I have always loved Christmas. I love that it is a celebration of Jesus' birthday, and I am so thankful for Him- the greatest gift ever given. But, I also love the commercialization of Christmas. Santa at the mall, the hustle and bustle of shoppers, and the glorious twinkling Christmas lights sparkling in the night to make even the most meager dwelling look enchanted. Don't even get me started on elves! Elves were pure brilliance. I listen to Christmas music starting no later than October 1st every year and keep the tunes going until the end of January. Every Christmas Eve, I still listen for reindeer on my roof, and I'm not going to lie, despite all evidence to the contrary, part of me still believes in Santa. As a parent, Christmas has been one of my favorite times of year, and one of my most serious responsibilities. I have to do Christmas right, so that my kids grow up to know and love this holiday for how blessed and magical it is!!
In my effort to do things right, I have been very transparent with my own children about the truth behind Christmas. For example, Taryn and Trevor know that people give each other presents to help celebrate Jesus' birthday. They also have learned that the whole reason that Santa brings the presents is to help us remember that the greatest gift was Jesus. My kids know that God and Santa are BOTH watching them, and that God trumps Santa when it comes to the naughty and nice list. Sure, sometimes I wonder just how difficult this entwined Christmas tapestry is going to be to unravel one day, but for now it all makes perfect sense.
This passion for Christmas is why the sermon on Sunday was so life changing for me. The Pastor talked about a lot of things, but what I got out of it, was that I need to be more like Rudolph. You are probably very familiar with the story of Rudolph, The Red Nosed Reindeer. It doesn't matter if you simply know the song, or watch the clay-mation movie on TV every year like I do; the story is the same. Rudolph was different. Because he had a red light bulb where his nose should be, he was picked on by all of the handsome, super- cool reindeer. When they were all showing off at the reindeer games, poor Rudolph wasn't even allowed to play. I imagine that Rudolph didn't feel too good about himself. Every social experience that he had attempted had ended in failure and rejection. He probably wasn't very excited about trying new things or meeting new people (or reindeer), because what he had learned in his short little reindeer life was to expect to be hurt.
The good news is that the story has a happy ending! Rudolph led Santa's sleigh through the foggy night to help him keep his undefeated Christmas record! I have always thought of Santa as the nice one in the story. He is the one who saw Rudolph's difference as a positive thing, and who loves him, not in spite of how he is different, but BECAUSE of it. Now I realize I was all wrong. It is Rudolph that showed kindness. He is the hero in the story, but not for the obvious reasons. Not because he led the sleigh through the foggy night and triumphantly helped Santa deliver all of the gifts. No, he is the hero because he said, "yes" when Santa asked.
I know what I would have said if I were Rudolph. "Oh, really? You need me now? Where were you when the bullies were teasing me and not letting me play the reindeer games? Where were you when everyone was laughing at me and calling me names? And now, what? You want to use me for my nose? Sorry, Santa. Guess you and Dasher should have thought of that earlier". Saying yes doesn't seem hard; but for me, if I were him, it would have been.
So, now I know that I have a lot to learn from the little misfit reindeer. I need to guard my heart and not get embittered by people. They will be mean, just as I am sometimes mean. They will fail me, and they will never cease to be imperfect, and human. I cannot control any of that, but I can protect my heart from becoming so hard that I can no longer see the opportunities before me. Rudolph had a forgiving heart, and because of that he got to be a part of history. Forgiving and saying yes was all it took for his whole life to change. He was happy to have a chance to help Santa, and the children. He did his absolute best without complaint. He didn't remind Santa that he had been hurt, and that the other reindeer didn't deserve his help after how they had treated him. Instead, he did the job that he, and only he, was equipped to do. I want to do that. I want to be that. To do my best at the job that I, and only I, am equipped to do. I pray for the grace to do that every day in my classroom, in my home, in my friendships, and even walking amongst strangers ...I want to be more like Rudolph.
Monday, November 29, 2010
Wednesday, November 24, 2010
Make the Stuffing!
