Waiting In the Time of Advent

Our pastor has worked hard to empower our lay leaders, to instill in us the belief that our church is not just the pastor - the church is us and we have many gifts and abilities to contribute. As a way to express that, a few weeks ago she asked some of us to talk about Advent and what we’re waiting for during this season of anticipation. Truthfully, I was a little bit fearful about that because, although she didn’t tell me that it had to be uplifting, I kind of felt that in this season of excitement about the birth of our Savior, I should be speaking about happy and positive things. Except that those things aren’t what my mind keeps coming back to as I ponder the list of what I’d most like to see happen – what I’m waiting and praying for. Mostly what I’m waiting for these days has to do with justice. There’s a long list, but I’ve cut it down here to those things closest to my heart.

This time of the year is a study in contrasts. People are celebrating and shopping and spending and partying. But for many people (many more than we realize), the holiday season is a time of struggle and sadness and loss.

I’m waiting for justice for all those parents out there who struggle to make ends meet, who are on a bus to work at 5 or 6 a.m. and don’t get home to see their kids until many hours later. Who often have to rely on the kindness of friends and neighbors, or whose children are latchkey kids, because they can’t afford good day care.

I’m waiting for justice for the kids at the Storefront Shelter for Homeless Teens. They face mountainous struggles at such young ages. They need so much but have so little.

I’m waiting for justice for people who are losing their homes during this economic crisis, whether you rent or own. There are many who live one paycheck away from homelessness, not by choice but because of economic circumstances.

I want justice for young people like my oldest daughter who worked hard, went to college and did what she was told would lead to success, and now because the economy is in such a bad place, employers know they can advertise a job for 10-bucks an hour and require someone with a bachelor’s degree or higher, and they’ll get 100 applicants, because young people are desperate for work. Yesterday, while reading this to my girls, Oldest Daughter told me that I must mention that after a long search, she was just hired at a company that pays a livable salary with great benefits. So today, she’s celebrating, while she’s in TJ helping to spay and neuter animals.

I work in mental health, although I’m not a clinician. I’m waiting for justice for some of our clients and their families who are finding themselves homeless or at risk of homelessness because rents and the cost of living keep going up but salaries aren’t. Or they’ve lost their jobs because of downsizing. Or because of the current State budget crisis, programs that help mentally ill teens who are in the juvenile justice system or who are doing things that may result in their incarceration – those evidence-based, successful programs, one of which we ran, have been cut, while at the same time we put more money into building prisons.

And finally - justice for my gay and lesbian friends who are feeling marginalized and ostracized by 52% of the voters. When we single out a group of people and take away their fundamental rights, in my opinion, we tear at the fabric of what makes this country great. This resonates with me because I was married to an African-American man. When we married, my husband and I took it for granted that we had the right to marry, have children, buy a home, pay taxes, and make a life together.

But the reality is, until 1967, just 16 years before we were married, when the U.S. Supreme Court ruled that anti-miscegenation laws were unconstitutional, we could have been jailed in many states. Many opponents of the Court’s decision were certain that this would result in the downfall of society. In the first Gallup pole on the subject, 94% of whites – 94% - opposed interracial marriage of any kind. Many people used the Bible to support their views that marriage between the races was an abomination to God. Sound familiar in light of the recent vote? For centuries, proponents of Jim Crow laws had cited chapter and verse in the Bible to support their views that anyone who wasn’t Caucasian was of an inferior race and therefore unworthy of being treated as equals.

You know what? Society didn’t fall apart when the Civil Rights Act was passed, and most of today’s kids don’t even know what “Jim Crow” means. I cried tears of joy when Barack Obama was elected as our 44th President, exactly 44 years after the Civil Rights Act was passed, while at the same time I watched, with sadness, news coverage that told me my friends were losing their right to marry. We’ve come far on this journey of civil rights, but the passage of Proposition 8 tells me that we have much farther to go.

I have the tendency like many of my Swedish forebears (who lived in the dark for six months of the year) to only see the long darkness that we live with, and I’m always reminding myself that we live in the hope and belief and certainty in the coming of Christ who will bring the light and take away the despair. It sometimes makes me feel guilty for being happy and fortunate when so many others are suffering. So, justice…finally, I guess I’m just waiting for a time when everyone will be able to enjoy the celebration and peace that should belong to the whole world during this season.

Waiting in Advent:2008

Sometimes it feels as if I’ve been waiting for something or other my whole life. As children, we wait for Christmas, our birthday, summer vacation. Then we can’t wait for high school, learning to drive, graduating, and just getting on with an independent life.

There is the obvious waiting experience for women, and that is pregnancy. My daughter’s dad and I were having hard times, all types of hard times, so the waiting was bittersweet. Once she was born, I had an epiphany about my life. Suddenly, it wasn’t about me anymore. Everything I did had to be considered through the lens of what was best for this helpless child entrusted to me. I waited two years for her dad to have the same epiphany, but he never did. I realized I didn’t have a baby and a husband, I had two children to raise, and no partner. So I divested myself of that older “child” and plunged into single parenthood.

On that front, as the mom of an eighteen-year-old, I have been waiting for lightening to strike my daughter with maturity. Obviously, I’m still waiting.

Some days, I realize I’m waiting for my mom to come home from the hospital. As reality dawns, it’s as if I’ve slipped on a coat that’s several sizes too large, and the grief is overwhelming. It has now been a year since she died, yet sometimes I think it was yesterday. I can’t find my way, and I don’t want to, I just want to lie down and try to remember how to breathe.

In the days immediately following her death, there was so much to do, such paperwork and phone calls. I focused on my dad, and helping him. My grief was for him; how was he going to manage, how would he go on without his life’s mate? I knew I could fill some holes, but I’m only a daughter. Then June rolled around, and we started preparing for my daughter to graduate from high school. I got a letter from school telling me she was salutatorian of her class. Awesome! I gotta call Mom! Oh, damn. That was a turning point; my grief was now for myself. My mom is gone, but I still need her! What was it like for her when my sister and I graduated and gained more independence? How did she deal with her anxiety over our driving? (some of which was well-earned!) And who am I going to talk to about menopause?

My daughter has been a challenging child to raise. My mom and dad have seen that close up. My mom knew she didn’t necessarily have answers for me, but being a mom, sometimes just telling her was a help. After splitting up with my daughter’s dad, visitation was almost a nightmare. That first Easter, after waving ‘good-bye’ to my two-year-old for the day, Mom gave me a TickleMe Elmo, to take the edge off the waiting. My sister, in all her wisdom and compassion, has never understood what it was like to raise this child with her different wiring. So I don’t see her as a resource as I navigate these transitions. There were some wonderful fellow sojourners at her school, other moms who “got” it, but now that we’ve graduated, and yes, I mean ‘we’, it takes extra effort to connect with them, and those connections happen less often. The loss of my mom and the loss of those daily contacts have made these transitions seem stickier.

At my mom’s memorial, I couldn’t speak. The singing was easy. Speaking was out of the question. But there are a couple little stories about her I want to share now.

