Author: marebear (Page 7 of 11)

            Forty years ago, I went to my senior prom. Unlike today, it was only socially acceptable to go to prom if you had a date. My date was a boy who I had gone out with for a while, but I knew I didn’t want to continue dating. When I broke up with him, I told him it was okay if he didn’t want to go to prom, but we still liked each other as friends, so he wanted to go.

           That was the point I ceased to have any romantic expectations, and I was not nervous about the night. I decided the dress I had gotten for my cousin’s wedding was good enough. The night quickly became a comedy of errors, and it didn’t take long to know it was good that my expectations were low.

            It started when he picked me up wearing a powder-blue tuxedo; shiny, white shoes; and a ruffled shirt. It was a bit much, even for that era. It was not what I would have chosen for him to wear, but I didn’t complain. The dance was held outside of our small town, and we weren’t sure how to get there. We passed the entrance. That wouldn’t have been a big deal except when we pulled into a parking lot a little further on to turn around, someone rear-ended us on our way back out to the street. So, I, in my heels, and he, in his slick, white shoes, got out to check the car. No real damage was done, and we were fine, so to the prom we went.

            We spoke with a few people and then went out to dance. Our bad luck continued when he twisted his knee on our first attempt. This was unfortunate because we weren’t bad dancers. We had been practicing our disco moves in my basement. (It was the 70’s, after all.) We sat down and talked for a bit and decided if we couldn’t dance, we could get our picture taken.

           As things went, this took longer than we thought, and by the time we were done, we couldn’t make it back to our small town for our dinner reservation. Half joking, I suggested we drive through McDonald’s and take the food back to my house to eat. I think we made the worker’s night. How many customers did he get driving up wearing a powder-blue tuxedo? Somewhere there is a picture of me sitting at my kitchen table all dressed up taking my first bite of a quarter-pounder. After that, we kissed each other good night and goodbye.

            My senior prom may not be one of the best experiences of my life, but it is still one of my most memorable. We can become so disappointed when an experience doesn’t live up to our expectations that we don’t enjoy the experience for what it turns out to be. I’m still thankful that that boy and I saw the humor and took it all as it came.

Spring is here, and it is time for First Communions. It reminds me of when my children made theirs. It was an exciting time, but it was also stressful. I am fire phobic, and I still can’t shake the fear every time I see little girls with longs veils line up behind each other holding LIT CANDLES.

The most stressful First Communion event I remember, though, is helping my son make his Communion banner. I am not an artsy/craftsy person at all. Neither one of us wanted to do it, but one day he had to stay home from school. He was not too sick to do a project, so I told him we had to do it. I had bought the necessary items: various colors of felt, fabric paint (I think it came in tubes), and something called tacky glue. The banner with stick and string was provided.

I was nervous because I knew all the other mothers would look at the banners and judge them. I knew this because I planned to look at all the other banners to see how ours compared. Mothers judge mothers. It is not how it should be, but it is how it is. I think we do it more from our own insecurities than being intentionally mean.

So, my son and I tried to think of a simple design. We used stenciled letters for his name. We cut out a cross and used the paint to try to make it look like it was shining. I thought I could draw a chalice easily enough to represent the Blood of Christ. Then, I thought, “We could make a loaf of bread. How hard can it be to make a loaf of bread?” We chose our colors–dark brown for the crust and a cream color for the bread. We drew and cut and glued. When we were finished, we looked at it, and we looked at each other. “It looks like a cave,” one of us said. “It kind of looks like a loaf of bread too, though,” the other answered. It became one of those optical illusions where you can see different things at different times. At first, we were worried because we had already glued it down. Then, we had a brilliant idea. We could say it was Jesus’s tomb! The cream colored “bread” could be the stone to be rolled away. We added a white circle next to the chalice as a host, and called it finished.

Even though our loaf/cave was unrecognizable, we were glad to have it done. I look back now and realize how silly I was to worry. The important part of the day was not how our banner compared to anyone else’s. I should not have judged myself or anyone else. Mothers need to encourage and support each other, and when we need help, we should ask for it. My son is an adult now, but we kept the banner. We still don’t know if it looks like a loaf, a cave, or a blob at the bottom, but it doesn’t matter. What matters is that we have a memory of a good day—a mother/son day.

It was the early 1980’s, and I had just started dating the man who became my husband. My grandmother had recently moved in with my family, and we were learning how to take care of her. My parents went somewhere one night, so my grandma and younger sisters were keeping an eye on each other, but I was assigned to be home in time to “put Grandma to bed.” I was having a good time at a party with my new boyfriend, so I called my sister to see if she thought she could do what needed to be done. The conversation went something like this. Me: Do you think you can get Grandma ready for bed? Sister: Well, what would I have to do? Me: The first thing is to put medicine up her nose. That is when the conversation stalled, and I told her I would leave the party. I should disclose that my grandmother did not really have a nose at that point. Most of it had to be removed because of skin cancer. I can see how putting medicine up what was left of her nose would gross out an eleven-year-old.

