Tag: Family

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The Journey

“There is meaning in every journey that is unknown to the traveller” – Dietrich Bonhoeffer.

Three years ago my father, brother, and I lived these words as we drove to Canada. Our purpose was to visit a family friend who lay dying. But there was another purpose hidden in that trip, of which we knew nothing at the time.

Driving through the bleak landscape of upstate New York our conversation turned to matters of the heart. The solemnity of our purpose drew out discussion about death, life, love, faith. The three of us shared openly at the inmost level. It was cathartic and deeply bonding. And though we could not know it at the time, that conversation became a touchstone throughout my own father’s decline and death earlier this year.

It had been years since I was in my hometown. I took the wrong exit. This took us past our old church. We stopped in on a whim and slipped into the back to join the evening service. Each of us was filled with grace in that moment.  Though unspoken at the time, we each knew we were on holy ground. We were somehow meant to be there, together as a family, and together for our dying friend.

We saw her the next morning. She lay in bed in her living room, sun beaming through the window, surrounded by family. Our time together was filled with tears and laughter, as it should be. We wept with joy recalling the times beyond number of outrageous fun. We wept knowing this was the last time we would all be together in this life. Once again the conversation moved gracefully to matters of the heart. As a result my brother and I quickly drew close with the family daughters, whom we had known well as children but had not seen in many long years.

This January, during my dad’s memorial service in Canada, this very same family–these same daughters–provided the anchor for my brother and me. Who else could so closely identify with our grief? And who could ever have foreseen this at the time? “Life is lived forwards, but is only understood looking backwards”-Søren Kierkegaard.

Marian in Spring

Beams of light bend through the trees

The beauty brings me to my knees

Golden peace cascading to the ground

Silence all around, and simple stillness save

The bending ferns and flowers bowing down

Spring begins her overflow

The season’s graceful undertow

Drawing life from every dormant bloom

You sail on her tide, as sparkling laughter flows

Encircling hearts to yours throughout the room

Marian our dearest friend

Your life a gift that never ends

By the Living Springtime you embraced

You in dappled light, the Maker’s heart, and ours

The sweetest springtime garland interlaced

This post is dedicated to our late friend who passed away three years ago this week, to her dear family, and to my own dad this Father’s Day – my first without him.

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Anna – an Easter story

Easter is a season about what really matters: life out of death. My grandparents would credit Jesus for bringing life out of death for humanity at Easter. But for their own marriage, they would credit Miller Lite beer.

Each year they swore off beer for Lent. Their marriage would then be stress tested for the next 40 days. When they got home after the Easter service they would line up a 6-pack of cold ones on the kitchen counter. The moment the clock struck noon they would each shotgun a couple of beers. Marital bliss restored: life out of death. Thank you Miller Lite.

My friend Carl’s much more substantive experience with this mystery involves his daughter Anna. She was born in 1974 more than three months premature. Brain-injured at birth, she had cerebral palsy and was unable to walk, talk, or do much of anything for herself.  But she was smart, strong and charismatic – with a big smile and infectious laugh that drew people to her. Carl says, “She was my anchor and touchstone and I like to think that I was hers.”  Anna died unexpectedly and much too soon in 2006, back when Carl and I worked together.

Last year, Anna was honored at a neighborhood Day of the Dead party in Oakland. The party was held in an old speakeasy where the evening’s pass phrase was: “The Veil is Thin.” Anna’s photo (enclosed) was placed with those of the other departed on an elaborate, makeshift shrine behind the bar.  According to Carl, “It was an evening to remember with lots of laughter and tears flowing from the audience to accompany the beautiful, haunting music and storytelling.”

Days later, the host of the party contacted Carl to tell him how drawn he had been to Anna’s photo during the party, coming back to it again and again: “I want to know that woman,” he said. “I’m not sure what it was about Anna’s picture and the way that she looked at me, but it was captivating in a way that words cannot define . . . it was more of a feeling that touched my soul. Viewing her just captivated me . . .I wish I knew her.” Carl remarked that Anna still has that kind of presence more than 11 years after her death “. . . shining through the darkness and bringing light to our lives still”.

