Can We String Some Together?

The night Demar Hamlin’s heart stopped no one asked each other which God they were praying to, or what words they were saying, or who they voted for. We all just prayed, begged, stormed the throne room of grace pleading for Demar. Friends hugged each other, strangers comforted strangers. We fell asleep praying, woke in the middle of night searching for updates, and fell asleep again praying.

Humans have a very short memory. We don’t easily apply what we learn in one situation to other situations. So the next day humans ridicule each other and neglect to put aside petty opinions for the greater good. We witness USA lawmakers arguing, road rage, impatience with family. We ridicule, hold onto hurts. We form opinions based on who we vote for.

But once in a while, the best of our humanness breaks through and we unite our thoughts, and prayers and opinions. Humans being the best of humans.

Recently I read a preview copy of How to Human by Carlos Whittaker @loswhit on Instagram.

www.amazon.com/gp/product/052565402X/ref=nodl_?tag=randohouseinc7986-20&dplnkId=427f8b85-039d-48f2-a6f6-f69fd64de5f8

An incident he relates in the book has stuck in my mind, and watching people unite to pray and cheer Damar on reminds me again how important it is to ‘do’ human.

Can we string a few of those kinds of human reactions together, back to back, day by day, harmonizing in our humanness? Maybe some day. Let’s pray for that.

So Many Hats

For someone who hated hats, my sister Helen surely wore a lot of them.

Firstborn

The earliest hat of course, and one that many will recognize: the keeper of family rules, traditions, family history, and some of the family recipes.  You don’t choose to be the firstborn, the one the parents practice on, make mistakes with, and have the most time to cuddle and coddle, but she deserved every perk the birth order gave her.

Older Sibling

Some of us were close in age to her, and some of us came along when she was just about to leave her teen years, so her hats were different for each. This set of hats she wore with unwavering faithfulness and passion. Even when we were adults, if we were sick, she would call us every day for an update and a list of suggestions. That was partly the sibling hat and the nurse’s cap.

Nurse

Helen’s heart was always to help others. She rarely missed an opportunity to do that and felt so badly for the times when she couldn’t. Her heart for helping and healing called her into the art and science of nursing. When she began her studies, the profession was severe in its requirements, including what uniform to wear, what shoes, and oddly enough, what stockings. The culmination of nursing studies was the ‘Pinning and Capping” ceremony when the students were granted the right to wear the nursing pin, nurse’s cap, and ribbon. The style of the cap and ribbon was distinct for each nursing school so fellow nurses could easily identify where each colleague had trained. Helen’s cap and ribbon were from Holy Name Nursing school in Teaneck NJ, where she trained in the three-year program. As customs changed, slacks and blouses or scrubs replaced dresses and stockings, pins were stored and forgotten in jewelry boxes, and caps were stored on shelves. Helen missed wearing the cap most of all. It was a symbol, and a good one, of the work each nurse had done, of their commitment to a rigorous job with sometimes thankless, sometimes tragic outcomes. Helen always worked Christmas day by choice, so that other nurse colleagues could celebrate with their young children.  Children. She was proud of that hat and rightly so. She wore it with healthy pride and a compassionate heart.

Wife

Helen’s friends assured her she would meet Mr. Right someday, but she wasn’t ever so sure she would. And she didn’t until she was in her forties. When she met Nick, she was sure he was her soulmate, and at forty-two she married him. Helen was most surprised to wear this hat and most thankful for the chance to have more than 30 plus years she had with him. Nick predeceased her by 11 years. She missed this hat most of all, until the day she died.

Nanny

When Helen tossed the scrubs for good, she still had lots of energy left and found a new and surprising way to pour out her affections. She became a nanny to a baby boy who had been newly born to a professional couple. Here was her chance to continue to practice caring for a human life, but more than that, she had an opportunity to care for and nurture a child even though she had none of her own. That family expanded to 2 boys, and then three boys. She never blinked, and never wavered, in her affection for the boys and their parents. She always and evermore referred to them as her boys. Even when they outgrew the need for a nanny, she stayed in touch, and they visited her for a week every summer. That week was the highlight of every summer for Helen.

