WAITING FOR BABY

Every night, I lay in my bed wondering if this night is going to be the birthdate of my first grandchild.  I don’t remember anticipating so much during my own pregnancy, but I’m sure I probably did.

I am glad I came as early as I did as it has given me at least 2 weeks to establish kind of a routine and to set up my living space to be as comfortable and organized for me to survive.  

Every day is a surprise for me.  On Mon., Wed., and Fridays, I try to get up at 7 am, do my PT, eat some breakfast (usually a bowl of Cheerios), open the living room curtains, brush my teeth, and organize my gym bag to go to the YMCA for a 9am water fitness class.  After the class, I take my daily shower, come home and have lunch (a protein shake) and then either rest, write, listen to audible books, or work on chores (watering all plants, cleaning the living room, and cleaning the main floor bath are my chores.)  Sometimes other things “come up.”  I have spent a couple of afternoons with one of my housemates who I view as the “pain management” guru.  She has introduced me to acupuncture, cupping, brushing, and massage ball use.  I am trying a number of these for my arthritis pain—trying to stay as open as possible as I learn of new possible treatments.

My pain has actually been less here, but since I am trying so many strategies for pain management, I’m not actually sure what is working best.  The fact that I have been totally off sugar for two weeks is what I believe is helping the most.

On Tuesdays and Thursdays, I start my morning routine around 9am so I can hit the YMCA for a 10:30 Zumba class.  The afternoons are all basically and pleasantly the same with a call to friends in Michigan interspersed here and there.

In the mornings, the house starts to creak alive around 5 am as some of the housemates head off for work, but then quiets down after 9 and starts coming alive again when people return from work around 5 or 6 pm.  But the kitchen will start talking mid afternoon when whoever is responsible for dinner starts cooking.  The smells drift into the living room and tempt my appetite such that when dinner is announced at 6:30 pm, I am usually the first one at the table which is usually set for 6-9 people but could seat as many as 20.

Dinner is begun with a moment of silence and then followed by the lighting of a candle.  We have different faiths present in the house and all are welcome and honored.

After eating, we all gather in the kitchen to wash dishes, prepare lunches for the next day, dry dishes, clean the stove, sweep the floor, and put food and dried dishes away.  We all work around the 1-year old who is always welcome and most often likes to sit in the center of the chaos.  

Following the cleanup, I like to read with the 1-year old if it is convenient to her schedule for the day.  She is a beautiful child that I will refer to as “G”.  She refers to me as Grandmere Odie and her mother is a daughter in my heart.  So that makes “G” the grandchild of my heart.

I read to “G” books that are intentionally inclusive and beautifully representing the best we have to offer in our world.  Her favorite word is “baby,” which she will whisper in a very serious manner as she grabs my heart with her big black eyes.  Everything about her is beautiful, which only makes sense since her mother is a beautiful, strong woman, making her way in this world the best she can.  Maybe someday, I will have the privilege of telling her story, but for now, I need to honor her with privacy.

When labor begins, the plan is for Sarah and Ali to spend the first part of labor here at the house accompanied by their “doula.”  Their doula will then drive them to the birthing center (40 miles away), and I will meet them there, driving another car with the infant seat.  This is also the moment I will call Michael, who will then start to drive to Baltimore in my car with a few more items that I may need this winter.

At the birthing center, I will “hang out” in the lounge area, checking in periodically with the girls  and to take a few pictures.  Eventually, the baby will come (it was due Oct. 1) and who knows what the schedule will be after that!  

But then each night when I go to bed, I will at least know the birthdate of my first grandchild.

THE COMMUNITY

There has been much curiosity around the community in which I live. Years ago, we called them “communes,” and in today’s world, we call them “communities.” It is living as I have never believed I could.

Basically, in our six-bedroom, three-bathroom house (2 full baths), we have 9 adults and 1 child (soon to be 2) living. There are two couples sharing rooms and then everyone else has their own personal room (one adult shares with her child).

The house runs systematically. Each person is assigned weekly chores (rooms to clean, grocery shopping, bread baking, etc.).  Everyone has assigned cooking nights (mine is Thursday) and everyone is asked to attend at least 3 community dinners per week. We fix our own breakfast and lunch (using anything in the kitchen that is not marked reserved for a meal). We are asked to not buy personal food items to keep in the kitchen as the goal is to have all items available to anyone who wants them. We are encouraged to invite friends over for meals if we would like with the exception of Monday nights. Monday nights are “housemate night” when we have a meeting covering logistics that need to be brought up. We also use Monday night to be accountable for the chores we have done throughout the week and catch everyone up on what is happening in each of our lives. On the last Monday of each month, we have “game night” where we play a group game.  There are reasonable quiet hours, but, the house is old (built in 1911), so if there are people present, it speaks constantly through it’s consistent creaking. There is chestnut wood baseboard throughout the house and beautiful wooden parquet flooring. The living room is graced with and crown molding ceiling design as well as an croqn molding that is approximately 18 inches down on all four walls. The floor to ceiling windows look out to their small covered porch that houses a small picnic table and a porch swing.

