Connections

Recently I attended a funeral for my last remaining uncle, a trip entailing a 36-hour round trip flight to Cincinnati, a trip I almost did not take because I really did not "know" any of the other relatives. Uncle Rob spent most of his life traveling the world, then settled in California in the 60s; he never married or had children, and he and my dad (his brother) were too much alike to tolerate each other's company for too long--they only recently reconciled about two years before my dad died. Me? Over the years Rob and I kept in touch through letters, emails, phone calls, and random trips to visit each other; more recently, he had been a huge source of comfort to me during my dad's and stepmom's illnesses and deaths. Sadly, we had not connected since April, and recent emails and phone calls to him went unanswered. Right  before Thanksgiving, he called me but hung up after one ring; I called him back. He sounded horrible, and he said "Barbara, I think this is it;" we talked briefly, and that was it--I meant to call him back later that month, but you know, I would get busy, or it would be too early or too late, and then the first week of December came and went, and finally, when I did call, that horrible sterile recording, "I'm sorry, your call cannot be completed as dialed, that number is no longer in service." A quick search on the internet confirmed my fear: Robert W. Koenig, age 94, Sonoma California, October 18, 1927-December 6, 2021. Sleuthed a bit more, and noticed there were going to be two funerals: one in California, and one Cincinnati; I called the Ohio funeral home and asked to have whoever was handling his arrangements to call me. While I was waiting, I sent a couple of messages to two relatives I found on FaceBook (by looking up their names from an old family tree Rob had given me).

A few hours afterward, I got a call from Cincinnati--it was Suzanne, a cousin I had never met, the woman who was handling the service. Rob had talked often about a Suzanne, a Jerry (her husband) and a Kathy, as well as many others, people with whom he enjoyed close connections, a link back to Cincinnati. Most of them were the grown children of his cousins (my aunts and uncles, who had long passed.) Suzanne shared with me how sick Rob had been that month or so before he died, and that she spoke to him frequently during those weeks; listening to her put to rest that nagging twinge of guilt I felt for not rushing out to see Rob after that awful phone call before Thanksgiving. Anyway, after chatting for a bit and getting past the basic social niceties, I had all the details for the funeral and the burial, and promised to get back to her to let her know either way if I was coming. Mind you, I was not even sure I wanted to go to the funeral. I had never met anyone who would be there, I would have to go by myself, it was a long way to go, airlines were having all kinds of issues with delays and cancellations and COVID quarantines, it was the post Christmas rush...I had a million excuses. In my heart, though, was this persistent ache, a sense of loss, and an overwhelming feeling of grief of reliving the death of my parents, especially my dad, who, by the way, also died at age 94, on December 6, three years earlier. So I booked my flight, hotel, and rental car for a quick 36-hour round trip. 

And oh how glad I am that I went! The funeral was beautiful, meaningful, and cathartic. Driving through the neighborhood where ghosts of my grandparents and parents and aunts and uncles seemed so tangible, and seeing the church and school I attended as a little girl, familiar street signs and landmarks, and I knew I had made the right decision. As soon as I walked into the church, Suzanne came up to me, said "you must be Barbara!," hugged me, and then introduced me to everyone else. Meeting a whole new branch of the family tree, making connections with cousins and their children, I shared in their grief and loss of someone we all knew and loved. These people I had never met went out of their way to make me feel welcome, including me in the celebration of Rob's life, even asking me to help place the pall on his coffin. Then, riding in the funeral procession to the familiar cemetery I visited every Sunday as a little girl, a flood of emotions and memories came rushing back, and I felt more connected to that spot, that area, than anywhere else. I felt I was home, that somehow, if I drove down the block to my old street, I just might catch a glimpse of Nana, or hear the kids playing Red Rover in the street, waiting for the Mister Softee truck. Powerful connections, connections I thought no longer existed were now restored. Finally, seeing my parents' gravesite, the stone that Rob and my daughter and I designed now in place, I knew I had made the right decision. 

Most of the relatives had to leave, but Suzanne and Jerry took me to lunch at a brand new restaurant in the incline district, an up and coming trendy area with a playhouse, condos, and hangouts where beautiful old buildings used to be. We shared so many memories, good and bad, and talked for so long the waitress gave up on taking our order. After lunch, they then invited me back to their house for coffee and snacks, where we talked and shared stories, making those connections. Familiar names--Joann, Celsie, Bernice, Frank, Theresa, Ginny and Ed--names I had not really spoken in ages, all of them connected to our lives. Memories of late night poker games held on weekends, rotating among each of their houses. Clarifying who was married, who had children, where everyone was living, grandkids, even pets. But mostly sharing each others' memories of the man whose life we gathered to celebrate, each of us with different, yet similar, connections. Making new connections with each other. I had been worried my memories of Rob would fade away because everyone who I knew, and who knew him, was gone; I was wrong. At the ripe old age of 66, I can still establish new connections, new roots, and form new relationships, keeping the past and those precious memories alive.

As I age and lose more loved ones, these tendrils connecting me to the important people of my life, connecting me to this fragile life here on earth, become frayed or stretched or even broken, and I’m sometimes left with a sense of loss and pain. That relationship is no longer there, and I can feel the part of me that is connected to that person leaving, like air leaking out of a hole in a balloon. I try to hold on to it, to hold that part of me close, the part of me defined by that person I just lost, but it's no use. But just when I think it is lost forever, serendipitously, God shows me new connections to replace those I thought I lost, making my life fuller and richer, and strengthening those connections to the past through our shared, but different, recollections. 

I see more trips to Cincinnati in my future 

The Chasm in Between

Alex and I have a strong desire to help others, especially those who cannot (or maybe will not) help themselves. Whatever the genesis, I can tell you what it is not. It is not a cry for attention, or an urge to look good. It is NOT virtue signaling, or pity, or feeling better than someone else. And we are not trying to singlehandedly save the universe, nor are we naive enough to believe that everyone we try to help will respond positively. The path to helping other human beings is fraught with all kinds of  danger, a veritable minefield of the worst characteristics of human nature: greed, selfishness, pride, envy, shame, and guilt, to name just a few. So missteps are not uncommon and more often than not the proffered help is not even appreciated, let alone accepted.

Through the years we have helped (or attempted to, anyway) our children, our coworkers, our friends, and our parents, our neighbors, and complete strangers. Over the past five or six years, the desire to help seemed to grow more urgent. We are  retired, our children are grown, and we have everything we need; naturally as Christians we want to share what we have and what we have learned with others. Retirement is not the death knell for life as we know it, and we offer our help aligned with God's law. When someone comes into our lives or our path and we "feel" God has placed that person there for a reason, we reflect on that and pray and discuss it with each other before making a big commitment; we have found if we just rashly jump into it without prayerful reflection and talking to each other, the end result has been less than ideal.  

But how do you help someone who doesn’t want the help? How do you help someone who doesn’t know he needs help? Or, how do you help someone who wants the help, knows he needs it, but doesn’t know how to ask or receive it or find it? That seems to be the sticking point for me, anyway, right now...maybe Alex is doing okay, but my heart hurts. And I am confused! Why does God put these people in our lives, ask us to help them, only to allow them to reject our help? Let's face it, it gets very disheartening when your help is not wanted or when your motives are misconstrued. (And I am not just referring to the fiasco with my mom 5 years ago, either.) We may have loads of life experience and education, and yes we have God on our side, but trying to figure out what to say and when to say it and when to shut up and when to press on and when to let go is a Herculean task! The tendency (actually if I am honest with myself, the very strong urge) to push my help, to control the situation, to steer the end result toward my desired conclusion, where everyone lives happily ever after and there is no more pain and suffering, that tendency is overwhelming. 