Carl is a real writer. He shared with me the following poem about Anna. I believe it is an Easter poem:

hungry we are hungry for connection

let me tell you about Anna

brain broken at birth

who had no stops

 

inhabiting a body that didn’t

work where words went in

and didn’t come out and all

was said with feelings

 

that shook you awake how

can you not open yourself to that

not hiding from the love revealed

in no words not capturing you

 

in her arms but penetrating

your defences with a look

insisting on your presence

her feelings like knives

 

cutting away half measures

to what you thought you knew

you never knew or imagined

that your time on earth could be

 

so simple and joyful for even just this

one moment in her presence eyes lit up

seeing you in a way never seen

or thought possible who are you

 

who are you now when will you see

yourself through her eyes

exposed revealed redeemed

in the touch that she could only give

 

if touched first what if you too

could put words aside

fiercely surrendering to her

hard-won state of grace

 

that would be something to celebrate. 

Such a hard-won state of grace and something to celebrate indeed. Happy Easter friends!

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Saint Patrick’s Day

Saint Patrick’s Day was the high holy day of holiday shenanigans in our house growing up. Sure, Christmas and Easter were the main event. But no day was more treasured for sheer silliness.

And there were competitors. Take Robbie Burns night, the holiday where Scots honour their great poet. On this solemn eve, my dad dimmed the lights and lit black votive candles on the dining room table. He then “piped in the haggis”, on a kazoo. The “haggis” being a balloon he pulled from the refrigerator filled with frozen jello and bits of fruit. He stood with carving knife in hand, speaking in a faux brogue, then “opened the haggis”. We kids were traumatized. Mom swooned in admiration.

On Saint Patrick’s Day things got even sillier. Green everything. Irish drinking songs blaring on the stereo from dawn until dusk. My parents dancing jigs in the kitchen while waiting for their coffee to percolate. Beef stew with Guinness. Oat cakes. Once again, we kids were traumatized.

Except my little brother.  He would dress himself in green and pretend to be a leprechaun. He would flit around the house trying not to be seen. When we spied him hiding under a table he would waddle off at speed to another room, giggling all the way. He cut up pieces of aluminum foil to make “gold coins” which he slipped under people’s doors and left on chairs. It was very cute. And kind of weird.

One Saint Patrick’s Day, when he was perhaps 6, he outdid himself. My parents were at the kitchen table. In walked my brother with dad’s prized bottle of single malt whisky, a surefire Irish tradition. Except the whisky had been turned electric, neon green. In honor of Saint Patrick, My brother had dumped an entire bottle of green food coloring into my dad’s prized whisky. To be a good sport, dad drank a bit. His lips turned green. I suspect it may also have discolored his urine.

My father kept the ruined bottle of whisky. He would serve it to guests in dark whisky glasses, then say nothing as their lips turned green. He only did this to guests with a good sense of humor. Or so I believe. Happy Saint Patrick’s Day!

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Image Credit: Freaking News

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KA-BOOM

The fireball engulfed my arm before igniting the fuel canister in my hand. Fearing an explosion, I hurled the burning can into the empty field beside our campsite.

Moments before I had been re-filling the fuel reservoir in our camp stove. The stove was not completely off. A tiny blue flame lingered around the burner. I did not see it. I was a teenager. It is not the most observant period in one’s life.

As I began to pour the fuel, the tiny ring of fire ignited the vapour from the can. I jerked my arm back, splashing cooking fuel up my arm and all over the fuel canister itself. Both objects caught on fire. I hurled the can as far as I could, then tamped out my arm. Thankfully it was just singed. To my surprise the canister did not explode. It merely burbled and melted until it was half destroyed.

Our family collected itself after all the excitement. I was tasked with getting rid of the remaining fuel in and the half-melted canister lying the field. I took the well-worn teenage path of least resistance. I dumped the remaining fuel down the outhouse beside the campsite, then threw the remains of the empty container in the trash.

For some reason unknown to me to this day, I glanced down the hole of the outhouse into which I had just dumped the fuel. An oil slick of cooking gas was forming on top of the cesspool. It was quite distinct, shimmering unmistakably in the depths.

I got my dad. He looked down the outhouse. Then he looked at me.  Then he did something I had never seen him do before, or since. He acted quickly.

“Let’s go”, he said, trotting back to the campsite with speed. “Time to pack ‘er up and get on the road”.

