the home visit--a lenten story

Marty started teaching with high hopes.  She saw herself as a shining figure, looked upon with awe by her students.  She thought she could make a difference in the world.  She imagined that she would be surrounded by adoring little faces, asking for hugs and fighting each other for the chance to hold her hand.

Then reality intervened.  First of all, she was a new teacher.  New teachers get their pick neither of schools nor of grades.  You get what you're given, and in this economy, you're happy to get whatever you are given.  So Marty--Ms. Banks--was given a sixth grade class in an area of town that was not the best.

Things didn't start off well, and they went downhill from there.  Her dreams of teacherly bliss soon faded, to be replaced by the understanding that this was a war zone.  Her students didn't want to be there, and she didn't really want them there, either.  They were not very nice.  They were foul mouthed, they cheated, and some of them smelled bad.  Oh, there were two or three who had a ready smile for "Teacher", but most of them said little and worked less.  Within a week, Marty was sure she'd made a mistake.  By the end of the first month, she realized that teaching wasn't for her.  By the end of the first semester, she decided that she had to quit.  She hated to do it to her students, but honestly, they would be better off with a teacher who cared.  So right before Christmas break, she went to the principal, Mr. Evans, and explained that she wanted out.

Mr Evans reminded her that she had a contract.  However, he said, he would disregard it if, in return, she would do one thing for him.  She could leave without breaking her contract if she would first give each of her students a home visit.  Marty was immediately struck by the thought of what kind of homes these students must live in, what kind of neighborhoods, but before she could say a word, Mr. Evans said that he'd been to every home in the school.  He promised her that she would be safe.  The parents knew that she was a teacher, and they would make sure of it.

Marty didn't want to do it, but she knew that she was being offered a deal that was more than generous, so she agreed.  That very afternoon, she made her first visits.  She decided to start off easy, so she visited the house of two sisters who had asked to be placed together.  The house was poor but neat, and the parents--both unemployed--were nonetheless very careful to make sure that their children were clean and minded their manners.  It was a very nice visit.  The next day, she visited a few more houses, then a few more, then a few more.

As the week progressed, she ran out of "good" children to visit and started to visit the ones that gave her problems.  First was Enrique.  He never did his homework, never paid attention, and always seemed to be talking to another student beside him.  When Marty rang the bell, a woman in a long dress and a shawl answered.  Her coal black hair hung in a braid behind her, and when she saw Marty, she immediately called for her son.  Enrique came to the door along with a little sister holding a baby.  They looked on shyly as Enrique said, "Teacher!  You come see me?"  Marty said that she was only here to say "Hi," to the family; that he wasn't in trouble.  Enrique said, "Oh, my mom no speak English so good."  Marty spoke some Spanish, and she and the mom chatted about her children, her husband in Mexico, and about Enrique.  She thanked her over and over for coming--no other teacher ever came to visit--only Mr. Evans.  As she talked, Marty watched Enrique interact with his sisters.  He was so gentle, so patient with them!  He never uttered a word of English--they all spoke Spanish.  Understanding dawned--"Enrique, when you talk to the other students in class, what do you talk about?"  Enrique explained, "I still no speak English so good, and I talk to my friends.  You talk a little fast, but they help me."  Marty smiled and said that it was fine for Enrique to ask his friends for translation.  She said goodbye to the mother and went to the next house on the list--Bozie's house.

Bozie was never clean.  He came to school, yes, but he didn't seem ready to work.   He slept half the time, and the rest of the time he acted out--calling out questions, getting close to her and just standing there, jus tlittle stuff.  He was big and never seemed to wear clean clothes, and Marty thought that maybe he had some special needs.  Bozie's dad opened the door.  "What do you want?" he said.  "I'm Bozie's teacher, and I am paying all my students a visit over Christmas.  I just wanted to introduce you and say hello.  "Bozie really likes your class," he said.  He's out at the store right now.  I"m disabled, and Bozie helps me out a lot around the house.  It's been hard on us for the past few years--his mom died right after I broke my hip at work, and things just haven't felt right since.  He'll be sad he missed you.  He talks about you all the time.  It's really hard, you know, raising a boy on your own, but Bozie is a good kid, He's been slow since his mama died, but the doctor tells me that happens when kids go through trauma.  She died in a car accident--did I tell you that?