When I was growing up, we had desserts. A lot of the time it was a 13x9x2 cake from a box mix, or a bundt cake. My job, when I was little was to prepare the pan. So Mom would get me a paper towel and the margarine out of the fridge and I’d slather up the pan. Then she would sprinkle in a little powdered sugar and I’d shake it all over the inside of the pan. When I got to junior high school, I took “Hostess Club.” (glorified home ec!) One day, we were making a cake from scratch, in our little kitchens, in teams of three girls. I volunteered to prepare the pan. I greased it, but didn’t see any powdered sugar, so I headed to the class pantry to get some. The teacher stopped me and asked me what I was getting. When I told her I needed powdered sugar for the pan, she was horrified. She told me in no uncertain terms that the pan was to be floured. Well then it was my turn to be horrified. I remembered biting into pieces of my mom’s cakes and getting those little balls of powdered sugar from the bottom of the cake, and I tried to imagine that as flour. Yuck! Of course, I had never read the directions on the box mix. Imagine my surprise to see “grease and flour the pan” printed there. Rest assured that was the only day I have EVER floured a pan for a cake.

Sometimes life’s little absurdities would tickle her fancy, even if she committed them. I found in her papers a dividend check from the brokerage that she never cashed…relax- it was only for a penny! She had gotten in the habit of typing her correspondence and then signing it “rosie d.” with a lower-case r and d. She wrote to the broker about something or other and typed, “dear dear Bob.” About a week later, she wrote to him again about something else, and typed, “Bob.” At the bottom, she signed off as usual, then put a post script: “You’ll notice there was no ‘dear’ on this letter. That’s because you got two last week.”

I know I have to stop waiting for her, because if I don’t, I won’t be here for my daughter, my husband, my dad, even my sister, and I’ll miss all the great and wonderful things God has in store for me. I mean, gee, if sixty is the new forty, then I’m only in the previews!

I have a poem to share with you. It’s attributed to a gentleman named Charles Henry Brent, an Episcopal bishop and I’ll give you the title at the end.

I am standing on the seashore.
A ship at my side spreads her white sails
To the morning breeze and starts for the blue ocean.
She is an object of beauty and strength, and I stand and watch her until at last she is but a speck of white cloud just where the sea and sky mingle with each other.
Then someone at my side says, “There! She’s gone!”
Gone where? Gone from my sight, that is all.
She is just as large in mast and hull and spar as she was when she left my side, and she is just as able to bear her load of living weight to her destined harbor.
Her diminished size is in me, not in her.
And just at the moment when someone at my side says, “There! She’s gone!” there are the other eyes watching her coming and the other voices ready to take up the glad shout, “There she comes!”

The title is “Death.”

I have to stop waiting for my mom. I think those other eyes and other voices are waiting no more, and the choir of angels has welcomed another singer.

"Put Me In, Coach, I'm Ready to Play, Today..."

An Open Letter to Mr. John Moores, owner of the San Diego Padres:

Please, Mr. Moores, sign Trevor Hoffman. I’m begging you, don’t put us through this. I’m really sorry you and the missus are divorcing. It’s tough; I know, I’ve been there. And it’s usually toughest on the ones with the biggest stake and no voice. So while I’m sympathetic, please, stop making it our problem.

We survived previous fire sales, we made it through the Tom Werner ownership which brought us Roseanne Barr’s destruction of the National Anthem (and her dignity). We got past the departures of Tim Flannery, Dave Magadan, Merv Rettenmund, Bruce Bochy. We even came out okay after numerous nuisance lawsuits delayed Petco Park to the point where Tony Gwinn didn’t get to play there as a Padre. By the way, very nice of you to host his Aztec Invitational there before opening for the inaugural season. Very classy of you. Thanks.

Don’t make us wave good-bye to Trevor. I know there are lots of loud fans who think he’s washed up. But there are more and louder fans who disagree and want him here. The guy’s got intangible assets. I believe in business parlance that’s called “goodwill.” Trevor’s got goodwill oozing from every pore. If all that was market priced, even George Steinbrenner couldn’t afford him. Plus, the guy sets a new record every time he steps on the field. How can you let that go? How can you make us let that go?

So I hope you like those seats at Petco Park, because if you let Trevor Hoffman put on another team’s uniform, you’re going to be seeing a lot more (empty) seats.

My Smelly Neighborhood

I love walking around my neighborhood. I think I might like to be a dog because there are so many interesting smells all around, and that doesn’t even count the other dogs.

There are the seasonal smells, barbeque in the summer, fireplace in the fall and winter, jasmine in the spring. During the remodeling season, when front yards sprout Caseys, you might catch an errant whiff on the evening breeze.

There are always cooking smells, stroganoff, garlic, grease. Sometimes I pass a house with that musty smell hanging about it, as if the occupant doesn’t move fast enough to stir up the air, and it settles into must. One of the most interesting smells I catch when I’m walking is that of dryer sheets. It is a comforting smell, evoking memories of cozy sweatshirts and fluffy bath towels.

Wonderful sights and sounds greet me on my walks as well, like the purple morning glories blooming among the yellow-leafed hedges, or the delicate peach-colored rose thrusting its head through an opening in a block wall. There are the deep red velvet roses entwined around the white picket fence that seem to bloom all year. I love hearing a dog bark at me from inside its house, as if by passing on the sidewalk I’m violating their sacred territory. And the tiny wind chime that jangles joyously always makes me smile.

Come walk with me sometime. But bring a hankerchief, ‘cause you don’t want to miss anything!

Melmac Mom

My kids hate it when I use their names in my posts. They say it’s a violation of their privacy. So out of respect to their wishes, and to keep peace in the home, I’ve given them blog names of Oldest Daughter (OD) and Youngest Daughter (YD). Not very original, but chances are I wouldn’t remember an alias or a “Nome de Plume.” Oldest Daughter and Youngest Daughter sounds kind of Charlie Chan, don’t you think? If you don’t know who Charlie Chan is, that’s OK.

If you ever meet OD, ask about the little scar on her head. No, maybe you shouldn’t ask about it, but today I feel like “true confessions” so I need to tell you about the time I split her head open. Until recently, this was a funny in-house story that my kids would bring up once in awhile when they wanted to tease me. But recently, at an extended family gathering, my kids “outed” me about this, so now it’s public…

I’ve been a single mom since my daughters were still in diapers. And I’ve worked full-time since my oldest was in kindergarten. For a few years, they were enrolled at schools where I worked and childcare wasn’t a problem – they could hang out in the library or on the playground for an hour or so. But when they got a little older, they wanted to go to the neighborhood school and be with their friends. My kids weren’t exactly latchkey kids, but there were many afternoons when they came home from school a few hours before I got home from work.

During especially lean times, I took second jobs to help keep us afloat. There were days that I left the house at 6 a.m. and didn’t get home until 11 p.m. Not many – sometimes I got to spend an hour or two at home with my daughters before having to rush off to work again. Luckily, I didn’t need to keep the extra jobs for long – usually just a few months or until the holidays were over.

Anyway, after a particularly long week, I came home to find the house in total disarray. Dishes scattered all over the living room, clothes in piles everywhere, shoes kicked off by the front door, scummy water in the kitchen sink because nobody had washed dishes in three days. I did what every child expert says you should never do. I started yelling.

“Look at this mess! Get those dishes out of this room and stack them by the sink! Pick up your filthy clothes! You two are PIGS! I am sick of this crap!”

I was frustrated and angry, not at my kids – at my life. But I was taking it out on them. OD, who was at that adolescent age (about 13) where her lips would run before her brain could catch up, picked up a melmac plate and tossed it across the living room like a Frisbee. It hit my leg and fell to the floor. It wasn’t a hard toss, just a flick of the wrist; such a brazen thing for her to do that it almost made me chuckle.

I picked up that plate and said something like, “Do NOT throw dishes at me – put this in the sink!” Then, I tossed it back at her. Again, not a hard toss, just a little flick. But at that moment either a breeze blew through the room or some nefarious spirit lifted that plastic plate, because it seemed to rise and then gently turn sideways. It grazed lightly across the top of OD’s head like a buzz saw and fell to the floor.