Haste and decisiveness were totally foreign to my parents. We normally didn’t get on the road until early afternoon. But on this day we packed up camp and hit the road in 20 record-breaking minutes.

I did not fully grasp the situation. I asked dad what all the rush was about as we sped away from the park. He began to giggle. Then he began to laugh until he almost could not drive.

“Son”, he said. “I want you to imagine what is going to happen the next time some unsuspecting camper goes into the outhouse. Now imagine they have a newspaper and a cigarette. Now imagine what they do with that cigarette once they’re done smoking. Now image what happens next….”

The life lesson dad taught me that day was to speed when fleeing from responsibility.

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Birthday Girl

A bolt of electricity went through me the first time I held her. I didn’t know it was possible to love anyone so much. Then I saw my wife’s open abdomen from the c-section and I nearly fainted.

Her difficult arrival did come with some levity.  During the labor, a nurse asked my wife if she would like to have a mirror wheeled into the delivery room.

“Why would she want a mirror?” I asked naïvely.

“Some mothers want to witness the miracle of birth”, the nurse replied.

At this point, mid-contraction, my wife sat up and hissed “Listen! If God wanted me to see that miracle He would have put my head on my butt!” So many reasons to love my wife.

I have clear memories of calling my parents with the watershed news. This was our first child, and the first of a new generation for the entire family.

Our daughter spent her first four years in Africa. She learned to be flexible. Passed around the market by delighted African mothers? No problem. Carried into the kitchen to be spoiled by African restaurant staff? No problem. Hippo pooping just outside her front door on safari? No problem.

She became resilient in our move from Africa to Belgium. Overnight she went from being outside every day, speaking English, and running with a pack of African children to being indoors, hearing French, and being alone. She would collect rocks on our various outings and pile them by the door. I asked her about it and she said, “Oh dad, these are my friends”. Thankfully, once she made some real friends, the pile reverted to being mere rocks.

Her heart is tender and open. During our years in Washington, DC she became the steady guidance system for her ballistic younger brother and his friends. She loved being close to our extended family, and being friends with people of all stripes and differences.  She enjoys horses, but thankfully she never became a weird horsey girl. Mostly, I think she liked the overnight stay at her aunt’s house beside the horse farm.

Our move to Switzerland has been the hardest for her. But it has propelled her towards adventure and independence. And it has revealed deep courage in her character. In the recent week leading up to her beloved grandfather’s death, she sat at his bedside for long periods just holding his hand. As I watched her do so I asked myself once again: how is it possible to love anyone so much?

[This story is for our daughter on her 17th birthday. Love you, birthday girl.]

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New Year’s Eve – Guest Writer

Written by the Site Editor 

It is always bizarre to be a teenager and celebrate New Year’s with family. There is the sense that some massive party is being missed – when usually, my friends and I were far too disorganised to organise anything. So I created a system; one year with family, one year with friends. My family have never celebrated New Year’s to much extravagance in my memory – although apparently there was a good ‘end-of-the-world’ party at the turn of the century. One year, we were skiing in Austria and my parents, my sister and I were far too tired to make it to midnight, and decided to celebrate ‘Ugandan New Year’s Eve’, as it was several hours ahead and allowed for a 10pm bedtime.

For the winter of 2015, this was not the case. The plan was to celebrate up in Gruyeres, the small medieval town in Switzerland that bizarrely hosts a horror art museum attributed to the designer of Alien, H. R. Giger. We even invited some friends we had known in Uganda to join us.

We expected there to be some fanfare. But at 8 o’clock when we had gone to dinner, nothing had yet been made evident. It turned out that one of our friends, the father of the family we had invited along with us, is not an evening person. As we tried to coax him into playing games, he grew evermore disinterested. To the extent that winning and losing were met with the same ‘Oh, that’s interesting’ comment. We were far too amused by his reluctant attempt to stay up until midnight to realise that nothing had happened in the village. My sister was head down on the table feeling ill with a condition that we later diagnosed as chickenpox at the age of 14 (I contracted it 2 weeks later at 17). Perhaps it was epitomising Swiss-ness, and a rowdy party was not an option for such a sleepy, usually tourist-filled village.

However, at 11.50pm, something happened. A group of about 10 or 15 people bundled into the central square with a massive speaker. They started pouring drinks, chatting and laughing. The speaker blared out ABBA, Queen and various classic songs that everyone can sing to, be they English, French or German speaking. And for 15 minutes, we laughed and drank together to welcome the new year.