Marty left the house before Bozie's dad could see her cry.  As she continued her visits, she realized that the only person with a problem at the school was her.  The other students had problems, yes, but she had not realized that and hadn't tried to help in any way.

When she came back to the principal the week after Christmas, she told him that she'd changed her mind.  She wanted to stay.  The principal told her that he had not doubted that.  Sometimes we had to remember that we were here to serve. It is hard to know how to serve if you don't know who you're serving.  When second semester started, Marty had a different attitude.  No, things didn't magically improve, but Marty's attitude did.  Now she understood.  The answer to her problem wasn't a new job--or more discipline--nor was it better classroom management.  The answer to her problem was love.  Love those that are put in your path, and that love will be paid back a thousandfold.  It was a lesson she never forgot.  And every Christmas from then on, Marty made it a point to visit her classes.  It was a labor of love.

the picture of my mother

I see it when I look in the mirror, when I am polishing silver (okay, when I'm drying flatware) and I notice my reflection, even, sometimes when I catch myself in a shadow.  I see it, and the question always comes:

When did I turn into my mother?

I used to swear it would never happen.  I tried my best not to imitate her.  Like most of you, I thought my mom was hopelessly behind the times and not someone to emulate.

Unfortunately, I didn't count on genetics.

Everyone tells me I look just like her.  These days, even I see it.  Or I should say that I look as much like her as a person five inches taller can look.  I have her hair, her eyes, her nose, her mouth.  I look in the mirror and see her staring back at me, sometimes with a smile, often with mouth slightly downturned--neither one of us smile naturally.

I know from experience that I have her anger, her temper.  I have discovered that I also have her gift for words.  We both sing.  But the ways in which I am most like my mother are myriad and small.

I set my arms on my hips when angry.  There she is!  Finger goes up to emphasize my point--that's her! I hear myself saying "Mark my words" and wish I could take them back.  Too late--my mother has spoken.

Not that I mind.  My mother was a great woman, and in my mind, she becomes greater every day. I'm thankful for the gifts she's given me--gifts like thoughtful speech, wisdom, and a desire to become ever closer to the Lord.  I look forward to that day when I will finally see her again, get to put my arms around her and tell her how much I love her.  I know that she knows, but it will be a blessing to finally see her respond and give me that hug, that squeeze of the hand that I've been missing all these years.

I lost my mom when I was fifteen.  This was a lifetime ago.

But even though my mom is gone, she's certainly not forgotten. All I have to do to remember is look in a mirror.

Thank you Mom.  I love you, too!

when you're dealing with death

In our Stephen Ministry class yesterday, we approached the topic of death--how to walk beside someone who is dying or their friends or family.  I was amazed at how many people have dealt with their own death or death of others besides parents.  Children, spouses, their own deaths that were averted--the pain in the room was palpable.  And it was a fragile time.  I saw tempers flare and tears come easily.  I've been dealing with my own anniversary of death (husband's 20th), so maybe I was less sensitive for that reason, but I was very aware of the atmosphere in the room.

I thought that some things that were said were worth repeating:

• Don't try to reason a dying person away from thinking and talking about his own death.  When they're ready, they might want to talk, and they need you to be there to listen.  Not to judge, not to talk them out of it--to listen and to affirm and to repeat their thoughts back to them so that they know that they're being heard.
• When someone is dying they go through the five steps:  denial, anger, bargaining, depression, and acceptance.  They might go through one to another sequentially, but often they go back and forth and revisit the stages until they are ready to go on.  Some never get to acceptance.  And that's okay.  Don't try to hasten it along.  Don't make them live--and die--on your timetable.  It's not doing them a service to remind them that bargaining is futile or that anger is useless. God understands.  Try to do the same.
• Please be kind.  They don't need a cheerleader.  They don't need a motivational speaker.  They need someone who is willing to be there, to listen, to cry with them (if that's something you can do), and to hold them.
• Here's one that didn't come up yesterday, but I learned it and it is with me every day.  Understand that feelings may change or not be easily understood.  My husband only regained consciousness for a short while.  I know that he was happy to see me.  I know he loved me.  He seemed perfectly content to hold my hand and be with me.  But when I asked if he'd like to see his mother--he squeezed my hand so hard that there was no doubt as to who was the one he needed. I was momentarily hurt, but I was also grateful that I could do him such an enormous good by such a little action.
• Don't take the grief of the family onto yourself (this is also mine).  If you are walking with the dying person, then you will see family members and they might want to talk to you about your dying friend or family member, recruit you to speak for their point of view, or keep you from what they see as infringing on their time.  If your friend has made it clear that s/he wants you to share this last walk with them, don't bow to anyone else's wishes.  There's time enough to deal with others later.  Of course, you should always make sure that your friend's wishes are still being met.  If she's decided that she would rather be with family, then bow out gracefully.  It's their needs that need to be met, not yours.