The smart aleck comment she was about to make turned into a screech when she put her hand up to her head and felt the blood oozing out of the inch-long cut the plastic disk had made. My first aide training taught me that even tiny head wounds will bleed a lot, but the mother in me wasn’t thinking of that. She had blood dripping down her forehead. I grabbed her up in my arms and carried her to the bathroom. Just a couple minutes of a clean, dry washcloth pressed against the wound stopped the bleeding. I could see it wasn’t deep. But Oldest Daughter had always been afraid of the site of her own blood. She was shaking in my arms.

“Do I need to go to the emergency room?” she asked me, those beautiful, tear-filled brown eyes looking up at me.

“No, honey. It’ll be fine.” I told her, trying frantically to think of what I could possibly tell an ER doctor to make him or her understand that I had not meant to hurt my baby.

Then she got that “knowing” look in her eyes and said, “You can’t take me to the hospital, can you? Because they’d want to know how I got this HOLE IN MY HEAD! And you’d have to tell them that you ABUSED ME!” She was in full righteous anger mode, and ready to throw me to the wolves.

What should I do, what should I do, whatshouldido, whatshouldido…my brain was stalled and wouldn’t shift into gear. Finally, like a big burp, my brain started firing again.

“Is your head hurting?” I asked. “No.”
“How many fingers am I holding up?” “Two.” Correct.
“Do you have a headache or feel sick to your stomach?” “No.”
I went over the usual checklist that school office employees learn when we do first aide for kids on the many days there’s no nurse on site. She checked out fine.

I said, “OK, if you want to go to the hospital we will. They may want to put a stitch or staple in your head which means they’ll have to shave your hair in the front. But it looks fine and I think you’ll be OK if we just put some Neosporin on it. If it’s still bothering you in an hour, we can go to the ER.”

I meant what I told her. If she wanted to go to the hospital that minute, we would. But I was hoping she’d be so horrified at having her head shaved that she’d opt to wait an hour. It really was just a surface wound, no more than an inch long and already forming a thin scab as the blood dried. She’d scraped her knees worse than this before and I’d cleaned and bandaged them, and sent her on her way. This wasn’t deep or wide enough for a stitch or a staple. But truthfully…I didn’t want to go to the ER because I didn’t want to explain to a stranger why and how I had tossed a melmac plate at my kid. No matter the circumstances, I was guaranteed to come out the bad guy.

An hour later, she was already outside, hanging out with her cousins. She was probably telling them how she got me to do all the housework. Yup – while she was outside bragging about her war wound, I was cleaning the house from top to bottom. I think I also agreed to host a sleepover for her friends that weekend. Guilt – they know how to work it from a young age.

This is the same kid who, several years before, I had spied practicing her “crying” in front of a mirror and giving Youngest Sister pointers on how to sniffle and hiccup like you do when you’ve been crying really hard. She’d rubbed her eyes until they were red and dribbled water on her cheeks to look like tears.

I backed quietly out of the doorway and a minute later she was in the kitchen, telling me “tearfully” about how she really, really wanted the new Barbie doll we had seen at Target that morning. Would I please, please, please get it for her? I was tempted…if only because the acting was good enough to win an Oscar.

Shortly after the “melmac incident” as we call it in my family, I got a promotion with the school district, which meant that I didn’t have to work those part-time jobs anymore. I’d like to say that things settled down to a normal routine, but that would be a huge lie. Anyway – now it’s off my chest. Feel free to throw melmac at me if we ever meet.

Prop 8, Jim Crow, and Civil Rights

Marriage didn’t work out for me. In the years since my divorce, I raised my daughters alone and, not wanting to bring a series of men into their lives, I’ve stayed single. Now they’re grown, and my life feels full and happy without a husband. So I never really understood the desperate search that some people go through to find a partner – someone to share their lives with.

Like many Caucasian folks who take all the benefits that come with being white for granted, I also took my heterosexuality for granted and never gave much thought to gay and lesbian people who were rallying for the right to marry. It wasn’t “my issue” and I was too busy raising my daughters alone, trying to keep a roof over our heads and food on the table, to pay much attention to an issue that didn’t impact on my life.

Then Proposition 8 hit the ballot. It was an eye opener for me to realize there was a whole group of people who really, really wanted the “right” to marry the person of their dreams - even if that person happened to be the same gender. The rancor this issue caused in my workplace and my church surprised me. My own naiveté in believing that everyone else should recognize that this is a civil rights issue, and not a religious one was, in retrospect, pretty silly. But it seemed like a no-brainer for me.

In 1983, when we married, my husband and I took it for granted that we had the right to marry, have children, buy a home, and make a life together. Yes – there were times when we faced racism, but we never doubted our right to be together. I’m Caucasian, my former husband is African-American. Until 1967, when the U.S. Supreme Court ruled that anti-miscegenation laws were unconstitutional, we would have been jailed in many states for being married and having biracial children. Many opponents of the Court’s decision were certain that this would result in the downfall of society. Many people, calling themselves Christians, used the Bible to support their views that marriage between the races was an abomination to God. For centuries, proponents of Jim Crow laws had cited chapter and verse in the Bible to support their views that African-Americans were an inferior race and therefore unworthy of being treated as equals.

Society didn’t fall apart when the Civil Rights Act of 1964 was passed, and it’s telling that most of today’s children don’t even know what “Jim Crow” means. Many people cried tears of joy when Barack Obama was elected as our 44th President. We’ve come far on this journey of civil rights, but the passage of Proposition 8 tells me that we have much farther to go.

Marriage between consenting adults is a civil rights issue, and whenever we single out a group of people and vote to take away their civil rights, we are treading on dangerous ground.

Quis custodiet ipsos custodes or Breaking the rules part 2

For many years, I’ve been in an odd sort of situation. Because my family’s business owned commercial property, I’m considered “rich” by both the IRS tax code and my ex-husband. Unfortunately, I’ve been living just this side of cash-poor. Throw in the fact that I’ve been raising a special needs child, without support from her dad, either moral or financial, and I’m stretched pretty thin. So when I hear the words “spread the wealth around” come out of Candidate Obama’s mouth, I get…concerned. If I’m stretched any thinner part of me may disappear, most likely the part that modestly contributes to charity and sometimes buys Girl Scout cookies. My life’s ambition is to become a philanthropist, and I just have this feeling that the next four years will push that goal farther down my road.

Barack Obama is not my rescuer, but he is my president. I will be respectful and…hopeful.

Oh, yeah, the title of this post? Roughly translates to “who will guard the guards?” I’ll leave you with that thought, and this companion one from Thomas Jefferson: Any government powerful enough to give you everything is powerful enough to take everything.

My Country ‘Tis of Thee…and some Post-Election Thoughts

My heart is joyful this morning. Yet my heart is sad, also. Last night we elected a new president and I am very happy. But, this morning when I arrived at work full of new hope and triumph, my friend was upset that I expressed my delight. Her candidate did not win. She is angry and disappointed because she says the man who was elected does not support her beliefs. She took my expression of joy as an insult. I’m sorry for her unhappiness. But democracy is a two-edged sword. It’s about citizens being able to choose who they want to govern them in fair and free elections. Sometimes your chosen candidates win…sometimes they don’t. This system has worked for almost 250 years, and I believe it will still be working in another 250.

