Waiting for the Light

   It's been over four months since I've posted in this blog.  I can feel the turning of the seasons; when last I wrote, it was high Summer.  Now, we're nearing the end of Autumn, beginning the descent into Winter which coincides nicely with the concept of Advent.
   I've had time to begin to more fully synthesize the unknowable concept of death.  I find myself leaning toward meditations on seeking light, on finding life in the stark landscape of early Winter.  Advent has always been a very sacred time of year for me.  This year, our priest has asked those of us in our small house congregation to consider three reflection questions for each Sunday's lectionary readings.  We've done this in the past, but this year he wants us to prepare responses to the three questions, and be prepared to discuss them the next Sunday.
   There is no grief for me in this process, and if there is loss, it is of the sadness and darkness that I have felt in previous years as the light wanes and the long, cold nights of December descend.  I'd like to share the three questions for Advent One here, as well as my responses.

   Advent One, 2017

1.               For what are you on the watch this Advent?

2.              How are you being enriched in every way this Advent?

3.              How might you need to be roused in order to cling more tightly to God?

   Advent is perhaps my favorite season of the church year.  So many personal events have happened during its long, dark nights and short, cold days…My first marriage (1975), my initial move to New York (1978), and my mother’s death (2014) all occurred on December 7^th, Pearl Harbor Day.  I was born on December 22^nd, the coldest and shortest day of the year in 1955.   I have always loved being born on the Solstice.  Sharp, bright pinpoints of light in the thick December night skies are a source of wonder and comfort for me.  In spite of the cold and the dark of Advent, I find in it a great deal of comfort, and more than a little joy.  I am a person of the shadows, and have always been on the edge, on the outside looking in.  I can place myself in the context of the Arab refugee family who could only find a humble stable, or cave, in which to give birth.  When pregnant with my first child, my first husband and I lived in a modest apartment in a very poor section of Cincinnati.  To get to my charity hospital pre-natal care appointments, I rode two city busses across town and spent several hours sitting on a folding chair in the basement corridor of Children’s Hospital.  I was a child myself, preparing to give birth.  I certainly can relate to Mary sitting on a donkey, riding over the harsh desert roads and finding someplace, any place safe to have her baby.  In fact, it was during Advent that I began lighting the Advent candles in 1975, while awaiting the birth of my own child.  It’s now been 42 years that the Advent candles have been lit in my household, although the children grew up and left, and husband number one departed, to be followed by husband number two.  Both were watchmen with me, waiting for a sign, waiting for the Word from above, guidance for the journey ahead…

   I am still on the watch for a sign from God, a word, a call…to what service?  That I do not yet know.  But I know that a fire burns within me to do more, to step out in faith and offer my life up in service.  Where am I going?  I am watching for a sign.  Perhaps I’ll be led by a star, shining in the East…

   I am being enriched this Advent by interacting with the aging, the aged…acquaintances, friends and relatives who are struggling with some form of cognitive impairment as their brains age and their arteries harden.  This is terrifying, yet enriching as I watch them and those who are their caregivers find new ways of relating.  Time becomes more elastic for the aged, who begin to pass more easily from past to present to future.  My work with the Hospice residents is also a very enriching experience…I always come away from a work shift feeling honored to have had the chance to sit quietly with the dying, to listen to them, to pray with them, to hear their stories, and to enter – however briefly – that space of waiting – like the hushed darkness of Advent – for the next life.

   In terms of being roused in order to cling more tightly to God – well, sometimes I feel that God uses me as a rabble-rouser, stirring up uncomfortable ideas and questions during Mass and in conversations… like bringing up the over-abundance of our Thanksgiving feasts juxtaposed with the huge eyes of the starving children of Yemen, or mentioning the uncomfortable (inconvenient?) truth that our Native American sisters and brothers have quite another context for the event that began the first Thanksgiving.  I think I rouse myself with these queries, and I certainly need to cling more tightly to God.  It’s a big, scary world out there, full of darkness and light, and I am but a small, aging human who cannot begin to stand up to its challenges without the grace of God.  I believe that I am being roused by the fire burning within me that constantly prods me, saying, “You could be doing more…” And so I look to the heavens, and listen deeply.  And begin to follow that star.

