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A determined life

09/26/2011 By Darren Nethington 8 Comments

Grandpa left us last week. Finally, after 94 years, he left us. It’s strange. There was a time (was it only last month?) when I couldn’t imagine a world without him. He was always a part of my life. I wake up to the sun, and sleep under the stars, and just like those celestial constants, Grandpa was always here. No matter where I was in the world, he was always with me, somewhere beneath the same sun and stars.

Every couple of weeks, I would call Grandpa to see how he was doing. He always answered like he was expecting your call, and greeted you cheerfully with the time of day, dragging it out— “Gooood morning!” or afternoon, or whatever—and no matter how your day had been going to that point, it was suddenly better. The phone call would usually lead to a shopping trip, and lunch at his favorite restaurant. I would walk beside him and his walker as we trundled slowly up and down grocery store aisles picking up vitamins and mouthwash and his favorite peanut butter cheese crackers. Then it was off to the Cozy Diner for a sandwich and a cup of coffee.

We would end the afternoon chatting quietly in his apartment. Grandpa would speak wistfully of days and people gone by. I would listen with eyes closed, comforted as always by the sound of his voice. As I walked out the door, he would send me off with a hearty “God bless you!” and an admonition to be careful.

Grandpa was in the twilight of his life. He had outlived two wives and his beloved son, yet he chose to remain cheerful and as full of life as his old body would allow. He had the uncanny ability to slough off pain like a worn overcoat and leave it where it fell, having no time for acrimony or regret. His life remained full because he willed it so.

The time came when Grandpa could no longer do simple things like shower, or even walk. He went to the hospital for the last time in early August. At first, he endured breathing treatments and exercise regimens. He realized early on, though, that things were not going to get better. Grandpa had always been the physical and emotional caretaker of our family, a true patriarch in every sense of the word. This new reality simply would not do. Grandpa refused to be a burden on anybody.

“I’m ready to go when the lord is ready to take me,” Grandpa said one day. With that, he refused breathing treatments and exercise of any kind. He wanted comfort care only—morphine and water and a pillow fluff every now and then.

The vigil began.  On the wall in front of his bed hung a picture of him and his first wife, my Grandmother, who passed in 1986. On another wall, there was a picture of him and his second wife, Miriam, who passed in 2005. When he wasn’t surrounded by family, I imagined him nodding off to sleep with thoughts of seeing them again.

Toward the middle of the second week, Grandpa fell asleep one day and never woke up. In the end, he died as he had lived, on his own terms and with minimal fuss. He lived as he wanted, as long as he wanted.

We should all be so lucky.

Filed Under: MISC, Nostalgia, Spirituality Tagged With: , , , , ,

Saint Peter, a Priest, And a College Student Are in a Boat . . .

09/15/2011 By Rima Tessman 4 Comments

One summer during college, I went on a retreat with my Catholic youth group. And not just any retreat, but a canoeing retreat. It took place at Canada’s stunningly beautiful Algonquin Provincial Park and I regretted it from the moment I realized I’d have to row a canoe and occasionally even carry that canoe, plus my worldly belongings, over my own head.

It was hot, there were swarms of bees, and you couldn’t even catch a break when we stopped to rest because that was scripture reading time. The campground, when we reached it, wasn’t so much a campground as a small secluded island with no plumbing or electrical outlets to plug your curling iron in. We cooked by fire, put iodine tablets in the river water to cleanse it, and slept on the forest floor in tents.

Despite all that, Algonquin was pretty impressive. I was with my closest friends, had my eye on a handsome Quebecois, and was appreciating the beauty of creation despite myself. You can’t help but feel closer to God when you paddle by a single moose standing in shallow waters with mountains and the setting sun as backdrop. Or when you’re kicking back by the fire with a brewski and some chips.

On the last day of the retreat, after we’d packed up the campsite and put out the fires, we had the opportunity to receive the sacrament of confession. The prospect of dragging out your sins without the benefit of a confessional window to hide behind was daunting to say the least, but our chaplain – Father Sunshine – was a stand-up priest who had good rapport with young people and was always quick with a kind word or joke. Besides, after three days in the woods, we felt humble and changed. One by one, we took the plunge.

I was the last to go and when my turn came, I went to town. There was no end to my transgressions, no sin left behind. Big ones, small ones, I lifted each one individually and cast it off like refuse into the abyss. In the past I’d questioned the necessity of confession as a sacrament, believing that no mediator was needed between me and God. But there is something about laying your faults bare, about lifting them up and giving them away, that is spectacularly liberating. At least, it was very good for me.

Afterward I felt like a new person. My backpack was suddenly lighter, there was a bounce in my step. But even more importantly, I knew that in just six short hours, I’d be showering and sleeping in a real bed. What I didn’t know was that while I was going through my litany, everyone else in the group had paired up. One by one, the canoes and their occupants set off towards home base as the wind picked up and a steady rain began to pour.

Father Sunshine and I were the only two left.

He looked at me, I looked at him.

“I guess we’re buddies” he said.

Next thing you know, I’m in a boat with my confessor. It’s driving rain and I’m doing my best to keep the canoe moving forward in a straight line. Father Sunshine is patient and gives gentle advice, but in his heart of hearts I know he’s marveling at my sins. It’s a predicament to say the least, only made worse by the fact that we’re drifting farther away from the other canoes in the middle of a storm.

The only redeeming thing about the situation is that I’m about to die a saint.

After awhile, even father Sunshine starts looking worried and suggests we ask Saint Peter to keep an eye on us and give us faith. Saint Peter, of course, is the apostle who with God’s help rowed his boat safely ashore in the raging sea of Galilee while Jesus slept.

Even in my terror, I couldn’t help but notice the poetry of the situation. Especially when, after dispensing his advice, Father Sunshine put down his oars and lit up a Marlboro Light.

“Keep rowing,” he told me, “I have faith in you.”

I don’t know how we made it out alive, but it was the best penance I ever did.

Filed Under: Humor, Spirituality

Things that go bump in the night

07/05/2011 By Darren Nethington 8 Comments

There has been a mildly entertaining  proliferation of ghost stories on TV lately: Ghost Hunters, A Haunting, Ghost Lab, and my personal looking-at-a-car wreck favorite, Celebrity Ghost Stories—because it’s final proof that there is an afterlife for aging celebrities who can’t find meaningful work (unless you count Lifetime Movies).

On Ghost Hunters, there are these guys who spend nights in supposedly haunted old buildings. They come prepared with night vision, tape recorders and various gadgets designed to catch elusive denizens of the afterlife in the act of being themselves. I enjoy the history of these places, but the actual nuts and bolts of ghost hunting is rather boring. They set up cameras here, recorders there. They have long strategy discussions– “Um, it’s kind of cold in here, so maybe we’ll set something up here,” or “The guy said he saw a shadow move here, so, um, we’ll put a camera on this table.”

