Burning the Fields

As Salvation Army officers, my husband and I held the ranks of lieutenant, captain, and then major. Just as a priest might be called Father, it was common for Larry to be called Lieutenant, One day, our three year old son Greg was trying to tell his father something. “Daddy. Daddy. DAD!” No response. Finally, Greg yelled, “Lieutenant,” and it worked. He got his father’s attention. 

 

In a week chock full of news, some may have missed that the senior counselor to the president, Kellyanne Conway, is leaving her post at the White House at the end of this month, promising for her beloved children, “less drama, more mama.” Her husband, George Conway, is stepping down from his role in the Lincoln Project as well, and vowed to stay off Twitter, at least for the foreseeable future. Why? Family reasons. Their fifteen year old daughter had finally managed to get their attention. Unfortunately for the Conway family, much of the world watched her plea unfold on Instagram, Twitter and Tik-Tok. 

 

I recognize the difficulty of living life in the public eye, exacerbated in today’s culture by the unmerciful nature of cell phones, social media, and screenshots. Short of refusing to allow teens to have cell phones or computer access, contemporary parents, in or out of the fishbowl, may face a similar plea, even if it doesn’t go viral.

 

The Conway family dynamic is not unique to 2020. In fact, the Old Testament paints a vivid picture of a son’s attempt to get his father’s attention. In a narrative replete with rape, murder, and estrangement, King David’s son Absalom resorted to “burning the fields” to force interaction with his father. See II Samuel 13 and 14 for the details of their story.

 

Viewing life with the wisdom garnered over sixty-five years, I know there is something in each of us that longs to be heard. Sometimes we call out in the midst of crisis. We may simply be feeling a bit lonely on a normal day (if we even have those anymore). At other times, the cry to be heard comes from the wilderness of Absalom’s banishment, or from an awareness that we have something to say that matters, even if our family and friends are too busy to listen.

 

A few years after Greg’s cry of “Lieutenant!,” we discovered a book that soon became a family favorite, especially for our second son, Andrew. In Elizabeth Guilfoile’s classic tale, “Nobody Listens to Andrew,” the little brother tries his best to be heard, but the title is accurate – nobody listened to Andrew. Spoiler alert: when Andrew finally got their attention, the family sprang into action because there was a bear in his bed. 

 

Today, there are bears in too many beds, the fields are burning, and our children are calling out to be heard as they march, tweet, grieve, and cry out in the night. And it’s not just the children. How do we find common ground? When the noise around us threatens to drown out the words we need to hear, then what? 

 

Hugh Mackay reminds us of our responsibility: “So the way we listen to each other, the way we respect each other’s passions (even if we don’t share them), the way we respond to each other’s needs, the way we make – or don’t make – time for each other . . . all these things send clear signals about the extent to which we are taking each other seriously.”

 

Years ago, I was privileged to attend a conference session with Jane and Ken Medema. “Teach me to stop and listen,” Ken began to sing, as he invited us to learn through call and response. Medema ended the song with these words: “Then when it’s time for moving, grant it that I may bring to every day and moment peace from a silent spring.” 

 

We are in a confusing and complicated time for our children, our neighbors, and our country, a time calling us to pay attention, to listen deeply and to act. Yet I wonder – if we forsake the silent spring for the call to action, will we still have the capacity to listen? The stakes couldn’t be higher.

 

Well Done, Sister Suffragettes

As the Democratic Convention opened on the virtual stage this week, ten-year-old Naya Snyder began to sing: “O say can you see . . .” As I listened to Naya and her fellow choir members, their last line seemed especially poignant as we celebrate the centennial of the passage of the nineteenth amendment, giving the vote to women. “The land of the free, and the home of the brave.” One hundred and thirty-four years after the Declaration of Independence gave birth to a new nation,  because of the bravery of suffragettes, female citizens would no longer be kept from voting. 

 

It was a long and hard-fought battle, but as suffragette Alice Paul quoted her Quaker mother: “When you put your hand to the plow, you can’t put it down until the end of the row.” This fight began with a gathering of three hundred people in 1848, when Lucretia Mott and Elizabeth Cady Stanton convened the Seneca Falls Convention. The “suffrage” amendment was finally ratified when Tennessee approved it in 1920.

