A Drowning Joy

As I picked a bouquet of lilacs for our home, I was reminded of my mother. She enjoyed bringing a glimpse of beauty in from her garden, with a sprig of lily-of-the-valley beside her recliner or a single yellow rose in the slim bud vase on the kitchen table. She also kept up with holiday décor; red, white and blue bunting, ceramic bunnies and eggs, and lace-rimmed hearts and cupids in place well before the designated holidays. 

As for me, I embody my dad’s frequent pronouncement: “a day late and a dollar short.” I fully intend to pick daffodils or pull out the tub of patriotic decorations, but I don’t always do so on a timely basis. As I sit down to write this week, I’m feeling like the “better late than never” relative whose birthday card seldom arrives on time (guilty as charged). 

In the days since we celebrated Mother’s Day, I’ve been thinking a lot about mothers. Stand at the display racks overflowing with flowery verses on greeting cards, or scroll through the endless waves of tributes on Facebook, and the naïve observer might conclude that we live in a culture of perfect mothers and ever-grateful children. 

Yet that assumption fails to recognize that on Mother’s Day, Hallmark, American Greetings, and children of all ages across America take the high road, at least for one day. Mothers across America do as well, choking down burnt toast and proclaiming it to be the best breakfast in bed they’ve ever had. In turn, children across America do their best to reach for their ideal of a mother, joining the lovely Madelyn Simone in this affirmation: “As you can see, my mom is special because she’s the best mom I had ever have.” Grammar issues aside, Madelyn’s eight-year-old wisdom captures a precious connection desired between mother and children.

However, the reality is that Mother’s Day is also tinged with loss – lost mothers, lost sons and daughters, lost dreams. That loss comes in many forms. A friend of a Facebook friend posted about their friend, Broadway actress Ruthie Ann Miles, who lost her four-year-old daughter in a tragic accident in Brooklyn two months ago, which critically injured Ms. Miles, seven months pregnant. Now, just days before Mother’s Day, Miles’ unborn child has died. Unimaginable loss.

The death of a child forever marks a mother (and a father as well), yet my heart also breaks for mothers whose children are alive, yet consumed by the world of addiction, the terror of domestic violence, the grip of mental illness, or the estrangement of selfishness or irresponsible choices. Theologians often debate the meaning of Genesis 3, but these women experience the unending truth of its words, “with pain you will give birth to children,” a pain mothers innately understand does not end in the delivery room.

Yet motherhood also brings a drowning joy. In my work-in-progress novel, the main character, an attorney turned Salvation Army officer, wrestles with the reality of motherhood. “These tiny humans, so dependent in their first months of life, can pretty much terrorize their parents.” But she also knows the truth of Mary Gordon’s words: “Nothing has ever been more powerful, nothing has ever been more dangerous [than mother love] and it takes her entirely by surprise . . . the exhaustion, the boredom . . . these are nothing compared to the drowning joy.”

Since Mother’s Day occurs on Sunday each year, churches traditionally recognize mothers with a carnation or a potted plant. Wanting to be sensitive to those with empty wombs, empty arms, and empty hearts, some choose to focus on the essence of motherhood rather than the physical experience of childbirth. As Mary Lee Downey expresses: “every single one of us, when we are nurturing, caring, empathetic, when we hold our friends and family close – we mother.”

Mother’s Day 2018 is history. Its flowers are fading and its sentiments may quickly be forgotten, but the reality of the drowning joy and the depth of pain experienced by those who dare to enter that dangerous mother-love reaches far beyond the second Sunday in May. Maybe I’m not really a day late after all.

Down in the River to Pray

Growing up in a Buffalo suburb, I was spoiled by my home’s proximity to the mighty Niagara River. Five short blocks, and I could ride my bike along its banks, skip stones, or simply sit on its shore and ponder the mysteries of heaven and earth. In the intervening years, I’ve moved through New York, Pennsylvania and Ohio, seeking out places the Celts call a thin space, where the human spirit is able to touch the divine. Due to geographic restrictions, this space has seldom been defined by rushing waters, although vacation has allowed for sacred times at the Atlantic, the Pacific (one awesome visit), and even a magical trip to “the bonny, bonny banks of Loch Lomond.” 

