When my children first learned to talk, our conversations were limited to them asking, "what is it?" and my answer. Over and over and over, they'd point to some object and say the inevitable. They never tired of the questions. I sometimes despaired of the never-ending need for answers.
As they grew, the question changed to "why?" No longer content with just one or two words, their thirst for knowledge expanded from simple to complex and the answers required more time and effort to formulate. I don't think they always heard the answer, they just asked the same question again. And again. And again. A one-word song.
When they were older, they went through a time when they wanted me to do more than name things. "Teach me," they'd say, and hold up a shoe with lace hanging loose. "Teach me," they'd say, and hold up a bottle of bubble soap and blower. "Teach me," they'd say, and hold out a book of arithmetic.
As they grew, one of the things they learned was that if it was broken, you went to Mom for help. The days were filled with "fix it, please" requests. A little glue and patience could fix an ashtray broken by a football thrown carelessly across the living room. A little love and hot chocolate could soothe a bruised knee. A lot of love, a hug and a kiss could even mend a broken heart.
All too soon they graduated to "I can do it myself." It's only natural, inevitable, and yes, right, that they relished newly found independence, developed into free thinkers, and became their own person. But there were times when I'd watch as they rode away on their bike or skated solo down the sidewalk, and actually missed the struggles. More, I missed them asking my help.
There are so many things in life today that I do not understand. So often that I wish I had someone tall and strong that I could run to with my problems and say "fix it" or hold up an unknown and say "what is this and why is it in my life?" or hand my bruised heart and say "kiss it" and know that all would be well.
Oh, Lord, this is a hard lesson. I know you can fix anything. So tell me that all my effort is not in vain. Teach me to dream of better times. Help me to trust. Please.
Wednesday, December 30, 2009
Saturday, December 26, 2009
the day after
The wreath on the front door has changed. No longer made of plaid bows and apples and evergreen sprays, now it’s twisted grapevine and tiny silvery blue star lilies. There is nothing any sadder than a Christmas tree with no presents, and so every year on Christmas afternoon I dismantle and pack and before I go to bed that night all the Holiday decorations are snug in their boxes and back in the attic. This year it went much quicker, thanks to my darling man who didn’t gripe at all about climbing the folding stair to take them down on the first and then put them away on the 25th. Guess it just goes to show what a year in Iraq can do to your mindset.
This morning, the calendar says December 26, but I’m not ready for “Christmas” to be over. I’m like my wonderful nephew who wanted to know how come you had to put Jesus in a box and take him out for only one month each year.
I said all the decorations were packed away. But that’s not true, because one remains. On top of the bookcase in the office is a tiny nativity scene. It sits there all year long. Every year. To remind me that it’s not about candy canes and pumpkin pie. It’s not about ham for dinner. Or Kwanzaa candles or Three Kings Day cakes. It's not about Christmas trees or presents with silver paper and golden ribbon. Or what you wanted and didn't get. Or what you got that you wondered oh man what were they thinking. Or what you have to take back today to swap for the right size.
It’s about love. And what we do with the spirit of Christmas in February. And April. And June. And August.
This morning, the calendar says December 26, but I’m not ready for “Christmas” to be over. I’m like my wonderful nephew who wanted to know how come you had to put Jesus in a box and take him out for only one month each year.
I said all the decorations were packed away. But that’s not true, because one remains. On top of the bookcase in the office is a tiny nativity scene. It sits there all year long. Every year. To remind me that it’s not about candy canes and pumpkin pie. It’s not about ham for dinner. Or Kwanzaa candles or Three Kings Day cakes. It's not about Christmas trees or presents with silver paper and golden ribbon. Or what you wanted and didn't get. Or what you got that you wondered oh man what were they thinking. Or what you have to take back today to swap for the right size.
It’s about love. And what we do with the spirit of Christmas in February. And April. And June. And August.
Tuesday, December 22, 2009
veritas
Read: Mark 4:38; Luke 2:9; John 14:27.
There were shepherds in the fields, guarding their flocks by night. And the angel of the Lord came down and the glory of the Lord was all about them, and they were afraid. Not an exact quote, but you get the idea. The shepherds had no knowledge of a heavenly king, only an earthly one who took their wages without regard to their families and kept them on the bottom rung of the work force ladder. The celestial display that filled their eyes with light and their ears with sound also filled their hearts with terror.
Thirty years later, the disciples were caught out on the lake in a vicious storm. Jesus was in the stern of the boat, his head on a pillow, sound asleep. The disciples were so afraid for their lives that they woke Jesus, asking him, “Master, we’re dying here and you’re sleeping like nothing’s going on, don’t you care what happens to us?” Again, not an exact quote, but close enough.
The common denominator of these two stories is that ordinary men were caught in extraordinary circumstances, and the response was the same: fear. Why? It’s not like the shepherds had never been out in the night before, because that’s what shepherds did. Seeing a shooting star was nothing new to them, hearing a wolf’s call or a lion’s roar were commonplace, but the visions and sounds from Heaven on that one night caused them to lose their cool. And it’s not like the disciples were not used to being out on the lake fishing, both daytime and nighttime, for that was the way they earned their living. And they had been caught, I’m sure, in other storms. But when confronted with waves higher than any they’d ever before seen, and the circumstance of a rapidly deteriorating future state, their response was fear.
