I’m sure I’m not the only one that hates the future-sight of stores. Bathing suits in winter. Lunch boxes and knapsacks at the end of June.
Today I have to find water shoes for both Henry and Solomon for our vacation in Cape Cod. On past trips I’ve made the mistake of waiting until we’re on vacation and paying three-times what they cost in non-ocean territory but I also fear I’ve waited too long to find them here.
Finding water shoes in July is the equivalent of looking for winter boots in December. Last year, Solomon lost his boots and snow pants at school and I had to do exactly that. It wasn’t easy, but five stores later, I found a pair of boots. Snow pants, we weren’t so lucky.
Vacation is coming. As odd as it sounds, I miss my sister most on vacation. Because we spent every summer together on the beach it is there that I look over at the sand and imagine her pushing her super-sized umbrella in the ground, or putting together an impossible tent in a matter of seconds.
It is a challenging thing for any family, to come together, to remember, to learn to go on and yet to hold to what was. Last year, Mom got up early and made an 'M' out of seaweed on the beach. That day we watched the tide roll in and take it away. I listened to Mom tell strangers who inquired about the M tell them the story of Maria - all with the biggest smile on her face. (If there is one thing grief has taught me, it is this: we want to remember, we want to tell stories, to include those that have passed on right now.)
I guess that is the answer to grief, to live in the moment, to find the path that connects the past and future and find peace. Now, if only someone could get the stores to carry things we need, when we need them.
This is Horchow. He was the son of a stray we were feeding. My husband, Tony, brought him in the house, many years ago. The kitten flopped in his hands. He was the size of dinner roll. "The mother pulled this one to the side and left it on the lawn. It's dead."
I looked closely at the tiny wet kitten, and touched his head. He was cold.
"It's so sad," I said. And then its paw moved. "It's alive. It's alive."
As Tony wrapped it in a towel, I called my sister, Maria. She was always taking in abandoned animal babies. She'd know what to do.
"Get a heating pad and then feed it with a dropper. If it gets warm and lives, introduce it back to the mother," Maria said. "Pray she'll take it back."
In hours, the kitten was holding his head strongly and meowing. We named him Horatio because he needed to beat the odds. As the sun was setting, we walked outside with Horatio in Tony's hands. With each step, I prayed for a happy reunion. We entered the barn where the stray stayed.
"Let's see what Horatio's mom thinks," Tony said. "Ready?"
I closed my eyes and said one last quick prayer, "Please God. Please help Horatio, the kittens and this mom cat."
Tony placed the kitten in front of the mom cat. She licked Horatio's head. Putting her paw around him, she eased him closer to her. I relaxed, knowing it would all be okay.
In days, Horatio was thriving. In months, we found the kittens and the mom homes, but Horatio came back into our home where he's happily lived for some time.
He's much bigger now, and his name morphed a little, because Horatio is a bit hard to say, but he's a great cat. Often, just coming into a room and giving us a particular look, Horchow can make us all laugh. Yes, he's lived up to our hopes of going from rags to riches- we just didn't know he'd be the one bringing us abundance.
The beginning of summer is hard for me. My sister, Maria, always looked forward to summer and going to the pool. She began talking about it as early as March. A late snow would come and she would phone me saying, "I can't wait for summer and the pool."
On summer afternoons we'd meet at the community pool, her with her daughter, me with my sons. Our Mom would join us and together we would sit and talk about nothing and everything, just passing the time.
It was always nice to come through the pool entry and see Maria waving her arms, smiling beneath a canopy with lawn chairs she had saved for us. Now when I go through the doors, for a split second my head forgets and my heart remembers. It's a beautiful moment that single thread of time when I scan the many faces looking for her, imaging her calling out to me. Blame it on the warm air, the love song that plays on the radio, blame it on the water, how water, even chlorinated pool water can bring me to the depths of my soul.
