Hazy Shades of LIfe

Music was a big part of my life when I was growing up.  I don't mean concerts or listening to cassette tapes or radio.  I mean making music or listening and watching my father and his brothers play guitars.  My family sang together in church a quartet of sorts, with my Mom, Dad and two sisters, my dad accompanying with the guitar.  As  little kid in our very informal church I took a seat in the choir on Sundays and felt myself lifted up in the waves of melody and harmony, the deep altos blending so beautifully with the sopranos and tenors, my dad in the back row with a few other men belting out those bass notes like nobody's business, but the blending of it all elevated my spirits.  I remember feeling as if all the sound were coming from inside my own head, my own voice finding a part and learning to sing it as I followed along with another alto or tenor, finding my niche was natural to me.

When I was 10 or 11 we met a lady who played an autoharp.  It is likely the easiest instrument on Earth to play, but I wanted one very badly so I could sit and play music with my dad and his brothers.  I wanted to be included.  So my dad found one for me for my 11th birthday, gave me picks and a song book that told me what notes to play.  The chords were all marked on the keyboard, and soon by playing music with my dad, learning he positioning of his left hand on the guitar neck, I learned all the chords that make up a key.  Pretty soon I was playing along with them, without having to watch their hands--somehow my ears or my brain just knew which note came next.

From there I graduated to a little toy organ.  I spent hours picking out notes on it, learning to read music all by myself.  I watched he pianist at church and felt so envious.  Anytime there was an unguarded piano I'd make my way to it and try to pick out some tunes.  By the time I was about 15 I was driving my parents crazy with my craving for a piano. A few days before Christmas I came home to find a huge upright piano sitting in my bedroom with a big red bow on top.  I was so excited and surprised I didn't know how to say thank you, so I sat down and played the only little ditty I knew and then went smiling to my father and gave him the biggest hug ever.

I took formal lessons, but I practiced mostly what I wanted.  I sat at that piano for hours a day, making up tunes, learning new ones, observing myself in the mirror to make sure my posture was perfect.  I listened to the way other people played and tried to emulate their styles.  Eventually I got good enough to play in public, although my nerves got the best of me most of the time.

When I got married I spent countless hours playing whatever song popped into my head.  When I was sad, I played.  When I was lonely, I played.  When I was angry or hurt or stressed, the piano absorbed my bad juju and restored me to a place of positivity and hope.

I have my favorite music.  The songs that have spoken to my soul and gotten me through the darkest days and the happiest days of my life.  Music, they say, is therapy for the soul and I believe that's true.  However, there was about a 2 year period of my life when music was not helpful to me.  It was painful.  I found myself thinking too far back in time, my nostalgia brought about by those familiar sounds was too tough to sit in.  Many of the songs about love and heart break and disappointment hit too close to home and I found myself avoiding music to avoid wallowing in my pain.  So the last couple of years, my life has been oddly silent, but comfortingly so.

Over the last few days, I've reconnected with my music.  I listened to Neil Young sing Old Man the other morning, listened to "Comes a Time" and now, on the other side of my hurt, I find hope in those tunes.  Tonight I'm indulging in Simon and Garfunkel, both the sappy sad and the happy.  I'm letting the music take me to someplace new, rather than allowing it to trap me on a train headed backwards, into a past that cannot change to suit me now.

I know that now is what I have, and this train is only moving forward, with background music that sets the mood for the soundtrack of my life.



Here I go.

Breaking Ground

Every Spring, around mid-April my father would start a line of smoldering fire along the edge of  the garden.  With big fans of brush he kept control of the burn, beating  back  flames when they flared up, keeping the fire in line to wipe the slate clean of last year's debris and begin to break the will of tender new weeds,so determined to take over the soil.  The ground was left blackened. Like a battlefield it stared back at us, daring us to even imagine that life could thrive there again.
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The tiller sat in our barn all winter long, its clay covered tines rusting solid, making  more work for my father after the last frost finally came and melted away again.  Every spring if you were playing in our yard, you would have heard our father muttering under his breath as he oiled the tines, fueled up the engine and worked feverishly to get it to run.

Time to break ground  seemed always to arrive earlier than he expected and the dogged tiller would sputter and cough like an old man being stirred from a long nap before its will gave way to his tenacity and finally started up with a loud, low, intimidating rumble.

The ground was no more eager to cooperate.  The wildness of Springtime yearned take over the ground. Kudzu and Morning Glory stretched across the rigid red Earth, Weeds and crabgrass took hold as quickly as they could.  Nothing innate is easy to disrupt. The  newly thawed soil fought back hard against my father's will to soften it.  His only weapon, the tiller; a plow of sorts now powered
by gasoline and brawn, though in years past the same ground gave way to the hooves of a mule and the bare feet of a farmer's boy, my father before he knew me.Vines wrapped around the tiller's tines, choking the engine, causing it to sputter and my dad to curse.  Rocks refused to budge to its churning weight. Wet red-clay clung to the tiller's spikes and caked up on my father's big bare feet.  The ground's resolve to remain in it's natural state though, never matched my father's zeal to conquer it.

Planting time was a family affair.  Usually one or all of us girls would high step through the mud behind our father, knees to our chests as we pulled our feet out of the warm, soft dirt.  We took direction from him, never doubting that he knew which job was best for each of us.  We planted one row after another until dusk turned to early nightfall and the soil cooled beneath our feet.  Whatever seed was left to sow would have to wait for the sunshine of another day.

First came the tomatoes.My father dug the deep holes and I followed behind him with jugs of water, so heavy I could barely wield them, and  filled the holes before he dropped in the plants, then my sisters came behind and covered the roots, patting the soil firmly around the delicate plants with their bare hands.  One after another, row after row, the process was the same.  Then beans, corn, watermelon, cantaloupe, cucumbers, peas...Until finally the whole swath of land was neatly ordered with columns of expectation. After the work came the prayers and then the wait.

In a few weeks the once desolate, weed infested, stubborn piece of ground would transform into a virtual Eden of burgeoning plants.  They would give us sustenance not only for the Summer and Fall, but throughout the winter as well. The work of growing never quite done, my father labored tirelessly, sweat dripping into his eyes and off the end of his nose as he pulled weeds and stood the corn back up after a night of hard wind and rain.  He taught us all the value of a hard Summer's work and a lifetime of perseverance.  Through him we learned that every season of growth requires change and that change always comes at a price.

