Gentle Voice

This morning I woke up before my alarm went off. Before getting up to dress for Sunday mass, I took a moment to cozy up to my husband who was still sleeping. I kissed him softly and took a deep breath.

On this ten year anniversary of September 11th 2001, with all of that date's horrific happenings and unimaginable losses, I am overwhelmed in thinking of how to discuss the day here. In my classroom and with family and friends, I’ve joined in the sharing of “Where was I when I first heard the news” stories, and I’ve visited a few websites which have shared the voices of those who suffered personal loss of a loved one who died that day. I’ve listened to politicians and the media discuss the threat of a new attack and yes, despite mixed feelings, I turned on the History Channel today and for an hour, I revisited the videos of the towers collapsing and the faces of the innocent victims and the day's brave heroes.

9-11 taught me how naive I’d been to think that unspeakable cruelty, mass destruction, and such astonishingly wide-spread pain and fear could not happen to the United States of America. As I took my two little girls, ages 9 and 6, onto the living room couch in an attempt to explain to them why their school teachers had been so quiet and sad that day in school, and as I heard my almost 2 year old son playing in the other room, I worried and wondered, “In what kind of world would my husband and I be raising them?”

In the days, weeks, and months that followed September 11, 2001, I found myself unable to read or watch what now seemed to be ridiculous coverage of Hollywood celebrities. I was nauseated by shows like Entertainment Tonight and magazines like People which featured reporters asking actors and actresses frivolous questions. I never looked at celebrity-hood the same way ever again. Those who deserve to walk on red carpets and who deserve our admiration and awe will forever be those ordinary men and women who serve their fellow man. I think of the first responders who ran up the buildings to save lives and the brave passengers of United Flight 93, such as Todd Beamer, who after learning via cell phone of the attacks on the WTC, joined others in a plan to burst into the cockpit and who fought with the terrorists over the controls for the plane that would later crash into that Pennsylvania field, preventing another attack in Washington D.C.

In the wake of 9-11, stories of goodness, sacrifice, and the overall beauty of humanity emerged. The preciousness of life and the preservation of serving others was now being highlighted on the evening news. I’d never been to New York prior to 2001 but in the past ten years I have gone three times, first with my daughter Sydney. Then with both of my daughters. Then with all three children and my husband. My daughter Emma and I plan to return again in two months’ time. Visiting Ground Zero and The Little Church that Stood several times now, I’ve offered up prayers and I’ve given thanks to the lessons I’ve learned from the tragic day’s events.

This morning at Sunday mass, our choir first sang “Gentle Voice”, a lovely song by Susan and Lee Dengler which speaks of how “Far above the noise of life...Jesus (is) gently calling “Come unto me”. We raised our own voices gently as we sang to the congregation and then more powerfully and with strength as we led the congregation in singing “America the Beautiful” at the end of mass. I am glad this ten year anniversary fell on a Sunday. It allowed me to be with my loved ones all day long, while in some small way, allowing me to serve others.

As I shut off the lights and head up to bed to begin another workweek, I am going to once again take a deep breath. For if I learned anything in the decade following September 11th, 2001, it is that none of us truly knows what tomorrow will bring. All that is in our control is this moment right now. Savor it. Offer it up to God. Somehow, make it count. It’ll take me just one moment to send an “I love you” message to my now 19 year old daughter at college, and moments later Emma, Paul, and Eric will once again each receive a big hug and a gentle kiss. I will say another prayer before I crawl into bed, a prayer that above the noise of life, we will all make out the gentle voice that calls to us in our times of need.

"Gentle Voice"

Far above the noise of life,

There’s a voice that is gently calling.

“Leave behind your cares and strife.

Come to me, I will give you rest.


Bring your fear, and bring your pain.

Bring your anger, and bring your worry.
”
Do you hear the voice of Jesus
 gently calling, “Come unto me.”

Gentle voice, so meek and mild,

Gentle words of understanding.

“You are my beloved child.

Come to me, I will give you rest.


Bring your grief, and bring your cares.

Bring you heartaches, and bring your sorrow.
”
Do you hear the voice of Jesus
Gently calling, “Come unto me”?

Gentle voice so full of love,

Gentle words so rich in mercy.

“You are my beloved child.

Come to me. I will give you rest.”