Grandmother

Grandmother was another hat Helen never thought she would wear, but Nick’s son had three children for Helen to cuddle and enjoy. Anytime they came into her home or her conversation, she was happy. This hat she felt most warmly about. 

Friend

If you were a friend of Helen, you had a cheerleader, confidant, and faithful friend. Her compassion and concern for you was deep. She always wanted the best for you and was happy to celebrate life’s good times, and more than willing to walk with you in times of trouble.

Auntie Hat

If you got to call her aunt, she loved you with care, and prayers, and knitted and sewed everything she could for your pleasure. Her hat in my children’s lives was one part Aunt and one part Grandma. She felt both roles needed to be filled for my children and she did that with pure joy.

The Unmatched Hat

So many hats and there were others as well, but the hat she wore for me was unmatched, unique, and ever evolving. For me, her hat was the oldest sibling, big sister, nurse, nurturer, cheerleader, friend, confidant, and teacher. My passion for knitting and all handcrafts is in large part because of her, as well as our mom. I’d often call her late in the evening and ask for help with a pattern. She could always help me past a challenging spot in the project purely by her describing to me on the phone how to do it.

 I would be remiss if I didn’t add the role of mother-figure. She and I struggled with this one, but she was 31 and I was 13 when our mother died. I always thought it ironic that our ages were mirror images.  As the oldest sibling, and the one still living at home, the hat was tossed to her. If she didn’t like it, she never let on, unlike me, who railed against it at every turn. My angst was not against her as much as it was against my reality of losing my mom so young. Helen understood that and bore the brunt. She nursed me through it all, from the first moment on. The night our mom died Helen curled up in my twin-sized bed and slept next to me. She might have said it was for her comfort too, but I think she knew that I could not have borne the weight of that first night without Mom in the next room.

The Last Hat

She wore so many hats so well. When her final days arrived it was my  privilege to be with her.  Dashing off to appointments, navigating the new normal, we did it with laughter, we did it with tears. At her kitchen table one evening, after talking about the past, the present, and the future, she grew quiet.

 After a moment or two, she quietly said, “I am dying. You know that, right? What’s happening to me is terrible. But I am grateful for the time it has given us to spend together.”

We ended up in a tangle of oxygen tubing, crying, and hugging.

A few days later, after another quiet spell, she commented, “When you think about the word terminal, we think it means the end. But when we travel by train, we travel to terminals. They’re just part of our journey, until we reach our destination. That’s not the end, that’s the beginning of the purpose of the journey. If I was a writer, I’d write about that.”

She meant that for herself as well as me.

In the Emergency room, a week or so before she passed away, she saw me fighting my tears and grabbed my hand.

“Don’t cry. It makes me sad. We have had so many good times. Remember them.”

“I want more of them.” I lost the fight against tears.

“I know. But the ones we have had are precious.”

I knew Helen had turned a corner that night. Her final battle had begun.

My sister was a woman of many hats. But the ones I am most grateful for, the ones which is my greatest privilege to have, the ones that will live in my heart forever, are the ones she wore for me.

A recipe for Grief

Grief is stealthy. It doesn’t usually attack head on. It prefers to sneak up on me when my guard is down.

It very effectively did that yesterday, one day short of a year from my sister’s diagnosis of stage 2 ovarian cancer. But the realization of that isn’t what caught me off guard.

My brother wrote that he’d been in contact with a friend of my sister. The friend wrote that the last time he spoke with Helen, a couple of weeks before she died, she had asked for 2 of her own recipes which she had misplaced. He attached the recipes in the email.

The email didn’t hit bother me even though I immediately remembered overhearing that phone call.

That memory didn’t bother me.

I opened the attachment and there it was; the sucker punch, grieve’s modus operandi. The recipes were written in my sister’s handwriting. I wasn’t expecting her actual handwriting, which like a thumbprint, is unique to all of us.

My feelings started with just a gasp, but rose quickly from the void recently created by her death.

A gasp, a sigh, a groan, then deep silent sobs, and finally audible sobs, which summoned my husband to my side with a ready embrace.

Grief is never finished with its ambush of me until it reminds me it will compound my loss again someday when I lose another loved one. Grief reminds me how fragile my loved-ones’ lives are. How fast and fleeting is mine.

