It happened again. We were at WalMart this afternoon and someone said something ugly about my son. Loud enough for me to hear them, loud enough for several people to hear them.It was rude, it was hurtful, and it was totally unnecessary.
I have been trying to write a new post since the weekend. I was really shocked by the shootings in Arizona, and it brought lots of memories up for me. I am a gun violence survivor. Not once, not twice, but 3 times. Twice I was in the wrong place at the wrong time and was a random victim. The third time I admit, it was personal and may be the only time you will hear me say thank goodness he wasn't sober! The one that was the scariest was the one where a teenager and his buddies were bored and decided a way to liven up a Saturday night was to take dad's handgun and go shooting out storefronts.
I was in college, working as a waitress and bar tending at a hotel restaurant and bar. I had finished my shift, and since my car was in the shop was sitting in the front of the hotel lobby waiting for my ride. I was sitting on a couch in a large bay window. I saw car lights and started to get up. I KNOW I was saved by something-an angel, a spirit, God- I started to stand up and felt someones hands on my shoulders. I was pushed back down on the couch. Just as the car pulled even with the window, I saw the arm extended out the passenger window, and I saw the handgun. I saw the flash of the muzzle, and was paralyzed in fear. The bullet grazed the top of my forehead. If I had been standing I would have been shot in the middle of my chest and the outcome would have been something different.
Violence has been part of my life since before I was born. I was raised in a dysfunctional family. My parents used a leather strap-a barbers razor strop- as a method of discipline. So I have scars from a strap, and scars from bullets giving testimony to the fact that this is a violent world. The physical scars are not the worst of the scars however. The worst scars that I bear are the scars from the words.
Words are used as weapons more often than guns, knives, or leather straps, and the scars that they leave are harder to heal. Words are important, and the way they are used is important. We as a culture, as a society need to admit this. We as a culture need to stop pointing fingers, and look into our own hearts and change the way we toss words around. We need to bear witness to the importance of words.
I don't care whether the troubled young man is a liberal or conservative. I don't care that the congresswoman was a Republican or a democrat. I DO care that we live in a society where anyone who is different is marginalized. Where a politician or a pundit can rant and rave and use words in such a way that it might encourage people to solve their issues with violence. Yes I said might. It doesn't matter to me whether anyone means for their words to be used that way. Any reasonably intelligent adult knows that when you use words to demonize, to marginalize, those words are immature.
I blog, and I post on facebook. I lost 2 friends this holiday season because I spell Christmas with an X most of the time. Yes, I write Xmas. I do it on purpose. I have a good reason, and I have been rebuked for it. No one, however, has ever asked me why I do it. They just take offense and make hateful remarks, and let me know that I am not the right kind of Christian. SO in their mind I become an other, and it is OK to hurt my feelings.
Christians, whether you are the right kind or not, should know that words are important. That words can change people and events and the world.That words can have evil consequences. So instead of prevaricating, instead of dithering, we all need to stop, to say enough is enough, and take responsibility.We have to make sure that we use words to encourage, to support, to love, in love. We know how important words are, and we need to remember that that person you are using words to marginalize is someones son or daughter. Someone loves that person, and God loves that person, and using words to hurt someone is wrong. It leaves ugly scars, maybe not in the other person, but certainly in the heart of the person that uses words for evil. Scars that will harden your heart and make it harder for you to see love in the world.
In the beginning was the WORD, and the Word was with God and the Word was God.....words are not meant to be weapons.
Just me ranting and raving!
Peace and Blessings,
EstherBelle
Wednesday, January 12, 2011
Tuesday, January 11, 2011
Be good to you
The thought for today...
"We have to learn to be our own best friends because we fall too easily into the trap of being our worst enemies."~~Roderick Thorp~~
I saw this in my newspaper this morning, and immediately knew it was worth using. I all to often will be critical of myself. I am learning to use the webcam on my new laptop. I have never made a video of myself , and it is something I can use to communicate with the ladies that post to my daily Weight Watcher's message board thread, my friends on facebook, and when I get it down, even here on my blog. So I am looking at my first effort, and I am picking it to pieces when this quote came to mind.
I am sure we are all guilty of this. Something doesn't work for me and I think "Oh my God I am such an idiot." or "I screw up everything." The truth is I am not an idiot, and I don't screw up EVERYTHING. More importantly, I would never say to a friend "You are such an idiot." I also said to myself this morning watching the video, "You look like crap." Now is there ANYONE I would say that too? NO! So I must stop saying that to myself.
Become our own best friend. When we hear negative things in our head, or like me when I say it out loud, we must STOP. We must think, what would I say to Diana, or Cheryl. What would you say to EstherBelle? Now, say those things to your self. Start believing those things about yourself. Treat yourself as a trusted, loved friend . Start believing things like "I deserve to be treated well.", "I am a great friend not only to others but to myself."
Extend the hand of friendship, to others, but most importantly to you!
Peace and Blessings,
EstherBelle
"We have to learn to be our own best friends because we fall too easily into the trap of being our worst enemies."~~Roderick Thorp~~
I saw this in my newspaper this morning, and immediately knew it was worth using. I all to often will be critical of myself. I am learning to use the webcam on my new laptop. I have never made a video of myself , and it is something I can use to communicate with the ladies that post to my daily Weight Watcher's message board thread, my friends on facebook, and when I get it down, even here on my blog. So I am looking at my first effort, and I am picking it to pieces when this quote came to mind.
I am sure we are all guilty of this. Something doesn't work for me and I think "Oh my God I am such an idiot." or "I screw up everything." The truth is I am not an idiot, and I don't screw up EVERYTHING. More importantly, I would never say to a friend "You are such an idiot." I also said to myself this morning watching the video, "You look like crap." Now is there ANYONE I would say that too? NO! So I must stop saying that to myself.
Become our own best friend. When we hear negative things in our head, or like me when I say it out loud, we must STOP. We must think, what would I say to Diana, or Cheryl. What would you say to EstherBelle? Now, say those things to your self. Start believing those things about yourself. Treat yourself as a trusted, loved friend . Start believing things like "I deserve to be treated well.", "I am a great friend not only to others but to myself."
Extend the hand of friendship, to others, but most importantly to you!
Peace and Blessings,
EstherBelle
Wednesday, January 5, 2011
Who Am I?
OK, Here I am struggling with some issues that I shouldn't be struggling with. Issues I have dealt with over and over again. So, I beat myself up a little, I know better. But, I do it. The question goes deeper than why do I do this, the question becomes who am I?
I start my day with centering prayers and meditations. It helps me to meet the challenges of my day. I use several sources for things to meditate on. I use a daily reflection from Sunshine Cathedral.It's from a publication titled Spirit and Truth. I also use Meditations with Native American Elders:The Four Seasons by Don L. Coyhis.This is a book of meditations for learning to walk the Red Road. This is the path I have chosen for my healing journey.I also use the Sacred literature-Scriptures of my Christian traditions. More often than not, they work together on the issue that I need to be working on. Spirit is very good at working things to my benefit like that. But, then I get down to it, and I get fearful. I slide back into old habits, and I know better.
Who am I? The problem is I don't know anymore.
