while reading the book Have a Little Faith by Mitch Albom, author of Tuesdays with Morrie, I came across a story that spells out the essence of why maintaining relationships is just as important as paying our bills and tending to our car maintenance and keeping up yard work. In the book, Albom spends time with Albert Lewis, the rabbi of his youth. He fills the pages with observations from the rabbi’s walk in life and interactions with others. The following excerpt comes from a 1975 sermon by Lewis:

“A man seeks employment on a farm. He hands his letter of recommendation to his new employer. It reads simply, ‘He sleeps in a storm.’

“The owner is desperate for help, so he hires the man.
“Several weeks pass, and suddenly, in the middle of the night, a powerful storm rips through the valley.

“Awakened by the swirling rain and howling wind, the owner leaps out of bed. He calls for his new hired hand, but the man is sleeping soundly.

“So he dashes off to the barn. He sees, to his amazement, that the animals are secure with plenty of feed.

“He runs out to the field. He sees the bales of wheat have been bound and are wrapped in tarpaulins.

“He races to the silo. The doors are latched, and the grain is dry.
“And then he understands. ‘He sleeps in a storm.’

“My friends, if we tend to the things that are important in life, if we are right with those we love and behave in line with our faith, our lives will not be cursed with the aching throb of unfulfilled business. Our words will always be sincere, our embraces will be tight. We will never wallow in the agony of ‘I could have, I should have.’ We can sleep in a storm.

“And when it’s time, our good-byes will be complete.”

These words struck me as profound just as I was about to settle into sleep, ironically with a storm underway. Clean input produces clean output. When we settle our hearts into loving and respectful thoughts toward the people whose walks touch ours, then our words will not offend, nor will our actions cause hurt.

This morning as I stopped to turn left out of my sleepy neighborhood, the driver behind me seemed to have strong opinions on whether I hesitated too long and gave up the opportunity to turn, thus causing him to wait. He pulled his car aggressively toward my bumper and flew his hands all over the driver’s side of his car. I am sure he was not batting at me, but a fly must have flitted in front of him. While there are days that my inclination is to pull out my nail file and take care of repair work while he waits, today, I decided he had his reasons for the impatient posturing. I do not know the stress in his life, so I shirked the temptation to further his distress by delaying the process, and safely pulled my car out into the road.

I will leave the way he rode my bumper to the next intersection for another day, and felt thankful he had not used up my daily allotment of calm.

In the serious cases, where people say things that are hurtful, or cause true distress with their actions, I hope I can keep myself focused inwardly in a positive and graceful manner so that, in the words of Lewis, through Albom, “our words will always be sincere, our embraces will be tight.”

When the storms roll in, I like to be able to sleep.

The gift of a precious stone

As an elderly woman washed her clothes in a mountain stream, a traveler came by and asked her for food. The woman reached into her bag and produced a loaf of bread for the hungry traveler. With her bag open, he noticed a stone he most assuredly knew to be valuable. The hungry traveler pointed toward the stone and asked the woman if he could have it. She reached in her bag and handed the stranger the stone without hesitation.

The traveler rejoiced in his good fortune because he knew the stone was worth enough to give him security for a lifetime. A few days later, he journeyed back along the mountain stream in search of this wise woman. He found her. “I’ve been thinking,” he said. “I know how valuable this stone is, but I give it back in the hope that you can give me something even more precious. Please share with me what you have within you that enabled you to give me this stone.”

I read this Native American fable and thought about the human nature that draws us toward giving and taking. Recently, Roger and I signed up for a local blood drive. Those who donate blood within a certain period of time will be registered to win a year’s worth of free gasoline – not a bad prize for the selfless gift of a pint.

I truly believe the folks who are going to give blood will do it for the sake of saving lives and not in hopes of winning the one huge carrot dangling on a stick – and from what I forked over at the pumps today, free gas for a year is one grand enticer. Not everyone is a giver, but People who do, do so because something from within propels them.

When I think of selfless giving, my memory rests upon a woman named Alice back in Tennessee. Alice loves the children and in her younger days, would offer to baby sit just about any child at any time – and the children love her. She has spent many rocking chair hours in the church nursery and every young child who has sat in her lap remembers her.

One day I stopped by Alice’s house to see some knitting patterns. Of her many claims to fame are the Christmas stockings that she knits when she knows of a new baby entering the world. She has a set of patterns copied from McCall’s magazine more than 60 years ago that feature coordinating Christmas scenes. From this tattered set of patterns, Alice has knitted Christmas stockings for everyone in her large family – not just children and grandchildren, but nieces, nephews, and cousins as well.

To knit a Christmas stocking, is to spend dozens of hours seated, both hands in motion, and focused on the task and goal. She matter-of-factly produced a log book to show me each stocking she has knitted, the date, and the recipient. The main reason for the book, she told me was that there were no duplicates of stocking patters for each family. One featured a Santa on a roof; one has Santa holding a kitten, one backing down a chimney, and so forth. I saw pages and pages of names and dates that transcend decades, and stood in amazement of this kind and awesome feat.

Some people have that intuitive gift that makes giving come so easily from the heart. I look up to these people with awe and, like the traveler who returned the stone; I wish to know the gift that lies within the hearts of those who so effortlessly give.