By 00.10, they had cleared out. Obviously, it would not do to have a rowdy event in the town square endure for too long and upset the neighbours. They cleared themselves away, took the speaker and all the plastic cups from their champagne, and bid us good night. We were stunned, as they erased any sign of having been there at all. We walked up to the top of the village to spot fireworks being set off in far away villages and mountain chalet towns. We welcomed 2016 in the tranquillity of a Swiss village – the year that followed was anything but tranquil.

We wish you all the best for the New Year’s, and thank you as ever for your support. Please forward Words for the Weary to anyone who you feel needs a story every week! 

 

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Christmas Dinner

I was raised by feral wolves. At least that is how it felt every time we took a road trip.

My parents were big on travel adventure, short on planning. Somehow, it always worked out for them. They never bothered with any research or advance bookings. We would just pile into the car and drive. We would arrive at our destination late at night, be the last car through the drive through, then drive around to find a room in a low-end motel. Growing up we thought this was normal.

This same lack of planning defined our Christmas trip to Disney World when I was a young kid. This was a major trip from Canada to Florida at the busiest time of year. Most people spend months planning their Disney vacation, optimizing all variables to navigate the crowds. My parents did zero research. Their only real decision was whether to take a 50 mile detour from the Interstate to see the world’s biggest ball of yarn. Thankfully they did not.

We pulled into a suburb of Orlando at around 10:30 on Christmas Eve. Surprise – everything was closed. This was back in the 1970’s right in the belt buckle of the bible belt, so everything was closed. There wasn’t a single restaurant open. Mercifully, they found a hotel. It was so low end that you could put quarters in a machine to make the bed vibrate. We unpacked the car, tired and hungry.

The only food we had with us was a gingerbread house that my sister had made as a Girl Scout project. It had travelled with us from Canada in the trunk of the car and was still partially frozen. So our family piled on to the vibrating bed and dad fed quarters into the machine while we waited for the gingerbread house to thaw. Then he went down the corridor and came back with a couple of cans of grape soda and a bucket of ice. Feral wolves, I tell you.

There were four of us. Each person got one wall of the gingerbread house for our main course. For desert, we split the roof between us since it had icing and gumdrops. Then we washed it all down with Grape Crush. We fell into our vibrating beds in a sugar coma.

We awoke Christmas morning ready to face the crowds at Disney World. Outside it was freezing.  Truly freezing. Florida was in the grip of a rare cold snap. Parents who had done their planning and watched the weather report opted to stay away that day. We were from Canada and had all our cold weather gear, so no problem. And no crowds. We had Disney World to ourselves. Love my parents: somehow it just always worked out for them.

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The 4th of July

My extended family gathers on the Mississippi River each 4th of July to celebrate with fun and gluttony. These gatherings are the source of many of my favorite memories.

Anchoring the weekend is the keg – sometimes two kegs – of Miller Lite. In recent years this has been supplemented by margaritas and single malt whisky.

As the morning sun sparkles on the mighty river the breakfast pizza awaits – topped with bacon, ham, eggs, sausage. Or for the weight conscious, perhaps just a bowl of ice cream and left over Cheetos. My wife became an official member of the family one year when she came downstairs holding an ice cream bar and wine cooler at 9:30 AM. She had officially joined the dark side. There was wild cheering.

Lunch usually includes deviled eggs and ham salad – a dish that consists of neither ham, nor salad. It is ground bologna and mayonnaise with chives thrown in for roughage. You slather it on Wonderbread. An hour after ingesting this, the cottage septic system takes one vicious beating after another.

Evening favorites include fried catfish or “tacos in a bag”. The latter involves each family member with their own personal bag of Doritos. The bag is flattened, opened, and then ground beef, cheese, and tomatoes (veggies, so important) are scooped in and mixed around with the crushed Doritos. Then you just dig into the bag with a spoon. No messy cleanup!

After this we waddle to the campfire for S’mores with a side of diabetes. The campfire is the site of legendary family bonding: inappropriate fireside skits, inappropriate song and dance, inappropriate amounts of liquor. And so much 4th of July explosives that it leaves ashes in your drink.