I really feel as if there is a huge, bottomless chasm between me and the person(s) I am trying to help, and I don't know how to reach them, to make them see how much they matter to me and to God, and to open their eyes to the ugliness of their sin without making them feel any worse. To reach out and take the wonderful bridge that is God's grace. I just do not have the words, and I am at a loss to help them. I guess I will have to let the Holy Spirit take this one.

On Destiny

Why does one person accept a proffered helping hand while yet another person rejects it completely? How does one person escape from an inevitable future of poverty, abuse and addiction, yet another breaks free of the cycle? Is it chance? Fate? Something I did? Something I did not do? Two young people, from the same community, same backgrounds, similar histories of abuse, neglect, and abject hopelessness, recently came into our lives, put in our path by God's divine plan. One is a young man we've known for a few months, who's sporadically helped us as a handyman and laborer, who Alex took under his wing to mentor and guide and perhaps to break the cycle of bad choices; the other is a young unmarried mom introduced to us by friends up the road when she became homeless and had no place else to turn. Both of them experienced a childhood no child should ever even know about, let alone live. Both had at least one person who cared about them, who reached out to them, but, for one reason or another, who also deserted them and gave up. Both of them were failed by an inadequate system, lost in a social services network overburdened by hundreds of lost children just like them. Both of them bounced from house to house, even ending up living in the woods or by the river because they either had no place else to go, or because the alternative was to live in homes so toxic it would destroy them. 

The young man has tried to change, but keeps getting sucked back into the only world he has ever known, believing the lies that he is hopeless, that he will never change, and that he can fix himself. He says his kids are his everything, but puts himself first. And now, after weeks of us trying to help him--going to parole meetings, posting bond, and countless talks and meals and prayer--he has vanished back into the woods, back to his comfort zone, possibly back to drugs. The young woman got a job thanks to her cousin, and has kept that job for over a month; she is currently looking for her own place. I am amazed at what a caring, loving and consistent mom she is, especially since she had no positive role model growing up. 

I can't help but compare this scenario to my own life, and, more broadly, to mankind. We are all so desperately lost, following the ways of the world and listening to the whispers of Satan since Adam and Eve capitulated to the serpent in the Garden. We make the same mistakes over and over again, and think we can fix it, that we know better, that we have all the answers. And God is always there, reaching out for us, offering His help and wisdom through His word, and many of us stubbornly refuse His help, and reject the precious gift of His Son. 

Is one person stronger or more resilient than the other? I just don't know. What I do know is that without grace I would still be lost, heading towards ruin and an eternity of suffering. Like the song, I once was lost, but now am found, was blind but now I see. By grace. God's amazing grace. 

On Afghanistan

I have been trying really, really hard to not get sucked into the secular drama that is out in the world on FaceBook, news reports, and other social media chatter; my focus needs to be on God and the image of Christ that I portray to the world, and most of the arguments and issues being debated (that is a really kind word for the vitriol I see and hear on a daily basis) are issues  that are never going to be resolved to everyone’s satisfaction--this is nothing new.The reason I try to NOT get embroiled in these debates and echo chambers is simple: they do not personally and directly affect me and my quality of life, and more importantly, they have no bearing on my salvation, so I normally stay out of the fray and refuse to enlist in the tribal mentality so prevalent in today’s society. 

But, something recently truly struck a nerve, causing me sleepless nights, not a few tears, and a sense of helplessness: the bungled withdrawal of the troops from Afghanistan, and the deafening silence that ensued when military and political leaders were questioned. No real news coverage, no investigation, no Congressional inquiry, and no publicized outcry demanding accountability—other than some videos and posts on social media channels, and those were quickly relegated to a trash basket of “disgruntled military and veterans.” Had this happened on President Trump’s watch, mainstream media, his political opponents, FaceBook, Twitter, and other social media giants would be screaming for accountability, probably even demanding impeachment of the President and resignation of senior military leaders. Not now, no—instead all channels are flooded with the Gabby Petito and Brian Laundrie saga for the past 30 days. Sure, it’s sad, but she is one of over 600,000 Americans who go missing every year; the timing of focusing nearly all news on that one story brings me pause. She went missing on August 24, and was officially reported missing by her family on August 28, the weekend all hell broke loose at the Kabul airport. Stealing a line from one of the Star Wars movies (don't ask me which one), this is a classic example of "These are not the droids you seek.” Swiftly silenced, swept under the rug, all focus shifted to a missing 22 year old and an uproar over Haitian immigrants being chased by the border patrol on horses. 

Silenced until a 17-year veteran and battalion commander, Marine Lt Col Stuart Scheller, posted a video demanding accountability from senior Marine leaders after 13 service members, 11 of them Marines, one of which Scheller knew personally, were killed in a suicide bombing outside the airport they were trying to protect. Admittedly, making the video in uniform was sure to cause an uproar in the tight-assed Marine community, and many veterans and current servicemen criticize him for that, but something tells me he knew his video and statements would carry more weight and credibility if he wore his uniform.  The video went viral, and within hours he was relieved of his command, and as of today, sits in the brig at Camp Lejeune pending an Article 32 hearing (an Article 32 hearing determines if the offense(s) warrant trial by court-martial). Lt Col Scheller has since posted two more videos in which he resigns his commission and implores senior leaders to take accountability, a sentiment echoed by the majority of military, both currently serving and veterans. 

Accountability??? For senior officers, for those in power, for military officers and senior enlisted, or any military member with connections, yeah what a joke. In the 32 years I served my country—22 years on active duty, and 10 years as a contractor—accountability was anything but fair and equitable. Wing commanders who used their position and power to have affairs with wives of their subordinates, and, when discovered, were allowed to retire as if nothing had happened. My own single airman being denied reenlistment for having an affair with a married officer, while that officer was given a slap on the wrist and allowed to continue on with his career as if nothing happened. Rampant sexual abuse from senior enlisted members and officers, lying and cheating and stealing: in short, any crime or immoral behavior you see in the civilian sector, I saw in the military. But true accountability? None. Scapegoats? Plenty of them. So upon hearing Scheller demand accountability from his chain of command, and the echoes of other service members demanding accountability from their chain of command, all the way up to the commander in chief, I sighed. I applaud him, but at the same time, I seriously doubt it will ever happen.  

 
Back to the Afghanistan debacle: how does the largest organization supporting veterans, the Veteran’s Administration, respond to this debacle? By quickly posting videos on their website, activating a crisis line for Afghanistan veterans (with the ubiquitous tag line “you are not alone,”) publishing blogs, and sending an email to every single veteran on the VA rolls. Funny that no videos or blogs or personal emails from the director were sent in the previous 20 years, but all of the sudden, now we are flooded with help and advice and resources to “help” us deal with the anger and confusion and disillusionment over the fallout of a botched withdrawal from a country we all had something to do with helping since 2001. And to that, I cry BULLSHIT! The emails, blogs, crisis lines, “thank you for your service” comments from politicians and senior officials in the military are vain attempts to atone for the worst military withdrawal in history, virtue signaling at its finest. And, the continued insistence from the commander in chief and his senior level military advisors and joint chiefs that “we stand by our decision” is a slap in the face of all who served. 