I have a leopard-print throw that I put around my shoulders when I accompany puppy out for his business each morning. Usually, only the three of us are up before dawn. But one morning last week I stepped back into the house and glanced into the kitchen just in time to see Jim toss a fresh coffee filter and its contents up into the air. He hadn’t known I was outside. And when he saw a flash of spots from the corner of his eye it was so out of the ordinary that he reacted with the fight or flight response. He looked at me sheepishly as I shrugged off the throw and placed it on the back of the sofa, said, “You scared me” and then went for the broom.
We are always faced with unknowns, but today, we are confronted with fear at almost every turn in life and with a magnitude unbelievable in scope.
A loved one has died, and we are faced with the prospect of pushing through the pain and grief of a life without them. Layoffs are plentiful but jobs are scarce. Homes are lost to foreclosure. Utility bills go unpaid and are eventually shut off. Never mind buying Christmas presents because putting food on the table seems an insurmountable task, and not every family has the luxury of a Friday backpack sent home from school. Let’s don’t even talk about how to keep enough money at hand for transportation just in case you’re called for a job interview. Fear runs rampant throughout our lives.
Soldiers are being deployed to combat zones, many of them for the third or forth or fifth time in less than ten years. Firefighters and police respond each shift to calls that would send most of us cowering in a corner with our hands over our ears and hats pulled down over our eyes. Fear of the unknown is a part of their daily life, yet the soldiers and the first responders go forward anyway. For when you have trained so often that your response to danger is second nature, and done without thinking, you simply just get on with it.
Heroes are not people without fear, they are simply people who do the next right thing in spite of it. I challenge you today to be a hero to yourself. Listen with your whole heart to the song of the angels, and fear not. Hear the words of the Master, “Let not your heart be troubled, neither let it be afraid.” And rejoice in the truth of a message for the ages: never trade the fear of what you know for the wonder of what you don’t.
Never give up. Never give up. Never, never, never, never, never give up. Sing with me the words of faith: “I know who holds tomorrow, and I know who holds my hand.” And then listen to the celestial response as a host of angels join us in our praise.
There were shepherds in the fields, guarding their flocks by night. And the angel of the Lord came down and the glory of the Lord was all about them, and they were afraid. Not an exact quote, but you get the idea. The shepherds had no knowledge of a heavenly king, only an earthly one who took their wages without regard to their families and kept them on the bottom rung of the work force ladder. The celestial display that filled their eyes with light and their ears with sound also filled their hearts with terror.
Thirty years later, the disciples were caught out on the lake in a vicious storm. Jesus was in the stern of the boat, his head on a pillow, sound asleep. The disciples were so afraid for their lives that they woke Jesus, asking him, “Master, we’re dying here and you’re sleeping like nothing’s going on, don’t you care what happens to us?” Again, not an exact quote, but close enough.
The common denominator of these two stories is that ordinary men were caught in extraordinary circumstances, and the response was the same: fear. Why? It’s not like the shepherds had never been out in the night before, because that’s what shepherds did. Seeing a shooting star was nothing new to them, hearing a wolf’s call or a lion’s roar were commonplace, but the visions and sounds from Heaven on that one night caused them to lose their cool. And it’s not like the disciples were not used to being out on the lake fishing, both daytime and nighttime, for that was the way they earned their living. And they had been caught, I’m sure, in other storms. But when confronted with waves higher than any they’d ever before seen, and the circumstance of a rapidly deteriorating future state, their response was fear.
I have a leopard-print throw that I put around my shoulders when I accompany puppy out for his business each morning. Usually, only the three of us are up before dawn. But one morning last week I stepped back into the house and glanced into the kitchen just in time to see Jim toss a fresh coffee filter and its contents up into the air. He hadn’t known I was outside. And when he saw a flash of spots from the corner of his eye it was so out of the ordinary that he reacted with the fight or flight response. He looked at me sheepishly as I shrugged off the throw and placed it on the back of the sofa, said, “You scared me” and then went for the broom.
We are always faced with unknowns, but today, we are confronted with fear at almost every turn in life and with a magnitude unbelievable in scope.
A loved one has died, and we are faced with the prospect of pushing through the pain and grief of a life without them. Layoffs are plentiful but jobs are scarce. Homes are lost to foreclosure. Utility bills go unpaid and are eventually shut off. Never mind buying Christmas presents because putting food on the table seems an insurmountable task, and not every family has the luxury of a Friday backpack sent home from school. Let’s don’t even talk about how to keep enough money at hand for transportation just in case you’re called for a job interview. Fear runs rampant throughout our lives.
Soldiers are being deployed to combat zones, many of them for the third or forth or fifth time in less than ten years. Firefighters and police respond each shift to calls that would send most of us cowering in a corner with our hands over our ears and hats pulled down over our eyes. Fear of the unknown is a part of their daily life, yet the soldiers and the first responders go forward anyway. For when you have trained so often that your response to danger is second nature, and done without thinking, you simply just get on with it.