Then the lights go out, and we get to watch a half an hour or so of greenish tinged people asking each other if they heard something. Invariably, somebody will play back their Electronic Voice Phenomena (EVP) recorder. They will swear they heard an evil entity tell them to “Get out!” No matter how much I strain my ears, I can’t hear anything that resembles a ghostly admonition. To me, it sounds more like “You guys are a bunch of idiots.” Helpfully, the subtitle that accompanies the EVP play back verifies our intrepid ghost hunter’s translation. Since the guys usually stay the night anyway, I stand by own inexpert interpretation.

Remember Star Trek? There was always some hapless red shirted guy named Kowalski who was going to die within 5 or 6 frames of landing on a planet. On Ghost Hunters, there is always a guy in frumpy clothes who has to sleep by himself in some basement room where somebody supposedly died violently. This poor schlep doesn’t die, but at the first wheezy EVP, you can count on him running screaming up the stairs, his flash light beam bouncing frantically on the walls.

At some point, a ghost hunter will confront the entity, mano y plasma. There is a big build up to this, with lots of coming-up-next teasers. Man, you can’t wait for the commercials to get over with so you can see this guy show this ghost who’s boss. Then the moment arrives—and we get two minutes of a guy talking to himself. I waited for this? I can get that looking out my front window, without the commercials. Just once I’d like to see one of his buddies pop a balloon behind him while he’s calling out the ghost.

“Show yourself,” the guy says, eyes all big. “Face me! FACE ME, DAMN IT!” And then, POP!

Now that’s entertainment.

Photo courtesy of:  http://www.nuo2x2toys.com/wp-content/uploads/2010/10/PM-revenge-ghost.jpg

Filed Under: Entertainment, Humor, MISC, Opinion, Spirituality Tagged With: , ,

The glory of women

06/06/2011 By Robin Grosland 3 Comments

I want to sing of the glory of women.  But how do I do this without coming off sexist?  How do I do this without slighting or disparaging men?  How do I do this without offending those who have experienced life differently?

I speak from the heart, of what I know, and hope that my words are received with understanding.

To the men:  You are wonderful.  You have so many gifts and talents.  You have a presence that touches the heart of a woman.  You have a glory all your own.  But it isn’t your turn today.  Please forgive me for leaving you out and take some time to think about how blessed you are to have incredible women in your lives.

Many of the traits I discuss apply to men and to women.  There are many women who do not fit these categories.  I do not intend to generalize.  Generalizations just don’t work; there is always an exception.  Instead I will speak in specifics.  I will speak of women I’ve known.

I’ve known women who were tender.  They can reach my heart with just a look.  They can soothe my soul with their arms around me.  They can find the pain I couldn’t see and help me understand.  They can guide me to my own healing.

I’ve known women who were strong.  They can defend my right to be who I want to be.  They can stand up to abusive behavior to defend the defenseless.  They can rebuild families that have been torn apart by people who just didn’t care.  They can endure all that life throws at them.

I’ve known women who were brilliant.  They seek knowledge and truth.  They study human behavior so that they can meet the needs of others.  They look into another’s eyes and read their soul.  They learn so that they might teach.

I’ve known women who were generous.  They give their lives in the service of family.  They willingly sacrifice what they used to want for something better, the promise of tomorrow.  They serve in communities, families, churches, schools, non-profit organizations, and in all the areas we don’t see.

I’ve known women who were humble.  They take joy in the success of others.  They encourage others without feeling diminished by their accomplishments.  They listen to the cries of others who ask that they do more — and they do.

I’ve known women who were spiritual.  They listen to their hearts believing that wisdom will follow.  They trust in God believing that blessings are offered.  They connect with nature believing that there is more to this world than we can see or understand.

Biology aside, we would be lost without women.  There is something so inherently divine about womanhood.  So angelic.  So godlike.  It’s just that some of us don’t know it yet.

And, men, I think you’re really cool, too.

Photo by Graur Codrin.  Courtesy of FreeDigitalPhotos.net.

Read more from Robin at The Mess that is My Life.

Filed Under: MISC, Opinion, Spirituality Tagged With: , , , , , ,

Lessons and Dreams

05/27/2011 By Darren Nethington 7 Comments

I’ve learned that people will forget what you said, people will forget what you did. But people will never forget how you made them feel.

Maya Angelou

Aging, death and dying. I seem to be preoccupied lately with these things. I’m not afraid of them; they happen. I know that I will die. Right now, it’s not the passing that frightens me. I’m way past that. It’s what I’ll leave behind. If I died right now, what would happen to my kids? They have so much learning to do. While sometimes I think that there’s not much I can give them, I know deep down that I would leave an incredible void in their young lives if I were suddenly gone. It’s not arrogance that tells me this. I am old enough to have lost, and there is much more yet to lose. I know the ache of an empty space: that endless yearning for what was and will never be again.   It is my life’s work to prepare my girls for that moment. The moment when I am not here.

I have dreams, sometimes, of people who have left me. A few months ago, I remember lying in my bed in the black quiet of a predawn fall morning. I was in that magical state wherein reality and dreams juxtapose on a backdrop of warm blankets and fuzzy shadows: rabbits in topcoats glanced frantically at their pocket watches while the glowing green clock on my nightstand foretold a dire future of showers and coffee and bills to be paid. I sank deeper into my dreams, the clock be damned.

There I was, sitting at my mother’s old yellow Formica table. We were silently having coffee. Her hair was still impossibly curly and dark black where it wasn’t graying. She was wearing a tattered blue housecoat. She smiled and sipped, and I did the same. Why must the dead always be quiet? I wanted to hear her voice. I wanted Mom to tell me I needed a shave. I wanted her to tell me that she had driven by my house the other day and noticed my lawn needed a trim, and what would people think? Yes, Mom, I would say. I’ll get to it. But we just looked at each other and drank. It was pretty uneventful, as dreams go.  I was frustrated.

Then Mom looked at me over her coffee cup. Silently, and with more eloquence than mere words could achieve, her eyes told me that I was still her little boy and that I was loved, now and always. My frustration left me; peace settled over me like a warm quilt on a cold night.

The alarm rattled and the dream was over. Mom was gone again, for now, but her lesson for me remained: while a part of her was gone, the best part of her was still with me—the love that she had for me, and I for her. It is what I will leave for my children.  They will walk in the knowledge that they were loved, unconditionally, and forever. That will always be with them.