Am I saying I believe we should have stayed in Afghanistan indefinitely? No, and I’m not alone in saying we had already been there far longer than we should have been. But, to abruptly abandon the country in the infancy of learning how to protect and govern themselves, to pull the only safety net they had for two decades out from under them, was dishonorable and foolhardy, to put it mildly. The Afghan security forces and fledgling government were not even close to being ready to take back the reins of their country, a country with a multiethnic society, comprised of at least fifteen different tribes dating back thousands of years; the only uniting thread among these warring tribes being their religion: Islam. Outsiders (Alexander the Great, Iran, India, Russia, and the United States, to name a few) have tried unsuccessfully for centuries to "tame" Afghanis, a people for all intents and purposes living in the 15th century, endorsing honor killings, amputation of limbs or execution as punishment for crimes. We stormed in there, guns blazing, ostensibly to avenge the atrocities of 9/11, and 20 years later, after a great loss of life and billions of dollars, realized the futility of “converting” Afghanistan to our way of life. Withdrawal was inevitable, as it was in Vietnam; it was just a matter of determining when we could beat feet, tuck our tails, and run. 

So, how do I feel about the events  in Afghanistan? I am angry, hurt, sad, and ashamed to be an American right now—I think of the maimed soldiers, I can see the boxes marked “human remains” on my flights from Bagram to Kandahar to Kabul to Qatar. Mostly, though, what makes me lose sleep, what makes me truly ashamed of my country, is the abandonment and downright betrayal of those Afghanis who worked alongside us, who risked their lives and the lives of their families to be our interpreters and cultural liaisons in a country we did not understand. I remember the three teenage boys, barefoot and wearing bits and pieces of ill-fitting uniforms, rifles slung over their shoulders, letting me into the compound at night and graciously offering me a cup of chai. I see the women and girls allowed to go to school for the first time in their lives, and selling their beautiful handmade linens and wares at the weekly market. I see the children clamoring for food, for money, for pencils, for shoes, for whatever we “rich Americans” could spare.  I see a country so poor and so beautiful but entrenched in the past. Photos of Afghan civilians trying to stop huge aircraft while taxiing, some of them even desperate enough to try to hitch a ride on the plane’s landing gear (and inevitably falling to their deaths), whole families shoving their papers and passports at beleaguered American soldiers, trying to attain safe passage out of a country that was falling apart. And all I can ask is, “why?”  Was it worth it? Did those service men and women die or return home crippled mentally and physically in vain? How do we make sense of it all for them? 

We don’t. Only God can see the future, and how it will play out. But I am still angry.

Many of my friends and family have asked me “What do you think of the Afghanistan withdrawal?” and “How does it make you feel?” 

Well, now you know. 

Vent over.

On Prayer

Prayer--that honor and privilege of having a two-way communication with our Creator, a means in which man can not only talk to God, but also listen. Prayer is the means by which His supernatural grace flows to us--powerful grace, saving grace. Prayer is how we acknowledge and adore God, confess our sins, thank Him for everything, and ask for what we need. In short, prayer is talking to and listening to our heavenly Father. Thousands of books have been written about prayer--how to pray, when to pray, why to pray. There are prescribed prayers for every situation, every career field (the lawyer's prayer, the teacher's prayer). There is the serenity prayer. Prayer altars. Prayer cloths and blankets. Beads. Crystals. Mantras. There is no shortage of guidance and instructions and accouterments for prayer. All faiths have some sort of prayer built into their rituals and traditions. 

Christians are great at talking about prayer, but let's face it: few people, me included, have a robust prayer life. Sure, I pray before meals, say quick prayers of intercession, and offer to pray for people who are concerned about some trouble in their lives. Sadly, though, my prayer life is seriously wanting; more often than not, when confronted with a problem, pain, illness, frustration, or a challenge, I still yearn to be in control, to fix it myself, to seek out the answers. Recently I suffered a horrible tooth abscess, and was in excruciating pain. My first reaction? Google it, complain about it, take pills, call the ER; only AFTER all those things did I realize, or even think about, praying about it. 

Then there is the matter of intercessory prayer--friends and families confide some worry or concern to me, I tell them "I'll pray for you," but really, do I? Or is it just some automatic, knee jerk response, something I am expected (as a Christian) to say? And if I do pray for that person, how sincere am I? Do I really talk to God about it as I would talk to my earthly father or mentors or pastor about it? Oh, and yeah, do I actually listen? Or do I just rattle off some "please help (insert name) with (insert problem)," and then move on the next item on the list?

Seriously, by this point in my life I should be more practiced in this area; I mean, I have been a self-professed Christian for over 50 years, and since prayer is integral to the life of a believing Christian, one would assume I would be better at it than I am, that with any challenge, my first reaction would be to fall to my knees and pray.  

Maybe my prayers need to start with "Help me, teach me, to pray." 

The older I get, the farther along I am on this journey of sanctification, growing in grace, the more I realize (painfully) how I do not deserve His grace.  

On antisocial media

I just spent the last hour doing two things: reading and responding to social media posts, and playing Farm Heroes Saga, and the most productive (and least depressing) activity was hands down the second one. Here it is, Saturday morning in the mountains, a gorgeous late August day, sun shining, after a good night's sleep in our beautiful home, and my eyes are brimming with tears out of sadness, frustration, and a sense of hopelessness all because of what I have ingested online. And I am ashamed--ashamed because I let it get to me, ashamed that I have not even prayed let alone open my Bible, ashamed at the excuses I make to rationalize every moment I spend scrolling through posts and comments and memes and photos. "I like to keep up with what's going on in my friends' lives," "I only use FaceBook for seeing and sharing photos of my grandkids," "I need the platform to promote the charity I endorse and volunteer for," "How else can I find out what is happening in my community and how I can help?," and "I only follow people, groups and blogs that are not antithetical to my beliefs and values."  For the past three years I have fooled myself into believing I can use social media for good; that I can control my tongue, sit on my hands, and refrain from snarky comments; and that in no way will any social media platform affect my mood or impact the state of my soul. Yet here I am, blogging about just that.

Sure, I have tried to minimize my exposure to negativity by unfollowing people who post inflammatory memes and comments, by ignoring the algorithm-generated newsfeed and pages, by blocking the trolls who have nothing better to do than stir the pot, and by leaving those groups bent on divisiveness. And when I do open up my computer and click on that FaceBook bookmark, I tell myself I am only checking the status of an item I posted for sale, or a request for volunteers for St Baldrick's. Who am I kidding? Not myself, and least of all God. Five, ten, thirty, ninety minutes later, I find myself no wiser, and, worst of all, I realize I have not even remotely represented Christ, shared my faith, or spread the Good News. Every post I submit, every comment I make, every photo I share, deep down I am looking for approval, and weighing my sense of worth on how many positive emojis I garner. When I think I am posting or sharing something out of love for others, when I really peel it back, I am looking for affirmation.  I intentionally seek out groups and "friends" who think the same way I do, and who will give me that sought-after thumbs up, or better yet, a heart. In person I almost NEVER share my thoughts on a subject or my opinion with strangers; in fact, I am quite introverted around people I do not know, only offering basic social courtesies--a handshake, a hello, a smile. I shrink from engaging in debates and conversations in groups unless I know each and every person, and even then, I tend to keep my thoughts to myself (even if I do roll my eyes) 🙄. But, put me behind a screen and the veil is off, safe behind the anonymity of a keyboard.

