What if?

 On this day when the unimaginable has happened, when the Supreme Court has struct down Roe v Wade, when the highest court in the land has seen as its duty the need to restrict rights rather than broaden them, I think back. I think back to a 17 year old girl living in rural Iowa. I feel that sinking feeling she experienced in her gut when she knew she was pregnant and had not an inkling of an idea of what to do next. She told her father because she knew he would somehow magically know what to do and wouldn't waste his time on the shame of it or the "you should have" lecture. There would be no loud voices and no punishment for this error in judgement. There wasn't a moment to lose. It was July and college and her future was on the horizon. There wasn't time for thoughts of keeping the baby or adopting out the baby; there was only the thought that this father would not sacrifice the future of his youngest daughter for a teenage love that had dissolved just weeks earlier. But what if? What if he and her mother hadn't already experienced the challenge of raising a baby as teenagers. What if he didn't have a Presbyterian minister who could access a safe abortion in New York City the year before Roe v Wade legalized abortion? What if he hadn't been willing to make the sacrifice of financing airfare and medical services in 1972 on a contractor's salary? What if? This girl would have become a legal adult in three weeks time. And within another several months, the baby would be born into a drafty farm house to an unemployed single mother. The anticipated empty nest of her parents would have been replenished with a second generation to raise. Her horizon would now hold only the option of a secretarial or a service industry job. The prospects for marriage would be far from the destined PhD educated man who would soon become a small business owner. And it would be ages before she could ever envision living comfortably in a 3 bedroom/2 bathroom house with 2 beautiful children. That dream of her college degree and teaching credential would be decades away from fruition, if ever. So when we speak of women's rights being cut off through the act of banning abortion, this is the life choice we are setting before our young female adults: single motherhood, minimum wage jobs and few prospects for a life partner that would help to lift them out of poverty and into home ownership. And yet, today in America, that is exactly what we have done.

Your Dad

I never knew a man who wanted to become a father as much as yours did.  It was all part of the scenario when we met.  "I want to get married and have kids."  I will always be grateful that you came along as soon as you did.  He would have quickly grown impatient waiting for his family dream.  The days of your birth were without measure for him.  He could not have been happier.  He never cared about having a boy or girl, only that you were healthy babies.  The hardest thing he did in the early days was go to work and leave you at home.  A daily walk or two to the store was always on our agenda.  The minute you showed up, he would stop everything and pick you up and hold you.  He would proudly present you to a waiting customer or salesperson with that big smile of his and eyes ablaze.  "This is my baby." Oftentimes I would take over the cash register so he could enjoy his time with both of you.  Diapers were changed on top of the freezer filled with bags of ice and we stayed until someone needed a nap or to be fed.  Your dad was always sad to see us go; he would stand at the door and wave and wave like he might not see you again for days.  When 5:30 rolled around he'd bound in the door and look for his kids to give them both a hug and kiss.  

He loved you with a love that was deep and true.  There was nothing you could ever have done that could have broken that bond.  He firmly believed from day one that you were the smartest, cutest, funniest children that had ever been born.  No matter what you were doing, he thought it was perfect and you became the focus of all of his stories.  Guess what Maria did.  Watch what Dave can do.  With each of your achievements he wanted it to be recorded and remembered for all time.  He was constantly telling me to take a picture of whatever you were doing.  So there are pictures of Dave holding a kitten, Maria eating a peach, and the two of you displaying your first savings account booklets.  He rarely wanted his picture taken so this one is special; it was taken outside of the Lawrence Hall of Science in 1985 after you had once again proven that you were Daddy's little geniuses.  

As the holder of these memories, I share them with you so that on this Father's Day, you will once more feel the love that was endlessly given to you and intended to last for all of eternity.  Let this love of your childhood hold you while you feel the embrace of your Dad as he once again swings you up and you see the world from the perch on top of his shoulders.  

Setting Your Sights

 The metaphor of setting a sight comes from the action of looking through a gun's sight and focusing on the target before taking the shot.  In life, we gradually learn to set our sights on a number of targets.  As a child mine was usually set on what my siblings had or getting the last of the cake crumbs.  As we age, we learn to set our sights on much longer term goals; a good grade on the history test, training for the race, or learning a new skill.  Eventually we look towards a college education, getting that first job and suddenly we lose track of the target.  Life takes over.  It just becomes one goal that follows another - marriage, kids, managing school and work and kids and now we can no longer see the sight or the target.  We have gone from looking intently at the target to spinning mildly out of control.  And one day we stop the merry-go-round.  We can't get off but we can definitely downshift and slow the pace.  We once again look through the sight and remember the target. Each decision now is aimed at making that target come into view.  Nothing is taken for granted.  