On Hallowed Ground

   This weekend, four months after my brother’s death, I travelled to northeastern Ohio for the interment of ashes in my mother’s grave.  My mother’s grave is in a small town cemetery in her hometown, a beautiful piece of land in a verdant river valley.  Her ancestors and relatives’ graves are all over the cemetery…many generations of German Irish people whose stories we have heard for years fill these grassy plots…And now my mother’s ashes are crowned with my brother’s ashes.

   Any thought that this would be less emotionally-charged than the memorial service a few months earlier were quickly dispelled.  My nephew read the Committal of Ashes from the Anglican Book of Common Prayer, which I had coincidentally printed out for our use.  My copies were put aside for people to take home as my nephew, a man of the cloth and wearing all black, read the service while our extended family stood in a circle around the new grave in the old.  Several people spoke a few words.  Quiet sobs accompanied the memories.  We prayed the Our Father, and the service was concluded.

   We took family photos.  Some of us went to other parts of the cemetery to find other relatives’ graves, and there were many – probably five generations worth, at least.  Ultimately we caravanned to an Amish restaurant out in the country where we had a huge long table on which an ample country meal appeared.  Then we said our goodbyes to those who lived south, in Central Ohio.  Those of us from other states – Florida, Arizona, New York, and Pennsylvania, as well as those who lived either in town or within driving distance – drove back to our hotels either for rest or for further visiting.

    I chose to go to the lake outside of town where all of us cousins used to vacation together every summer.  Two cousins and I headed out to the lake with our swimming suits, looking forward to a swim on a beautiful summer day.

   As we drove through the lovely old town that cradled our mothers, I was aware that we were treading on hallowed ground.  Sure, there were plenty of stories that were anything but straight-laced, but the sense that we were driving through God’s country was undisputed.  Even if we did marvel at the fact that it’s a miracle that our older brothers are still alive after driving the Ridge Road while under the influence at high speeds…the land is still beautiful.  The valleys are still green (my mother used to love to gaze out over valleys and murmur, “How green was my valley!”), the farms are still operating, and very little has changed.

   Then, the lake.  So blue, so calm, so inviting…we drove into the leafy green paradise that sheltered our aunts, uncles, grandparents, and now some of our children and their children…small cottages and some larger homes are nestled in the forested hillside that leads down to the lake where boat slips and a small private beach beckon.  The memories that this residential woodland holds for us are endless.  We walked these roads when we were toddlers, with our parents and their parents.  Now we’re the grandparents, and the little ones at the beach are my second cousins.

   We stepped into the cool, sweet waters of the lake, and sank into the silky softness that has its own distinctive perfume.  Again, the hilarity of the past shenanigans of our siblings – the hiding of beer under the dock, the times we rocked the raft so hard it flipped over – the many family reunions – echoed in our ears and hearts like the soundtrack to a very old film.  We’ve lost two cousins, all of the aunts and uncles, and certainly our grandparents.  But we’re still here – for now.

   Then, a member of the next generation offered us a ride on the family boat.  Oh, yes – this would complete my total joy at being here again.  We threw some clothes over our wet swimsuits, and climbed aboard the pontoon boat.  Off onto the larger lake we went – past forests, houses, cottages, docks, and eventually the more remote valley and beach where we rented cottages fifty or sixty years ago.  We pulled into the cove where my father kept our little wooden rowboat, where we all fished, where my older cousins swam, and yes, where they stashed their beer for late-night rendezvous. As we pulled out onto the larger lake once more to head back toward the glens from which we had come, I received a text that yet another relative - my husband's aunt, the last of his mother's generation, had just died up in Canada.  Another soul had launched from Earth to Heaven, and coincidentally, she had been a sailor.  Perhaps it was the day, or the way the wind blew, or the incredible shade of blue of both water and sky...All of the memories coalesced into that boat ride on that gloriously beautiful summer afternoon.  My brother had been laid to rest, it is true, but now he is part of the great heavenly host of relatives whom I imagine are still out there enjoying the lake, the cottages, the children, the memories.  This is hallowed ground, and holy water.

   From dust we come, and to dust we shall return.  It is true.  And perhaps our tears become the raindrops that fill the lake, and our laughter becomes the wind rustling in the trees along those beautiful wooded lanes.

