A Mother's Voice

It’s been five years since my mother died, just three weeks before the delightful and determined Elizabeth Holiday made her early appearance in our family. My mom teased me about how “over the top” I was about our first granddaughter, the lovely Madelyn Simone, referencing my T-G columns about how smitten I was with Madelyn. I’m guessing she would have something to say about how Lizzie, Henry and Emma have also captured my smitten heart. 

My mother never did catch the internet bug, leaving that pursuit to my dad, so I mailed her copies of my newspaper column every couple of weeks. She saved every one, preserving them in albums. That’s what mothers do.

In my early years as a T-G columnist, I had a rule of thumb that asked, “What will my mother say if I write this, if I use a particular series of words and it’s printed in the newspaper?” Some people are able to leave behind any sense of mama-inspired conscience by age fifteen, but not me. I still have that niggling sense of what my mother’s response might be to something I say or do that crosses a certain line – and I know right where that line is. 

Sometimes I hear her voice and ignore it (at my own peril), but sometimes her cautionary nudge still causes me to rethink a decision or refrain from speaking. As an active pastor in the Ashland community for the first five years of my column-writing, I also had to recognize how my words might impact that ministry. And even now, eight years after retirement, I do consider my audience, knowing that many readers don’t share my social or political views. Yes, my mother’s voice, my ministry’s standing in the community, and my reticence to offend can sometimes temper the words I put on paper. Plus, I have no desire to be sued for libel or defamation of character. Words matter.

I still remember my high school English teacher, Mrs. Holcomb, and her admonition to never use the word “thing,” as there was always a more precise term to use. Yet I doubt Mrs. Holcomb or my mother had “skank” in mind to describe a former first lady, U.S. senator, and secretary of state. This derogatory term for a female, implying trashiness or tackiness, lower class status and/or poor hygiene, isn’t one that regularly crosses my lips. I picture Ralphie in A Christmas Story, contemplating his punishment for the use of a particular word.“What would it be? The guillotine? Hanging? The chair? The rack . . . Hmmph. Mere child’s play compared to what surely awaited me.” Thus the iconic image of Ralphie, a bar of red Lifebuoy soap filling his mouth. Words matter.

What might my mother possibly think about how easily alternative narratives can be created, such as one accusing a former congressman of murder with no basis, a family’s decades-old grief strewn about the internet with impunity? Twitter apologizes, but what about the tweeter? We couldn’t get away with that as kids.

If our moms and teachers had a problem with the words we used and the stories we concocted, they were even more concerned about actions that harmed others. How could a man be ambushed and executed while jogging or a man struggle to breathe as a uniformed man knelt on his neck? “That man could be my son,” said my friend, and I feel her words in my bones, the desperate, abject fear of a mother’s heart who can’t protect her son because of the color of his skin. Ahmaud Arbery and George Floyd, their deaths an anguish that can never heal. 

Irvin D. Yalom’s prophetic words frighten me: “If we climb high enough, we will reach a height from which tragedy ceases to look tragic.” Tragedy shrinks with distance, and evil flourishes in silence. Today, in my mother’s memory, my own mother-voice joins the ancient lament (Matthew 2:18): “A voice is heard in Ramah, weeping and great mourning. Rachel weeping for her children and refusing to be comforted, because they are killed.” Today, my own mother-eyes will not look away; my own mother-voice will not be silenced. 

Down Faith-Inspired Memory Lane

The days of Spring 2020 have been “slower than molasses in January” as my dad would say, but finally, it’s Memorial Day weekend. In my hometown, will the cannons still boom their sunrise greeting as they’ve done for decades? We know people won’t be lining parade routes on Main Street U.S.A. in 2020. Nor will the neighborhood welcome mat be out at our backyard barbeques, out of a grudging respect for the wiles of that nasty corona virus. 

Memorial Day traditionally has been the unofficial start to summer, a day to honor those who lost their lives while serving in the military. The day has also expanded to remember those we love who are no longer with us, and we often place flowers or flags on gravesites to mark our connection.

The gift of remembering, of reminiscence, allows us to relive both joyful and painful times, and to consider the “long and winding road” our own lives have taken. For many of us, the Age of Corona has offered time and space for that journey of memory. Faith has been one of my remembering threads, and this past Sunday morning, I made a web-inspired circuit of familiar stained glass and steeples, comfortably clothed in my current Sunday finery, my favorite Minnie Mouse nightshirt.