But grief, where is your victory? By reminding me of the fleetingness of life you remind me to treasure each moment, to store up memories in my heart, which you can not destroy.

Grief retreated. I know it will sabotage me again. But it can not win the day. I have a Savior Who has overcome death.

“O death, where is thy victory? O death, where is thy sting?”

1 Corinthians 15:55 ASV

https://youtu.be/rnRD1XxKOk0

https://bible.com/bible/12/1co.15.55.ASV

Life Without Mom

One hundred and two years ago today, my mom, Helen Devlin Murphy was born. I sometimes wonder how much I am like her, whether I would have made her proud or if we would have grown from mother/daughter to friends. What would we have disagreed on, argued about, come to agree on. Would it have been a relationship that was a roller coaster, eye- rolling annoyance, or a warm and trusting relationship?

I wonder if she had lived into my teen and adult years how her presence would have impacted the me I am today.

I will never know. My memories are scattered, mostly vignettes, and as much as it’s hard to admit, mostly dim and dimming.

I think I know how her loss impacted me. Imagine a tsunami hitting a beach where I am standing alone. That about defines the loss.

I was 12 when she was diagnosed with an aggressive form of leukemia. She died 9 months after diagnosis. I imagine the outcome would have been different today, 57 years later. But about this I can only wonder.

If you are an adult with a mom, tell me about it. There is in me a gaping vacuum which is curious and longing to know what it’s like to have a mom as an adult.

On this day, 102 years after her birth, nearly 53 years after losing her, I allow myself to look into the void and wonder. But most days not.

If you have a mom as an adult, good or bad, consider what it would be like to do life without her, and do me a favor: call her. Chat about everything important or nothing of significance. Do that for me, because I can’t.

Eggnog at Grandpa Devlin’s

My grandfather owned a bar called the El Rancho Saloon in our small New Jersey town of Coytesville. As a kid I thought it clever that Grandpa had named his business in the style of the Old West. As an adult I wonder why an Irishman named Devlin, who emigrated from Ireland by way of England, named his town-famous bar after a place he had never been. Maybe it was his way of assimilating to his new country. The saloon actually appeared in some silent movies when Fort Lee, NJ, was home to the newborn film industry.

Grandpa and Grandma lived in rooms off the main room of the tavern, perhaps to economize as they built the business. Although it probably seemed natural to a man from the Ol’ Sod to live in rooms off his pub, I knew that there was no other house in our little world that had a bar that spanned the width of the room with floors that sagged under the weight of full and ready beer kegs. Mom and Dad made sure we only visited when the bar was closed.

Once a year my brother and I climbed onto bar stools, me in a smocked calico dress, my brother in a cowboy shirt, and spun on the stools until Grandpa served up glasses of Christmas eggnog, which my mother had checked and double checked wasn’t spiked: because once, she had forgotten.

Grandpa had survived the ravages of the Great War trenches, the deprivations of the Great Depression and the World War Two Homefront, but he never held back on the ingredients. His recipe was heavy in cream, spiced with the seasonings of the season, cinnamon, nutmeg, vanilla, and sugar. He used generous amounts sugar and more for good measure because it was only once a year that he made his recipe.

The scent of the spices rose up from the glasses and invited us to imbibe. We never hesitated and were never disappointed. Except for that one time when there was an unexpected bite in our throat.

The calico dresses, the spinning bar stools, the grandpa, are gone. But the aroma that escapes from those annual pools of creamy goodness take me back to moments of spinning on a bar stool in a smocked dress anticipating my first sip. Despite the calorie and fat content, I imbibe because it is still, after all, once a year.

    

           

Abhorrent Little Worms

Abhorrent. What a great word, and in today’s cancel culture I get to throw it around a lot. The evening news gives me lots of reasons; who just stretched the definition of the word promise, or which big wig’s toupee just slipped and exposed their abhorrentness.  Yes, abhorrentness is a word I just made up. English is living its best life, adding to itself every day.

“I would hate to miss National Maureen Lewicki half day”

What made me use the word today? It is National Gummi Worm Day. Gummi worms get a day, and I don’t even get a half day. If I ever do get a half day, I hope it’s the afternoon as I am not a morning person. I would hate to miss National Maureen Lewicki Half Day by oversleeping.