My space is in the back part of the living room. The wooden pocket french doors are pulled closed at all times and there are curtains at the other entrance that can be closed when I desire privacy—otherwise it is invited to be a common space. The living room also has a small fireplace topped with a mirror that houses several green houseplants.

The dining room contains a large table, able to seat 9-20 of us if necessary. It also has a fireplace and a large window to the outside as well as built in bookcases that house a variety of books including vegetarian cookbooks and children’s board books. 

The kitchen is at the back of the house and even though it is small, we all manage to fit in there after each dinner—one person washing dishes, 2 people drying, 1-2 people using the leftovers to make lunches for everyone who wants them for the next day, 1 person cleaning the stove, 1-2 people putting dishes away, 1 person taking care of the garbage, 1 person taking care of the compost, 1 person sweeping the kitchen, and all of us working around the 1-year old toddling around trying to help. The work is generally done within 10 minutes after dinner is finished and the kitchen is ready for the next day’s cooking activities. If you cook for breakfast or lunch, you’re responsible for washing your dishes and then placing them in the dishwasher (which is used as a drying rack) and then the dishes are put away when the after dinner work is being completed.

All meals are vegetarian with a legume and dairy free option (to meet the dietary needs of members of the community). If you cook, you plan your meals around what is available in the house although you can request specific things to be bought if you plan your meal ahead.

Two people with full-time jobs own cars to transport themselves to their jobs, two people who work full-time ride bicycles (which hang from the ceiling in the large hallway and are lowered via a pulley-system every morning). There is also one car for community use that has been on loan for over a year. 

The backyard is full of native plants, a beautiful vegetable garden that is watered from the rain water in the rain barrel. It also has a fire pit and yes, even a few rats that show up every now and them (“Mom, just think of them as squirrels with long, skinny tails” my daughter encourages me.) And that is really helpful advice.

There are guidelines for communication and conflict resolutions and statements of support for the neighborhood community. There are also a few “non-negotiables—no televisions in common spaces and no excessive alcohol/drug use to name a few.

It is a positive, happy space. One of the housemates who spends a lot of time trying to manage her own pain with a variety of strategies has reached out to me in such positive ways teaching me and allowing me to try some of these strategies myself for my knee pain.

Since my mobility is so limited, I do not climb up the beautiful wooden three storied staircase or down the flight of steps to the laundry room in the basement. Sarah gathers my laundry once a week to wash with her own and I visit the YMCA daily not only for water exercise to help with mobility and range of motion, but also to take my daily shower. It all works!!!

Quite honestly, to be given this gift of engaging with such a positive, caring community in a healthy way along with the opportunities to make new friends at the YMCA, I honestly feel like I am being given a huge gift. I feel honored to have my daughter to want me here and my very favorite moments are the ones I have been able to share with her.

What more could a mom ask for?

                     THE LIES & LEGENDS OF HARRY CHAPIN

In 1984, Michael and I went to the Apollo Theater in Chicago, Illinois to the musical theatrical presentation of The Lies and Legends of Harry Chapin.

Harry Chapin was an American singer-songwriter, humanitarian, and producer best known for his folk rock and pop rock songs, who achieved worldwide success in the 1970s and became one of the most popular artists and highest paid performers.  He was killed at age 38 in a car accident.  

When we went to the play, I was struck by the beauty of his songs and the meaningfulness of his ballads. A warm feeling came over me as I listened to his music throughout the evening.  It was as if he had an inner communication with the world around him.  It was fresh and it was beautiful.   The experience was like eating from a buffet of unfamiliar foods.  Even though I was a teen ager during the time of his success, Harry Chapin was not a singer that I listened to, but watching this play highlight his life and music made something come alive inside of me that made the world seem like a better place and made colors appear more brilliant and beautiful.  I remember leaving the play that night and walking in the cool summer heat several blocks to our car feeling hope for the future and the highest intention to live my life aware of everything around me.  

I share this experience because this is how I feel living in a community with my daughter, her wife, and six other adults.  This is a concept totally foreign to me in my life and yet, I have been given this gift offering me this opportunity for the first 6-7 months of my grandchild's life.  

The community is made up of a diverse group of adults:  teacher, a youth/children's minister,  a nurse, an artist, a mathmatician, a couple, and a young woman seeking asylum.  Each person has gifts and talents they bring to the house,  caring spirits for each other,  Justice and acceptance for all, caring for the environment, and being the best they can be.  Along with the nine adults, there is a beautiful one year old and my soon-to-be grandchild. 

Living in community--it's kind of like hearing Harry Chapin for the first time.

DETAILING DETAILS

There are many details to deal with when moving to a new environment. I spent my first week amazed at living with people of color surrounding me and feeling very comfortable. I go to the YMCA every morning for water workouts or water zumba and I am overwhelmed at the kindness shown to me by everyone.

I have met several people that I greet when I go and some that I have had extensive conversations with.