My journey of faith began in a Presbyterian sanctuary, whose Corona-inspired on-line services are shared with two other local congregations, all pastored by women, quite the change from my childhood. Seeing the stained-glass of my childhood took me back to Paul Stookey’s “Hymn.” “Sunday morning very bright I read your book by colored light that came into the pretty window picture.” 

I also dropped by the worship service streamed by The Salvation Army College for Officers’ Training, where I spent two years in preparation for a lifetime of service to others. “Holy, holy, holy,” the brass quartet intoned, equipped with headphones and recorded in four separate locations. I don’t understand how that works, but I’m grateful for technology none-the-less, even on a Sunday when Zoom was less-than-cooperative. 

A stop at the Facebook page for the Salvation Army in Dover, NJ, our first ministry assignment showed photos of their on-going food distribution, as much a component of worship as is the singing and praying (see Matthew 25). Then, my virtual visit moved to our second appointment, as the grand piano at Philadelphia Roxborough flooded me with memories of little boys clamoring for my attention, an errant trombone slide, and the music that so filled our days in that location. 

Skipping ahead to the Ashland Kroc Center, the inimitable Major Billy Francis and team were faithful in their Sunday morning worship with the glorious stained-glass as a backdrop, its “jewels” symbolically lifting our prayers to heaven. If the walls could only speak in that place. So many stories to tell.

Tiptoeing through memory in these challenging days offers touchstones as we connect with our history – or her-story. We re-visit our paths of faith, the classrooms of educational experience, our varied workplaces, and the homes we’ve inhabited. With some virtual help to stimulate our brain synapses, we can even return to our favorite vacation spots, opening our senses to the salt of the ocean and the crisp air of the ski slope. Memory graciously allows us to hit pause for a few moments with those whose love shaped our lives, to hold their faces in our hearts and whisper our thanks.

Novelist Pat Conroy, whose words are as much memoir as fiction, mused: “I began to get the thought that some of us are the designated rememberers. Why do we remember? I don’t know. But I think that’s why memoir interests me – because we’re the ones who pass the stories.”  

As we pass the hot dogs and potato salad this weekend, don’t forget to pass the stories as well, of sacrifice and service, of remarkable places and cherished people. Sue Monk Kidd understands: “Stories have to be told or they die, and when they die, we can’t remember who we are or why we’re here.” 

Welcome, Memorial Day. Thanks for reminding us of who we are and why we’re here. Glad you’ve finally made it to 2020!

Simple Gifts

“There’s nothing to do.” That plaintive refrain has sounded through generations of children as the “lazy-hazy-crazy days of summer” stretch before them. Thanks, Nat King Cole, for the  wish “that summer could always be here.” My mother used to tell me, “be careful what you wish for.” She had a point.

Since schools closed in March, some families have developed structured schedules of home-instruction and Zoom classes, while others (no judgement here) feel like they’ve checked into “One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest.” Now, as school winds down for the year, “there’s nothing to do” will tax the imagination of even the most creative parents and caregivers.

But it’s not just the kids. With a myriad of non-essential activities on the taboo list, even us Golden Buckeye folks are getting antsy. Did you know that the “stir” in “stir crazy” meant “prison”? Now you do.

In March, USA Today Life compiled a list of one hundred things to do while stuck inside due to a pandemic. I got hung-up on #19: “Try on all your clothes and determine whether they ‘spark joy’ a la Marie Kondo.” That might have worked in March, but halfway through May, forget the joy-sparking – I’m hoping something still fits. I’ve cleaned out my sock drawer (#64), watched Frozen II (#54), and moved in slow motion (#95) but I have no interest in #72, memorizing the periodic table (been there, done that in eleventh grade). I haven’t watched “Tangled” recently, but Rapunzel’s ideas for castle isolation are inspiring: ventriloquy, candle-making, papier-mâché, and adding a new painting to the gallery.

Fortunately, we can still go outside, which opens up options for exercise and sunshine on alternating days. Lots of people are bike-riding and walking in our neighborhood, and as they pass our picture window, I think that maybe I’ll join them – tomorrow. 

Last weekend, the stir-craziness was pretty intense. Let’s take a ride in the car! Our family used to do that on Sunday afternoons when I was young. Sometimes we’d follow the Niagara River towards Buffalo or Niagara Falls, hoping we wouldn’t have to travel past the smelly chemical factories in the Falls. With no Gameboys or DVD players, we sang songs, often belting out “Show Me the Way to Go Home” long before we arrived back at Klinger Avenue.  