A co-worker who voted for Obama is married to a man who voted for McCain. This morning, they sat across from each other at the breakfast table while her husband explained to their daughter that he’s not sad because his candidate didn’t win. He is glad to live in a democracy where we are free to vote, without fear of reprisals. He also told his daughter that he will support the new president because, even though he didn’t vote for Mr. Obama, the man is now HIS president and deserves the respect and support of every U.S. citizen.

Prop 8 is expected to pass. I voted against it. This makes me sad for my gay and lesbian friends who must be feeling marginalized and ostracized by a majority (albeit a slim majority) of the population. My faith and belief that the Holy Spirit is moving to evoke change in our hearts was the deciding factor in my vote. My friends, this battle is not over. Love will win – it always does.

Each week in church we’ve been praying for “John McCain, Barack Obama, Joe Biden, Sarah Palin and their families…the citizens of the United states of America…for all the nations of the world…for Christians in their vocation as citizen…all who serve in public life…” The list goes on to include our governor, mayor, the people of Iraq and their leaders, for those who are serving in the armed forces, and many others. We don't just pray for the people we like - as Christians we pray for all our brothers and sisters on this earth.

Do you ever get a song in your head that keeps repeating itself? This one has been doing re-runs in my brain since last night:

My country tis of thee,
Sweet land of liberty,
Of thee I sing.
Land where my fathers died,
Land of the Pilgrim’s pride.
From every mountainside,
Let freedom ring.

Freedom is ringing, loud and clear this morning. Aren't we blessed to live in this time and place?

Breaking the Rules

Okay, I’m going to break the cardinal rule of entertainers. Not that Hollywood follows this rule, but when my husband and I worked as a singing duo in (shhh!) bars, he emphasized this rule: do NOT talk about religion, do NOT talk about politics. You just couldn’t chance annoying a customer who might jeopardize a) your job or b) your personal safety. (Think flying beer bottles in “The Blues Brothers.”) So here goes. (Sorry, Sweetie.)

In the year 2000, when Proposition 22 was on the ballot, I voted for it. Naturally. My contact with gay people was limited, so I made no connection between the proposition and anybody I knew. Homosexuality was still an abstract idea for me; I just hadn’t spent any energy thinking about it. At the time, I was attending a neighborhood church, and there were a couple of people I understood to be gay. This was the beginning of the change in my attitude. One woman in particular was becoming a close friend, and subtly forcing me to consider things I had wanted to ignore.

The following year, my daughter was baptized, and this close friend gave her the gift of a week at a Christian camp in the mountains of San Bernardino. I knew this friend to be a lesbian, from things she’d said at a new members class at church, but it had never come up in our conversations. We decided the two of us would drive my daughter to camp on that Sunday. When we got there, I had to declare who would pick her up on Saturday. My friend was saying, “I can come get her.” My daughter was standing right there, and she didn’t know that after getting home on Saturday, she would be leaving again on Monday to visit her grandmother for a few days. Because she would be leaving, I was loathe to miss any time with her, but it was tempting to allow my friend to make the long drive alone. I was trying to process this very rapidly, fearing that she might think I didn’t want her to be alone with my daughter on the long drive home because she’s gay. I managed to tell the camp counselor that we both might return on Saturday, and told my friend we could decide later in the week. When we drove home that afternoon, I revealed to my friend my daughter’s travel plans for the following week, and that she didn’t know yet, since I wanted her to focus on camp, and not anticipate the next week’s adventure. That was the extent of our discussion on that topic, and conversation moved on to other things, like trying to raise a child with moral values when her father was changing girlfriends more often than his underwear.

A couple of days later, I received in the mail a very thoughtful note from my friend. In it, she declared her homosexuality, unsure if I knew. She said she would never discuss adult topics with her, but if she ever heard my daughter say anything derogatory about gays, my friend would correct her. I called my friend and we met for a little chat. I told her I knew she was gay, she had in the past mentioned a partner, and from the context I assumed it wasn’t a business partner. Face to face with my friend, I confessed my confusion between what I had “always thought” and what I saw to be the truth of her life. When I looked at her, I saw Christ reflected. Without saying a word, she was challenging me to think for myself.

Now, in 2008, we are faced with Proposition 8. Unlike Prop 22, I will be voting against Prop 8. It is personal now, as I know and love a few gay people. We use the word “marriage” to describe flavors in recipes and styles in fashion. Why can’t we use it for two committed people, regardless of gender? I refuse to believe the prognostications of social disaster. That would mean stereotyping all gays as militants, and I know that’s not true. Will there be divorce and custody arguments among gay couples? Of course; we are all imperfect humans. Heterosexuals have been messing up marriage for generations. Why should we have all the “fun?” As for schools, I think we should deal with the issue if it arises. Parents are the ones ultimately responsible for their children’s education, and that should be reiterated. We allow parents to opt their children out of reciting the pledge of allegiance. We allow them to opt their children out of participating in the Christmas, oops, Winter Pageant so they aren’t exposed to flying reindeer and singing snowmen. Parents must retain the authority to decide when and how their children learn about gay marriage, as they do now regarding human sexuality curriculum.

Attitudes cannot be legislated. My attitude changed over time, by the living examples of people around me. Maybe this is our chance to re-elevate marriage as a sacred covenant, something to be cherished and nurtured. The more people with that attitude, either gay or straight, the better for all of us.

Bwaa-ha-ha-ha-ha!

I'm not sure we intended any theme here at Gethsemane Girls, but this will be a total non sequitur. A couple of years ago, my daughter became enamored with the song "Thriller" by Michael Jackson. (Not him, just the song.) That in turn led to the video, with it's cheesy special effects, but it also led to her introduction to the great Vincent Price. (He performs the "rap" on "Thriller." ) He and his wife had done a commercial in the 1980's for VisaCard that was hysterical. I described it to my daughter as best I could, but being the brilliant child she is, she said, "let's look for it on YouTube." Bingo!

Here is a little Halloween treat for you:
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=W8ip_aEku38

Enjoy!

Uncle Jerry & Aunt Elaine

Remember the surprise birthday party for Mom? Her brother Jerry and his wife, Elaine, have been here all week. Mom and her "crew" have been like tourists in SD this week. But Jerry and Elaine are leaving tomorrow morning to fly back to Michigan. We all got together one more time this evening to eat and tell stories. It was great. When it came time for them to leave, Mom stayed in the house while everyone else went outside. Just too hard to say good-bye when there are thousands of miles in between the next hello.

I love my Mom, and I love my sisters. They are wonderful women and I'm proud to be in the gene pool with them. Mom said this was the best week of her life - she had a 7-day birthday party that was filled with laughter, fun, food, and love. God bless you Mama.

Sine Nomine

I’m beginning to really not like All Saints’ Sunday. I know it’s supposed to be a celebration, but it’ll be two years in a row now I’ll be praying the name of someone close to me that died in the previous twelve months, and I’ll be crying. Not the sad, watery eyed tears of empathy, but the gut-wrenching, unable to speak through cries that can only come from a hole in your heart. My God, my God, why have you forsaken me?

Actually, in 2006, the last of my uncles died. We weren’t particularly close, but he and my mom loved each other and managed to exchange phone calls occasionally, especially near their birthdays, which were only a day or two apart. On All Saints’ Day that year, my daughter and I had gone to visit my sister at her church. They had a very cool celebration, since they were meeting in a church with a belfry and a real bell. So at the beginning of the service, they passed around a clipboard and asked the assembly to write down the names of folks who had died that year. At the appointed time, they tolled the bell as each name was read from the clipboard one by one. But both my sister and I forgot to add my uncle’s name to the list.