As I’ve entered new communities as well as welcomed new phases of life, I’ve had to search out those places of respite, sometimes simply the rocking chair in the corner of a darkened living room long after our children’s bedtime, or the stillness of a bench under the spreading canopy of the cemetery’s mighty maple. During my seminary days in Ashland, I happily discovered the ATS Prayer Garden, nestled alongside the south wall of the library. After cramming my mind with knowledge in the stacks of books, I was glad for the opportunity to refresh my spirit in the quiet of the prayer garden.

Now one of my favorite places of respite has received a facelift, as current seminary student Kathy Kollar and classmates have spearheaded its restoration to honor one of its beloved professors, Dr. JoAnn (Jody) Ford Watson, Ashland Theological Seminary’s H.R. Gill Family Professor of Theology and Spiritual Formation. I’ve been privileged to sit under the anointed teaching of Dr. Watson, and our mutual name (which our mothers even spelled the same), our connections within the community, and our shared appreciation for Henri Nouwen, Mother Teresa, and the role of women in ministry, have allowed me to call her friend and sister. She’s a sister kind of girl, and even titled one of her early books, “Sister to Sister,” a volume that provides a spiritual formation resource based upon the narratives of biblical women. 

Watson has led the way for many of her sisters in faith and life, beginning in her days at Princeton Theological Seminary and Northwestern University, where women were a small minority of those studying theology. Returning to her hometown of Ashland to join the seminary faculty, she became the first tenured female professor at that institution. As an ordained Presbyterian minister, she was among the first women to serve the church in its pulpit and pastoral ministry.

But when I think of Jody Watson, I don’t think of her degrees or her pioneering status in the church and the seminary. Instead, the Jody Watson I know is living a life epitomized by the word “encouragement.” Put aside any accolades, duly deserved. This is not a woman (like some who strive for a certain status in life) who has stomped on the fingers of those trying to follow her “up the ladder” of success in her field. Instead, she has been a cheerleader in the best sense, the giver of enthusiasm and courage, who has both led the way and walked alongside others, inside and outside the classroom.  

As a friend recently said to me, it is the end of an era at ATS. It is hard to imagine the seminary without the presence of JoAnn Ford Watson. But wait. I’m hearing an echo, for I’m sure similar words were spoken a generation earlier, when Watson’s mother, Dr. Lucille Ford, retired from the Ashland University campus. If Dr. Ford’s experience in retirement is any indicator, I can’t wait to see how Dr. Watson’s post-retirement life unfolds. 

Bungee-jumping? A new book or two? It wouldn’t surprise me. But as she enters retirement, we just may find Jody Watson sitting on a bench in a prayer garden, extending the healing and courage-giving grace of God. And if we listen carefully, we may hear her softly singing with Alison Krauss: “O sisters, let’s go down, let’s go down, come on down; O sisters, let’s go down, down in the river to pray.”

Nepotism or Family Ties?

More than three decades ago, Larry and I were blessed with a husband and wife team as pediatricians for our young sons. Ashland had its own long-time physician couple in Drs. Henry and Vera Chalfant, and currently, Drs. Danielle and Doug Raber work in the same medical practice.

Family connections are common in many professions, such as medicine, the military, the practice of law, law enforcement, and education. A similar thread runs within ministry, as sons and daughters often follow in the sacred footsteps of their parents. Clergy couples are also becoming more evident, a role Larry and I were fortunate to share, as the doors to ordination have opened wider for women in recent years. 

Government, public service, and politics can also be a “family business.” Historically, royal families ruled countries for generations, with majesty and authority being transferred based upon blood lines, with little consideration for the actual ability of the heir to govern. Many still remain enchanted with the United Kingdom’s royal family, as interest has surged with the upcoming marriage of Prince Harry and American actress Meghan Markle. 

Certain American families have brought a dynastic flavor to our country’s politics as well, with the early father-son presidential team of John and John Quincy Adams, and the more recent examples of the Kennedy brothers and offspring, and the Bush political lineage. As in other fields, it’s no surprise when a child follows in the footsteps of a parent’s achievement – just look at the potential awaiting the sons of Shaq and LeBron.