Maria's last summer at the pool, Henry was only a year old. He hung to me like glue shocked by the cool water. Now he walks around in the shallow end, slapping his hands on the surface, making his own rain. He's beginning to swim, kicking his feet, learning to tread water. He wants to keep up with his older brother, to follow him to the deep end and sometimes he finds himself almost over his head. I'm always closeby coaxing him back but his yearning is there.
My grief seems to parallel his progress. Often I can wade in it, get comfortable, forget it's there, and yet, there are still times when I struggle longing for what was.
Henry is learning his ABC's. Each night when we read his alphabet book, he happily chants the song. When we get to the letter 'W' everything changes. His eyes widen. His hands reach up to his face and he peeks through his fingers down at the book, zeroing in on the letter like it's a monster. His fingers move down to his pouty mouth and he closes the book and says, "Oh, no, I have to start all over."
As his little hands manuever back to the first page he says, "Begin again, A."
This happens every night. Usually at some point, maybe the third run through, he gets to W and instead of reaching towards his face he whispers, "I not remember this one."
I've learned this is my cue he wants help. "W," I whisper.
"W," he whispers. "W" and smiling we move on to X.
Sometimes in the first read-through I'll try to convince we don't need to start over. I'll whisper W. I'll beg, Can we please just keep going? But he'll put his hands to his ears, shake his head and say, "No, no. I need to do it myself."
"Hen," I say, "mistakes help you learn," but I think he already knows that, reading his alphabet book trying to get it just right gives him lots of practice, and he seems to know how to ask for help when he's ready. Now if we could just get to Z.
The first time I met my best friend's dad I was scared. He was very, very tall and had a beeming voice, one that you felt as much as heard, and I was twelve and unaware that big dad's with deep voices can be the sweetest men on earth.
Weeks later we were coming home from the city. My friend's dad was driving and we hit traffic. As far as our eyes could see, no one was moving.
"Ut-oh," her dad said and instead of being upset, he began to joke. He sang silly songs with made-up words, songs that were really too young for our almost teenage selves, but we loved it. I think we would have sung the ABC song if he'd started it. That hour in traffic is a cherished memory, a moment where I learned a bad situation can become a good one, just by being good to one another.
There have been many fathers I've looked up to, fathers who have taught me important life lessons. Some I've met in person, others in books (Atticus Finch), some on TV (Mr. Brady and Pa Ingalls) and some I've learned about on the Internet (Dick Hoyt). Please watch the movie below. After nearly a dozen views, it can still bring tears to my eyes.
"Help 9 in the Litter" the flyer in the grocery store read.
Aunt Eddie came from a farm house on a very large estate. As I followed the directions and manicured lawn with bronze sculptures I thought, I must have the wrong place, but then, a caretaker's house appeared. I pulled into the driveway. Two cute little boys peaked their heads out from behind a tree. They were mirror images of one another and answered the woman at the door who said, "Twins, help the lady to see the kittens. Twins! Can you hear me? Help the lady."
Twins took me to the back of the house. Inside a playpen was a cardboard box. Kittens crawled around the box and chewed on the nylon strings of the playpen. Inside the cardboard box, by herself, a small gray mass of fur tried to disappear behind a folded blanket.
Twins reached down into the box and handed me the kitten. "This one's a-scared of everything," he said.
Aunt Eddie was irresistable. Gray with white feet and dark round eyes, she climbed right into my heart the first time I saw her, and although she stiffened in my palm when I picked her up, I thought, She'll warm up to me.
Only, little Eddie didn't warm up. As the weeks, months and even years passed, it was crystal clear people weren't her cup of tea, and very early in her young cat life she earned the name Aunt because her reserved attitude demanded it.
Aunt Eddie was in my family a good ten years before my sons. She seemed to find Solomon's and Henry's presence as both a distraction and an annoyance. I think the feeling was mutual.
A few years ago, as Aunt Eddie crossed the floor on her way to yet another hiding place I asked Solomon, "Sol, what's that cat's name?"
He shrugged his shoulders. "How should I know? I never see that cat, anyway."
Everything has changed in the last year or so. As Aunt Eddie nears 17-years-old, she is always by my side. She purrs, rubs into my hand, and often nuzzles up beside me on the couch. She oozes with love and affection. She is a different cat.