Two years later, caring for my grandmother had become routine for all of us, but it also became more difficult. She was not a pleasant person to be around. She complained, and nothing we did seemed to be good enough. As her needs increased, my mother became more and more burnt out. My sisters were hitting their pre-teen years, and I was engaged to be married. At one point, my mom grabbed me by the shirt and growled, “Put me in a home. Do not do this to yourself!” We were all exhausted and frustrated when my brother came home on leave. I vented to him about how hard it all was, and his response was, “Yes, but there is so much love in this house.” It didn’t make it any easier, but his words have stayed with me.

Finally, one winter afternoon my grandmother fell, and we could not get her up. We called paramedics who took her to a hospital where the emergency room doctor looked at my mother and said, “My dear, how have you been taking care of her? She is beyond what you can do at home.” We had to put her in a nursing home. Even though we were at our physical and mental limits, we felt bad. It was one of the hardest decisions our family had ever made, and we weren’t even the ones deciding—it was the doctor.

Decades later, my mother, the caregiver, is the one in need of care. The sister, who as a child, quickly took courage and learned to do whatever our grandmother needed, now cares for our mother. She is the middle of what is often referred to as “the sandwich generation,” and the struggle is real, but she has the biggest heart I know.

Being a caregiver to an elderly relative is a contradictory experience. It is an honor and a privilege to serve those who have served us, but that does not make it easy. Caregivers must develop an enormous amount of patience. They have to have a willingness to give up parts of their own lives to make the life of someone else better. Jesus said, “Greater love has no man than this, that a man lay down his life for his friends (Jn 15:13).” I always associated this with literally giving one’s life to save another’s, such as what soldiers and first responders do. After watching my sister and remembering what my mother went through, I have an additional definition. It takes great love to be a caregiver. It really is laying down at least a part of your own life for that of someone else. There may come a time when my sister’s family will have to make the same decision that was made about our grandmother, but my brother was right. There is a lot of love in their house.

            “Love is patient and kind; love is not jealous or boastful; it is not arrogant or rude. Love does not insist on its own way; it is not irritable or resentful; it does not rejoice at wrong, but rejoices in the right. Love bears all things, believes all things, hopes all things, endures all things.” (1 Cor 13:4-7)

            This was one of the readings at our wedding, and it came up again at church a while ago. I remember when my husband and I chose it for our wedding, he got a little scared. He didn’t think he would ever be able to love like that. I told him that this reading is talking about God’s love. God’s love is perfect. The best we can do is try to love like that.

            Priests, preachers, and counselors say that love is not an emotion. It is a choice. I’ve heard this statement many times over the years, but it is good to be reminded. Each day we choose to love, even if the way we show it is imperfect. Let’s think about the “patient and kind” part. No one could make me mad faster than my own children when they were young. I know I was not always patient with them, but the love endures. I am not always as kind to my husband as I should be, but that does not mean I love him less.

            There are a lot of difficult things that happen in life, and many of these things are completely out of our control. This is when we need to turn to each other for comfort—not on each other in anger. Like any couple, my husband and I have been through financial issues, health issues, job losses, unexpected moves . . . The list could go on, but you get the picture. There have been times when I have been irritable or resentful. Sometimes when we get stressed, we lighten the mood by quoting Jim Belushi’s character in the movie “Return to Me.” We say (sometimes shout) to ourselves, “CALM THE HELL DOWN!!!”

            Anyone who is in any kind of relationship with family and friends knows that there are times when they get on your nerves, say something with which you disagree, do something that is difficult to understand and forgive. It is at these times when each one of us must ask ourselves, “What is my capacity to love?” I have found that the love I feel for others, while never perfect, can grow in ways that I couldn’t imagine. If you are going through a rough time with a loved one, remember that you can choose to love that person despite the circumstances. “So faith, hope, love abide, these three; but the greatest of these is love.” (1 COR 13:13)

I recently shared a post on Facebook about a stuffed bunny a child had lost at the Seattle airport. This prompted a cousin of mine to ask if I remembered my favorite childhood stuffed animal. “Of course, I remember Buster!” I replied. I don’t remember when Buster came into my life or why I named him Buster, but I remember having him. My mom tells the story of the time I forgot him at an aunt’s house out of state. At first, she told my aunt to keep him to see if I could get by without him, but that did not last long. My aunt had to mail Buster back to me.