Our garden was more than just a hobby for my dad.  It's necessity maintained our humble lives, taught us deeper truths than we ever learned in Sunday School and in its most elemental function, fed our bellies so we could forge ahead.  The ground gave way and life renewed sprung from it every Spring: but  only because my father's will was stronger than the will of the tiller, of the weeds and of the ground itself.  He knew the potential that lay buried beneath the rubble of last year and the overgrowth of careless Spring.  With deliberation  he wiped out the uselessness that took over our garden between the growing seasons and replaced the scraggly worn out fragments of yesterday with brand new Purpose.

A Real Man

My father was a real man.  He had a collection of shotguns and rifles that hung high on the wall of our living room, flanked on either side by the heads of  stuffed 8 point bucks that he killed.  We lived off venison and vegetables he grew in the two huge gardens that framed our yard every summer.  He always owned a boat and a pickup truck and his idea of a fun summer vacation was two weeks on the lake, fishing, swimming and hanging out around a campfire at night.  He wore flannel shirts, coveralls and camo.  For most of my childhood he had a flat-top hair cut or a crewcut.  He worked hard, brought home the paychecks that kept a roof over our heads and clothes on our backs.  He was all the things that some people believe define what a man is supposed to be, but he was also much more.

My father got dressed up in a dress shirt and tie every Sunday morning and drove a church van with all his kids, his wife and every person who ever asked for a ride to services piled inside.  He physically lifted one man from his wheelchair into the front seat every week.  He played a guitar and sang gospel songs, tearing up sometimes at the joy that swelled up inside him as his heart filled with gratitude.  Maybe he never learned that Real Men only look out for their own.

My father cried often.  He rarely made it through a Thanksgiving prayer without choking up with tears.  Even on Easter, with his family gathered around, his eyes would well with tears as he thanked the Good Lord for the food on our table.  He cried at funerals and he cried for the sorrows of those he loved.  He cried one day, when my mother hurt his feelings, and he cried at all our weddings too.  I suppose no one ever told him that Real Men don't cry.

On many a Saturday my dad would load us girls into the pickup truck with him and take us out to the lake all day on a fishing trip.  It didn't matter to him that we whined about having to pee or wanted to spend more time playing with the doodads in the tackle box than actually fishing.  He liked having us there with him and he never called himself our babysitter.  He took us with him when he recycled cardboard to earn extra money for the family and on the way home, we always got chocolate ice cream.  He washed our faces with his spit, and always noticed when our clothes were getting too small.  I guess no one ever told him that taking care of the kids was woman's work.

My dad loved our mother.  He made that very clear.  He respected her and honored her ideas and opinions, encouraged her to pursue her passions and never stood in her way when she wanted to travel or take on some adventure on her own.  He trusted her implicitly and never considered himself her boss.  He taught his daughters that they were capable, strong and competent.  He knew that each of us would have what it took to make it in the world with or without a man.  It seems no one ever taught him that men are superior or that women can't survive without one.

My father was not a violent man.  His anger was sometimes bigger than him, but he found a way to bridle that and learned that lashing out at others with words or with his fists was never the way to resolve conflict.  In his old age he lamented times in his youth when he came to fisticuffs with a school friend or coworker.  He taught his family that love wins, even over anger, and that we could protect ourselves in a myriad of ways without ever raising a hand to another human being.  He made us feel safe, but he also knew our mom was as much our protector as he ever was.  He worked third shift for much of our childhoods, leaving us in the competent hands of our mom, who knew how to dial the police or wield a shotgun--whichever the situation called for.  He never even considered the idea that a woman couldn't protect her family.

My dad never went shirtless.  Never.  Yeah, he had a hairy chest and a coarse red beard, but he never let it grow. He kept his hair short and his face clean shaven.  The one time he tried out wearing a beard our mother told him he looked mean with it, so he shaved it off again and never looked back. He was confident that no one would mistake him for a woman because he didn't have facial hair.  He carried a pocket knife and a tiny pencil in his pants pocket at all times, but he never owned a handgun. I doubt if he ever even fired one.  Somehow he figured out that he didn't need a gun on his hip to be a Real Man.

My dad never referred to my mother as "his woman".  He called her "Honey" most of the time, referred to her as the mother of his children, his wife, which in his mind meant his equal.  He never treated her as his property, never treated his daughters as property either.  He gave us his love unsparingly, always had his arms open for a hug, his lap rarely empty.  He patted babies' butts and let them burp on his big shoulders, held them with pride and let them fill him up with joy.  We never had to guess what he was feeling because he knew how to show his emotions.  I wonder who neglected to teach him that men don't act emotional?

Indeed, my eyes were fixed upon him.  He was and is the perfect example of what a man should be.  He was ever-aware of his imperfection but always trying with every day, to be a better man than he was the day before.  In his last hours his only regret was that we couldn't all go back to the beginning and live life all over again.  What an amazing life he lived!

He set the bar high for me; I may never meet a man whom I can admire as much as I admired my father.  Because he was a Real Man, and he was nothing like the men who pound their own chests and declare to the world their masculinity.

You can't be a Real Man unless you first learn to be Real.  And Real was the only thing my father knew.

A Boy in A China Shop

When I was about 29 I met a man who told me this story.

He was a little kid dressed for a Newton Massachusetts winter, his puffy blue coat so stuffed with down that he could barely lower his arms.  His mother took him into a china shop with the admonition, "Don't touch anything!"

When they got inside all the delicate trinkets were arranged on shelves that were situated precariously leaving narrow aisles through which he and his mother tried to navigate with great caution.  The boy stood statuesquely, waiting as patiently as he could while his mother browsed.  He was trying so hard to be careful that when his mother moved along, he stayed still, quietly nervous behind her.  Behind him a few steps, she said his name, "Andrew, come on."  And with that, he spun around to follow her, his arms like propellers sending rows of delicate ceramic ware crashing to the floor in pieces.

He told me about how she, nearly in tears, got down on the floor and picked up all the shattered pieces and with only the kind of pride a Southern woman could muster, insisted on paying for them.

When he spoke of this story, his voice always became softer, more distant.  You could hear the admiration for his mother as he spoke of her, sitting determinedly at a table gluing the pieces of cups and saucers and plates back together.  He remembered actually trying to use those broken dishes for a while.

In a way, I think this snapshot of his childhood became a defining theme for his life.  He was a wanderer, a seeker who never seemed to know what he was trying to find.  He entered people's lives with the best of intentions at times, but usually left them in pieces.