ONCE upon a time there was a stuffing that was unlike any other stuffing. It was a mixture of potatoes, and seasoning, dried bread, salt pork, and onions. This stuff is delicious. In fact, the word stuffing seems quite an inadequate title for this savory explosion of awesomeness. I have had quite a few other stuffings in my life. There was the raisin stuffing my dad's mom used to make, and the traditional stove-top style bread stuffing that most people seem to go with. I have had them, and officially hate them all. Except this. This is the stuffing among stuffings. It is special.
I have heard from those who have made the stuffing that it is a bit hard to make. I can imagine that peeling all of the potatoes is a chore, and then the bicep workout from mixing a giant bowl of the dense mixture is probably not an easy task. On top of that, there are always regular mashed potatoes for the family meal, as well, so in planning the dinner there is the whole, "do we really need two potato dishes?" argument.
My answer is a hearty YES! You see, this stuffing is historical. In my family it is known as Ree Ree's stuffing. Family folklore holds that his mother made it for him as a young boy, and I know that he has had it every year for the past 67 years that he has been married to my beautiful grandmother. It is not a tradition, it is tradition.
Sometimes I stop and imagine that I was born in 1916, the year the my mom's dad, was born. He has seen a lot in his time here on Earth. The model T Ford was still a new car when he was born. He was alive to see the Flappers and Prohibition, heck his mother could have been a Flapper for all I know. He lived through The Great Depression, fought in WWII, and was living his life as history unfolded... The Bay of Pigs, Vietnam, Watergate, JFK and the grassy knoll, the first microwave, and on and on. When I think about how much change he has lived through it makes me feel overwhelmed. I do not do well with change. I cannot imagine trying to make sense of the new reality that each decade has brought to his world. I think about the changes in America, in our culture, in our morals, in our politics, and even just in the way things are done with developing technology. In pondering what his eyes have seen over the past 9 decades, I have decided that it's no wonder my grandfather loves books and puzzles. Its a pretty safe bet that those have remained relatively unchanged over the years.
Yes, books, puzzles, and Ree Ree's stuffing. Three things that this amazing man can count on. He doesn't ask for much. In fact, there are only two things that I think of when I think of Ree Ree eating a Thanksgiving dinner. Those two things are Queen of Pudding, A.K.A. "The Queen", and his special stuffing. "The Queen" is a bread pudding. Sweet with grape jelly and soggy with whey, which is a good thing in a bread pudding. Lovely egg white peaks, browned on top, lovingly, by my grandmother. Ree Ree will forsake all other desserts, actually all other foods, for a taste of his Queen of Pudding. The stuffing is Ree Ree's as well. In past years, it was Ree Ree who made the stuffing, or at least he was the official taster who told my grandmother what to add to make it pure perfection. Now though, he is almost 95, and so my mother makes the stuffing. It is unusual, one of a kind, and delicious. And, it is his.
I say all that to say this. Thanksgiving is a time to be thankful for all of our blessings. To be thankful for the bounty provided us by God, and for the things for which we are lacking, because our limitations are what inspire our creativity. This year, one thing that we are most thankful for in our family, is Ree Ree. For his contagious laugh, and the sparkle in his eyes. For the stories that he tells, and for what he has seen. For the arms that embrace us, and for the smile that captivates us. We are thankful to have him to spend this holiday with, and even though it is a job to make, even though we are already having mashed potatoes, and even though Charlie doesn't really like it; I say, "make the stuffing". The stuffing is like Ree Ree; it is a living legend. It may not be what Thanksgiving is all about, but it means something to Ree Ree. When he thinks back on his favorite holidays past, he remembers the smell of salt pork in the house, and the family holding hands around the table. And he remembers the joy of asking his loved ones to pass the stuffing. In an act of true thankfulness for Ree Ree, I suggest we suffer through the tiring, tedious, process, and silently endure the horrors of endless potato peeling. We should risk being gauche by having two potato dishes on the table, and for the love of God make the stuffing!
I have heard from those who have made the stuffing that it is a bit hard to make. I can imagine that peeling all of the potatoes is a chore, and then the bicep workout from mixing a giant bowl of the dense mixture is probably not an easy task. On top of that, there are always regular mashed potatoes for the family meal, as well, so in planning the dinner there is the whole, "do we really need two potato dishes?" argument.
