Category: Uncategorized (Page 3 of 11)

A friend of mine suggested I write about wildflowers since Spring has sprung. I went for a walk for inspiration and took some pictures. Most of the wildflowers near my house are brittlebush. They are blooming in abundance here in the desert. I don’t know who named it “brittlebush,” but the word “brittle” must have something to do with it.

The Oxford Dictionary defines it as “hard but liable to break or shatter easily.” As an aging woman at risk of osteoporosis, my first thought is of bones. The word “brittle” is applied to more than the physical, though.

We sometimes label someone’s personality as brittle. The Internet (no specific source given) describes a brittle personality as “lacking warmth, sensitivity, or compassion.” I worked with a woman like that years ago. I found her difficult to get along with, and that was unusual for me.

When encountering people like this, I think we should remember both definitions of the word. Perhaps their lack of warmth comes from being hurt. Maybe they are afraid of emotional pain. It just may be that they are “hard but liable to break easily.” I’ve said this before, but I remind myself often: just because someone doesn’t show their feelings, it doesn’t mean they don’t have them.

Just like the bush, brittle can be beautiful. We just might have to look a little deeper.

Just today I saw many substitute teachers being questioned about their methods. Routine is the word of every day of an elementary school student.

Just today I saw a girl bleeding from her mouth but determined to get that tooth out.

Just today I heard about boys’ bathrooms being closed at two different schools—one because someone put sand in a toilet.

Just today I encouraged a boy who has been bullied in school.

Just today I had more than one child, ages 5-14, hold a door for me.

Just today teachers talked to me about how difficult it can be to deal with parents, but how much they like a lot of them.

Just today I thanked one of my students a second time for a gift she gave me for Valentine’s Day.

Just today I heard nearly half of a class coughing, some seemingly faking, but others obviously not. I seriously tried to hold my breath as much as possible.

Just today one of my students went to the nurse with a tummy ache.

Just today I stopped to talk to a middle school boy who is in a cast. He broke his ankle playing football.

Just today I stood outside with staff and students because of a fire drill. At least we had good weather.

Just today I asked for materials to help one of my students.

Just today a student of mine who usually does not want my help and ignores me, waved when I came into her room.

Just today I learned and taught about soil, tangrams, arrays, Hitler, spiders, animals that sting, and vowel/consonant combinations. I do not like spiders or Hitler. I do pretty well at arrays, but I am not good with tangrams.

Just today I used Google Translate (English to Mandarin) and showed one of my students pictures of berries.

Just today I hoped I made a positive difference in the days of all with whom I was in contact.

I wonder what tomorrow will bring.

Since the past weekend, I have been contemplating the word “do.”

After “doing” some fun things on Saturday, I stayed home on Sunday to “do” housework. I took a little time to relax because Sunday is supposed to be a day of rest. We are not supposed to “do” much. This led me to think of Mary and Martha from Luke 10:38-42. I have always known that I am more of a Martha than a Mary. If I am not “doing” something, I feel as if I should be.

I saw a friend who recently retired and asked how he likes it. His response was that he gets frustrated because there are days when not much is required of him, and he can’t think of anything to “do.” Other days are so full of errands, etc. that he doesn’t have time to “do” the things he wants. It seems he too feels like he should always be “doing” something.

Obviously, there are things we need to “do” to survive. We must “do” things to maintain relationships, keep our jobs, take care of our homes, etc., but we should remember there will be a time when all this “doing” will stop. At that point, we may wish we were more of a Mary than Martha. Maybe it is more important to “be” than to “do.” Maybe we should stop “doing” sometimes and just appreciate the miracle that we exist and that God loves us no matter what we “do.”

A friend of mine recently passed away. She does not have to “do” anything on Earth anymore. I believe she is in Heaven and feeling better than she has in a long time, but I miss her.

So, this is for her:

We do, do, do, do, do,

And when one we love

Is no longer here to do,

We must learn to do without them.

          My aunt and my cousin were trying to plan a holiday get together one year, and things kept going wrong. One would ask the other, “What do we do now?” and the other would answer, “Bob and weave.” If we are going to stay positive in this life, we need to be willing to adjust with the circumstances.

          I keep thinking of Proverbs 16:9 which says, “A man’s mind plans his way, but the Lord directs his steps,” and the Yiddish saying, “man plans and God laughs.” I don’t think God is laughing at our family right now, but I trust that He knows best.

          It is Thanksgiving week, and our plans have been cancelled because of illness. People who were supposed to travel to see us cannot come, and I wonder if God knew that for some reason, things would be worse if they could have. This is the second time this month that visitors have not been able to come because of someone’s medical issue. I am sad and disappointed, but I am thankful that I have people in my life who were willing to travel to see us. I am thankful to have a home they could have seen. I am thankful to have enough food for the week, even if there is no one coming with whom to share.