In the spirit of those long-ago road trips, Larry and I headed to Ashland last weekend. Our leisurely trip did have a purpose beyond boredom relief, as we wanted to get flowers and vegetable plants for our home. Governor DeWine determined that garden centers such as Honey Haven Farm could open, where Farmer John welcomed us and we giddily made our purchases. Knowing Lerch’s Donuts would be on-site may or may not have tipped the scales on our choice of destination (smile emoji). We stopped for groceries at Millers-that-will-always-be-Hawkins to me, and completed our Ashland day by picking up supper at A&W. The simple pleasures of a Corona-inspired escape.

Because I’ve still been going into work, we made the early decision to socially isolate from our kids and their families. The lovely Madelyn Simone and the delightful and determined Elizabeth Holiday have talked often with me about what we can do together when “The Corona” is over. Wanting to improve her skills on her new-to-her Corona typewriter, Madelyn created her list: “Things to do with Nana after the COVID-19 ends.” 

I’m not sure when Sluggers and Putters or the McKinley Museum will re-open, and who knows if we’ll ever eat at a buffet again. But I’m holding out for Madelyn’s “at-Nana’s-house” list: making pancakes for breakfast, washing dishes with Nana, cleaning Pop-Pop’s fish tank, and going on Nana’s phone. 

Laura Ingalls Wilder understands: “The real things haven’t changed. It is still best to be honest and truthful; to make the most of what we have; to be happy with simple pleasures; and have courage when things go wrong.” In that spirit, Joseph Brackett’s words echo. “Tis the gift to be simple, ‘tis the gift to be free, ‘tis the gift to come down where we ought to be.” Spring flowers, Lerch’s donuts, breakfast pancakes, washing dishes together: today’s gifts, tomorrow’s promise.

Mothering Sunday

On this holiday long marketed to honor mothers, I join Canadian writer Sarah Bessey in her thoughts about the day. She writes: “I always wish that we called this day ‘Mothering Sunday’ like they do in the UK and Ireland. Mother’s Day can be so complicated for so many reasons . . .” 

As a woman halfway through my seventh decade of life, I’ve walked through many of those complications. Early memories of Mother’s Day include church services with netted, pastel hats and white gloves, with corsages on the shoulders of many in the sun-dappled sanctuary. A white rose or orchid signified that the wearer’s mother was deceased; pink or red roses or carnations indicated the one who wore the flower had been spared that tender loss.

As an adult, I was generally in the pulpit of my own congregation on Mother’s Day. Prior to distributing the traditional bauble to the mothers, I’d issue my yearly disclaimer about death, loss, abuse, loneliness, and more. All too often, there were just as many abandoned or neglected mothers and children in our pews as there were moms cocooned within the love and care of the nuclear family.

For the pastor mom, scenes of leisurely breakfasts-in-bed on a Sunday morning were non-existent, but the dinner table was full, and the invitation to “go put your feet up while we clean up” was a welcome change in routine. Often, the most beloved gift was the clay pot or handprinted art work created by the owners of those little-boy hands. 

And Mother’s Day 2020? Like just about everything in the spring of this year, we’re in for an awkward day. We’ll try our hardest with Facebook Live church services, sappy social media messages, and socially distanced takeout dinners. The temptation is strong to focus on the white-flowered corsages of loss, the long-standing dysfunction, the empty chairs at the table, the hands consigned to touching palms against windows, and the lips longingly blowing air-kisses into cellphone screens. Yes, it will be a day to measure loss, and to shed some ugly-cry tears, at least for a moment or two. 

Who am I kidding? For a moment or two? The long-standing losses remembered on Mother’s Day are still with us: infertility, estrangement, abandonment, indifference, death. These losses are multiplied exponentially for 73,549 grieving families, the U.S. death toll due to COVID-19 as I write at 8:23 a.m. on Thursday morning (NYT). And while our own 2020 losses may dim in comparison, they are real none-the-less. In the midst of the fear generated by job loss, economic challenge, and worry over contracting the virus, being able to hold our mother, our child, and yes, even our grandchildren in our arms would anchor us more surely in hope, but those points of physical contact are beyond our reach as well. Yes, we mothers and children will weep this Mother’s Day. 

As I type these words, I wish I could leave six inches of empty space at this point, space to ponder, to grieve, to stay for a while before we paste on a smile and face the day. In lieu of those inches, consider this a permission slip to take the time to breathe, to sit for a while with the heaviness of these days.