John approached me in the water workout class, welcoming me my first day and making sure I knew what the exercises were but encouraging me to work at my own pace. Wayne and I immediately hit it off, teasing each other kindly. Harriet, a retired nurse, talked with me for awhile sharing some of the struggles of her retirement and encouraging me to stay with the water fitness class to help strengthen my body. When she learned I was going to be a grandma for the first time, I swear her excitement may have even exceeded mine. Such good people, so many potential good friends!

Growing up in the 1960’s, I have not always been comfortable with people of color. Memories of riots, rumbles, and even “Christian” teachings that we should not be “unequally yoked” lie deep within me. I used to use that as an excuse for my racism, but as I grew to love others and life itself, I realized we are all the same. We ALL matter...at least that is where I have been until now. The “black lives matter” slogan did not make a lot of sense to me until this past week.

As part of the detail of moving, I had to have my prescriptions changed from the Paw, Paw, MI Walgreens pharmacy to a Baltimore Walgreen’s Pharmacy. I stopped by last week to talk to them in Baltimore with my medications in tow to ask them how to do that. The young lady copied down all of my medication information and said they would take care of it. She later called for the phone number of the Paw Paw Pharmacy which I gave to her. The next day I had a message on my phone that they needed me to call them. I decided instead to stop by on Sunday afternoon to see what I could do to help expediate the process.

“How can I help you?” the pharmacist on duty asked. I noticed her name tag said, “Blessing E.” I told her who I was and asked if my prescription was ready.

“Well,” she said, “we faxed your information to the Pharmacy and they transferred everything, but did not include some information that we need to complete the order. Do you have their number by any chance?”

“I gave it to someone on the phone last week,” I said.

“Well, here let me do this,” and she proceeded to look the number up and call it herself. She waded through all the electronic prompts with the phone on speaker so I could hear what was going on.

“This is Walgreen’s in Baltimore and we need some information for a patient,” she said in her soft black accent. CLICK.

Paw Paw hung up.

“Why did they hang up?” I asked, shocked that she had waited so long to no avail.

“I have no idea” she said as she redialed. I stood there while the same conversation was repeated and once again, CLICK.

“What is going on?” I asked. “We have gone to that Pharmacy for the last two years with no problem, why do they keep doing that?”

“I don’t think they want to talk to me,” she said. She noticed my cane. “Why don’t you go sit down and wait. I will call again.” she said.

“Thank you.” I said, moving toward a seat to relieve my left knee.

Once again she called and in the middle of the conversation said, ‘Please don’t hang up on me again!’

Twenty minutes and three phone calls later Blessing E. finally had all the information she needed.

I turned to my daughter, Sarah, “Why do you think they kept hanging up on her? I am just doing what THEY told me to do when I left Michigan. It shouldn’t be this hard.”

“Mom,” she said, “that is racism. This is a common experience for people of color.” I was livid. I was embarrassed and appalled that this could even be a possibility. Blessing called me to the counter, treating me with kindness and sensitivity. I gave her my insurance card and asked if they could just let me know when they were ready and I would come back the next day. “Absolutely,” she said, “and I am so sorry about the wait.” I’m sure my face was red with embarrassment. “No, I’M sorry and they will be getting a call from me when I get back to my daughter’s house.”

And then we left. As we drove home, I was hoping so hard that when I called the Paw Paw Pharmacy that they would have a reasonable explanation for their actions. They had served us well for two years, what had happened?

I dialed the number and waded through the very same prompts Blessing E. had to wade through. Finally, a person,

“Walgreens Pharmacy, this is Beth”

“Hi Beth,” I said kindly, “This is Lori Tupper and I need to speak with the Pharmacy Manager.”

“I am the Pharmacy Manager,” she said.

“Well Beth, I was just at my Pharmacy here in Baltimore, MD. I am trying to get my prescriptions transferred out here so I can get the medications I need. I talked to someone in Paw Paw before I came out here and this is what they said I should do, but then I listened as the pharmacist out here called your store twice and was hung up on both times. It sure felt like she was hung up on because she was obviously a black person and I’m really hoping that is not the case.”

“Actually, Lori, I am the one who talked to her and I hung up on her because the first thing she said was that she needed some patient information and we don’t give out patient information.”

“Wait a minute,” I interrupted her, “you didn’t even ask what information she wanted?”

“It doesn’t matter,” she defended, “We cannot give out any patient information. It wasn’t until the third time that she said she needed to know the name of the pharmacist on duty that transferred the prescriptions.”

“Don’t you think maybe a clarifying question would have been in order instead of just hanging up on her?” I asked.

“Well, we have been very busy and I have had calls from people trying to get personal information to commit insurance fraud and we know this because we know it is a former employee who is doing it. In fact, I even called the patient and told her that her insurance company was asking for information on her. So she called them and they said they had not called.”

It was clear to me that Beth had her “song and dance” story and was convinced she had done nothing wrong.

“Well, let me clarify with you that I AM indeed trying to get my prescriptions changed to Baltimore and I would appreciate it if you would cooperate with them when they call.” I said, tired of listening to her poor excuses.