          It is not the week I had planned, but I will bob and weave and make it the best it can be. Happy Thanksgiving, everyone.

            When I was in my twenties, I noticed that my mother was still cooking in pots that she had been using as far back as I could remember. Some of them were missing handles, and I was afraid she would burn herself. So, in what I thought was a good gesture, I bought her a set of new pots and pans with non-stick finishes. I included some non-metal utensils. I was very proud of myself for my generosity.

            It didn’t take long for me to realize that I was much more excited about my purchase than she was. When I pointed out the pot with no handle, she said, “But that is my cream puff pot.” My mother made very, very good cream puffs. Still, I cringed every time I saw her pick up that pot. Despite my warnings, she continued to use the old pots, and she didn’t seem to remember not to use metal utensils on the new ones. It didn’t take long for the non-stick surfaces to get scratched, and she slowly stopped using them.

            I truly did not understand why she loved the old pots until recently. Unlike her, I have taken excellent care of my non-stick pots and pans, but I’ve noticed recently that food has started sticking to my biggest pot. I have also been hearing about the negative health effects of PFA’s or perfluorinated chemicals which were most likely used in the pots I have been cooking in for decades. I guess it is time for me to retire that pot, but all I can think is, “That is my spaghetti sauce pot.” This pot is to me what my mom’s pot was to her. It isn’t just a pot. It is the memories and the flavors of life. It is the concern that what we have been cooking in those pots for years cannot be duplicated in newer ones.

            Someone in my family much wiser than me simply replaced the handles on my mother’s cream puff pot. I think my sister still has it, although I’m not sure how often she uses it. That pot is part of the fabric of our family. I wish I could tell my mom that I finally understand. I am not going to throw away my spaghetti sauce pot just yet. Maybe it can be a decoration for my kitchen. It can be a testament to the love that went into it.

            A young relative recently asked me what it is like to look back your life as you get older. I said that much of life when looking back is a blur. There are certain specific memories that come to mind, but the day to day is hard to remember. They thought this sad, and I couldn’t help but think I hadn’t explained it very well.

            I think we would be overwhelmed if we remembered everything. In fact, there are some people in the world who can, and it isn’t always good. The older I get, the more I think about my childhood. Despite some tragedies in extended family, I had a great childhood. Even though I can’t remember too many specifics, I know the feeling I get when I think of it.

            When I drive down the streets where I grew up, I can imagine myself at different ages—from the little girl who didn’t know what a friend was (there were no other children on our street), to the shy middle-schooler, to the teenage years, to my wedding day and beyond. When I think of myself at those ages, I remember some difficult times, but I have a definite sense of peace and joy overall. Life is good.

            The next question asked was what it is like to be a parent. My first response was that it is the scariest thing to do in life because you know you might really screw up. I followed that with saying it is also the most  rewarding experience when your babies turn out to be wonderful human beings. Just as my early life is a blur, the years I raised my kids are now blurred together too. I don’t know how they feel about it, but I can only hope that when my adult children drive down the streets where they grew up, they get a sense of peace and joy just like me.

            I love the life I have, and as I grow old, the later years will most likely blur like the early ones, but the colors, sounds, and textures of life that form memories are beautiful things. The blur of life is a work of art.

I could have been a nun. When I was a teenager, my family was good friends with a wonderful nun. One time, we invited her to spend a day with us at a camping club. I took her on my favorite walks and showed her the places I found special. While resting beside a lake, she told me, “You would make a good nun.”

I was both stunned and flattered, but I knew it was not the path for me. How to politely decline? I hesitated and replied, “Well, Sister, I appreciate that, but there are lots of ways to serve the Lord, and I will just have to find me another way. I like men too much.” It was the best answer I could come up with at the time. She respected that, and we never spoke of it again. She later transferred out of our parish, and my family lost touch.

She came to my mind this week while in a class with one of my students. The assignment was to write a letter to a teacher who they felt had helped them in some way. I had a lot of good teachers in school, but my first thought was of our friend the nun.

Sister Madelyn was cool because she was easy to talk to. She had a great sense of humor. She had a deep faith in God, but she was totally approachable. She taught me that nuns are people too. I could talk to her about anything, and I did. When I asked if she ever got lonely or wished she hadn’t taken vows, she spoke of her love for Christ. She thought of her vocation as her marriage. Even though I became a wife and mother instead of a nun, when I think back on my life, I realize that I try to emulate her. Her approach to life taught me how to live a life of faith.

I decided to do the assignment along with my student. I found Sister Madelyn and reached out. I wanted her to know that she was not forgotten. I was excited when she wrote back right away. I’m not sure she remembers exactly who I am, but that is okay. By now, she has ministered to thousands, I’m sure. Part of her response to me was, “Thank you so much for reaching out to me. At this age one wonders if they have made a difference in anyone’s life. Your note let me know I made a difference in your life.”