A lot of children latch onto something that comforts them. That thing, whatever it might be, goes everywhere with them, and they especially need it to sleep at night. A lot of adults forget that children have stress just like adults do. When we think about it, we realize that a child’s life is constantly changing. One day they can walk underneath a kitchen counter, and the next they can’t. They have to transition from diapers to toilets and bottles to cups.

Children continually must give up their favorite outfits or shoes as they grow. Their teeth fall out, and for many, as soon as new teeth grow in, braces are put on them. Puberty is extremely challenging. In school, just when students start to learn one concept, they are introduced to another. Each grade has a different set of challenges, and students get new teachers every year. Kids need to figure out who they are and who they want to be, and this can make friendships begin and end. It is no wonder experts say that consistency and routine are good for children. They need the security of something constant.

Sometimes, though, even that favorite stuffed animal changes. At some point, one of Buster’s seams broke open. One of my aunts came to visit, and we asked if she could fix him. She didn’t think she could mend the seam, but she offered to make a new cover for him. He had button eyes, so they were easy to take off and put back on. This became a tradition. Every time Aunt ‘Cille came to visit, Buster got a new coat. He went from solid colors to plaids and back to solid colors. He was cotton or corduroy or something else, but he was still my Buster. He got so many coats that his legs and tail stuck straight out.

“What happened to Buster as you got older?” you might ask. This is the sad part of the story. My family moved, and somehow Buster ended up stored in the basement. I knew he was down there, but I had grown out of him by then, so I didn’t really care. That is, until the day I looked closely at him and realized that he was moldy. I was a teenager by then, but I was still sad and angry at myself. How could I have abandoned Buster in the basement? I especially think of him every time I watch a Toy Story movie. Ever since Buster’s demise, it has been my mission to warn parents and children alike to take care of those special somethings; and yes, if I see a post on Facebook about a lost bunny, I share it. Growing up is hard, and if that special something makes it better, we need to protect it.

My neighbors around the corner have a massive Christmas display in their front yard. There is so much, I see something different every time I go by. I am impressed by people who decorate lavishly, and I appreciate their efforts. In contrast, we didn’t put any lights on our plants this year. I felt like once people saw the house around the corner, our little half-lit bush (our lights rarely work properly) just could not compare. We have a wreath on the door, and we have a pressed-board Nativity scene spot-lighted. Simplicity was our goal this year—mostly because we were too lazy to do more–but also because by Biblical descriptions, the real Nativity was simple. The scene was simple, but the event was the most complex event of history. God became man, a man who was also God.

Not everyone believes this, of course. This time of year can be overwhelming for non-Christians, and I respect their beliefs. Christmas permeates society. One cannot walk in a store without seeing decorations or hearing Christmas songs. My hope for everyone, regardless of their faith or lack thereof, is that they learn what Christmas is truly about, and even if they don’t believe that Jesus is God, they feel the joy and hope He gives to the world.

Merry Christmas!

As I write this, I am looking out my window at our American flag moving gently in a breeze with a desert sunset behind it. We put the flag up for Veteran’s Day weekend. My father, my father-in-law, and several uncles served in WWII. My husband was in the Air Force, and my brother gave twenty years of his life to the Navy. I also have several cousins who are veterans. I appreciate the sacrifice of all veterans and their families. I cannot forget one cousin, though, who never had the chance to grow old beyond his military years. Johnny joined the Marines instead of waiting to be drafted during the Vietnam War. October 23, 2018, marked fifty years since he was killed over there. He was twenty years old and had been there for twenty-two days.
I was seven when he died, and I only have fleeting memories of him being alive. I remember him smiling at me as he went past with friends at his house. He played in the high school band. I remember baking him a birthday cake in my Easy Bake Oven and randomly putting a tiny plastic seal with a ball on its nose on top. I remember him taking me for a ride in his car and how easily he shifted the gears. I was fascinated because my parents only drove cars with automatic transmissions.
My memories of his death are more vivid. The first time I ever heard my dad cry was when we got the phone call. I remember going to the wake but staying with friends during the funeral. Our friends’ house was down the street from the funeral home, and my brother and I could not get ourselves to leave their front-room window. We strained to see what we could, and I jumped with every shot of the Marine’s gun salute. I remember begging my mom for a picture of Johnny to put on a poster I was making with a poem I wrote. I asked my mom how to spell “bear” like when something is hard to “bear.” I marched back and forth in our living room singing “Glory, Glory, Hallelujah,” and the song “When Johnny Comes Marching Home Again” played through my head for weeks, only I knew Johnny was not coming home.
Some people may think, “That was fifty years ago. You should be over it by now,” and in some ways, they are right. I don’t think of him every day like I used to, but I still think of him. I see his nephew who looks just like him, and I get an idea of what Johnny would have looked like at 25 or 30. I meet Vietnam Veterans who went on to marry and have children and careers, and I wonder what might have been. The truth is that time does not heal all wounds. We just learn to live with them. Those wounds become a part of who we are, and that is one way that lost loved ones live on.