 

The story from Tennessee reminds us of the power of one voice. Harry Burns, only twenty-four, had planned to vote “no” on the amendment, but a message from his mother, Feb Burns, encouraged him to “be a good boy” and change his vote. He later explained: “I knew that a mother’s advice is always safest for a boy to follow . . .” 

 

Here’s the actual text of the amendment: “The right of citizens of the United States to vote shall not be denied or abridged by the United States or by any other State on account of sex.” Unfortunately. many citizens were still kept from voting because of racially-biased poll taxes and literacy tests, and it was forty-five years before the Voting Rights Act of 1965 became law. 

 

In this anniversary year, it would have been fitting – and fun – to re-enact the suffrage parades across the country, women dressed in white with colorful purple banners, demanding the vote. However, even before COVID-19, I had no desire to re-enact being chained to the White House fence, being arrested and imprisoned, or taking part in hunger strikes, and subsequently being force-fed (see the film Iron-Jawed Angels to learn more of their story). 

 

The heroines of the movement have many Ohio connections. Sojourner Truth spoke to a suffrage convention in Akron, Ohio in 1851, famously saying, “And ain’t I a woman?” Ohio-born Victoria Woodhall ran for president in 1872. Toledo’s Pauline Steinam (Gloria’s grandmother) was the first Jewish woman to hold elected office in the US. In 1920, Ohio’s Harriet Taylor Upton became the first woman vice chair of the Republican National Committee. 

 

The women who fought this battle had to be courageous. Writing in Smithsonian Magazine, Maria Speidel observed that these women took “pains not to hurt people, [as] they created mayhem by attacking property . . . and disrupting government meetings.” They caused nearly as much “good trouble” as Dean Winters brings mayhem to the Allstate commercials. One hundred years ago, the vote became theirs. And now, in 2020, the vote is ours. I think about their sacrifice every time I enter a voting booth.

 

Dr. Deleasa Randall Griffiths portrayed suffragette Carrie Chapman Catt at Ashland Chautauqua in 2015, and reflected on her role: “Hopefully people not only learn about the past, but also reflect or integrate into things that are going on right now . . . maybe we just get fueled by the fight that went on and the people who didn’t give up, maybe it helps us not give up.” She continued, “This work feels like I am passing a baton on to younger people who I hope would then carry this history on like a relay race . . .” 

 

Remembering the history is a part of the work of preserving voting rights. Susan Anthony and Lucretia Mott have extended the baton through generations. Naya Snyder is carrying it as she lifts her voice in anthem, and soon, I will pass that same baton to the hands of the lovely Madelyn Simone, the delightful and determined Elizabeth Holiday, and the sweet Emma Belle Shade. In the words of Winifred Banks, “Well done, Sister Suffragette.” 

The Water's Fine

As our physical contact with other people has been limited since March, many have attempted to cultivate connections with others on social media, but that medium provides its own set of issues, including conspiracy theories, political drivel, and hate-filled comments. Unlike making a personal visit or answering a telephone call, we are at the mercy of the algorithms of the social media giants, like spaghetti thrown at the wall to see what sticks. Making and keeping connections with “friends” from many corners of our lives can be a blessed experience, but the process can also be both exhausting and addicting, seemingly out of our control. 

 

Frustrated by the negative components of social media, a friend recently described her experience: “The past two weeks I have been ‘testing the waters’ on Facebook. After a two-month hiatus, I will give it a go again. I also have learned I don’t have to have it in my life and I will end it again if the heart burden becomes too heavy. I have missed many parts of the journey with others.”

 

Her words struck a chord, especially in the area of self-determination. We do have choices. We can choose what influences us. Blocking the negative posts from a “friend” can be healthy for us. While not quite in context, I’m reminded of Michael Card’s lyrics: “It’s hard to imagine the freedom we find from the things we leave behind.” 

 

Brené Browngives us permission: “When someone spews something really hurtful, don’t pick it up and hold it and rub it into your heart and snuggle with it and carry it around for a long time. Don’t even put energy into kicking it to the curb. You gotta see it and step over it or go around it and keep on going.” 