But I’m not sure we’ve figured out what to do with married couples whose lives overlap with political ambition. In the twentieth century, the expectations for a political wife were unspoken yet clear, and Barbara Bush fulfilled them well. Upon her recent death, her son, former president George W. Bush, wrote: “Barbara Bush was a fabulous First Lady and a woman unlike any other who brought levity, love, and literacy to millions.” Sesame Street responded as well: “Barbara Bush and Big Bird shared more than the same initials – they shared a love of friends and family, of teaching children their ABCs, of helping others, and a generosity of spirit.” The consensus: Barbara Bush fit the role of FLOTUS well.

But in the twenty-first century, norms are changing. While best evidenced in Hillary Clinton’s campaign for the presidency, the Clintons are not alone in their role as a political power couple. Senate majority leader Mitch McConnell is married to Elaine Chao, a former Secretary for Labor and current Secretary for Transportation. Mercedes Schlapp, the director of strategic communications at the White House, and husband Matt Schlapp, chair of the American Conservative Union, both lean quite right, but do disagree at times. Following what Mercedes saw as a campaign faux pas by her husband near election day in 2016, she called him out with this message: “You’re benched.” Apparently they’ve worked that out. 

One exception to the assumption that married couples in D.C. should stay on the same side of the aisle is the Matalin/Carville romance. James Carville was instrumental in Bill Clinton’s victory over George Bush in 1992, who had been assisted in his campaign by Mary Matalin. Despite their obvious political differences, they married the next year, and have found ways to make the marriage and their careers work.

Is it possible to see the partners in a marriage as two separate people? Can Kelly Anne Conway’s husband George express less-than-flattering opinions about her boss on Twitter without her job being endangered? Should contributions made to Jill McCabe’s campaign be criticized because she was married to an FBI agent? 

With nearly 60% more women running for the House and Senate this year compared to the 2016 election cycle, it’s time to allow individuals to rise and fall on their own accord, regardless of gender, marital status, or family ties. Yes, it’s complicated. Yes, perception often matters as much as reality. But if educators, physicians and lawyers can avoid sensitive pillow talk, separating their professional lives from their marriages, so can political spouses. 

With that sorted out, we can make plans to watch the royal wedding, two weeks from today. Can’t wait to see THE DRESS!

Teach On!

“The Farmer in the Dell” is a favorite song this week for the delightful and determined Elizabeth Holiday. If I think too deeply about its words, my feminist leanings wince at the farmer “taking” a wife, rather than marriage being a mutual decision between two consenting adults, but sometimes, I just think too deeply. After all, it is only a children’s rhyme (food for thought for another day). 

I am grateful for the mutual choosing that gave us two beloved daughters-in-law. Lauren, wife of Greg, officially entered our family circle almost ten years ago, and, much like Kate Middleton has done so beautifully, solidified her position of honor by producing heirs, the lovely Madelyn Simone and the aforementioned Elizabeth. Becky, wife of Dan, is newer to the Shade clan, and is currently utilizing her nurturing abilities as a teacher at Southgate School in Canton. We were delighted that her school district, the Stark Board of Developmental Disabilities, selected her as Rookie Teacher of the Year. Woohoo!

Each year, the Stark County Education Service Center invites hundreds of family members, friends, and colleagues to its Education Celebration, where its many districts honor their best rookie prospects, and select a more experienced classroom veteran as teacher of the year. Given the many challenges faced by teachers in today’s culture, the excitement of the newbies and the commitment to their profession as expressed by veteran teachers was especially encouraging. 

As long-time educator Mike Gallina spoke that night, he described the role of teachers as being brokers of hope. That phrase caught my attention. How is it possible to arrange a deal for hope? After all, hope isn’t a commodity to be traded or sold. Yet a broker is also an intermediary, one who links one person to another, or, in this case, one who links a child to hope. 

In Gallina’s eyes, hope-brokering requires a commitment to excellence: setting expectations, dreaming, risking, and caring. The expectations come early. In Mrs. Frank’s kindergarten class, we were expected to raise our hands and to wait our turn at the drinking fountain. In Mrs. Ditmer’s first grade classroom, we were expected to trace our letters in a consistent manner so that others could read our writing (an early struggle for me). The expectations of Mrs. Rowe’s AP English class set the bar higher: this is how you write to succeed in college, in life.