Last year, it was Ed. His death in July was like a sucker punch. He was my parents’ age, but it was hard to consider him as their peer. He and his wife Dottie were much more physically active than my folks, and they traveled extensively, sometimes flying stand-by. My folks hadn’t traveled by any mode recently, due to various health issues and annoyances. Ed’s death reminded me that my own parents could die at any moment, but more than that, Ed was my friend and colleague. We served on the team charged with stewardship of our church’s financial resources and we shared the seriousness of that responsibility. We also shared a sometimes wicked sense of humor, and those years serving together were a priceless gift for me. At his memorial, we sang “Take Me Out to the Ballgame” in honor of his love for the San Diego Padres. Sometime later the mailbox slot in the church office was changed, his name removed and the next financial secretary’s name put in its place. The first time I saw it, I burst out crying. Then, hearing his name on All Saints’ Sunday just started the tears all over again.

About six weeks later, in the middle of December, my mom died. She had been ill and hospitalized, but seemed to be on the road to recovery. When my dad called to say she was being rushed to the ER from the skilled nursing facility where she’d been for only a few days, it was a shock. By that evening, she was gone.

So here we are, almost eleven months later, on the eve of another All Saints’ Day. Another candle, another name, more tears. The celebration is out of my reach again this year.

Poor Mom. We've surprised her so many times this weekend, she jumps when somebody knocks on the door, thinking it's another relative she hasn't seen in forever. First it was her brother Jerry, whom she hadn't seen in five years. All of Mom's kids hadn't seen him in 20 years - he doesn't travel west much.

Then yesterday, my girls took their Grandma shopping and kept her out of the house for four hours while my sisters cooked and decorated for a surprise party. Right on cue, she showed up to find 50 friends and relatives standing in her front yard, yelling SURPRISE! Gotcha again, Mom.

It was a great party - lots of laughing and reminiscing. At around 4 p.m., the third surprise arrived - a bunch of Mom's friends from church. We left them in the patio room, with Mom keeping court.

Finally, at around 10 p.m., the last surprise of the day arrived and it was a surprise for me, too. My cousin George, who lives in Washington state, walked in the door like he was just in the neighborhood and wanted to drop in.

We talked for hours - we're all great storytellers and know how to make each other laugh. Maybe that's an inheritance from our Mor Mor (mother's mother), who would tell us stories of her native Sweden and the island she grew up on.
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We all met at Mom's house again this afternoon. More talking, eating, laughing. George (Buddy) has been researching the family tree and got all the way back to 1730 on the Hammer side (my maternal grandmother). There's talk of a family reunion, the biggest decision being where to hold it.

I remember family get togethers when I was little. Uncle Ralph and his guitar, teaching us campfire songs - he was a kid magnet though he never had children of his own; Uncle Gerry with his quiet strength and gentleness - the little ones all loved him; Uncle Bud (George) who didn't want anyone to know he was old enough to be a grandfather, and who loved to tell us jokes and funny stories; Uncle Art - kind of a cross between John Wayne and Charles Bronson - tough as nails; Aunt Thyra who was gone from Illinois to SD by the time I was six. When we moved to SD, she taught me how to tailor clothing - not just how to sew, but how to measure and cut and make a garment that fit perfectly. I loved her very much, and although she didn't always approve of us over the years, we knew she loved us right back.

Wish I didn't have to work this week - I'd love to hang out with Mom and the gang.

Nanna's Last Trip

My grandmother died in March of 2000, just two weeks shy of a full twenty years of widowhood. I think Nanna chafed under the bonds of Papa’s illness and frailty in his last few years, so when he died on Easter Sunday in 1980, she was free again. She would pack a small bag, (she traveled VERY light) and put the dog in the car, and take off. (By the way, the dog had a carseat that boosted her up to see out the window from a reclining position.) We would answer the phone to hear Nanna say, “hi, I’m in Yuma, I’ll be home in a few days,” or “I’m in Santa Barbara, see you Friday.”

Nanna had some brave and adventurous blood in her veins. Her father disguised himself as a Catholic priest and escaped his homeland of Bohemia (later to become Czechoslovakia) and impressment in the Russian Army. Her mother, from a “rich” family who owned land, came to America against her family’s wishes, selling her long blond hair to a wigmaker to pay for her ticket. The two met in the Minnesota community of Bohemians, where they married, had five children and became naturalized citizens. Nanna was the oldest, and the only girl. She spent a lot of time caring for her little brothers. I think that had a lot to do with her desire to travel at will.

I remember wonderful trips with her when I was a child, mostly quick, weekend jaunts. One time, in October, we flew up to San Francisco for the three-day holiday weekend. When we arrived, we rented a car, something sporty with bucket seats and the gearshift in a console between. We got in the car and Nanna said, “I don’t think I can drive this one.” (This from the woman who, several decades before, repaired her own car’s broken fan belt by rolling off her stocking and tying it over the pulleys.) The rental agent assured her it was an automatic transmission, and we were off. We had a wonderful time, eating fish and nibbling Ghirardelli chocolate. We got home Monday evening, only to discover it wasn’t a holiday after all, and I had missed school. Thank you, Christopher Columbus.

Nanna passed away on a Saturday night at a nursing home, four years after falling and breaking a hip. (Or, did her hip break first, causing the fall? Hard to tell with osteoporosis.) (Take your CALCIUM out there, folks!) The trauma of the break seemed to intensify and accelerate the dementia she was beginning to show, and what turned out to be her final few years were spent in the hazy frontier between yesterday and yesteryear. After receiving the news of her passing, we gathered to “say” good-bye, kiss her cheek.

The following Monday morning, my mom called the mortuary to see if there was any paperwork to finish. The mortuary had no idea why she was calling. So she called the nursing home immediately. “WHAT HAVE YOU DONE WITH MY HUSBAND’S MOTHER’S BODY?!” Needless to say, they were not prepared for that inquiry. They promised to call right back. When they did, we learned the nursing home had called the wrong mortuary. The correct mortuary was dispatched to pick up Nanna’s body from their competitors.

For approximately thirty-six hours, we didn’t know where Nanna was. But we didn’t know we didn’t know. I think Nanna was having a great chuckle at our expense. She just had to get in one last trip.

Esther Anna Doane (nee Blecha) 1907-2000
Love you, Nanna!

Birthday Surprise

My Mom turns 70 tomorrow. If you've read in a previous blog about the brain tumor, then you know how grateful we are that she's still with us. That was a very close call.

Anyway, Mom is one of six children, born to Edith and George. She's the youngest, and all but her brother Jerry have gone to Heaven. Since she can't fly for awhile, or at least until her doctor gives her the go-ahead, we were really happy to find out that Jerry and his wife, Elaine, were planning to surprise her with a visit.

It's HARD to keep a secret in my family, but this one was just too good. Mom may have suspected we were up to something, but as she told us later, she thought we were going to surprise her with a cake. The look on her face when she saw her brother - there are no words. They both just hugged and cried. Then we all cried. She grabbed his hand and didn't let go. For hours & hours, we sat around and talked about everything. When we were kids...when my Mom and Jerry were kids...politics...the economy...the war in Iraq...and funny, funny stories. My cheeks are sore from laughing so much. Finally, we decided to let the two snowbirds go back to my cousin Lynn's house so they could get some shut-eye. They'd been up since the crack of Michigan dawn, after all, and here it was nearly 11 p.m. San Diego time.