I know who I have been. I know how I became those women, but I don't know who I am anymore, and that is a problem. Since I am not who I used to be, I need to figure out who I am in order to go forward. I need to figure out how to become who I am supposed to be.
I have been lots of different people in my lifetime. I have grown and matured and changed over the years. I have used prayer and meditation to seek my Higher Power and to attempt to let go of my self will and live Most High's will for my life. As I walk the Red road I use wisdom found in nature, in the medicine wheel, and wisdom from the elders. Our lives grow in seasons, and we may be in a spring season as it snows outside.But we can learn from nature, and the Medicine Wheel and the elders no matter what season we are in. Every season has lessons for us. I find myself in a winter season of life right now.
In the winter season we often find ourselves lost. Our identity is gone and we seek a new one. According to the elders, in the winter season we are faced with three questions. Who am I, why am I, and where am I going? As we seek the answers to these questions we will learn and grow and transform ourselves once again. So here I am, who am I?
I am totally aware that I have been feeding the wrong hunger the last week or so. I know that in feeding the wrong hunger, I have been sabotaging myself, keeping me from becoming who I am supposed to be. I gave into the fear, and fear is the mindkiller.
When I was growing up I was an outsider looking in. I didn't fit in with my family, my circumstances or my neighborhood.I didn't fit physically, mentally, or spiritually. I needed to learn, I studied everything.Knowledge was my downfall and my future. Everybody called me "the smart one", which sounds positive, but in my family it was an insult. It was said in a way that I knew it was not acceptable. But I had no other way to be. I was Esther, the smart one, who was also the fat one, the big one that nobody understood, or cared to get to know. I wanted to be my little sister, the cute one, the one who had a nickname, who was allowed to sit in laps and be hugged.But, I was Esther, and nobody wanted to hug me.
I learned to accept that that was who I was. Esther spent her time learning and applying that knowledge to the world around her. She kept her own counsel, and built walls to keep the pain contained. Fortunately, Spirit put people in my life to teach me about love. I lived for the summers, we would come to Kansas City and stay with my father's favorite sister, My Aunt Emma. My auntie was an amazing woman, she loved all of us. If we were family, especially those few of us who were 'black sheep' for whatever reason, she loved us. So I could make it through the rest of the year, because I knew that at least in the summer, someone who loved me would be there. There were other people, a friend of my brother. They were in boot camp together, and he was from the Navajo nation, and the reservation was too far for him to go, so he came to our house when they had leave. He talked to me, and more importantly he listened to me. He talked to me about his traditions, and walking the Red Road. He taught me that I was strong, and that our Creator loved me. My third grade teacher, Mrs. Schultz. She saw greatness in me, and never let a day go by that she didn't tell me that. I visited her even after I was in junior high, and we were friends for the rest of her life, we wrote when I went off to college, and I visited her when I came back during breaks. She was my great friend and my greatest encourager. These all called me Esther Belle. I was named after my Mother and my Aunt Emma. Emma Esther Belle, and so Auntie called me Esther Belle. That was the name and the 'me' I associated with love.
When I became a mother, loving and advocating for my special needs child was who I was. Again I was able to use my intellect to solve problems and educate myself and others about my son's needs. I loved being Ms. Jones, William's Mom. Ms. Jones was able to love her son and to also love other children in the neighborhood. They needed someone to love them enough to set boundaries and hold them to those boundaries. Children do not like being out of control. This lesson applies to the child in us when we are in our winter changing seasons. We do not like being out of control, and so part of learning who we are is learning what our boundaries are. Boundaries are not the walls I built to protect me from pain. Boundaries are the paths I walk, the bricks I place to get me Brick by Brick down the path on my healing journey.
Then Ms. Jones was walking down the street one day.It was a beautiful day. The kind of spring day that we wish they all could be. Bright sunshine, about 60 degrees. I had been to a meeting and after my friend dropped me off I remembered that William needed something for school the next day. It was the perfect day for a walk, so I decided I would walk to the neighborhood store. As I was walking down the street I looked up and this tall thin man was cutting across the street diagonally. He was going to end right in front of me. My mind immediately started searching for a reason, but this was not someone I knew. He walked up to me and said "I have been trying to get up the nerve to talk to you for six months. You're the most beautiful woman I have ever seen." I laughed. It definitely was not a pick up line I had ever heard before. But when I laughed I saw his eyes, and he meant it! "Excuse me?" was all I could say. He said it again, "I've been trying to get up the nerve to talk to you. You are the most beautiful woman I have ever seen." I am still kind of speechless, and I say "Thank you, I guess." He goes on to explain that he lives at the bottom of the hill and he sees me walk my son to the school bus every day. He has tried a couple of times to speak to me, but he was too nervous. But when he saw me walking down the street today he told himself it was now or never, and he crossed the street. I was prepared to continue walking, but he kept talking. He told me how he had just got out of rehab 4 days earlier, and that he was on his way home from putting in job applications. Well, I had been clean and sober for 16 years and the friend of Bill W. in me wouldn't let me just ignore him. I told him I had to go to the store, but if he was still in the park at the end of the street when I got back I would talk to him. He was there, we talked for 2 hours that afternoon, and every day after that.
I start my day with centering prayers and meditations. It helps me to meet the challenges of my day. I use several sources for things to meditate on. I use a daily reflection from Sunshine Cathedral.It's from a publication titled Spirit and Truth. I also use Meditations with Native American Elders:The Four Seasons by Don L. Coyhis.This is a book of meditations for learning to walk the Red Road. This is the path I have chosen for my healing journey.I also use the Sacred literature-Scriptures of my Christian traditions. More often than not, they work together on the issue that I need to be working on. Spirit is very good at working things to my benefit like that. But, then I get down to it, and I get fearful. I slide back into old habits, and I know better.
Who am I? The problem is I don't know anymore.
I know who I have been. I know how I became those women, but I don't know who I am anymore, and that is a problem. Since I am not who I used to be, I need to figure out who I am in order to go forward. I need to figure out how to become who I am supposed to be.
I have been lots of different people in my lifetime. I have grown and matured and changed over the years. I have used prayer and meditation to seek my Higher Power and to attempt to let go of my self will and live Most High's will for my life. As I walk the Red road I use wisdom found in nature, in the medicine wheel, and wisdom from the elders. Our lives grow in seasons, and we may be in a spring season as it snows outside.But we can learn from nature, and the Medicine Wheel and the elders no matter what season we are in. Every season has lessons for us. I find myself in a winter season of life right now.
In the winter season we often find ourselves lost. Our identity is gone and we seek a new one. According to the elders, in the winter season we are faced with three questions. Who am I, why am I, and where am I going? As we seek the answers to these questions we will learn and grow and transform ourselves once again. So here I am, who am I?
I am totally aware that I have been feeding the wrong hunger the last week or so. I know that in feeding the wrong hunger, I have been sabotaging myself, keeping me from becoming who I am supposed to be. I gave into the fear, and fear is the mindkiller.