Nearby is a small town which hosts our favorite 4th of July Parade. One year as the parade rolled past, a young lady waved from the back of a pick-up truck proudly wearing a sash that read “Clayton County Beef Queen”. Twenty minutes later the exact same girl rolled past a second time sporting a different sash that read “Clayton County Pork Queen”.  Here was true 4th of July Iowa royalty.

So too are my three lovely aunts who make the family celebration possible each year. This story is dedicated to you, with all my love and thanks. HAPPY 4TH OF JULY everyone!

 

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Fat Ass

My donkey was not happy.  With every step, he let everyone know it.

Earlier, my brother, my wife and I had walked through a mountain village in Ethiopia with our guide. In the pre-dawn light we approached a group of tethered donkeys. They had been arranged to take us up to an Orthodox Monastery, perched high above on a mountain ledge.

The donkeys looked as us. Then they turned plaintively towards me as one, as if to say “Please God, not the big feller”. As we mounted up, my donkey let out a loud hissing sound like air escaping from a tire. He then added some frustrated stomping and braying for effect. The guides giggled. My wife and my brother giggled. The donkey and I did not giggle.

We plodded off in the dim light. Each step brought an exaggerated, labored wheezing sound from the donkey. Imagine a goose being struck by a truck. That was the sound he made with every step.  At this point, the guides and my family began laughing outright. I named the donkey “Grunter”.

We started the steep ascent to the monastery. Grunter now added to his symphony by loudly passing wind. He wanted us to think it was from exertion. I think he was just an attention seeking ass. Regardless, it was loud. It was foul. And it was frequent. This went on for 30 minutes. The guides began laughing so hard they could barely walk. My wife and my brother were forced to mouth-breathe from the stench.

We finally reached the summit. The monastery was stunning. The morning sun shone over an endless view of the wild Ethiopian mountains. We stood in quiet wonder. Timeless. Holy. Beside us, monks wrapped in simple blankets were deep in morning prayer.

The donkeys saw us approach them to begin our descent. Grunter tried to bolt. Inspired by the peace of the monastery, and simply resigned to the obvious drama that awaited us, I opted to walk down.

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Easter

 

Our family had a moment of divine intervention over Easter.

We arrived in Paris late in the afternoon and after settling in, we set off on foot to make something of the remaining daylight. We crossed the Seine to the cathedral of Notre Dame. We stood staring up at the heights of the cathedral, taking in her grandeur: the stone carvings over the doors, the gargoyles, the bell towers. We ambled through a park as the sun set and the temperature dropped.

A meandering route home took us through a tangle of small empty streets. We found ourselves walking behind a stone church, unmarked even in our guidebooks. The cathedral of Saint Gervais sits tucked back, overlooked in the shadow of her more famous neighbours. Being curious, we walked up the church steps as the first of the homeless people began bunking down there, sheltered by the alcoves and pillars from the night wind.

Saint Gervais

The church was completely dark. The only light came from an alcove halfway down the length of the cathedral. There, an unseen choir was practising the Pope Marcellus Mass by Palestrina (I only know the piece from a CD we were given). As we stood there adjusting to the gloom, the soprano’s voice soared high into the recesses of the church, floating there alone, sustained, with the clarity of a bell. Then the choir’s voices swelled to meet her, joining together and tumbling like a stream of sound splashing off the stone walls. We, all of us, were completely transported. We sat on wooden stools in silent wonder, hardly breathing, as the music rang out into the dark void of the church.

Eventually, we returned to this world courtesy of a playful churchmouse scurrying across the floor. The children followed it as I wandered over to the door. There, I was transported for a second time by the sheer weight of history as I glanced up at a plaque listing the names of the priests that have served Saint Gervais in an unbroken line since 1278. Here we were, in a place where a church has stood since at least the 7thcentury. Then she humbly served boatmen and fishermen. Now she shelters the sleeping homeless, an unseen choir, we few tourists, and a churchmouse.

Finally we stepped out into the cold and dark. As we picked our way around the sleeping bodies of the  homeless, I had an Easter thought: in a City full of showpieces, this is exactly where the risen Christ would be – huddled alongside forgotten people on the cold steps of an overlooked church, while a choir inside pours out His glory in song. What a gift. Happy Easter everyone.

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The song for Palestrina is available as a link here