I met him when he was most decidedly, a man.  A man with life experience, with hopes and dreams, with losses and with great victories behind him.  A decade older than me, I looked up to him, admired him even, though in retrospect I realize I never really knew him.  I accepted what he showed me, loved him for what he was able to give and hurt for all the damage his emptiness did, both to him and to me.

People come to us throughout our lives, often to teach us things about ourselves we might not otherwise ever discover.  For a while I let anger and bitterness toward him color every memory of the 5 years we were together; but time has a way of erasing anger and even pain.  Eventually I was able to appreciate even the worst things about him; instead of seeing him as a malicious person who intended me harm, I began to think of him as a four-year old boy in a puffy blue coat trying to be careful, yet always somehow breaking things.  Truth is, I needed to be broken and then broken some more and broken yet again before I could begin start to putting myself together the way I was meant to be.

Here I am, all these years later, glued back together, more satisfied with who I am that I've ever been and I cannot discount the role he played the paths I've worn thus far.  His road was a different one, one that led him far away from who I was or am or could have ever been.  So different from one another, I some times marvel at how the Universe ever threw us together in the first place.

Even broken things give us something to hold onto though, and among the many things he left me, the courage to write this blog is one of them.  He gave confidence to my voice, and took joy in knowing my mind.  Oh, my heart he tore into pieces, but my mind, he nurtured.

I rarely think about it, but next to my bed sits a little table well worn with time.  It has moved from Massachusetts to Charleston.  From Charleston to Atlanta.  From Atlanta back to SC with me where it has stayed beside me for many years.  He gave me that table, had no use for it anymore he said.   I've kept nothing else of his.  No photos, no letters, no little mementos at all.  But that table, it sits beside me every night, my books piled on it, my lamp perched just so that I can read myself to sleep.  Years' worth of books have rested there, glasses of water, stacks of journals, abandoned art projects; it has been a landing place for all the things I've used to glue myself back together.

A few nights ago he showed up in my dream.  My dreams, a place he has not occupied in so long, I thought were closed to him.  But there he was, looking 38 again, that bushy beard on his face, a serious scowl across his brow.  "I'm outta here." He said.  So I stood too look at him, and it only seemed right to ask for a kiss goodbye.  "Kiss me first." I said, and so he dd.  Then he was gone.

I woke up knowing he had finally found the end of that long road he always itched to travel.

He traveled it well.  Left trails of broken people all along the way, likely carrying pieces of each of them with him everywhere he went.  I hope he left this world finally glued together the way he was supposed to be.

Perhaps we all need a good breaking; but I hope we all deserve the chance to put ourselves together again before we have to go.

How amazing would it be if in the afterlife there are no more china shops or puffy coats?  Just wide open spaces and nothing breakable, ever again.

Rest in peace, my friend.

Grief is Never Easy: Why loss matters, no matter how old you are

My mother died two months shy of my parents' 63rd wedding anniversary.  She was lying in a hospital bed in the living room of the house my parents shared for more than 40 years, where they raised 5 daughters and played with 11 grandchildren.  On the night before her death my dad sat beside her holding her hand.  He had earnest conversations with her, even though she was growing more and more unresponsive.  He apologized or all the times he wasn't patient with her, for all the times when he felt he wasn't a good enough husband.  He told her sincerely and with tears streaming down his face, that he loved her.

 "You know I love you, don't you?" he asked.

 With what strength she had left she let him know that indeed, she always knew he loved her, no matter what.

My parents were less than perfect.  Like any two people who share more than half their lives together they had their good times and bad.  They had days when they got on one another's nerves, when they disagreed about things, when  petty disagreements brought out the worst in each of them; but the life lived between them that spanned decades affected change in them both.  It humbled them, made them appreciate one another more and more with every year that passed, until at last my mother lay dying in front of the picture window where our Christmas tree used to stand when we were kids, my dad sitting by her listening as her breathing slowed and finally stopped for good.

My sister left the room and let him have a few moments alone with our mother's body.  She described the sound of his weeping as he kissed Mama's forehead and lamented her passing--too soon for him.  Too soon.

We watched our father transform before our eyes in the days and weeks to follow.  His grief was so palpable, so heart wrenching that we, even in the our own loss couldn't fathom his pain.  His memory started to slip away rapidly.  There were times when I would visit and he would tell me that his wife passed away, going into great detail about the last few days of her life and the moment of her passing. He didn't recall that I was he daughter anymore, he only remembered Bonnie, the love of his life forever lost to him.  The house they shared seemed too empty, her very essence gone even from the pictures she hung on the walls.  Her big easy chair sat empty straight across from his. Often he would stare at it as if in doing so, he might make her reappear there.

My sisters felt we needed to discourage him from talking about our mom.  They thought he needed distraction, but nothing they tried got his mind off of the deep aching pain of loss that overwhelmed him.

Loss is the common denominator of mankind.  Sooner or later we will all face it and hopefully when we do we will have the love and support of friends and family to help us cope.  As a society we do a much better job of shoring up the defenses for children who lose parents or friends or siblings.  We do a fair job at being at the side of a friend who loses a spouse or a child at a young age.  However, when it comes to our elders, we often neglect to give them the time and care we offer others who have experienced loss.  For some reason we convince ourselves that loss is such a fact of life for our elders that it must not take a toll on them as much as it does on younger people.

I work with a group of seniors in which there is one member who is about to turn 100 in a few weeks.  A year ago a few days shy of her 99th birthday, her son who was in his 70's died from pancreatic cancer.  Sue is a tenacious lady.  She was a nurse who worked until she was 77 years old.  She attends our senior center daily, plays scrabble and never misses an outing about town.  But after her son's death she changed for a while.  She missed several weeks of attending Senior Action.  When she did come back I noticed she sat with her shoulders hunched.  She suddenly sighed a lot and became quiet and withdrawn.  One day she said to me, "It's just not right for a child to die before their parent."

 We have all heard this before, haven't we?  It's usually after a young child has passed away and her parents are left with that huge hole in their hearts; but we often fail to consider that a person who has outlived most of her friends and family might grieve just as deeply over the death of a son.  Sue grappled with the notion that she has had such a long life, yet her son's life was cut short at a much younger age than her own.  I had to remind myself that her pain was just as real, just as poignant as the pain of a young parent who has lost a young child.