But. Yet. So. And. These conjunctions of movement, the habits of optimism, the genetic roots of a hard-working people, and the tenets of my faith serve as reminders that “sorrow may last for a night, but joy comes in the morning.” That’s why I must return to Bessey’s thoughts on Mothering Sunday. “Mothering,” she writes, “is a tender word, one that includes more stories, I believe.”

Let me give courage to you this weekend. Once you wipe the tears, be surprised by joy. Drink deeply of the tender stories of the past and of today. Honor those who mother us. Listen for the mothering voices, even those traveling across the internet or rising from the chasm of memory. 

And, no matter your gender or age, extend a mothering touch to another. We all ache in these days, and kindness and connection spread a healing balm. A blessed Mothering Sunday to you. 

Dreamweaver

As I started this column, I was humming melodies from the “dream” playlist Pastor Nate Bebout used in his Sunday sermon. Those notes have staying power:  remember Hall and Oates singing “You Make My Dreams Come True,” Heart’s rendition of “These Dreams,” and the Eurhythmics with “Sweet Dreams Are Made of This”? Judy Garland has pitched in to the concert in my head with “Somewhere Over the Rainbow,” as has Gary Wright with “Dream Weaver,” inspired by John Lennon as a weaver of dreams in the 1960s. 

Julia Cameron tells us: “We are meant to midwife dreams for one another.” In these COVID-19 days, it’s challenging to sustain enough energy to dream our own dreams of what could be, instead of succumbing to the nightmares of today. Can we possibly come alongside to wave the dream-weaving wand over someone else?

As a Salvation Army officer, I wore a number of hats, including my dad’s expression of “chief cook and bottle-washer.” One of my favorites was dream weaver, helping teens to see the possibilities of the future, encouraging co-workers to complete a college degree, or counseling with a couple in preparation for marriage. 

The development of the Ashland Kroc Center was the ultimate of dream-weaving, as our Ashland team braided together the passion of Salvation Army founders Catherine and William Booth with the vision of benefactor Joan Kroc, framed by the hopes and dreams of the Ashland community. Now, much of that facility is currently “in waiting,” watching to see what the next months will bring, but its pantry, in the non-descript annex, is a lifeline to hundreds of Ashlanders. Who knew that the glorious stained glass of the chapel and the refreshing waters of the spraypark would give up the limelight for its shelves of food in the spring of 2020?    

Yes, dream-weaver. In retirement, I am privileged to work with rookie authors, bringing the dream of their own book to life. I’ve also been present through the labor and delivery of seminary students as they’ve studied, researched, written and groaned to attain the doctor of ministry mantle. That’s midwifery at its best, without the blood and bodily fluids. 

I love watching dreams being fulfilled, but in these days, the thought of dreaming of the future is overwhelming. How does the graduating senior even start to dream? The NFL draft choice? The budding musician, the blushing bride, the Olympic hopeful?

How dare we risk dreaming of a brighter future when we may not have a job to go back to when this is over? When our dream house could go into foreclosure, when our dream business struggles to survive, or when our worst nightmare comes true as a loved one contracts the virus?  Will it ever be over? No wonder we lose heart. 

And yet, the dreams still beckon. We return again and again to the lab, we write songs, we fumble through eighth grade algebra, and we plant trees. In our dreaming, we envision a return to the beach and Broadway, the mountains and the library,  if not soon, then someday. In our dreaming, we even see the words Browns and Super Bowl, or Cleveland and World Series in the same headline. Yes, Gary Wright, “I believe we can reach the morning light.”

For today, it’s enough to claim the tiny dreams of a haircut and a pedicure, of tea parties and back yard barbeques, and maybe, just maybe, Friday night football. We pray for “strength for today,” because that’s what we need for today. But, like the hymnist Thomas Chisolm, we don’t stop there. “Strength for today,” yes, but he joins that practical plea with this vision: “bright hope for tomorrow.”  

This week, in the midst of the COVID-19 pandemic, the lovely Madelyn Simone (age ten), asked for a typewriter so she can begin writing her book. In a dusty closet at the church where she works, Madelyn’s maternal grandmother found an old Smith-Corona for her. 

Dream on, sweet girl. Dream for those of us who are losing our way, our hopes and dreams. Birth what is stirring within you. Because, somewhere, over the rainbow, “the dreams that you dare to dream really will come true.”