In the end, that may not be as good as a hug. But it sure beats a void.

image source:  http://www.mnartists.org/work.do?rid=61237

Filed Under: MISC, Nostalgia, Parenting, Spirituality Tagged With: , , , , ,

Watching clouds dance

05/23/2011 By Robin Grosland 5 Comments

I haven’t been feeling well lately.  As a result, I have not left my house much.  It’s tough to be out and about when you don’t feel well.

But today I went outside.  It was a beautiful, warm day and I needed it.  I needed to feel the air and sun.  I needed to feel free.  I needed to feel small in comparison to all that surrounded me.

I had planned to read, but my vision was blurry due to a headache.  So instead I moved my chair to the lawn and just lay down.  And I breathed.  Deeply.  I haven’t done that much lately.

And I looked into the sky.  It was a brilliant blue sky.  Clear and solid.  Except for one small white cloud.  Fluffy with a few wispy edges.

As I watched this cloud I noticed it was changing.  The edges were curling.  It was tumbling across the sky.  I watched it work its way south, diminishing as it went.  I was sad to see it leaving.

But then I noticed another one following it.  Where had this one come from?  It wasn’t there a minute ago.  I watched as it too tumbled, only it grew as it did.  It reminded me of the time I worked a cotton candy machine.  As I spun the cone and twirled it around the machine the cotton candy became thicker, building on itself.  That’s what this cloud did.  For a while.  And then it started to disperse as well.

I looked at the spot it had come from and noticed another one forming.  I watched as it grew and changed and disappeared.  I watched as cloud after cloud appeared, seemingly from nothing, over the same spot on the mountain.  I watched as each of them took their turn dancing across the sky trying to catch the others.  And each vanished.

It was beautiful.

And that’s all I did.  For about an hour.  As the world passed me by.

I had so many other things to do.  So many productive and important things.  But were these things more important than watching clouds?  Nope.  Not today.  Today this was what I needed to do.  I needed to sit.  I needed to breathe.  I needed to let everything else go and watch the clouds dance.

Those other things will wait.  They will still be there when the clouds are gone.  Today I needed to feed my soul.  And I did.  I feasted on clouds.  And it was very satisfying.

Photo courtesy of Pixomar.  Provided by FreeDigitalPhotos.net.

Read more from Robin at The Mess that is My Life.

Filed Under: MISC, Opinion, Spirituality Tagged With: , , , , , ,

Are You Who You Want to Be?

05/03/2011 By JulieOrdonez 2 Comments

“So why don’t you? Why don’t you just do it already? I mean, what’s stopping you?”

When my then boyfriend (now husband) and I drove down to grab some dinner one night a few years back I remember he and I struck up a conversation about his interest in the medical field. When I first met him he was on his way toward that path, and he had ambitions and dreams of endless nights of studying, long, caffeinated on-call hours, and the intense pressures that come with a career in the medical field, to be gratified later by the immense sense of love and humanity that comes with helping to save the lives of others. Over the next few years afterward however, he got off course, and so when he and I began discussing this again at this point in time, and I sensed how he obviously hadn’t given up his dream, I uttered those words above to him: Why NOT? I asked. What’s stopping you?

Flash forward to the present. He’s now in the field he always dreamt of, doing what he loves. And while I’m beyond proud of him for taking that dream and running with it, I couldn’t help but sit and wonder about myself. Sure, I’d accomplished a lot in my fairly young life. But I wasn’t exactly where I wanted to be just yet. And why was I not there? Good question.

There are things called fear. Failure. Guilt. Rejection. Doubt. Anxiety. All these emotions that created barriers within myself that stopped me from being where I wanted to be. Things that stop all of us, at one point or another, from what doing what we need to do to be/do/see what we want from life.

“I want to lose the weight, but I just can’t seem to stick to it…”

“I want to fix my marriage, but it’s going to take a lot…”

“I want to go back to school, get my degree, but you know, it’s gonna be hard….”

“If I could do it over again, I would have done something different…it’s too late for that now..…”

“I’ve tried so many other times, and am still in the same place, so what’s the point anymore? “

For me, I had aspirations of everything from wanting to work for a magazine to being a better Christian, a better wife and mom, traveling the world, to losing those last few pounds of baby weight. It’s not that I didn’t think I could do these things; I knew I could;  it was actually taking those steps, taking that deep breath, and the actual diving in that scared me. It’s that fear of the unknown, the having to trust that everything would be alright and letting that control go, that sense of uncertainty that comes with trying something new that stopped me from going for it full force. I’d attempted to go for it multiple times before, only to have the voices of doubt invade my thoughts and erase my confidence, thus stopping me in my tracks.

Sitting in my living room today, having watched the events of this evening unfold and hearing Obama speak of how Bin Laden was dead, several thoughts and emotions ran through me: first, obviously, the great sense of pride I have for our military and our country, of course. Then, I thought of all the other events of the last few years, the war, the massive earthquakes in Japan, Haiti, Chile, the chaos and uncertainty that already exists in our world and the uncertainty that is everyday life, and just how unbelievably precious each and every single breath we take really and truly is. And how trivial our doubts and fears in actuality are in comparison.

Enough. I thought to myself. Just do it. I looked at my husband and said, completely out of context, “That’s it!” After a bewildered look from him, I explained myself. If I sit around and wait for life to happen for me, it never will. Life is precious, it’s a gift, you do what you will with it. You want something? Go get it.  I can work to change things in my own life. I can live the life I was meant to live, I will and deserve to achieve what I want from it. I can think back on that little girl who used to scribble short stories in her notebook, dreaming up her future life and what it would be, and know that I can say to her I did it,mama. I did it.

Laugh more, love more, let stress and insignificance go, focus on what matters and to hell with what doesn’t. Live more.

To quote one of my favorite songs by the band Switchfoot:

“This is your life. Are you who you want to be?”

 

Read more from SJM’s personal blog here.

Image found here.

 

Filed Under: Humor, Motivate, Nostalgia, Opinion, Spirituality

Grandpa’s time machine

04/19/2011 By Darren Nethington 13 Comments

I took a little trip the other day. It wasn’t in a car, or on a bike.  I didn’t even walk. It was a trip through time, you see, and to take it, I only had to sit comfortably on my Grandfather’s couch.  I’ve read that time travel really is possible, if only you could travel at the speed of light, or drop through a wormhole, or perhaps step into one of the innumerable parallel worlds that are said to populate the universe.  I didn’t have to do any of those things.  In fact, I didn’t even have to move.

Grandpa sat grinning at me from his easy chair.  His head bobbed slightly on his frail neck.  His sparse white hair spun like gossamer from above his ears.  He didn’t look like he commanded a time machine, but he was nevertheless in charge of this journey.