My daughter once asked me why we cleaned our house before we had company. I glibly answered that we cleaned so that people would think we lived like that all the time. I may or may not have added that we cleaned before they came as a way of showing respect.
We used to have friends and family over for dinner on a regular basis, but after I started working outside of the home, I found that we did it less frequently. I never seemed to have the time or energy to clean the house, cook a meal, and enjoy a visit; and if the house wasn’t clean, I didn’t feel comfortable inviting people over. This has gone on for years. My husband and I recently cleaned because I was hosting my small church community. After the meeting, my friends decided whom would host the next one. A member (a working mother of three) looked at her calendar and said that she could host, but she would not be able to clean. We all said that we didn’t care if her house was clean or not, and we meant it.
This got me wondering if my insistence on cleaning before company was becoming less about showing respect and more about pride on my part. I mean, what? Don’t I want to admit that there is just as much dust falling from the air in my house as anyone else’s? Do I not want people to know that we don’t always rinse the toothpaste globs down the sink after brushing or that sometimes hair falls from our heads? Am I too proud to let someone see that every time I open my front door, flower petals or leaves from the tree in front blow in? Those leaves and petals are constant reminders that I don’t vacuum often enough. I could go on about my white porcelain kitchen sink that is seldom white at the bottom, etc., but I’m sure you get the idea.
There is a plaque on my wall that says, “My house is clean enough to be healthy and dirty enough to be happy.” This is how we live our lives, and maybe it is time to let others see that. So, who wants to come over for dinner?

October, 2018

A blank page sits before me.
Mocking me with its space.
I wish that I could see.
What should be in its place.
Sometimes my mind is blank
Or so full it won’t flow free.
It is then that I look up and pray
That God knows what we need.

When I sat down to write this month’s blog, this is what came out. In the last month, something truly tragic happened in my extended family, my state and my country lost a brave and honest man, and some friends lost jobs and loved ones. I also spent five minutes in the mayonnaise aisle at the grocery store because they stopped carrying the kind I have bought for years. There was mayonnaise with eggs (the only real kind), mayo without eggs, mayo made from olive oil, and mayo made from avocados. These are just some of the kinds—not how many Brands there are. How many kinds of mayonnaise does this country need, and who has time to figure out which one to get?
Sometimes in life, we have no choice about matters, and sometimes there are so many choices that we don’t know where to turn. I finally just picked a jar off the shelf, and as for the other issues I mentioned, I continue to pray and offer moral support. When we are overwhelmed by questions of why, choices to make, and tragedies to survive, believing that something good can come from our circumstances is a lifeline. God gives us hope of a better tomorrow. To hope we must cling.

It is time for the 2018-2019 school year to begin. It recently occurred to me that I graduated high school in 1979. This means that it has been forty years since I started my senior year of high school. It makes me ask the question, “How did I go from being a senior in high school to being a senior citizen?” I know I am not the first person to ask this. Everyone ages, and we all have to figure out how we handle it.
I found my first gray hair when I was nineteen. Obviously, I went prematurely gray, but I have to ask, “When is one maturely gray?” When can I stop coloring my hair and not look older than I am? I have asked more than one hairdresser, and they all said to wait at least until I am sixty.
I try not to be an annoying senior citizen. It wasn’t until this year that I realized I qualify for a ten percent discount at the grocery store on the first Wednesday of every month. The first couple of times I went, I found myself asking the clerk, reminding the clerk, harassing the clerk to make sure I got the discount. I have forced myself to quietly watch for the discount to show up on the screen instead.
I try to have discussions about things other than my or my friend’s health issues. I’m breaking my own rule when I tell you that I try to stay healthy. Despite arthritis, I keep moving, and although I love to eat anything with carbs and sugar, I attempt to limit my intake. I am fighting the battle not to wear old-lady clothes despite wearing sensible shoes because of my bad feet. I look for the benefits of old age. I learned not to just look for AAA discounts, but for AARP ones as well.
I would like to “grow old gracefully,” as they say. My dad used to tell the story of speaking with an elderly woman he saw sitting on a porch smoking a pipe. She told him, “If you lives long enough, you gonna get old. If you don’t get old, you don’t lives long enough.” He always said that getting old was better than the alternative. I can live with that.