I hope that this has been helpful for someone.  I have worked with grief for a long time, but I've never had to walk with someone (besides my husband and son, of course) who were walking the last path. I pray that when the time comes, I will be a good friend to that person.  If you are the one who is chosen to share the path, I pray the same thing for you.

on procrastination

I meant to write this yesterday--no, last week--no, sometime before that.

I have always meant to write on procrastination, but it always seems to slip my mind.

I am a master procrastinator.  I don't believe in putting off till tomorrow what can be done today.  Tomorrow is way too soon.  I think in terms of vacations.  I could clean my house today, but hey, we have a four-day weekend coming up in just two weeks! Time enough then!

Then when those two weeks pass, "What?  Do housework on my vacation?  There's time enough for housework after break!"

Then, of course, I'm too tired after break, when schedules go back to normal.

So when do I get the housework done?

All you teachers, repeat with me:  IN THE SUMMER!!

Procrastination has long been my enemy.  I have lots of great ideas, and I'll get to them.

Someday.

But someday never seems to come.

I have therefore decided that I must stop this.  I have determined that I must pull myself up by my bootstraps and DO those things that I have long been meaning to do.

I will diet.
I will clean my house.
I will finish the accompaniment tracks for my musical.
I will put my writings into presentable form and submit them for publication.
I will start going to the gym.
I will
I will




…..tomorrow.

the land of the living

What if I had not believed that I would see the goodness of the Lord in the land of the living?

My heart responds to those words from Ps 27.  It is spoken (rather, sung, since these are songs) in the midst of a plea for physical and spiritual protection from enemies that are fierce and out for blood.

The psalm begins
The Lord is my light and my salvation; whom then shall I fear?
The Lord is the strength of my life; of whom then shall I be afraid?

It then goes on to explain exactly who, and how the Lord protects from these enemies.

It goes on to state the desire of his life:  to dwell in the house of the Lord all the days of my life; to behold the fair beauty of the Lord, and to seek him in his temple.

We shouldn't go to war and pray to an unknown God for peace and protection.
No, we should live our lives in His service and spend our days in his temple
(under the shadow of His wings)
Then when trouble comes, we know the corners where we can hide.
We know the Father to whom we pray,
and we understand the surety of salvation in the evil day,
For we have spoken to him about it in the days, weeks, and months before.

So many of us go about our daily lives without any thought to our Lord God.
Then, when the hour comes in which we cry for comfort and peace,
we are surprised when we are left comfortless.

We don't understand.

It isn't that we are left comfortless,
It is that we don't recognize the Comforter.

So go to your secret place,
Call out to your Father now,
Don't wait for the day of trial to get to know him better.

He is here today, waiting in that still place--
That place that you know instinctively exists--
Go and meet him there.

He will teach you trust,
And hope,
And he will build your faith
From mustard seed to mountain.

Then when the evildoers come to your door
When death, darkness and despair come to call,
You will know where to turn.

He is truly a friend in the darkness,
But it's so much easier to see him in the darkness
If you have first walked with him when it was light.

the alcoholic and the aftermath

Lizzie was an alcoholic.  She had learned to say that, even though she gave up drinking over five years ago.  She knew that she was an alcoholic daily; she would never be able to say that she used to be an alcoholic.  Every day was a new day; every day had to be worked through.  She often would go for weeks at a time without the slightest craving, but then one day she would feel sad or nervous or homesick or in pain and find herself reaching for the bottle that no longer was in her house.  She knew the price she would pay for giving in and getting that first drink, so she never did.  But she knew that there was always the chance of that first time, and so she kept her wits about her and kept her support person's number close at hand wherever she was.