Dreams? Miss Creighton took the French Club to Montreal and Quebec City. Mrs. Taylor invited select students to join the local semi-professional orchestra. Mrs. Lucsok challenged her students to reach the nearly unattainable goal of a perfect Regent’s exam score in geometry. These dream-giving teachers personified John Lennon’s words, “You may say I’m a dreamer, but I’m not the only one.” 

And what of risk in the classroom? The duck and cover drills of my childhood (useless in the event of a nuclear attack) pale in comparison to today’s active shooter drills. Today’s classrooms may bring an increased physical risk to teacher, that’s only a small part of what Gallina was suggesting. Committed educators expose themselves to danger, harm, or loss every day, as they face the fallout from poverty, broken families, and the opioid epidemic, the demands of standardized testing, the unrelenting influence of media and technology, and the threat of compassion fatigue. 

I suppose I had a few teachers along the way who were in the profession for the money (?), job security, or even summers off. But they’re not the ones I remember. Instead, I remember Miss Kramer, whose tearful yet calming presence on the day JFK was assassinated colors that moment in time with care. I remember Mr. Hurley, the elementary school principal who came to my rescue after a massive wipeout on my bicycle outside his office window on a hot summer day. That kind of caring isn’t written into any job description, yet it’s on display every day in classrooms across our country.

Malala Yousafzai says it best: “One child, one teacher, one book, one pen can change the world.” I’m glad the newest Mrs. Shade has joined that revolution, brokering hope one day, one child at a time.

Older Than Dirt?

The headline on a recent news article read: “Joe Biden Refuses to Rule Out White House Run in 2020.” My spontaneous response was audible: “Come on, Joe. You’re too old to run for president in 2020.” I like Joe Biden in many ways. He’s Scranton, Pennsylvania-born, and when first elected to the Senate in 1972 in quite an upset, he became the sixth youngest senator in American history. He commuted by train daily from Delaware, the state he represented until he became the Vice President in 2009. Biden is no stranger to tragedy, having lost his wife and infant daughter to a car/tractor-trailer accident shortly after winning his senate seat, and his son to cancer before the 2016 election. And I love the hilarious memes featuring the Obama/Biden bromance. 

But here’s my problem: I was a junior in high school when Biden came to the Senate. He’s more than a decade older than I am, and I already have my Golden Buckeye card. In 2020, he’ll be seventy-eight years old.Replace Joe Biden’s name with septuagenarians Bernie Sanders (76), Hillary Clinton (70), Mitt Romney (71), Mitch McConnell (76), or Donald Trump (71), and my reaction is similar: “Move out of the way and let someone younger have a chance in 2020.” In comparison, Elizabeth Warren, disparagingly labeled “Granny” by the Boston Herald, is a young’un at 68.

Have I come to the place where I think that anyone who is older than I am is too old to run for president of the United States? Does age matter? Should age matter? After all, Cicero (106-43 B.C.) reminds us, “it is not by muscle, speed, or physical dexterity that great things are achieved, but by reflection, force of character, and judgement; and in these qualities old age is usually not only not poorer, but is even richer.” If so, perhaps this is discriminatory thinking on my part. After all, how old is “too old”?

The Army has a maximum enlistment age of 39, and draws the line for active service at age 62. Pilots must retire by age 66. The average retirement age for NBA players is mid to late thirties, but following LeBron’s 46-point playoff performance this week at age 33, I’m glad he’s sticking around for a while.

Yet what I’ve discovered is that it’s illegal to require retirement based on age in most professions. Under the Age Discrimination in Employment Act, mandatory retirement is not allowed unless there is a Bona Fide Occupational Qualification (like a pilot or air traffic controller) or the individual is 65 and a “Bona Fide Executive” or in a “High Policymaking Position.” Hmm.

