Here To Stay

Mo's last note

I spent some time these past few days reading through my sister Mo’s dozens of letters to me, all written between 1975 and her death in late 1981. I do this every year, and for many years it was a physically painful process. How, I always wondered, could someone with her huge personality and love of living be just…gone? I saved her navy bathrobe until it fell apart. For decades, I saved a bottle of Estee cologne that had been hers, even though it had turned rancid long before. I listened to her favorite music and cried over her photos. It was a time I gave myself annually to grieve, to tear off the band aid once again. Then I’d dry my tears and resume my life.

I always went through something similar recalling my mom on the anniversary of HER death (she died September 29, and Mo died on October 1--25 years and three days apart). Letters were read, photos wept over, Joanie memories shared. This ritual never had the raw grief of Maureen’s, however. Mom lived to be 80, a full span by most standards. She lived to see her grandchildren mostly grow up, and was a huge part of their lives. But still, it’s been a big adjustment to a world without my mother. 

And now we are here, at two milestone anniversaries: 15 for mom, 40 for Mo. And I feel—different. Maybe it’s dealing with the pandemic and the other assorted horrors of current life, but I don’t wish these two wonderful women were back here, because I love them too much for that. So this week I am mostly feeling relieved that they never had to live through all of this. And I am filled with worry for the futures of my beloved grandsons. 

Mom had a beautiful, somewhat unorthodox funeral, light on liturgy and heavy on things and people she loved. I just came across the notes 12 year old Julie took up with her to read that evening to the assembled crowd. Such sweet words. And in my mind’s ear I hear my Maureen Rose, singing “Our Love is Here to Stay.” I felt my sister’s presence that night for sure, as our mom made her way home to Heaven, and her family gathered to remember her. 

Julie's notes

Perhaps I should listen to the lyrics of that Gershwin song again, and take them to heart. 

“It’s very clear, our love is here to stay

Not for a year, but ever and a day…

In time the Rockies may crumble, Gibraltar may tumble

They’re only made of clay

But our love is here to stay.”

The world is a mess, has always been, will always be. But love, redeeming, amazing love, is here to stay. In Heaven and on earth. 

So thanks, Mom and Mo, for walking with me for part of the journey home. I’ll carry on in the company of C, Steve, my kids and grandkids. Love you always and forever.

Mo, Mom and me

"Our Love is Here to Stay" featuring Tony Bennett and Diana Krall

I'm Not Shy, But I Am Retiring

First mission trip (Rosebud Reservation)

I presented a letter to church council last week, then a note went out to the congregation, and as of Monday it was “Facebook official” on Christ’s Lutheran’s FB page. After 20 years as Spiritual Formation Director, I will be retiring at the end of May. It feels a little unreal to even type this, and lends new meaning to the word “bittersweet.” But, as a writer, I know when it’s time to end one chapter and start a new one (or at least I hope I know).

When it all began, I was a mere slip of a 45 year old girl. I’d been teaching Sunday School and giving of my time in many other ways at the church for 10 years by that point. When our Director of Christian Education resigned in 2000, a search was conducted for a replacement. For nearly two years, the position remained unfilled, and things were starting to slide (it’s really tough expecting volunteers to work on endlessly with no one taking the lead). Finally one night, at yet another meeting on the subject, it was suggested that I take the job myself. I’ll never really know if it was said in jest, but I took it to heart and accepted. 

Since then, it has been a two-decade-long labor of (mostly) love. I have helped nurture a generation of wonderful children and youth. Adult education became part of my portfolio as well. The seasons were marked with intense activity: Rally Day, the Advent Prayer Center, Christmas pageant and MLK Day of Service, followed by Lent programs, Confirmation, Vacation Bible School and the annual high school mission trips. I was too busy to notice that I was getting older, though my aching knees and back did a fine job of reminding me.

In recent years, I’ve been working ever harder on my freelancing, shoehorning an increasing number of writing assignments into my church schedule, in between leading Bible Study and delivering children’s sermons. It has long been clear to me that I want to continue writing for the rest of my life, and I knew someday I’d need to devote full time energy to being an author. Gradually, friends began retiring; they all seemed quite happy, and well-rested. 