Another man I know lost his wife 2 years ago after a long bout of illness and dementia.  He was her husband and caregiver and although there were times when she challenged him almost past his limits, her death shook him to the core.  Unable to even feel a sense of comfort at their happy memories together, he covered up every picture of her that hangs in his home.  He cannot bear to this day, to look at a photo of his deceased wife.  He tells me often that he would give anything to have her back again.  On her birthday he takes balloons to her grave and releases them, earnestly hoping they'll somehow reach her.  For a long time it was hard for him to go to church because her grave sits directly behind the building.  He no longer sings in the Christmas Cantata because his last memory of her at Christmas is of her singing in the choir.  He rambles through drawers in the house and finds knick knacks that were hers.  Sometimes he gives them away and other times, he hides them back where they came from.  A little blown glass angel sits on the dashboard of his car--a representation of her presence with him.  His daughter sent me a message a few weeks ago.

 "Do you know of any support groups for dad?  I really think he needs to move on. It has been two years since his wife died, he should be doing better by now."

She and I see things differently I suppose.  It is often far past the first year after a death when grief becomes the most acute.  As the loss becomes more distant, the realization that you can never go back, can never call that person up again or make a new memory with them becomes more and more real.  The sadness sets in deeper, the acceptance of that loss growing ever clearer does not dull the pain of its reality.

Here is where I think those of us who spend our days working with elders can make a difference.  We need to be ready, willing and emotionally available to hear their stories.

Every life is a story.  When two lives come together in marriage or friendship, our stories become deeper, more meaningful and more closely intertwined.  As time passes the story of one becomes the story of two.  The novel of a life, intricately written by moments and days becomes the essence of who we are.  When one half of that narrative is suddenly taken out of the storyline, the story does not simply end.  It is not as easy as ending one book and starting another.  There are no new novels, only new chapters, and the transitions that take place between the pages of loss and acceptance are filled with struggle and grief.

Grief is its own story.  It is a story that needs to be told over and over again until we have told it enough.  As caregivers, children, family members of elders, we have to learn how to be available to their grief.  I listened to the story of my mother's death so many times that it became almost too much to hear, but I knew my father needed to tell that part of his story.  It often started with their wedding day, reminders of how many years they spent together, how many children they had and stories of all the struggles they faced raising 5 girls together.  He talked of victories, of laughter and tears, disappointment and joy, and then he told in great detail about holding my mama's hand as she slipped away.

I watched my dad wither, withdraw from the world and begin to long for some other place--a place where he could join his wife again and feel at home in her presence.  We could learn so much from witnessing a love like that, even after the pain of loss has made that love a heavy burden to bear.  My father's health declined so rapidly after our mother's death.  It was hard for us to face, but as we watched him mentally transition, we knew he was preparing to leave us.  Two years to the day of our mother's death, our dad drew his last breath.  His story told for the last time, he left it with us to carry on.  Now it is ours, both to tell and to live and to incorporate into who we are still becoming.  I want to use it as a way to reach out to others who are struggling to find peace with their losses, to find meaning in their stories, and to reach that place of acceptance knowing they are loved, understood and supported.

In the coming months, my goal is to create a caring, safe place for seniors to come together in their journeys through grief and have a chance to tell their stories to one another and to anyone with the empathy and courage to listen.  I want my friend to go home and uncover the pictures of his wife because he has told his story of loss enough, and can finally look at her again and appreciate that she was, that she made his life better, and that his memories are too precious to hide away and try to forget.  He needs someone to let him know that it is okay to feel that pain, it is okay to be sad and to miss her.  Until he feels it is safe and acceptable and very normal to feel pangs of grief, he will avoid feeling those things and he will carry the heaviness of that pain so deeply inside him that it will eat away at his soul.  We have to give our elders a safe outlet for their grief.  We have to extend our empathy and understanding,  we have to let them know that we do not expect them to soldier on as if nothing has changed.

A stoic generation, many of them have lived through hardships we could never imagine; but it is our job to let them know that they do not have to hide their grief.  We must let them experience it fully, feel it acutely, comfort them through it, and guide them to a place of peace and acceptance.  We do that by hearing their stories, by offering them a hug, a sympathetic word.  We give them room to grieve by letting them talk about their lost loved ones, by sharing in memories of good times with them, by not seemingly forgetting that they've lost someone who was very important to them.  We give them space to share their experiences without changing the subject or pretending we do not hear them.

Death is very much a part of life, and no one understands that more than the elderly; that doesn't mean the pain is any less real to them than it is to us when we have to say goodbye to someone we love.  We owe them our support and encouragement, and we have so much to learn from the stories they need so desperately to share.

Completely Normal

Today I had the pleasure of taking my daughter and the new baby for his two week check-up at the pediatrician.  He is, of course, cuter than just about anything I can think of, with his little cleft-chin and chubby cheeks, sleeping undisturbed in his car seat while little kids race around the lobby in complete disregard of social moors.  As I watched him so perfectly comfortable snuggled in his blanket, unaware of the chaos around him, I felt a little envious.  Oh, to be so blissfully unaware of all the things in the world about which to feel anxiety!

When they finally called his name and we got into the exam room Hannah was overcome with relief to learn he had gained a proper amount of weight and is indeed already growing like a weed, having gained an entire inch in length in the space of two weeks.  I doubt if he's felt any growing pains, but I'm positive she has and will for years to come.

When the nurse concluded her duties and the doctor came in she spoke quickly, going over information that she no doubt repeats dozens of times a day.  Lay him on his back to sleep, if he cries a lot when he's about 2 months old don't be worried, never shake or hit a baby.  You know, all the things a doctor has to say but really shouldn't have to say.

Then she showed us his APGAR chart and assured us that he is on a good curve.  That was when she also looked up his hospital test results and concluded aloud that he was "Completely Normal."

I looked at him lying there peacefully in my arms, his little bottom lip curled out, milk dripping down his chin.  "Completely Normal" I thought.

"You are completely normal, little guy." I said to him.  Then, "Are you really completely normal?"

I looked at Hannah and repeated the phrase, "completely normal".  She smiled...maybe giggled a little.

"Sorry buddy," I said, turning my attention back to his sweet little face.  "You were born into the wrong family.  You will never be completely normal, and that's okay."

I know, I know...the doctor was talking about test results so we actually didn't meet on the same plane--but seriously, outside of blood test results, who the heck is completely normal??

Who wants to be?

I hope Liam, Athena, Arthur, Charlie and both my girls will forever be completely who they are.  Forget normal, I want them to just BE, and may they, by being in the world, bring color and joy and light to it.  May the world give back to them a hundred-fold the joy and color and light they send out. I want their lives to be complete, whole with the love and warmth that is meant for us all to embrace, no matter how far outside the bounds of "normal" we may fall.