If something I wear makes me itch, or is uncomfortable, I don't wear it--I either toss it or donate it. When I am driving down the road and a song comes on that I hate, I change the station or turn off the radio. If it is too hot, I turn on the a/c; too cold, I put on a sweater or turn up the heat. When confronted with something I know is evil and wrong and against God's law, I avoid it. But I have allowed the poison of anti-social media to seep into my heart and into my soul, and it is robbing me of my present--I cannot enjoy the world in front of me, all around me, if I am engaged with the false reality of what is on the internet's social media sites. I become trapped in the filth and the depression and the neediness of the world, and I want to fix it and help and respond to every single thing. Floods, cancer, deaths, bombings, hurricanes--it all pulls at my heart. Looking down at what is on my computer or my phone keeps me from looking up and around at what is going on in my home, my family, my community. Even now as I type this, I am being drawn to open another tab in my browser and click on that FaceBook icon, to check if anyone I know posted a photo, to see what local groups are heralding as newsworthy. As if there is anything newsworthy on a website that caters to, no, promotes, divisiveness and the tribal mentality of “if you don’t agree with everything I say and do, then you are my enemy”. Social media is no longer social or sociable, and it never was courteous; instead, FaceBook, Twitter, TikTok, and their ilk, while they seemingly began as online gathering places for sharing funny cat videos and opinions and as a way to “meet” people, are now just giant echo chambers.

Four years ago I extricated myself from the vacuous, rabble-rousing, and one-sided 24-hour news stations where talking heads droned on ad nauseum about anything and everything. News—HA!—as if the mainstream media provide anything news worthy without burdening viewers with their opinions.  I have not missed anything, either; the world hasn’t stopped turning on its axis and the sun still does come up in the east. As for FaceBook, perhaps it is time to take a break, maybe even close my account, and stop making excuses for the time I waste in virtual reality, to quit justifying my social media presence; I don't really need to know what my 487 "friends" are eating or doing or wearing or thinking. Instead, I should be focusing on what my immediate family and neighbors are doing and thinking, and spending time with real people, getting real hugs, and sharing their very real joys and sorrows. Bottom line: If it neither edifies people or glorifies God, it is not worth the time. 

Hidden Idols

Close your eyes, think of the word "idol," and what do you see? Statues? Golden calf? A tv program? Charleton Heston as Moses in The Ten Commandments? Possibly you can think a bit more abstractly, and, expanding the definition of the word, you think of beauty, sex, the internet, cell phones, food, work. But what really is an idol? Webster defines idolatry as "the worship of or excessive devotion to, or reverence for, some person or thing (the idol).” Biblically, at its core, an idol is anything that replaces God as a central point in our lives. 

I've smugly thought I have no idols...I don't put bowls of rice in front of wooden statues, or worship trees. I read my Bible, pray, support missions, and go to church, and am making a concerted effort in growing my faith, using His Word as a blueprint for my life, my choices, my thoughts, my values. I know I am a sinner, and I am painfully aware every single day how much I do not deserve heaven, that only by God's infinite and merciful grace through the sacrifice of His Son will I make it there. I don't see myself as secular or worldly--idols are what those people have, not me! Ha! Right! Read on...

I opened my bookcase this weekend and perused the titles on the shelves, especially the plethora of books I bought at a women's conference I attended this spring (all with the good intention of reading them as soon as I got home). One title grabbed my attention; I pulled it partially out, then hesitated, pushing it back in place. The title, "Idols of the Heart," made me uncomfortable--that little prick from the Holy Spirit, I guess--so I picked it up and began reading. Seriously, though, the last thing I wanted was to delve into something that would identify yet another list of inadequacies and failures as a Christian. But, no pain, no gain, right? 

Within the first few pages, I knew I made the right choice; the author, Elyse Fitzpatrick, is brutally honest concerning her own idols, and relates her own journey to identifying them. What I expected was another book bemoaning the evils of cell phones, reality TV, and the internet, all things I could easily dismiss as not really a problem for me; I'm well aware of the potential for these distractions to interfere with my relationship with God. What I got was far more; by the third page of the first chapter I realized that I, like Elyse, put my trust in things other than God. Not in the obvious twenty-first century conveniences and time savers (or is it wasters?), and not in material things, financial security, physical image, or fitness. Not in my family--children, grandkids, or even my spouse; although I do love them all very much, and cherish every memory, every moment with them all, God is definitely first in my heart. 

Or so I thought.

What is first in my heart, even when I try to hide it, to pretend it’s not there, is the almost obsessive need to be accepted, to be understood. That desire (and the inability to fulfill it, to achieve acceptance and understanding) has caused countless sleepless nights, oceans of tears, bouts of uncontrollable anger and self deprecation, depression, and confusion. Confusion and pain when my motives are misread, when I never get the opportunity to make them see (God make them SEE!) they are wrong about me, that my actions stem from the heart, my intentions blameless.  Whenever I meet someone new, I wonder what they think of me, if they like me, did I say anything inappropriate. At times I am so focused on proving I am right, on pursuing acceptance from the world, and on garnering understanding, and therefore, love, I allow my love of God to come in second. I forget about His grace, and put the approval of the world above His approval. 

I can recount innumerable examples, and often the misunderstanding is the result of speaking before thinking, blurting out some casual remark that to me seemed funny and innocent. When my sister was planning her wedding, we were picking out bridesmaids' dresses, and, shocked at the high cost of the dresses, I mumbled I'd return my dress for a refund after the wedding. And, to make matters worse, I had just had my long blonde hair permed (it was the 70s, okay?), and I jokingly said it made me look like a cocaine queen (again, the 70s). Neither of those comments were taken well; in fact, fearing I would ruin her big day, my sister told me I was no longer in the wedding. Over 40 years ago, and I still want to fix that misunderstanding, to get her to understand what I really meant. Other times it is my failure to communicate my intentions, and the reasoning behind those intentions, that results in a painful misunderstanding. Case in point, I developed a friendship with the realtor who found us our Tampa home; five years later, we were moving out of Florida, and hired her to sell our house. But, when after 90 days there was no sale, we decided to go with a different realtor; while I did break the news to her, it was via email, not in person. She felt rebuffed, and betrayed, and she broke off all communication with me. Again...misunderstood. 

These are just two of countless instances that my intentions were misunderstood; each time I would keep focusing on the incident, wondering how I could make it better, how I could gain their approval. And often, sadly, in the midst of it I didn't even stop and ask God how to handle it, or seek His counsel, or search His Word--I struggled with it all alone, trusting my own instincts. How misguided I often am to think that how others see me (other sinners like me) matters more than how God sees me.  This idol of my heart, the yearning for understanding, has not yet been thrown out or broken; it still vies for attention, and tries to usurp God’s rightful place in my heart. But hey…I know it’s there now, I’m wise to its ways, so when it tries to sneak back in, to make me believe I don’t matter without the approval of others, I fall on my knees, open the Word, and place God back where he rightfully belongs: in that God-shaped hole in my heart that can only be filled by Him. A well-known, oft quoted prayer by St Francis of Assisi says it quite well:

Lord, make me a channel of thy peace,

that where there is hatred, I may bring love;

that where there is wrong,

 I may bring the spirit of forgiveness;

that where there is discord, I may bring harmony;

that where there is error, I may bring truth;

that where there is doubt, I may bring faith;

that where there is despair, I may bring hope;

that where there are shadows, I may bring light;

that where there is sadness, I may bring joy.

