Scar Tissue

A Scar Was Born here

I once wrote a post entitled “We Are All Tattooed." In it, I discussed tattoos as commonly understood (including the ink my Rose sports), and as inevitable indicators of life lived over time (wrinkles, gray hair). No one gets out of here unmarked, I wrote, and that’s actually a beautiful thing: we carry the outward signs of our journey with us as we age, telling our story without saying a word.

What I didn’t write much about in that piece, were scars. I am fortunate that I am not scarred from battle, or other physical wounds inflicted by another—and I recognize that this is strictly because of my lucky circumstances. A kid growing up in a rough neighborhood in the inner city has an much greater chance of being shot on the street, for example, than I do.

Nonetheless, I do have a few scars, seen and unseen, which bring back a flood of memories. 

There’s the still-visible scar on my finger from a bad burn. Seeing it, I am transported back to the shabby living quarters above a dinner theatre in Nashville, Tennessee. There we lived for a while in 1978, performing in “Don’t Drink the Water” (as usual, I was the ingénue and Steve played my father.) We shared space with several sloppy actors, had just about zero privacy, and even less disposable cash (we were so broke that we’d take the extra desserts from the theatre buffet line upstairs wrapped in napkins for breakfast the next morning.). The burn came from my attempt to make toast in the tiny oven—they had no toaster—when my finger hit the heating element inside. I remember crying, both from pain and general discouragement.

There’s my C-section scar, an ugly reminder of a wonderful event (the birth of Julie). I vividly recall seeing my mom’s huge, uglier Caesarean scar (she had all three of us that way, which in those days meant opening the same big incision again and again). The night Jules was born, amid the fear and panic as we watched her heart rate dipping and dipping on the monitor, the doctor kept apologizing for the operation to come (“We tried not to do this, we’re sorry”). At that moment, my bikini-less future could not have mattered less to me—I only wanted her born, quickly and safely. I do now feel a twinge of sadness observing my slightly disfigured tummy—but more often, I just feel grateful to have my daughter.

Lovely Julie, all grown up

Inside, there are the scars no one notices but me: the forever loss of innocence and joy that came with my sister’s sudden, tragic death at age 23. The frightening knowledge that my brain is still sick, and that without medication I would surely slip back into the miasma of severe mental illness.

Just as we are all tattooed, we all bear some scars from the trials we survive. We make it through, burned and bruised though we may be.

And that’s a beautiful thing, too.

To the Moms I Loved (and Lost)

Sheridan with Nancy's Josh, (way) back in the day

Dear Nancy and Sally:

I think of you two often. You were each a pivotal part of my early days of motherhood. One of you was my hospital roommate when my firstborn came along. The other was Godmother to my fourth child.

When I was a little girl, my family moved a lot, and I shed all those temporary friendships like snakeskins. As a high school junior in Atlanta, I finally, magically stumbled upon a real friend group. For the first time in my life, I was part of something special—a posse, a tribe.

After we married, Steve and I began a theatre tour that took us all over the East Coast for almost two years. During that entire time, it was just the two of us. Miraculously, my un-watered garden of friends hung in there through the drought.

The night Sher was born, I met Nancy, who had given birth to Joshua a few hours earlier. We shared a sense of humor, and also a fear that we wouldn’t be able to do this mothering thing. I have pictures from Josh’s first birthday party, Christmastimes together. Except for one Atlanta friend, none of my circle was having babies yet, and I treasured Nancy. I could always call her when Sheridan’s screaming was making me crazy, knowing she had a similar story to tell.

Later, as the boys attended different schools, we drifted apart. Nancy called me a few times, leaving messages. I always meant to respond, but I didn’t. She’d be there when life stopped being so crazy, I figured. But here’s the thing—she wasn’t. When I tried at last to reconnect, my Christmas cards and phone calls were never returned. Has she moved away? Who knows? Was our split my fault? Definitely.

I met Sally at Gymboree when our second sons were toddlers, and we bonded instantly. Later, when Patrick was born, she was the logical choice to stand up with him at his baptism. Every year, Sally would hand-deliver a silver bell inscribed with the year, to decorate our Christmas tree. My thank you notes were late, and finally came the year I didn’t respond at all. Remorse set in eventually; I left phone messages, wrote notes apologizing for being a lousy friend—but to no avail. Once more, I’d blown it.

Godmother Sally at Patrick's baptism

Today, I am blessed to have a wonderful group of faithful friends, to whom I try hard to be a faithful friend in return. They, along with my ever-constant Atlanta buddies, form my support group, and I can’t imagine life without them.

Still, there are times I yearn to catch up with Nancy and Sally.

If by ANY chance you read this, girls: I have never forgotten you, and never stopped missing having you in my life. I wish you both the best, and hope your lives have been wonderful. I learned the hard way how to be a real friend. I’ll try to remember this lesson for the rest of my life.