When I was growing up I was an outsider looking in. I didn't fit in with my family, my circumstances or my neighborhood.I didn't fit physically, mentally, or spiritually. I needed to learn, I studied everything.Knowledge was my downfall and my future. Everybody called me "the smart one", which sounds positive, but in my family it was an insult. It was said in a way that I knew it was not acceptable. But I had no other way to be. I was Esther, the smart one, who was also the fat one, the big one that nobody understood, or cared to get to know. I wanted to be my little sister, the cute one, the one who had a nickname, who was allowed to sit in laps and be hugged.But, I was Esther, and nobody wanted to hug me.
I learned to accept that that was who I was. Esther spent her time learning and applying that knowledge to the world around her. She kept her own counsel, and built walls to keep the pain contained. Fortunately, Spirit put people in my life to teach me about love. I lived for the summers, we would come to Kansas City and stay with my father's favorite sister, My Aunt Emma. My auntie was an amazing woman, she loved all of us. If we were family, especially those few of us who were 'black sheep' for whatever reason, she loved us. So I could make it through the rest of the year, because I knew that at least in the summer, someone who loved me would be there. There were other people, a friend of my brother. They were in boot camp together, and he was from the Navajo nation, and the reservation was too far for him to go, so he came to our house when they had leave. He talked to me, and more importantly he listened to me. He talked to me about his traditions, and walking the Red Road. He taught me that I was strong, and that our Creator loved me. My third grade teacher, Mrs. Schultz. She saw greatness in me, and never let a day go by that she didn't tell me that. I visited her even after I was in junior high, and we were friends for the rest of her life, we wrote when I went off to college, and I visited her when I came back during breaks. She was my great friend and my greatest encourager. These all called me Esther Belle. I was named after my Mother and my Aunt Emma. Emma Esther Belle, and so Auntie called me Esther Belle. That was the name and the 'me' I associated with love.
When I became a mother, loving and advocating for my special needs child was who I was. Again I was able to use my intellect to solve problems and educate myself and others about my son's needs. I loved being Ms. Jones, William's Mom. Ms. Jones was able to love her son and to also love other children in the neighborhood. They needed someone to love them enough to set boundaries and hold them to those boundaries. Children do not like being out of control. This lesson applies to the child in us when we are in our winter changing seasons. We do not like being out of control, and so part of learning who we are is learning what our boundaries are. Boundaries are not the walls I built to protect me from pain. Boundaries are the paths I walk, the bricks I place to get me Brick by Brick down the path on my healing journey.
Then Ms. Jones was walking down the street one day.It was a beautiful day. The kind of spring day that we wish they all could be. Bright sunshine, about 60 degrees. I had been to a meeting and after my friend dropped me off I remembered that William needed something for school the next day. It was the perfect day for a walk, so I decided I would walk to the neighborhood store. As I was walking down the street I looked up and this tall thin man was cutting across the street diagonally. He was going to end right in front of me. My mind immediately started searching for a reason, but this was not someone I knew. He walked up to me and said "I have been trying to get up the nerve to talk to you for six months. You're the most beautiful woman I have ever seen." I laughed. It definitely was not a pick up line I had ever heard before. But when I laughed I saw his eyes, and he meant it! "Excuse me?" was all I could say. He said it again, "I've been trying to get up the nerve to talk to you. You are the most beautiful woman I have ever seen." I am still kind of speechless, and I say "Thank you, I guess." He goes on to explain that he lives at the bottom of the hill and he sees me walk my son to the school bus every day. He has tried a couple of times to speak to me, but he was too nervous. But when he saw me walking down the street today he told himself it was now or never, and he crossed the street. I was prepared to continue walking, but he kept talking. He told me how he had just got out of rehab 4 days earlier, and that he was on his way home from putting in job applications. Well, I had been clean and sober for 16 years and the friend of Bill W. in me wouldn't let me just ignore him. I told him I had to go to the store, but if he was still in the park at the end of the street when I got back I would talk to him. He was there, we talked for 2 hours that afternoon, and every day after that.
Such a simple act, crossing the street. No big deal. But in that simple act of walking across the street the world would never be the same. In that moment our lives became eternally joined, entwined. We would never again make a decision without discussing it or considering the impact it would have on the other one.We would never again think of ourselves as Bill or EstherBelle. From that moment on we were BillandEstherBelle.
So, I must learn to be EstherBelle again, or just Belle as my husband and friends came to call me, or maybe EB the nickname my friends use. I must learn that I need not be afraid to go forward. I must stop allowing my fear of the unknown keep me from sculpting my bricks and making my path as I journey to wholeness. I have some genetic dispositions that are obstacles. I am genetically predisposed to gaining weight and holding on to weight. In prehistoric times I was the survival of the species. But this is 2011, and the extra layer of fat is no longer necessary for survival. As I get close to the numbers changing on the scale, I must not fear the things that come my way. I must not fear men paying attention to me, I must not fear jealousy from others. I must embrace the new me, a me that has not weighed less than 250 pounds since she was a child. I must stop sabotaging my weight loss journey and work to be in control of my eating and choose to joyfully discover what being a normal healthy weight feels like.
I am genetically predisposed to depression and alcoholism. I must not let that determine who I am. I do not allow the pain of my physical diseases win, so I must apply the same intent and purpose to overcoming the pain of my mental health issues. I am going to celebrate a really major milestone in a few days. On January 19 I will have been clean and sober for 30 years. As I choose one day at a time to not use drugs and alcohol to mask the pain, I must also choose to not use the most widely available mood altering drug-food-to mask the pain either. I must choose to come into a healthy relationship with food. Allowing food to be what it was meant to be and nothing more.
I must choose to be who I am supposed to be, as I spend this winter season of my life pondering the answer to that question.To ponder is to consider something deeply and thoroughly; meditate; to weigh carefully in the mind. Pondering for me is to find the answers and apply them to my life as I become who I am supposed to be.
Who am I? I don't know yet. But, as I continue to sculpt the bricks, and to choose to not give in to the fear I will find out.The fears used to blind and bind me for years, and now they only blind me for a few days. That is victory along the journey. It will be an amazing healing journey through the season of darkness, and of course Spring should follow.
So, I must learn to be EstherBelle again, or just Belle as my husband and friends came to call me, or maybe EB the nickname my friends use. I must learn that I need not be afraid to go forward. I must stop allowing my fear of the unknown keep me from sculpting my bricks and making my path as I journey to wholeness. I have some genetic dispositions that are obstacles. I am genetically predisposed to gaining weight and holding on to weight. In prehistoric times I was the survival of the species. But this is 2011, and the extra layer of fat is no longer necessary for survival. As I get close to the numbers changing on the scale, I must not fear the things that come my way. I must not fear men paying attention to me, I must not fear jealousy from others. I must embrace the new me, a me that has not weighed less than 250 pounds since she was a child. I must stop sabotaging my weight loss journey and work to be in control of my eating and choose to joyfully discover what being a normal healthy weight feels like.
I am genetically predisposed to depression and alcoholism. I must not let that determine who I am. I do not allow the pain of my physical diseases win, so I must apply the same intent and purpose to overcoming the pain of my mental health issues. I am going to celebrate a really major milestone in a few days. On January 19 I will have been clean and sober for 30 years. As I choose one day at a time to not use drugs and alcohol to mask the pain, I must also choose to not use the most widely available mood altering drug-food-to mask the pain either. I must choose to come into a healthy relationship with food. Allowing food to be what it was meant to be and nothing more.
