A Few Things My Mother Taught Me

I've been thinking about this post for a long while. The things my mother taught me are both so simple and so formative. Most important things in life are. It isn't the big, huge once-in-a-lifetime things that make up the stuff of life, but the small every day things.

It's so cliche to say that she taught me to work hard. But she really, really did...from weeding the garden to shoveling snow, my mama did it all. She wasn't afraid to dive into a room that needed to be cleaned at school or a pile of paperwork in the office, either. She taught me to do what needs to be done, no complaining. I'm afraid I've moved away from that lesson as I've gotten older...being now somewhat more inclined to procrastination and whining.

My mother also taught me storage solutions for small houses and how to minimize clutter without throwing all the fun stuff away. She new how to keep games and craft projects and her favorite coffee mug without all the little stuff cluttering up the house. Maybe this is more about knowing what really matters and getting rid of the stuff that doesn't. But, you know, you can keep the favorite mug that you really don't need, if you keep it in the cake pan in the oven (where else would you store your cake pans? and your mugs?). 

My mother taught me to keep my mouth shut when the conflict isn't really going to be beneficial. I don't think this is about avoiding conflict or sweeping things under the rug. She could confront when something needed to be said. But, it was more about extending some grace or having some patience to see how some things might pan out. It was about holding back the biting comment when someone was all sarcastic and crabby...to give them the opportunity to settle down themselves. Because, you know, most of us know when we're acting bad anyway. We seldom need someone to point it out to us.

My mama taught me to hunt for bargains, to substitute ingredients in recipes, to make do with what I have...to turn old things into new solutions. She taught me how to play rummy and make salsa and cook beans from scratch.

Sometimes I'm surprised by all the ways that I am like her because I've often thought myself so different from her in personality. When I surprise myself with a piece of her appearing in my own living, I am so proud. 

Their Names Matter

From A Wind in the Door by Madeleine L'Engle:

“Progo,' Meg asked. 'You memorized the names of all the stars - how many are there?'

How many? Great heavens, earthling. I haven't the faintest idea.'

But you said your last assignment was to memorize the names of all of them.'

I did. All the stars in all the galaxies. And that's a great many.'

But how many?'

What difference does it make? I know their names. I don't know how many there are. It's their names that matter.”

A litany of names.

Micheal Brown in Ferguson, Missouri.

The four I will think of during the Stomp Out Suicide Walk on Saturday:
Les.
Peter.
Calen.

Robin Williams.

Those that we have lost to cancer...
My mom
Buzz

Those who are fighting cancer...
Sandy
Sandra's friend
Kathy's brother in law

And those lost to accidents...
Gabe
Uncle Sunny

Racism.
Suicide.
Cancer.
Accidents.

This is not an exhaustive list...just the names that have been close to me this week.

I read today that one thing we can do to fight racism in response to events like the shooting of Michael Brown is to stop telling the "Good Kid Narrative" about how his death is sad because he was such a good kid who was about to start college, who was well-loved and liked by his community. Those things are true. But, "The Good Kid narrative says that this kid didn’t deserve to die because his goodness was the exception to the rule. This is wrong. This kid didn’t deserve to die because he was a human being and black lives matter." (12 Things White People Can Do Now Because Ferguson)

...And I thought of the words of Progo. "What difference does it make? I know their names. I don't know how many there are. It's their names that matter."

On Saturday when I walk the SOS walk, I'm sure I'll be overwhelmed by the numbers. By the sheer volume of people who have experiences the tragedy of suicide and/or depression. We human beings are impressed by numbers.

But you know what? The numbers are not the part that matters. It's the names that each of those numbers represent. Whether there are four or one hundred or one thousand. It's all the same. "What difference does it make? ...It's their names that matter."

Hope that Burns Us

I love, love, love the planning and preparing for this season of Advent and Chanukah. I love the strings of lights, the glittery reflections on window glass and ornaments. I love the feel of the words that surround this season...
hope,
peace,
love,
redemption,
Messiah,
Yeshua,
chanukiah,
shamash...
 I want to wrap those words around myself like warm, downy blankets, their comforting sounds shushing the wails of grief, ever singing in my ears. Is it muffling grief? Is it balm to the wounds? I don't know. It helps. It eases the suffering.

A candle flickers in the Nativity scene in my entry room day and night. I light candles often in my house, for beauty, for remembrance, for prayers. I think of the seas of candles at candlelight vigils...at Christmas Eve church services...at Easter Eve at the Basilica. Especially, I think of the way we extinguish our candles at the Basilica when we hear of the death of Messiah and then we pound on the pews until one single light returns.

One single light.

The light of Yeshua. The one we Hope for this Advent. We are waiting for His return. When grief overflows in our hearts we beg.
Come, Yeshua. Come.
Come now.
Come save us.
We are done with this world. We pound on the pews. We stomp our feet. The noise builds to fill our ears. Darkness fills our eyes. Grief fills our throats.

Until that one tiny light returns. And gives light to the whole room. And our eyes flood with relief from the aching darkness. Our burning hands are still. Our tired feet can rest. Our cheeks are wet with the grief and the pain and the hope that burns us.

"And he sang to them, now in the Elven tongue, now in the speech of the West, until their hearts, wounded with sweet words, overflowed, and their joy was like swords, and they passed in thought out to regions where pain and delight flow together and tears are the very wine of blessedness." (from Tolkien's The Return of the King)

A Disclaimer

One month ago, on October 14th, I went to see my mom in the hospital, expecting that she would "get better" for another month or more before the end came. That Saturday, she died.

