Giving Tuesday

My blog production team (just kidding, I have no idea who these people are)

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How fitting that today has been christened “Giving Tuesday!” For today I give you the last of my November blog posts! Let me tell you, I am super happy to give this one away; it’s been nagging at me this entire month. “Write something great!” it whines. “Don’t cheat your readers out of a grand finale!” To which I respond: “Quiet! You’re a blog post, for Heaven’s sake! If I want to make you a laundry list, or a traffic ticket, or a recipe for ambrosia, you can’t stop me!” But I realize I do owe you (and myself) a little somethin’ somethin’ as we ride collectively off into December, so here goes:

I hereby give you these pearls of wisdom: 

Two pounds of fish will never stretch for two nights. Period. Oh, you can try to give each of your five ravenous housemates a teensy sliver of steelhead trout, and even suggest they load up on the cauliflower. But inevitably someone (I name no names, but perhaps he is my eldest son) asks for just a teensy sliver more. There goes THAT grocery budget!

There will be long periods of rejection when you send out your writing (or audition for roles, or job hunt), and you will struggle mightily with your self-esteem. Never fear! You will get a writing or acting or business gig! In fact, you’ll get MANY on the same day. So many that you cannot juggle them all. To the point where you’ll say to God, along with the beloved Tevye in Fiddler, “We are Your chosen people. But, once in a while, can't You choose someone else?”

You will drive your car (Elantra, though I name no names) for nearly a year without incident, until the very day of inspection, when your wheels fall off and your radiator overheats just as you are pulling into the service station. And you haven’t made room in the budget for the repairs. This is where you are glad you got all the crazy gigs referenced above. Though they’ll still not be enough to pay the bill.

You will finally bite the bullet and purchase a generator, recalling frigid winters past. Count on your 6ABC meteorologist to chortle, “Warmest winter on record! Another January scorcher on tap for today!” The same thing will happen should you decide on central air next summer, “Snow in August? Believe it, folks!”

In the spirit of the day, I also give you:

My COVID-19 pounds (enjoy!)

My collection of mostly-consumed refrigerator mustards

My mother’s ancient sofa, which has been in my living room for 20 years, in a state of great disrepair. Watch out for the springs!

Our jumbled box of batteries, some usable and most not, but all of which you will have to test each and every time you pull one out.

My vast cookie cutter collection, from mammoth starfish to very small Ace of Spades. Because I don’t do cut out cookies.

It feels so good to be a giver! 

So. many. batteries.

The Point of No Return

I haven't even read this book, and somehow I own TWO COPIES

As a dedicated non-store shopper who, I say with some modesty, has single-handedly elevated Amazon to the internet behemoth it is today, I should know better. Should have the rhythm by now, internalized the magic date after which my purchase could no longer be returned for a refund or credit to my account. Yet, as I survey my little domain, I see many, MANY items I no longer want to own (if I ever did), just sitting there, gloating. “You’re stuck with us, sister!” I imagine the mistakenly bought book and the wrong color sweater saying. “NO one else would want us, and you missed your golden chance to unload us. Enjoy owning that novel you’ll never read, while you’re wearing the mustardy-puce sweater. Loser.” 

I am reflecting on other aspects of my life that have reached the point of no return. At almost 65, it truly is too late to get my pilot’s license I think (if my age doesn’t disqualify me, my 20/200 vision does). I will not embark on a new career as a house flipper (heck, I can’t even get my own house in good enough shape to flip). Medical school is no longer an option for me, nor is seminary (I still hate both the sight of blood, and the prospect of a year of Biblical Greek). There’s no going back to my youth. The childbearing ship has sailed. There is far more behind me, than ahead of me. 

Sometimes, I’m fine with that, because there are many aspects of my life’s journey I would hate to revisit (6^th grade P.E. class leaps to mind). But there is much I am sad to look at, receding in my rear-view mirror. And, mostly, I’m sad when I no longer have a choice. Doors slam shut. It is too late, a lot of the time.

Many experts are saying that our planet is reaching a point of no return. I just read a report warning that climate change is accelerating at a far quicker pace than current models had predicted. It is, I’m horrified to think, possible that our kids and their kids will be dealing with a planet that is becoming uninhabitable. 