   There is loss in death, without question. But as we grow older, and as more of us pass on to the next world, the boundaries begin to waver and fade, and our beloved family homeland becomes a thin place, as the Irish say.  A place where one can walk between worlds.

The Long, Long Journey

   This is perhaps the most difficult blog post I will have written to date. During the last eight years, my daughter Jessica and her husband Bryce have tried every possible method to have a child. They suffered through every combination of IVF, even trying donor eggs and donor sperm. Nothing worked. There were a few hopeful moments, but they always ended in tragedy. There were painful injections, painful procedures, a miscarriage...Jess was finally actually pregnant, but it ended in an ectopic pregnancy.
    As the years ticked by, their hopes and dreams seemed dimmer and dimmer. I wept with them, sent flowers, prayed, and did everything in my power to make the universe welcoming for that infant grand baby that just never came. Finally, two years ago, Jess and Bryce decided to adopt. This was great news! She had a shower at school (she's a teacher.) She had a family -and -friends shower. The happy couple outfitted a nursery fit for a prince or a princess, with every doodad and invention that had ever been created to welcome a newborn into the family. And then they waited. And they waited. And they waited. They made a book about themselves as required by the adoption agency that was so well done. Jessica is a writer, and her well-honed skills came to her aid. But still they waited. And they waited some more. 
   Every now and then we would get an update that there was almost a match…They had 6 opportunities. Once, they were actually chosen, but the expectant mother ultimately chose to parent. The waiting couple weren’t getting any younger, and expectant moms seemed to want to choose couples who already have another child. My daughter and son-in-law continued to hope…again, they waited. And waited. Finally, the constant state of readiness and disappointment came to a head. There was too much physical and emotional stress involved in the constant waiting. They decided to stop the adoption search.
    Now, they are beginning to heal. Now, they are celebrating who they are, not who they wanted to be. They have emptied the beautifully-appointed nursery, and donated all of their equipment, clothing, and furniture to a shelter for young mothers in crisis. Jess has carefully re-created the little empty nursery into a beautiful writer's nook, a lovely office that is calm and welcoming. There may never have been a baby in that room, but I know for sure that many great ideas, stories, and poems will be born in that space. I am so in awe of Jess and Bryce. They have had such strength throughout their eight years of waiting...Jess's mother-in-law and I have ridden that roller coaster with them for all these years, eagerly awaiting that miraculous moment when our first grand baby would come into our children's lives. Now we can all move on. We can celebrate the children that we have, the adults they have become, and the tremendous talents and abilities they bring to the world, just the two of them. May we all have the grace to accept what we cannot change as well as these two amazing people.
    I have struggled to accept this loss the same year that I lost my brother, and even my cat - all within a few months. I'm 61 now, hardly a spring chicken. I, too, must focus on what I have - who I have - and not dwell on the infant grandchild who never arrived, the brother I lost too soon to cancer, and even the beloved feline companion who left us so abruptly. I am a person of faith. I don't have answers as to why all of this loss happened, but I do know that it is all part of life. In previous generations, when tragedy struck, people didn't ask "why" as we do today. More often, they asked "how." How do we carry on? How do we pick up and move forward in spite of our sorrow? That is the question. It is my belief that we do not walk this long, long journey alone. The Almighty sits with us in the silence, in the sorrow, in the slow realization that life will not happen as we assumed it would. God is not Santa Claus, filling our stockings with all of our desired gifts. However, prayer can help us focus...on strength, on compassion, on wisdom, and on finding contentment with who we are, who we love, and the life we've been privileged to live. I must dry my tears and move forward, celebrating the family that I do have - a terrific husband, two wonderful step-grandsons, two fabulous daughters, and the two sons-in-law who are so very perfect for my girls. I can and will continue this journey, with all of its highs and lows - grateful for what - and who - I have.