Re-Buyer's Remorse

I could open my own cracker store

We’re having company tonight, and serving cheese and crackers for an appetizer. So, when I hit the store the other day, I made sure to pick up a package of crackers. Trouble was, I already had four, count ‘em, four other packages of the same (or very similar) crackers in the pantry.

Last week I finally did a long-overdue inventory of my books (the ones I wrote). How many copies of Unhaling, Underway, Everyday Matters and In Discovery do I currently have in stock? Need to make sure I have enough in anticipation of holiday sales, and also copies for purchase at upcoming speaking gigs!! At a recent event in Delaware, I noticed that my supply of Unhaling's was dwindling, so I went ahead and ordered a big batch more from the publisher. Which would have been great, had I bothered to open the still-sealed box that turned out to be filled with Unhaling's in the bedroom first. I now have enough of my first book of essays to last me until 2029.

 I recently ordered a snappy wine-colored sweater from LOFT, and congratulated myself on my fab purchase—that is, until I unearthed the EXACT SAME SWEATER in the back of my closet. No wonder it looked a little familiar!

Why didn’t I check before shopping?

Why, indeed. Lately it seems that extra step is a step too far for me. And it’s a shame, because we don’t have oodles of spare cash to just blow on surplus baked goods, or extra volumes of stories, or duplicate sweaters, that we don’t need.

Is this how hoarders get their start? I have always been highly critical of the hapless folks with houses full of cats, or old newspapers, or canned beets. But now, I can almost see how a little initial carelessness morphs, over time, into obsession…it is weirdly comforting to know that we are so well stocked on various items. One might even say, overstocked. We aren’t at the point of building more storage space. Yet. But that day may come, unless I start to pull back. Not to the Marie Kondo level of sparseness of course, but I do need to look pre-leap before buying more stuff.

This goes for church as well. My Advent Prayer Center partner-in-crime Marda and I cleaned out the closet where we keep the items we need for the various prayer stations each December. In the space of one hour, I discovered: a huge bag of scallop shells, markers and pens galore, beads of every size and shape and color, etc. I know I have recently re-ordered every single one of these items without checking that closet first. Some thrifty Lutheran I am!

In this month of Thanksgiving, I give thanks for the bounty I possess. And I vow to stop before picking up one more bottle of saffron at Shop N Bag. Do I own an Indian restaurant? I will ask myself. No? Then step away from the spice rack, Elise!

Plenty more where these came from (trust me)!

A Prayer to Saint Expeditus

He also may have been a Roman martyr...no one knows!

Happy November!

As I awoke this morning after last night’s wild storms, I felt powerless. Literally. We had no power—no lights, no heat. At times like these, as we scurry around lighting candles and boiling water on the stove for coffee, I recognize how ridiculously dependent we are on our “modern conveniences.”

The Philadelphia Electric Company will restore everything at some point later today, but not soon enough! Time to pray! As God is clearly a busy guy these days, what with the world falling apart and all, I reach back to my Catholic upbringing, seeking the appropriate saint as my prayer-target. It is All Saints Day today too, a perfect time to give the Great Cloud of Witnesses in Heaven a shout-out. But who should I choose? I have read that there actually is a Patron Saint of the Internet now, but as I can’t get online to check at the moment I have no clue who that is.

I do remember reading a story about Saint Expeditus, a popular saint in Louisiana. Ages ago, when French folks settled in that part of the South, they had statues of saints from Europe shipped to the Port of New Orleans. One of these boxes was stamped “Expediter” (French for “send this quickly”). As the figure was unpacked, it was assumed that Expediter must be the name of the saint statue in the box…hence, Saint Expeditus. This (probably imaginary) fellow is still a part of the culture—people even take out newspaper ads, thanking Saint Expeditus for a swift resolution of their troubles.

All righty then, I found my guy! And here’s my prayer:

Yo there, Saint E!

You, who represent our need for speed, are the perfect saint for this supersonic age. Fast, faster, fastest! We cry unto you: bring us our restaurant meals at home via Über Eats! Deliver us from mall trips, with Amazon Prime! Keep on adding apps for our phones and shortcuts for our laptops and channels for our Smart TVs, and please do it NOW.

In this, my hour of trial, restore my Google and my microwave and my desk lamp and my ice maker.

Go on. I’m waiting!

Thanking you in advance, 

Elise

Seriously, though (and you knew I’d get here eventually), life is filled with unexpected storms, and being temporarily unplugged is very far from a calamity. I am so grateful for the workers clearing the felled power lines and trees, and feel so lucky that my family and friends are safe. The sun is shining right now, and after the destructive power of nature on display last night, the gorgeous blue sky is a benediction.

To quote the great mystic Julian of Norwich (who definitely DID exist) “All will be well, and all will be well, and all manner of things will be well.” In God’s good time. In this crazy, hurry-up world, may our souls find rest in this promise, today and every day.

Beautiful morning after storm (but down went the leaves!)