Lord, grant that I may seek rather to 

comfort than to be comforted;

to understand, than to be understood;

to love, than to be loved.

For it is by self-forgetting that one finds.

It is by forgiving that one is forgiven.

It is by dying that one awakens to Eternal Life.

But God, being rich in mercy, because of the great love with which he loved us, even when we were dead in our trespasses, made us alive together with Christ—by grace you have been saved—(Ephesians 2:4-5)

On being a stepparent

Thirty years ago I married my best friend. We were both divorced, we were both parents, and we brought all that baggage into our new marriage. I had two girls, he had one daughter; I had custody of mine, he did not have custody of his. Thus began a complicated saga of parenting roles, summer visitations with the non-custodial parents, and a logistical nightmare of coordinating those visitations with our schedules, the military, and flying minor children across the country. Fortunately Alex and I attended premarital counseling at our church to expose any disconnects and inconsistencies in financial management, spiritual beliefs, life goals, and especially child-rearing. And despite my unwillingness to relinquish control of parenting my daughters, we eventually sorted it all out, and Alex grew into the role of stepdad with consummate ease, an ease I am still envious of to this day. Making it easier for him (and my daughters) to adjust was the obvious fact that we all lived under the same roof, sharing joys and sorrows and temper tantrums and growing pains for all but two weeks a year. We were (and still are) a very close family. The relationship with his daughter though has been fraught with conflicts and misunderstandings and missteps since day one, and I have tried (too hard sometimes, perhaps) to wear the mantle of stepmother with grace and ease I do not always possess. It has been anything but. Thirty-two years ago, my stepdaughter was three years old when I met her, and five years old when her dad and I tied the knot; I still struggle to have a close relationship with her, as well as with her children. And am rebuffed.

Mistake #1: Initially, I tried, boy I tried, to be her mom during her short visits in the summer or the rare holiday, but let's face it: she already had a mom, and even five year olds aren't stupid enough or naive enough to believe they can have two moms. She has a wonderful mom, who she loves (as she should!), and all I did was confuse her and me and my heart. 

Mistake #2: Lying to myself, I told myself I could love my stepdaughter the same way and as much as my own daughters. While I loved her from the first day I met her (she was, after all, the daughter of the man I love), pretending to believe I could love her the same way I loved the human beings I gave birth to was plain stupid, and I am sure she saw through it. 

Mistake #3: Venting about my husband's ex, or about his daughter's shortcomings or misbehavior only served to ratchet up the stress I was already feeling. No one, especially not my husband, needed to hear my litany of sorrows and perceived slights. More importantly, these feelings, when vented, did not go away...they simply percolated and festered, thereby subconsciously affecting how I treated said stepchild (and they were not edifying for our marriage, either).

Mistake #4: Thinking I could fix things, I often barged into territory where I did not belong. My parenting methods worked for my children, but trying to apply my philosophy on child-rearing on a little girl who we only saw two weeks out of the year was fool-hardy, and ended up being disastrous when I put my nose where it did not belong when she was 19. This caused a rift so huge, we were shut out of her life for 10 long years, years during which she became a mom. Thus, my interference contributed to an alienation that I am still struggling to heal.

Mistake #5: For years, I blamed myself for not being close enough to her, for not trying hard enough, for not understanding her, for pushing her away, for not having the perfect "blended family" one sees on sitcoms and at movies. During the ten years we were being "shunned", I put all the blame on my shoulders, instead of realizing we all shared that blame (and really, what did it matter anyway whose fault it was?). All that self-pity and self-flagellation, and burgeoning resentment only resulted in wasted time that could have been, no should have been, spent loving family that was present, and praying for family that was not.

Mistake #6: Repeating all the above mistakes with my new "step-grandkids," a boy and a girl we did not even meet until they were 7 and 8 years old, respectively. Trying to insert my way into their lives, and their hearts, I instead felt frustrated and aggravated and defeated. Again, we only see them MAYBE 15-20 days each year, so to think we could just be as close as we are to our other four grandkids is a silly pipe dream. We love them all, and enjoy time with each one of them, but we do have a lot more building blocks with children we have been connected with since their birth. 

Okay, so now that I have laid all that out there, where do we go from here? I wish I could be that nonchalant and fun and loving parent of adult kids/grandparent my husband is at this stage of our lives. I envy the ease with which he communicates and relates to all our children and grandchildren--it all just comes so naturally to him. Despite the decade lost, he has positioned himself squarely and comfortably in his daughter's life and our "new" grandkids' lives, being his silly self (admittedly sometimes a bit too silly). Me? I try too hard and overthink things said and unsaid, cards not sent, imagined slights, with everyone, but especially with this "step"daughter of mine, and her children. I want acceptance and love. I want to be their Nana. I want to be her friend. 

Sadly, that has not happened. Instead, she again has blocked us, blaming me for everything, and has cut the ties with me and with her father, and nothing we say or do can fix that. We are broken and human and sinners.

Why must it be so damn complicated? 

Life always is. Especially when we break the rules and don't live by the Book. God gave us those commandments for a reason, and then we are all shocked and surprised that things are a mess when we break them. 

Lord give me strength and peace and wisdom to help uncomplicate things.

Being known

Knowing things isn’t the same as being known. Knowing myself, allowing others to know me, and learning to know God...these are struggles. Me? Sometimes I feel as if I am standing outside of myself, looking at me and listening to what’s coming out of my mouth, and I am scared and ashamed and worried. I don’t recognize this person who is crying because she is unable to adequately express what she’s feeling. She tries to get her point across but it backfires and soon the other person is running over her with their thoughts and opinions and distorted recollections of what she said or did. And then she is crying and stands there shouting, trying to be heard but she’s unable to hold it together. So she stands there with her fists balled up and clenched against her side, tears streaming down her face,  and she runs: to her room, the car, the bathroom. Anywhere to escape her  failure  to calmly and intelligently assert herself without offending, to be understood. No matter how many times this happens, she is incapable of preventing another occurrence; life and relationships float along that river smoothly, effortlessly, until  without warning, it happens again and she is helpless to stop it.  Good intentions and resolve fly out the window , and in no time she’s a blubbering mess. 

It doesn’t matter how many times this happens, or what she reads or how much she prays—these emotional maelstroms are unavoidable. Each meltdown leaves her feeling spent, useless, worthless, and wanting  to die; she is utterly, hopelessly doomed to forever repeat this scene. She knows no other way to face confrontation than to shut down and then run away. Counseling, prayer, introspection, even reaching back as far as she can remember to name it, face it, explain it—nothing helps. It’s part of her and each time this happens, it’s reinforced even more. She will never win an argument, or convince the other person she is right, so she gives up even trying.  

This is, and always has been, me. Not the face or persona I show. But me nonetheless. Friends, family, acquaintances all think they know the “real” me, but what they see, who they see, is just a facade, a mask, a fake, a show; sometimes a bit of me sneaks out, leaks out of the coveralls, peeks out the side, but it quickly gets shoved back in.  It reminds me of those play dough molds, the kind you push the play dough through and then mold it into shapes and sometimes the seams of the molds are not strong enough, so some of the dough squeezes out of the sides. Or, actually it’s like an fat lady wearing  a girdle to hold her rolls of overindulgence in to portray a slimmer figure, but some of that fat protrudes out of a ripped seam or over the top of the elastic. And there it is...the real truth.  Until it gets hurriedly stuffed back into its spandex torture chamber.  And we all know that’s futile.  