Grandpa spoke and off we went.  It was the early 60′s and we were seeing my Dad.  Darrell was his name.  He’s been looking at me from black and white photographs for as long as I can remember:  here he is in a plain white t-shirt and tough guy shades; there again, he’s banging a guitar like Elvis, wearing his jeans rolled up at the cuffs with that damn t-shirt.   My Mom’s in that one, on her knees next to him with her arms outstretched, acting like a weepy teenager with front row seats:  two dumb kids acting up without a care in the world.  But these were only  photos.  Me and Gramps were going back to see the real thing.

Here was Grandpa and my Dad, lingering at a car lot in Southern California.  Dad had his eye on a 40-something Chevy coupe.  He wanted it, but he didn’t have  the money.

“The guy said, take it anyway,” Grandpa said.  “I told your Dad, you won’t take it until you have the cash.”  Grandpa laughed at the memory.  Dad busted his ass for two more months, cleaning canvas bags in some factory, but he finally collected what he needed and bought the car.

“What’s he do when he gets the car?”  said Grandpa.  “He puts these huge mufflers on it, then lowers the front and raises the back.  Bounced all over the place.  Lord.”

“Gramps,” I said, “Didn’t you and Grandma take that thing to the store once and break the eggs on the way home?”

Grinning , Gramps said,  ”That’s what I told your Dad.”

Grandpa steers the time machine elsewhere…or else-when?  We’re in a courtroom.  Dad is standing dejectedly before the judge, Grandma by his side.

“Your Dad got a speeding ticket not a month after he jacked up his car,” says Gramps.  “When they went to court, I told your Grandma to tell the judge to throw the book at him.  The judge says, two months with no driving or 6 months only driving to work.  Your Dad took the two months.  He never got another ticket.”  Grandpa laughed again.  “He said, Dad, you go over 30 miles an hour on that street all the time.  I said, yes, but they can’t hear me a mile away.”

Grandpa was silent after that–our trip was over.  He sat in his chair with his eyes closed, a wistful smile on his lips, his face glowing with bittersweet memories of a son long dead.  Time eventually steals away all that we hold dear.  But sometimes, if we’re quiet (and we throw in with a good skipper), we can get back a little of what was lost.  When we do, we find we never really lost the most important thing of all: love, the essence of every bond that really matters and the one thing that time cannot diminish.  See, Dad may be dead and buried, but he is alive in the time machine that beats in Grandpa’s chest.

You have but to close your eyes and Grandpa’s heart will take you wherever you want to go.

Filed Under: Humor, MISC, Nostalgia, Parenting, Spirituality Tagged With: , , , , , , , , ,

Charlie Sheen and My Grandmother

03/03/2011 By Sheryl Stein 9 Comments

Dear, dear Charlie Sheen.  Watching you implode before the public eye like a supernova hellbent on destroying itself and anything in its path has been riveting, I admit. To be sure, I don’t think I can keep track of the various news stories that have splashed across the screen in the past few weeks. Something about prostitutes, drugs, alcohol, allegedly threatening violence to various ex-wives, having your children removed from your care, stopping production of your sitcom… all you’re missing is a link somehow to the middle east and you’ll hit some sort of perfect storm of newsworthiness.

And your words,  your nonsensical, inflammatory language. They’ve been captured by numerous television and radio outlets, all falling over themselves to have you on in order to boost their ratings. People love to watch a car crash, and you, my friend, are an explosion tantamount to a fiery Indy 500 moment coupled with an atomic bomb. Several web developers have created sites which do different things with your random quotables, all in the name of grabbing their 15 minutes on your back.

It all has made me think of my grandmother.

I never really knew my grandmother, you should understand; she died when I was 11. My direct memories of her involved brief Sunday night phone calls where we talked about Lawrence Welk, trips to Nathan’s for hotdog lunches, and a painting of a rose she made for me which I treasure to this day. I never went inside her Long Island apartment; it was part of a residence filled with the newly-liberated, completely unsupported mentally ill of 1970s New York, intermingled with a lot of elderly people. It was far too scary a place for me, a little girl. I often wonder what it must have been like for her.

My grandmother was, in the parlance of the day, manic-depressive. She endured shock treatments throughout her life as well as many other treatments probably unfathomable to people nowadays. There were points in my father’s and my aunt’s lives where they were sent off to live with aunts and cousins while my grandmother was getting help. How frightened she must have been, and what was worse — the illness or the cure? Back then, mental illness was not only unacceptable, it was stigmatized. You were somehow a defective specimen of humanity. Dignity never entered into the picture.

But my gram attempted a life of dignity in between these times. It couldn’t have been easy, losing her husband pretty early on in all of this. And sure, there was the day when she went out and, apropos of nothing, put money down on a house.  I don’t ever remember her babysitting my brothers and me the way my other grandparents did. My gram was not a regular fixture physically near me; she was like a star I wished upon, but not for myself: for her.

And as I watch Charlie Sheen catastrophically exploding through the cosmos, I’m wishing on him. I’m hoping someone out there will stop him on this path toward self-destruction.  I pray that someone is helping him to harness that light for something better, stronger, and more positive for himself and for his family.

Blazes are not always glorious in my book.

Visit Sheryl’s personal site here.

Image: suphakit73 / FreeDigitalPhotos.net

Filed Under: Entertainment, MISC, Motivate, Opinion, Spirituality

What they didn’t tell you about sex (but should have)

02/02/2011 By Robin Grosland 7 Comments

Do you remember when you and your parents had THE TALK?  You know, the one parents and teens dread in equal amounts?

If you’re anything like me the answer is no.  Not because I don’t have a good memory but because it never happened. 

My parents are conservative.  Not a little conservative, ultra-conservative.  Remember the two set of parents from My Big Fat Greek Wedding?  My parents are not the fun ones.

I’m pretty sure if any of us kids had ever asked my parents if they’d had sex they would have said no; even though they are the parents of four children.

This created some problems for me.  Some vacancies in my knowledge.

I got lots of answers from friends.  Lots from teen magazines.  Some from movies.  And some from boys.

But there was one area that never got covered.  There was information I desperately wish I’d had before I had any sexual experience.

I do not want my children to have the same problem.  We have been open and direct (and hopefully appropriate).  We answer questions.  We initiate discussions.  And we share information.

As each of my children comes of age this is what I tell them.

Sex is not something base.  It is not ugly.  It is not bad.  It is not dirty.  It is important.  And not just for procreation.

Sexuality is a vital part of human nature; it’s part of who we are.  Who we are meant to be.  And it is an important part of a couple’s relationship.

Sex is not something you owe someone.  Not anyone.  Not when you are dating.  Not when you are a couple.  Not when you are married.  Not because they spent a lot of money on you.  Not because it’s the next step.  Not because it’s your job as a spouse.  Not because it’s what they want. 