How will I celebrate National Gumi Worm Day, especially if I find them abhorrent?  Well I am in luck. Today is also National Give Something Away day, so I can observe the day with astonishing joy, by giving away my Gummi Worms. Can I interest you in a handful?

Just the thought of the worms makes me squirm.

A Four Minute Video and an Anniversary

It was just a 4-minute video, but it taught us a lot. Nothing about the subject of the video, but a lot about Dan and me.

When our 38th wedding anniversary rolled around we decided to celebrate in NYC to take in a couple of shows and visit the planetarium. The planetarium was my suggestion which you will doubt the truth of if you know me. If you don’t know me you certainly will doubt it by the end of this, but I really am fascinated by space, planets, and black holes.

At the planetarium we stepped in line for a four-minute video about black holes. I was excited. I have a black hole, more commonly known as a purse. I hoped the video would answer that age-old question ‘Where do the chapped lip balms go after I drop them into my handbag?’

We were directed to stand by a metal railing that encircled a concave floor in front of us, and to watch the floor. This is where the video could be seen.

As the lights lowered, I hurried down the first of the many bunny trails that track up my mind. Why the floor, I wondered, why not the ceiling, the walls, and why were they too cheap to provide chairs? But just before the lights completely dimmed, I spotted it. Right in the center of this floor that would soon to be filled with images of black holes.

 A chapped lip balm.

Just a tiny little thing really, but it sent me deeper down the bunny trail. Did the curators purposefully put the lip balm on the floor of the soon to be black hole? Someone had a subtle sense of humor. Or perhaps someone thought they were putting it into the black hole they carry around on their shoulder and it slipped out and rolled down into the wrong black abyss.

I began to wonder if the owner had begun searching in their bag for the elusive balm, and because it was a cold and windy day in NYC I worried about the person’s dried, cracking lips. Logically I began to think about the cautionary tales of people who used the balms and unwittingly addicted their lips to the waxy, greasy coating.

I began to think how I would have reacted. Swift to jump into action, I imagined myself catapulting over the railing and sliding down the concave screen to retrieve the treasure even though I probably had 6 more of them in my bag. I imagined the horrified shout from the security person dressed to look like a curator, and my scream I when I realized my foot had rammed right through the video screen, yet I had the chap balm in my hand, so, mission accomplished as they say in space science. Do they say that in space science? Yet another bunny trail.

Then mercifully the lights came up, and we were directed to leave the room quickly before allowing our eyes to adjust to the light.

Dan and I had so much to talk about after the video as we headed to the next exhibit. He spoke about the things he hadn’t considered about black holes. “If black holes distort time and space around them, this helps explain the possibilities of time travel, he said thoughtfully.”

He focused then on supermassive black holes, and primordial holes, remarked about the 100 billion galaxies out there, that each have 100 million black holes, and how they regularly devour things. This habit of devouring things I had already known about. I carry a purse after all.

Finally, he realized I hadn’t said a thing.

“What did you get from the video? Only four minutes and it was full of food for thought, wasn’t it?”  he asked.

“Did you see the chapped lip balm at the center of the screen?” I asked.

He looked at me in disbelief, shook his head, and quietly took my hand as we walked.

“Let’s see what else we can find out today,” he said.

I had moved on too, because I started to think about the time that I found 7 pens in my purse.

Keep Running Maggie McRooney, a new fun read!

What a fun, sweet, well written young adult book. I have enjoyed some good chuckles!! Maggie is SUCH a believable character. And here is an added plus for me: when I was a kid my dad had a pink- wait for it- cadillac. I know. I know. Did I get grief for that Cadillac at school as my house was also an unfortunate pink stucco. Uggo.
Anyway doesn’t Maggie’s grandma show up in a pink buick?? Trust me, I can picture that car! Congratulations Edna Waidell Cravitz!! I am so proud if your accomplishment!!!

It’s That Feeling You Had But Every Day

I generally don’t admit to shopping in Walmart, but I was on a hunt for some recently elusive items only Walmart seems to have. As I scanned the shelves in the paper goods aisle, a fellow shopper took my cart and started to walk away.  I heard a woman say, with a certain urgency,

“That’s not our cart, that’s not our cart.”