Heroes are not people without fear, they are simply people who do the next right thing in spite of it. I challenge you today to be a hero to yourself. Listen with your whole heart to the song of the angels, and fear not. Hear the words of the Master, “Let not your heart be troubled, neither let it be afraid.” And rejoice in the truth of a message for the ages: never trade the fear of what you know for the wonder of what you don’t.
Never give up. Never give up. Never, never, never, never, never give up. Sing with me the words of faith: “I know who holds tomorrow, and I know who holds my hand.” And then listen to the celestial response as a host of angels join us in our praise.
Thursday, December 17, 2009
ribbons and bows
Seeing someone open a present is infinitely gratifying, but the actual wrapping is something I dread and put off until the last minute. It's one of those two-edge sword kinda things, as painful as using an old razor but as satisfying as gingerbread fresh from the oven (thank you, John).
First there's picking out the rolls of paper, because the boxes they are shipped in do not allow you to see them, you have to pick up each one and look at it, and then put it back when it’s unacceptable, then pick up another and after fifteen rolls try to remember if you already looked at something identical.
And then there's standing in line to make the purchase. It doesn't matter if you buy in August or January, there's always a line.
Then there's trying to make that yard-long bag fit in the trunk of the car. On top of the stuff I bought at the other six stores.
Then there's getting the package open after I'm home and ready to wrap. Do not know who designs the plastic container, but it's so tough I have to use scissors. I bet it could be used as a heat shield on the space shuttle.
And then there's tape. Why in the world does it stick to everything except the thing I want it to stick to, and anywhere except where I want it to be? I even have trouble with that so-called hands-free device from 3M.
Ribbon bows? Don't go there. I have five thumbs.
And then there's the cat. I learned the hard way that using the kitchen table as a wrapping station was not a good idea, because he springs from floor to chair to table and sprawls on the paper, refusing to move. Don't even think about using the floor. And so I normally go in the guest room, shut the door, and spread things out on the bed. The entire time I'm in there KTT is batting at the door and making the most awful moaning sounds. Poor poor pitiful kitty. You'd think someone was pelting him with hot chestnuts.
So this year I cheated. The presents were swaddled in sparkly tissue paper, placed in gift bags, and then pre-made red velvet bows were tied quick as can be one two three to the handles. They’re beautiful, and I don't think anyone will mind that I didn't use wrapping paper this year.
Except KTT.
I can live with that.
First there's picking out the rolls of paper, because the boxes they are shipped in do not allow you to see them, you have to pick up each one and look at it, and then put it back when it’s unacceptable, then pick up another and after fifteen rolls try to remember if you already looked at something identical.
And then there's standing in line to make the purchase. It doesn't matter if you buy in August or January, there's always a line.
Then there's trying to make that yard-long bag fit in the trunk of the car. On top of the stuff I bought at the other six stores.
Then there's getting the package open after I'm home and ready to wrap. Do not know who designs the plastic container, but it's so tough I have to use scissors. I bet it could be used as a heat shield on the space shuttle.
And then there's tape. Why in the world does it stick to everything except the thing I want it to stick to, and anywhere except where I want it to be? I even have trouble with that so-called hands-free device from 3M.
Ribbon bows? Don't go there. I have five thumbs.
And then there's the cat. I learned the hard way that using the kitchen table as a wrapping station was not a good idea, because he springs from floor to chair to table and sprawls on the paper, refusing to move. Don't even think about using the floor. And so I normally go in the guest room, shut the door, and spread things out on the bed. The entire time I'm in there KTT is batting at the door and making the most awful moaning sounds. Poor poor pitiful kitty. You'd think someone was pelting him with hot chestnuts.
So this year I cheated. The presents were swaddled in sparkly tissue paper, placed in gift bags, and then pre-made red velvet bows were tied quick as can be one two three to the handles. They’re beautiful, and I don't think anyone will mind that I didn't use wrapping paper this year.
Except KTT.
I can live with that.
Wednesday, December 16, 2009
happiness is a foot warmer
Winter arrived weeks early in North Texas, and with a vengeance. Standing outside in the pre-dawn hours this week waiting for ADD to make his morning call, I could hear the puppy across the back fence, crying pitifully. What a shame, to buy a dog for Christmas and then make it stay outside in an open dog pen, no light bulb for warmth, no body to cuddle.
When he came to bed last night, Jim said, through jittering teeth, "Where's your foot warmer?"
And so I got up and put it in the microwave for two minutes, per the instructions, brought it back and shoved it under the bedcovers for both of us to enjoy. Guess you know who wound up with it. HA!!
We may have left behind an entire previous life and several of our possessions when we moved here from NC, but that foot warmer was one of the first things packed, plainly labeled, and unpacked very quickly once we got to this house. It's one of the best presents I ever received. And in this season of remembrance, I celebrate the thoughtfulness of the pal in California who sent it so many years ago. Thank you, Sally.
When he came to bed last night, Jim said, through jittering teeth, "Where's your foot warmer?"
And so I got up and put it in the microwave for two minutes, per the instructions, brought it back and shoved it under the bedcovers for both of us to enjoy. Guess you know who wound up with it. HA!!
