A Happy Snowman?

When Frozen: The Musical announced it was rehearsing and opening its Broadway touring ensemble in Buffalo, my sister was at the front of the line to buy tickets. Unfortunately for her, the long-awaited performance ended up conflicting with a commitment to her son, so the text came: would you and Madelyn like to come and use my tickets? Is the Pope Catholic? Does a bear . . . You get my drift.

 

What an amazing night. Shea’s Buffalo is a majestic setting. Filled with masked attendees in the 2021 pandemic version of a costume ball, the theater was abuzz with anticipation. The show is coming to Cleveland in August 2022, and it’s worth every cent of the price of admission. Save the date, Madelyn, Lizzie and Emma – we’re going (sorry, Henry, but I’m afraid my favorite Energizer Bunny couldn’t sit still – your time will come).

 

My favorite part of the night was when Olaf sang “In Summer,” the clever composition by Kristen Anderson Lopez and Robert Lopez. There is something about the little snowman’s character that is enchanting. Created of snow, he has only known the cold of winter, but as he sings, he considers the perks of being warm. “But  sometimes I like to close my eyes and imagine what I’d be like when summer does come.” As the song nears its conclusion, Olaf dreams out loud: “Winter’s a good time to stay in and cuddle, but put me in summer and I’ll be a . . .” Into the song’s pregnant pause, the adults in the audience held their collective breath, knowing that the next word, rhyming with cuddle, will be puddle. If Olaf only knew . . . But into the silence of the theater came a tiny voice from the audience, beating Olaf to his punchline: “a happy snowman.”

 

Of course every child in that theater knew those words. So did the grandparents. We’ve head the song a zillion times as the little ones have watched the movie and listened to the song over and over, and we believe with Olaf. Sadly, this precious understanding of a shared meaning won’t last past the Disney experience. 

 

I first heard the phrase ‘post-modern’ about twenty-five years ago. We were moving from modernity, with its emphasis on realism, to post-modernity, a cultural construct that rests on the idea that there’s no such thing as absolute truth. Your truth is your truth and my truth is mine, and we’re both right. In post-modernism, we no longer have a “happy snowman” common experience. Remember when Hulu was a dance, an apple was a fruit, and a fox was a sneaky animal trying to get into the henhouse?  Not anymore. With the internet, podcasts, blogs, and hundreds of cable channels bombarding us daily, our input is so varied that our output is bound to be as well. No wonder we have such varied opinions about what is right and what is true.

 

I sense a meandering in my thinking and writing about my little snowman friend. By the end of Olaf’s song, even his innocent dreaming is faced with a threat, as Kristof says, “I’m going to tell him.” What Kristof knows is that snow melts under the summer sun, and without some kind of miraculous intervention (see Frozen II), Olaf will become a puddle rather than a happy snowman. Olaf has one reality, and Kristof another, but in the real world, there is absolute truth. Snow melts as temperatures rise. 

 

No tidy little package this morning, I’m afraid. Speaking in the courtroom of “A Few Good Men,” Jack Nicholson indicts us all: “You can’t handle the truth!” If he’s right, then at what cost? That’s what I’m wondering this morning.

So Long, Farewell

When the Salvation Army Kroc Center first opened in Ashland, our welcome center staff fielded a variety of phone calls. Potential visitors inquired about the hours of operation and the feeding program menu for the day. One of my favorite calls asked if Ray or Joan Kroc was in, and another wanted to know if we did exorcisms. No. For quite some time, the daily calls included a complaint from Jim Becker, aka Mountain Man, telling us “there’s no such thing as homeless.” 

 

As part of the county’s Homeless Coalition and heavily involved in ACCESS, the church-based sheltering program, we knew Jim’s premise was incorrect – there definitely were unhoused and precariously housed people in Ashland. To pretend there weren’t was a disservice to those who needed stable housing. But as I look back on his words from the perspective of a decade, on some level, Jim was correct and perhaps even prophetic in his words. Vocabulary is changing, and now we are more likely to speak about people without homes, or unhoused people, rather than “the homeless.”

 

It’s happening in other fields as well. American Indians became Native Americans and are now spoken of as indigenous or First Nations people. Mental retardation services are now programs for those who are developmentally disabled, adjusting our language to use descriptors rather than shaming labels.

 

It’s a good reminder to me that words matter. How we speak about each other and how we speak about ideas make a difference. For the past fourteen years, I’ve had the absolute privilege of crafting words to offer my perspective on all kinds of topics, with the hope there might be a reader or two who responds, “I never thought about it quite that way.” Early on as a newspaper columnist, I came to grips with Brett Stevens’s guidance: “What a columnist owes his readers isn’t a bid for their constant agreement.” Judging by a few vocal critics, I succeeded in that.