Today these feelings washed over me again, an emotional tsunami, making me question my salvation, not to mention my sanity. Or is it the other way around? I desperately want to forecast these storms, or at least know the catalyst so I can brace for it, but I may as well wish to weigh what my drivers license says. I do know our dear neighbors are moving, my dear daughter and son-in-law and grandkids went back overseas last week, I just finished my fifth St Baldricks fundraiser, my IDD brother is making life very challenging, and I’m having some health issues. I do know what to do: breathe. Pray. Lean on my creator. And rest in His wonderful grace. And spend time to KNOW Him.  

Now, if only I could actually turn that knowing into doing 

  

Goodbyes

The past ten days have been rough, and it's about to get rougher still--my eldest daughter, my firstborn, is leaving the country this weekend, returning to her home of eight years in Bangalore, India. After a very busy and extremely full nine months here in the US, admittedly the longest American furlough they've experienced since 2013, they are, almost certainly, leaving on that jet plane sung about by Peter, Paul, and Mary over half a century ago. And I am beyond sad, beyond teary-eyed. Making it even harder? Half of our grandchildren are leaving as well, and we are not sure when we will be seeing them again, current travel restrictions and canceled tourist visas considering. So here I am, on the cusp of my 66th year on the planet, and all I can think about is this: Does she realize how much I love her? Does she know I'd go to the ends of the earth for her? That I cherish every moment and every second I've been privileged to spend with her? Sure, I adore her children, like I adore all my grandkids, but most of all, I love being a mom. I love watching my daughters be moms, and it has been my most cherished joy witnessing their growth as they have blossomed into young women, wives, new moms, and now accomplished middle-aged women themselves. These feelings cause twinges of guilt over how much (or how little) time I spent talking and visiting with my parents, thoughts back to when I was a young mom, with a job and kids, with all the activities and busy-ness associated with that stage of life. 

Lord give me peace and strength and courage as I grieve the departure of this sweet family.   

Land mines

Navigating the minefield of conversation with adult children is exhausting.  Visits can be going swimmingly when without warning, one word, one statement, even a nonverbal—a look, a facial expression, gesture—is misconstrued as disappointment, disapproval, or condemnation.  But, should the same comment or look emanate from a friend, a neighbor, or even a total stranger, it’s not even an issue; it doesn’t raise an eyebrow or even cause a ruffle.  Mom says it though?  Defenses up, hackles raised, and hyperboles abound.  Suddenly it’s as if that adult child is 15 again and defending their lifestyle, their choices, and is incensed that I comment on anything. I’m accused of being  always negative, judgmental, disapproving, condescending. And I’m never understanding or happy for them or supportive or kind. And, to make matters worse, I get examples dragged out of the past and flung at me. 

I’m exhausted. I can’t be honest with my own children. I have to bite my tongue and lie and hide my feelings.  I can’t be worried or mention they may be wrong or even suggest a slightly different alternative solution.  I have to watch the people I love more than life itself go down roads fraught with danger and not warn them.  It makes me sad.  And angry and hurt and unloved  because my wisdom and experience, valued and sought after by others, is so hated and shunned by the ones I want most to share it with.  And while I am perfectly aware that my standing changed long ago, that I’m no longer their hero, that I fell off that pedestal sometime between kindergarten and puberty, it still boggles my mind, this chasm between me and my adult daughters that fluctuates between impassable and nonexistent.  Having grown up with a mother who found it impossible to love, I consider my relationship with my daughters truly special and close and wonderful, like I’m in this sacred place reserved just for me, an inner sanctum, so when somehow I inadvertently violate that space and get demoted it’s that much more heart wrenching. 

Of course, those of you who’ve been down this road a thousand times know the solution to this quandary, and you’re probably screaming it at me right now: “mind your own business!”  Yeah you’d think that at 65 I’d already know how futile (and downright stupid) it is to offer  unsolicited advice to my kids about anything.  Or how foolish it is to agree with them when they criticize one of their friends, coworkers, or spouse (because my concurrence is construed as character assassination). Never mind what they’re saying...I can neither agree or disagree. Even nodding is suspect.  (And before y’all jump to conclusions, I figured out long, long ago not only to not give child rearing advice regarding my grandkids, but to be extremely wary even if the parents ask for advice).  No, my current dilemma is how to listen without judgment, how to respond with neutrality , and how to keep my mouth shut and my face blank.

My hope? That they know how much I love them, how I pray for them constantly, cheer for their endeavors, celebrate their successes and mourn their losses and disappointments.  And that they forgive my indiscretions and misspoken words and give me grace, and understand I only speak out of love and worry.  And, most of all, I pray they feel to the depths of their beings how much they are loved and cherished, and that I’d gladly give my life for them.  

On Discipleship

disciple” (noun): someone who adheres to the teachings of another. It is a follower or a learner. It refers to someone who takes up the ways of someone else. Applied to Jesus, a disciple is someone who learns from him to live like him — someone who, because of God’s awakening grace, conforms his or her words and ways to the words and ways of Jesus. (Jonathan Parnell, Desiring God)

A little over two weeks ago (seems like a year ago), my daughter and I attended The Gospel Coalition (TGC) Women's conference, something she encouraged me to do, and then, when she asked if I would like her to join me, I ecstatically concurred. Leading up to the event, I was excited, anxious, nervous, albeit sometimes a bit nauseated, at the prospect of being in a convention center with thousands of women, women whose objective was to learn more about their faith, about Jesus, about God. And despite having attended countless work-related conferences, heck, I even taught at quite a few of them, I had no idea of what to expect; military and government conferences are a far cry from spiritual ones. My daughter on the other hand was an old pro at this sort of event, so I gladly latched on to her coattails and off we went. My expectations were nebulous--at the very least, though, I was thrilled about some mother-daughter alone time. Ha. That's hilarious. Alone time. In a convention center filled with women from all over the globe, most of whom seemed to know my daughter. 

Remember me? The introverted, highly sensitive person? What was I thinking? I was not equipped for this experience! We hit the ground the day before the conference began, and the next morning we embarked on a 72 hour kaleidoscope of breakout sessions, keynote speakers, a bookstore with over 60 vendors, and yes, tons of women. Old, young, middle-aged women. Single women, married women. Nursing moms. Moms with baby carriers and strollers. Women of every shape, size, color, and denomination. The speakers were fervent, knowledgeable, articulate, and the breakout sessions I had signed up for (at my daughter's recommendation) were germane and on point. I bought more books that weekend than I have in the past 10 years (most of which still sit on my bookshelf waiting to be opened). By Saturday evening, I was exhausted--emotionally, spiritually, physically, and mentally--overwhelmed by the sheer volume of information and prayer and a very obviously active Holy Spirit. I even ventured out of my comfort zone and joined Mandy and her friends for dinner on at least two occasions. During the conference, though, I would look around the giant arena, and I felt very alone. At one point I wrote in my journal: 

Here at this conference with my daughter and 3500 other Christian women this weekend, I am simultaneously thrilled, inspired, awed, and humbled. I listen to the talks and read the words and sing the songs and worship our God, and I excitedly buy books to help me and guide me on journey through sanctification. I take  notes and pray and grow, and internalize all the beauty and pain and sorrow and joy around me, but despite being surrounded by other believers and sisters in Christ, and believing the same things, I feel alone and alien and unworthy to be here. It’s as if I’m counterfeit, a distorted reflection or pixilated version of these Godly women. I cannot match their fervor or relate to their gospel soaked lifestyles, and my sinful past and lack of a Christian upbringing are glaringly obvious and crippling handicaps.  My daughter and her friends and, let’s be honest, most of the attendees, are so far ahead of me in their growth and their sanctification that I feel I will never catch them. Inside I feel what they feel, and my brain and my heart are there, but I cannot even begin to relate intellectually on their spiritual level. It’s as if I’m in a different dimension, on another plane. I’m alone and different and I don’t belong. Oh but how I wish, I yearn, I ache to be in their sphere, to be a part of their group, a member of this elite club, and to be seen as one of them.