Today I am listening to Christmas music...the orchestral kind, not the holly, jolly kind. Last weekend I put up strings of Christmas lights in my house. The light is soft and warm. People keep telling me how hard the holidays will be. I feel like I need to explain that I'm not forgetting her with the lights and the music. I am just so thirsty for beautiful things. It's so hard. The beautiful things carry me through. They feel poignant and full of meaning...somehow more beautiful in the middle of all the heaviness. Many moments throughout the day, I take in a ragged breath and realize I am on the verge of sobbing, that I cannot breathe for a moment, that this is so painful I must double over, sit down, push on my eyes to stop the onslaught of tears. I cannot cry every waking moment. Nor can I forget. So, I live in this airless place of grief. Trying to live. Being oh so grateful for the people in my life and the fact that we have one more moment together. And then another. And another. There are so many beautiful things. And there is so much sadness.

I feel like I need a disclaimer. Yes, I'm grieving. My heart is broken. I cannot breathe. I don't want to get out of bed in the morning. Yes, you see holiday lights in my house, and there will be beautiful music. Yes, I will surround myself with the beautiful comfort of Thanksgiving, Hanukkah, Christmas... Yes, I often feel two things (or more) at once, and I cannot explain it. I know it's confusing. I'm just trying to breathe.

In the words of Ellen Bass:

The Thing Is

to love life, to love it even
when you have no stomach for it
and everything you've held dear
crumbles like burnt paper in your hands,
your throat filled with the silt of it.
When grief sits with you, its tropical heat
thickening the air, heavy as water
more fit for gills than lungs;
when grief weights you like your own flesh
only more of it, an obesity of grief,
you think, How can a body withstand this?
Then you hold life like a face
between your palms, a plain face,
no charming smile, no violet eyes,
and you say, yes, I will take you
I will love you, again. 

My Mom

My mom passed away on October 20th, 2012, after fighting a vicious 11 month battle with Merkel Cell Carcinoma.  Here is the tribute I wrote for her memorial service...

It is possible that many of you have heard this poem, but I want to share it with you anyway. I know my mom read it and believed it...

What Cancer Cannot Do

Cancer is so limited...

It cannot cripple love.

It cannot shatter hope.

It cannot corrode faith.

It cannot eat away peace.

It cannot destroy confidence.

It cannot kill friendship.

It cannot shut out memories.

It cannot silence courage.

It cannot reduce eternal life.

It cannot quench the spirit.

You see, my mom fought cancer for 11 months. She fought it with grace and with courage and hope and faith. And, though we sit here today, I still think she won. Cancer did not take her love for us or our love for her. It did not take our memories or her friendships or courage or spirit. In fact, it did not even take her peace. In the end, my mom knew where she was going, and she wasn't worried about it. After all, cancer cannot reduce eternal life, either. Because it's eternal. This life here is a little drop in the bucket of Eternal. But what she taught me here matters a whole lot to eternity. This little drop in the bucket has changed many people for all eternity.

My mom taught me what it is to love because she loved me. How can I even begin to describe her? She is the one I still want when I'm sick. She's the one I want to call with all my news. She is the one, who, despite her smallness, was always ready to protect me. When she knew she was passing from this world she wasn't worried about herself, she was worried about me and my dad and her grandchildren...and the many others who have come to rely on her...for support, for encouragement, for a listening ear, for friendship, and for practical help. My mom knew how to get things done - to make lists, plan, and organize. She didn't spend a lot of time talking about how to do something. She just made it happen. My mom also knew how to make peace with people without being a pushover. She had a strength and confidence that was all her own, but she didn't use it to trample other people or even to outshine them. She used it to see past differences and make things happen.

My mom taught me courage, as I saw her suffer losses and tackle tough challenges (like caring for foster children and moving across the continent and learning Spanish). I am so proud of her for doing the hard things. Because I know they were hard for her, and she did them anyway.

My mom also taught me to value people and relationships over material things. A person doesn't need a big house or a lot of stuff to be happy and content. If you ever visited any of the small houses my parents lived in over the last 15 years or so - from the trailer in Mexicali to their little cottage in Isanti - you know what I mean. My mom knew that wherever the people you love are, that is where home is. My parents made a great team, making a home beautiful and functional, without being big or cluttered. Their little home in Isanti is full of creative small-house solutions. (Did you know that you can store coffee cups in a cake pan in the oven, making use of all that empty space in the oven AND keeping the cups warm?) In spite of the small space, my mom stashed away games and craft projects - things that connect people and build relationships. We have spent many Christmases, my family of 5 all piled into my parent's house, laughing, talking, and playing games. My mom and Aurora worked on notebooks full of magazine cut-out collages, and later she taught Aurora to make crafty clipboards. The time mattered more than the things. 

One day my mom sent Aurora home with her shoes because she was decluttering...and I thought of how she used to let me dig through her closet when I still lived at home and I couldn't figure out what to wear. How frustrating that must have been for her some Junior High mornings. :) And I used to wear her shoes, too. I finally grew out of her shoes...and then one day Aurora grew out of her shoes, too!

She always had such tiny feet.

She was my  little Mama.

My little Mama with a big, big smile and a spirit that could not be quenched.

Her love was not crippled.

Her hope was not shattered.

Her faith was not even a little bit corroded.

Her courage was not silenced...

even to the end of her days.