A line is drawn in the sand; I wake in the morning and focus on the goal.  I choose to be happy that I am awake, not irritated that I woke up and am no longer asleep.   I greet the day with a feeling of awe in the beauty of the sun rising and I am witness to its glory.  On my morning walk everything is new and fresh; the birds are singing, lizards scurry to safety, the glistening sunlight on trees blowing in the breeze reminds me that everything is changing all the time.  This sight you see right here right now won't be visible in the blink of an eye.  So take it in, relish it, and be grateful you were the spectator.  

Since my move back home, I have become extremely aware of this setting of sights and perspective.  For the first time in more than 20 years I became a renter and no longer in charge of the home I live in.  On my first day here, I questioned everything.  Had I noticed the chips and cracks in the kitchen tile or that there are three different kinds of linoleum in three adjoining rooms, or the fact that there was no dishwasher?  What was I thinking?  I was only thinking of my "sight."  My sights were set on being home, being walking distance to my family, and finally being able to once again grow in faith and love.  On day two, my sights completely changed.  Everything was unpacked and placed where it could be appreciated.  The framed photos, the art, the mementos that had been gifted to me seemed to surround and envelop me in the safety of home.  I could no longer see the tile cracks or mismatched flooring and didn't care one bit about a dishwasher.  I was home and I had all the things around me that bring joy. I began the work of arranging and rearranging furniture to get in my sights exactly the things on which I wanted to see and focus.  The living room was set toward the backyard, the computer found its own niche in the corner, and the prayer chair eventually came to face the altar with a small table beside it to house the books and journal.  

Now that the move is complete my sights gradually are focusing in on the call to service.  I have been brought back to this place in this time to continue the work that was underway before I left.  I am here to grandmother, to find my professional place in education, and to continue my faith journey.  So with every question that presents itself, I grant it the time and perspective it deserves.  I sit with it in silence. I pray about it and listen.  My yes is ready only if it moves me closer to the path that has been set before me.  My perspective is a positive one and focused on the future.  I choose not to dwell on lost time in the past or mistakes that may have been made, but only on what is coming and how I can serve.  Yes, life is complicated at times, but we can easily unravel the knots by taking the time to look through the sight and focus on the target.  I set my sights on love, on spending my time well, and on sharing my gifts.    

With Whom Do You Share Your Family Secrets?

 Less than two weeks ago a family secret was released into the world.  No matter how you prepare for the thought that there may be more to your family than previously thought, it still comes as a bit of a shock.  And being human, when things throw you off kilter, the first thing you want to do is tell someone.  You yearn for that shared looked of shock and surprise so you no longer feel alone in your dizzying stupor.  This is human connection at its strongest.  Listen to my story and tell me what you think.  

A few years ago I learned about the ring theory in grief work.  You, as the primary grievers: spouse, children, parents receive comfort from those just outside your circle, your close friends.  So comfort flows inward and grief flows out.  This all came into my mind this week as the secret began to find its way into a wider circle.  The question now became who do you tell once that inner circle has been informed and supported. It only takes one person who responds with anger in place of surprise to make you question who I am telling and why.   Is it gossip, am I sharing this just for the effect?  Is that who I am?  But the secret is not just a secret; it is a person, a human being that we, as kind and loving humans want to welcome into our inner circle.  We want to know this person, share our stories, have coffee or lunch together.  We want to meld this new person into our family and give witness to the new us that has been created.  In the spirit of openness, honesty, and transparency, people who know me need to know that we have grown and been changed.  I cannot become one who has to guard my topics of conversation depending on who I am with, trying to remember who knows and who doesn't.  I was never any good at lying so I'm not going to get caught in an "Oh, I forgot to tell you that we are one more now."  In the business of secrets, just as with grief, the telling moves outward and the support moves in.  I tell you my story, you look surprised, I nod and begin the arduous task of fielding the unanswerable questions of who is the other parent, how did this happen, were they in relationship, how did they stay married?  With time, the questions fade to black and the look of puzzlement has been replaced with joy.  Immediately the joy I have felt for the last two weeks in having found a new member of my family is transferred to my confidant.  The questions are no longer about the event but about the person.  What is s/he like?  Where does s/he live?  Are you going to meet him/her? And finally, we are able to move on, with you knowing that I have put my trust in you to have and hold this new information about me and about my family.  But the thing that is left in my heart after each of these encounters is gratitude; gratitude that this person is in the world and I get to share my life and world with he/r and gratitude that I have this circle of friends with whom I can share my story.   