After praying about these feelings, I vocalized some of this to my daughter, and she reassured me that this was normal, and a lot of it was a combination of being new to faith conferences and an introvert. And don't get me wrong: I loved every minute of the conference, and am still listening to sessions I did not have a chance to attend. The real kicker though? We had some fairly frank dinner conversations about spiritual growth; one in particular stands out during which my daughter unceremoniously announced my urgent need for discipleship...to which her friends nodded. Such a humbling experience. I mean, my daughters, both of them, have taught me things and broadened my knowledge base in many areas, and I am not foolish enough or vain enough to think that, just because I am older and "the mom" that I cannot be taught. But being informed you are in need of mentoring and discipleship, by younger women, especially one you gave birth to, is quite a different item than advice on baking bread, fundraising, or gardening. Again, humbling. With a capital H. But the more I contemplated it, thought about it, turned the idea over in my mind, the more sense it made, the more I wanted to act on it. Book recommendation received (Growing Together" by one of the keynote speakers), and subsequently ordered on Amazon (the bookstore, by the way, was completely sold out...a good sign). And a few days after I returned home, I reached out to my pastor's wife...a young woman at least 25 years my junior...and asked if she would be willing to disciple me, to mentor me, and to work through the afore-mentioned book; I even ordered her a copy as well. 

So, here I am, less than 24 hours after our first "session," and I am at once (again) excited, nervous, anxious, and yes, a bit queasy at the prospect of learning and growing and sharing with this younger woman. Our first meeting, intended to be "about an hour" at a local coffee place, lasted nearly four hours, and did not even cover the entire introductory chapters. And, like after the conference two weeks ago, I am overwhelmed and awed at how God works in my life, brings people into my life, and gently puts my feet on the path He has designed for me. 

THANK you Mandy, Cheryl, Amy, Blaire, and especially, thank you Melissa for agreeing to go on this crazy trip with me. This is definitely going to be a bumpy ride!

Reminiscing

After my parents divorced in 1964, we visited Dad every other weekend (when mom would let us) and for two glorious weeks each summer. Those summer vacations were a welcome escape from a less than pleasant childhood, and some of my most precious memories. Every summer Dad would drive all five of us kids to Florida for two weeks of sun and tourist traps and sunburns and cheap hotels (all named the Pelican or the Sand Dollar or the Seafarer or the like), and each year we’d end up in a different city.  

One year it was Treasure Island, where we visited the Sunken Gardens in St. Petersburg (formed by one of the huge sinkholes that frequently plague south central Florida.) We saw the replicas of the Nina, the Pinta, and the Santa Maria, and attended a great dolphin show at the local outdoor aquarium where trained porpoises jumped over bars and leapt high in the air to grab fish out of trainers’ mouths, and seals thrilled audiences with their comical belly slides and rollovers and flapping of flippers. We went to Busch Gardens and sampled beer when Anheiser Busch was still American owned,  and attended a  bird show, watching in wonder as trained parrots, cockatiels, and parakeets slid down slides and pushed tiny wheelbarrows around a stage, and beautiful pink flamingos stood on one leg and peacocks showed off their magnificent fantails.  Another year we visited St Augustine, where Dad made sure he took us to every single, historical building: the oldest school, church, jail, courthouse, fort, etc, making sure to take movies at each one.  Dad’s penchant for taking a movie of the historical signs, moving the camera back  and forth as if the camera was “reading” the sign always made us laugh.  

A visit to Daytona Beach had us marveling at cars driving on the beach, and of course we collected tons of seashells and even rented a paddle boat to trek out to a sandbar for a picnic lunch. As luck would have it, though, paddling back to shore was a lot harder than paddling out, as we were going against the tide, so my sister and I had to get out and swim to shore; I got the worst sunburn that year and spent most of the rest of that trip pouting, wearing a long sleeve shirt and putting vinegar on my blisters.  

Yet another year found us in central Florida at Cypress Gardens watching pretty ladies in swimsuits waterski across blue waters, and later we would be traversing lakes in glass bottomed boats, our little faces plastered against the glass to see manatees and fish and alligators. We visited Weekiwatchee and watched, enthralled, as “mermaids” performed underwater and waved to us.  Walt Disney World was still a dream in Walt’s head, and Orlando’s biggest attraction was Gator Land, where kids could feed live gators, and watch big, burly trainers throw sides of beef to crocodiles as audiences screamed in mock terror. We saw beautiful birds with feathery plumage: snowy egrets, great blue herons, pelicans, and shorebirds.  

The trip down was never boring, albeit five kids in a car for two days got a bit noisy at times, and there were the requisite tussles and spats.  The interstate wasn’t completed all the way from Ohio to Florida back in the 60s, so we’d have to take US 41 through the Tennessee Valley, but we loved stopping at all the roadside stands, where locals sold handmade quilts, pillows with pom-poms, freshly made jam, and local honey; seeing all the dams created as part of FDR’s New Deal was quite the educational bonus.  Then there were stops at Stuckey’s, home of the famous (and deliciously sticky sweet) pecan log, the various welcome centers at the borders of each state we entered, and overnight motels. The Florida welcome center served fresh squeezed orange juice back then, and we’d eagerly line up for cup after cup; now all they have is vending machines. One year we even stopped at Rock City in Chattanooga, TN, and spent three wonderful days exploring the caverns and magical gnome dioramas; if you’ve ever seen the words “See Rock City” painted on the side of a barn, you’re seeing roadside marketing at its finest.  Then there was the year of the ham:  Dad decided he’d buy a huge ham to help defray meal costs.  We had ham and eggs, ham sandwiches, ham soup, ham and beans, even ham and potatoes; it was like the Bubba Gump of Ham, and we never let him live that down.  

How my dad managed to retain his sanity for two weeks taking care of five children (four girls and a mentally handicapped boy) is a mystery—our ages the first year were 2, 5, 7, 9, and 12, and believe me, as we grew into puberty it didn’t get any easier. We all had our share of temper tantrums and teenage angst.  One year he did hire a college girl, a daughter of one of his friends, to help him wrangle us girls—two of us were adolescents and he did not want to deal with questions about feminine hygiene products or processes 

One of the stories Dad loved to recount concerned my stubborn insistence on ordering the soup du jour for lunch, even though I had no idea what that meant-it just sounded grown up, and at 14 I really wanted to be grown up!The soup arrived at the table:  clam chowder. I hated clam chowder, so I just refused to eat it and demanded a hamburger instead.  Dad told the waitress no way, and told me I had to finish that damn soup; I did, and I learned a valuable lesson that day: know what you’re ordering, and eat what you get. Dad never tired of regaling my friends and husband and kids with  that story. 