I hope for them that all the dark corners of life are made bright by their ability to imagine, to grow, to reach past the ordinary and grasp the supreme.  What is life after all,  without the remarkable moments created for us by the whimsical and the wild?

The Medlins

Four boys walked barefoot down a damp sun-warmed red clay path from their house to the river.  Each had a cane pole in his hand, fishing line securely tied to the end, hooks and sinkers swinging from side to side with each step they took.  It was early morning, but not too early.  Charles was up at dawn to milk the cows and it was he who woke his brothers and urged them toward the well-worn byway to their favorite fishing hole. They spoke in thick Southern drawl, laughed about the usual things in which boys find hilarity.  The brothers were friends, thick as thieves but more honest than most young lads their ages.  Their mother trusted them to behave themselves, to respect their elders and show respect even for what belonged to others.  Their father, a small sinewy man who stayed awake all night in a guard shack at the Singer plant, had once been a harsher man.  Their younger days acquainted them with the consequences of addiction, the devastation of loss and its power to transform.  Their father had not touched alcohol since the death of their little sister, three years ago.

As a family, they were what all families want to be.  They were loyal, honest, talented.  Each member had a space to fill and each filled his or her space completely.  They were guitar pickers, gardeners, fishermen, singers.  They were faithful to God and to one another, their love of music strung them together in a way that lent harmony to the life they made together.

About half-way down that well-worn red clay pathway between their house and the river stood an old abandoned house.  It had once been inhabited by a husband and wife, an elderly couple whose years of child-rearing and farming had long since passed.  The Curtis boys passed it by without a second thought, not to honor or respect it in any way, but because being malicious was the farthest thing from their minds.  They walked the path with a singular goal: To see who would catch the biggest catfish.

Along the way they met up with the Medlin brothers.  Three adopted boys who lived in a house on the other end of that worn pathway, with a father who never quite got a handle on them.  They were known for causing trouble, stealing cars and vandalising property.  For a few minutes the seven boys mingled, talked about fishing, and then went their separate ways.

At the end of the day, fish caught, boys tuckered out, they headed back home dangling their catch on a stringer, one boy carrying all the cane poles.  Charles was the tallest, was always the stoutest of the boys, so he carried the fish and walked a good stride ahead of the other boys.  In all aspects it seemed a pretty ordinary summer day for a bunch of poor farmer's boys, but in days to follow, that day would become an indelible memory for all of them, especially for Charles.

It all started with a phone call from someone else's son; the son of the elderly couple who used to occupy the farm house that sat between the Curtis's and the Medlin's on that trail.  The Curtis boys had been spotted that morning, making their way to the river and someone, that very day, had thrown rocks through the windows of the old house, shattering every single one of them.  Chris Curtis listened as the act of vandalism was described, anger and embarrassment rose up inside him.  He found it hard to believe his boys would have committed such an offense but they were seen near the house, and the house was left windowless shortly thereafter.  All four boys were therefore summonsed to the woodshed and whipped accordingly for their alleged crime.  They all protested, "We didn't do it!" they told him, but their father wouldn't hear them.  It had to be them, he thought, and he couldn't let them get away with such a deed.

Meanwhile the Medlin boys kept quiet.  They let the Curtis kids take all the blame, let them work to pay for all the broken windows and continued on with their wicked ways.

Twenty years later, Chris Curtis spotted a hitchhiker along a back road in Pickens.  He pulled over and let Tate Medlin climb in the passenger side of his Chevrolet.  They exchanged greetings, talked about the weather, then fell quiet along the way.  As Chris drove along he noticed that Tate was giggling to himself.  "What's so funny?" he asked.

"Oh, I was just thinking about that time me and my brothers broke the windows out in that old house and you whipped your boys for it.."  At that he gave a big guffaw, and my grandpa's foot quickly found the brake.

He stopped the car.  "Get out of my car!" He demanded.

Tate was dumbfounded.

"Why?" He asked.

"You caused me to whip my boys for something they didn't do.  I'm not taking you anywhere, you can walk, you sorry jackass."

Tate, shaking his head and still chuckling to himself, opened the car door and got out.  He stood frozen as Chris drove away, leaving him in the dust.

It nagged at him, the memory of the day he whipped his sons behind the shed as they claimed their innocence.  He should have listened to them.  He was wrong to have punished them.

Before he went home he drove to Charles' house and found him working on a lawnmower outside.  He told my dad how he'd picked up Tate Medlin, how the truth had been revealed and how sorry he was for punishing his sons for a crime they didn't commit.  Of course, so many years later it was water under the bridge, but Chris knew it was never too late to try to set things right.

His humility and honesty won him the unconditional respect of his sons.  It won him a legacy that even his grandchildren admire, though some of us never knew him.

My father told me this story over and over again during the last few years of his life.  It stood out in his mind as a pivotal point in his life--a part of his life that shaped him into who he became.

We start down our well-worn paths every day, always thinking we know where we are going and what results we will acquire, but life throws us curveballs sometimes.  Life isn't fair.  We take on the transgressions of others, watch those who should get punished go scott free.  We often don't get the apologies we feel we deserve, and we fail to give apologies we owe.

The truth is, no matter how clear you've made your pathway, you'll still encounter some Medlins along the way.  My father and his brothers never lost their respect or confidence in their father's judgment, even though they knew he was wrong.  They were hurt, more by his lack of belief in them than by the whippings they received, but their love and respect for him won out in the end.  They knew their father was not composed merely of his mistakes, no more than the songs they played together on the front porch on Saturday nights were composed of flat chords or broken guitar strings. They learned a hard lesson--that Medlins happen, it's how you carry on after them that counts.

My dad got an apology he never even expected, it was almost like a reward for his long-suffering confidence in his father's judgment.  We don't all get the apologies we'd love to hear, but we do all get the opportunity to forgive.  Forgiveness is freedom, it is growth and strength.  It allows us to find new paths to wear clear of debris and softens the clay under our bare feet, just enough to keep us from growing weary of the journey.

Whatever lies at the end of your trail, never stop seeking it.  Don't let the Medlins get you off track.  Sooner or later, they'll be left standing in the dust watching you drive away in your Chevrolet, wondering where they went wrong.

Black History

Sometimes the world is too big.   It's struggles and injustices swirl around us with such power that escape becomes the primary goal at the end of every day.  I can't count the weeks that I've anxiously awaited the arrival of Friday, an end to the fight, a chance to see the light at the end of the tunnel that is reality.  I get caught up too frequently, in the idea that my life is too hard, but once in a while, I get a profound reminder that my struggles in this life are among the least difficult.