So here we are. I have eight more months before my final Sunday, ample time for the church to find my successor. Meanwhile I will not slow my pace, and I look forward to finishing strong. My church family took the news very well: wishing me happiness, not sending me on any guilt trips (speaking of trips, I am so excited about traveling more in the years to come, including that twice-postponed European vacation with Steve). 

In the coming months, I will turn 65 years old. I will be married 45 years. And I will mark the end of my 20 years in this job. Milestone upon milestone. It’s been quite a ride so far, and I’m very, very grateful for every mile of the journey. 

happy author photo

The Boys in the Bubble

Favorite cartoon subjects: school bus and shower heads!

After a year and a half, Aiden and Peter are back in school. Sher and Yaj had made the pandemic decision to keep them home, so the boys have spent the past 18 months enjoying (I confess, sometimes merely enduring) each other’s company. Their parents made sure they didn’t miss an academic beat (math and writing practice happened daily) and they learned lots of other useful stuff as well. They also grew taller, grew teeth (in Aiden’s case) and grew even cuter (Nana’s unbiased assessment).

But the time has come to re-enter the World of Upper Dublin, and the guys are super excited about it. They both come home eager to spill the schoolyard beans (apparently there’s a boy in Aiden’s class who is just “hilarious” and I gather most of the hilarity ensues from the funny animal noises he knows how to make—would that it was so easy to make adult audiences laugh!) Peter is most enthused about “writing words” in Preschool this year, and is trying hard to sort out the three teachers who divide classroom duty (“Was it Mrs. Betteridge today, honey? Nope? Mrs. Haney? Nope? Mrs. Shapley? Nope? Well, it had to be ONE of them, Peter!” ) After bedtime last night, I eavesdropped from the hall outside their room as the two brothers compared notes. “My principal is a man, Peter, and yours is a lady.” “How many playgrounds does your school have? Mine has two!” 

What strikes me most is my grandsons’ innocence. At seven and almost five, they are children of wonder, and find the darnedest things captivating. Last week we had dinner guests, and Aiden sailed out on the deck with his latest cartoon creations, which feature various types of shower heads (what’s strange about that? Hmmm?) This keen interest in bathroom fixtures led to a trip to Lowe’s, where Aiden found Heaven in the shower head aisle. The boys are equally mesmerized by chandeliers and sconces, and just last night asked if the King’s dining room had a chandelier like ours. Mind you, ours is the most modest of overhead light fixtures, but I guess a seven year old’s house is his castle, so he can easily picture our little chandelier illuminating Buckingham Palace dinner parties. 

Having gone through this a “few” times, I am well aware that this wondrous stage doesn’t last forever. All too soon Silent and Sullen will come a-calling, along with Sleepy and Grumpy. By middle school, I’m guessing the shower head cartoons will have slowed to a trickle (get it?) and my two will be working diligently to be just like their perception of the "cool kids" they know. It’s called growing up, and I think it’s highly overrated.

For now, though, I will watch with a pang as the bubble our sweet boys have been living in slowly deflates, and be grateful that we were able to share some of their childhood’s golden moments, moments even a dark and scary world could not extinguish.  

Call Me, Maybe

 

Little Julie on the phone

The telephone and I have always had a fraught relationship, to put it mildly. As a child, I greatly resented the black plastic monster my mom seemed to be surgically attached to during her daily mega-chats with girlfriends. The three of us sisters would deliberately act up, just to try and lure her focus away, but to no avail. Joanie and Her Phone were an inseparable duo. 

Ironically, the night my sister Mo was killed, the phone was off the hook—the one night of Mom's life when she really needed to be available. Mom disconnected every night so that she and Dad could eat their TV dinners and smoke their cigs in peace; this particular evening, she forgot to put the phone back on, which led to the police arriving at 6 AM with the terrible news.