We may have left behind an entire previous life and several of our possessions when we moved here from NC, but that foot warmer was one of the first things packed, plainly labeled, and unpacked very quickly once we got to this house. It's one of the best presents I ever received. And in this season of remembrance, I celebrate the thoughtfulness of the pal in California who sent it so many years ago. Thank you, Sally.
Tuesday, December 15, 2009
How Santa Gets Around In The Desert
At the brigade party on Sunday we stood outside in the wind and rain, waiting for the chow line to move forward. I was regretting wearing only two pairs of socks under my boots, and wishing for the warmth and comfort of home.
But it was only the civilians like me in line who griped about the conditions. The soldiers just moved along in silence, big grins on their faces, cuddling the wives and children who huddled close to share a warmth that had nothing to do with socks or coats or the outside temperature. Please say a prayer for those still over there.
If you have someone overseas this year, better get that package in the mail today. And just in case you wondered, this is how Santa gets around in the desert.
http://www.kluv.com/12-15-2009/5897148
Scroll down to the Christmas soldier video by Jody Dean, containing many pictures of our local troops. We salute them all.
But it was only the civilians like me in line who griped about the conditions. The soldiers just moved along in silence, big grins on their faces, cuddling the wives and children who huddled close to share a warmth that had nothing to do with socks or coats or the outside temperature. Please say a prayer for those still over there.
If you have someone overseas this year, better get that package in the mail today. And just in case you wondered, this is how Santa gets around in the desert.http://www.kluv.com/12-15-2009/5897148
Scroll down to the Christmas soldier video by Jody Dean, containing many pictures of our local troops. We salute them all.
Monday, December 14, 2009
Just A Note
Jake was telling me yesterday at Sunday School about a friend of his (we'll call him Good Neighbor Sam) who happened to come home from work one afternoon last week just as a gentleman stepped off the porch next door, with FedEx box in hand. GNSam went up to him and asked what the guy was doing. Guy said something unintelligible. Sam took the box, looked at the address, and saw it was indeed intended for the folks next door. Sam asked if the guy had recently changed his name. Guy ran off. Sam kept the box until folks came home, then delivered it after making a telephone call to the owners. Now, GNSam is a big burly intimidating guy, and I'm not. So while I applaud his actions, it makes me want to ask that all y'all out there take caution this season, and don't get into something you can't easily get out of.
Trying to get ready for the day's scheduled events and and out the door last Saturday morning was a real pain. The doorbell kept ringing. Luckily, I can see out but no one can see in. Tales from the general populace such as Jake's about other encounters this time of year have made me wary. I didn't mind opening the door to the neighbor kids asking me to please throw their ball back over the fence. And I didn't mind talking to the sweet young things out selling pretty papers and pretty ribbons for the high school band, although I didn't need to buy their wares. But I drew the line at answering when I looked out and saw three husky hoodie-clad gentlemen of indeterminate status standing ready to shove their way inside if I had opened the door. I don't care what they were selling or even if their collection cause was a good one, they didn't get to talk to me. Heck, even the guys walking around carrying Bibles don't get an opening. Hubby has the right idea, he answers the door armed and ready.
But then anyone who regularly looks at our house would have known he wasn't home that day, because the car was gone. And I have no idea who might be watching, or when. Because when I got up at 3:30 Sunday morning and walked into the kitchen for a wake-up-cup, I noticed the living room was brighter than normal. But not from lamps in our house, it was from a spot light, and someone trying to look into my home. Before I could react and dial 911 the light was off and they were gone.
These are desperate times, guys. And desperate times call for desperate measures. Don't take anything for granted. Keep ALL your doors locked, and that includes the one from the garage to the inside of the house. Look out to see if anyone is lurking on the street before you open the door to go out for the mail. And for pete's sake, don't be a hero. Good intentions are worth nothing if the result is you getting hurt.
Hugs, peace, and joy.
Trying to get ready for the day's scheduled events and and out the door last Saturday morning was a real pain. The doorbell kept ringing. Luckily, I can see out but no one can see in. Tales from the general populace such as Jake's about other encounters this time of year have made me wary. I didn't mind opening the door to the neighbor kids asking me to please throw their ball back over the fence. And I didn't mind talking to the sweet young things out selling pretty papers and pretty ribbons for the high school band, although I didn't need to buy their wares. But I drew the line at answering when I looked out and saw three husky hoodie-clad gentlemen of indeterminate status standing ready to shove their way inside if I had opened the door. I don't care what they were selling or even if their collection cause was a good one, they didn't get to talk to me. Heck, even the guys walking around carrying Bibles don't get an opening. Hubby has the right idea, he answers the door armed and ready.
But then anyone who regularly looks at our house would have known he wasn't home that day, because the car was gone. And I have no idea who might be watching, or when. Because when I got up at 3:30 Sunday morning and walked into the kitchen for a wake-up-cup, I noticed the living room was brighter than normal. But not from lamps in our house, it was from a spot light, and someone trying to look into my home. Before I could react and dial 911 the light was off and they were gone.
