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

VBS: The Delta Variant

VBS 2011--happy singers (all 70 of them, packed in together--remember when?)

Over the past 20 years of my tenure at church, our annual summer Vacation Bible School has been a constant, but with some variants. As with all kid-centric activities, flexibility has been the name of the game, and I always expect to face a few  unexpected developments. Memories…

There was the kid-who-shall-remain-nameless who felt sick mid-morning, then promptly GOT sick—on the sofa in the pastor’s office. The pastor was out of town, and we MAY have just cleaned up and never told him. Possibly. There was the sweet 10 year old who, it turns out, was highly allergic to just one of the 47+ varieties of Pop Tarts (we usually provide a fun junk food breakfast for our teen counselor helpers prior to opening, and of course had unwittingly served up POISON that morning). And who can forget the jolly piggyback rides the counselors used to give their young charges throughout the sessions? Not I, not after one jolly rider pitched over the head of her counselor, and ended up looking like she’d been in a car accident. Luckily, she had incredibly cool and understanding parents, but it certainly could have gone the other way.

But, even if I had the flexibility of a top yoga teacher, I wouldn’t have been prepared for Delta. This experience has been akin to crawling ashore after a shipwreck, only to be hit by a dune buggy. You think you’ve made it home safe, then, whammo. But after cancelling 2020’s festivities, we really wanted to try and find a way to make VBS happen this summer. The result is a very scaled-down version of things. 

Yesterday was our kickoff. The day dawned sunny (yay!) and also blisteringly hot and humid (not-so-yay). At 10 AM our little friends arrived, sunscreened and masked up and ready for fun. 

On the plus side: the decision to limit the time to two hours (10-noon) was a wise one.

On the minus side: the way the temp rose, maybe those two hours should have been 4-6 AM (hey, I was awake!)

Plus: holding this in late August, we caught some families who’ve never been able to attend in late June due to vacation schedules.

Minus: we lost a number of families for whom June was the only workable time.

Plus: we gave everyone a personalized, filled water bottle to tote and hydrate through the morning.

Minus: we sent the bottles home to be refilled and returned tomorrow. Maybe we should have kept them at church?

Plus: We had the cutest puppet yet for gathering time (Sparky the Dragon)

Minus: We were short staffed, so I ended up being both puppeteer and puppet. Shari Lewis must be spinning in her grave.

To sum up: it went well, all things considered. And today, as I arrive at church at Delta Dawn (couldn’t resist) for another sanitized and cautious get-together, I will say a prayer that this surge too, shall pass, and our sweet kiddos make it safely to Vaccination Day.

VBS 2021--masked and distanced and outdoors

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Sibling Revelry

Brotherly love, Summer 2021 edition

“You’d better get along with your sisters, girls. It will be the longest relationship of your lives—longer than with your parents, longer than with your spouses, longer than with your own children.” –Joanie (AKA Mom)

Growing up was no walk in the park chez Cunningham. My sisters and I were raised by overgrown children, Joanie and Tom, who meant well, but had zero control over the Monkey House that was our domicile. We girls truly loved each other (and our parents), but at times the impartial observer would be hard-pressed to guess that. 

I do remember playing elaborate games of Barbie and Ken with Maureen, though, and both of us doted on Carolyn, who was several years younger. But then came school, and suddenly there were friends to make, friends who were much more entertaining and glamorous than the kids we shared rooms and bathtubs with. For the remainder of our youth, we jumped when any of our buddies beckoned, leaving our siblings in the dust. We figured there’d be time, later, to nurture that “longest relationship of our lives.” Not then, however.

Mo’s death at age 23 was a massive wake-up call—our little circle was broken, forever. It took a year or so of grieving in our separate ways, but then C and I found our way back to each other, and a friendship that has sustained me in the 40 years since. 

My children similarly began as a very tight-knit crew, but as their lives expanded, those bonds were sometimes strained. Sheridan and Evan in particular were joined at the hip—until they weren’t. They grew to have separate social circles, and their “BFFs” were not always one another. As with my sister, our five have found their way back to amazing relationships, but I still recall the fallen faces of the younger brother or sister discarded by the older one in favor of his or her fellow third graders.

And here we are with Aiden and Peter. As the pandemic began, the boys had just returned from a visit to their family in Taiwan, and had settled back into kindergarten and preschool. Overnight, the shutdown happened, and then it was just the two of them as sole playmates, for months and months. Sheridan and Ya-Jhu homeschooled them, and they didn’t seem to miss being with other children (at the height of the COVID scare, we’d whisk them home if anyone else appeared on the playground). 