But on some level, we are always at the point of no return, aren’t we? The clock neither stands still, nor reverses course. Our lives are the sum of the irrevocable choices we make. There’s no “do over” of a day, because that day is once and done, forever. And while we can (if we pay attention) successfully return an unwanted Amazon package, we can never undo what we have said and made happen.

I am currently putting together our Advent Prayer Center, and one of the meditations this year is about forgiveness, including forgiving ourselves (the hardest kind of forgiving). I’ll never return to yesterday, or even the last hour, so maybe I should be gentler with myself as I come to grips with this harsh reality. 

No returns? All right, then. Onward.

No return to my newlywed days. That's fine.

Overdrawn

writing on empty

I woke up a few minutes ago on this, Day 28 of the blog-a-thon, feeling wonderfully accomplished. My post for the day was written and it was really solid. I’d even chosen the pictures to go along, so it was just a matter of hitting “publish’! Boom!

So imagine my dismay when I opened my laptop to see…a blank computer screen. No, I hadn’t accidentally deleted a marvelous piece of prose (though that would also have been dismaying); it turned out I had DREAMED the whole thing. Yep, during the final dream of the night (which for me is always a doozy), the words had flowed like a rushing river, and I had created a work of true blog art. The kicker is--that is all I recall of the dream; none of the content of my writing stayed with me at all. 

Not an excuse, dear readers, but perhaps an explanation: my idea bank is overdrawn this month. November has been chock full of projects, all of which have involved copious amounts of creative writing. There’s been a ton of church stuff…writing multiple meditations for our Advent Prayer Center (this year we’re offering in person AND at home video experiences), coming up with content for our Christmas Eve family service in church AND the family-made videos for our virtual pageant.  Also, I’ve written two essays for the ELCA’s Gather magazine, a new essay with recipe for a fun food site I contribute to, and written five humor essays for the humor writing sprint group I’ve joined (two of which have been published on comedy websites). 

Topping it all off with 30 posts is proving to be a bit much, except in my dreams obviously.

I do keep a small notebook of random ideas for pieces, so that was the first place I looked this morning. Sadly, I’ve used every single one (except the bad ones, of which there were several). I am my own harshest critic, and am compulsive about not repeating a subject. I always go back and search all of my previous pieces to make sure I haven’t written too often about Peter, say, or prayer, or Peter praying, though the other night I did overhear Peter praying, to Santa (!) for an Octonauts toy for himself and a “box of treasures” for his brother, so it’s a shame I can’t write about that (or maybe I just did).

I have a little mnemonic device I use when I forget something. I pretend there’s a filing cabinet in my brain, and I go through the process of opening the imaginary drawers, assuring myself that whatever I’ve lost is in there. It even works sometimes! And at dinner recently when Aiden was stumped mid-tale, he clutched his forehead and pretended to pull open his own filing cabinet! I was so proud! 

I believe I can pick myself up after this stumble on the track and finish strong. 

Maybe I’ll go back to bed and re-read my dream post!

Mrs. Cellophane

Cactus Flower

 “Shoulda been my name, Mister Cellophane, cause you can look right through me, walk right by me, and never know I’m there.” (from Chicago)

I’ve never been one to shrink from attention. Even as a tot, I tried hard to command the room, especially rooms where grownups had gathered to chat about grown up things. I wasn’t a screamer, nor prone to tantrums. Instead, I charmed my way to center stage and then stayed there, never yielding, until at some point my audience either fell asleep or crept away. You haven’t lived until you’ve heard a six year old belt out “Just You Wait, Henry Higgins” with a flawless Cockney accent! That was me, Little Miss Showbiz. 

After a school career largely spent performing in plays (several of which I wrote myself), I launched a theatre career along with my actor sweetie Steve. While I never wowed them with my great beauty, I was attractive enough (and perky! Ever perky!) to land the ingenue roles in many a dinner theatre comedy. From Cecily Pigeon in The Odd Couple to Toni Simmons in Cactus Flower, the girls I played were always pretty, but usually not the sharpest tools in the shed. 

Even when I wasn’t performing, I was accustomed to getting my fair share of male attention in public (though I ALWAYS cringed when whistled at). I stayed young-looking for decades, so that stage of life lasted quite a while. I was always a fairly modest dresser, except for a stretch of bipolar mania in my late forties when I actually bought (and wore!) a leather miniskirt. But no matter what, though it wasn’t always welcome notice, I was definitely noticed.