These are desperate times, guys. And desperate times call for desperate measures. Don't take anything for granted. Keep ALL your doors locked, and that includes the one from the garage to the inside of the house. Look out to see if anyone is lurking on the street before you open the door to go out for the mail. And for pete's sake, don't be a hero. Good intentions are worth nothing if the result is you getting hurt.
Hugs, peace, and joy.
Monday, December 7, 2009
Blue Monday
First of all, I pay tribute to those who gave the ultimate gift on this date in 1941. And then I celebrate two of the unsung Soldiers in my life: Annie Benecke, ATC, and Noreen Arao, DI. Wish I knew where they are. I’d send them thanks for enriching my life.
All the troops from our brigade are home now, and will enjoy a Christmas with their loved ones and a tree in their own home instead of the tiny plastic ones we wives shipped that could not lift their spirits very much but spread as much cheer as possible in the tiny tents and trailers on that sand-blown patch of ground.
Sitting at the party yesterday, I asked Jim about his tree. He said he decorated the tiny green plastic thing with the tiny multi-colored plastic ornaments I had sent. The guys in his shop enjoyed it, but mostly in silence, sometimes just lightly running a loving finger over the white plastic star on the top, not saying anything, for to give voice to thoughts is to make them real. After the season was over, Jim stowed it away in his trailer. But when he was packing up his stuff to ship home, he again set the tree on a table in the shop, leaving it for the troops that were replacing his unit. I suppose it sits there today, doing nothing to warm their feet, but maybe warming their hearts just a little.
After we got home yesterday afternoon, Jim shed his uniform and quickly was back into sweats, then assumed the position on the living room chair, cup of coffee in one hand, paperback book in the other. Within an hour, he was snoozing away. A few minutes later, I noticed KTT, on the rug just in front of the coffee table, batting around what looked like either a very little snake or a very long worm. When I tried to get it, he refused to let go, burying it under his paws and daring me to move a step closer. So I took Jim's shoe, which was conveniently located on the floor next to the ottoman, and playfully distracted him long enough for me to pick up the green thing.
Neither snake nor worm. Evidently kitty had gone into Jim's bathroom and seen the pile of dirty uniforms on the floor, along with all the other military accessories, and found a boot blouser.
I retrieved the other one from the floor, and placed the two of them on the counter, ready for the next drill weekend. Came back to the living room to see KTT's nose buried in the shoe, trying to find the "toy." He may not be very smart, but he is quite observant. And, come to think of it, quite logical.
The flag that flew over their Iraqi base is now in a wooden case hanging proudly in full view on the wall just under the stairs. The awards and certificates signed by President Bush are stowed carefully in the plastic box with all the other awards and certificates earned during Jim’s long military career. And there's still the pile of dirty uniforms on the bathroom floor, his boots are under the bedroom chair, and his fleece and watch cap are still on the ottoman, where he threw them last night. But that’s ok.
The first Monday in December may be a Blue Monday for some, but for me it is the best. Because this year my Soldier is home. With me.
All the troops from our brigade are home now, and will enjoy a Christmas with their loved ones and a tree in their own home instead of the tiny plastic ones we wives shipped that could not lift their spirits very much but spread as much cheer as possible in the tiny tents and trailers on that sand-blown patch of ground.
Sitting at the party yesterday, I asked Jim about his tree. He said he decorated the tiny green plastic thing with the tiny multi-colored plastic ornaments I had sent. The guys in his shop enjoyed it, but mostly in silence, sometimes just lightly running a loving finger over the white plastic star on the top, not saying anything, for to give voice to thoughts is to make them real. After the season was over, Jim stowed it away in his trailer. But when he was packing up his stuff to ship home, he again set the tree on a table in the shop, leaving it for the troops that were replacing his unit. I suppose it sits there today, doing nothing to warm their feet, but maybe warming their hearts just a little.
After we got home yesterday afternoon, Jim shed his uniform and quickly was back into sweats, then assumed the position on the living room chair, cup of coffee in one hand, paperback book in the other. Within an hour, he was snoozing away. A few minutes later, I noticed KTT, on the rug just in front of the coffee table, batting around what looked like either a very little snake or a very long worm. When I tried to get it, he refused to let go, burying it under his paws and daring me to move a step closer. So I took Jim's shoe, which was conveniently located on the floor next to the ottoman, and playfully distracted him long enough for me to pick up the green thing.
Neither snake nor worm. Evidently kitty had gone into Jim's bathroom and seen the pile of dirty uniforms on the floor, along with all the other military accessories, and found a boot blouser.
I retrieved the other one from the floor, and placed the two of them on the counter, ready for the next drill weekend. Came back to the living room to see KTT's nose buried in the shoe, trying to find the "toy." He may not be very smart, but he is quite observant. And, come to think of it, quite logical.
The flag that flew over their Iraqi base is now in a wooden case hanging proudly in full view on the wall just under the stairs. The awards and certificates signed by President Bush are stowed carefully in the plastic box with all the other awards and certificates earned during Jim’s long military career. And there's still the pile of dirty uniforms on the bathroom floor, his boots are under the bedroom chair, and his fleece and watch cap are still on the ottoman, where he threw them last night. But that’s ok.