Ronald Edens is a tall dark skinned black man in his mid-sixties.  He looks much younger than his age, his skin smooth and his walk, an easy balanced stride. He is quiet but pleasant, a good conversationalist.   I met him less than a year ago when he showed up at my senior center with his friend.  He was shy at first, only looking me in the eye for a few seconds at a time when I sat down with him to fill out the membership forms.  He brought in his computer one day and asked me to teach him how to email.  Once we had that down, I asked him if he wanted to learn Facebook.  "We'd better wait on that." He said with a grin.  "One thing at a time!"

Since then he has gotten internet access at home and I don't know if he ever figured out Facebook.

Today he brought in his high school yearbook and gave me a lesson in history that I didn't know I was missing.  As I thumbed through the musty-smelling pages I noticed only black kids in the photos.  "Was your high school segregated?" I asked

"Yeah, it was." He answered after some thought, and then a discussion about exactly what year desegregation started erupted.

In 1954 South Carolina temporarily suspended its desegregation efforts in the wake of the Brown vs. The Board of Education ruling. Eventually Governor James Byrnes re-engaged in the process after consulting with other state leaders, but desegregation in the South remained slow and painful.  Most schools began by allowing only a few black kids to attend all-white schools as a gesture to show they were "integrated"; however, few black schools were integrated by white students.

 Officially, segregation ended over a decade before Ronald Edens and three other black students entered the doors of Slater-Marietta High School in August of 1965.

"They had the whole school together in the gym," Ronald said, "and then they brought us in.  Boy they showed out!  It was somethin'."  He gestured with his arms in a way that signified how huge the crowd of angry white students were in comparison to him and his peers. Racial slurs were shouted, objects thrown.  They were told to go back to where they came from.  Ronald and his friends were left with no doubt as to whether they were welcome at Slater-Marietta High.  They knew they were not wanted and for the remainder of ninth grade Ronald was reminded daily.

"You'd just say 'Lord let me have one good day.  Just one easy day,' but it never happened. It was every day.  They'd hit us in the back of the head, come up from behind us and knock our books on the floor, call us names, throw stuff at us.  It was terrible."

"Did the teachers not do anything about it?" One senior asked.

"They wasn't nothing they could do.  And some of them were racist too, to tell the truth, so they didn't want to try to stop it.."   Two elderly black ladies sat at the table with us, nodding in agreement, remembering what those years were like for them and their children.

"Nope, didn't nobody try to stop it." One of them said, shaking her head and looking to the floor.

"I had a nervous breakdown." Ronald admitted.  "I told my mama 'I can't go back there anymore.' but she talked me into just staying for the rest of the year.  She said if I finished the year at Slater I could go back to Lincoln for the tenth grade and that's what I did.  I never went back to Slater after that.  I finished the year and went back to my old school.  The band teacher put me right back in there as Band Major, just like before and I did fine in tenth, eleventh and twelfth grades."

I listened to his story and noticed that it caught the attention of other people in the room.  All of us white folks sat dumbfounded at the experiences of this tall, gentle black man.  We would have never guessed that in his lifetime he faced such adversity.  He described years of internal struggle, trying to see the good in white people, and then eventually figuring out with age, that good people come in all colors, as do bad ones.

Ignorance, as it turns out, knows no race, but if whites wanted to corner the market we probably have made a good start.  We all sat and listened with sympathy for what Ronald endured for that year of his youth.  It was a year of adolescence that should have been filled with sports and girls, dances and school clubs, but instead stands forever in the history of this man as a coming of age story from hell.

"It was hell."  He said.  "Every single day being treated like that."

How apropos that on February 24th, the middle of Black History Month, he chose to bring a piece of his own history and share it with us.  Google changes it's homepage to honor black people who accomplished big things, NPR spotlights a different influential black person every morning, and at school my boy has been learning about black influences in the history of our country all month long.  We so often forget that history is not made by one or two, but by many working together to create change.  We credit the Civil Rights movement, its protesters, marches and leaders with the progress we've made thus far, and rightfully so--but the true change?  The true change happened in little schools like Slater-Marietta High where four black kids were marched into a crowd of angry, ignorant, racist white kids to be verbally dismembered.  It happened in hallways all over America when the black kid ended up trying to pick up his scattered books off the floor in the hallway and make it to his next class on time.  It happened in classrooms where kids like Ronald at 14 years old, had to push the hatred and anger aside just so he could focus on learning.  Ronald and those like him, who were bussed into schools as a symbol of integration, made the first small cracks in the facade of segregation.

Because of their bravery, their sacrifice, their pain, I never knew a world where black and white were two separate castes of humanity.  I played on playgrounds with black classmates all my life.  I ate lunch with them, called some of my black classmates my best friends.  To me they were just other people, not lesser people.  Because Ronald and others took on the verbal, physical and mental abuse of ignorance, I grew up in a changed world.

"So Ron, let me ask you this." I said.  "Have things gotten better since then, or have you just learned to ignore or accept that this is how people are?"

"Oh, things are a lot better than they were back then, for sure!" He replied with an incredulous smile.  "There are good white people and bad white people, and there are bad black people and good black people.  There are people of my own race that I don't want to have anything to do with them, and there are white people that are bad too.  I had a hard time for a while, thinking I should hate white people because of what happened to me, but I learned white people can be good too.  Just like black people can be bad.  Race don't matter."

As he packed his yearbook away in a yellow Dollar General bag and got ready to leave, I walked over to him.  Standing beside him I feel very small, not only because he's so tall but because now I know something of the man he is and the adversity he faced to make it to today.  I put my arm around his middle and he rested his across my shoulders.

"You are black history." I told him.  "We hear a lot about the black heroes of the past, but we need to hear more about people like you."

He teared up a little and with his arm still around me said, "You're right.  Nobody knows what we went through.  All of us are black history."

With that he was on his way out the door clutching his Dollar General bag, his history and our country's, to priceless to keep under wraps.

The Power of Our Presence for Non-Verbal Elders

I don't spend much time on this blog delving into the finer points of my career.  When most people learn what I do for a living they expect to hear some amusing anecdotes about the senior shenanigans I've witnessed over the last (nearly) 20 years.  There are plenty of those stories, both humorous and heartbreaking that I could share, but lately as I meet more and more people who are new to the scene I find myself reflecting on one of the most important aspects of the job. It seems like such an insignificant, unimportant part of what we do in our facilities and senior centers, hospices and hospitals every day, but often it is THE most important thing we have to offer our elders: Our complete, undivided attention in the form of our presence with them.