Sex is giving yourself to another person.  If it is taken from you or you give it unwillingly it will affect you negatively; I believe it will injure your soul.  It’s more than physical.  It’s more than mechanical.  It’s psychological.  It’s spiritual.  It’s a part of you. 

Sex should never be demanded.  It should never be coerced through force, manipulation, or guilt.  Persuasion, maybe sometimes.  Coercion, never.

Sex can be an incredible thing.  It is the ultimate physical bonding, becoming one.  When two people choose to be intimate in this way, it can be a spiritual experience.  It is powerful.

But like all power, it must be used wisely or it can be dangerous.  It must be respected.  Because it is a part of you.

And you are worth it.

Photo by Dynamite Imagery.  Provided by FreeDigitalPhotos.net.

Read more from Robin here.

Filed Under: MISC, Opinion, Parenting, Spirituality Tagged With: , , , ,

My prayers are with you

01/24/2011 By Robin Grosland 12 Comments

My prayers are with you.

I wonder what you think when I say that.  Do you think I am a nut?  Do you appreciate my concern?  Do you shrug it off as meaningless and go on with your day?

I am a religious person.  I believe in God.  I pray and ask for His blessing to be upon those who are struggling, in whatever way.  I believe in the power of prayer.  I also believe in the power of people sharing their hearts and concerns.  Caring for others. When I offer my prayers for someone it is out of caring and concern.

However, I have recently found out that some people find it offensive if prayers are offered in their behalf.

I do not understand.  If someone of another religion prayed for me I would be grateful for their efforts even if I disagreed with their religious choices.  If someone who isn’t religious said they would keep me in their heart I would appreciate it.  I do not understand taking offense at someone offering support in the way that is meaningful to them.

I am afraid I have probably violated others’ feelings on this many times over.  I do not limit my prayers to people I know or people of my religion.  Often, as I read a news story, I find myself stopping to offer a prayer.  I pray for the families of those who have been killed.  I pray for the doctor who is performing a difficult surgical procedure.  I pray for the law enforcement officers that they might be protected and guided in their efforts.  And I wonder how many would be offended that I prayed for them. 

If someone asked me to not pray for them I wouldn’t.  I would respect their wishes.  But when those wishes are not known would they still find it offensive that I offered a prayer in their behalf?

And if it is offensive to some does that mean that I shouldn’t do it?  I sometimes think we have gone overboard trying to keep everyone happy.  There are some people who are just so easily offended.  Do I need to change the way I practice my beliefs to protect their feelings?  Should I change who I am so that they are more comfortable?

We still seem to struggle with religious differences.  People get angry when someone disagrees with them about whether God exists and what He is like if He does.  Or even if God is a he.  People seem to feel threatened that someone is challenging their beliefs.  I wonder if taking offense at my offered prayer is related to that.

I am not writing this to push religion or prayer.  I am seeking to understand.  Because I have tried to figure it out and I just don’t get it.

Photo by africa.  Provided by FreeDigitalPhotos.net.

Read more from Robin here.

Filed Under: MISC, Opinion, Spirituality Tagged With: , , , ,

Vince

01/04/2011 By Darren Nethington 8 Comments

My cousin died today.  It wasn’t unexpected.  He had been suffering from cancer for the last few years.  We’ve all been through that cancer watch.  You get the news, the beginning of it, and then the watch begins.  Doctor visits.  Chemo.  Disbelief.  Hope.  Resignation.  Late night scares and unexpected trips to the hospital.  Is this it?  But this time it isn’t, and the vigil begins anew.

I got a text from my brother.  We lost our cousin today, it said. This may sound silly, but I didn’t want to cry.  I didn’t feel like I deserved to because I wasn’t there for him.   Vince’s brother Scott and the rest of our cousins went through this battle with him from the beginning.  Distance and obligations made it impossible for me to be in the trenches with them.  So I wasn’t a part of all that.

When I was 13, we moved to Canon City, Colorado.  Vince was living there at the time.  He was a few years my senior–the older brother I never had.  We rode our bikes to school together.  We spent afternoons playing Gin with his Uncle Phil.  One day Vince and my brother and I were moving a couch into the house.  The couch fell on my foot and for some reason I blamed Vincent.  I chased him around the sofa trying to get him to fight with me.  He wouldn’t, not because he was afraid.   He just thought fighting was silly.  We did a few laps before I gave up and sat heavily on the back porch steps, gasping for breath.

“Are you tired yet?” Vince had asked me, laughing.

“Yes,” I said, grinning back.  It was impossible to stay angry at Vince.

My cousins live 5 hours away these days.  We don’t see each other much.  In fact, I had only seen Vincent a few times in the last 30 years.  That’s horrible, isn’t it?  We were children together, my cousins and I.  I remember rainy Saturday afternoons where Susie, the oldest cousin, would put on American Bandstand and move the furniture out of the way, and make us dance.  I remember hanging like monkeys out of the gnarled tree that stood in the middle of their backyard.  You would think we would keep in touch.

I saw him once more, last summer.  He was the same Vince.  Except now he was dying.  I was emotional. I wanted to talk about it.

“How are things going?” I asked him.

“I’m alive,” he said.

We talked about old times.  We talked about the future—maybe we could hook up in Reno sometime, or Vegas.  We would drink beer and play Blackjack and stay up late.  We laughed.  There was no talk of this disease, or of death.

Death would get his due.  He always does.  But until proven irrevocably otherwise, as far as Vince was concerned the future was as rosy and full of possibility as always.  He wasted no time crying about what might be.  Here and now, was life.  And it would be lived.

My cousin died today.  I wasn’t there for him, but I cried anyway.

Filed Under: MISC, Nostalgia, Spirituality Tagged With: , , , , ,

Getting it right

12/28/2010 By Darren Nethington 13 Comments

“Mistakes are the portals of discovery.” – James Joyce

I believe in the institution of marriage.  That might sound funny coming from a guy who has been married four times and divorced three, but there it is.  Consider it practice.  In the midst of my previous failures, I learned some valuable lessons that have made my current and final union the type of relationship I always dreamed marriage could and should be.

I learned that you should never let your wife go to bed by herself.  There is nothing so important at 9 or 10 o’clock at night that’s worth letting the woman you love go to sleep alone in a cold bed.  Your video game, your football game, your project—all of these things can wait.  They have their place, for sure.  But when darkness falls and the world slows down, your wife should never feel like spending time with her takes second place to anything.