A Girl of My Dreams

For Saturday, September 10, 2011

Earlier in the day Emma arrived home after her volleyball game and my husband suggested to us both that we go shopping. Yes, believe it or not, that’s actually what happened; he prodded my daughter and I into going shopping!! You see, Eric realized that time would be short this week with school and knowing Emma wanted a new homecoming dress, he knew that the two of us girls should go looking for that dress over the weekend. (What a sweet Dad, huh?!) That meant, Emma and I had to decide whether to go tonight or tomorrow. It was decided we’d go tonight. So off we went to the mall, roughly 35 minutes away.

The shopping trip was most efficient! We were in and out of one store in less than fifteen minutes having not seen much of anything. The second store brought success in just a half hour’s time! With her dress purchased, we went to buy a few candles then decided we weren’t really in the mood for any more shopping. So being hungry, we headed to one of our favorite restaurants, Panera.

Enjoying our meal, we fell into an easy conversation. But truth be told, it’s rare that our conversations are anything but easy. We talked about events of the past week and we talked about the future. We talked about dreams and we talked about reality, and how to make dreams a reality. We talked about the importance of having back-up plans but the greater importance of allowing our paths in life to unfold in due time. I shared with her my belief that people rarely regret the things they do in life, but that they most always regret the things they do not do. She gave me her own perspective and her insightful words warmed my heart.

Next week she’ll don a new dress and have a delightful time at her school’s homecoming. She will be beautiful indeed. But tonight I sat across the table from that beautiful young lady whose intelligence, sensitivity, warmth, charm, wit, and self-assuredness needed nothing special to wear. Throughout the sixteen years of her life, Emma’s radiance has always served to remind me of the importance of making our dreams a reality. Eric, Sydney, Paul, and Emma. My dreams came true fourfold.

In No Need of Fixing

For Friday, September 9, 2011

A few weeks ago a friend mentioned how she would like to save money to have Lasik eye surgery so as to be able to toss her contacts and her glasses away. Hearing her, my husband was quick to tell her how I don’t want that surgery, that I am frightened of something going wrong during the procedure. That’s very true. But I also have to admit that when you’ve been as nearsighted as I have been for all these years, you also get quite accustomed to how the world looks when you wake up in the morning, or how the lights at night spread into beautiful orbs when you take off your glasses for a few minutes. The Christmas tree each December is especially beautiful. If I were to get that surgery, I’d never see that particular vision of beauty again.

Our imperfections in life do not always need fixing. In fact, I believe, it is those so-called flawed parts of me that give me my identity. My poor eyesight. My thin straight hair. The shape of my eyebrows, inherited from my Dad. My birthmark. My bent toes. One knee that resembles the shape of my father’s and one that resembles the shape of my Mom’s. The bump on my top lip, the only remaining scar from a bike accident with my brother when I was eight years old. I could get all of these “fixed”, but why would I want to?

There are days when I am sad and there are days when I get anxious. I also have times when I am really annoyed with people. But more often than not, my annoyance comes from others not acknowledging how the imperfections in our lives and in our selves make us who we are. We do not always need to be changed. We need simply TO BE. Supported. Acknowledged. Celebrated. Accepted. So I would like those people to please take a long look at themselves in the mirror, to gaze at their own reflection and to realize that the person looking back is a result of years and years of living life and following their own paths. And please, let me follow my own. Try to accept that I don’t need fixing. No, I am simply on my own journey. I may stumble and not see the path the way you do, but I am working to find my own way. Just as I choose not to get that eye surgery, I choose not to lose the vision of the beauty I see in this world through this particular set of eyes and in this particular point of view I have. I am my own beautiful flawed self. I am healthy and happy at my core, even on my sad days.

Rebecca

For Thursday, September 8, 2011

"Last night I dreamt I went to Manderley again" --First line of the novel Rebecca by Daphne duMaurier

Although I am not into the recent trend of modern vampire stories, I have long loved Gothic literature and when I find a good love story intertwined with Gothic characteristics, I am most happy. As an English teacher, my sharing of works by classic authors such as Daphne duMaurier or modern writers such as Audrey Niffenegger or Diane Setterfield find a place. My students themselves begin to enjoy the stories of creepy castles, mysterious and suspenseful atmospheres, high, even overwrought emotions of the breathless and often lonely oppressed heroines, and the romance of what is often a “first love” experienced in the works.