We often don’t know the positive effects we have on those around us unless they take time to tell us. If there was a teacher or mentor who made your life better, let them know. They may not remember you, but it will mean a lot that you remember them.

I listen to a Christian radio station, and this morning they asked people to call in and talk about someone being kind to them. I didn’t call in, but for some reason, I thought of a time when I was a teenager.

My dad only had a handful of cousins who we knew, but one was named Elfina, Elfie for short, and another was named Betty. My mom loved and was loved by my dad’s family. Betty was a single, aging woman with health issues. We lived the closest to her, so we were called upon to visit her in the hospital, take her to doctor’s appointments, and bring in some groceries from time to time. This would not have been a problem except Betty complained about everything. Nothing anyone did was ever good enough, and she did nothing but feel sorry for herself.

While Betty was having her health issues, one of my mom’s sisters who lived out of state was losing a battle with cancer. My mom went to visit and help as much as she could.

While Betty was having her health issues and my aunt was slowly dying, Elfie’s husband passed away unexpectedly. Amadeo was a happy, funny, Italian man who loved life. Shortly after his passing, Elfie called our house.

My mom was with my aunt, so I took the call. I told Elfie how sad we all were about losing such a wonderful man. She thanked me but went on to say she really called to see how my aunt was doing. I gave her the latest update, and we said our goodbyes, but I was blown away.

I couldn’t believe that in her grief, she thought of us; and angsty teenager that I was, I couldn’t get over the difference between attitudes. With all my mom did for Betty, she never asked about my aunt; but Elfie, still reeling from her own loss, thought of us. They are all gone now, and as I age, I understand Betty more and more. She was used to being a strong, independent woman. Getting so sick must have made her feel overwhelmingly alone and scared. Complaining was a natural thing to do in those circumstances. I still appreciate Elfie’s kindness, though. It was a lesson to me. I try to be an Elfie, not a Betty.

My mom used to tell me a story about a train trip our family took from Illinois to Arizona. She said that every time a train would pass us, I would sing, “Pass me by, pass me by. If you don’t happen to like me, pass me by.” Mom said that by the time we got to Arizona, everyone on the train was singing that song. I have no memory of the trip, although there are a few black and white photos floating around the family somewhere. The only reason I know the tune to the chorus is because my mom sang it to me when she told the story.

Imagine my delight when CBS Sunday Morning did a story about Peggy Lee and included a short clip of her singing “Pass Me By.” I never knew who sang it until I saw the clip. I later found the song online and was able to hear the whole thing.

While my only memory of any of this is my mom telling me the story, she must have loved her memory of the trip. She told the story to me many, many times. Family memories, family stories, and family legends are what tie one generation to another. I never met three of my four grandparents, but stories I have heard about them make me feel like I knew them at least a little.

I challenge anyone who reads this to either ask for a family story from someone older or tell a story to someone younger. My mom passed away nearly two years ago, but when I heard that song, it was like she was right next to me. Don’t let a chance to connect with your family pass you by.

Children grow into adults,

But they never stop being your children.

You always want to help them solve problems.

Your heart still aches when theirs is broken.

You hope that you raised them well, but there are no guarantees.

With love and luck, they become prosperous and kind.

With prayer, they become saved.

Parenthood at any stage has joys and sorrows.

                My dad told the story of a discussion he had with a friend about their adult children. One asked the other, “Do you know when you stop worrying about your kids?” They both pointed to the ground in hopes that once they died, they wouldn’t worry anymore. I don’t know if he told me that story because he was worried about me for some reason or if he just wanted to warn me (a young mother at the time) that even when they are grown, you will still worry.

                For me, the hardest part is knowing they need help, but not being able to help or not knowing how to help.  Can I help? Should I help? To what extent should I help?

                I sometimes wonder how God does it. We are all his children no matter how old we are. Natural disasters, illnesses, addictions, bad choices, etc. happen to all of us at some points in our lives. We all face problems that He, being God, could easily solve, but often He doesn’t. We constantly ask, “Why? What are we supposed to learn? What is the point of suffering?” In 1 Thessalonians 5:16-18 says, “Rejoice always, pray constantly, give thanks in all circumstances; for this is the will of God in Christ Jesus for you.” Romans 8:28 states, “We know that in everything God works for good with those who love him, who are called according to his purpose.”

                God gave us our children. He chose us to raise them. He knew what He was doing no matter how hard parenting is. Even in the hard times, good can come. Even if our prayers aren’t answered when or how we want, prayer helps. We need to have faith. We must strive to love our children as God loves us, unendingly and unconditionally.