I learned that winning a meaningless debate is a cold victory indeed.  You may have smugly chalked up the last word,*  but now you also have what seems like an impenetrable wall of silence between you and your wife that just gets bigger as the night wears on.  Feelings of anger and self righteousness soon give way to those of foolishness and self recrimination.  Suddenly being right about who was the oldest Golden Girl seems less vital.

I learned what it means when you say that your spouse is your best friend.  It’s a phrase that has been over used.  Everybody says it.  How many people actually mean it?  You have to feel it deep in your psyche or it means nothing.  Being your wife’s best friend means that she has dwelt for so long in the deepest corners of your soul that for all intents and purposes, she is your soul.  She will always take your part and forever give you the benefit of the doubt, as you will her.  This is a bond that matures over time and without it, all the love in the world is meaningless.

Finally, and most importantly, I learned that I am with my wife because I want to be. She is with me for the same reason. Our worth as human beings is not validated by our relationship.  Rather, it is the other way around—our wonderful and growing relationship is a product of our own feelings of self worth and contentment.  If you’re not happy with yourself you cannot be happy with anybody else.

I’ve  made some mistakes in my time, but mistakes are merely lessons learned.  I am where I am because of them, and I wouldn’t change a thing.

* In the interest of full disclosure, I must admit that I rarely get the last word because my beautiful wife is usually right.  I mention the possibility for illustrative purpose only.

Filed Under: MISC, Motivate, Opinion, Spirituality Tagged With: , ,

Looking for Jesus

12/25/2010 By Kate Geiselman 7 Comments

The only item of holiday paraphernalia in my home that has anything other than decorative significance is a tiny, three-piece Nativity scene that was handed down to me when I got married. My kids call the baby “Little Peg Jesus,” since he is quite literally (due in part to the primitive rendering of his swaddling clothes) a wooden peg with a little gold wire halo. He’s adorable. Not kidding. Best of all, he is glued into a diminutive manger, less than an inch high and lined with real straw.

Mary and Joseph are wooden cones with spheres glued to the tips, also sporting wire halos. Unlike their offspring, they are not cute.  Joseph has two little stumps sticking out from his cone-robe, making him look as though someone has amputated his arms above the elbows. From one of them used to dangle a little acorn-shaped lantern, but the string that attached it broke a couple of years ago. Against all odds, the lantern, no larger than a chickpea, has spent the last several off-seasons in the junk drawer. It has now become part of tradition for the kids to rifle through batteries, screwdrivers, chargers, rubber bands, and tea lights to triumphantly emerge with this tiny bauble, the finishing touch to the Nativity scene. Joseph’s other stump clutches (or, more accurately, is impaled by) a shepherd’s crook.

But poor, poor Mary. Like her hapless husband’s, her gown is a cone, but no arms has she. Affixed to her front is a small spike, meant, I can only surmise, to be hands clasped in prayer. Like all good Madonnas, she is sporting a wimple (is that what it’s called?) and her little wooden head is bowed in prayer. She’d be quite lovely were it not for her fused, mutant extremities.

Oh! Did I mention that they do not have faces? It’s true. Like the people in that creepy episode of Star Trek, they are completely featureless. They do, however, have painted on gilt hair. Truly, the holy parents are a bit of a freak show.

Despite this, the peg people and their truncated limbs remain very much a part of our Christmas tradition. But this year, when I opened the little round box where I usually store them, Jesus and family were AWOL.  I felt a little like Mary Magdalene when the stone rolls aside and the tomb is empty. Except in this case, it was the whole family, and they were, of course, little wooden figurines as opposed to the actual son of god, virgin mother, and poor hapless carpenter who doesn’t know how he wound up in such a pickle.

Anyway, I was puzzled. All of the Christmas stuff is packed away in the same two boxes every year, in the same storage room in the basement, so I went through everything a second time, thinking perhaps I had stowed him with the ornaments. He was nowhere to be found. Frustrated, I called off the search, sent the kids to bed, and poured a glass of wine.

But the next day, I kept thinking about it as I was doing other things. Where could Baby Jesus be?

Despite the presence of the tiny crèche in my parents’ home, I was pretty much raised a heathen.  While culturally Christian, I am spiritually sort of an agnostic-universalist-yogi-honorary-Jew.  The Bible is a wonderful book.  I don’t know if it’s the word of God or a sacred text, but like every good story, it’s full of people and their struggles and their tragedies. I don’t know if Jesus was the Messiah or the son of God, but like every baby, his birth had the power to redeem and change the world. To me, Christmas is simply about a baby. That is all, and that is everything.

The next day, while going about my other business and passively stewing over the missing peg baby, I remembered a place I hadn’t looked. The minute I got home, I went straight to the basement, and there, in a box inside a box, was the little mutant family wrapped snuggly in tissue paper.

“I found Jesus!!” I yelled to the kids.

Little Daughter ran to the junk drawer and fished out the chickpea lantern. Big Daughter started in on how weird and stumpy and faceless the figures were. We admired Little Peg Jesus and exclaimed over how cute he was. Jesus was found, and Christmas was on.

*photo by David Lewis, used with permission.

Filed Under: Humor, Spirituality Tagged With: , , , ,

Oh my God

12/08/2010 By Awesome 17 Comments

I think I’m a hypocrite. Or maybe I’m just confused. What confuses me? God. Religion. All that stuff.

The one thing I do know for sure is that I’m against organized religion. I’ve dabbled here and there, and I’m totally cool with people practicing the religion of their choice, but congregating is not for me. Look at where organized religion has gotten us on this planet. Have you watched the news recently? It’s nothing new. People have been tortured, killed, and blown to bits all in the name of religion for as long as there has been religion. 

So, I know how I feel about organized religion, but I’m not quite sure how I feel about God. This is where the hypocrisy comes in. I believe in God when it is convenient. I laugh at Creationists, but I like to say God started the Big Bang. I don’t have any better explanation. In my everyday life though, it’s more of a “better safe than sorry” thing. If my children were in danger, you can sure bet I’d be praying my butt off. When my mom died three years ago, I prayed for her soul every chance I got. Several times a day. For weeks. My mom had LOTS of major issues, and I thought, just in case, maybe I should try to help her along to a better place. I’ve never prayed so much or so hard for someone in my entire life. I’ve never even prayed that much for myself.

Religion makes me incredibly uncomfortable. Let me rephrase that. I actually enjoy learning and talking about religions in general. I purposely took several religion classes in college because I like learning about them all; except the one that surrounds me. The whole Jesus Christ thing makes me squirm. I don’t know why, but if I went on about “Jesus Christ our Lord and Savior” I’d feel like I was talking dirty. Maybe there are some deep psychological issues behind it? I’ll blame my mom. That’s also convenient. I think it really boils down to the fact that I’m a terrible liar, and I would feel like I was lying if I played along with something I don’t believe. I think Jesus was a real guy, and an important one in history, but my Lord and Savior. Um, no. I just can’t go there.