What Would Happen if We All Answered the Call to Serve?

 Many years ago, I accepted a position as a 7th grade English teacher at a school that served a neighborhood of Mexican immigrants struggling to make ends meet.  I had no doubt in my teaching skills after all my years of reading and writing with first and second graders.  But something else pulled me in: service.  I was using my gifts and talents to guide these students to become first generation college graduates.   This was a school that lived and breathed service.  There was an intern program supporting student teachers; the staff worked an 8 hour day with 3 different shifts.  The kids were there from 7 AM to 6 PM incorporating time for homework as well as athletics into their schedule.  The students were served breakfast, lunch and an afternoon snack from a soup kitchen.  The faculty would often muse at the fact that these middle schoolers would one day become accountants or lawyers and tell the story of their meals from a soup kitchen.  But something else was going on in that soup kitchen that became a goal for me in later years.  Every Friday morning, our kids shared their tables with volunteers making sandwiches for the poor and homeless.  They were an ironic combination of retired men and women wanting only to give mixed with parochial high school students earning their service hours.  The retired women were all nicely dressed while the men wore their Hawaiian shirts and cargo shorts.  The students were getting their hours in before school started so they usually sported their school logo shirts and jeans.  I loved being a witness to the camraderie that set in between these 17 and 70 year olds.   It all looked like great fun as they found the perfect technique of spreading the peanut butter and jelly or the most efficient alignment of the ham and cheese.  The older teachers all set this as a life goal - someday that's what I'm going to do; when I grow up I want to make sandwiches for the poor and laugh with these high schoolers.  Today, that dream came true.  I have been toying around with service and exactly what my call has been as I learn to embrace my twilight years.  When I saw sandwich making as an option on the volunteer calendar, I jumped at the chance.  And it was everything I dreamed it would be.  Present was a staff member teaching the fine art of efficient sandwich making and I was joined by fellow retirees and high school kids.  We laughed with and at each other and we all learned something about ourselves and one another.  Eventually the conversation came around to what brought us there; the common element was service.  The question that lingered in the air was what would happen if everyone did something to serve the poor.  What kind of world would we live in if our vision was outward; if we could see there was a need and do what we could to alleviate it?  I, for one, plan to offer this tiny little service again next week and see where it leads.  

When Protecting Ourselves Actually Doesn't

 Sometimes in life terrible things happen.  We turn the corner and there it is. Someone has died, someone is terminally ill, we learn something awful about someone we love and sometimes it's us.  As we come around that corner we realize that we can no longer get back to where we were.  We are now heading an entirely different direction.  We know that we should invite our advocates and supporters to accompany us but it's too embarrassing, too shameful.  We just can't.  So we close ourselves off, we huddle into our fetal position ball and protect our vital parts.  We stop associating with those who know or we take on the role of someone who doesn't care.  We wrap our heart in skin and bones and pray for it to harden, we go mute and we choose never to speak of the IT again.  We slowly, gradually, step forward in this new way of being; the being that has walled this one part of us off.  It is unaccessible to the world and slowly it becomes unrecognizable to even us, the perpetrator.  We find the words to avoid it and they roll off our tongue like a memorized verse; he's sick, she died, I don't remember.  The years fall over each other and eventually no one recalls it and the IT actually isn't spoken of again.  But, sadly it cannot be covered up or shrouded, buried or hidden.  It will always be in our deepest recesses and every so often it will show up in our darkest hours.  We cannot avoid who we are or what we have done.  We cannot protect ourselves by hiding away from the past.  It is all a part of who we are and who we become.  As we try harder and harder to avoid it, it begins to take on a life of its own.  The secret must become known.  It can no longer be hidden.  We peel away the corner of its shroud and absorb the light it gives off.  It does not destroy us and we set about to find the one person with whom we can share the secret.  And the world does not collapse in on itself.  In exchange, we find this tiny moment of peace from the toil of hiding the IT.  The next day comes and we inch the secret a little farther into the clearing.  And again the world does not end.  But we feel the freedom of releasing the wall of our inner being, brick by brick.  Day by day, we come to understand that life will go on and we can live more fully as we embrace the whole person that we are; the one that has made mistakes, the one that has covered her tracks, the one that is human.  We mesh that person with the one who loves deeply, the one who gives with a full heart, and the one who can finally learn to forgive herself.