I must choose to be who I am supposed to be, as I spend this winter season of my life pondering the answer to that question.To ponder is to consider something deeply and thoroughly; meditate; to weigh carefully in the mind. Pondering for me is to find the answers and apply them to my life as I become who I am supposed to be.
Who am I? I don't know yet. But, as I continue to sculpt the bricks, and to choose to not give in to the fear I will find out.The fears used to blind and bind me for years, and now they only blind me for a few days. That is victory along the journey. It will be an amazing healing journey through the season of darkness, and of course Spring should follow.
Who am I? Not sure, but I think I will love her into existence.
Peace and Blessings,
EstherBelle a.k.a EB
Friday, December 31, 2010
Equal Time
Well, I really must tell some stories of my little mama, equal time and all of that.
Talking about Mother is totally different than talking about Papa. I occasionally called her little Mama, especially if I was talking about her, but usually I called her Mother.Her grandchildren called her Mom-she didn't like to be called grandma. Mother was a lot more complex person than my father. Not as easy to get a handle on most days. She would look you in the eye and truthfully tell you her age, or her weight. But she would lie about her height. Mother was probably just a tad less than 5 foot tall. As she aged she shrunk down to about 4'10". But all of her adult life, she would tell people she was 5' 3". Now, everyone knew that wasn't true, but you did not contradict my little Mama. So, even though I was taller than her by the time I started kindergarten, Mother continued to claim that she was 5' 3". I asked her once, when I was a brash young teen, why she told people she was taller than she really was. She looked up at me as if I were an alien from outer space, calmly said "I am 5' 3" tall, I always have been." That was the last time I brought up the subject.
I was 6' tall by the time I was a teen, and 6' 1" before I stopped growing taller. People would look at us when we were together, of course, commenting on my size, and Mother would tell them "Shoot, she'd be 7' tall if she didn't have so much tucked under for feet." or "I grew her that tall on purpose. The man who built my kitchen cabinets was 7 foot tall, I wanted to find out what he might have left on the top shelf."
Mother was sometimes a difficult woman. She raised 6 children, and as we grew older there may never have been a time when she was speaking to all 6 of us at once. She had a bit of a mean streak sometimes, and she seemed happiest when she was surrounded by drama. Now this doesn't mean she wasn't the best parent she knew how to be. I think in those days most parents were doing the best they knew how. They were so wrong sometimes, but I honestly believe it was because of the times we grew up in, and not necessarily maliciousness on the part of our parents. My Mother may have been a strict disciplinarian at home, she may have exerted total control, but do not let a teacher or other adult pick on or treat one of her children unfairly. Little mama became a giant in those situations.
One of my favorite stories is told from her perspective and mine. My 1st grade teacher was not the best teacher in the world. I was a complication for her, and she would write notes home to my mother. Mother told everyone that she thinks I was born knowing how to read and write, because she certainly didn't remember teaching me and according to her I was reading at age 2. I think she probably wasn't exaggerating too much, because I do not remember when I didn't know how. Well, my kindergarten teacher thought I was a bit of a problem, probably because I would get bored and rather than napping preferred to spend time reading. In first grade, we started learning to print our letters. The issues arose because I already could write, in cursive, and except for the printing lessons, would write that way. So a letter from my teacher would go home with me, and Mother would respond with a lengthy letter back. I suppose it would have been too easy to call each other.
The teacher wanted Mother to tell me that I wasn't allowed to write in cursive. It seems it caused a problem for the teacher because the other students saw me do it. Mother apparently wrote back that the teacher should not be showing my work to the other students and that I was to be allowed to carry on. Well, that letter must have amused my teacher, because I was on the playground during recess when my teacher and another teacher called me over and asked me in not kid friendly terms who my Mother thought she was. In the middle is not a comfortable place for a 6 year old to be. Mother ended up in the Principal's office, and according to her the principal, Mr. Johnson, started explaining that first grade children could not be allowed to write in cursive because, as told by Mother, "We use slim pencils when we teach children to write in cursive, Mrs. Jones, and at 6 years old the muscles in their little hands aren't strong enough to hold a slim pencil." The next thing my mother said was a question, "You don't have any idea which child is mine, do you Mr. Johnson?" He admitted as much and mother told him to call me to the office and that the conversation would not continue until I got there.
Now I knew my mother had planned to speak to the principal that day, and so when the call came to my teacher and she sent me to the principal with a smirk on her face I was a bit anxious by the time I was ushered through the swinging gate into the inner offices. I was escorted into the Principal's office by the school secretary, and my little mama came and stood shoulder to shoulder with me.I was about 1-2 inches taller than her. Then she said "Tell me again, Mr. Johnson, about the muscles in her little hands." Mother grabbed my 'little hand' and said we were leaving. She asked me where my class was, we marched down the hall, she went in the classroom, the teacher sputtering that she was disrupting the class. Mother told her not to worry, it wouldn't happen again. Mother cleaned out my desk, and we went home. I was transferred to a different school a couple of days and some phone calls to the school board later. My Mother may have had issues with her children, but she was always our staunchest supporter when it came to others having issues with us.I still miss my mother, especially when my son does something amazing. I will think, I should call my little mama. I learned a lot about advocating for my very special child from my mother advocating for me.
I also learned to say I love you to the people I love. It was something I never heard growing up.It was a different time. My parents didn't say it to each other or to us children. I think it would have made quite a difference if I had known how much they loved each other when I was young. I know how much of a difference it would have made if I had known if they loved me.I was blessed that both of my parents died at home in my arms. It may not have felt like a blessing at the time, but as I look back it was. I was able to say good bye to them, knowing that I had forgiven them, and hoping that they had forgiven me. But, no matter, I know that they were loved, and surrounded by love as they crossed over. I wish my husband had not died alone in a car on a freeway. But I know he knew he was loved, and I knew he loved me. We had the opportunity to say that to each other a couple of hours before he was killed by a young woman with almost twice the legal limit blood alcohol count.My husband and I told each other that we loved each other dozens of times a day. William would turn around, and roll his eyes when would 'make out' in the kitchen. But he knew his parents loved each other, and he knew he was loved, because we told him every day. I still do, I always will.
Talking about Mother is totally different than talking about Papa. I occasionally called her little Mama, especially if I was talking about her, but usually I called her Mother.Her grandchildren called her Mom-she didn't like to be called grandma. Mother was a lot more complex person than my father. Not as easy to get a handle on most days. She would look you in the eye and truthfully tell you her age, or her weight. But she would lie about her height. Mother was probably just a tad less than 5 foot tall. As she aged she shrunk down to about 4'10". But all of her adult life, she would tell people she was 5' 3". Now, everyone knew that wasn't true, but you did not contradict my little Mama. So, even though I was taller than her by the time I started kindergarten, Mother continued to claim that she was 5' 3". I asked her once, when I was a brash young teen, why she told people she was taller than she really was. She looked up at me as if I were an alien from outer space, calmly said "I am 5' 3" tall, I always have been." That was the last time I brought up the subject.