At some point in my early fifties, that all changed. I suddenly became invisible. Walking past construction sites I rated dead silence, and if anyone did speak to me, they called me “ma’am.” In gatherings, I would try vainly to make eye contact with people, but most often they would look right over me, searching for someone more appealing with whom to converse. 

I’ve never really worked in a traditional business setting, so I haven’t experienced a lot of mansplaining, and men stealing my ideas and presenting them as their own, but my daughters say this happens all the time. This is another type of invisibility that women have to deal with, and it really stinks. Women are still unfairly passed over for promotions and raises. Women who do speak up are deemed “shrill” and ”bossy.” Better to stay quiet and compliant and, for Heaven’s sake, make every effort to look like a 20 year old! 

I live in an era where I can’t look forward to being revered as a wise elder of the tribe. Instead, I’ll continue to be Elise the Friendly Ghost, gradually fading away as the years pass. Ironically, the little girl who received so much attention, has become an older woman who’s just another anonymous face in the crowd. 

Yoo hoo! I’m over here! Anybody?

Plate Full of Thanks

Seyfried art installation

It all began with a second grade art project. Aiden came home last week with a place setting he had drawn, which included a paper plate decorated by things for which he was thankful. Sheridan quickly made his own “plate of thanks.” Last night after our wonderful Thanksgiving dinner, we broke out the Chinet plates and markers and the family went to town designing their own versions. I was delighted with their results (the only one not yet represented is Ya-Jhu, who was busy cleaning the kitchen during our impromptu art session (that earns Yaj a prime place on MY “plate of thanks.”) 

It was fun seeing the different items on the plates, from doggies and music to back scratches to sleeping late to, of course “friends and fam.” But, more than a silly game, it was an opportunity to stop and think of what we were all truly grateful for this year. For me, the #1 thing was definitely being together, indoors, for Thanksgiving with my family, after two incredibly difficult years mostly spent apart. Through the wonders of technology, we were able to see and talk with Evan in Seattle, and C in Honolulu, as well (yay, FaceTime). We look forward to having Ev with us for Christmas, and hopefully Ashlyn too (Pat’s lovely significant other has a large and close family, so no doubt we’ll have to fit into her plans where we can). 

I can’t say I ever took holiday gatherings like this for granted, exactly. I’ve often written about the cheerless “celebrations” in my family of origin. Mom in particular detested any activity involving cooking, or cleaning, or fussing of any kind (for Joanie, Thanksgiving was a horrible combination of all of these). 

In my late teens, when Steve and I became a couple, we would drive down from Atlanta to Valdosta for Thanksgiving with his parents. That was much better, although the sheer amount of food was completely overwhelming. I was still totally full from our 1 PM feast when, at 6 PM or so, Mom Seyfried would break out the leftover turkey and stuffing sandwiches, lest any of her brood perish from starvation. For Leona, as well, I think these ultra-holidays made up for HER miserable childhood, when the family of ten children often didn’t have enough to eat, truly. 

During my kids’ growing up years, and since, the last Thursday of November was always a joy, well worth the fuss and bother. This year, Julie and Gil (now vegetarians) brought veggie lasagna. Patrick made the ultimate cornbread with honey butter. I baked a maple custard tart with an oatmeal cookie crust, which turned out great.

Last night, as we swapped our dinner plates for our artistic ones, I was struck by how little, for me, Thanksgiving has to do with food after all. It's a time to really focus on my blessings, many of whom were gathered around my table after far too long. 

What’s on YOUR plate of thanks this year?

sk8r boiz

                                                                    The Natural

At age 37, Sheridan has decided to take up skateboarding. He’s not a “do crazy tricks at the skate park” kind of guy; his goal is to get good enough to take the board on the train next spring and then finish his commute to Kohelet Yeshiva (the high school where he teaches) on his own wheels. My oldest son has applied the same, laser-focused singleness of purpose that he brought to baseball as a young child, and later, of course, to his beloved music. He’s out there almost daily after work, cruising through the neighborhood, remarkably steady and well-balanced. Soon, he graduated from a long board to a short board (yeah, I know, I don’t understand either). In the evenings after dinner, he’s been known to regale Aiden and Peter with YouTube videos of other skateboarders and their feats of daring. The boys are all agog, and I’m sure that means they too will be clamoring for boards in the not-too-distant future.