Of course, we all know some amazing “older adults.” Ashland’s own Dr. Lucille Ford is the perfect example. When she retired from her position as Provost at Ashland University, she went back to school and earned a degree in pastoral counseling. Then she founded the Ashland County Community Foundation, where she served for seventeen years. Now in her nineties, she remains active and well-read, and she’s just been inducted into the Ohio Foundation of Independent Colleges’ Hall of Excellence. Amazing.

Yet what I know about myself is that in my 60s, I’m beginning to feel my age. My energy is waning, my reactions are slowing down, and I don’t have the energy I had at 30 or even 50. My anti-discriminatory mind says age shouldn’t matter, but my gut tells me it does. It may not be fair, but sometimes life isn’t fair. 

Consider the story of hijab-wearing basketball player Bilqis Abdul-Qaadir. A college star, upon graduation she was faced with an International Basketball Federation ban on head-coverings on the basketball court. She chose to fight that rule rather than give up her religious commitment. But by the time it was finally overturned, ‘it was too late for her to go pro,” NPR reports. Instead, at twenty-seven, “Abdul-Qaadir is now using her skills to teach the next generation how to play.” 

Sometimes it’s just too late, and the window of opportunity closes. The question for 2020 is, when is it time to graciously step aside and make room for the next generations? 

O Mr. Sun

On February 2, 2018, Northeast Ohio residents groaned in unison when that nefarious groundhog emerged from his den, saw his shadow, and superstitiously predicted six more weeks of winter. Regrettably, his prediction has been further delayed, for huge snowflakes are falling past my window as I’m writing on April 9, nearly ten weeks after his celebrated shadow-sighting.

Spring, O Spring, where for art thou Spring? Whether we borrow Shakespeare’s language or not, the arrival of spring has been teasing us for weeks, and we’re done with its endless taunting, although the images and numbers on my phone’s weather report may not be. I’m finishing these words on Thursday, with a high of 69. Friday is 77, sun peeking out. Saturday, 68, rain. Sunday, 61, thunderstorms. Monday, April 15^th, 40 degrees and those pesky snowflakes. Really? 

Seasonal Affective Disorder (SAD) is the mental health diagnosis for those who exhibit depressive symptoms at the same time each year, most commonly in the winter. Even if we don’t meet the clinical criteria for SAD, by this point in April, we’re ready for the lack of energy and our craving for carbs to be over. Snow-kissed trees in April are not beautiful, Mr. Winter. Go away.

Time to stop whining. The Spring Equinox took place at 12:15 p.m. on March 20^th, and the signs of spring are at work around us, relegating winter to its proper place. Spring clean-up has been filling Ashland tree lawns with all kinds of treasures, ripe for the picking. Cabin fever is departing, as are the worst cases of flu. 

By April, the A&W has been open for weeks, and sightings of Lerch’s donut trailers are occurring regularly. I bought my first dozen in front of Planet Fitness in Wooster, a rather ironic location. Ashland is welcoming its newest ice cream this weekend, as Whit’s Frozen Custard opens to the public. With a fleeting look at their sign this week, my eyes missed the “1” before the “3,” and my ice cream-seeking radar forced me into the driveway, only to realize they were still washing windows and doing last-minute prep for the weekend grand opening. Welcome to Ashland! I was disappointed to see no sign of life at the ice cream stand on Cottage Street, only a “for sale” sign. Wouldn’t it be fun to sell ice cream for six months a year, seeing your name in lights? Debbie’s Dariette or Carlton’s Creamery? But I digress.

One of the joys of spring is the faithful re-appearance of hardy perennials. I’m glad a previous owner of our new house planted the purple crocuses and yellow daffodils that have greeted me already. Lauren and Greg have delicate lily-of-the-valley, a sweet-smelling reminder of my mother’s patch of the same flower, while Dan and Becky have forsythia in bloom already. I’m not a horticulture expert, but a friend thinks we have a lilac bush at the end of our driveway. I hope she’s right, as those ever-present April showers will soon bring May flowers, and spring will be in full bloom.