When she's not beside me, she is sleeping, right out in the open, in the dining room. She seems to have surrendered, or if nothing else, she's gotten used to our house and to our family.
As I do with all my babies, both my sons and my furry ones, I like to retell the day they came into my life. Aunt Eddie has heard the twins story at least one hundred times. I tell her that she came from a mansion on Quaker Hill in Pawling, NY, a long, long time ago. I tell her that for many years she preferred hiding and keeping away from things and then one day, she woke up and realized there was nothing to be afraid of, that she was happy being loved. She smiles.
I suppose it's never too late to have a happy ending.
The other night, I couldn’t sleep. I tossed and turned fretting over something I shouldn't have said to a friend, the bill I forgot to mail, the cough my youngest was developing— all things I couldn't change, especially not in the middle of the night. Tired, I went downstairs and made myself a cup of tea.
A warm breeze came in through the open window, and I went out the backdoor. Sitting on the porch steps, I looked up.
Here in the country the dark sky glimmers with light. The longer you look, the more stars you see.
The mystery of the night sky has captivated our family. Last Christmas, we splurged on a good telescope to zoom in on the moon's craters. My husband and sons like to get as close as they can to see the details.
For me, the view is best from a far. I like to lose myself in the majesty of it all. Against the vastness, the beauty, my worries fade and I realize everything is as it should be. When I was young, I always thought stars were pinpricks in the night sky letting in the light of heaven. I still do.
What brings you comfort and reassurance of God’s presence? Is it an early spring bloom? The sunrise? Please share your stories here by commenting.
Because some days you should get what you want. That's my explanation for this picture.
Henry is wearing the PJ bottoms he begged to keep on, the shoes he insisted on (one a rain boot and the other a pair of sandals). He's eating peanut butter from a spoon and enjoying his binky.
Uncle Phil is the war hero in my family. I grew up knowing this story. Uncle Phil was captured over Holland after bailing out of his stricken B-17 in 1943. He was missing in action for four months.
During that time, my Aunt Lillian prayed and prayed that he was alive and well. One day a postcard arrived from a German prison camp. It read, "Had a little tough luck. Everything is OK. Keep your chin up. Hope to see you soon. Love, Phil".
I've always imagined that moment at the mailbox. I picture my aunt crying with relief and shaking her head at the understatement "a little tough luck", though I'm sure Uncle Phil chose his words carefully, trying desperately to comfort my aunt's fears. His closing "Keep your chin up" still makes me smile.
My uncle was a prisoner of war for 22 months. When he returned home safely, it was the answered prayer of a lifetime.
During the almost two years my aunt and uncle were apart, love and prayer were the connection that kept them together. And though my uncle and aunt are both in heaven now, their devotion lives on, still inspiring me to be grateful for all the families who have given their all to serve our country.
And times when I'm having my own little 'tough luck' I think of Uncle Phil. I keep my chin up and say a prayer a thanks for everything I have.
The beginning of summer is hard for me. My sister, Maria, always looked forward to summer and going to the pool. She began talking about it as early as March. A late snow would come and she would phone me saying, "I can't wait for summer and the pool."
Henry is learning his ABC's. Each night when we read his alphabet book, he happily chants the song. When we get to the letter 'W' everything changes. His eyes widen. His hands reach up to his face and he peeks through his fingers down at the book, zeroing in on the letter like it's a monster. His fingers move down to his pouty mouth and he closes the book and says, "Oh, no, I have to start all over."
"Help 9 in the Litter" the flyer in the grocery store read.
The other night, I couldn’t sleep. I tossed and turned fretting over something I shouldn't have said to a friend, the bill I forgot to mail, the cough my youngest was developing— all things I couldn't change, especially not in the middle of the night. Tired, I went downstairs and made myself a cup of tea.
Uncle Phil is the war hero in my family. I grew up knowing this story. Uncle Phil was captured over Holland after bailing out of his stricken B-17 in 1943. He was missing in action for four months.