Fast-forward to Fall 2021, and their impending return to school. They are excited; Nana is a mess. I keep turning tender brotherly moments from the past year over and over in my heart, and I dread the boys’ separation. Deep down I know it’s good for them to socialize again (way deep down). But then there’s a moment like this recent one...

Peter, at almost five, has an adorably quirky way of pronouncing certain words, and he calls his brother, emphatically, “Eden.” I finally asked him why, and Peter responded, matter-of-factly. “I call him Eden because I love him!”

God bless you, “Eden” and Peter, as you step once more out into the bigger world. Never forget how much you love each other, my sweet boys.

Click Bait

Honey-lavender glazed donut—where is such deliciousness?? Click to find out!

The classic “gotta read it” headline immortalized in journalism classes was an old NYC tabloid one: “Headless Body Found in Topless Bar.” Now I ask you, aren’t you the least bit curious? Even though I’m revolted by my morbid interest, I confess I often read on when I encounter a boffo header. And, with the internet, click bait come-ons are everywhere; for example, email subject lines like one from a religious magazine that landed in my inbox this morning: “Is your smartphone causing you to sin more?”( Hmmm, maybe…only if “sinning” involves “cursing at my smartphone when the battery dies”).

Then there are those devilish online “rabbit hole” posts. You know the ones: there’s a picture of an actor you know can’t possibly be more than 50 years old, with the caption “At age 100, she’s still with her partner!” and then I begin clicking compulsively through 75 photos to get the juicy details, at the end of which I have totally forgotten the name of the 50/100 year old movie star I’m seeking an update about. And by then it’s 6 PM and I haven’t started dinner. 

I was thinking the other day—wouldn’t adding click bait headlines to my life spice things up? There are days when I’m hard pressed to imagine anyone more boring (boring-er?) than me, with my mind-numbing daily routines. But if I wrote about myself (which, if you’ve read even one of the past 472 posts, you realize is what I basically do) and then added a dash of intrigue, maybe I’d be able to imagine that I am, in fact, a creature of romance and mystery (or at least, that I’m not the most boring –boring-est—person I know).

So here are a few TRUE incidents from this past week, along with suggested headlines:

Terror on the Beach! Shark Bites Swimmer in Ocean City! Only 40 Miles from where Elise Stands with Her Toes in the Water! 

Frantic Treasure Hunt! House Key Mysteriously Disappears! Stolen by a Wily Thief? Or Left in the Glove Compartment of Car? Read On and Find Out!

She Was the Oldest Rehoboth Summer Children’s Theatre Cinderella Ever, and She’s Still with Her Prince Charming! You’d Better Sit Down Before You Check Out THIS Amazing Photo!

Tragic Missed Connection! Wi-Fi Woes Doom Long Distance Call with Long Distance Son! Will He Ever Contact Her Again?

Negligent Grandparents “On Duty” when Tiny Lego Disappears Up Little Grandson’s Nostril! ER Averted When Pa Turns Him Upside Down?

Nightmare On Highway One! Heavy Traffic on Friday Summer Afternoon Shocks Beach-Bound Driver! How Can This Possibly Be, Elise Wonders?? 

Walked an Hour Without Her Fitbit! Why Is She Convinced It Doesn’t Count? Exercise Experts Weigh In!

I think I’m on to something here, folks. Now all I need is to add a soundtrack to my life and it’s a whole new ball game.

What should my theme song be?  “I Will Survive?” “Mairzy Doats?” “Crazy?” Cast your votes and let’s make this happen!

My toes were probably shark-safe 

Word Perfect

With the Bruics, June 2017, Dingle, Ireland

While I consider myself truthful, I have been known to embellish things just a tad, only when such a teensy addition would make the story immeasurably better, of course. I often feel a kinship with storytellers of ancient days, sitting around ye olde fire. I’d begin, “So…I killed a deer today. Pretty much it.” “Tell us more!!!” my rapt audience would plead. “OK, well, the deer attacked me first, and wrested the bow and arrow from my hands.” “Wow!!!” “And after it was dead, I carried it 20 miles through the snow, uphill both ways.” “Now you’re talking!!” See what I mean? SUCH an improvement!

