Into the future

I remember it as if it were yesterday.  He was the baby the came after the loss of his older brother, Tommy, now always a baby in my mind.  He was big and beautiful and such a miracle for us.  But it wasn't just yesterday.  Twenty years have passed--almost 21.  He has lived with me since he was born, and now he is getting ready to move on--to walk into the future. 

My heart rejoices and is heavy at once.  He is my present, and I love my present.  He has been the only family that I have at hand for many years, and I will miss his presence.  But I know that time must move forward for him--for both of us.  For him, childhood is coming to a close and life as an adult is about to begin--perhaps a bit late in the day.  He has been aware of my solitude, and I think that he stayed, in part, to protect me.

But I don't need protection, no matter how much my children might think that I do.  I am ready for him to make this leap, and I realize that his moving on means that I must move on, too.  You could say that we had a trial run at this last year, when he stayed with his brother for a month.  I was undertain, but I soon discovered that life as a single was not the drudgery I'd imagined.  I'm a solitary person, anyway.  I found myself at peace with silence, at peace with myself, and happy in a way that I hadn't been before.

And so as he goes into his future, so I must go into mine.  I don't imagine that it will be easy.  New chapters never are.  But the time has come, and both of us are content.  I'm thankful that he is able to walk away and be free.  And I'm already looking ahead to see what new things lie in store for me.

silence

I am an introvert.  I covet silence.  If given a choice between a roomful of friends and one close friend, I'll take the close friend every time.  There have been times when I was invited to a party and deliberately chose not to go--just because I couldn't make myself make the effort.  When given the choice between working in a group and working alone, I usually choose the later.  Social gatherings confuse me--being in big crowds makes me go into myself and become a party of one.  I have been called a loner, antisocial, snobbish, and even a recluse.  I think everything but the snobbish remark is probably true.  I just don't appreciate large groups of people, even if they're all people that I know.

As I said, I've been labeled because I'm an introvert.  I am not necessarily shy, yet I'm labeled as such.  I certainly do not wish to be friendless, yet I've been thought to not need friends.  The problem isn't people.  The problem is noise.

Lots of noise confuses me.  It has been known to upset me--even give me headaches.  I don't know how to engage in small talk or chitchat, so I have stopped trying.  That, of course, labels me as "deep" or "antisocial", depending on who's talking.  I've been accused of having no sense of humor.  That's not true--but you do have do get close to me to find it, and that's not easy, I admit.

Silence is something that is sorely lacking in society today.  People like me prefer it to the noise of social togetherness.  I would rather stay home and read.  I would rather dwell in my own creativity than go to a movie and appreciate others'.  If I do go to a movie, I expect to discuss--critique--perhaps even tear it apart afterward with the person I went with.

I have discovered that silence is not bad.  Silence is where dreams live.  It's where hope is renewed.  It's where mistakes can be diagrammed and a new way found.  Silence is the perfect place for a person like me, especially shared silence.  If you want to get close to me, expect to be quiet.  We can meet together, discuss, and then just…be.  Be-ing is good.  Silence is good.

I hope that one day I can find a man who is as comfortable with me as I am with silence.  That would be perfection.

Happy Mother's Day, Mom

Dear Mom,
Well, here it is--that day again.  I wonder if you celebrate in Heaven, maybe with your daughter Gwendolyn.  I hope so.  I know that not a single second Sunday in May has passed without my thinking of you.

Mama, I wish I could have known you better.  I have to lean on what others have said about you for my memories of you, but even secondhand, they shine.  I know that you were a kind person, a good woman, a person who I would have been proud to know.  I know that you were a writer and a proofreader.  One thing I remember about you was your handwriting.  I was in awe of it--it was so beautiful.  Another thing was your crochet.  You made the most delicate, most beautiful thing.  I know that had you lived, I would have had doilies, arm covers, and baby outfits to admire.  As it is, I have a few cherished things that I never take out, but that always make me think of you.

My memories of you are so vague; only a few really stand out.  I remember sitting at your feet watching a TV show and crying.  Your words, 'Never be ashamed to cry," comforted me.  I remember your lullabies--and the way they all ended--bum, bum.  I remember your goodnight kiss as I went to bed.  There are other things I remember, too, but I don't dwell on them.  Years have taught me that I should forgive the bad and remember the good, and I do, Mama.  I forgive you for the few times when you treated me unkindly or unfairly.  They were honestly few, and I thank you for that.  I know that you must have fought yourself, especially when you had your stroke and the ensuing mental problems.  Yes, you had problems then and treated us badly, but I know it could have been much worse.

Mama, the most precious memories I have of you happened after you died.  Twice, you came to people you loved and cared for them after you died.  Twice that I know of, anyway.  There might have been many more that I never was told about.  I know that you took care of my father in the hospital.  He told me I'd been there, and I know it wasn't me.  I didn't realize till many years later that it was you.

The second time you did this, it was very clear that it was you.  You came to my aunt when she was in great physical and emotional pain, and you helped her.  My aunt was so grateful that she convinced her daughter to call me, and as you spoke to me, I know that it was God that led me to ask for more details, which then caused me to realize that the person that she had seen was not me, but you.  I don't know how you did it, but I know that you did.  This has given me hope for the future.  I really do pray that if I am ever in a hopeless situation, that you come to me and minister to me as you did for them.

