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.
My son Henry makes a grouchy face that is reminiscent of an expression I used to make. (That's Henry on the left, me on the right.)
Sometimes Henry and his brother will be playing in the other room. Giggles turn to silence.
"Mom!" Solomon yells, "Henry's got the angry face again."
I'll come in and find out how Henry's feelings got hurt. Hugs are given and the scowl turns to a smile.
It's both funny and lovely to have your traits reflected back at you on the face of a little one that you love. If anything I think it's God giving us a glimpse of ourselves how He sees us, in the face of a child.
Last year, a tragic car accident took the life of a 92 year-old woman in the town I live in. Days after her death, her son, a local farmer, put this message on the placard in front of their store front. It read: My mom was the strongest, most caring woman on the earth.
I knew his mom. She was the elementary school nurse when I was growing up and his words fit her to a tee. For about a week, each time I drove by the sign my eyes filled with tears, for his loss, for the loss of my sister, and for what it means to be a mom. How trying it is, all the worrying and long days and nights and yet, how no matter how difficult it is, it doesn't hold a candle to the bright light of love that grows inside you.
I've always known my mom was strong. (That's Mom and me in the picture.) A single mother for most of my childhood, Mom worked and supported our family yet still had the time and energy to make our lives fun. Reading me a book, laying on a blanket on the spring grass watching birds, finding caterpillars on long autumn walks, these were treasures mom shared that outshown any idea that we didn't have lots of toys or vacations.
This year, I worried my sister's death might change things forever, that such a loss would break Mom's spirit beyond repair—how could it not? But Mom has shown me caring and strength have no limits. That even something as devastating as death can't take away a mother's love.
The road side tribute stayed up for about a week, but it will forever live in my heart—keeping me grateful for my mom and for my sons, and for the caring and strong people in our lives that seem to hold the world together, one heart at a time. Happy Mother's Day!
In Solomon's first grade class, they're learning about what makes someone alive. Last night, as we ate dinner, he listed off bones and heartbeat as the criteria that makes something alive.
"Pizza was never alive," he said.
I was thinking about his statement but preoccupied with a completely unrelated challenge. The herd of deer that trail through our yard have discovered my tulips on the perimeter of our property. And after weeks of watching the beautiful green buds turn color and almost bloom, I awoke to one patch completely chewed down to the ground.
"You have to cover them at night," Mom told me. "Deer love them when they're just about to bloom. They'll eat them blooming, too."
So lately part of my nightly routine includes walking around the yard in my pajamas placing laundry baskets, pails and our recycling containers over my budding tulips.
Yesterday morning, as I was taking off one of the pails, a perfectly blooming tulip head fell right off. Exactly what I'd been trying to avoid perished by my hand.
Bringing the tulip head inside, I placed it in a bud vase by my kitchen sink. Its beautiful red petals opened to show edges of yellow inside.
This morning as I was getting my coffee I noticed my tulip head. Over night it had pulled its petals closed tightly into a bud. I smiled. "Solomon, come here," I said.
I showed him the tulip's petals. "Even after being picked it still sleeps at night," Solomon said.
From Solomon's expression, I could tell he was scanning the criteria he had learned in science class about what makes something alive. I'm sure his teacher will get an earful today about how things without heartbeats or bones but with petals are alive, too.
No doubt, something that inspires a smile on a tired mom's face before her morning coffee is alive and well, even more, a small unexpected answered prayer.
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.
Last year, a tragic car accident took the life of a 92 year-old woman in the town I live in. Days after her death, her son, a local farmer, put this message on the placard in front of their store front. It read: My mom was the strongest, most caring woman on the earth.
In Solomon's first grade class, they're learning about what makes someone alive. Last night, as we ate dinner, he listed off bones and heartbeat as the criteria that makes something alive.