My answer is a hearty YES! You see, this stuffing is historical. In my family it is known as Ree Ree's stuffing. Family folklore holds that his mother made it for him as a young boy, and I know that he has had it every year for the past 67 years that he has been married to my beautiful grandmother. It is not a tradition, it is tradition.
Sometimes I stop and imagine that I was born in 1916, the year the my mom's dad, was born. He has seen a lot in his time here on Earth. The model T Ford was still a new car when he was born. He was alive to see the Flappers and Prohibition, heck his mother could have been a Flapper for all I know. He lived through The Great Depression, fought in WWII, and was living his life as history unfolded... The Bay of Pigs, Vietnam, Watergate, JFK and the grassy knoll, the first microwave, and on and on. When I think about how much change he has lived through it makes me feel overwhelmed. I do not do well with change. I cannot imagine trying to make sense of the new reality that each decade has brought to his world. I think about the changes in America, in our culture, in our morals, in our politics, and even just in the way things are done with developing technology. In pondering what his eyes have seen over the past 9 decades, I have decided that it's no wonder my grandfather loves books and puzzles. Its a pretty safe bet that those have remained relatively unchanged over the years.
Yes, books, puzzles, and Ree Ree's stuffing. Three things that this amazing man can count on. He doesn't ask for much. In fact, there are only two things that I think of when I think of Ree Ree eating a Thanksgiving dinner. Those two things are Queen of Pudding, A.K.A. "The Queen", and his special stuffing. "The Queen" is a bread pudding. Sweet with grape jelly and soggy with whey, which is a good thing in a bread pudding. Lovely egg white peaks, browned on top, lovingly, by my grandmother. Ree Ree will forsake all other desserts, actually all other foods, for a taste of his Queen of Pudding. The stuffing is Ree Ree's as well. In past years, it was Ree Ree who made the stuffing, or at least he was the official taster who told my grandmother what to add to make it pure perfection. Now though, he is almost 95, and so my mother makes the stuffing. It is unusual, one of a kind, and delicious. And, it is his.
I say all that to say this. Thanksgiving is a time to be thankful for all of our blessings. To be thankful for the bounty provided us by God, and for the things for which we are lacking, because our limitations are what inspire our creativity. This year, one thing that we are most thankful for in our family, is Ree Ree. For his contagious laugh, and the sparkle in his eyes. For the stories that he tells, and for what he has seen. For the arms that embrace us, and for the smile that captivates us. We are thankful to have him to spend this holiday with, and even though it is a job to make, even though we are already having mashed potatoes, and even though Charlie doesn't really like it; I say, "make the stuffing". The stuffing is like Ree Ree; it is a living legend. It may not be what Thanksgiving is all about, but it means something to Ree Ree. When he thinks back on his favorite holidays past, he remembers the smell of salt pork in the house, and the family holding hands around the table. And he remembers the joy of asking his loved ones to pass the stuffing. In an act of true thankfulness for Ree Ree, I suggest we suffer through the tiring, tedious, process, and silently endure the horrors of endless potato peeling. We should risk being gauche by having two potato dishes on the table, and for the love of God make the stuffing!
Tuesday, November 23, 2010
Vegetable chills
Last night, during dinner, I realized something. I despise vegetables. Well, not vegetables themselves, but eating them. I have never met a vegetable that I like. I went through the list, even going back to my childhood days eating veggies fresh from the garden. Broccoli? No. Yellow squash, zucchini, eggplant? No. Spinach, carrots, celery, cucumbers? No, no, no! There are definitely some that I can tolerate more than others, but none that I ever really want to eat.
The vegetables that I had last night for dinner were really good, by vegetable standards. (Trust me, vegetable standards are much lower than all of my other standards). Green beans, red peppers, a few roasted red potatoes in a delicate butter sauce. They were seasoned just right with a touch of salt and pepper, and were the perfect compliment to my onion burger...but still, I had to choke them down. I had eaten quite a decent amount of them, dutifully surviving every pain staking bite, when I had to stop. I got the vegetable chills. The shakes from the shoulders down through my core that are always my cue to drop my fork and dispose of the veggies. No matter how many vitamins are in there and how much I want to be healthy, I know that if I don't stop immediately after the first chill, then these vegetables will make me sick.