Here’s where I hurtle over the edge of hypocrisy. My daughter goes to a Christian preschool run by a local church. And I’m good with that. I have no idea how I’m going to field her Jesus questions when they come up, but I WANT her to have a better sense of faith than I do. When bad things happen, I think it can be a comfort, and I want to know my children can pull from their faith if a terrible/scary situation arises.

I fully realize my lack of faith has left a hole in my life, but I just can’t make it happen, and I’m sure not going to fake it. In the end, my girls may or may not end up with shaky faith like me, but at least they will have been exposed, and can make their own decisions about their spiritual lives. The most important thing  is that we raise decent and kind human beings who make positive contributions to the world. No specific religion is required to be that kind of person.

I am a walking contradiction. A hypocrite. Hopefully that doesn’t put me on the express bus to hell. You know, if there is a hell.

Read this piece and more at here.

Filed Under: Spirituality

Happy whatever

12/06/2010 By Sheryl Stein 7 Comments

December in our house is something of a blur.

My husband is pretty much a-religious; he apparently had any spirituality beaten out of him in parochial school. I, on the other hand, am a solid, culturally-identifying Jew. While I’m not the girl you’ll see behind the pew every Shabbat, I have seen most Woody Allen movies and know my knishes from my kishkes. Before we married, we knew that we would need to make some serious decisions about religion before kids were a glimmer in our collective four eyes.  How we made that decision is a story unto itself; but the upshot of the decision means that we celebrate Chanukah… and we celebrate a rather secular Christmas.

Every night for eight nights, my husband graciously stands with me while I light the menorah and recite some Hebrew prayers that, for all he knows, might consist of my fondest request to the heavens for a new bread machine.  He politely pretends not to hear when I set off the smoke alarm while burning latkes in a frying pan.  (At times, I wonder whether he fears I will set the house ablaze, giving new meaning to the term festival of lights.) While he doesn’t really have any interest in the actual holiday, he participates in a mild sort of way because the holiday matters to me.

And in return, I help out with Christmas.

While I appreciate the reason for the season, that Reason never enters the equation in our house. Here, it’s all about the tree,  Santa, and the joy of waking up at Ungodly-O’Clock with kids to see what the jolly old guy brought. Of course, over the years, the jolly old guy, c’est moi, along with my beloved spouse. How a nice Jewish girl ended up as Santa (and the Easter Bunny) would probably make my grandmother cluck her tongue, may she rest in peace. But while my grandmother might not be thrilled with my holiday antics, my mother tells the story of how my grandfather, a product of new US immigrants, loved having a Christmas tree in his home. It made him feel like he was part of America, she once told me.  So I, too, assuage any lingering guilt, deciding that I am continuing the American tradition in our home. It’s slightly weird (and completely areligious), with plenty of Star Wars, Star Trek, and Winnie the Pooh ornaments scattered all over it; but it is our tree. And because this continuation of tradition, albeit a bit altered from the holidays of his youth, is so important to my husband, it is important to me, too.

Lo and behold — a child was born unto us — in early December. So for those of you keeping track, we had eight days of small presents for Chanukah, one day of bigger presents for Christmas — and now, we have The Girl’s birthday. When she was old enough to take it all in, The Girl began to refer to December as My Big Bonanza Month! So we throw in a birthday party, cupcakes for school, a cake for home, and a cake for a birthday party plus the birthday present and, in short, December makes my bank account sigh and my head spin.

There’s plenty to celebrate from so many cultures in December. Throw in birthdays, and the world seems confusing. My best friend, puzzled by her inability to know what to say this time of year, has nailed it. And so, whatever you celebrate this time of year, may I share with you her seasonal wish: Appropriate Greetings to You!

Visit Sheryl’s personal site here.

Filed Under: Humor, Nostalgia, Spirituality Tagged With: , , , , , ,

14 again

10/13/2010 By Darren Nethington 10 Comments

“The gold old days weren’t always good, tomorrow ain’t as bad it seems…”

Billy Joel, Keeping the Faith

Sometimes the seemingly relentless pressures of adulthood make me yearn for what seemed like a simpler time.  Don’t we all do that at one time or another?  Our sepia toned memories run through our minds in a hazy parade of endless summers, first loves, and lifelong friendships.   You close your eyes and find yourself back in ’75 kicking a can down an old country road in the twilight of another hot summer day, talking about girls with your best friend for life and wishing that the day would last forever.

I remember when I was a freshman in high school.  I asked my English teacher if she wished she could be 14 again.  Her answer surprised me.

“No way,” she said.  “I would never want to be a teenager again.”

Here I was at 14 in the midst of my insecurities and freshman drama.  I couldn’t figure out Algebra, the girl I liked thought I was a dork, a report I hadn’t started was due tomorrow, and I had just been informed between classes that one of the high school hard asses was going to be looking for me after school.  Still, I couldn’t for the life of me comprehend why, if given the chance, a person who had to be in her late thirties (OMG!) wouldn’t want to be a kid again.

I didn’t understand, of course, until I hit 40 years old.  It was like a veil had lifted from my eyes.  I still retained some semblance of my youth (I was still a dork, for instance) but I had also attained something else that had been lacking for most of my life—self assurance.  All of the old insecurities were still there, to some extent, but instead of the monster under the bed they used to be, they had morphed into a yapping Chihuahua that nipped at my heels every now and then—irritating but easily dismissed.

I like to say these days that I would love to have my 16 year old body back and run it with my 46 year old brain.  Wouldn’t it be wonderful to be young and vibrant without all that crushing self doubt and hormonal urgency?  The truth is, I have traded my youthful vigor for serenity and balance— and its currency well spent.  And just like my old high school teacher, I wouldn’t go back even if I could.

Now I look forward to the next stage in my life—grumpy old age.  I will wear black socks and sandals.  I will terrorize young people who dare put an insolent toe on my lawn.  I will voice my opinions with sarcasm and gusto and I won’t care if you like them.

And I will love every minute of it.

Filed Under: MISC, Nostalgia, Spirituality Tagged With: , , , , ,

The freeway – a metaphor for life

10/08/2010 By Robin Grosland 6 Comments

When I was a young driver the freeway terrified me.  Too many cars.  Too much speed.  Requiring split-second decisions.  The possibility of death with every passing car.  I didn’t really feel confident to handle the situation, but there I was.

If I’d had my way, I would have spent my life on small back roads.  Leisurely drives out in the country.  Only the occasional car sharing the roadway, waving as they passed.  No rush to get anywhere.  Beautiful scenery.  Perfect weather.  Peace and calm the entire way surrounded by heavenly nature.  No pressure.