   To visit Jessica's blog, My Path to Mommyhood,  click on this link:
My Path to Mommyhood

The Rainbow Bridge

This weekend I said goodbye to my beloved companion, Tobey. Tobey was my cat. Not just any cat, but The One True Cat. Like all of our pets, Tobey was a rescue animal. My eldest daughter Jessica fostered him as a kitten, then adopted him as he grew. When she met the man she would marry, Tobey wreaked havoc on their household for three days before they made the decision that he wasn't going to blend into the family in a good way. Tobey then went to live with my younger daughter, Amanda. She loved him, he loved her, and all was rosy until she ended up in the emergency room with a super-bad asthma attack. She was allergic to Tobey. Tobey came to live with us. It was love at first sight. Aside from the fact that he couldn't tolerate any other animals in the house, it was a perfect match. Tobey behaved much more like a dog than a cat, at times...he played fetch, was very social, and was quite possibly the most affectionate animal I have ever known. He continued playing whole-heartedly well into his senior years. We estimated that he was about fifteen years old this year. Because we are avid travelers, we had several friends and neighbors who took turns taking care of him while we were away. Tobey educated each and every one of them in the ways he liked to play. One of our neighbors, a retired social worker and the neighborhood Cat Lady, began creating intelligence tests that masqueraded as games. He would eagerly rise to each challenge she presented to him, often causing a lot of hilarity when we came home. Once when I arrived home from a trip, Tobey joined me in the bathroom, hopped in the tub, and looked at me expectantly. Then he blinked, looked at me with complete disgust, as if to say, "Get with the program! Don't you know what we're supposed to be playing now?" I'd call Joan, and ask her what exactly I was supposed to do with a cat in a bathtub. And she would tell me... Tobey had an amazing ability to look deep into our eyes and communicate...well, I'm not sure what, but it was incredibly deep. What he didn't communicate was that he was in pain. Mortal pain. Last week, he began throwing up. We were annoyed. Then he stopped eating. I took him to the vet. She drew blood, but his lab reports came back negative for diabetes, kidney disease, and hypothyroidism. She suggested a scan of his abdomen. Meanwhile, Tobey became very weak. The day of his scan, he wouldn't come out from under the love seat in the sun room, his favorite room. I crawled as far under as I could, stroked his head, and he meowed the weakest, most tired meow I've ever heard. I knew his time had come. Weeping, I asked my husband to take him to the vet clinic early... Tobey never came home. His scan showed a belly filled with cancer. The best thing for him was to end his life. My husband brought him home in a tiny kitty casket, wrapped in a blue blanket. He looked like he was sleeping, his body curled in a little ball, his paws crossed over his nose. A pose I have seen so many times. Joan came over to say goodbye. We sat with his little casket between us, stroking his soft, soft fur. My husband and I packed up our weekend bags and took Tobey with us to his final resting place, the Memorial Garden at our little camp in the Catskills. We drove three hours to get there. I sat in the passenger seat with the little coffin on my lap. Once we arrived, my husband dug a grave in the soft earth of the garden. We said a little prayer, placed the box in the ground, and covered him over in the earth. I put one of his favorite toys in his box, and put more toys and his brush (he loved to be brushed) on the rocks of his cairn. Then I put a candle my daughter had given me on the stone. It had been raining as we arrived, and the rain continued for three more days. That candle didn't go out for 52 hours. It burned night and day, clearly visible from the road when we took our walks in the rain, and didn't go out until the morning of our fourth day there. When it did finally sputter out, I took it as a sign that it was time to let Tobey go. Several friends wrote to me that Tobey had "crossed the rainbow bridge," a concept I had never heard. I asked Rob what it meant. His response: "Maybe he went to Canada?" (There is a Rainbow Bridge in Buffalo...) And so Tobey lies at rest in the garden that I have filled over the years with little wooden plaques bearing the names of family members who have passed. I filled the garden with impatiens, geraniums, begonias, iris, bleeding heart, star flower, and peonies. It already had the Harry Lauder Walking Stick Tree my in-laws had planted in memory of my father, and the climbing white rose bush that friends of the family bought to memorialize my mother-in-law. I added a wind chime that hangs in the ornamental cherry tree over Tobey's grave, a small cherub holding a bird in her hands next to the bird bath, and finally, a black steel bench that my husband assembled for folks to sit by the beautiful garden and meditate. Tobey is the only pet of many buried there that has his own wooden plaque. Tobey was a member of our family, a friend, a mentor, and a cat who thought he was a dog. As for that Rainbow Bridge, I finally know what it means. A number of dear friends and family members informed me that when our beloved animal companions leave us, they go to a place just this side of Heaven. There is sunshine, no pain, lots of food, toys galore, and no illness or death. There, they wait for their human companions to join them. Then, together, they cross the Rainbow Bridge, and enter into eternal life. Some of us have several pets waiting there for us. I hope Tobey is enjoying the view...