Jerry and Elaine are going to be here for a week. As I kissed Mom goodnight and headed to my car, I said, "Good night Mom, sleep tight." She told me, "I won't be able to sleep tonight." I asked her why. She said, "Because I'm just so excited - I can't wait for tomorrow." In that instant she wasn't my Mom. I saw the little girl with white-blonde curls, smiling as she waited for her favorite big brother to get home from school. I love you Mom - Happy Birthday!

Rainy Days and Moms

My younger daughter was 10 years old when she decided that living by Mom's rules was more than she could handle and she was MOVING OUT. She packed some clothes, toothbrush, soap, and supplies in her school backpack. Didn't bother to pack the school books - she wouldn't need them if she was living on her own - right? She put groceries in a sack - canned chili, tuna, chips, bread, spaghettios, a couple cans of soda. Grabbed a sleeping bag. Then she climbed out her bedroom window, got the ladder out of the shed and moved - to the roof.

This whole thing started because I grounded her for breaking some rule - I don't even remember what she had done wrong, but believe me it was probably the 100th time I had warned her about it and she deserved far worse than being put on restriction. So, with her 10-year old maturity, she figured that it would be better to be free in the world than to do what her mother told her to do.

I let her go out the window, figuring she would end up at my sister's house a block away. But a half hour later when I checked, she wasn't there. So I looked around the house and yard, in the shed, up and down the street. Hmmm... Standing on the sidewalk in front of my house, I saw what looked like a big bird out of the corner of my eye. Looked up - there she was at the peak of the roof. Sleeping bag spread out and her little roof picnic scattered around her.

"Get down from there right this minute! You could fall and break something!!" I yelled at her.

"No - you're mean and I'm never coming home again."

Puhleeze - you're on the roof dodo bird. You're already home. I didn’t actually call her a dodo bird, even if it would have felt good to tell her how silly she was being.

“OK – fine with me. You can stay up there.” With that I went back in the house. I was really worried about her falling off the roof – it was slanted pretty steeply – I pictured her sliding down and falling into the chain link fence. Should I call the fire department, police, my mom? I peeked out the front window. My neighbors were outside now, watching the spectacle, and I’m sure, discussing that single mom across the street with the bad-assed kids.

Fifteen minutes later, I went back out. “It’s getting late – do you have blankets to keep warm?”

“Yes Mom.” This was said with just the right amount of disgust.

“OK…do you have enough food?”

“Yes – go away! I don’t need you!” Now she was yelling, her piping voice screeching at me.

“Great, sounds like you really prepared for every possibility. So…did you think about the weather? It’s not always summer, sometimes it’s cold or rainy.”

I could see the awareness dawning in her eyes – Mom was up to something. Mom wasn’t yelling, she was being really quiet and that wasn’t a good thing. But my hard-headed little girl decided to bluff it out.

“Go away!” she screamed at me.

I calmly walked to the hose faucet. Turned it on full blast. Walked back out the full 50-feet length of the hose. “Are you sure you prepared for rain?” I asked her innocently.

She saw the hose and knew it was all over. As I began “raining” on her parade, she began tossing her stuff off the roof. She went down the ladder and climbed back in the window, squawking about her mean mother the whole time. Guess she decided being on restriction was better than living on her own after all.

Ghandhi, Prop 8, and Christians

My best friend in the world is a “Fundamentalist” Christian, whatever that means. This woman has been my friend for over ten years. To me, she’s as close to being a “good” Christian as it’s possible for us flawed human beings to be. She has a finely honed sense of justice that has gotten her into trouble with people who think it’s OK to skirt the ethics line when it suits them. She loves the Lord with all her heart, all her soul, all her mind, and everything else in her life flows from this. She’s a wonderful wife, mother, and grandmother. She is my confidante – the person I could tell any secret to and know that it would be safely kept. And she believes that the only way to get into heaven is through Jesus Christ – you must believe that Jesus is your savior. If you don’t believe this, then you are doomed. Period. No ifs, ands, or buts.

I’m an Evangelical Lutheran. I believe that we are saved by Grace. This doesn’t mean we’re free to go out and act like fools. Being saved by grace is a huge responsibility. We must love our neighbor as ourselves – even when those “neighbors” aren’t so lovable. We are responsible to our fellow human beings and everything we do should reflect Christ’s love for us. But when I’m asked if I believe that the ONLY way to heaven is through Jesus, I’m not sure. Who am I to say that Mahatma Ghandi isn’t in heaven? He was a Hindu, and although he read about and admired Jesus as a prophet, he didn’t profess that Jesus was his savior. Does that mean the gates of Heaven are locked against him?

Someone once told me that her husband loves being a Lutheran because he “doesn’t have to check his brain at the door.” We Lutherans do think and talk and debate – a LOT. We don’t always agree on the issues of the day. Same gender marriage has us divided, and it’s not along the predictable lines you might think like the “Under 30s” and the “Over 70s.”

Here in California, the issue of same gender marriage is at the forefront because Proposition 8 is on the ballot this election. I work in a field that has traditionally been accepting of gay and lesbian people. But that was before the California Supreme Court decided that denying same gender couples the right to marry was a violation of their civil rights. Now we’re all trying to figure out where we stand on this divisive issue.

When two of my coworkers recently announced that they were getting married to their respective long-time partners, I was unprepared for the upset it caused. We celebrate all the big life events of our coworkers – new babies, marriages, birthdays. Now we were being confronted with a new reality. For most of us in this workplace, marriage is about love and commitment, no matter the gender of the people who choose to marry. But some coworkers think it’s a sin for same sex people to marry, and they strongly disagree with celebrating this event in the workplace. Some were offended that we signed cards, bought gifts, had a party. We are divided – mostly silently – but divided nonetheless. We must all, with our widely different opinions and beliefs, maintain a professional relationship. It is difficult to reconcile my feelings of disappointment in some of my coworkers with my sense of respect and admiration for these same caring people.

I believe that two adult human beings should have the right to marry whether they are a man and woman, two women, or two men. That’s a basic civil right that should not be determined by religious beliefs.

I believe in the separation of church and state, as outlined in the First Amendment to the Constitution, which states, “Congress shall make no law respecting an establishment of religion, or prohibiting the free exercise thereof; or abridging the freedom of speech, or of the press; or the right of the people peaceably to assemble, and to petition the Government for a redress of grievances.”

The First Amendment guarantees that the government will not let any religion dictate the laws that govern all the people. By the same token, it also guarantees any religion the right to exist – be it Lutherans, Catholics, Muslims, Buddhists, Hindus, my “fundamentalist” best friend’s church, and on and on.

But back to my “fundamentalist” Christian best friend. She and I are trying to “agree to disagree” on this issue. I know she’s praying for my soul, hoping that I’ll come to my senses. She’s asked me to listen to a CD of her pastor teaching about marriage and the Bible. I told her that I would listen to the CD and pray about it, but that it probably wouldn’t change my mind. As for me, I pray that our friendship is able to weather this “tempest in a teapot,” because she has been a dear friend and it would be sad if this drove a wedge between us. As I’ve matured (notice I didn’t say “gotten older”) it’s become apparent to me that my women friends are more precious than diamonds and losing the best one would be devastating.

God and the tumor

May 2008
“We’re not ready, God. Please, please, we’re not ready to lose her. You can’t have her yet.” I chanted this like a mantra as I flew up Genesee Avenue to get to my Mom’s house. Five minutes before, I had just gotten back to my desk from a meeting and was ready to begin the “real” work of the day. My phone rang – it was my sister Beth. “Ginny – the paramedics are on the way to Mom’s house – we think she had a stroke. I’m on my way over there – you need to meet us at her house.” The sound of my name – just the way she said it put my whole soul on alert – I knew it was bad even before she finished the rest of the sentence.