Years ago I worked in a long term care facility where a man with dementia often would fall into a deep, deep sorrowful period of grieving over the loss of his late wife. The wife I knew was still living but the wife he grieved had passed away many years before.  Each time the grief overcame him it was, for him, as fresh and new as it was when it first happened.  At times he was inconsolable.  Many a staff member sat with him, held his hand and tried to distract him from his ruminations, but nothing worked.  He would grieve until he was done grieving and then he would be back to his usual self again.  After a while I noticed that our staff had become impervious to his crying jags and agony over the loss of his wife.  I was even guilty of patting his shoulder, saying, "I'm so sorry, Bert," and then going about my business.  We became so immune to his suffering that we barely noticed it anymore. Then one day I realized, his living wife never visited anymore.  His children never visited.  He was very alone, even in a facility where he sat all day with other residents and staff all around him.  No wonder he longed for and missed the familiarity of a close relationship long-gone.

I delved into his history a little more, found out that his second wife did not visit because she was frankly, relieved to be rid of him.  Doesn't that sound harsh?   We don't always know the whole story when elders come to us after having been cared for by a worn out family which has hit a proverbial wall in caring for them.  As I learned more about this man, I learned things that weren't so flattering.  I found out that he, throughout his second marriage, was abusive to both is wife and his children from his previous marriage.  His family explained how, after he came home from serving in Germany during World War II, he had become a different man.  He brought home a European wife who was kind and nurturing to his children, but treated her very poorly for years.  She took care of him as long as she could before the family convinced her that placing him in a skilled nursing facility would be best for everyone involved.

There is a huge benefit for those of us who only meet seniors where they are when they come to us.  We are able to merely see them as human beings in need of care.  We often have no knowledge of who they once were, which allows us to accept them and care for them in the present moment without a shred of ambivalence.  At first, when we saw Bert grieving for his wife our empathy was engaged but over time we became hardened to his suffering and more concerned with moving on to the next patient whom we felt we could help, rather than spending time with one who seemed stuck in a loop of bereft helplessness.

Armed with so much more knowledge of his life, his character and his relationships with family, I found I was able to let go of some resentment I was harboring towards his wife and children for not visiting him.  The reality is, they were traumatized by this man and that trauma made it difficult for them to be at his side as his mind drifted away and he frequently got emotionally immersed in the far away past--a past that they had no memory of themselves and could not connect with him over.  We were in a unique position then, as his facility caregivers, to be able to meet him where he was in his journey and be the positive presence he needed to find comfort and healing in his last days.

Eventually he became too ill to sit in the dayroom and became bedridden.  I would drop by his room every day and speak to him about the weather, try to comfort him on days when his grief was at fever pitch.  I would try to not think about the stories his family shared with me and just be with him in that moment of time, even if just for a few minutes, to allow him a chance to embrace the man he once was and the love he lost before the war.  As I sat with him, often in silence, I would try to concentrate on his life, the experiences he had that changed him over the years.  What must it have been like to go off to war and find out his wife had passed away while he was fighting for his country?  What human suffering had he witnessed?  Did anyone ever even try to help him process those traumatic events, or did he suppress his sorrow and traumatic memories only to have them ebb out of him in a way that caused his family to take on his suffering?  There were days when I sat quietly,  reading a book to myself, or maybe reading aloud to him.  Days when I sat in silence and tried to clear my own mind of all the racing thoughts that filled it up, so I could make room in my own head and heart for his suffering.

Bert passed away eventually, in his sleep one night.  His wife and children never reconciled with him but I hope that somehow, in some small way, the quiet connection we had brought him some form of healing before he passed away.  I know that experience taught me some important lessons about living in the moment, about being mindful and present not only for every minute of my own life but for those who are distant, alone and perhaps suffering in silent isolation.

As a Volunteer Coordinator, I trained many a volunteer who was extremely uncomfortable visiting patients who were non-verbal.  We fill our worlds with so much mindless chatter, meaningless small talk and unproductive communication that we are utterly beside ourselves when we are forced to sit with silence for a few minutes.  Most skilled care facilities have at least a handful of residents who are no longer able to carry on a conversation and sometimes they seem to not even register the words someone else is speaking to them.  Those are the very residents who get ignored, forgotten, left in their rooms in front of TVs or rolled out into common areas where people are constantly walking by, averting their eyes because they don't want to see the helpless old person who can't talk or even understand conversation anymore.

Silence is not an evil.  Silence is not the absence of intimacy or communication, but it takes an effort on our part to reach past our comfort zones and embrace it, make the most of it.  For elders who are isolated due to health limitations, like loss of vision and/or hearing, we often have to reach far past an assessment to find a connection.  We have to learn how to build positive relationships with elders who may be distrustful, uncomfortable or even embarrassed by their limitations.  Just like my experience with Bert, sometimes we have to let go of or preconceived notions and allow our elders to guide us into a closer connection with them.  We have to open ourselves up to the idea that our constant chatter, our insistence that "you'll love this activity!" is the best intervention for every single person, and just allow them to be who they are.  You may never be able to connect with an elder based on a previous hobby or life experience, but sometimes, you can build a bridge to them by approaching them with something new.  Something that inspires you or fascinates you might very well inspire or fascinate them as well.  There are times when opening ourselves up to others in a professional setting and with proper limits, is a good thing.  It builds a sense of authenticity and trust that encourages our elders to connect with us.

 You know the silent resident.  She sits in bed with contracted, drawn up hands.  Maybe she drools and stares off into space, never making eye contact with you.  Walking into her room is uncomfortable for you because you don't know what to say or what to do.  You feel useless, ineffective, you wonder what's the point?

The point is, that person lying there with little or no control over her body is still a human soul.  Whether or not she ever looks you in the eye or answers a question or even gives you a half-smile, she is inside that human shell and she needs someone to reach for her.  We can't connect with a non-verbal patient if we allow our own discomfort to distract us.  We cannot make a difference for her if we hurry by her room with a pat on the hand and a quick smile.  That elder needs our time, perhaps even more than the one who meets us in the hallway every morning for a ten minute conversation about the weather.  People who cannot reach out need us to reach in, to bridge the gap that hey cannot fill for themselves.