 

I’ve written as a smitten immigrant to Ashland, and as an even more smitten grandmother to the lovely Madelyn Simone, the delightful and determined Elizabeth Holiday, the charming Henry Kyle and the sweet Emma Belle. Nearly every year, I’ve claimed that hope springs eternal for the Browns, the Cavs, and the Indians. Together we’ve grieved the loss of Ashlanders we’ve loved, and celebrated amazing accomplishments within the community. Although not primarily a column on faith, a columnist writes from where they sit, so that’s been present as well. It’s been a good run, much longer than I expected when I first stuck my head into Ted Daniels’ office with a hesitant question about an occasional column. Thanks for saying yes, Ted.

 

However, this will be my last column for the Ashland Times-Gazette. I’ve written before about the struggles of small town newspapers, and now that struggle has impacted regular contributors to the paper, myself included.

 

I’ll miss writing about the food at the Ashland County Fair, the Cleveland Guardians, Ashland’s  incredible Women of Achievement, and the excitement of the Kroc Center’s upcoming production of Frozen Jr. And what about Bishop Sycamore, the high school that’s not a high school? I was hoping to tackle the topic of how I am becoming my mother – and mother-in-law, and wanted to be able to write about Lizzie’s on-going wish coming true – the end of the Corona. But as Elsa of Arendelle knows so well, sometimes we just have to “let it go.” Ingrained habits are hard to break, however, so I may be writing and posting for families and friends on Facebook, keeping up a blog for lack of a better platform at the present. 

 

Rogers and Hammerstein’s “The Sound of Music” was one of the first movies I saw in a theater, and I still have the dog-eared copy of its tunes that I played day after day on the piano. Madelyn, Lizzie and I listen to its soundtrack often, so I’ll conclude with a song. With deep gratitude for the opportunity and for my faithful readers, I join with the von Trapp children to say, “So long, farewell, auf Wiedersehen, goodbye, I leave and heave a sigh and say goodbye.”

 

Running for Office

How do people choose who will provide leadership to them? In some cultures, leadership is passed from father to son (less commonly, to a daughter) or announced as an anointing. In other people groups, the leader may be the loudest, the bravest, the most charismatic or the richest. In the United States, a rather elaborate system has evolved of campaigns, advertisements, endorsements and voting that selects leaders of both local communities  and national interests. It’s called politics.

 

In this politically tense world of 2021, why would anyone in their right mind want to run for public office? For the one with a desire – or a calling – to lead, dipping a  foot into the election process is a daunting task. It helps to be on the right (or left) side of a demographic, and the ability to raise money remains an important key. It’s apparently not necessary to have previous political experience, as football coach (Tommy Tuberville), minister (Raphael Warnock), and ophthalmologist (Rand Paul) are among our U.S. senators. But regardless of background, one thing is clear – political candidates have got to be willing to pick up the phone to call potential donors, and, at least pre-pandemic, knock on a lot of doors and kiss a baby or two. 

 

If I ever seriously considered running for public office, my past experience of going “door to door” would scare me away. I thought first of my days of training to be a Salvation Army officer, when we donned our uniforms on Saturday morning to go door-to-door, selling The War Cry, the Army’s magazine. Interrupting someone’s leisurely cup of coffee to pitch a magazine that our potential customers probably didn’t want was a not-so-subtle attempt to solicit donations and invite conversation about faith. As an introvert, I dreaded Saturday mornings during those two years.

 

I’m wondering if my dislike of door-knocking was rooted in a traumatic experience I had as a young child. My mother was often tapped to visit her neighbors for a donation to a worthy cause, such as the March of Dimes or Easter Seals. At age five, I was helping her collect money for the hospital expansion drive when I fell off the porch of one of those neighbors, breaking my arm. No wonder the hospital needed to expand.

 

I’m not up for election, but I have great respect for those who take up that challenge. In the absence of the dreaded television commercials that ran ad nauseum a year ago, we may not realize that we’re currently in the midst of an election cycle in local communities across Ohio, but we are. In a little over two months, we’ll go to the polls to vote for city council members, school board members, coroners and maybe even dog catchers. Some voters will sit this one out, while others will look for a familiar name or pull the red or blue lever just because that’s what we’ve always done. 