As far as I can recall, Dad never alluded to the cost of anything, or denied us souvenirs, or neglected to take us to any attraction in the city being visited.  He let us be kids.  We’d climb on fort walls, shoot imaginary cannons, swim in the hotel pools until we were waterlogged and had bloodshot eyes, and build countless sand castles.  Somehow we’d all make it down and back safely, and we’d wait with anticipation until the next summer.  The days, weeks and months seemed to drag on and we thought summer would  never arrive.  But it inevitably did.  

Those cherished memories will always be with me, and I count myself blessed to have experienced places and things and events of yesteryear. Busch Gardens no longer showcases  cool bird antics,  and the old Busch clock tower and beer gardens are overshadowed by modern roller coasters. Legoland sits where Cypress Gardens once was, and the pretty ladies waterskiing are long gone; only a few acres of the botanical gardens remain.  Most of the open air aquariums and amusement parks in Florida have succumbed to the “progress” of giant corporations such as Seaworld, Disney and Universal, and the quaint pink and blue Sand Dollar and Pelican and SeaFarer motels are gone, replaced by shiny modern, towering condominiums and resorts. Little did I know we were receiving a priceless education in history, zoology, geography, and the like, but isn’t that always the case with children? Experiences taken for granted then  are that much more  appreciated now, both new and old, and I’m all the more complete  to have experienced both.  Divorce is never easy—for parents or for children. But my dad made sure he made the most out of every moment we spent with him, and for that, I am eternally grateful.  

The frailty of life

 

So you want to raise baby chicks, do you? Those cute little, adorable, fluffy balls who are peeping in the feed store are so irresistible.  Yeah, I get that. So this year I decided to raise baby chickens, partly out of a need to have something to do and something living to raise, and partly as a bonding and fun experience to have with my grandchildren, especially the three that normally reside in India. I conducted exhaustive research, reading books and  blogs,  watching YouTube videos, and asking questions on local FaceBook chicken groups. I knew Mandy and Brian and the girls were arriving in mid March, so I checked out local places to buy baby chicks, deciding on an area urban farm where we could select different breeds of chicks instead of having to purchase a minimum of six of one breed at the feed store. This allowed the kids to pick out their own little chick, as well as select ones for their cousins who couldn’t be here. I made all the preparations for the new arrivals, converting an old Rubbermaid tub from Goodwill into a brooder; hubby constructed the lid out of scrap wood and some hardware mesh. A chick starter kit (heat lamp, plus water and food dispensers) completed the nursery preparations; we were ready to welcome the babies! 

Lydia and Petunia

When the grandkids arrived Wednesday afternoon, we planned an expedition for the next day to buy baby chicks (read that phrase in high pitched, squealing, excited voices of three little girls); their parents wouldn’t be able to go with us, as they would be otherwise engaged attending a 3-hour Zoom conference. Thursday after lunch, PopPop, three very excited little girls, and I hopped into the van, and off we went on our adventure, stopping first at Tractor Supply to purchase chick starter and some pine bedding. Thirty minutes later, we arrived at the farm, where the owner ushered us into the chicken nursery, a converted garage filled with at least ten large brooders, each one containing 10-25 baby chicks. Anyone who has ever been thrilled and mesmerized by a tub full of fluffy, peeping, adorable baby chicks knows how we felt; the kids (and I) were in baby chick heaven. We opened tub after tub after tub, each of us selecting precious little fluff balls and naming them on the spot. Aside from Molly getting scratched by a farm kitten who just wouldn’t let go of her neck, nothing marred the experience, and we left with a box of seven baby chicks. The cherry on top was a pitstop at Pelican’s Snowballs for a delightful afternoon treat. 

Isabella and Pearl

The drive home was peppered with constant questions as to the health of the chicks, with the girls begging to take out the chicks and hold them “because they are lonely.” Once we arrived back home, the chicks were introduced into their new home, each one having its little beak dipped in the water bowl to encourage it to rehydrate. The rest of the day was filled with all of us (adults included) making frequent trips to stand over the brooder and watch the chicks eat, play, and run around, and of course the inevitable pleas from their human mamas to “please can we hold them, please please please?” We all laughed at the antics; a couple of them like to sleep in the food dish as if they are worried about losing their place in line at the food buffet, some unceremoniously walking over sleeping brood-mates, and all of them producing a prodigious amount of poop. Five  of the chicks received names: Petunia (Lydia), Clutch (Molly),  Pearl (Isabella), Buttercup (Sophie), and Creamsicle (Pop Pop). Chicken lovers know they are quite addictive to watch; the chicks monopolized a lot of our attention, but we eventually all went to sleep that first night praying for a good, safe night for our new little flock. 

The next morning, it was obvious Pearl was not faring well—she was listless and not eating or drinking, and despite our efforts, she was our first casualty. Isabella held little Pearl, and nonplussed by her chick’s pending demise, asked if she could just adopt Creamsicle instead in typical Isa fashion. They held a little funeral, singing hymns, and we buried her right next to the resting place of our family dogs. I think I felt worse than the kids did, so I drove back to the farm and got her a replacement Pearl. All was well, we were back to seven fluff balls, and the grandkids left for a two day visit with some nearby friends, admonishing me as they left to take good care of the chicks while they were gone (they were coming back Sunday for a two day stopover on their way back to Atlanta). So, Friday evening found me checking each one for pasty butt, cleaning the ones afflicted, and fussing over one of them in particular: little Petunia was looking very lethargic and listless, so I hand fed her some electrolytes and hovered over the brooder until I was too tired to stay up any longer.  All to no avail, because the next morning, she was gone.  I was heartbroken, even more so because I’d have to break the news to Lydia.  

Molly and Clutch

So, I bought 7 chicks on Thursday.  I’ve replaced one, and am seriously contemplating a trip to replace Petunia. I’m doing everything I can—electrolytes, food, heat, checking their butts,  etc, and I’m at a loss as to what to do next.  I’ve never raised baby chicks before and I feel silly for sitting here crying over dead baby chicks. Sure I know loss is to be expected with little fluffy babies less than 2 weeks old but to lose two of seven is heartbreaking, especially because those two were handpicked and named by two of the granddaughters. So I’m worrying over them like a mother hen (now I know where that phrase comes from) and feeling helpless. I have to fight the urge to constantly stand over the brooder,  and trust that I am doing everything I can to keep them warm, fed, watered and safe. When one of them looks weak, or isn’t at the feeding bowl with the rest of them, my first desire is to pick it up and hold it and nurse it with a medicine dropper. I fret that it may be too warm or too cold or the food is too hard or the chicks are too little. I keep going to backyard chicken blogs and YouTube to glean more advice, hoping to find the magic bullet. I wonder if  the coop I have ready for them outside will be safe enough or big enough. What about raccoons and foxes and possums? How do I ensure these little ones will survive in here, let alone outside? Should I get a guinea hen or a rooster to keep them safe and warn them about predators? So many questions, so many factors over which I have little to no control. 

Like life.

How easily I slip back into old habits, the illusion that I am in control, that I can know all and fix all. And how quickly I forget who truly holds the reins, and who is the creator and who is the created.  

Raising baby chicks will humble you in a heartbeat, and remind you very quickly how fragile and fleeting and precious and exhilarating life truly is. 

"How many are your works, Lord! In wisdom you made them all; the earth is full of your creatures. There is the sea, vast and spacious, teeming with creatures beyond number – living things both large and small." (Psalm 104:24-25)