I was 6' tall by the time I was a teen, and 6' 1" before I stopped growing taller. People would look at us when we were together, of course, commenting on my size, and Mother would tell them "Shoot, she'd be 7' tall if she didn't have so much tucked under for feet." or "I grew her that tall on purpose. The man who built my kitchen cabinets was 7 foot tall, I wanted to find out what he might have left on the top shelf."
Mother was sometimes a difficult woman. She raised 6 children, and as we grew older there may never have been a time when she was speaking to all 6 of us at once. She had a bit of a mean streak sometimes, and she seemed happiest when she was surrounded by drama. Now this doesn't mean she wasn't the best parent she knew how to be. I think in those days most parents were doing the best they knew how. They were so wrong sometimes, but I honestly believe it was because of the times we grew up in, and not necessarily maliciousness on the part of our parents. My Mother may have been a strict disciplinarian at home, she may have exerted total control, but do not let a teacher or other adult pick on or treat one of her children unfairly. Little mama became a giant in those situations.
One of my favorite stories is told from her perspective and mine. My 1st grade teacher was not the best teacher in the world. I was a complication for her, and she would write notes home to my mother. Mother told everyone that she thinks I was born knowing how to read and write, because she certainly didn't remember teaching me and according to her I was reading at age 2. I think she probably wasn't exaggerating too much, because I do not remember when I didn't know how. Well, my kindergarten teacher thought I was a bit of a problem, probably because I would get bored and rather than napping preferred to spend time reading. In first grade, we started learning to print our letters. The issues arose because I already could write, in cursive, and except for the printing lessons, would write that way. So a letter from my teacher would go home with me, and Mother would respond with a lengthy letter back. I suppose it would have been too easy to call each other.
The teacher wanted Mother to tell me that I wasn't allowed to write in cursive. It seems it caused a problem for the teacher because the other students saw me do it. Mother apparently wrote back that the teacher should not be showing my work to the other students and that I was to be allowed to carry on. Well, that letter must have amused my teacher, because I was on the playground during recess when my teacher and another teacher called me over and asked me in not kid friendly terms who my Mother thought she was. In the middle is not a comfortable place for a 6 year old to be. Mother ended up in the Principal's office, and according to her the principal, Mr. Johnson, started explaining that first grade children could not be allowed to write in cursive because, as told by Mother, "We use slim pencils when we teach children to write in cursive, Mrs. Jones, and at 6 years old the muscles in their little hands aren't strong enough to hold a slim pencil." The next thing my mother said was a question, "You don't have any idea which child is mine, do you Mr. Johnson?" He admitted as much and mother told him to call me to the office and that the conversation would not continue until I got there.
Now I knew my mother had planned to speak to the principal that day, and so when the call came to my teacher and she sent me to the principal with a smirk on her face I was a bit anxious by the time I was ushered through the swinging gate into the inner offices. I was escorted into the Principal's office by the school secretary, and my little mama came and stood shoulder to shoulder with me.I was about 1-2 inches taller than her. Then she said "Tell me again, Mr. Johnson, about the muscles in her little hands." Mother grabbed my 'little hand' and said we were leaving. She asked me where my class was, we marched down the hall, she went in the classroom, the teacher sputtering that she was disrupting the class. Mother told her not to worry, it wouldn't happen again. Mother cleaned out my desk, and we went home. I was transferred to a different school a couple of days and some phone calls to the school board later. My Mother may have had issues with her children, but she was always our staunchest supporter when it came to others having issues with us.I still miss my mother, especially when my son does something amazing. I will think, I should call my little mama. I learned a lot about advocating for my very special child from my mother advocating for me.
I also learned to say I love you to the people I love. It was something I never heard growing up.It was a different time. My parents didn't say it to each other or to us children. I think it would have made quite a difference if I had known how much they loved each other when I was young. I know how much of a difference it would have made if I had known if they loved me.I was blessed that both of my parents died at home in my arms. It may not have felt like a blessing at the time, but as I look back it was. I was able to say good bye to them, knowing that I had forgiven them, and hoping that they had forgiven me. But, no matter, I know that they were loved, and surrounded by love as they crossed over. I wish my husband had not died alone in a car on a freeway. But I know he knew he was loved, and I knew he loved me. We had the opportunity to say that to each other a couple of hours before he was killed by a young woman with almost twice the legal limit blood alcohol count.My husband and I told each other that we loved each other dozens of times a day. William would turn around, and roll his eyes when would 'make out' in the kitchen. But he knew his parents loved each other, and he knew he was loved, because we told him every day. I still do, I always will.
Wednesday, December 29, 2010
Some of my favorite stories of my father
Even though my father was very stern and reserved with me, I do still have some very good memories of him.
This one starts out hard, but ends up with a great line...
I had to pretty much run away from home to go to college. My father forbid me going, and I ended up living at home a couple of years until I turned 18 and could leave on my own.My mother understood it was something I had to do, and I think that is because she couldn't afford to go to college when she graduated from high school in 1930. So, I turn 18, and I am on my way to the bus station to head to college. The last thing I hear my father say to my mother is that "Nothing good will come of this, she'll go off and come back pregnant." He had such faith in me! So of I went to college, majored in theatre, ended up working in theatre and radio, won awards in both careers. My father saw me on stage one time, and heard me on the radio once. A few years later, when their health was failing, Papa had congestive heart failure, emphysema,and Alzheimer's. Hard to believe, this was a man who retired from a roofing company at 65, and went back to work at the roofing company at 67, and the young guys couldn't keep up with him. He fell off a roof when he was 73, around Halloween. He broke his hip and had surgery to implant screws and a rod the first of November. Doctors said he would take 8 months to a year to walk again. On January 1st, we were watching the news and there was a fire at the company where he had worked for 50 years. He said "They're going to need everyone and went back to work on January 2nd. He worked for several more years, until the Alzheimer's got bad enough that he couldn't work anymore.But I digress...when his health was getting worse and he and mother couldn't manage on their own anymore, I left my career in radio and back to California to take care of them. I did not know at that time that I was pregnant. After I had been there a couple of months it became obvious I should see a doctor, and I was shocked to learn that I was expecting. Remember what my father said when I left for college? Well here it was decades later,I was an award winning actress, designer,and broadcast news director, afraid to tell my father that I was pregnant because I was his old maid daughter. So, I call my little sister (two years younger than me) who was a married mother of two. My sister tells my mother, and my mother goes in to tell my father while I sit on the porch. It is late summer, and the windows are open and I can hear my mother telling my father what the doctor had said and the next thing I hear is my father's voice..."I told you if we let her go off to college this would happen, she came home pregnant."
Did you notice that I was his old maid daughter? This is one of my favorite stories. I was working at a theatre on my 25th birthday. We didn't have a phone back in the costume shop, so if there was a call someone would have to come get us. So it is the afternoon of my 25th birthday, here comes the office girl who says "You have a phone call, it's you're father." My father? My father never calls. He always has my mother call, even his favorite sister. He will talk on the phone but he never makes the call. Assuming the worst, that something is wrong with Mother I run to the office to answer. I pick up the phone and say hello. My father says hello, and I ask him if everything is OK. Is something wrong with mother? Here is the rest of the conversation...