Mama, God bless you today and always.  I will never forget you, and I love you.

Probing old wounds

It's been twenty years, and I don't think about it much, but every once in a while….

I see your face, vibrant and alive, your smile that lit up the room
and then I see you, lifeless yet still warm, a new corpse in your hospital bed.

I dream of you and I together at the beach
Arm in arm, walking down the sand,
And then the dream turns to nightmare as you fall to the sand and don't get up.

My love has died
and I have not seen fit to find a new love
and yet I yearn for arms around me
for a future that I can walk towards.

I have to let you go,
and yet I yearn to keep you close.
You are my heart, my life,
but I know, none better,
that life goes on.
So why can't I?

I will start again.
I will learn to live without you.
I will pick up the pieces and move on.
I will set down our dreams
And find new ones of my own
And I will once again open my heart to love.

Maybe tomorrow.

Will the real church please step up?

I am so confused.  I have faith, yes, but my faith and my religion seem to be two distinctly different beings.  It's been this way my whole life.  I have gone from one religion to another, back and forth, searching for a fit--and it seems that a fit will never come.

It started in my childhood.  I remember splitting my time between the Baptist and the Assemblies of God churches.  One was very quiet, with hands folded on your lap, organ music, and reverence.  The other was raucous, with stomping, clapping, hands up to God, shouts of Halleluiah, praise God, and words in a language no human could understand.  I grew up in both and understood neither.

When I was five, my dad made a mistake.  There was a children's crusade starting the next day at the local AG church, and he mistakenly thought that the service on Sunday night was also for children. Nope--it was a no-holds-barred attempt to get the unsaved into heaven (at least that's how my little mind saw it).  It showed the last days--and I was terrified.  I couldn't wait for the movie to end, and the minute it did I tore down the aisle.  I came to God out of fear--out of terror--and the result was that I worshipped a God of fear.

For many years, fear and rules governed my life.  Then I discovered that others didn't suffer under those yokes.  I tried many different religions, but nothing seems to fit.  Either the church seems to rigid, too full of rules, or I'm uncomfortable with the freedom of worship, or I don't "feel" the Lord in the church, or…on and on and on.

Today I sit in my pew and listen to the homily and sing with the choir and hope that what I believe is actually true.  And I long for the days when I was full of God's fire.  Maybe one day I will be again.  I sure hope so.

an open letter to father foster

Dear Father Foster,

It seems unreal--how can you be gone?  It seems just yesterday that I saw you walking down the hallway in your cassock.  I was surprised that you were wearing it--you were coming to the office to get your picture taken for an article celebrating your 50 years as a Carmelite.  That same photo was to serve as your Salpointe obituary.

I have to admit, Father, that I didn't consider you my friend when I came here.  This was not your doing--you were always friendly and kind to me.  But you believed so strongly in your faith, even when it ran counter of today's understanding.  I asked you, just to be sure, if Episcopalians could receive communion in the Church.  Without a pause, you said that we couldn't.  I was shocked.  I knew that we could--I was just double checking. For several years afterward, I would do my best to avoid being in your line for communion.  I didn't want to meet your eyes as I received the host.

Then came Kairos. I had been so looking forward to it--my first chance to really get to know Father John Malley!  I had not known him before.  I'd seen him in the lunch room, but I'd only talked to him once before, after seeing him as he was walking back to the monastery.  Just that small chance to speak with him opened my eyes to his goodness.  Then, working with him in accreditation, I realized what a learned man he was.  You know what happened next.  We got one meeting with him before he died--and you graciously stepped in.  I was thankful and disappointed at the same time.  You understood, though, and accepted the loss that we were experiencing.  I thank you for that.  And I loved serving in Kairos 223 with you.  You became my Father then.

I remember our talks, Father Foster.  It came as a shock to me that we shared many beliefs that were outside the ordinary.  Speaking with you about them made me realize how I'd misjudged you.  I was going through a desire to return to the Church--a desire that has yet to be realized--and I now wonder whether God gave me that desire so that I could now openly worship with you.  God gave me a true blessing that day.

Father Foster, I know you are in a better place--a place you've longed for.  But I miss you.  I miss your smile, your happy "Hello", your stories, and most of all, your love.  I appreciate you so much--your willingness to stand up for your fellow teachers when we could not stand up for ourselves, your genuine love for Salpointe, students and teachers alike.

Father Foster, today we'll all meet together with you in the gym one last time.  One last time we'll all participate in the Mass you loved so much.  We'll all sit together and listen to one last story--this time told of you by someone else, and I'm sure that many of us will weep.  Please realize that we don't weep for you--we all realize that you have gone to your true home.  You're with your family, your friends, and the Lord you gave up your life to serve.  We weep for ourselves--for the overwhelming sense of loss that comes when a true friend goes to the other side.

Father Foster, I know that you won't read this.  I hope you realized through our meetings and our talks how much I loved you.  And I'm so sorry that I waited too long to visit you.  I wanted to tell you one last time how much you mean to me.  But this is all I can do, and if you won't hear it, many of your friends might.  Father Foster, Godspeed.  May you quickly realize your dreams there in the place you've worked for all your life.  Tell Father John hello for us, and please pray for your school, your students, and your teachers.  We all love you.

Yours,
Meg