The first Monday in December may be a Blue Monday for some, but for me it is the best. Because this year my Soldier is home. With me.
Saturday, December 5, 2009
Saturday's child
Labor started on Friday but I was too young and stupid to know that's what it was. Hubby was working swing/afternoon/morning/mids. Sent him off to work and spent the afternoon alternately walking the hall, trying to sit but could not, discovered laying down was definitely not an option, instead stood at the kitchen counter doing crossword puzzles to pass the time.
He slept that night. I did not. Saturday morning we were hospital-bound at 6:30 AM.
She was born less than two hours later. The labor and delivery personnel at the base hospital were all amazed at the quick, easy birth.
Their words, not mine.
And that was probably the last easy thing involved for this darling girl.
Saturday's child works hard for a living. And she definitely has.
Spent the first year of her life just fighting to survive. The medical community wrote books about her.
Had her first job at nine, a daily babysitting gig after she got home from school, for a family of nurses in the neighborhood. Grammy dropped him off and Mommy picked him up a couple of hours later, after she finished her shift, and bought her groceries, and did whatever else she had to do between work and home that was better done without a toddler at her side.
Next job was at the local beauty shop. Every Saturday for two years she swept hair from the floor and laundered towels. The staff was so impressed by her work ethic that they gave her a small scholarship to help with her college tuition.
Then came pizza waitress during high school, which gave way to pharmacy clerk after she got her first car, then it was on to software sales while she worked her way through college.
Marriage and a baby followed, with jobs at various places one right after another, no letup, while still going to school, and making great grades. Because she had a vision.
And it has stood her in good stead. When layoffs happen, she just knuckles down and goes at it even harder, working 16-hour shifts and weekends, keeping her family fed, clothed, shod, and in church.
She embodies both the Saturday's child works hard for a living and the Sunday's child ideals of bonny, blythe, and fair.
I want to be like her when I grow up.
He slept that night. I did not. Saturday morning we were hospital-bound at 6:30 AM.
She was born less than two hours later. The labor and delivery personnel at the base hospital were all amazed at the quick, easy birth.
Their words, not mine.
And that was probably the last easy thing involved for this darling girl.
Saturday's child works hard for a living. And she definitely has.
Spent the first year of her life just fighting to survive. The medical community wrote books about her.
Had her first job at nine, a daily babysitting gig after she got home from school, for a family of nurses in the neighborhood. Grammy dropped him off and Mommy picked him up a couple of hours later, after she finished her shift, and bought her groceries, and did whatever else she had to do between work and home that was better done without a toddler at her side.
Next job was at the local beauty shop. Every Saturday for two years she swept hair from the floor and laundered towels. The staff was so impressed by her work ethic that they gave her a small scholarship to help with her college tuition.
Then came pizza waitress during high school, which gave way to pharmacy clerk after she got her first car, then it was on to software sales while she worked her way through college.
Marriage and a baby followed, with jobs at various places one right after another, no letup, while still going to school, and making great grades. Because she had a vision.
And it has stood her in good stead. When layoffs happen, she just knuckles down and goes at it even harder, working 16-hour shifts and weekends, keeping her family fed, clothed, shod, and in church.
She embodies both the Saturday's child works hard for a living and the Sunday's child ideals of bonny, blythe, and fair.
I want to be like her when I grow up.
Friday, December 4, 2009
Friday's child
Friday's child is loving and giving. And in that, I would say that all children are, in spirit if not in fact, a Friday's child. For despite the self-centeredness of preservation, it is the very nature of a human child to love unconditionally.
Child abuse runs rampant in our world. We may not see it in the children we know from our neighborhood, or the ones we see at Church, for they are less likely to suffer; but those the counselors see at school are too often merely players on the stage of adult ignorance and rage.
Too often these little ones come to the police station wearing ragged shirts, pants grown way too short flapping over bony ankles, shoes that fit two years ago now rundown at the back by heels that stick over, and usually clutching the hand of a younger child, who they know stands no chance in life without intervention by someone who can show love in a manner that does not include the back of a hand or a wielded belt.
And so they come, more and more each day, to stand quietly just inside the door, until someone notices them. They will clutch a stuffed bear given them by the volunteer at the front desk, and grasp a piece of candy, unwrapped because they know they'll need it later, and wait while adults they've never seen before decide their fate.
They try not to shuffle around, doing their best to remain soundless, invisible, trusting that this step was the right one, that eventually all will be well, that someone will care.
All they ask is a bed not on a cold floor, a blanket big enough to cover both feet and neck at the same time, and a world where there are no slaps in the face and no harsh words that sere their soul.
And so this day I celebrate the front-desk volunteers, the police who gently grasp little hands, the firemen who take up the unwanted child left carelessly behind and carry it to safety, emergency room personnel who find it first and alert authorities, and the teachers and counselors, the people who care daily as much for someone else's child as they do their own.
Child abuse runs rampant in our world. We may not see it in the children we know from our neighborhood, or the ones we see at Church, for they are less likely to suffer; but those the counselors see at school are too often merely players on the stage of adult ignorance and rage.