"No, your mother is fine, I wanted to talk to you."
"Is everything OK?"
"Do you know what today is?"
"Yes, sir, it's my birthday."
"Do you know how old you are?"
"Yes, sir, I am 25."
"What did you do last night?"
"We had a show, I worked."
"What are you doing tonight?"
"We have a show Papa, I am working."
"Did you get married since the last time we talked to you?"
"No, sir, you know I didn't."
"Are you sure? Do you have plans to get married tonight?"
"Yes, sir.I am sure.No, sir, no plans to get married.""
"Do you know what it means when a girl turns 25 and she's not married?"
"No, sir, I don't."
"It means you are an old maid.If you turn 25 and you're not married you are an old maid. there has never been an old maid in my family.I'll be the first one to have an old maid daughter.Do you know what happens when you turn 35 and you're not married?"
[By this time I am laughing]
"No, sir, I don't know."
"If you turn 35 and you're not married,and it doesn't look like you're going to be,at 35 you become the little old lady who lives on the corner."
[I am really laughing now]
"Papa, I am 6'1" and weigh over 300 pounds, I hardly think I will be a LITTLE old lady."
"It doesn't matter, at 35 you become the little old lady who lives on the corner. I won't be able to hold my head in my family."
And then he hung up. I am not sure to this day whether he was serious, but once again I did not disappoint my father. I was 47 when I married. I wish he had still been alive to come!
Here's the last one I will share today. I only talked back to my father twice in my life. The first time was when I was 13, and it was the last time he whooped me with the leather strap. It had to do with me sassing my mom, and that was NOT allowed. The second time, I was 22. It was the night before my sister's wedding. For reasons that don't really matter anymore, my father had decided he was not going to the wedding. My sister was hurt. Some in the family thought he didn't want to get dressed up. He wore bib overalls every day of his life. I only saw him dressed up in slacks and jacket one time. But my sister didn't care if he came in his overalls, she just wanted him to come. One of our older brothers would be walking her down the aisle because of my father's stubborn stand.So, since we are all busy getting ready for the wedding, it is decided that we would go pick up some take-out food. I ask my father to go with me, and he does. While waiting I get my nerve up and I say to him "I am going to say this and you can whip me if you want, but you are going to that wedding." "No, I'm not," he answers. "Yes, old man," I say, "you are going to that wedding if I have to knock you out and take you there myself." Nothing more was said, the food came and we took it home. We all went to the wedding the next day, and left him at home. We got dressed, and the music started.As the maid of honor I start down the aisle just before my sister, and there in the last pew, sitting on the aisle, was an old man in bib overalls. I looked him in the eye and smiled. He did not smile back. My sister, who had not cried yet that day started crying when she saw him. So, later as I drove him and mother home from the reception,a reception where he had a great time and maybe got a little tipsy, he said to me "you were right, but don't you ever talk to me that way again." I never spoke back to him again.
The morning he died, his mind was amazingly clear. I had him up and bathed and dressed in his beloved overalls. he was playing with my son, who was about a year old. Papa told my son he loved him, then looked at me and said "He's going to grow up to be a fine young man, I wish I was going to be around to see it."
I treasure those words, and I miss my father, and I wish he were here to see that his words are true. My son is an amazing young man, and I tell him the stories of my father.
This one starts out hard, but ends up with a great line...
I had to pretty much run away from home to go to college. My father forbid me going, and I ended up living at home a couple of years until I turned 18 and could leave on my own.My mother understood it was something I had to do, and I think that is because she couldn't afford to go to college when she graduated from high school in 1930. So, I turn 18, and I am on my way to the bus station to head to college. The last thing I hear my father say to my mother is that "Nothing good will come of this, she'll go off and come back pregnant." He had such faith in me! So of I went to college, majored in theatre, ended up working in theatre and radio, won awards in both careers. My father saw me on stage one time, and heard me on the radio once. A few years later, when their health was failing, Papa had congestive heart failure, emphysema,and Alzheimer's. Hard to believe, this was a man who retired from a roofing company at 65, and went back to work at the roofing company at 67, and the young guys couldn't keep up with him. He fell off a roof when he was 73, around Halloween. He broke his hip and had surgery to implant screws and a rod the first of November. Doctors said he would take 8 months to a year to walk again. On January 1st, we were watching the news and there was a fire at the company where he had worked for 50 years. He said "They're going to need everyone and went back to work on January 2nd. He worked for several more years, until the Alzheimer's got bad enough that he couldn't work anymore.But I digress...when his health was getting worse and he and mother couldn't manage on their own anymore, I left my career in radio and back to California to take care of them. I did not know at that time that I was pregnant. After I had been there a couple of months it became obvious I should see a doctor, and I was shocked to learn that I was expecting. Remember what my father said when I left for college? Well here it was decades later,I was an award winning actress, designer,and broadcast news director, afraid to tell my father that I was pregnant because I was his old maid daughter. So, I call my little sister (two years younger than me) who was a married mother of two. My sister tells my mother, and my mother goes in to tell my father while I sit on the porch. It is late summer, and the windows are open and I can hear my mother telling my father what the doctor had said and the next thing I hear is my father's voice..."I told you if we let her go off to college this would happen, she came home pregnant."
Did you notice that I was his old maid daughter? This is one of my favorite stories. I was working at a theatre on my 25th birthday. We didn't have a phone back in the costume shop, so if there was a call someone would have to come get us. So it is the afternoon of my 25th birthday, here comes the office girl who says "You have a phone call, it's you're father." My father? My father never calls. He always has my mother call, even his favorite sister. He will talk on the phone but he never makes the call. Assuming the worst, that something is wrong with Mother I run to the office to answer. I pick up the phone and say hello. My father says hello, and I ask him if everything is OK. Is something wrong with mother? Here is the rest of the conversation...
"No, your mother is fine, I wanted to talk to you."
"Is everything OK?"
"Do you know what today is?"
"Yes, sir, it's my birthday."
"Do you know how old you are?"
"Yes, sir, I am 25."
"What did you do last night?"
"We had a show, I worked."
"What are you doing tonight?"
"We have a show Papa, I am working."
"Did you get married since the last time we talked to you?"
"No, sir, you know I didn't."
"Are you sure? Do you have plans to get married tonight?"
"Yes, sir.I am sure.No, sir, no plans to get married.""
"Do you know what it means when a girl turns 25 and she's not married?"
"No, sir, I don't."
"It means you are an old maid.If you turn 25 and you're not married you are an old maid. there has never been an old maid in my family.I'll be the first one to have an old maid daughter.Do you know what happens when you turn 35 and you're not married?"
[By this time I am laughing]
"No, sir, I don't know."
"If you turn 35 and you're not married,and it doesn't look like you're going to be,at 35 you become the little old lady who lives on the corner."
[I am really laughing now]
"Papa, I am 6'1" and weigh over 300 pounds, I hardly think I will be a LITTLE old lady."
"It doesn't matter, at 35 you become the little old lady who lives on the corner. I won't be able to hold my head in my family."