You might think a man in his late 30s would look a bit silly, but not Sher! He takes the whole enterprise quite seriously, and therefore everyone watching him does too. 

Meanwhile, Aiden now is on rollerblades. When Baba is practicing on his skateboard, Mr. Aiden is usually out there too, rolling down the driveway and gliding easily to a stop. He has inherited his dad’s poise and looks perfectly at ease, even when tackling some decent-size hills. When I can bring myself to watch, I notice that, while Sheridan is totally aware of Aiden at any given moment, he is not hovering at all; instead, Sher concentrates on mastering his own sport. Their time together is companionable and low-stress, dad and son sportsmen having a blast.

Quite a difference from his fretful, hand-wringing mom, who couldn’t take her eyes off her children for a millisecond when they were in any perceived danger--say, digging a small hole in the sand at the beach. “Not too deep!” I would caution, “It might collapse on you!” That usually drained all the fun from their endeavor, and that really wasn’t my intention. But I ended up passing along my anxiety anyway, like a big, wet blanket. 

Ya-Jhu has similar parenting instincts to her husband’s, and as a result the boys adore climbing trees and monkey bars, without being yelled at to “be careful for Heaven’s sake!!” (when I would do that, my offspring would inevitably fall down.) I don’t want to miss out on my grandsons’ every hike and bike adventure, so I’m trying to bite my tongue and let them be. 

Winter will bring a break for my skateboard and rollerblade boys. But they’ll no doubt be sledding, and probably even skiing at some point. The parade of dangerous pastimes knows no season! But maybe I can make a real effort to change my ways. Perhaps, by Spring, I will debut the All-New, Laid-Back Elise!

Spring of 2040 is the goal. I didn’t specify NEXT Spring, did I?

Maybe one of them, someday?

Experiencing Delays

Rose delighted with a Xmas gift way back when! She may have to make do with the memory!

I don’t know about you, but my patience is wearing thin, in general (not that I ever had all that much to begin with). All around me are delays: ridiculous phone call hold times, letters and cards coming days or even weeks behind schedule, and now it’s the supply chain! I had honestly not given a ton of thought to HOW my Amazon purchases arrived at my door (I had a Santa-like fantasy image of UPS drivers in brown delivery sleighs, circumnavigating the globe overnight). Now I come to realize that MUCH of my stuff is on container ships, that are not being unloaded quickly. That stalled cargo may well include the few Christmas gifts I have ordered as of now. I’m afraid to order more because I don’t want to see the dreaded “estimated delivery date: January 9-February 15” on my computer screen. I haven’t gone holiday shopping in a physical store in years, so that option is off the table (Julie is my personal shopper, and I’m afraid she won’t have much luck this Yuletide either). I’m preparing myself for a festive Christmas morning of shaking gift cards out of envelopes, which is OK for the grownups I guess, but maybe less than thrilling for Aiden and Peter (“Starbucks! Nana, you shouldn’t have!”)

Evan is heading home for Christmas, and I know booking his flight was difficult (he couldn’t even get the same airport to fly in and out of from Seattle). I’d be shocked if he landed anywhere close to on time, and I just hope he doesn’t get in the middle of a fracas between an unhinged traveler and a flight attendant (those seem to be happening with such frequency that they could be filmed and people could watch like a prizefight on pay-per-view). 

What is the matter with everybody? Me included? I’d say we weren’t like this (horrible) in the past, however, I know humans have always tended to be stinkers. But nowadays, we behave like spoiled toddlers (“Me want it!!! Waaaaah!!!”) the second we don’t get our way. Intellectually I realize that we’re all super-reactive because of the pandemic, at least in part. Emotionally, though, all I want to do is run away and join an ashram. Spending my days meditating and eating bowls of rice sounds so restful!

One thing that is helping me is having a sense of humor. I recently joined a small humor writing cohort online, and it’s been a hoot. Every week we each come up with five funny pitches, vote on each other’s ideas, then write comedy pieces based on the winner. In addition to giving me lots of new material to (hopefully) place somewhere, it’s just such a great opportunity to laugh at life (in fact, one of my comedy buddies is writing a piece called “The Real Man’s Guide to Fixing the Supply Chain”). 