A traditional sign of spring in bloom in Ashland is the United Way’s annual Ring in Spring at the fairgrounds on May 4^thand 5^th. This year’s fun begins on Friday night, with a Phil Dirt and the Dozers concert. We can run a 5K in support of domestic violence initiatives, eat carb-laden Kiwanis pancakes or sample local food truck fare, test-drive a new car or truck, check out the Truckin’ in the Spring truck and car show, bid wildly at the auction, and discover those “just what you need” flea market bargains. And since it’s scheduled for May, spring should (hopefully) be fully present. It’s about time.

As Madeleine Kunin reminds us, “. . . winter will be forced to relent, once again, to the new beginnings of soft greens, longer light, and the sweet air of spring.” As the lovely Madelyn Simone and the delightful Elizabeth Holiday know, Mr. Sun will answer their pleas and will soon be shining down on us with a smile. And just think: before we know it, we’ll be singing along with Ella Fitzgerald, “it’s too darn hot,” because, after all, this is Ohio.  

Tasting Our Words

I’ve always been fascinated with the development of language, and was the recipient of an up close and personal view as my boys learned to talk. Now at eight and two, I’m getting a refresher course with our granddaughters. While the lovely Madelyn Simone has been chatty Cathy for years, she’s now discovering a bonus voice in the written word, reading chapter books and composing her own stories. She enjoys creating Saturday morning menus for our breffixt, with pancakes, backen, and orgene juce. Delicious. 

As for the delightful and determined Elizabeth Holiday, we’re being treated to a front row seat as she tries out new expressions each day. She’s expanding her vocabulary through song, belting out “Let It Go” with Elsa, and entertaining us with the finger play, “Where is pumpkin?” aka thumpkin. She even sang along at Super Bowl halftime as Justin Timberlake crooned “Can’t Stop that Feelings,” a toddler fan favorite from “Trolls.”

We never quite know what’s going to come out of her mouth, a concept Art Linkletter turned into a popular segment on “House Party” years ago, hosting the “Kids Say the Darndest Things” feature. Just this week, Elizabeth recounting being scared by an animated dinosaur at the McKinley Museum. “Nana, I freaked out, I freaked out,” she loudly proclaimed.  

What’s been especially noticeable with this little one is that humans aren’t born with a built-in language filter. Taking the girls home recently, she sat in her car seat and boldly pronounced, “shut up, shut up, shut up.” As badly as I wanted to laugh out loud, I had to muffle my chuckle and let her know those were not good words to use, especially when directed at her Pop-Pop. Her big sister quickly made it clear: “That’s not appropriate, Elizabeth.”

When we were first married, my husband would sometimes quote an elderly friend who was well known for saying: “If I think it, I might as well say it.” “No,” I would argue, “we need to filter what we say before we say it.” There’s a reason the Bible contains extensive instructions about the use of the tongue, such as the words from James, “everyone should be quick to listen, slow to speak and slow to become angry,” and from Matthew 15, “you are defiled by the words that come out of your mouth.” Perhaps we are defined by the words that come out of our mouths as well. 

Is it possible to be honest in our words while still utilizing a filter for our speech? After all, some argue that only small children, drunk people, and yoga pants tell the truth. Yet biblical wisdom suggests it is possible to speak the truth in love, and experience tells us we can receive the truth about ourselves more readily when we know the truth-teller is on our side. 

But sometimes, words are spoken to us or about us with the intent to hurt, words meant to damage us. Then what? We do have some playground-tested responses to use, such as “I’m rubber, you’re glue, everything you say bounces off of me and sticks to you,” or “sticks and stones may break my bones but names will never hurt me.” Columnist Connie Schultz remembers her mother telling her, “when a boy starts calling you names, it’s because he has a crush on you.” Those words may be of some comfort to an eleven-year-old at recess, but as adults, we understand that words don’t bounce off of us, name-calling can damage well-earned reputations, and a crush from a mean boy can lead to an abusive marriage and the crush of domestic violence. 

The challenge with our choice of words, especially in social media, e-mail and text, is that we have no feedback from the recipient’s face, no big sister naming our words as inappropriate, and no grandmother correcting our choice of words. Like toothpaste, once squeezed out, there’s no going back. So if your lips feels loose or your twitter finger starts twitching, remember this free advice from my grandmother lips to your ears (attributed to anonymous). “Be sure to taste your words before you spit them out.”