Walking for Hope

Every year my daughter takes part in a fundraiser for the American Cancer Society, the Relay for Life. This year she invited me to participate in it with her. I had no idea of what to expect - I knew it had to do with walking, and with getting pledges for the amount of time walked. She put together a team for her Lions Club, and sent me an invitation to join the team. "Why not?" I thought. "How difficult can this be?" It turned out that taking part in that adventure was a very healing experience for me. I made the four-hour drive to Potsdam, NY where the event was to be held. There were many teams, mostly of college students, lined up to register for the event in the field house of the large, state university athletic facility. Each team was given a specific piece of the indoor track infield in which to set up a "base camp." Teams would walk from 8:00 p.m. Friday night until 6:00 a.m. Saturday morning, nonstop - hence the concept of a "relay." My daughter and I took two camp chairs, a small table, and the cardboard diorama my daughter made to go along with the Dr. Seuss theme of this year's event. Our little "encampment" was entirely surrounded by the members of several sororities and fraternities, who claimed their spaces with canopy tents, sleeping bags, pillows, stuffed animals, and all manner of interesting slumber-party type items. Other groups included athletic teams, an entire conglomeration of North Country firefighters of all ages, several service clubs, and various other committees, individuals, and alumni. It was colorful, to say the least! After opening ceremonies, we bought and decorated luminarias, paper bags that would hold tea light candles (battery operated) for the 10:00 p.m. ceremony honoring loved ones who had died of cancer. My daughter and I each made one in honor of my father (leukemia in '93) and my brother (lung cancer in '17). These were put aside while our teams began walking. First there was the Survivors' Lap, in which purple-shirted survivors took a lap with a special banner while relay members cheered from the sidelines. Then there was a Caregivers' Lap. My daughter urged me to take part in this - as a Hospice volunteer, I have helped care not only for my brother, but for five other cancer patients since beginning this work in September. I began the lap with a large group of others. When we rounded a corner, all of the firefighters were standing at attention, saluting us as we walked by. That was a hard moment not to cry. The firefighters have put their own lives on the line time and time again, ready at a moment's notice to help save lives. To have their respect was a humbling moment. After those two laps, all the teams began their relays. As people became tired, one or two members would go sit out a lap or two at their "base camps" while others took their places in the walk. There were special fundraising events throughout the evening: People could sign up to hula-hoop, and the firefighters held a very popular fundraiser involving donating money to walk a mile in their gear. Other groups sold wrist bands, hats, and other artifacts to add to the money raised for cancer research. There were musical groups performing, a DJ, and tons of free food - nachos, popcorn, cotton candy, veggie platters with humus...something for everyone. And lots and lots of coffee. At 10:00 we stopped walking for the remembrance ceremony. All of the luminarias were placed around the inside of the track. Lights were put out, and candles were not yet turned on while various survivors told their stories. Then, a silent lap was taken in the total darkness. Slowly, as each person was moved, the luminaries memorializing loved ones were lighted, until the entire track was lit by candlelight while music played. It was profoundly moving. There were tears, hugs, and an overall sense of camaraderie among everyone there. The firefighters put their helmets next to the luminarias memorializing their lost members. Eventually the lights came back on, the upbeat music returned, people donned their costumes and Seuss hats, and the party went on. My daughter and I left around 11:00, leaving the relay to the students on our team (we're too old for all-nighters any more.) The Lions Club earned a special award that night for fundraising. In all, the state university raised over $42,000 for cancer research. It was a challenge, both physically and emotionally, to take part in this large-group extravaganza. But it was totally worth it. The overriding message was, You are not alone. If you or a loved one are living with cancer, or have lost family and friends to cancer, you are not alone. These relays take place all over the country. Our loved ones live through our memories, and in our willingness to step out on behalf of those who do the research and caregiving to beat this disease. It is a walk for hope.