The truth is that my relationship with vegetables really makes me angry, because just as certainly as I despise eating my vegetables, there are people out there who like them. I am jealous of those people. Those lucky people for whom a fresh from the garden, crisp, sugar snap pea is as good as candy. People who have to use will power to not eat all of the veggies that they are cutting up for a veggie platter. I want to be them! I want to bring hummus and cucumbers to work for lunch, and actually look forward to eating it. Instead, I am the poor soul who knows how great vegetables are, and yet, gets the vegetable chills. Yet one more shred of evidence to prove that life's not fair.
The vegetables that I had last night for dinner were really good, by vegetable standards. (Trust me, vegetable standards are much lower than all of my other standards). Green beans, red peppers, a few roasted red potatoes in a delicate butter sauce. They were seasoned just right with a touch of salt and pepper, and were the perfect compliment to my onion burger...but still, I had to choke them down. I had eaten quite a decent amount of them, dutifully surviving every pain staking bite, when I had to stop. I got the vegetable chills. The shakes from the shoulders down through my core that are always my cue to drop my fork and dispose of the veggies. No matter how many vitamins are in there and how much I want to be healthy, I know that if I don't stop immediately after the first chill, then these vegetables will make me sick.
The truth is that my relationship with vegetables really makes me angry, because just as certainly as I despise eating my vegetables, there are people out there who like them. I am jealous of those people. Those lucky people for whom a fresh from the garden, crisp, sugar snap pea is as good as candy. People who have to use will power to not eat all of the veggies that they are cutting up for a veggie platter. I want to be them! I want to bring hummus and cucumbers to work for lunch, and actually look forward to eating it. Instead, I am the poor soul who knows how great vegetables are, and yet, gets the vegetable chills. Yet one more shred of evidence to prove that life's not fair.
Sunday, November 21, 2010
Learning how little I know.
I don't remember the first time that I realized that my mom was just making it up as she went along, but at some point I did. There was a point where she answered one of my endlessly probing questions with just enough uncertainty that I realized something unfathomable. She didn't know.
As a kid, my mother knew everything. She knew how to get marker off of the wall, and what to give me when my tummy hurt. She even knew when I should bring a jacket because it was going to be cold outside. Then I got older, and my mom knew a little bit less. Like the time I was twelve and did not want a hair cut...at all. But my mother insisted that a mullet was just what I needed to "feel so much better". It was a good hair cut. I mean, a top-notch mullet to be sure, but somehow when I looked in the mirror I did not feel better.
As I kept getting older, and arguably wiser, I started to know more, and she started to know less. I blame the schools for this, in part. They taught me things she didn't know, like Latin, the Krebs Cycle, and that two parallel lines cut by a transversal have congruent alternate interior angles. They provided me with concrete evidence that my mom was no longer smarter than me. After all, she couldn't even help me with my homework. After high school, I went away to college. I didn't just go across town; I went 17 hours and a handful of states away. When I left, I knew almost everything, and my mom didn't know much at all.
It didn't happen all at once, but it was here, in my chosen institute for higher learning, that I started to realize how smart I wasn't. When I decided to move out of my dorm room and in with my best friend at the time, I wasn't smart enough to know how to do it in a way that wouldn't leave my old roommate feeling hurt and alone. I certainly wasn't smart enough to choose not to sit by the sarcastic girl with all of the piercings in Medical Terminology class who's laughing approval always caused me to be a little louder and more rude than I should. I wasn't even smart enough to know how often I should wash my sheets, or at what temperature. If my mom had been there, I am almost certain that I wouldn't have gotten so wrapped up in my boyfriend that I would stop spending time with my girl friends. She would have known better. She would have taught me to balance my time between all of the people that I loved.
Shortly after graduation, I married my husband Jayme and almost overnight my mother became infinitely smarter than I had ever imagined. My husband kept getting hungry, and I had no idea what to feed him. Night after night I would call home wanting to know how to make various chicken dishes, pot roast, and roasted vegetables. None of my questions ever stumped her. She knew how to get candle wax off of the carpet and how to clean that stubborn stain in the porcelain kitchen sink. I thought my mom's genius had reached its peak when I got pregnant. She knew what to eat and not eat, what positions to sleep in, and what questions I should ask the doctor. Just when I thought my mom couldn't get any smarter, and I couldn't get any dumber I became a mother myself. This one blessed, humbling, awesome act is what convinced me that I know nothing at all.