And then he hung up. I am not sure to this day whether he was serious, but once again I did not disappoint my father. I was 47 when I married. I wish he had still been alive to come!
Here's the last one I will share today. I only talked back to my father twice in my life. The first time was when I was 13, and it was the last time he whooped me with the leather strap. It had to do with me sassing my mom, and that was NOT allowed. The second time, I was 22. It was the night before my sister's wedding. For reasons that don't really matter anymore, my father had decided he was not going to the wedding. My sister was hurt. Some in the family thought he didn't want to get dressed up. He wore bib overalls every day of his life. I only saw him dressed up in slacks and jacket one time. But my sister didn't care if he came in his overalls, she just wanted him to come. One of our older brothers would be walking her down the aisle because of my father's stubborn stand.So, since we are all busy getting ready for the wedding, it is decided that we would go pick up some take-out food. I ask my father to go with me, and he does. While waiting I get my nerve up and I say to him "I am going to say this and you can whip me if you want, but you are going to that wedding." "No, I'm not," he answers. "Yes, old man," I say, "you are going to that wedding if I have to knock you out and take you there myself." Nothing more was said, the food came and we took it home. We all went to the wedding the next day, and left him at home. We got dressed, and the music started.As the maid of honor I start down the aisle just before my sister, and there in the last pew, sitting on the aisle, was an old man in bib overalls. I looked him in the eye and smiled. He did not smile back. My sister, who had not cried yet that day started crying when she saw him. So, later as I drove him and mother home from the reception,a reception where he had a great time and maybe got a little tipsy, he said to me "you were right, but don't you ever talk to me that way again." I never spoke back to him again.
The morning he died, his mind was amazingly clear. I had him up and bathed and dressed in his beloved overalls. he was playing with my son, who was about a year old. Papa told my son he loved him, then looked at me and said "He's going to grow up to be a fine young man, I wish I was going to be around to see it."
I treasure those words, and I miss my father, and I wish he were here to see that his words are true. My son is an amazing young man, and I tell him the stories of my father.
More Remembering
My father has been on my mind lately. Maybe it's because of the holidays, or that December is his birthday month. Whatever the reason I have been remembering him. If he were alive he would have turned 107 years old a couple of weeks ago. He was a simple man, born in a different time. He did the best he knew how to do when he was raising us. Many things he did were wrong, but he thought he was doing the right thing, doing the best he could, and so as I matured it was easy to forgive him.
Forgiveness is a gift we give ourselves. When we forgive someone we give up that need to have someone acknowledge that we were right and they were wrong. But, as you grow and mature you come to that place where you know that you do not need that acknowledgement because being right is good enough. So you let go of the need, and the power it held over you, and you are liberated.
I forgave my parents, and then when they grew older, I took great care of them. I loved my father.He was a good man and many people admired and cared about him. He would say he was a simple farmboy from Missouri, but he was more than that.He had been a muleskinner before he joined the army. Here in Kansas City he would shoe horses and mules, and he kept that occupation in the army. He had a long ugly scar on his shin that he got when a mule that he was putting ice shoes on kicked him. The ice shoes were for working the mules on the frozen Missouri river. He had left school after 8th grade to help support his family. He was the oldest of 8 children, and he took his role as oldest seriously. When my grandfather became ill my father helped take care of them by going to work.He had an amazing, strong work ethic. When work became hard to find in the 1920's he joined the army.
Towards the end of his stint in the army he was based in Southern California. A few months before his discharge he met my mother. He always told the story of how they met and why they married. My mother was a waitress in a diner that was owned by a married couple. My father was a bit of a rogue, a rake in those days and had been seeing the married woman. Then he met my mother and asked her out and she said no. So, he stopped seeing the married woman and asked my m other out again. She went out with him, to the car races on a Sunday afternoon. The next day, when her married boss found out that she had gone out with my father, my mother was fired.My father always said he married her because he had made her lose her job.
That was part of the story. When my grandfather found out why my mother lost her job, she was locked in her room. Locked in her room, at 20 years old because she had gone out with a 28 year old man who had been fooling around with a married woman. While she was locked in her room, my father wrote her beautiful love letters, smuggled in to her by her old maid aunt who helped raise her after her mother died. Eventually, my grandfather relented,and my mother and father married. Of course, we never knew about the love or the love letters growing up.I wish we had known about that side of him. We found those after we lost our parents. My father passed first, a month before their 54th wedding anniversary. I was blessed that he passed in my arms at home. He would have hated being in a nursing home. At home I could help him go outside and to his workshop.
My mother passed 18 months later, also at home in my arms. We say she passed from a broken heart. She saw no reason to remain on the earth without my father.Her children were grown, and she needed him. It took her 18 months, because I was doing my best to take good care of her. But, she sat on her couch and grieved herself to death, where I am sure she was met by my father.
At first I was angry with her. I was taking really good care of her. How dare she will herself to die. But, I have forgiven her, and asked her forgiveness. As a recent widow, I get it. I get how you can be so in love, and loved so deeply that you want to be with him, even if that means you have to be with him on the other side.
I hope that my husband has met my father on the other side. I always thought that my father would have been great friends with my husband. I believe that I shall see them all again some day. But as much as I miss my husband, and I now know what a broken heart truly feels like, I have work to do here. I didn't get 54 years, I only got 11. But, my son still needs me, and so I will take good care of myself as I take care of him.
I will honor them by telling their stories, our stories. I will honor them by making sure that my son saw how much his parents loved each other, and that he knew he was loved.I will honor them and forgive myself and them by remembering. My faith keeps me strong, and yet I feel so weak. Grief is the hardest thing I have ever done.
Please, if you know someone who is grieving, let them honor their loved ones by telling the stories. I believe you will be blessed.
Forgiveness is a gift we give ourselves. When we forgive someone we give up that need to have someone acknowledge that we were right and they were wrong. But, as you grow and mature you come to that place where you know that you do not need that acknowledgement because being right is good enough. So you let go of the need, and the power it held over you, and you are liberated.
I forgave my parents, and then when they grew older, I took great care of them. I loved my father.He was a good man and many people admired and cared about him. He would say he was a simple farmboy from Missouri, but he was more than that.He had been a muleskinner before he joined the army. Here in Kansas City he would shoe horses and mules, and he kept that occupation in the army. He had a long ugly scar on his shin that he got when a mule that he was putting ice shoes on kicked him. The ice shoes were for working the mules on the frozen Missouri river. He had left school after 8th grade to help support his family. He was the oldest of 8 children, and he took his role as oldest seriously. When my grandfather became ill my father helped take care of them by going to work.He had an amazing, strong work ethic. When work became hard to find in the 1920's he joined the army.
Towards the end of his stint in the army he was based in Southern California. A few months before his discharge he met my mother. He always told the story of how they met and why they married. My mother was a waitress in a diner that was owned by a married couple. My father was a bit of a rogue, a rake in those days and had been seeing the married woman. Then he met my mother and asked her out and she said no. So, he stopped seeing the married woman and asked my m other out again. She went out with him, to the car races on a Sunday afternoon. The next day, when her married boss found out that she had gone out with my father, my mother was fired.My father always said he married her because he had made her lose her job.