 

I’ve had an additional reaction in recent days, as Facebook tries to stir up feelings of envy and jealousy in me. The most difficult posts to see are the photos of family vacations. As the pandemic began to have its way with us in the spring of 2020, our usual vacation spot, on the Maine shoreline, was requiring self-quarantine for fourteen days upon arrival. Not much of a vacation in that, so we decided to stay home. Those restrictions have now been lifted, and some of our friends and family have traveled to the healing waters of the ocean, up and down the Atlantic coast. I’m glad for them, really I am, but some days I cringe as I sit through the modern-day equivalent of a vacation slide show on their social media feeds. At least my kids brought me some caramel corn from the beach. 

 

I often think of life choices by articulating what I don’t want. To combat that habit, a few years ago I created a list of what I wanted from life, rather than what I needed to avoid. As I’ve been wrestling with my envious feelings, I looked again to that list. And there it was. “I want to walk by the water and pray.” 

 

There’s a wading pool in my backyard, and a retention pond a block from my house with a welcoming bench. The Atwood Lake region and Lake Erie are both within an hour’s drive from our home. Sure, they’re not the Atlantic or Pacific, but they provide water and soul-refreshment. The Corona can’t stop me from walking by – or in – these waters.

 

In the film “O Brother, Where Art Thou,” white-robed supplicants approach the baptismal water singing, “As I went down to the river to pray . . .” (Alison Kraus). Delmar joins them, is baptized, and extends the invitation to his companions. “Come on in boys, the water’s fine.” 

 

As tempting as it is, social media or the Corona can’t be blamed for everything that’s out of sorts in us. Like my friend, we can “test the water” and choose whether to wade, dive in  or walk away. New streams of connection wait, as old friends and new companions stand ready to come alongside us. And, as Delmar understood, there is healing in the water – ocean or kiddie pool –  and in the woods, garden, or mountains. “Come on in . .

The Song that Never Ends

Ever since the lovely Madelyn Simone was born more than ten years ago, we’ve listened to music together. As a baby, it was the “Treme Song” by John Boutté. As soon as that magical song began to play, the tears stopped as she listened intently. Choose another song, even with a similar beat, and she knew we were attempting to fool her.

 

For the sweet Emma Belle, her song of choice is the theme music from Law and Order SVU. When its distinctive so-dosounds from the television, she’s mesmerized. Don’t try to get her attention when that music is playing.

 

Now, when the kids are with me in the car, we turn to my collection of CDs for musical entertainment – and yes, my car still has a CD player. I know it’s possible to play music on my I-phone, but I’m still old school enough to hang on to the CDs – and the kids are happy with that, at least for now. Just this week, Madelyn said to me, “Nana, we’ve listened to these so much that I know what the next song will be before it starts.” Yes, Maddie, I know too.

 

We’ve got the sound tracks from Frozen and Trolls, some Disney favorites and Wee Sing selections. When we “celebrated” Christmas in July a couple of weeks ago, Lizzie insisted we listen to Mickey, Minnie, Donald, Daisy and friends as they serenaded us in their distinctive voices. I also have CDs full of camp songs, those silly ditties sung around the campfires by generations of kids and counselors as the sun gradually sinks into the west and the crickets chirp in harmony. As the kids and I sang these camp songs this week, I was saddened to realize that most residential camps are shuttered this summer due to the COVID-19 pandemic. Is that precious music in danger of fading away? Not if we can help it!

 

In honor of those silenced campfire circles, here are some camp songs you can sing if you so desire. I’ll start with “There’s a hole in the bucket.” How fun that its stars are Liza and Henry –like our Lizzie and Henry. I’m jealous – my name was never in a song.

 

Some classics are a bit iffy these days. Chief of the insult songs is “Your mama wears army boots.” A ding-dong. What about “Found a Peanut” where the kid dies from eating a rotten peanut, Alice who goes down the bathtub drain, and “Eddie . . . Brown,” the boy who fell into the well? It took so long to say his name that Eddie drowned. Does “Little Bunny FooFoo,” who bops the field mice on the head and gets turned into a goon, pass muster around the 2020 campfire.? 

 

Many camp songs settle in and make a home in our brain, staying with us forever. “Baby Shark.” “Ba Umpa Umpa Bubblegum.” “Little Red Wagon.” “Ham and Eggs.” “The Ants Go Marching One By One.” The modified “Singin’ in the Rain.” You’re welcome. And then there’s the one that comes to mind when political leaders muse about their popularity: “Nobody likes me, everybody hates me, guess I’ll go eat worms.”