“Okay,” she said, “I’m really sorry.” I hung up, but what I should have said was, “the person you should be apologizing to has a name. Her name is Blessing E. She is a kind black lady who lives in Baltimore. She is a PHARMACIST who works at the Walgreens Pharmacy and she matters!”

As I processed this experience further, I wish I would have asked Beth, “Is it really EVER appropriate to hang up on someone? As an office manager myself, the only person (?) I ever hung up on was Google or other electronic calls. I wouldn’t dream of hanging up on someone because they asked the wrong question! And wouldn’t you think a big conglomerate like Walgreens would have a method for pharmacists to identify themselves and train their pharmacy managers to be respectful of ALL people no matter what they sound like on the phone? As a white person with many privileges, I have never had to convince others that “White lives matter.” Isn’t it sad that anyone who lives in America has to claim such a slogan? I pray that as I live here in Baltimore, I can build relationships with all sorts of people around me and delight in the rainbow of colors and personalities surrounding me. Thank you, Blessing E. for being exactly what your name says to me as I try to detail my details!

                               THE ELECTRIC CART

So, I arrived in Baltimore on Saturday afternoon via flight.  I was extremely anxious about traveling with four bags and a cane.  Asking for help is something I don't do easily, but something I know I need to learn...now is the time.  

When going through treatment for Breast Cancer, grocery shopping was one of the most difficult tasks on my list.  I would walk slowly through the store hanging on to a cart for dear life.  When we would get ready to check out, I would be exhausted even though we kept our lists short and simple.  Michael, who would always pick up half the list separately, would meet me at the register saying, "Dear, you go sit down.  I'll check us out."  Exhausted, I would find a bench to rest on until he came by with our bagged groceries.

Once my stamina began to return, this task became a bit easier, but the cartilage in my knee was continuing to disintegrate.  I was always a bit prideful about using an electric cart at the grocery store, but at the end of the summer I was struggling to walk into the grocery store, leaning heavily on my cane.  A storm was coming in that day and my arthritis was causing immense pain.  As I approached the door, a lady drove up in one of the electric carts.

"Ma'am, would you like this cart?" she asked kindly.  "I'm just returning it for another customer and you look like you could use it." 

"Oh, no thank you."  I said.  "I've never used one before and wouldn't know how to begin to use one."

"Here," she said, getting off the cart, "let me show you how, it is very easy."

I paid attention to her instructions and gave in to using the cart.   I zipped slowly around the store and finished my shopping in record time.   As we met at the register, I was amazed that I still felt like I had some energy.  I might not have to go home and have a 2-hour nap today!  What a blessing, I thought.  What a great thing for anyone who needs a little help in our world!!

A week later, I was at another larger supermarket to pick up some cookie trays for a party at church.  I looked at some electric carts by the door and was disappointed to see that all of them were being charged.  I walked to the other side of the store to another entrance and there a nice employee helped me find an electric cart I could use.  I found trays of cookies that would work but fretted over how I would get them to my car with my purse in one hand and my cane in the other.  The cart said, "in store use only" so I thought I shouldn't use it to take my cookies to the car.  But after checking out I decided I could take them out in the cart, bring the cart back in, and then use my cane to go back to the cart--tedious, but doable.  
As I pulled up to my car, I realized a young man was following me and standing quietly by my car.

"Are you here for this cart?"  I asked him.
"Yes ma'am, my name is Joe"  he said.  He was obviously a bit mentally impaired, but enthusiasm emanated from his smile.
I looked into his eyes, "Joe, you are a lifesaver!" I said appreciatively.
"I can put those trays into your car," he offered.
"That would be awesome!" I said, moving the cart backward.
"These look like some good cookies!" he commented as he laid the trays on my back seat.
"Yes they do!  They are for a party we are having at church on Sunday," I explained.
"I bet you said to yourself, 'I'm gonna just go check out Meijers and see what cookies they have for yourself' didn't you?"  He was warming up to our conversation quickly.  
Since teaching students with special needs for 16 years, I really appreciated not only Joe's willingness to help, but his beautiful spirit and communication.
"Absolutely!"  I agreed, "that is exactly what I thought!"

I left the parking lot of the store feeling reassured that there are people willing to help those who struggle with mobility so as I prepared to fly to Baltimore, I called the airline and requested assistance getting to and from my gates.  They were happy to arrange for wheelchair assistance.  Because of this, I was able to arrive in Baltimore rested and not requiring a long rest to regenerate myself.  I am so thankful for the lady who recognized my need for the electric cart and for Joe--two people who helped this prideful person to set aside some of her pride and learn to start asking for help.

                                            THE PLAN

After my stroke, it took me many years to recover and I missed many"motherhood" moments with my babies.  So, when Sarah got pregnant and invited me to engage with her, her wife, and the baby as well as their living community, I felt as though it was a gift as significant as that gift offered to me by Juanita Jones.  Even with limited mobility, I felt honored by the invitation and in consultation with Michael decided to accept the adventure.  THAT is where I am now--embarking on this beautiful adventure with Sarah, Ali, and my new grand baby.  So, the plan is that I move to Baltimore to live with them until April or May and then return to Michigan for the summer.