I remember when my daughter, Taryn, was a brand new infant. The complete lack of knowing was almost more than I could bear. Was she crying because she was tired, hungry, wet, gassy, sick? There was no way to know. Why did they let me leave the hospital with her? I was completely unprepared! If there had been a competency test for parenting I would have failed!!! Even now, she is four and Trevor is two and I feel like I have spent the last four years knowing less and less. I don't know what to tell her when she tells me that she never wants to go to Heaven. When she asks why God never comes to our house if He loves us, and why she can't hear him talk to her- what do I say? Is this a normal sniffle, or do they need to go to the doctor? Is his cough rattling his chest, or clear? Why does so and so tell her that they can't be friends, and when will the teacher let her be partners with Dylan. I DON'T KNOW!
One thing that I do know is that there is always someone with more answers than me. My mom. She knows things. She knows things that don't get asked on Jeopardy or when helping with high school Geometry. She knows how to make macaroni and cheese from scratch, and baked potatoes, and she knows where to go to find fabric paint. My mom knows what to do when a child has a fever, or a cough, or a rash, or an impossible question. Sitting here today in a world where I don't know much at all, I do know one thing. My mom knows everything.
As a kid, my mother knew everything. She knew how to get marker off of the wall, and what to give me when my tummy hurt. She even knew when I should bring a jacket because it was going to be cold outside. Then I got older, and my mom knew a little bit less. Like the time I was twelve and did not want a hair cut...at all. But my mother insisted that a mullet was just what I needed to "feel so much better". It was a good hair cut. I mean, a top-notch mullet to be sure, but somehow when I looked in the mirror I did not feel better.
As I kept getting older, and arguably wiser, I started to know more, and she started to know less. I blame the schools for this, in part. They taught me things she didn't know, like Latin, the Krebs Cycle, and that two parallel lines cut by a transversal have congruent alternate interior angles. They provided me with concrete evidence that my mom was no longer smarter than me. After all, she couldn't even help me with my homework. After high school, I went away to college. I didn't just go across town; I went 17 hours and a handful of states away. When I left, I knew almost everything, and my mom didn't know much at all.
It didn't happen all at once, but it was here, in my chosen institute for higher learning, that I started to realize how smart I wasn't. When I decided to move out of my dorm room and in with my best friend at the time, I wasn't smart enough to know how to do it in a way that wouldn't leave my old roommate feeling hurt and alone. I certainly wasn't smart enough to choose not to sit by the sarcastic girl with all of the piercings in Medical Terminology class who's laughing approval always caused me to be a little louder and more rude than I should. I wasn't even smart enough to know how often I should wash my sheets, or at what temperature. If my mom had been there, I am almost certain that I wouldn't have gotten so wrapped up in my boyfriend that I would stop spending time with my girl friends. She would have known better. She would have taught me to balance my time between all of the people that I loved.
Shortly after graduation, I married my husband Jayme and almost overnight my mother became infinitely smarter than I had ever imagined. My husband kept getting hungry, and I had no idea what to feed him. Night after night I would call home wanting to know how to make various chicken dishes, pot roast, and roasted vegetables. None of my questions ever stumped her. She knew how to get candle wax off of the carpet and how to clean that stubborn stain in the porcelain kitchen sink. I thought my mom's genius had reached its peak when I got pregnant. She knew what to eat and not eat, what positions to sleep in, and what questions I should ask the doctor. Just when I thought my mom couldn't get any smarter, and I couldn't get any dumber I became a mother myself. This one blessed, humbling, awesome act is what convinced me that I know nothing at all.
I remember when my daughter, Taryn, was a brand new infant. The complete lack of knowing was almost more than I could bear. Was she crying because she was tired, hungry, wet, gassy, sick? There was no way to know. Why did they let me leave the hospital with her? I was completely unprepared! If there had been a competency test for parenting I would have failed!!! Even now, she is four and Trevor is two and I feel like I have spent the last four years knowing less and less. I don't know what to tell her when she tells me that she never wants to go to Heaven. When she asks why God never comes to our house if He loves us, and why she can't hear him talk to her- what do I say? Is this a normal sniffle, or do they need to go to the doctor? Is his cough rattling his chest, or clear? Why does so and so tell her that they can't be friends, and when will the teacher let her be partners with Dylan. I DON'T KNOW!