So as we plunge into the zany holidays, may we all take a deep breath, laugh heartily, and chill out a little. 

Company in NYC

At Rose's apartment

I remember Julie and Rose’s panic during the early days of COVID, when even stepping out of their New York City apartments exposed them to an elevated risk of infection. My girls were there for the worst of it, when the Big Apple was a global epicenter for the virus, when the hospital morgues were overfull, when every night people opened their windows and sang to the first responders. As after 9/11, those were days when enormous, anonymous New York pulled together, even if briefly, as a family under siege. 

Conditions, as of this writing at least, are much improved. Steve and I actually went up to Brooklyn last month and took Rose out for a birthday dinner at a lovely restaurant, indoors. I was quite anxious about the trip, but very heartened to see all the precautions still in place (we weren’t allowed into the café without our proof-of-vaccine cards, for example). And while it’s virtually impossible to really distance there, people were clearly making an effort (and I’ve never seen so many face masks). 

On January 8^th, we’re heading back, for a little company—the wonderful Sondheim musical Company, that is, which has reopened for a short Broadway run. We’d had tickets for late March 2020, which were of course cancelled, and for a time I wondered if or when we’d ever feel safe in a theater again. But we’ve decided to return this winter, and I really feel fine about this. This production features the legendary Patti LuPone, with Katrina Lenk playing the lead (formerly the main character was a man, Bobby, a bachelor whose married friends kept trying to find him a mate). I'm so excited to see the re-written version; I had seen Ms. Lenk in The Band’s Visit pre-pandemic, and she’s super talented. 

We’d no doubt be even safer staying home, and if there’s a surge or other major pandemic related issue, we’re prepared for another postponement. But taking this small step back into a somewhat normal life is worth it to us. Broadway theaters are relatively small and very old, and the seats are close together. I recall previous audience experiences, packed in so tightly that I felt I was related to my seat mates by intermission. But I am reassured of the status of my fellow theatre buffs, and I truly appreciate the huge number of safety steps taken in New York. 

Looking further ahead, I don’t think we’ll be done with the masks for a good while, especially inside. But I’ve gotten used to them, and actually feel weird in public when I’m unmasked. Every communal outing will provoke some anxiety for the foreseeable future, and I’m sure some activities just won’t be worth it to me. For instance, I haven’t been to an Eagles game since the lockdown began--but then, I’ve never been to one, nor do I have a scintilla of interest. However, I can’t wait for classical concerts and art museums again. 

And curtain time on Broadway.

                                                        Company opening number

SUBJECT:

One of my yearbook photos, unstaged (yeah, sure)

I took a stroll through my inbox today, and realized that many, if not most, subject lines for mass emails are pretty ridiculous. Here’s a small sampling:

She died from a snakebite. But the real killer was her husband (CNN)

I expect more from CNN than this obviously clickbait-y headline. Of course I opened it though. Isn't it every wife’s nightmare, when hubby arrives home with a bouquet of roses that includes a hidden copperhead? I have never been very cautious when Steve brings me flowers, but I may have to re-evaluate!

Our Most IN-Demand New Denim! (Betabrand)

Opening this tantalizing email reveals the promise of One ZILLION New Designs. For blue jeans? What, do they have three legs? Do they double as parachutes? Can you use them as coffee filters? How many changes can we ring on this most basic type of pants? I am in good shape, jean-wise, so this gets a hard pass.

Top Ten Gifts We’re Into This Week (The Grommet)

Cilantro Microgreen Kit! Magnetic Construction Blocks! Hexagonal Beer Pong Game!  This is the online equivalent of the 100,000 catalogs I’m getting in the regular mail on the daily, and I honestly can’t see one item that I’m tempted to buy for my “near and dears.” However, I am considering the Amazing Butter Dispenser as a treat for myself, because I never figured out how to use a butter knife.

Save 10% on Your Car Hire Now (Irish Car Rentals)

The girls and I were in the Emerald Isle in 2017. Much as I’d love to be planning another road trip in Eire, it’s just not in the cards right now. But wow! 10% off is much too good to pass up, so I may go ahead and rent a random car in Ireland anyway. You don’t see deals like THAT every day, right?