That was part of the story. When my grandfather found out why my mother lost her job, she was locked in her room. Locked in her room, at 20 years old because she had gone out with a 28 year old man who had been fooling around with a married woman. While she was locked in her room, my father wrote her beautiful love letters, smuggled in to her by her old maid aunt who helped raise her after her mother died. Eventually, my grandfather relented,and my mother and father married. Of course, we never knew about the love or the love letters growing up.I wish we had known about that side of him. We found those after we lost our parents. My father passed first, a month before their 54th wedding anniversary. I was blessed that he passed in my arms at home. He would have hated being in a nursing home. At home I could help him go outside and to his workshop.
My mother passed 18 months later, also at home in my arms. We say she passed from a broken heart. She saw no reason to remain on the earth without my father.Her children were grown, and she needed him. It took her 18 months, because I was doing my best to take good care of her. But, she sat on her couch and grieved herself to death, where I am sure she was met by my father.
At first I was angry with her. I was taking really good care of her. How dare she will herself to die. But, I have forgiven her, and asked her forgiveness. As a recent widow, I get it. I get how you can be so in love, and loved so deeply that you want to be with him, even if that means you have to be with him on the other side.
I hope that my husband has met my father on the other side. I always thought that my father would have been great friends with my husband. I believe that I shall see them all again some day. But as much as I miss my husband, and I now know what a broken heart truly feels like, I have work to do here. I didn't get 54 years, I only got 11. But, my son still needs me, and so I will take good care of myself as I take care of him.
I will honor them by telling their stories, our stories. I will honor them by making sure that my son saw how much his parents loved each other, and that he knew he was loved.I will honor them and forgive myself and them by remembering. My faith keeps me strong, and yet I feel so weak. Grief is the hardest thing I have ever done.
Please, if you know someone who is grieving, let them honor their loved ones by telling the stories. I believe you will be blessed.
Friday, December 24, 2010
Traditions
Today is Christmas Eve. In our family that means that my son is in charge of the kitchen. Not a bad tradition! I can hear the dishwasher going as I type. We came up with this tradition because I was a working mother- well we all are, but I went back to work full time outside the home when my son started middle school.We were attempting to establish new traditions for our new family. The first couple of years, I would get home from work on Xmas Eve, tired, but I would fix dinner and attempt to go to the movies with my husband and my son. We had the beginnings of a lovely tradition, but as most traditions do, it needed some tweaking to become just right for us.
I worked in a huge grocery store. I would finish the midnight shift on the 23rd, and then go back in and work the day shift on the 24th. By the time we closed the store at 6:00 pm, took care of all the customers, and allowed the teammates a few minutes to grab that last item, it was often close to7:00 by the time I got to my car.I would drive home, tired. So, the next year we decided that we would just have pizza for dinner, and if I called home just before I headed to the car, it could go in the oven. We also decided that Xmas day was a good time for a movie if I wanted to stay awake. My son had begun the habit of baking cookies while I was at work, and so that grew to include the pizza, and then to include his being in charge of the kitchen. He would wait for me to call, and by the time I got home, changed my clothes, and sat down in my recliner to put my feet up dinner would be ready and he would serve Mom and Dad. Then he would finish his cookie baking, while Mom and Dad wrapped presents in their room. It became a lovely way to spend the evening.About the time the gifts were wrapped, the cookies were done, and the three of us would have time together enjoying warm cookies and cold milk. The dishwasher would run again as the plate for Santa was prepared, and then our family would be snuggled in our beds.
We are, once again, in the process of allowing our traditions to evolve to fit our circumstances. This year it is just the two of us once again. This year Mom is again an at home Mom. Because of my health, I am no longer able to stand on my feet and check out hundreds of customers a day, in fact I am no longer able to work outside the home. Because of financial problems this year, there won't be any gift wrapping. But, we will be able to share our kitchen traditions. Today, my son is in charge of the kitchen, and our house is filled with the wonderful aromas of years gone by mixed with a new aroma. My cookie baker makes 2 different recipes every year. He makes the original recipe that he brought home from school all those years ago, and then he bakes a new recipe-either a recipe he has created, or one that caught his eye in a magazine or on the back of the packaging from one of his ingredients. This year the new recipe involves cinnamon chips, and we are eagerly looking forward to trying them.
I hope that you and those you care about have traditions.Traditions are an important way to bridge the gap between generations, to enlarge your tent and bring new people into the circle of your hearts.Traditions are an important way to share memories, to make memories, and to anticipate new memories the next time you act upon the tradition.Tradition is a way that our families, our friends,our communities can stay connected one to another.Tradition can be the way that we remember what it is to love and to be loved. In our house, a boy who was born blessed by autism did not have the ability to tell us with words that he loved us, so he learned to bake cookies.
Peace and Blessings,
EstherBelle
I worked in a huge grocery store. I would finish the midnight shift on the 23rd, and then go back in and work the day shift on the 24th. By the time we closed the store at 6:00 pm, took care of all the customers, and allowed the teammates a few minutes to grab that last item, it was often close to7:00 by the time I got to my car.I would drive home, tired. So, the next year we decided that we would just have pizza for dinner, and if I called home just before I headed to the car, it could go in the oven. We also decided that Xmas day was a good time for a movie if I wanted to stay awake. My son had begun the habit of baking cookies while I was at work, and so that grew to include the pizza, and then to include his being in charge of the kitchen. He would wait for me to call, and by the time I got home, changed my clothes, and sat down in my recliner to put my feet up dinner would be ready and he would serve Mom and Dad. Then he would finish his cookie baking, while Mom and Dad wrapped presents in their room. It became a lovely way to spend the evening.About the time the gifts were wrapped, the cookies were done, and the three of us would have time together enjoying warm cookies and cold milk. The dishwasher would run again as the plate for Santa was prepared, and then our family would be snuggled in our beds.
We are, once again, in the process of allowing our traditions to evolve to fit our circumstances. This year it is just the two of us once again. This year Mom is again an at home Mom. Because of my health, I am no longer able to stand on my feet and check out hundreds of customers a day, in fact I am no longer able to work outside the home. Because of financial problems this year, there won't be any gift wrapping. But, we will be able to share our kitchen traditions. Today, my son is in charge of the kitchen, and our house is filled with the wonderful aromas of years gone by mixed with a new aroma. My cookie baker makes 2 different recipes every year. He makes the original recipe that he brought home from school all those years ago, and then he bakes a new recipe-either a recipe he has created, or one that caught his eye in a magazine or on the back of the packaging from one of his ingredients. This year the new recipe involves cinnamon chips, and we are eagerly looking forward to trying them.
I hope that you and those you care about have traditions.Traditions are an important way to bridge the gap between generations, to enlarge your tent and bring new people into the circle of your hearts.Traditions are an important way to share memories, to make memories, and to anticipate new memories the next time you act upon the tradition.Tradition is a way that our families, our friends,our communities can stay connected one to another.Tradition can be the way that we remember what it is to love and to be loved. In our house, a boy who was born blessed by autism did not have the ability to tell us with words that he loved us, so he learned to bake cookies.
Peace and Blessings,
EstherBelle
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