Lizzie hadn't always had a drinking problem.  For many years, she didn't see the need to drink.  She was from a family with a history of alcoholism, and she knew the risks if she should start, so she chose not to drink.  She still remembered her father coming home stinking of gin and cigarettes, coming up to her mother and groping her, her mother pulling herself away with a look of disgust at this man who was both her husband and her child at that moment.  The family loved their father when he was sober and hated him when he was drunk.  Lizzie wanted a normal father and resented the man that made it impossible for her to bring friends home or expect to have enough money to do fun things.  The family was never in danger of being on the street, their mother made sure of that, but booze ate up any leftover money that might have been used for vacations or luxuries.  So Lizzie was as surprised as everyone else when her father's problem became her own.

It started when her husband left her.  They had been happily married for over 13 years when one day he came home, kissed her on the cheek, and gave her a manilla envelope.  "I've found another woman, and Lizzie I'm sorry, but she's pregnant.  I know you're strong; you'll get by.  She's not.  She needs me much more than you and the kids do."  He asked her to sign the papers; numb, in shock, she did what he asked.  The rest of it went by in a blur.  Lawyers and meetings and discussions--very civil discussions--about who is responsible for what all came and went with her barely able to realize what was happening.  He lived with her in her house until the divorce was final.  He slept in her bed and made love to her--he kept telling her that she was his true love and it was all his fault.  He promised her that he would keep in touch with the kids; he promised her the house, promised to pay child support until they finished college, promised her the moon so that the divorce would happen quickly.  The day the divorce became final he left the house.  They never saw him again.  No child support.  No help with the house payments.  The husband and father that they had loved was gone with not a single backwards glance.

Lizzie was single again--a single mother of three.  The children were 13, 11, and 10, and they missed their father miserably.  They couldn't understand why he had promised them love and left them empty.  In the way of children, they blamed Lizzie.  She was there, she was safe.  They knew that she wouldn't leave them.  So they took all their anger and hurt and directed it towards their mother.  At first Lizzie understood; she listened to their childish ranting and forgave them.  She concentrated all her energy on the getting by that her husband was so sure she could do.  For the first year, she managed.

After a year or so, Lizzie began going out on the weekends with friends.  She vowed to herself that she wouldn't look for male companionship until her children were grown; she just needed friendship, a way to relieve the stress and pressure that built up during the long days at work and the long nights with her children.  She didn't have many friends; it's funny how they abandon you when you're no longer one of a pair.  But some girls did stick by her.  One in particular, Melody, had been a friend since she was a girl.  Melody and Lizzie went out on Friday or Saturday evenings.  They would go to the show, go to a concert, go to karaoke, go somewhere.  Then they would end up in a bar.  At first, Melody would have wine and Lizzie would have a Coke, but somewhere along the line Lizzie decided to exchange the soda for wine, too.  She liked the way that two or three glasses would make her feel.  It relaxed her, calmed her nerves, soothed the pain.

As the years passed, her children grew into teenagers and the anger and bitterness increased.  The hurt over their father made the normal teen angst that much worse, and Lizzie didn't know how to cope.  She found herself going to a bar before she came home at night.  She didn't want booze in the house because of the kids, so she would have two, three, four, five drinks before she came home.  Before she knew it, she had her first DUI.  She hid it from her children, of course, but they somehow found out.  She was more and more dependent on liquor and less and less able to keep it from controlling her life.  She began to sneak bottles of vodka, her new drug of choice, into the house.  She hid them where she thought the children couldn't find them.  They knew, of course, but nobody said anything.  When the arguments and anger were too much to bear, Lizzie would sneak into her bedroom and drink.

When Lizzie was drunk, her behavior changed.  She was by turns weepy and explosive.  She would castigate the children about some little thing and then break down in bitter tears in front of them.  She brought a feeling of insecurity into the house.  Life had been safe with their mom; now life was not safe with anyone.  There were missed appointments, calls home because she had forgotten to pick them up, promises of fun vacations that weren't fulfilled, and never-ending apologies.  The children, already bruised by the abandonment of one parent, were devastated by the retreat of another into a world that was alien and scary.