Your 1974 St. Pius High School Yearbook is On Sale! (Classmates.com)

OMG!!! For a mere $99.95 plus shipping, I can own a second copy of my senior yearbook, just in case I accidentally toss the first one into the trash! I long to page through and delight in the hairdos, the “most likely to’s”, the football pix (many) and the theatre pix (relatively few), that capture the special flavor of a Southern high school in the early 70s. No photos of my peers smoking pot on the school lawn during “open campus,” but I don’t need pictures to remember that!

And so on (and on). 

I send my fair share of weekly church emails to our Confirmation parents, Bible Study members, etc. and I think I’m missing the boat, as they don’t stand out from the crowd (which is perhaps why I get such a poor response). But what if I used some “teaser” subject lines? Here’s my thought going forward:

SUBJECT: 10% Off Denim Yearbooks When You Hire Your Irish Car and Buy Our Venomous Beer Pong Game!

Now that I have your attention, Sunday School at 9 AM this week. 

Wives, beware!

Rushing It

Our modest little tree! (just kidding)

It’s still the third week of November, Mr. Turkey has yet to be cooked and carved, yet all around us our culture is madly prepping for that Giant Jingle Ball o’ Fun. I’d say all this hoo-ha was a natural reaction to a nearly two year pandemic, but the Yuletide Creep Up has been gradually occurring for years.  Goblins are immediately replaced in stores by Santa, like the back-to-school supplies nudge the beach toys off the shelves by mid-July (does anyone else find that incredibly depressing?)

What’s the big hurry, folks? Does a large segment of the population really clamor to hear “Santa Baby” four times an hour on B-101 Radio’s all-Christmas playlist beginning in late October? Why enjoy a walk in the great outdoors admiring the turning autumn leaves when we can be in our family rooms, glued to the 65 Hallmark Christmas movies currently in rotation? Spoiler alert: in the denouement of EVERY SINGLE PLOTLINE, Candace Cameron Bure quits her high powered job as a children’s book author in the city, to remain in snow-covered Holidaysville with the hunky widowed handyman, his two adorable motherless moppets, and their dog, who is a Lassie clone. 

I’ll be 65 next month, and believe me, time is flying by fast enough as it is. I don’t need all the year’s special times zooming past me at warp speed, a frantic mashup of Valentines and July 4^th fireworks and New Year’s Rockin’ Eve. I actually want to slow down and enjoy the rollout of the months, the change of seasons. By Labor Day, it seems, those same old TV commercials where those annoying carolers are giving out lottery tickets as presents (whoopie!) have started running. 2022 calendars and daytimers have been out since early early 2021. How many people fill in their hair and dental appointments more than a year in advance? We could be hit by an asteroid tomorrow, for Pete’s sake! And then wouldn’t we feel foolish to have planned our future?

As for the holiday season approaching, I do hear of people who keep things simple, and enjoy a relaxed Christmas. Often they suggest taking the whole extended family on a round-the-world cruise in lieu of gift-giving. Why didn’t I think of that? I’ve been shedding cumbersome customs for decades. No greeting cards are mailed off anymore, nor cookies baked. Yet still I feel super-frazzled, especially when I dart into CVS for shampoo, and am serenaded over the PA system by the late Bing Crosby. The tree stands are already popping up everywhere, including the parking lot of the local swim club, which just closed for the season yesterday. Btw, I think it’s a clever scheme, having people buy live trees seven weeks before Christmas, which will be dead as doornails well before Christmas Eve, thus necessitating the purchase of second trees. 

Lest you think I’m an old grump, I do want to wish you and your family a very happy St. Patrick’s Day! Here before we know it!

                                                                  Shamrocks ready?

Burning Love

Roaring fire! I had nothing to do with it!

Ha! Fooled you with my title, didn’t I? No, this is not a steamy 500 word blog post (unless we’re talking about actual steam). This is about my love of candles, fireplaces, and the like, which directly corresponds to my fear of these things. My strangely mixed feelings echo my love/hate relationship with the ocean. Fire and water are two basic elements, and I probably should be 100% on board with them, as long as I take common-sense precautions. 