One thing that I do know is that there is always someone with more answers than me. My mom. She knows things. She knows things that don't get asked on Jeopardy or when helping with high school Geometry. She knows how to make macaroni and cheese from scratch, and baked potatoes, and she knows where to go to find fabric paint. My mom knows what to do when a child has a fever, or a cough, or a rash, or an impossible question. Sitting here today in a world where I don't know much at all, I do know one thing. My mom knows everything.
Thursday, November 18, 2010
My friend, Sam
So, I have been thinking a lot about my friend, Sam.
Sam was my neighbor when I was a kid. For ten years we lived next door to each other. I spent weekends and summers riding bikes with Sam and his two sisters, Lydia and Sarah. In the winters we would go sledding together, or cross country skiing with our families in the forests behind our houses. We were in class together from Kindergarten to 6th grade at a small Christian school. He was at all of my birthday parties, and we built mud pies in the play house in front of his front yard. Sam and I were on little league baseball teams together, and carpooled to school. We would sometimes trade food at lunch, but not often because neither of us had anything good. Our mothers both took great pride in providing healthy lunches for us, complete with whole wheat bread, wheat germ, natural peanut butter and honey sandwiches.
Sam, Sarah, Lydia, and I were pretty much inseparable, but there was something special to me about Sam. He was a little bit of a small kid. He was always the smartest in class, no matter what, and he wore glasses- as smart kids should. Sam was sweet. I remember in class that when kids would be mean he just would look like his very spirit could not comprehend the cruelty. He was picked on sometimes. This was probably a little bit because he was small, and smart, but mostly just because kids are mean. I always felt like Sam needed me. Kids picked on me too, but not that much. I wasn't an easy target, and I wasn't as sweet as Sam...so to pick on me meant they were going to get it right back.
When I was in 6th grade, my parents decided to send me to public school. I think I had asked to go. I lasted about a week before my parents agreed to put my back in private school. They asked why I didn't like my new school, and I never really gave them a reason. My teacher was nice, the kids were...kids...but not mean. I even knew one or two of them from playing sports in the community leagues, and from the neighborhood. What really bothered me though, was that Sam was not changing schools. He would be in our old school, riding with his mom every day like I used to do. He would be sitting in the same library, and having PE in the same gymnasium. I could not stand leaving him, and my old life behind.
The next year Sam went to a new school, and so did I. It was still a tough transition, but I did fine because I wasn't the only one who had moved on. Sam had too. After we stopped going to school together, we didn't see much of each other. Our families were still close, though, so we would get together at holidays and for family dinners. Sam and I would always share stories about our new friends, schools, and that sort of thing. We had become family, all of us, and so we would catch up, and pick up where we had left off like families do. I knew that I wasn't a part of his life anymore, not really. And it was okay that he wasn't part of mine. It was a new twist on our friendship, but still fun to see him and his sisters and to know that he was there.
After college, when I got married, Sam came to my wedding with his parents. Sitting here, almost 14 years later I can't recall a lot of other people who were there, but Sam was. I didn't see him at the wedding, but I saw him getting to his table at the reception. I remember that I wanted to cry. I hadn't seen Sam in a while. I had been off to college, and he had been doing the same. I had even sort of lost track of his life, but I knew he had been living or going to school in Norway and wasn't home that much. But he was there at my wedding. My long lost childhood friend. The one that I could always count on...to play with, share with, be with, laugh with, fight off the bullies with. And him being there was right. It was a big day, and my friend Sam belonged there. There are some things that friends should not miss.
My friend Sam passed away last year. My sister called to tell me. She is five years older than me, and usually delivers the bad news. I couldn't comprehend. I had to have her repeat herself. At first I was just numb and quiet. I hadn't seen Sam in years, and although I had met his twins and his wife a time or two, he lived in Norway, so he was never present in my life. I couldn't believe he was dead, and not just living life far away. I called my mom, and she was able to give me some more details. She had found out from his sister and gone to be with his parents right away. They were doing okay, but yes, it was true.