 

Instead, can this be the year to take seriously Tip O’Neill’s claim that “all politics  are [is] local,” and get to know those willing to offer leadership within our cities and towns? As an example, two friends of mine are ‘rookies,’ running for public office for the first time. One’s a Democrat, one’s a Republican, but  their character and commitment to their community takes precedence over whether they lean left or right. In Orville, Bev Squirrel is running to represent her neighbors on city council, and Ashland’s Emily Huestis has the same goal. Both are smitten immigrants to their cities, so I can relate. I’ve watched them parent their children, serve their communities, and offer hospitality to both friends and strangers. They have a good heart for people, probably a better qualification for public service than professional wrestling fame (former Minnesota governor Jesse the Body Ventura).

 

Here’s the challenge. Between now and November’s election, get to know them and the others who hope to serve. If they knock on your door, hear them out. Ask yourself: who will govern wisely, with commitment and compassion? Then get to the polls on November 2 and vote.

The Fierce Rookie

When my grandchildren were born, I added a descriptive word to the names given them by their parents. Thus we have the lovely Madelyn Simone, the delightful Elizabeth Holiday, the charming Henry Kyle, and the sweet Emma Belle. By the time Elizabeth was about six months old, I felt the need to add a second word to her description based upon her emerging character, and she became, quite appropriately, the delightful and determined Elizabeth Holiday. 

 

Our Lizzie is now six, starting first grade, and living up to her name as she takes to the soccer field for the first time. Having attended her team’s first two games, I have my doubts as to their prospects for a winning season. The loudest cheers from our team’s sideline have come when our goalie successfully blocks the many shots that come his way, as (sigh) we are still waiting for our first goal at the other end of the field. 

 

This past week, it was close to ninety degrees at game time, and the humidity was high as well. Some of Lizzie’s teammates were MIA, so her team had no substitutes. Whenever time was called, she staggered over to the sideline, where her trainers sprang into action (cue the music from Rocky). Her mother handed her the water bottle, her sister smoothed the hair out of her face and held a cold bottle to her neck, and her dad gave her an animated pep talk. If there was enough time, she grabbed a sweaty hug from her grandparents and headed back out to the field. By the start of the fourth quarter, she was exhausted, yet still she reached down deep for a well of energy and ran out to join her teammates one more time. 

 

As a rookie, this is all new to Elizabeth, her first foray into competitive sports of any kind. Yet there is a determination in her, even a fierceness, that is impressive. She may not be the next Mia Hamm, but I’ll take her on my team any time. Plus, with her red cheeks and her bouncing ponytail, she is adorable.

 

Saturday mornings, on a soccer field behind Jackson High School, our granddaughter is learning tremendous lessons about how to live that will shape her values far into the future. But what is she learning? Will she learn to take direction, to listen to a person older  and more experienced so she can learn about something new? Will she learn to trust her body, to  get up when she’s knocked down (and drill that penalty kick), drawing upon her reserves when the going gets tough?  

 

I wonder what she’s learning about being part of a team. Does she know that she can depend on them to have her back, or is she getting as frustrated as I am with a teammate who is counting the blades of grass while the ball sails by? At six, I’m not sure she can comprehend that not everyone has the same abilities,  nor do they put in as much effort as she does (a good lesson to learn prior to group projects in third grade).

 

Youth sports, clarinet lessons, nature hikes and swimming instructions are not just “feel-good” activities to keep kids busy; no, according to researchers at The Search Institute,  they provide vital building blocks called the Forty Developmental Assets, those preventative measures, positive experiences, and personal qualities that young people need to grow up to be healthy, caring and responsible. The more assets such as support, empowerment, positive value and identity that a child has, the higher the probability they will avoid being caught up in substance abuse, delinquent behavior, or dropping out of school. 

 

As for our Lizzie, one day, when laboring to birth her first baby or taking the bar exam, perhaps she will remember these first soccer games, knowing there are people in her corner, cheering her on. She will innately understand that just as she reached down deep within herself and ran back onto the soccer field, so too can she face whatever challenge lies before her with courage and determination. Might this be so for all children.  

 

We Remember and We Shiver

I keep a short list of ideas for this column on a scrap of paper on my desk, but those topics got bumped this week. The unfolding story of sexual harassment and New York’s Governor Andrew Cuomo has revealed some cobwebs in my mind that I thought I’d swept out long before my seventh decade of life. We remember, and we shiver. Thus, a trigger warning for those who are shivering in light of the news reports from New York.

 

Like the women in Cuomo’s circle as outlined in the AG’s report, like nearly every woman my age or indeed, of all ages, I have personal experience with sexual harassment and abuse. The images are  faded but vivid. A man fumbling with his zipper in the darkened confines of a Greyhound bus. Repeated kisses on the lips when greeted by an older colleague. The stubble of whisker brushing against the cheek in the long embrace of a community leader. Trembling while reading the obituary of a man who groomed and abused fifty years ago. Even after many years, we still smell the sweat mingling with aftershave, taste the salt of our confused tears. The body remembers.