And that’s the image I had in mind as I began my adult life.

I imagined everything going according to plan.  No pressure.  Logical decisions.  Going where I chose.  Beautiful scenery.  Peace and calm.

Yeah, right.  Life doesn’t always go according to plan.

Before I knew it I was on the freeway of life.  Too many split-second decisions; life or death decisions sometimes.  Going too fast.  Too many people in and out of my life.  My head was spinning and I had a white-knuckle grip on the steering wheel.

I missed my exit because I couldn’t make the lane change in time.  I panicked.

The guy behind me followed too closely.  I panicked.

There were too many cars all going over the speed limit.  I panicked.

But as I’ve gotten older, I’ve learned how to navigate the freeway with some sense of control.  If I miss my exit I can always take the next one and go back to the one I wanted.  If I make a bad decision in life, I can change my mind and fix it.  Very few decisions are set in stone.

If the guy behind me is following too closely I can switch lanes and let him pass.  If there are people in my life causing me stress I can choose to distance myself from them.  I can choose to change the relationship.  I can set boundaries to protect myself.

Even if everyone around me is going over the speed limit, I can choose to go at my own speed.  I can slow down.  I can go at a pace that works for me.  I don’t have to do everything all the time.  I can take my foot off the gas and coast for a while.

And I can decide to get off the freeway.  I can take alternate routes.  I can choose my own path.  I can take those back roads in the country.  I can enjoy the scenery and appreciate the beauty around me.

I have learned a lot by being forced onto the freeway.  But the most important thing I’ve learned is that I am the driver — and I am in charge of my journey.

Read more from Robin here.

Filed Under: MISC, Opinion, Spirituality Tagged With: , , , ,

Christians

08/28/2010 By Awesome 8 Comments

I am a Christian. A real, Christ following, Bible Reading, Praise singing Christian. I acknowledge Jesus as my Savior, and try to live by God’s power in the day to day life He has given me. I also have many moments where I am a fallen, sinful wreck of a person. I make mistakes, hurt people unintentionally, get jealous and prideful and say things that I shouldn’t. So….I understand why people can be put off by Christians sometimes. I understand that the church is not always what it should be (and by church I mean those that claim to have faith in Christ). I realize that many Christian leaders have begged you for your time, money and votes only to turn around and disappoint you with some adulterous scandal moments later. I get that Christians are not always involved in righting the injustices of the world. I realize that we sometimes have double standards, seem overly critical and judgmental and boycott too loud at some of the most inappropriate times.

I get it……

But….

I also get that Christ is the point of Christianity….not Christians. While Christians should be more like the Christ that we claim to follow, myself included, we are all fallen, sinful people…..just people! We make mistakes, hurt people, get jealous, and prideful and say and do things that we shouldn’t…..but Christ wasn’t like that. So if you are going to judge Christianity…..judge it on it’s actual claims….you know…the ones in the Bible….the ones that depict Christ’s life, and the life that we as believer’s should be pursuing.

There are real believers out there who in the midst of their sin have moments where you can truly see the heart and mind of Christ. There are believers who are capable of having moral standards outlined in the Bible, while loving those that disagree with them. There are believers who are part of righting the world’s social injustices, and showing those around them the love and grace that Christ has extended to them personally. There are believers who are in process, living life, trying to figure out what it means to walk by faith and be the hands and feet of a Savior who has impacted every generation in every part of the world. There are some out there….

I pray daily that I would be one…..and that everyone would have the opportunity to know one!

But…..if you come across someone who looks nothing like Jesus but says they believe…..I ask that you would consider this….. while some of us might not be the best representation of Christ (and trust me, I am not condoning being a poor representative!!!)….believers are in fact just that….a mere representation…we are not the Original…we are not what it is all about!!…The Original can only be found  in the person of Jesus Christ…and the greatest source of information on that subject is the Bible…where the real-deal Christianity lies…reading that will hopefully present a better picture of what this Christianity thing should be all about!

You can read more by Danielle at her personal site here.

Filed Under: Motivate, Opinion, Spirituality

Mom no matter what

08/20/2010 By Darren Nethington 11 Comments

My mother has been dead for almost 10 years now.  I never thought I would miss her this much.

I know that sounds strange.  She was my mother, after all.  But while she was alive and going through her chemo and operations, I never really thought about the imminence of her death.  I never expected to miss her.  You could call it hope, I guess.  I wouldn’t.  I had an expectation that she would get through it.  I saw no need for hope.

For her part, Mom approached each day of her battle with dignity and resolve, and not a little humor.

“I thought people who had cancer were supposed to get skinny,” my Mom said to me one day.  “Why am I still fat?”

I looked at her, nonplussed, but only for a second.  She was laughing, and I joined her.  What else could I do?  If she wasn’t crying about it, I sure as hell wasn’t either–at least not in front of her.

Mom made her share of mistakes.  She grew up in a nest of pedophiles and alcoholics.  Her mother was a domineering bitch who made it her life’s work to belittle her at every turn.  So it was no wonder that when my father died, she lost her mind.  We kids grew up with a succession of alcoholics.  It’s happened before to a million other kids, and it will surely happen again.  That doesn’t mean we gave her a free pass.  Not by a long shot.  I don’t know that the word forgiveness was ever uttered, but there came a time when Mom began to be the mother we always wanted and needed.  It’s hard to distinguish at what point acknowledgment and absolution coalesced to bandage the wounds of our collective childhoods.  Was it the arrival of her grandchildren?  Was it her final marriage to a good man who didn’t need to be saved?  The how or the why didn’t matter.  We finally had our Mom.

And then, because life is far from fair, Mom developed breast cancer.  She never asked, “Why me?”  She never wished her disease on anybody else.  She fought it, tooth and nail, for as long she could.  Through it all, she continued to make cookies and birthday cakes; she never stopped bouncing the grandkids on her knee; and she always had a smile and a hug ready when we walked through her door.  My Mom was no June Cleaver, but in the end she taught me two of life’s most important lessons:  how to live, and how to die.

Eventually, Mom decided she’d had enough.  No more chemo.  No more operations.   She was tired of being a zombie all the time.  She was tired of the pain.  She was tired of what she was doing to us, her children and her husband.  All of that for maybe another 6 months—it wasn’t worth it to her.  Of course, it was worth it to us.  We wanted her with us, any way we could have her.  But it wasn’t our decision.  And so, she passed.

It’s been said that the measure of your life is not about what you did yesterday, but rather what you are doing today.  My mother’s life was resounding proof of that old adage.  She rose above the sins of the past to finally become our Mom—in spite of it all.

And I miss her still.  Much more than I ever thought I would.

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