Grab my purse…tell someone I’m leaving…get to my Mom. That’s all I could do, and pray and cry and pray. I remember calling my friend Sandy, who was at home that day, to ask her to pray for Mom. I called my pastor – same request. Please pray, pray, pray.

Mom’s street…park the car…get out and run up as the paramedics are wheeling the woman who created all of us on a gurney and putting her in the ambulance. She was…my mind freezes. Her arm, limp and hanging over the edge…that vision will be with me forever. Her head rolling…seemingly lifeless, eyes unaware.

Vicki says, “If you’re coming with me, get in NOW!” The world starts moving again. I jump in her car and we head out ahead of the ambulance. Beth rides with Mom – already, silently chosen as the family spokesperson. Vicki has to get gas – the warning bell is ringing. She pumps a few bucks in and we get back on the road in under two minutes.

Vicki yelling at people who have the audacity to drive the speed limit. “Get out of the way! That’s my mom in that ambulance…pull over NOW!!!” She’s tailgating so close to the Lexus in front of us that my breath catches in my throat. I reach over and rub her shoulder. “Sweetheart – first we have to get there in one piece. Just breathe and drive, but please get us there OK.”

We park in the Ace parking structure – like a slap in the face – you have to wait at a gate to get a ticket that will allow us to park and be with our mother. Since the ER is right there, I jump out of the car and leave poor Vicki to find a place to park her truck. Sorry Vicki.

In the ER waiting room, we only sit for a minute before Beth comes out to tell us they’re…what? I can’t remember what she said…I just remember her face. This was bad – I could tell from her face that this was very, very bad. Mom was having seizures and her whole left side was paralyzed. The team was talking stroke, but before they could even make that diagnosis, they had to get her stabilized. The possibility that she might not survive this suddenly blossomed in my mind, like leaving a sharpie marker on a napkin – all the ink being sucked into the white background, leaving a big, black cloud of fear.

Someone comes to get us – they take us to a “private” room, where she introduces herself as BJ, the social worker, and she says a chaplain will be in to speak with us shortly. Why? It’s the question in all of our faces.

Vicki says, “This is the bad news room…why are they sending a chaplain in?” I tell her, even though I don’t know if it’s true or not, that they ALWAYS send a chaplain in when it’s a crisis like this, in case we want to pray. Liar. Sometime during all this I must have called my daughters, because they arrive and find chairs. We’re all quiet, each saying our own silent prayers.

The chaplain comes into the room and tells us that the doctors are working on Mom, trying to get her stabilized. He’s calm and straightforward. I know immediately we can trust him to give us the unvarnished truth. At some point he prays with us but I don’t remember if it’s before or after they tell us that Mom hasn’t had a stroke.

“We have her on emergency life support.” Vicki and Carissa fall into each other and sob. Beth and I, our eyes meet for the briefest of seconds before we focus on the ER doctor, who is telling us that Mom has been intubated and they’re giving her drugs to basically, put her into a coma, so that they can stop the constant seizures. He’s grim, not hopeful. Nobody asks the obvious. Is she going to make it? We can not put that into words because this is our mother, grandmother, great grandmother. The doctor leaves quickly. He’s kind but he has important work to do. They’re doing a CAT scan on Mom’s head to look for signs of a stroke. Beth says something to him as he leaves, “That’s our mom – please take good care of her.”

I feel my control sliding away – please, please God. You can’t take her yet. Oh yeah – this is where the chaplain prays with us. It’s a good prayer, asking God to be with us during this time. Asking God to be with Edith as the doctors work to find out what’s causing her illness. None of that “heavenly father we don’t understand why you’re doing this, but your will be done…blah, blah, blah.” The God I know loves us and wouldn’t cause this to happen, and if the chaplain had started talking like that, I would have shut him down in a hot minute. But this guy, his name is Rick, knows what we need to hear.

We sit and pray, talk, cry. Already the knots that my mother has tied over the years are tightening us into a UNIT. We are all in this together and will stay together, focused only on getting the most important person in our lives through this crisis.

Fifteen minutes later, the chaplain comes back. He tells us it’s not a stroke. He can’t tell us what it IS, but he can tell us that the doctor will be back shortly to give us the news. I study his face, looking for clues. Not a stroke? Is it her heart? She always expected something to happen with her heart and had prepared herself emotionally for that. Has it come to the point where she’ll get that long-promised pacemaker that her cardiologist told her she’d eventually need?

The doctor flies in again. You can almost hear the air crackle as we all zoom in on him. “Your mother has a four centimeter brain tumor in the back right side of her brain.” He makes his thumb and index finger into a circle to give us an idea of how big four centimeters is. FREEZE. All the air leaves the room. Am I going to throw up? No – hold it together as he continues. “We think it’s a meningioma, which is a USUALLY non-malignant tumor, usually localized outside the brain. We’re going to send her for an MRI so we can get a better idea of exactly how large it is. We’ve called a neurosurgeon.” That’s all I remember.

I’m learning already that “hospital time” passes in chunks. You wait, you get a block of information and are told to wait some more. Has it been fifteen minutes or two hours? It’s hard to tell.

At some point, they come get us out of the room and escort us to the family waiting area, with lots of comfortable chairs that are meant for sitting and waiting, but not for resting. By now, my brother Bill has arrived. He holds mom’s hand in the ER where they still have her, and he cries. Mom is semi-conscious, even with the massive doses of drugs. She’s fighting the breathing tube, trying to speak, trying to get up and go home. They let two of us into the ER at a time, and we take turns. Just holding her hand, caressing her hair and face, talking to her to let her know we are all there and she doesn’t need to be afraid. I lie to her, “Mom, you’re in the hospital emergency room. You’re going to be fine. They just have the tube in to make sure you can breathe. We’re all here and as soon as you’re better, we’re taking you home.” Her brow relaxes and I know she can hear me even if she can’t respond. But a minute later, she’s writhing on the bed again, fighting, fighting to get up and away. In my soul I hear a voice tell me that if she can still fight, she will survive this. I’m suddenly calm and very focused.

In the family waiting area, my brother and I hug. My God, he’s gotten old. Do I look that old? He’s still tall, but so thin. How are the boys, how’s Dianne? We haven’t seen each other in over 15 years and there’s much to catch up on, but for now we just scratch the surface, politely asking about each other’s families. We get interrupted and I walk to the other side of the room to talk to my girls. Next thing I know Bill has left – he has to get back to work to a job where he’s left all his tools.

The next hours are a blur. We wait. We talk. I’m amazed at how resilient we are – even now we can tell jokes and laugh during this crisis. I think to myself that we will get through this because we have each other. This is the gift that my mother has given us.

We take turns, two at a time, to sit with Mom. She’s unconscious, but maybe she knows we’re there so we talk to her, stroke her arms, hold her hands. Yes, Mama, we’re all here and we love you. We tell her about the work the doctors and nurses are doing to make her comfortable, to help get her well. Later, she’ll tell us she doesn’t remember a thing after the first seizure started, but right now, watching her vital signs on the monitor, it feels like she can hear us and her heart rate slows a bit.