 

For my age cohort, the images are complicated due to the lack of vocabulary available for a girl coming of age in the 1960s and early 1970s. In high school, certain boys were known to have “roamin’ hands and rushin’ fingers,” and we developed tactics to slow down the boyfriends who wrestled with the buttons of our blouses and their own raging hormones. But when those hands and fingers belonged to an uncle, a teacher, or a youth group leader, we had few words to use for their insistent touch. What do we say? Who do we tell?

 

As we got older, the hands continued to touch, now joined by off-color words and workplace demands. Writing in her column last week, USA Today’s Connie Schultz tackled this subject, and told of an incident of sexual harassment in the newsroom years ago that she initially attempted to ignore. However, when she witnessed similar actions towards a young intern, she realized that her own lack of response had made her an enabler of her boss’ advances. 

 

I bristled against that description. When used regarding addiction, an enabler implicitly accepts the abuse and allows it to continue. Since when should a victim, often with limited resources, less experience, and little power, get described as an enabler? Am I my brother’s keeper?

 

The answer is complicated. Many victims are not in a position to confront the behavior, nor should they ignore the fear they feel, as they have genuine reasons to be afraid. And, as Robin Williams repeatedly tells the long-abused Will (Matt Damon) in “Good Will Hunting,” “it’s not your fault.”

Unwanted sexual advances, whether defined as harassment or abuse, are not the fault or responsibility of the recipient, even when guilt and shame repeat the lie. 

 

But when do we have the responsibility to act, even knowing it’s not our fault? Often, as Schultz describes, it comes when another is in danger, is suffering. Ashland writer Sarah Wells pointed me to the work of Mark Labberton in “The Dangerous Act of Loving Your Neighbor.” He writes about suffering that relies “on the complicity and distraction of our ordinary hearts.” Ouch. As Wells explains, this overwhelming suffering is “too much for one person to carry . . . all the suffering in the world is not mine to bear. But some of it is.” What Labberton suggests is that we pick one focus, and make the work of justice for that single injustice the passion of our heart.

 

Our work of justice may expose a hostile work environment or care for the Afghan refugee. It plants a garden, submits a letter to the editor, or teaches a child to read, and stands in solidarity with one who suffers. Henri Nouwen reminds us that “courage often starts in small corners,” and that image offers hope as we take a step forward, establish our rhythm, and join hands with allies. Once again, MILCK’s words echo: “I can’t keep quiet . . .”  

Saving Face

The iconic music begins with the timpani’s introduction to Leo Arnaud’s “Bugler’s Dream,” followed by the brilliant chords of the trumpeters. Then, as composer John Williams describes, the enchanting and empowering notes of his “Olympic Fanfare and Theme” express the “struggle that ennobles all of us.” From the last days of July through the first week in August, the Olympic Games of 2021 provided hundreds of ennobling moments as athletes from around the world swam, ran, dove, hurdled, jumped, twisted and wrestled their way into the record books. 

 

We’re proud of our local ties to the games, as Ashlanders cheered loudly as AU alumni Katie Nagoette cleared the bar of the pole vault at 16’ 1” to claim gold for Team USA. In the high jump, Mutaz Essa Barshim of Qatar and Gianmarco Tamberi of Italy offered to share the gold medal after many jumps left them tied for the top prize. Simone Biles helped us understand the mental aspects of gymnastics, teaching us that “the twisties” are more than twist ties for the bread bag. And in a less-than satisfactory performance, Saint Boy turned out to be not much of a saint when the horse refused to make any jumps in the pentathlon, leaving German athlete Annika Schleu in tears. 

 

Speaking of tears, another Olympic story caught my attention, as it described the reactions of some of the Japanese athletes. Kenichiro Fumita, a Greco-Roman wrestler, sobbed after winning a silver medal: “I ended up with this shameful result. I’m so sorry.” As in, “I’m so ashamed because I’m not the best in the world, I’m only second-best.” Wow!

 

I tend to consider an athletic endeavor as shameful if I face-plant ten steps into a run around the block, not as “only” a silver medal in the Olympics. But for Fumita, not only did he lose the match; he also “lost face,” a public humiliation.

 

The concept of losing or saving face plays a large role in Chinese and Japanese cultures, but it’s also alive and well in the United States. I had an instance with a boss many years ago where a public disagreement led to his loss of face. In hindsight, I should have known better, not just to protect a fragile ego, but because it hurt our working relationship from that point on. Once lost, “face” is difficult to regain. It’s tempting to suggest the other person just “get over it,” but a perceived experience of shame or humiliation is not easily forgotten. Often, it becomes easier to reach towards revenge than forgiveness.