 Michael is staying in our Michigan home and continuing his job at the Gull Lake UMC where he has been for over two years.  He loves ministry and he loves his church.  When I asked him if this was the right thing for me to do, he said, "Dear, sometimes it is time to step back and sometimes it it time to step forward.  This is your time to step forward and my time to step back."  What an honor...I feel like I am being given  "do over."  All I ever wanted in life was to have a family and raise kids and now I get to be a part of my daughter's journey for a period of time.

I feel a lot of anxiety as I move (temporarily) to Baltimore, but mostly I feel privilege and honor.

                   JUANITA JONES AND THE SAXOPHONE

So, now it is 2019.  Sarah and Ali have been married for five years and live in Baltimore, MD in a row house with a community of people.  It is a structured environment with guidelines for composting, eating (vegetarian), maintaining the premises, and potential community work.

Sarah and Ali own the home and work hard to integrate into the community--reaching out to those around them.  Ali teaches Math at a local high school and after teaching in a charter school in Washington, DC for five years, Sarah taught in the Baltimore Public Schools for two years and is now ready to deliver their first child.  In order to understand where I am in this picture, I kind of need to backtrack to where I have been.  I would like to do that by sharing a story I told at a recent storytelling event...

I sat across the table from my good friend Pat who was sharing with me her extreme sadness at losing her beloved grandmother.  Tears slid down Pat's cheeks as she shared her pain.

Now, my brain knew that this was SAD information, but I could feel a smile tickling the corners of my mouth.

"No, Lori!" I said to myself, "Do NOT laugh!  This is very sad.  It is NOT funny!"  But, of course within 20 seconds, I was laughing hysterically.  A look of confusion passed over Pat's face as I continued to internally berate myself for my reaction.  Finally, I was able to switch to the equally inappropriate response of sobbing uncontrollably.  Pat quietly left my house without a word.  Joan, a middle-aged woman from our church, came to me and laid her hand on my shoulder.  "It's okay," she said quietly.

You see, Joan was the lady from the church who had signed up to be with me and my children on this day.  The church where Michael was serving had thrown us a huge baby shower only four months earlier to welcome our 3 month son from South Korea and the daughter I gave birth two only three weeks after he arrived to our home.  The children were four months apart to the day and at the ages of six months and 2 months, I, their mother, had suffered a major stroke at age 27 and now needed daily care not only for herself but also for her two children.

So, it wasn't like I didn't understand about loss.  No, I knew loss.  I had lost the use of my left side, my ability to read, my ability to compute numbers and my ability to discern happy from sad, safe from unsafe, good from bad.  I felt like I had lost everything.  With those losses came rules for daily living.
..."NO, you cannot bathe your children if you are home alone--they might drown."
..."NO, you cannot cross the street by yourself--you can't tell when it is safe."
..."NO, you cannot take your children for a walk around the block by yourself--you might get lost."
..."NO, you cannot hold your baby girl without supervision--you might forget to support her head"

At this time of my life, my favorite part of the day was when I could sit with my babies and watch Mr. Roger's Neighborhood, because he liked me the way I was.  I was quite sure he was the ONLY one who did.

Yes, I felt as though I had lost everything.  I had lost Lori.  I had lost me.

But then, there was Juanita Jones.  Juanita Jones was an older lady from our church who approached me one Sunday morning with these words.

"Lori," she said, "I've been watching you and I'm a little worried about you.  You are so sad and you seem lost.  So, I would like to help you.  I would like for you to think of something that would bring happiness to your life that you would like to do for YOU and I will pay for it for as long as you want to do it."

Now, if someone said this to me today, my inhibitions would kick in and I would respond with, 'Oh, you don't have to worry about me--I will be fine.'  But, I had just had a major stroke--I had NO inhibitions.  "Ok!" I replied, beyond excited, "I will think about it and get back to you!"  So, I went home from church that day with a beautiful gift of anticipation and potential.  This was for ME!  She trusted me to choose!

I thought about this offer for a week or so and finally decided what I wanted more than anything else in the world.   Now, I'm sure when Juanita Jones made this offer, she thought I would choose something like...a manicure or pedicure every week, a babysitter once a week for a month or a year, or maybe at the most a cruise with Michael.  So, I had decided and I was excited to share with Juanita Jones what my decision was.

"I decided what I would like to do," I said to her the next week at church.
"I want to learn to play the saxophone."

I saw a sparkle in Juanita's eyes as she listened to my dream.  To her credit, she did NOT say, "Lori, wait a minute.  Let's think about this...you just had a major stroke.  You can't use your left side, you can't read words, let alone notes, You can't compute numbers, how are you going to keep a beat?  you are weak all over, oh and by the way, my dear, here is a tissue to wipe the drool from the left side of your chin."  No, she didn't say any of that.  She looked straight into my eyes and said gently, "Okay.  I will rent you a saxophone, I will find you a teacher, and I will pay for it as long as you want to take lessons."