Too often these little ones come to the police station wearing ragged shirts, pants grown way too short flapping over bony ankles, shoes that fit two years ago now rundown at the back by heels that stick over, and usually clutching the hand of a younger child, who they know stands no chance in life without intervention by someone who can show love in a manner that does not include the back of a hand or a wielded belt.
And so they come, more and more each day, to stand quietly just inside the door, until someone notices them. They will clutch a stuffed bear given them by the volunteer at the front desk, and grasp a piece of candy, unwrapped because they know they'll need it later, and wait while adults they've never seen before decide their fate.
They try not to shuffle around, doing their best to remain soundless, invisible, trusting that this step was the right one, that eventually all will be well, that someone will care.
All they ask is a bed not on a cold floor, a blanket big enough to cover both feet and neck at the same time, and a world where there are no slaps in the face and no harsh words that sere their soul.
And so this day I celebrate the front-desk volunteers, the police who gently grasp little hands, the firemen who take up the unwanted child left carelessly behind and carry it to safety, emergency room personnel who find it first and alert authorities, and the teachers and counselors, the people who care daily as much for someone else's child as they do their own.
Thursday, December 3, 2009
Thursday's child
Thursday's child has far to go. And it is definitely true of this one. A military wife, moving from pillar to new post, making a house into a home in minimum time, even when the curtains she bought for the last place don't fit any of the windows in the new one, because it seems no two architects ever had the same idea about windows in the huts and apartments charitably called "base housing."
But life as a Navy wife was good. Right up until the day he breathed his last and she became a widow, left to raise the children on her own. Later, she smiled bravely and watched her sons go off to war, just like their Dad. Death is difficult, but at least it's final. Waiting at home for word from the front was the hardest thing she ever did, for it just went on and on, with no end to the tears, no respite for the prayers, no let-up on the fears. She learned that when a nightmare woke her, the best thing to do was get up and do something else, anything else, for to go back to sleep too quickly only meant the return of the dream and its horror.
And so, to pass the days, she went to work and made HR her mission. And to pass the midnights, she began to research the family she had not only joined by marriage but had taken to her heart. And became so enthralled with genealogy that she began to take vacations to LDS in Salt Lake City, early on spending days sitting at tables looking through books of records, then when technology caught up, in front of computers, searching for names and dates, and finding wills and deeds and marriage notices from centuries past.
These days she's retired, delivering food each week to the elderly of the community. She still goes to LDS at least twice a year, new husband in tow, for that would have been a deal-breaker, if he had not shared her passion.
And so on this day I celebrate this dear sweet cousin, whose birthday happens to be on Thursday this year, who has gone so far so many times, and made my own journey so much easier.
Likewise, I celebrate the members of the HR community who, despite decreased available corporate funding, work long hours to search for and find just the right person for the right job.
And the meals on wheels volunteers who, despite dwindling funds and increased costs, continue to travel far and wide to feed the hungry.
All the Thursday's children around this great Nation, who may have far to go, but gladly travel the extra mile, with a smile, and a prayer.
But life as a Navy wife was good. Right up until the day he breathed his last and she became a widow, left to raise the children on her own. Later, she smiled bravely and watched her sons go off to war, just like their Dad. Death is difficult, but at least it's final. Waiting at home for word from the front was the hardest thing she ever did, for it just went on and on, with no end to the tears, no respite for the prayers, no let-up on the fears. She learned that when a nightmare woke her, the best thing to do was get up and do something else, anything else, for to go back to sleep too quickly only meant the return of the dream and its horror.
And so, to pass the days, she went to work and made HR her mission. And to pass the midnights, she began to research the family she had not only joined by marriage but had taken to her heart. And became so enthralled with genealogy that she began to take vacations to LDS in Salt Lake City, early on spending days sitting at tables looking through books of records, then when technology caught up, in front of computers, searching for names and dates, and finding wills and deeds and marriage notices from centuries past.
These days she's retired, delivering food each week to the elderly of the community. She still goes to LDS at least twice a year, new husband in tow, for that would have been a deal-breaker, if he had not shared her passion.
And so on this day I celebrate this dear sweet cousin, whose birthday happens to be on Thursday this year, who has gone so far so many times, and made my own journey so much easier.
Likewise, I celebrate the members of the HR community who, despite decreased available corporate funding, work long hours to search for and find just the right person for the right job.
And the meals on wheels volunteers who, despite dwindling funds and increased costs, continue to travel far and wide to feed the hungry.
All the Thursday's children around this great Nation, who may have far to go, but gladly travel the extra mile, with a smile, and a prayer.
Wednesday, December 2, 2009
Wednesday's child
Perhaps it's true that Wednesday's child is full of woe. He certainly filled that bill, and has seen more than his fair share of misery and war. He is a father who missed many Christmases and other "special" days.
Those of us at home tend to focus mainly on being left behind, but there is another side to the tale. He recalls standing watch on the bridge of a ship at sea on Christmas Day, flying a tired old transport airplane through the dark and starry night on Christmas Eve, eating mess hall/ward room turkey surrounded by a bunch of sad and gloomy male faces, and finally crashing on a lonely bunk in some far away place and wondering what it was like for the family back home.