I cried that day. And the next. I cried for about a week, and then I finally called my mom and told her that I didn't know what was wrong with me. "I just can't stop thinking about Sam", I had said. It was so confusing to me why it hurt so bad. I didn't even ever talk to him or see him. Then I figured out that I just liked knowing that he was there. I liked knowing that there was someone who remembered the same things about Kindergarten, and everything else, that I did. I might not see my friend, Sam, for five years. But one thing was certain, when I did see him again, we would talk and remember. I'm sad that we won't get to do that again. I hope Sam knew that I was always here for him. I hadn't been "there" for him in a long time. But, I was always here.
Sam was my neighbor when I was a kid. For ten years we lived next door to each other. I spent weekends and summers riding bikes with Sam and his two sisters, Lydia and Sarah. In the winters we would go sledding together, or cross country skiing with our families in the forests behind our houses. We were in class together from Kindergarten to 6th grade at a small Christian school. He was at all of my birthday parties, and we built mud pies in the play house in front of his front yard. Sam and I were on little league baseball teams together, and carpooled to school. We would sometimes trade food at lunch, but not often because neither of us had anything good. Our mothers both took great pride in providing healthy lunches for us, complete with whole wheat bread, wheat germ, natural peanut butter and honey sandwiches.
Sam, Sarah, Lydia, and I were pretty much inseparable, but there was something special to me about Sam. He was a little bit of a small kid. He was always the smartest in class, no matter what, and he wore glasses- as smart kids should. Sam was sweet. I remember in class that when kids would be mean he just would look like his very spirit could not comprehend the cruelty. He was picked on sometimes. This was probably a little bit because he was small, and smart, but mostly just because kids are mean. I always felt like Sam needed me. Kids picked on me too, but not that much. I wasn't an easy target, and I wasn't as sweet as Sam...so to pick on me meant they were going to get it right back.
When I was in 6th grade, my parents decided to send me to public school. I think I had asked to go. I lasted about a week before my parents agreed to put my back in private school. They asked why I didn't like my new school, and I never really gave them a reason. My teacher was nice, the kids were...kids...but not mean. I even knew one or two of them from playing sports in the community leagues, and from the neighborhood. What really bothered me though, was that Sam was not changing schools. He would be in our old school, riding with his mom every day like I used to do. He would be sitting in the same library, and having PE in the same gymnasium. I could not stand leaving him, and my old life behind.
The next year Sam went to a new school, and so did I. It was still a tough transition, but I did fine because I wasn't the only one who had moved on. Sam had too. After we stopped going to school together, we didn't see much of each other. Our families were still close, though, so we would get together at holidays and for family dinners. Sam and I would always share stories about our new friends, schools, and that sort of thing. We had become family, all of us, and so we would catch up, and pick up where we had left off like families do. I knew that I wasn't a part of his life anymore, not really. And it was okay that he wasn't part of mine. It was a new twist on our friendship, but still fun to see him and his sisters and to know that he was there.
After college, when I got married, Sam came to my wedding with his parents. Sitting here, almost 14 years later I can't recall a lot of other people who were there, but Sam was. I didn't see him at the wedding, but I saw him getting to his table at the reception. I remember that I wanted to cry. I hadn't seen Sam in a while. I had been off to college, and he had been doing the same. I had even sort of lost track of his life, but I knew he had been living or going to school in Norway and wasn't home that much. But he was there at my wedding. My long lost childhood friend. The one that I could always count on...to play with, share with, be with, laugh with, fight off the bullies with. And him being there was right. It was a big day, and my friend Sam belonged there. There are some things that friends should not miss.
My friend Sam passed away last year. My sister called to tell me. She is five years older than me, and usually delivers the bad news. I couldn't comprehend. I had to have her repeat herself. At first I was just numb and quiet. I hadn't seen Sam in years, and although I had met his twins and his wife a time or two, he lived in Norway, so he was never present in my life. I couldn't believe he was dead, and not just living life far away. I called my mom, and she was able to give me some more details. She had found out from his sister and gone to be with his parents right away. They were doing okay, but yes, it was true.