 

Even before these days of pandemic, we weren’t  singing together very much, except during the seventh inning stretch, in the sanctuary, and around the campfire circle. Given the increased danger of virus spread when singing in a group, most of our singing is now happening in the privacy of the shower or with the little voices in the backseat of our car. Yet somehow, we must keep singing. World War II martyr Dietrich Bonhoeffer urged us on. “In times of care and sorrow, [music] will keep a fountain of joy alive in you.” 

 

I appreciate the counsel of singer Will Oldham, who said, “always end the day in singing.” However, I don’t recommend using “The Song that Never Ends” as your nightcap. Instead, let me suggest one last camp song, sung by Madelyn (and her mom before her) at the end of the camp day: “Shalom, my friend, Shalom. We’ll see you again, Shalom.” A word of benediction, a word of promise. We will sing together again. Shalom.

 

The Days of the Corona

For the first two months of “the days of the corona,” Larry and I did not physically interact with our children or grandchildren, who live minutes from our home. In May we decided that since our family members were having minimal contact with the outside world, we would create an extended family pod of the seven adults and four kids. Now, I am babysitting two days a week for the “threesome,” and will help out with the sweet Emma Belle as needed as her mom and dad get back to work.

During one of my grandmother days, I overheard the delightful and still determined Elizabeth Holiday, now age five, as she covered up her doll with a blanket, talking softly because her dolly was sick with the Corona virus. That knocked the air out of my sails for a moment. 

Back on April 25, I asked, in the shadow of COVID-19, how are we doing? How are we – you and me (or is it I?)– coping, changing? The week before, I whined about closed libraries and churches, and missing the crack of the bat at the corner of East 9^thand Carnegie. I mused then that “Loss is cumulative, and the weight of loss, great and small, wears us down.” Now, it’s three months later. Our neighborhood library is still closed, as are in-person Sunday services. The Tribe is playing, but who knows if they’ll make it through a shortened season. And now my precious granddaughter is playing corona with her doll. 

In the early days, Governor DeWine held press conferences daily, and regardless of political leanings, we were encouraged by his steady presence and the calm demeanor and wise words of Dr. Amy Acton. Now, she’s resigned, and the governor is criticized right and left.

In the early days, we were grateful to find a mask of any type, any color, praying we wouldn’t infect another human. Now, we’re wearing our masks to support our favorite team or we complain every time we put them on.

In the early days, we were patient, listening to Dr. Acton and Dr. Fauci. Now, we’re grasping at straws for a miracle cure, or touting the message of America’s Frontline Doctors on the steps of the Supreme Court. One of these doctors (not the ophthalmologist) previously suggested publicly that sex with dream-demons causes certain “female problems.” Calling Dr. House!

I’ve been known to say, “I can get through anything as long as I know the end is in sight.” Even labor and delivery has its reward. But that’s our problem. With 150,000 deaths and counting, the next few months (if not more) look bleak. Why did we think we could flatten the curve and re-open life by Memorial Day? Wishful thinking, I guess.

Early on, we used the phrase, “when the virus is gone” rather glibly. But in hindsight, life isn’t returning to “normal” any time soon. In fact, the need for “a new normal” is invading our conversations all too often. So now what?

Two images help me. First, from the senior choir at First Presbyterian Church in Tonawanda, New York, where I learned about staggered breathing. If a phrase carried from one line to another, the director designated certain singers to breathe at the expected spot, and others to catch a breath before or after the normal break. That way, the phrase was sustained and no one ran out of breath.

In a column in 2018, Connie Schultz wrote of staggered breathing: “Weariness is not an issue of character, nor is it a sign of weakness. We cannot raise our voices unless we can breathe, and each of us sometimes runs out of breath . . . We are in this together. We will hold the note until you’re ready to sing.” Thank you for that promise, Connie.

And then there’s Lizzie and her doll. We can tuck a blanket around someone who is shivering with fear. We can speak softly, with words of comfort and care. As we accept what is, we do what we can for each other, holding the note, breathing, being present. And for today, it is enough.