 

In her book, “Saving Face: How to Preserve Dignity and Build Trust,” Maya Hu-Chansuggests that “face” represents a person’s self-esteem, reputation, status, and dignity. She  outlines a “BUILD” strategy that includes benevolence and accountability, understanding (seeing from another’s perspective), interacting, learning and delivery – walking the talk. Somehow, we must find ways to preserve dignity and respect for those we disagree with, thus “saving face” for both of us.

 

We live in a time when strong opinions rule. We feel passionately about the Indians and/or the Guardians, as well as mayo versus Miracle Whip, not hesitating to expound loudly on those preferences. To which we answer, “to each his own.” Live and let live.

 

Consider the concept of “saving face” in relation to the COVID-19 vaccination. Because of the politicized nature of the pandemic and the vaccine roll-out, many have taken a vocal position on the debate, using shame as a powerful tool. Within some camps, changing one’s mind on the vaccine is ridiculed. I wonder, with the increased contagion of the delta variant, might some unvaccinated people struggle with losing face if they decide to get the vaccine ? Instead of racking up mountains of hurtful exchanges with each other, could we call a ceasefire of judgement? No ridicule, no shame for changing one’s mind? Could we release our concerns over losing or saving face, and focus instead on saving life? If indeed the Olympics can symbolize the struggle that ennobles all of us, as composer John Williams believes, then might our battle against the Corona ennoble, honor, and dignify who we are as humans? 

In His Time

A young friend provided some much needed guidance on her Facebook post this week: She is awaiting the birth of her third child, who still has a few weeks in protective custody before he’s due to make his appearance. She warned, “If I see you in person this next week, I am fully aware of how ‘ready to pop’ I look, and I’m positive there is only one” [bun in the oven]. 

 

Thirty-eight years ago today, I was very, very pregnant, and as I would soon discover, only one day away from welcoming Andrew John Shade to our family. Happy birthday, Drew! It had been a hot July, and I was more than ready to deliver that baby. I was convinced that July 1983 had more than thirty-one days in it.

 

All these years later, I’m well past my child-bearing years, but I’m still giving birth from time to time as writing projects come to fruition. My latest book, “The House of Women: A Feminine Presence Under King David’s Roof,” has taken longer than anything else I’ve written, longer than nine months of human pregnancy, longer than the twenty-two months an elephant waits to birth her young, and longer than the female frilled shark, who carries her babies up to three and a half years before giving birth.

 

I’m in good company in the “taking forever to write a book” business. J.K. Rowling spent five years developing the complex culture of Harry Potter, while The Lord of the Ringswas sixteen years in the making as Tolkien imagined the world that has enchanted readers for decades. With that in mind, I better start working on my grand novel today!

 

As someone who writes a regular newspaper column every week, how could it possibly take me ten years to complete a book? I do have a streak of procrastination in me, but ten years? Perhaps it had something to do with the scope of the project. In an earlier book, The Other Woman, I attempted to draw out Hagar’s story from two Genesis chapters, but now I was tackling an entire family system as I looked at every biblical woman who had a connection to King David of Old Testament fame. Since David lived in a time when polygamy was accepted, especially for powerful men, he had a number of wives and concubines (secondary wives), as well as grandmothers, a daughter, and even a beautiful woman to warm the elderly king’s cold bed. 

 

Much of my prep time was spent in research, determining what scholars have to say about these women. But I was also able to turn to a favorite pastime, day-dreaming, as I imagined what life was like centuries ago. Was it possible to learn anything from these historical women who were so often at the margin of David’s life? Three hundred and thirty pages later, I guess I found my answer to that question. 

 

I follow Heather Cox Richardson, a professor of nineteenth century American history, as she intertwines familiar and sometimes obscure moments in history with current-day political happenings. Her comparisons are striking as to how applicable the historical lessons are to us in 2021. So are the whispers I’ve heard over the past decade from women with names such as Abigail, Tamar, Michal, Bathsheba and Rizpah. As I wrote about their experiences with an abusive spouse, a rape-intent brother, a fickle husband, a demanding summons from the king, and a heart-wrenching loss, I thought of so many I know who are walking a similar path to these ancient sisters. Yes, historical voices have much to teach us. 

 

When my kids were little, we’d often sing along with the Psalty cassette from Maranatha Music, and Linda Ball’s words came to mind as I put the finishing touches on my book: “In his time, in his time, he makes all things beautiful in his time.” For the “ready to pop” mom, the lumbering elephant, the frilled shark, and the sluggish author, that’s a promise. Yes, good things do come to those who wait.