I cried that day. And the next. I cried for about a week, and then I finally called my mom and told her that I didn't know what was wrong with me. "I just can't stop thinking about Sam", I had said. It was so confusing to me why it hurt so bad. I didn't even ever talk to him or see him. Then I figured out that I just liked knowing that he was there. I liked knowing that there was someone who remembered the same things about Kindergarten, and everything else, that I did. I might not see my friend, Sam, for five years. But one thing was certain, when I did see him again, we would talk and remember. I'm sad that we won't get to do that again. I hope Sam knew that I was always here for him. I hadn't been "there" for him in a long time. But, I was always here.
A way back...
I sat in a parent-teacher conference this morning and looked at a desperate mother. She was trying to parent an uncaring child. His 17 demerits, and his failing grades didn't matter to him. He quietly whispered reasons for not doing his work, or going to class. His eyes cast down to the floor, his hands wrung nervously in his lap, he gave reasons like, "because its annoying", "because I don't like it, " "because my book is too heavy to carry". The words were words of a punk. But the child that I was looking at sat ashamed, afraid, lost, insecure, and empty. He was not a punk, but it was easier for him to make shallow excuses, than to scream the truth.
I don't know what the truth is. Mom came alone to the meeting. Maybe the truth is that he hates his dad for leaving, or dying, or not being a part of his life. Maybe the truth is that needs more attention because mom works long hours to make ends meet and doesn't have time to take him to baseball games, or Disney World. I wish I knew his truth. I wish I knew the moment where he disconnected himself from the world. Mostly, I wish I could help him find his way back. I am a teacher, and surely it is my job to teach him that though life is unfair, there is always a way back.
I don't know what the truth is. Mom came alone to the meeting. Maybe the truth is that he hates his dad for leaving, or dying, or not being a part of his life. Maybe the truth is that needs more attention because mom works long hours to make ends meet and doesn't have time to take him to baseball games, or Disney World. I wish I knew his truth. I wish I knew the moment where he disconnected himself from the world. Mostly, I wish I could help him find his way back. I am a teacher, and surely it is my job to teach him that though life is unfair, there is always a way back.
Wednesday, November 17, 2010
My friend, goodnight
On the horizon of the dusk there is such beauty,
like an artist's palette mixed just perfectly.
The sky becomes the canvas of the Master,
and then, beyond the sky, there is the sea.
The rolling ocean glistens and it shimmers,
like a father's eyes cast on his newborn one.
It roars, and rolls, and swells, and sprays and whispers.
And then beyond the sea, there is the sun.
It sinks down across the sky in silent beauty,
as it slowly disappears from sight,
Peacefully welcoming the darkness,
as it whispers to the day, "My friend, goodnight".
like an artist's palette mixed just perfectly.
The sky becomes the canvas of the Master,
and then, beyond the sky, there is the sea.
The rolling ocean glistens and it shimmers,
like a father's eyes cast on his newborn one.
It roars, and rolls, and swells, and sprays and whispers.
And then beyond the sea, there is the sun.
It sinks down across the sky in silent beauty,
as it slowly disappears from sight,
Peacefully welcoming the darkness,
as it whispers to the day, "My friend, goodnight".
The Author in Me
I live my life as an author trapped in a teacher's body. I have always been a writer. It is through writing that I make sense of the world. True, I don't get paid to write, but I don't get paid to be a wife or mother either; and I am those things, without question. Likewise, I am a writer.
I write about my doubts, my feelings, my beliefs, my joys, and my sorrows. When the cruelness of the world shocks me, or I am moved by the random kindness of strangers; I write.
My dream is to sit in a little house, preferably by the ocean, and write a novel to remember.
In the mean time, I teach. I live. I love. I smile. I laugh. I tell my kids all of the stories in my head. And they love my stories. I am their favorite author!
I write about my doubts, my feelings, my beliefs, my joys, and my sorrows. When the cruelness of the world shocks me, or I am moved by the random kindness of strangers; I write.
My dream is to sit in a little house, preferably by the ocean, and write a novel to remember.
In the mean time, I teach. I live. I love. I smile. I laugh. I tell my kids all of the stories in my head. And they love my stories. I am their favorite author!
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