But he never questioned why he was there, doing what he did. As he tells me, we are the land of the free only because first and foremost we are the home of the brave.
On this snowy morning I am aware that many of Point's finest who listened to the speech last night will soon deploy into harm's way. I am convinced that they are not "the enemy camp" but are those referenced by George Orwell when he said, "People sleep peaceably in their beds at night only because rough men stand ready to do violence on their behalf."
And so I am grateful for this rough and ready man, this Wednesday's child, and those like him, who go, in spite of fear, into the unknown of battle, who run toward the gunfire instead of away, who march with faith into the land of a people who not only do not love you but also seek your death in the most horrible of ways, and those who discover ultimately that hearts are the same all over the world, that all parents want the same future for their children, that it does not matter the day or holiday, that what is done with unconditional love is never done in vain.
Those of us at home tend to focus mainly on being left behind, but there is another side to the tale. He recalls standing watch on the bridge of a ship at sea on Christmas Day, flying a tired old transport airplane through the dark and starry night on Christmas Eve, eating mess hall/ward room turkey surrounded by a bunch of sad and gloomy male faces, and finally crashing on a lonely bunk in some far away place and wondering what it was like for the family back home.
But he never questioned why he was there, doing what he did. As he tells me, we are the land of the free only because first and foremost we are the home of the brave.
On this snowy morning I am aware that many of Point's finest who listened to the speech last night will soon deploy into harm's way. I am convinced that they are not "the enemy camp" but are those referenced by George Orwell when he said, "People sleep peaceably in their beds at night only because rough men stand ready to do violence on their behalf."
And so I am grateful for this rough and ready man, this Wednesday's child, and those like him, who go, in spite of fear, into the unknown of battle, who run toward the gunfire instead of away, who march with faith into the land of a people who not only do not love you but also seek your death in the most horrible of ways, and those who discover ultimately that hearts are the same all over the world, that all parents want the same future for their children, that it does not matter the day or holiday, that what is done with unconditional love is never done in vain.
Tuesday, December 1, 2009
Tuesday's Child
Sometimes it's hard to see that a Tuesday's child is full of grace. The baby that had been so placid for her first few weeks suddenly became a terror. Daytime fussiness was a way of life, she seemed to be always hungry but wouldn't eat for more than a minute or two. Nights were filled with pitiful cries for no apparent reason, disturbing the neighbors so often they called CPS. But investigation showed a home that was tastefully decorated and filled with love, no signs of physical trauma to the child, and parents who had tried everything they knew, to no avail.
It was a CASA volunteer, also coincidentally born on a Tuesday, who wondered about it for prayer-filled days and sleepless nights after the visit, and asked the family to make an appointment with a particular pediatric specialist, who noticed a slight, almost inaudible sound in her ears when she listened to the little heart. A valve had not closed after birth, as it should have. The baby's plaintive cries were simply a fight to try to get air into the tiny lungs.
Surgery took care of the problem. And finally the Tuesday's child began to thrive. Tantrums after that were simply a result of the terrible twos, and dealt with in appropriate fashion.
Two years later, the little family invited the CASA volunteer to their home for Christmas Eve dessert. Over homemade pie, Mom wrestled the little one from left to right arm and back again, and said, "I never got a chance to ask you before, do you have medical training? Is that what led you to suspect the heart problem?"
"No," the petite blond answered with a sweet smile, "but I serve the Great Physician. I approach every case with the same first step: I pray, and I ask God to show me the right thing to do, and then I wait for His answer. It doesn't matter whether the scenario is complicated or straight-forward, I simply believe it is a matter of faith to stand up for those who cannot stand up for themselves."
And so today I celebrate CPS and CASA volunteers; pediatricians; surgeons; NICU and surgical nurses; all those who solve the puzzle of a child in distress, and make it right, on a Monday, or a Tuesday, or any other day of the week.
It was a CASA volunteer, also coincidentally born on a Tuesday, who wondered about it for prayer-filled days and sleepless nights after the visit, and asked the family to make an appointment with a particular pediatric specialist, who noticed a slight, almost inaudible sound in her ears when she listened to the little heart. A valve had not closed after birth, as it should have. The baby's plaintive cries were simply a fight to try to get air into the tiny lungs.
Surgery took care of the problem. And finally the Tuesday's child began to thrive. Tantrums after that were simply a result of the terrible twos, and dealt with in appropriate fashion.
Two years later, the little family invited the CASA volunteer to their home for Christmas Eve dessert. Over homemade pie, Mom wrestled the little one from left to right arm and back again, and said, "I never got a chance to ask you before, do you have medical training? Is that what led you to suspect the heart problem?"
"No," the petite blond answered with a sweet smile, "but I serve the Great Physician. I approach every case with the same first step: I pray, and I ask God to show me the right thing to do, and then I wait for His answer. It doesn't matter whether the scenario is complicated or straight-forward, I simply believe it is a matter of faith to stand up for those who cannot stand up for themselves."
And so today I celebrate CPS and CASA volunteers; pediatricians; surgeons; NICU and surgical nurses; all those who solve the puzzle of a child in distress, and make it right, on a Monday, or a Tuesday, or any other day of the week.
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