To that end, here are a few ideas you might want to try with your non-verbal or severely limited elders or people with disabilities:

1. Learn about Mindfulness and practice it, both on your own and with your elders.  Check out Mindful.org's Five steps to Mindfulness and practice these alone and with your elders who are not able to carry a conversation.  The practice of Mindfulness helps us keep our lives in perspective, helps us remain in the moment, both with ourselves and those for whom we care, and can forge a bond between two people without either ever having to utter a word.
2. Learn to meet your elders where they are in their journies.  You might be privy to an unflattering history of an elder for whom you provide care.  By practicing mindfulness and by accepting a person for who they are NOW, you can create an atmosphere of peacefulness and support that could lead to healing, even in the latter years of a person's life.  Radical acceptance of others is an imperative when working with seniors and their families.  You cannot change the past, you cannot change who they are, but you can be a catalyst for the healing process.
3. Engage your empathy in tactile ways. I know that sounds kooky, right?  Using your empathy tangibly for another person as a way of silently connecting and supporting them can be cathartic for both the elder and the caregiver.  You can try breathing exercises along with mindfulness and empathy. As you sit with the elder, focus your thoughts on him.  How must he feel in this moment?  Is he in pain, physically, mentally, emotionally or spiritually?  Can you imagine what that pain must feel like for him?  Can you feel his losses, his grief, or even is inexpressible joy?   In your breathing exercises you can either hold his hand, or sit beside him, and imaging that with every breath you inhale, you are taking his pain into yourself.  Hold his pain for a moment, empathize with his struggle, and then as you exhale imagine that you releasing that pain back into the universe.  You do not have to spend hours on an exercise such as this, even 15 minutes a few times a week can make a huge difference.  Your PRESENCE is the goal--your undivided, focused, mindful positive presence is the best intervention you can offer for an elder who is isolated from the rest of the world.
4. Read aloud.  Many staff and volunteers find that bringing a book, a magazine, a book of poetry or even scripture that aligns with the elder's beliefs is an easy and comfortable way to be present with a non-verbal or non communicative resident.  One volunteer brought a copy of J. M. Barrie's Peter Pan and read a chapter aloud to her resident every few days.  The resident didn't always respond, but we knew that she enjoyed the sound of the volunteer's voice because she would close her eyes and lie back as she listened.  After a few weeks we caught a sparkle in her eye whenever the volunteer came in to read to her, and on weeks when the volunteer didn't come she was more lethargic and unresponsive to the rest of our staff.    If reading aloud is not your thing you can bring a book to read silently as you give your physical presence in the room.  Sometimes all it takes to break the cycle of loneliness is to have someone else nearby who is accessible, but comfortable with complete silence.  
5. Employ appropriate spiritual interventions.  This is where you will need a solid assessment of your resident's spiritual past and belief system.  Playing church hymns for a patient who grew up in a church that did not sing hymns would not be comforting to that resident.  Saying a Catholic prayer with a Baptist resident would likely not  garner you any points with that person. Find out what spiritual beliefs give your resident comfort and then search out ways to provide experiences that enrich their spiritual lives.  Can you read to them from the Bible?  Could you arrange a visit from a Rabbi or Priest?  Are there other sacred texts, art, or rituals that you can make available to them?  Do you have other residents or staff members who share the same faith who would be wiling to spend some time with them reading or singing or just silently meditating with them on the things that give them strength and connection to a higher power?  

In order for anyone to effectively use any of these suggestions, we must get past our own discomfort with silence.  Once we are able to set aside our own feelings of awkwardness in silence, we can become more available to our elders as a supportive, caring presence that gives them strength and encouragement.  We pressure ourselves and give in to pressure from administrators to get more bodies into group activities, when often what our elders need is just a little of our uninterrupted time. This is what person centered care is all about!  

I hope that you will find some things here that are helpful to you and your elders.  Learning stillness and mindfulness benefits us all, especially those who are not able to communicate their need for companionship or intimacy.  It's worth building these life skills both professionally and personally.

So get out there tomorrow and find that resident that you tend to avoid and spend a few quiet moments with her.  Give her your spirit, your empathy, your time. Know that in every silent moment that you spend with your elders, you are making a difference.

New Beginnings

There are days when I miss my parents more than others.  The last 24 hours I thought about them a lot.  I remembered when I was laboring and giving birth to my daughters, and how I kept my labor a secret from my mother, who truly could not emotionally bear to see her children in pain or struggle.  At the time, I felt I was being tough, even mean to not allow her into the room with me when I was in labor, but last night as I watched my daughter in agony, working so hard to bring her son into this world, I understood something more about my mother.  I understood the agony of watching your child in agony.  Every time Hannah took a deep breath in and got ready to push, I found myself breathing in with her, holding my breath as she pushed with all her might.  I wanted to help, but I was feeling pretty doggone useless.

I spared my mom that heart wrenching experience because it was too much for her, but I wouldn't trade one minute of the time I spent with Hannah, encouraging her, breathing with her, holding my breath for her.  It was my chance to be her cheerleader, to keep reminding her how strong and amazing she is, how miraculous the female body is, and how worth it every second of pain and struggle becomes the moment you see your baby for the first time.

I thought about my dad, the smile he would have had plastered on his face from ear to ear at the sight of that little chubby-face bundle in Hannah's arms.  I wished so much that he could have been there.  I wished my parents could have both seen him, seen how wonderfully strong Hannah was and heard that sweet little cry as Liam made his grand entrance into the world.

Sometimes in life, we all need a cheering squad and sometimes we ARE the cheering squad.  I'm so grateful that in every tough situation, someone has always been there to remind me that I could get through it, I could keep going.  If not for that kind of encouragement and support, I might never have lived to see my second grandchild born.  I might never have gotten the chance to cheer my daughter on as she fought the toughest physical battle of her life thus far.

I know I'm partial, but I couldn't be more proud of the woman she has become.  She's a strong woman with a deep reserve of peace, calmness and abiding love deep within her soul.  She has overcome some obstacles over which many might never have been able to hurdle and I am in awe of her resolve.

I am in awe of this new life, this gift of a brand new chin-dimpled dark haired baby boy that will change all of us even more as life moves on and our love as a family grows deeper.

I so wish my parents could be here for it all, to give him their love and to glow with pride the way I feel I am glowing now.  But they left us that kind of legacy--a legacy of love and pride in family, and I'm grateful for it.  We will keep it and tend it, nurture it and allow it to flourish between the hearts of all our kin.

The Lord giveth, and the Lord taketh away; today he gave to us abundantly, and continues to give to us from the legacy my folks left behind.

Happy Birthday Liam!  Your Mammo loves you so very much.