What a gift!  I'm not even sure what my teacher thought when I walked into my first lesson with the saxophone already hanging around my neck so he wouldn't see me struggle to put it on.  During my first lesson, my teacher taught me some breathing exercises, showed me how to clean the instrument, showed me how to hold it properly, and briefly showed me specific notes.  I was so excited.  I went home and practiced my breathing exercises, cleaned my instrument any time I had a spare moment and even blew a few notes.  What a gift!!  This was mine and no one could say I was doing it wrong.  There were no rules--this was for me!

At my third lesson, my teacher asked me, "Lori, what is your goal here?"  and without hesitation, I answered, "I want to play Jazz."  He smiled, walked to the back of his little studio and pulled a book off the shelf.  It was probably an inch and a half thick and had the word JAZZ splashed across the front of it in large black letters.  Handing me the book, he said, "That is perfect for you because jazz is all about attitude when you play the song--not fancy songs."

I took that book home and practiced the songs inside--songs like "Row, Row, Row your boat," "Twinkle, Twinkle, Little Star,"  "Happy Birthday,"  "London Bridge," and "A bicycle built for two"  and I practiced a often!

Now, I never was very good at the saxophone in the four months I took lessons, but something happened every time I blew a note or held that instrument.  Every time I blew a note, I felt a part of me coming back, eventually I could read again.  As I played music, my math skills started to come back, with each song I played, a part  of me came back.  Pretty soon I could discern happy from sad again, I could discern safe from unsafe, I felt pieces of me coming back.  With each note, I was finding ME again...thanks to Juanita Jones and the saxophone.

THE WEDDING

August, 2014

As I continue to process the awe-inspiring commitment celebration of my beautiful daughter, Sarah, and her now wife, Ali—I have concluded the surreal experience was akin to living inside a rainbow for 3 days. There were people of many colors, ages, abilities, faiths, languages, life orientations, values, socioeconomic levels, and geographical areas. As people came to know each other, lines disappeared, blending one person into another, becoming a loving, cohesive community. And it was an experience I have seldom found in our world.

Sarah and Ali are so gifted at honoring people for who they are—not what society says they should be. I found myself feeling in awe of these two beings who live in the heart of grace and pray I can steal a bit of their approach for my own life.

Michael described it not as “a taste of God’s Kingdom,” but as “a gulp of God’s Kingdom.” Lord, Help us to erase the lines society has drawn between us and others, blending together into a loving, cohesive community.

Beautiful for what it was not…

It was beautiful not only because of what it was, but mostly because of what it was not.

It was not traditional songs highlighting modern society and its view of love, it was drums played by children, trombones played by youth, and songs sung by students.

It was not dress lifting up formality, proclaiming one’s success in the world, it was simple distinction of who was being celebrated and comfort for everyone else.

It was not competition to see who could dance the longest, drink the most, or look the most breathtaking; it was simplicity, sincerity, and complexity at its best.

It was not a ceremony repeating promises that have been easily broken through the ages; it was expressions of promises challenging to keep spoken with determination to do so.

It was not filled with justifications for who anyone had become; but filled with acceptance of who everyone was.

It was not your typical marriage ceremony where the minister’s presence was highlighted; it was a celebration highlighting community, inclusivity, and the presence of God.

It was beautiful not only because of what it was, but mostly because of what it was not.

THE TREASURE HUNT

       I knew she was going to be “different” the moment she was born.  She was a baby unsatisfied with normalcy.  She cried often unable to be pleased by holding, patting, feeding, or music.  For a long time I figured she would always be unhappy and had inherited discontent from my side of the family.  It wasn’t until she turned 11 did I realize her potential for changing the world.

When Sarah was six plus two months, I finally allowed her and her six year old brother to go to kindergarten.  School made her world so much bigger.  She still spent hours with her baby dolls that she loved so much, but she was learning other things that would take her time.  Reading became something I saw her doing more and she did it with her whole self.  Her first reading homework was a small book with simple words like “the, boy, girl, run, go, look, Ted, Pam, dog” etc. –your typical primary reader.  She was excited to sit next to me and show off her new skill.  We sat on the couch together and she read.  I noticed every time she came to the word “Look!” she would raise her voice and shake her entire body.  There were at least four or five instances when she did this throughout the book before I stopped her and questioned her body movements.  She smiled and her blue eyes sparkled at the opportunity to teach her mother an obvious skill.  “Mommy, my teacher says every time we come to one of those (pointing to the exclamation mark), we are supposed to get REALLY excited.  She continued to read and we both would shake our entire bodies at the exclamation marks.