In later years, Mom and I would talk every Saturday morning while my kiddos watched cartoons. The long distance rates were down; we could chat without fear of running up the bill too much. I remember enjoying these leisurely talks, playing with the curling cord as we shared tales of our weeks. 

When did I start hating talking on the phone? I think maybe it was during my mental health crisis year, when suddenly everything I had loved, I now hated, and vice versa. I was super impatient when anyone called, and I could barely restrain myself from humming and drumming my fingers if the conversation lagged for a millisecond. Ever since, the internet has been my friend, email my preferred means of communication. Just think—I could send a message whenever I wanted, even if that was 4 AM, and the recipient could respond on their own schedule! Texting works too (although 4 AM is not the best time to attempt this). 

Now, four of my five children live away from me, at various distances, and I’m back on the telephone. Each of them has a different schedule (as does my sister C in Hawaii), and I’m constantly erring, sending greetings to a deeply sleeping person, or a working one. I now awaken before 5 AM, so any time after 8 PM is my twilight zone—sadly, the times my family is most likely to want to converse. I’ve been known to promise to call them back in ten minutes, only to fall fast asleep in the interim. Are my kids as annoyed as I was when Mom kept gabbing with Ann Marie or Joby? Probably!

I read science fiction about telepathy, and wonder if this cool brain-to-brain shortcut will happen in my lifetime. That would be so relaxing! But then my mind would be an open book (is that how it’d work?) and maybe my callers would be able to tell when I was irritated with them! Perhaps we’re better off with a gap between call and response, a chance to regroup and choose the best time to engage.

So, my kids: call me!! Other folks: let’s figure something else out!

Call Me (Petula Clark)

All Our Children

Children of Kabul (photo by Sohaib Ghyasi)

“All My Children” is the name of a long-running soap opera loved by my two sisters back in the day. What does the title mean? Given the tangled romantic encounters and relationships in these shows, it may have been main character Erica Kane’s assertion about her various offspring from her various paramours: “The kids of Pine Valley Elementary? They’re all my children (from different fathers).”

But seriously, for quite a few years I believed my maternal limit was reached after the birth of our fifth child. Indeed, there were times I felt I might have over-reached, especially when trying to get out the door with one in a front carrier, one in a back carrier and one holding each hand. “Are those all yours?” folks would ask, and exhausted me would hope they wouldn’t then give me a pop quiz about their ages. 

Over time, though, my “mom” instinct has only grown and expanded. I've thought of my children’s friends as “extra kids,” ditto my church families’ little ones. I rejoice when they get new teeth or learn to read or, later, finally get their driver’s licenses or open those college acceptance letters. Mind you, these young people have wonderful parents and don’t require any additional mothering; I just enjoy feeling like backup support, in the wings if ever needed. 

There is, however, another category of child: those without caring adults in their lives, or who are dealing with the trauma of separation from their parents. These are the ones I cry over, because as tough as childhood is, I cannot imagine navigating it without a grownup who loves them utterly—or knowing that the grownup who does love them, cannot be with them. 

I am filled with admiration for my friends who teach at-risk children, as well as the saints who become foster parents. I wish I could join their number, but honestly don’t think I could do the good job these kiddos deserve. 

Instead, I stuff teddy bears—and so do many of my church families. From a company that provides unstuffed toy bears, I order kaboodles each year, along with the fiberfill to plump them up. Working with police departments and children and family service agencies, these cute bears are then distributed. When a child, for example, must be removed from an abusive home, they are given a bear to hug and love during their time of transition. It is a tiny symbol of affection and stability—a toy that’s theirs alone, to whisper to at night and tote around by day.

Our current crop of stuffed animals is being readied for the Afghan refugee families about to be resettled in the Philadelphia area. Fleeing a horrible situation in their homeland, I pray these children will be comforted a bit by the teddy bears.

What if we ALL looked at EVERY child as our own? Love overflowing, love giving the next generation the security and affection they need…

What if that’s the secret to saving the world? 

Steve reading to Sheridan and his teddy bear