Beth and Vicki are with her when they take her for the MRI. We wait some more. After the MRI, we meet Mom’s neurosurgeon, with a long name that I immediately shorten to Dr. T. He’s a serious and cautious young man. He gives us more details about the tumor, says they’re planning on surgery sometime in the next few days. We ask for details about the surgery. He pronounces a list of doom and gloom about all the possible complications, starting with death and ending with lifetime seizures. He’s not a man given to percentages or reassurances. We ask about the possibility of malignancy, of the possibility that they won’t be able to remove all the tumor. He tells us that he doesn’t think it’s malignant, but that you can’t tell until after the biopsy, which takes about three days. He says that often they have to leave pieces of the tumor behind if there’s too much vascular involvement. I like this man – he doesn’t dumb it down for us – he tells us the truth so we’ll know what we’re up against. Someone with false assurances we would have seen through in a heartbeat.
More tomorrow...
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I wrote the first part of this story right after mom’s brain surgery, and by that time we knew she was going to be OK. Then I closed the file and haven’t looked at it since. Partly, I think, because the emotions that we lived with for that week were so extreme that I needed to step back from the intensity. I needed to just be happy in the fact that our matriarch had survived a life crisis once again. Now I’m ready to pick up the threads of the story and finish it.

I talked about hospital time feeling like it came in chunks. Lots of waiting, then we’d get some information or something would happen, then hours of waiting again. We met with the neurosurgeon on Friday and he told us he would be doing the surgery sometime in the next week; it depended on his schedule. By Saturday afternoon, we were told the surgery had been scheduled for the next morning. It felt right to me that they had planned the surgery for the Sabbath. Like God was telling us not to worry – nothing bad could happen on God’s holy day. Not very logical, but we were all clutching at whatever glimmers of hope we could find.

On Saturday evening, Dr. T came to see her. He did all the usual checks of her vitals, checked the strength of her grip, asked her how she was feeling – was the headache better? Worse? He gave her the list of doom and gloom that he had given my sisters and me the night before. Death, fatal bleeding, paralysis, coma, lifetime seizures, and death, death, death.

He asked mom, “Do you have any questions for me?”

“Yes, just one. Do you have any good news?” Mom asked.

This guy was so serious – like he was warning us that he didn’t expect good results from this surgery. Like he was gearing up to be able to tell us, “I told you this would probably happen,” as we got the news that she hadn’t survived. But he didn’t know our mother. She’s a six-foot tall Swede, and she’d survived worse than this.

The doctor seemed to relent and gave us a short list of good possible outcomes. He actually smiled – not his whole face – just the corners of his mouth. As he swept away, Mom called out, “Don’t go out drinking tonight.”

He stopped in his tracks, turned back, looked right at Mom and grinned. Didn’t say a word, but that smile told me he had made the connection. This was a living, breathing, wonderful woman whose brain he was going to be cutting open the next day. Not just a litany of statistics and possibilities.

Mom was in the SICU (surgical intensive care unit). The night before the surgery my sisters and I were at the hospital, taking turns sitting with her. It was my turn during the still hours, when it’s quiet except for the machines beeping out heart rhythms and warnings that an IV drip needed to be changed. They close the unit to family for two hours between 5 – 7 a.m., for a shift change. But when they ushered the families out, somehow they missed my mom’s bed and I just stayed. I held her hand and watched her sleep. I prayed a lot, asking God to be with Mom, to be with the surgical team and help them to work like a well oiled machine, to guide the surgeon’s hands and help him to make all the right decisions. I pictured the surgeon deciding where to start the excision of the tumor – please God, make him steady and sure when he’s working on my mama’s brain.

She opened her eyes and looked at me. I could see fear. “Are you scared, mom?” Stupid question. She was terrified. But she put on her brave face and assured me everything would be OK. She was facing death and worried more about how her children were handling it.

At 7, my sisters both came in. The grandkids began arriving. The surgery was scheduled for 9 a.m., and the team was already starting their surgical preparations. By 8:30 they were ready to wheel Mom into surgery. I was sobbing – inside – on the outside I was smiling and trying to reassure everyone. My sisters were both crying – theirs was the more honest way of meeting this crisis. All the grandkids were touching her, telling her how much she is loved. I had already said my piece when we were alone during that 2-hour shift change. This overflowing of tears and sadness was too much – I walked away, needing to be alone while I cried. I turned back once and they were moving the bed through the narrow pathway, out the door of the SICU. Now the real wait began – it would be at least five hours before we’d know if we would get our mother back.

We have a Prayer Quilt Ministry at church. I had never given it much thought because I didn’t see how a quilt could help during a crisis. It seemed like giving someone flowers – pretty, but not very useful when you’re sick or in crisis. While we waited for news, Pastor Gloria brought a beautiful prayer quilt with yellow and purple flowers. The threads are meant to be tied while saying prayers. The Pastor led us in prayer, and we all tied knots, in our own way trying to bind Mom to us.

During the long hours, waiting for news, we noticed that our family was not the norm. Most families leave one or two members in the waiting area, sentinels left to hear the news and pass it on to family members waiting at home. We were a unit, no one even thought of leaving. When the news came – good or bad – we would all hear it together. We brought coolers filled with soda and water, and backpacks filled with food. The two great grandkids played on a blanket laid on the floor. To them it was a picnic – indoors.

I think it’s because our family has been through the fire many times – that’s what gives us the “circle the wagons” mentality. We all gather together and hold strong against whatever assails us. We needed to just be with each other, to laugh and tell stories.

Humor was our shield. When I couldn’t remember what the date was, my sister said, “It must be a brain tumor!” That began a hilarious dialogue about all the things we could now attribute to a brain tumor. We concocted a plan to draw a welcome mat and door knob on Mom’s bald head, which had us laughing hysterically. In the months since, I’ve told friends about these conversations and they didn’t see the humor. It was only funny to us. Our way of laughing in the face of tragedy.

Just a little over five hours after it began, I looked up to see Dr. T walking towards our group. He moved like you see TV doctors move – gliding across the floor, white jacket fluttering around his legs. No smile…but his eyes were kind. He was brief – the surgery went well. They got everything as far as they could tell. Not too much bleeding. The tumor had begun to invade the skull so they had to excise some bone but Mom was doing fine. Now, we were told, it would be an hour or so until she woke up back in the SICU and we could see her two at a time. Dr. T flew back out of the room, in a hurry no doubt, to save someone else’s life.

We were ecstatic. There’s no way to convey the feelings of joy and relief. We were just purely happy.

It was nearly two hours before we were told that she was awake and ready to see us. Picture a herd of elephants running up the stairway, everyone chattering. When the SICU team saw us milling in the hallway, they decided to let all of us come in – quietly – as a group so we could welcome Mom, Grandma, Great Grandma back. She opened her eyes and smiled. She spoke – I don’t remember what she said. It was the act of speaking that let us know she had survived – she knew who we were. Becky was holding the prayer quilt and when Mom saw it, she reached out her arms and took it. We covered her with it, all the prayers of the last four days enveloping her. Now I understood the value of the quilt.

It’s been six months since the surgery. Mom has done remarkably well. She’s back to all of her normal activities – a little slower but getting better every day. She takes dilantin to prevent seizures and her doctor has told her that she shouldn’t drive. He didn’t tell her she couldn’t drive but the thought of having a seizure behind the wheel is enough to make her call one of us whenever she needs to go somewhere.

Was there any good that came of The Tumor? Was God in all of this? I believe so. My sisters, brother, and I are all nicer to each other. We say, “I love you,” without hesitation. We had not always treated each other well over the years. It wasn’t sibling rivalry, exactly, more a lack of trust. Families who have experienced intense chaos often become disdainful of each other. It’s like finding out your hero has feet of clay. But we were older and more mature now. This crisis brought out the best in each of us.