The urgency in her voice caught my attention, and I turned and saw my cart leaving the aisle assisted by a young boy.

“You can take my groceries, but you’ll have to pay for them,” I said.

Then it occurred to me the child was black, and what I said could sound accusatory because he might not know that my middle name is ‘defuse the situation with cheer.’

 It was two days after George Floyd was killed.

His father graciously apologized, bowed his head, and raised his hands as we do sometimes as we apologize. And he apologized again. And again. I glanced around and realized this was family: husband, wife, and a couple of children. The children watched. Being a teacher, I always notice an audience of children and check for attentiveness. The oldest was wide-eyed, intensely watching his dad.

“No problem,” I said, “I’ve done it myself. I walked off with a woman’s cart once and her handbag was in it! I had it quite a few aisles before I heard an announcement over the PA asking for the cart to be returned. I was so embarrassed, and that woman was really irritated with me.”

The wife chuckled a bit and we went on our way, but as I turned down the next aisle it struck me hard how different the outcome might have been for that boy if HE had mistakenly walked off with the woman’s cart, handbag and all.

When I first heard the term white privilege, I was offended and countered that I was not racist. It took months for me to realize the term isn’t related to white supremacy and I suspect many white people might think they are being accused of being a white supremacist when they hear the term white privilege.  I do not condone white supremacy, but I do unwittingly experience white privilege.

When I don’t hear from my son for a day or two, I pray he is not sick or had a car accident, but when my black friend doesn’t hear from her son, she prays he wasn’t arrested or worse. That’s white privilege. I don’t automatically think my son was arrested and abused or killed in the process.

When a black man of my acquaintance drives home from work he is careful to take the long way home to avoid a neighborhood where a man of color would ‘stand out.’ I am NEVER afraid I would arouse suspicion by my presence. That’s not something I asked for, it’s just something that comes to me by virtue of my birth in a world where people of color continue to dig out of mistreatment.

 I am not racist, but I know now that is not enough.

I need to be Anti-racist: aware of veiled racist statements people make and pointing them out, examining my own knee jerk thoughts and bringing them captive. I dare say we are not even aware of some of the things we think or act on without thinking. We all have assumptions we carry with us that we view the world through.

 Some are seem truly innocent but are wrong.

Some are hurtful.

Some are truly vile.

We all have assumptions we carry with us that we view the world through.

As I left work one St Patrick’s day, a colleague said with all sincerity that she assumed I would come to work the next day with a hangover or not at all. With my heart pounding, my heart breaking, I explained that not all Irish are drunks, that in fact I am a ‘tea-totaler’ and that the real story of Patrick and the hard times the Irish lived through has been clouded by plastic hats and green beer.

When I told my friend, who is black, about that incident and my angst, she said simply, “Yep. I have that feeling you had, but every day.”

 We all need to remember that scriptural warning that the heart is deceitful above all things and beyond cure—and ask God to root out thoughts that have grown deeply, to help each other by pointing them out, and admitting there is a better way of thinking. Some of our neighbors are still waiting to be loved as we love ourselves.

A Sweet Aroma

As I planted my freshly purchased annuals I wondered which flower was giving off such a sweet aroma.

I sniffed each one just before I dropped them into their new mud homes, but I never found that lovely spring messenger.

My work finally done, my grass-stained knees creaking, I gathered my shovels and wandered over to a bed I had not tended. I wanted to at least peak at it, my project for another day.

Tucked in among the Hostas, that plant that can overpower a garden, were some tenacious Lillies of the Valley.

Sweetly peeking out from among the Hostas, they stood unassuming and small, but sent out a fragrance as a message of their presence.

I want to have a fragrance not my own that sends out a message of hope and peace, even if I am nestled in among giants who have none.

Giants who can overwhelm. Like the lilies I want to be unassuming and make no excuse except that the hope is not my doing, and that anyone can have that same hope.

I pushed the Hosta leaves aside, cupped the little flowers in my hands and breathed in deeply, in no rush to leave them.

Yes. I want to be like them: with a fragrance of hope that draws people closer and makes them want to tarry.