Instead, I have visions of me, or, worse, someone I love, floundering in a rip tide, or burned badly in a cooking mishap. So when it appears I am gazing serenely into the fire pit, or at the water’s edge, internally I’m catastrophizing to beat the band. When I watch bolder, less neurotic souls surfing (I still have no idea how surfing is even possible) and scuba diving, tending huge bonfires and lighting multiple birthday candles on cakes (after three candles the match burns down too close to my fingers), I'm in awe of their phenomenal courage. 

As a child, our family never had even a minor issue with flames (a miracle considering the six packs of cigarettes Mom and Dad smoked between them, every single day.) But we weren’t outdoorspeople of any stripe, so I never learned anything about campfires. I just gathered that apparently when you sat around them, you were suddenly compelled to tell that scary story about the guy with the hook for a hand on Lover’s Lane, and/or pull out a guitar and belt out some rollicking folk tunes from the 1960s. No thank you! 

But then I married Steve, who was a fearless fire man. For the first time in my life, we had cookouts (involving burning charcoal!!) Our living room fireplace was actually used; the one in my folks’ house was notable only for the multiple times squirrels got stuck in the chimney. When I turned 30, Stevo confidently lit the vast amount of candles on my cake. 

Finally, I discovered scented candles (nice—read pricey—ones, I’m a bit of a fragrance snob), and knew I couldn’t keep asking other people to light them for me. I still can’t deal with matches, but I can use lighters. Armed with my little Bic, I daily light a favorite candle and keep it on my desk in my home office. I can, and do, also light candles in the family room when we have company, or for a nice dinner. The atmosphere they create is amazing—instant ambiance, and a sense that something special is happening. 

Buoyed by my success, I had two friends over recently to sit around the fire pit on our deck. While I admit that Steve got things going, at one point the fire began to die down and I MOVED A LOG, all by myself. What’s next for me? Grilling juicy sirloins over red-hot coals? Starting a cozy fire in the fireplace WHEN I’M HOME ALONE? 

Not so fast.

A Life of Purpose

 

I’ve had the end of life on my mind lately, probably because I attended the funerals of several good friends in recent months, all of whom died far too young (or at least young by my 64 year old standard). Last month there were two memorial services back to back—Helen Piszek Nelson on a Friday, Father Jim Von Dreele on Saturday. While they didn’t live a full span, both of these wonderful people made a real difference in the world--Helen as a philanthropist running her family’s foundation, The Copernicus Society, and Jim as an Episcopal priest who worked hard for social justice. They have been inspirations, and I believe others will follow in their footsteps. And so their spirits will live on.

A couple of years ago, I lost two friends to suicide—beautiful women inside and out, and loving moms, for whom the world became just too much to bear. Both of their families are now active in supporting suicide prevention organizations, honoring their memories, and their friends join them. And so Deb’s and Heather’s spirits live on.

The pandemic has also, of course, been a grim reminder of mortality, and the fragility of existence itself. Dying of COVID, alone and frightened, is such a nightmare, one I fervently pray will end soon. Do those souls live on, after being unexpectedly torn from the world? I believe they do, in eternity, and in the hearts of those who love them. 

Why some people suffer greatly with physical or mental illness, and some are spared, why children die, and others peacefully drift away at a ripe old age, is a mystery I don’t think is solvable on this earth. There’s so much of this living and dying process that is out of our control. But while we are breathing, we can try to live lives of purpose. That “purpose” is as varied as people are themselves—some folks affect multitudes, others only a small circle. Some find their reason for being early in life, some later. 

I look back on my life’s journey to this point, and while there have been many, many times of self-doubt for sure, and a great many detours from a set course, I am trying to live purposefully. It is my prayer that, when my time comes, there will be something of me left behind, something worth remembering, some good work worth continuing. 

And that is something that I can control. So let me not waste a single day. Helen’s father, Ed Piszek, was founder of Mrs. Paul’s Kitchens and a great humanitarian. His memoir is aptly titled Some Good in the World. Ed (and later his daughter) made a big impact on the global stage, but doing some good, on whatever scale we can manage, is a goal available to everyone, and the key to living a life of purpose. 

And by making a positive difference with our lives, of whatever length we are granted, we’ll have our reason to be here.

Our young church families making Thanksgiving pictures for a nursing home