Whereas reporters have no such leeway. Much as I’m sure they’d love to add a pithy comment here, a hilarious anecdote there, they are duty-bound to capture what was actually said by their interviewees, and not a syllable more. No wonder I opted out of journalism school! 

There is a trend nowadays to add an element of reporting to personal essays, in order to make them more timely, and, therefore, marketable. Recently, a couple of my editors have asked that I get a quote from a source or two, to beef up my narratives. While I certainly comply, it is not without a decent amount of trepidation. What if I (gasp) misquote these people???  My M.O. is paper and pen, not voice memos and the like, so my post-phone call routine is to try my darnedest to decipher my scribble-scrabble that passes for notes. Did Pastor Mary really move to a “fram” in rural Ohio? Does Dr. Peters truly believe that artificial intelligence is good? Or, maybe, bad? Or, is he neutral about the whole thing? I write my pieces and hit send, dreading the possible fallout from my subjects. So far, everyone has been pleased…which means that I am way overdue for an angry email from an irate expert, who threatens to sue me for putting (the wrong) words in his/her mouth. 

I am currently writing an essay about my very favorite bed and breakfast in Ireland, where Rose, Julie and I stayed in 2017, for a publication called “The Heart of the Hotel.” In all my travels, I never encountered innkeepers with bigger hearts than Jimmy and Noreen Bruic, of The Forest of the Roses on the Dingle Peninsula. I referred to my four-year-old notes from our visit. I emailed Jimmy for some clarifications. Even now, as I am about to submit, I picture the kind and serene Mr. Bruic, his face uncharacteristically contorted in fury, accusing me of getting something (anything) wrong, thus ruining his business forever. 

“Practice makes perfect” (who coined that phrase? Need to give the proper credit to the author!) so I will press on, as a newly-minted member of the press. The writing game continues to evolve, and so must I. I am spending time today investigating recording devices, in my ongoing quest for accuracy. 

But I'd love to quote Jimmy as saying, “sure and begorrah.” 

Guess not. 

Stop the presses!! I goofed!!

Brave? Brave.

 

All right, one more time for the peanut gallery (very loud and very clear).

We do not say:

I’m so embarrassed about my heart condition

I’m ashamed about my cancer

I’d be mortified if anyone knew I get headaches

What’s the matter with her? She can’t handle a little stroke?

So why do we feel:

I’m so embarrassed that I have bipolar disorder

I’m ashamed that I have anxiety

I’d be mortified if anyone knew I get panic attacks

What’s the matter with me? I can’t handle a major depression?

Yet that’s exactly what our society continues to do: shames and criticizes and diminishes the struggles of those with mental health issues. Forces those people to go underground, to hide and lie about their conditions for fear of that shaming and criticism. 

Honestly, I hoped we were doing better. In the 15 years since I was diagnosed, and became active in the mental health community as an advocate, I’ve read and heard encouraging things. People of influence have spoken out about their conditions. In 2018 my show, This Is My Brave, featuring regular folks telling their true stories of mental illness, was presented to a sold-out audience in center city Philadelphia, and I’ll produce another one in 2022. Good, important conversations have been happening.

Now Simone Biles, one of the most gifted and hardest-working athletes in the world, has stopped competing in the Tokyo Olympics because she is fighting crippling anxiety. Unable to perform at the level she expected of herself (and, by the way, the public fully expected of her), she stepped aside and let her teammates take over in the race for medals (and, at this writing, they have risen to the occasion beautifully). 

And there has been a vicious backlash against her. “What’s brave about not being brave?” sniffed one clueless and nasty commentator. Would this have been his attitude if she dropped out due to a serious physical injury? I doubt it. There is an acceptable range of injuries and disabilities, and mental health issues and other “invisible” illnesses do not make the cut, very often. Instead, we are quick to label these people as weak, somehow lacking in character (or, I hate to say it as a church worker, but sometimes the reaction in religious communities is that his/her faith is deficient.)

By all accounts the world of top-level gymnastics is an incredible pressure cooker, also marred by sexual misconduct by trusted coaches. Is it any wonder that Biles struggled in that toxic environment? 

I don’t know what it will take to completely de-stigmatize mental illness, but I know we have to keep trying. If for no one else, for our young people, many of whom are in great psychic pain they are afraid to share, and are turning to drugs and even suicide. So…

Let’s make honesty about mental illness normal, and risk-free. 

I believe Simone Biles IS brave, and that this is a teachable moment for America.

The question is, will we learn?