The breaking point came when her daughter Jenna needed a ride to school for a concert that night.  Lizzie had forgotten about the concert and was already drunk.  But motherhood was more important, she thought, and she got in the car.  They hadn't driven four blocks before Lizzie got in an accident.  She totaled the car, but thankfully nobody was hurt.  However, the police came and she was arrested for driving under the influence--again.  It was a wake-up call.  Lizzie was lucky; she was able to come back to her house and family.  She joined AA the next day.

Part of the recovery process in  AA is making atonement.  Lizzie knew that she had a lot to atone for.  She began going from family member to family member, asking for their forgiveness.  Some forgave her; others did not.  Her own children were the same.  Jenna and her brother Charlie forgave her.  They were happy to see their mother back.  Her youngest, Arthur, did not.  He was the youngest, and he was angry and bitter and refused to hear anything from her.  He wanted nothing to do with a mother that had betrayed him after the earlier betrayal of a father he had loved.  Nothing that Lizzie could do--no promises, no pleading--nothing could convince him to forgive her.

Lizzie went to her sponsor in tears. "How can I fix this?" she asked.  "He won't forgive me.  He is so angry--what do I do?"

The older woman thought for a minute.  She knew how Lizzie was feeling--her own family had trouble with forgiveness, even all these years later.  She remembered her own journey:  broken promises, broken dreams, broken hearts.  Quietly she said, "Lizzie, that isn't your call to make.  You made amends.  It's up to him, now.  He can choose to forgive you or choose not to.  He's your son and he's hurting.  You have offered him a gift in your apology.  Now offer him the love and discipline that is yours as a sober parent to give.  When he brings up the past, accept your part in his pain, and remind him that the past is past and help him in his present."

Lizzie took the message to heart and found it useful in all her relationships.  Even with those who had forgiven her, there were times when pain and hurt from the past would be brought up.  Lizzie learned to acknowledge her part in the causing of the pain and then turn the conversation to the issue in the present that had triggered the hurt from the past.  Although Arthur never spoke words of forgiveness, his attitude changed--somewhat.  The relationship that had been, though, was gone forever.  He never trusted her completely again.  Sadly, she realized that she no longer deserved that trust.  She had to acknowledge that and continue to live her life as best she could--one day at a time.

Today, Lizzie is a mother and grandmother.  Her children understand the danger that alcohol poses to them.  They have seen their mother fall--but they have also seen her rise to her feet with the help of AA.  There is peace within the family for the most part.  The relationship becomes strained from time to time, but the family does its best to work together to deal with issues and leftover pain.  Arthur is on the sidelines looking in--by choice.  Lizzie understands and has herself backed away.  She realizes that the relationship might never be fully healed, and she tries to be at peace with that.

Dealing with her own family and her own alcoholism has caused Lizzie to take one further step.  Not long ago, she went to the cemetery with flowers and a note.  She sat at her father's grave and quietly prayed.  Then she looked at the headstone, at the picture of the man that had made her life a joy and a pain.  "Daddy, I understand now.  I know that you weren't bad--you were sick.  I inherited your sickness.  I love you, and I forgive you."  On the headstone, she put the flowers and the note, a simple card that would never be read.  It was the picture of an ocean at sunset.  Inside, a childlike note.  Daddy, I wish we could have shared times like this together.  But now I understand why we didn't. Your daughter, Lizzie.  Lizzie walked away from her father's grave and into her future, a future that she would build one day at a time.

to my husband, dead these 20 years

Hello, Sweetie!!

Although it's been twenty years, I still remember it like it was yesterday.  Highs, lows, hope, dread, and then the final moments with you.  I remember walking around your still-warm body, touching your arms, already growing cold, and talking with you.  I knew that your spirit was still there.  It was so hard to say goodbye, so incredibly difficult to leave that room, knowing that I never would be with you in this way again.   At 36 years old, your life had already ended, and I felt that mine was ending, too.  This unbelievable thing was really and truly happening.

We never expected it, did we?  You were so healthy, we both knew that I would go before you.  You had so much ahead of you--seeing your children grow and find their own way, welcoming wives, husbands, grandchildren into the fold, growing old together, and finally retiring to that place in the woods that you longed for.  I know that we both envisioned you happily hunting and fishing in your golden years.  Instead, you left me to raise our children alone.  I'm not going to go into how good a job I did or didn't do.  I truly believe that you have been watching and praying for us, and you know it all already.  But I do want you to understand how it was after you left.