A few weeks after school started, Sarah came home with a mission.  They were going to have their first “show-n-tell” in two days and she had to find something and be prepared to share about it.  She was not open to any suggestions, she would take care of this herself.  It was “homework.”  Less than an hour later, she instructed her father and I to sit on the couch while she said her speech for us.  “This is my very first (fust) baby doll, Rose (Wose).  Her hair stands up, because I used to carry (cawwy) her around like this.”  As she reached her final statement, she took her doll by the fistful of hair, trying to imitate the years when she, herself was just barely past the baby age.  We clapped.  She said it again.  We clapped.  She said it again.  We clapped.  This went on about four times per hour for the next two days.  We all breathed a sign of relief but had butterflies with her when the big day finally arrived.  She and Rose came home from school, neither one of them smiling very sincerely.  “How’d it go?” I asked anxiously.  “Mommy, all that practice and when it was my turn, my teacher asked me questions!  I didn’t get to say my speech at all.  She said, “Sarah, you brought a babydoll, eh?”  I said “yes.”  She said, “What’s her name?”  I said, “Rose.”  And that was it!  

As a parent, I thought that was fine.  Why put pressure on six-year-olds to do prepared speeches?  My Sarah was disappointed, but I think that may have been the start of her love for public speaking.  Michael and I were often her captive audience.  Many Christmases included a “special” gift from Sarah.  This gift was usually in the form of an hour and a half play or “show” given by her many dolls—all who had voices that sounded vaguely like Sarah’s.  There would be music, jokes, serious storylines, and lots of laughter.  Special chairs would be set up for Michael and me, once again the captive audience.  These “special” gift performances would also come at Mother’s Day, Father’s Day, birthdays, and sometimes just for no reason at all.  As her doll collection grew to over 300 dolls, the shows grew longer because she couldn’t bear to leave anyone out.  I often spent my time during these shows either laughing hysterically or sleeping.  I remember one of the last performances, every other sentence she said was “Wake up, mom.”

  At one point, she decided since her dad was a minister, a mass baptism was in order.  So, we gathered in her “doll” room where she had her dolls all lined up and all 300 names typed out on one certificate so her father could perform the ceremony.  What a relief to know those dolls were baptized!

An interesting moment in the doll room was the day she lost a doll she had made out of water balloons.  The balloons had popped and she felt the need to bury the poor guy.  She served snacks at the funeral and took an offering to cover the expense as well.  She played the theme from “Beauty and he Beast” on the keyboard while her father sincerely sung the words.  I’m embarrassed to say, my hysterical laughter did not add much to the service.  Following the service, we buried the deflated doll (laid out in a shoebox) at the back of our yard next to one of the many cats we buried at that house.

One of my favorite dolls (besides Rose), was “Marta.”  She was a doll I found at Walmart with an irremoveable smudge on her forehead.  I promptly bought her because I felt sure no one else ever would and she would suffer from low self-esteem her entire life.  I took Marta home and found myself wondering if Sarah would even like her.  So, I sat at the computer and wrote a story about how I found Marta crying at Walmart because none of the little girls wanted a doll with a bruise in the middle of her forehead.  I printed out the story and included it in the bag with the doll.  Of course, Sarah embraced her and promptly took her to the doll room to be properly introduced to her new “brothers and sisters.”

It was on Mother’s Day when Sarah was 11 that she gave me one of my favorite gifts, although I had to really work for it.  She was excited.  After making me breakfast in bed, we all went to church.  Sundays were exhausting for me on a GOOD day and this day was no exception.  In fact, it was worse because it was an extremely hot day.  I usually liked to spend all of my time in our air-conditioned home if it was that hot.  Our yard was huge and lacked trees, shade trees in particular.  So, when Sarah announced after dinner that she had a “special” gift for me, I groaned (maybe even aloud).  

“Oh, c’mon mom, it’ll be fun.” She pleaded.

“What is it?” I asked.

“A treasure hunt.” She said calmly as she handed me the sheet of paper with directions.

“Okay.” I agreed very reluctantly.  I looked at the sheet.  Oh God, I prayed, give me patience now!  

Walk out front door 500 steps east.  Okay, so not only do I have to count, but I have to know my directions….oh no.  I did it.

Turn south and go 742 steps.  I ended up in the soybean field.

“No, mom, you’re taking too big of steps, your supposed to be here.”

Sarah took me back about 42 steps to the boundary of our property.

“Turn west and go 1,049 steps.  I ended up in the middle of Fleming’s cornfield.

“No, mom, you’re supposed to be here.”  She walks me to the western boundary of our property.  I start muttering under my breath…I’m hot, I’m sweating, and I’m tired.”  “Mom, I promise you’ll like the treasure,” she said.  

Turn north and go 50 steps.  I did it right for once.

Turn east and go 45 steps.  “Sarah, I’m just going in a circle.  This is so stupid!  I’m hot, I’m sweaty, and I’m tired.  What kind of a mother’s day gift do you call this?”  I regretted it the minute I said it.  I saw the pain in her eyes.  She looked down.  “It’s okay, mom.  I’ll just tell you where the treasure is.”

“No,” I said ashamed of my complaining, “I’ll do it.”  

  Turn north and go 98 steps.  I ended up in the church parking lot.

I was so irritable I was wishing there were NO holidays EVER!

Turn east and go 49 steps.  I was getting angrier with each step.  NO GIFT was worth this!

“Mom,” Sarah said, “Go in the front door and go down the hall 20 steps.  Your treasure is on my bed.”