Day is Done

It seems somehow appropriate to write this blog post on Good Friday, a day of mourning but looking to the future Light. Last week, my husband and I went out to Ohio for my brother's Celebration of Life, and for the party at the house after that. There was much planning involved - a eulogy to write, a dress to buy, a wreath to make for my sister-in-law that would celebrate the Resurrection as well as Easter and would also memorialize my deceased brother. Deceased. What a final word. Many members of my mother's side of the family, cousins now (all the aunts and uncles are long gone), gathered at my brother's house the night before to visit with his wife and sons. It was a good gathering. Some of the cousins haven't seen each other since my mother's burial of ashes in NE Ohio two and a half years ago. My brother is now the second of the group of cousins to depart this Earth. The next morning, my husband and I headed out early to the funeral home to help set up the display of my brother's favorite and/or daily items: His helmet from Vietnam. His dog tags. Several SeaBee caps. The trophy and lifetime achievement awards from his place of business. His laptop. His lunch cooler. His travel mug. The only thing missing was Jim. Soon after the final touches were put on the photo displays and the two black-draped tables of his stuff, visitors began to file in. And file in. And file in. The ushers had to keep adding chairs, open up the doors, and find ways to expand space for all the people who came to say goodbye to their co-worker, their buddy, their friend. I had practiced my eulogy five times so that I could get through it without crying. I made it to the last line...but my dear nephews, his three sons, could not hold in their grief. My brother was a beloved father, husband, son, brother, uncle, cousin...The music, flowers, and speakers were all beautiful. And then came the full military honors. I had never seen this ceremony in its fullness prior to my brother's Celebration of Life. It involved an Honor Guard in dress blues (Navy), an officer in dress white, and a chaplain in fatigues. They unfolded the flag that sat on the table with my brother's ashes, held it up (it was very large), and out in the parking lot, three rifles fired three volleys. Someone played Taps on a bugle. At that point I just broke down. As I wrote in my eulogy, "As one of your sons remarked to me recently, you left a part of yourself there. The boy had become a man, the man went to war, and the man came home, a wounded warrior. It took years for you to process all that you had experienced there, and you processed it right up to the very end of your life." After the final notes of Taps died away outside, the honor guard refolded the flag, ceremoniously presented it to the officer, who knelt on one knee and presented both the flag and the shell casings of the spent rounds to my sister-in-law. It was the most moving tribute I have ever seen. The whole ceremony and service lasted 90 minutes. After that, we all piled into our cars and headed back to my brother's house for the party...a true Irish wake. Memories were shared; kegs were tapped, tons of City Barbecue were eaten. And all around the house were photos, memorabilia, the beautiful flowers, the many cards and tributes to a life well-lived. The wreath I made for my sister-in-law was among the display items at the Celebration, and now hangs on her door at home. I chose to make the wreath for her as a quiet symbol of eternity - the circle, with purple ribbons for Easter, for the Resurrection. My brother's body is gone now, but his spirit remains...perhaps with us for a time, perhaps already gone to Heaven to take care of his long-gone dog, Sage (which is what his four-year-old granddaughter was told.) I'll end this with the final words of my eulogy for Jim: "We love you, brother. I hope that as you enter now into the Lord’s Army, you lay down your arms, and enter into an embrace with God the Father and find comfort and peace, freedom from pain, freedom from sickness, freedom from sorrow. God is the ultimate Healer, and you are now in the deep, eternal embrace of the Savior. Rest well, my brother. We will see you in the great Bye and Bye."

The Lone Silver Wolf

Tomorrow I am leaving for Ohio again, this time for the last time of this six-month journey of saying good-bye to my brother. Yesterday I was filled with grief. Nothing would make me feel better, until I spent several hours in my little home studio and made a few small paintings. One of them, "Ghost Pack," was a bit unusual in terms of symbolism. Maybe I didn't know I was processing my grief. After all, what does the image of a wolf have to do with losing a brother?

Today the meaning came to me. I remembered a story about Barrington Bunny from a book called "The Way of the Wolf," by Martin Bell, that came out in the 70s. Today I looked it up, and there it was...the lone, silver wolf, by the forest's edge, looking out for the little guy. Looking out for someone he loved. The lone silver wolf would not leave a friend alone in the snow... The story of Barrington Bunny may be found here: http://www.angelfire.com/music/lefantome/bunny.html.