Your children all miss you terribly, even today.  David, too.  He doesn't remember you himself; he only sees you through the memories of others.  But every one of your children know that you loved them.  Every one of them still wants to make you proud.  And I think they have.  They have grown into such beautiful people.  Emily and James, Matthew and Michael live in the woods, just like you wanted to.  Emily has often said that you would love it there, and I know she's right.  Imagine a lake almost within walking distance!  Imagine being able to chop down your own Christmas tree and gather your own firewood (but no more picking up snakes from the road--that was way too scary for this woman!).  She is married to a good man, and though you wouldn't agree with his politics, I know you would identify with his gentle spirit.

Val has grown into a good man.  He struggles daily with the challenges of raising seven children on his own, but they're his children and he loves them and cares for them with a father's love.  He learned that from you, Val.  You showed him how to be a father.  It's tough, but he doesn't give up.  He learned that from you, too.  It rings in our ears:  A Villanueva never quits!  And now he is nearing the end of junior college.  He's majoring in archeology, another love that you share.  I remember all those mission trips and the fun you had exploring history.  Val is sharing that same love with his children now, as well as your love of the beach and camping.

Jeremy is amazing, too.  He and Michelle have done a great job showing solidarity and supporting each other in their lives.  Their children have great role models.  Jeremy is about to graduate, and I couldn't be happier for him.  I know that you know about the trials he has faced and the struggles he has triumphed over.  He is coming into the potential that you always saw in him.  I know that we disagreed about how to discipline, but there was no doubt, ever, that you saw greatness in him--in all our children.  You wanted him to discover it in himself.  He has.

David, to me, is the most surprising of all.  I never expected to see you in him, but you are so present.  It's there in the way he walks, speaks, thinks--even in the way he sometimes uses his hands.  I am proud of him.  He has Asperger's Syndrome, but he doesn't see it as a disability.  Instead, he says that it makes him into the person he is today.  He loves singing and acting and is determined to make it into a career. I see you in that as well.  One of my deepest regrets is that I wasn't as supportive of your jewelry aspirations as I could have been.  We see things so much more clearly from the other side of history, don't we?  It was more than a hobby with you, and you yearned to make it into a career.  I'm sorry that I didn't give you the support you needed to make that happen.  But I've learned from past mistakes with you.  As much as I can, I'm standing behind David and supporting him in his dream.  And he's good, Honey!  He has a great voice (so does Emily--I don't know about Val and Jeremy--remember him saying "I can't SING!" in children's choir?) and he evens helps others in his class with their singing.  I'm afraid, Sweetheart, that he takes after me in that, not you.  Remember me trying to teach you to sing?  But whatever the makeup of your voice, we all loved it.  I never forgot you singing "Streets of Laredo" and "Mariah".  Did you know Val even named his younger daughter Mariah?  Of course you did.

Val, life is so different now.  For many years, everything was a struggle.  I felt like half a person.  And I was.  I take seriously the Bible verse that says that you shall leave your father and mother, cleave to your spouse, and the two shall become one. When you went away, that left half.  I spent many years dealing with the loss and learning to become whole again. Our kids, especially Emily, have helped me in that.  She has spoken truth to me that I needed to hear, and it's really helped.  All the children have been affirming, and I've so appreciated it.  I know I made mistakes--too many to count--but they don't hold me to blame for it.  They have forgiven me, and that made it much easier to forgive myself.

Today is so different than it was with you.  I am my own woman.  I'm not afraid, not like I used to be.  I love my independence and wouldn't change.  I don't see a need to look for another husband.  I had that, and it was wonderful, but I don't need it again.  I have my memories with you, my life with my children, and my friends and career.  I'm truly happy again, and I'm thankful for every day that God gives me.

I am also looking forward in faith to that day when I will come home.  I will close my eyes, and when I open them, you will be there--you and Tommy and Leslie and my mom and dad and everyone else that I love and have lost.  I look forward to that day, but I no longer yearn for it with all my heart.  It will come when it comes, and until then, I have a rich and fulfilling life here.

So Val, be happy.  Do the work that God has given you to do.  Know that we all think of you and love you and are supremely grateful for the years that God gave us to be with you.  We all miss you, but we all know that we'll all be together again one day.

Godspeed, my Love, until then.
Margaret