I walked into the air-conditioned house and felt immediate relief.  I went straight to Sarah’s room, not even bothering to count the steps. A small wooden box was on her bed.  I sat down and opened it.  Inside was a treasure.  Every single note I had ever written to Sarah was in that box, including the story about Marta.  I sobbed as I read each note, not because they were sad notes, but because there truly was a treasure at the end of the hunt.  But the real treasure was standing at the bedroom door with sparkling blue eyes and a smile.

                                THE CHRISTMAS GIFT


My Sweet Sarah,

On our long train trip, I spent the first afternoon reading the Gift of Stories you presented us with Christmas, 2009.  When I say I read it, I mean I read every single word, caressing the emotions presented in each story and embracing your loving spirit as you shared heart-wrenching events.  I questioned when you questioned, I felt anger when you expressed anger, and I, too, asked Where is God?

As I finished your gift of stories, I understood so much more about you…and I know…I know you have the beautiful gift of writing…I know you are a strong person, as you persisted in your gathering…you’ve survived the raging waterfall…you’ve met God face to face…and you are His beloved.

So I ask myself, how is it that I was so blessed to have you as my precious moment?  I’d like to think I must have done something good and yet I know it has nothing to do with who I am and everything to do with who He is and yet, I feel so privileged to be a witness to your life—even though I have spent mine disengaged for so many poor reasons.

Nonetheless, as undeserving as I feel I am of your affirmation of me as a mother, I am so thankful for it and thank you for your loving spirit.  I am so proud of you and who you have become—even more so maybe because you found your way to who you are by being as aware and passionate as you are.   You found you as you engaged in a pilgrimage.   As a result, you are the most compassionate, kind, and most loving person I know and I am thrilled to call you my sunshine and my daughter.

~Mom

8-16-16

This is the letter I wrote to my daughter seven years after I found out she was gay.  I know, most parents can kind of "feel" these things or intuit the information, but not me...I was pretty much clueless.  Well, actually, I must have had some thoughts about it as I had asked my son, Scott,  during a joint Christmas shopping chore in 2008.  The conversation went something like this.

"Hey Bear (my nickname for him) can I ask you something?"  I asked from the passenger seat as he drove the winding Kentucky roads.

"Sure, mom," he said in his easy-going, confident style.

I took a deep breath.  "Is Sarah gay?"  

Scott and Sarah are only four months apart in age.  I gave birth to Sarah three weeks after Scotty arrived from South Korea to be our son.  He was 3 months and one week old when we picked him up at the O'Hare airport in Chicago, IL.  They have always been close from day one so  I figured if anyone would know, Scott would know.  

He looked at me and without hesitation replied, "Would it make any difference?  Would you love her less?  Besides, if she is, it is not my story to tell."

I was a little taken aback by his response and yet in that same moment I could not have been prouder of him.  

"It absolutely would NOT make a difference," I said, "I would always love her no matter what."  We did not talk about it for the rest of the day.

A year later, Sarah stepped into our home in Kentucky.  It was four days before Christmas.  She handed us a homemade notebook full of her writings from throughout her life.  

"Mom, dad," she said, "this is my Christmas gift to you this year.  No, don't read it right now. I am going to leave and I want you to take the time to read it together.  I am going to drive to see Ali for a few days and then I will be back for Christmas.  At that time I will answer any questions you have and we will celebrate Christmas.   

We agreed.  Hugged her hard and told her to be safe and that we would see her in a few days.

That night Michael and I laid on our bed together reading her notebook of writings.  Honest writings from a very young age and often throughout her life searching for answers to who she was and trying to reconcile that with her Christian upbringing.  She shared her pain and her struggles and her affirmations and joys.  She shared how others had helped her in her journey to acceptance and she shared her dreams.  As we read about her journey  in accepting her homosexuality, we cried.  I cried a lot.  Not because I was sad that she was gay.  That NEVER entered my heart.  I cried because I felt so honored that my sweet daughter was willing to share her deepest hurts and biggest dreams with us.  In a world where young people were killing themselves or hating themselves for their sexuality, my daughter honored us with honesty and openness.  I might have cried a bit for the pain and unacceptance she might encounter; however,  she was nothing but awesomeness wrapped in a beautiful package and I have always believed she could handle anything.  I was crying with pride that she was being true to herself and who she was.  She was embracing the beautiful person that she was without condemnation and I would embrace her too.  

A few days later, she and her college roommate, Ali, came for Christmas.  As we sat around the table, we talked honestly about the commitment they had made to each other.  At one point Sarah (a storyteller by nature) was telling about one of their adventures.  I could tell by the look in Ali's eyes that she had heard the story over and over.  Of course, with most partners, when a husband or wife retells a story over and over, the partner will often roll their eyes and groan with the retelling.  "Have you heard this story before, Ali?" I asked her.  Her beautiful gray eyes sparkled, she smiled, and said, "Yes, but it's a really good one!"  In that moment, I knew.  I knew that sarah had found the love of her life.  

As my mind thinks about Sarah, it drifts back to who Sarah was as a child...