So in my Horrific Tales class, as an introduction to the Gothic Tradition, I read to my students the first chapter of Daphne duMaurier’s novel, Rebecca. The novel is a long time favorite of mine. I remember reading the book as a teen and special ordering my own copy of it from the town library. In fact, the novel title eventually became my daughter’s middle name, although I must say that I wished her to become nothing like that title character! My students point out the way in which duMaurier established the Gothic setting in her first chapter and we then begin watching the 1940 Alfred Hitchcock’s movie of the same name. The film starring Laurence Olivier quickly grabs the teenagers’ interest. They are amused by the character of busy-body Mrs. Hopper and especially by the creepy housekeeper, Mrs. Danvers. The mystery of Maxim deWinter and his late wife intrigues them. The students become a bit protective of the new Mrs. deWinter, the innocent young woman whom Maxim marries a year after Rebecca’s death (played by actress Joan Fontaine) and are entertained by the strange “Ben” who occupies the little boathouse that the new Mrs. deWinter stumbles onto.

Although I have seen the movie many times, I find myself absorbed in the watching of the film, year after year. Each time I view it, I find additional subtleties in Oliver or Fontaine’s characterizations and I find new ways to observe the beautiful movie sets. I chuckle over the ways in which the driving scenes would be filmed quite differently given today’s technology and the changes in film-making, and I cannot help but stare in awe at the beauty of Fontaine and the handsomeness of Olivier. I find I have easily memorized much of the story’s dialogue, but I enjoy seeing how my new students are reacting to the 70 year old drama. Pleasingly, they are sad to find their class period ending and are happy to come back next time to finish the movie.

I would love to add my name to the list of contemporary authors who borrow from the Gothic style. I am again reminded it’s time for me to get back to the novel I have begun writing. All these years later, it is amazing that Rebecca continues to serve as such an inspiration for me.

At Full Throttle

For Wednesday, September 7, 2011

The other morning I woke up an hour before I needed to get up to begin my day. After seeing the time, I fell back asleep. I then had a terrible nightmare. My husband was driving in icy road conditions and as we approached a big green bridge, he came close to rear ending a sand truck. In my dream, being in the passenger seat, I told my husband to slow down, but before I could get the words out completely, our car went off the road and off the bridge, about to plunge into the icy river below. I braced for the impact; my arms wrapped around my head, and then....I woke up.
Grateful it had been a dream, I instinctively looked at my alarm clock. My alarm had not gone off and it was a half hour later than it usually is when I hop in the shower. I jumped up and we all made it out of the house in time, but I could not stop thinking that I was once again sliding off a bridge. The entire day I braced myself for another crash.

In the middle of my work day, I went to the bathroom and I glanced at my reflection in the mirror. I was well put together. My eyes looked tired but that is nothing new. I’ve long burned the candle at both ends. My mouth easily formed a smile but I know that I have long been an actress. Perhaps there has never been a better time for me to put those theatrical skills to work. Because, I don’t feel “right”. I know we all go through life’s ups and downs and that, “This too shall pass” but, I’m sad.

There. I said it. I am sad, and at the risk of sounding like a child throwing a tantrum, the rest of the world is continuing on as normal and that doesn’t seem quite fair. Well, of course it would continue on, and of course it should. I am expected to also. There hasn’t been a death announced in the obituaries, there is no visible scar on my face, I have not had a health scare, my children are fine, there is no REASON for my despair that the naked eye can see. With the unscheduled days of summer behind me, I have been thrown back into the hectic pace, and I’m now expected to be professional and to be “on” for lessons and the day-to-day communications with students, their parents, my coworkers, and administrators. I am back, going full throttle as I have always done each school year. But this September is different for me. Although I always mourn the loss of summer, this year I have new anxieties and a raw awareness of the passing of time. I keep screeching to a stop at different moments in my day and even at night when I should be sleeping. I keep slamming on the brakes, but they aren’t working. And maybe that is for the best. I don’t know.

When I slam on those brakes during a quiet moment at school or anytime when I feel the need to be honest with myself, I know that I am grieving and bouncing from those various stages of grief without any logical progression, without any sensible timing. I imagine my journey as a pinball machine. I have control of the side buttons propelling the flippers inside to push the ball around, but I can not foretell where that ball will go or for how long the ball will be in motion before I have to hit those buttons again. I have to stay there, ready to hit those flippers each time the ball gets close to dropping and I am transfixed by the point total increasing, likening the points to the passage of time, and I have all I can do not to force the machine into “TILT” just to make it all stop. The flashing lights, the noises of man versus machine, the crazy and foolish expense of those quarters being dropped in to buy more time...

I’ve always hated driving on icy roads and I have never liked arcades much. And I absolutely hate being sad.

In a Hot Pink Dress

This morning I pulled on a skirt I'd just purchased a few months back and paired it with a sleeveless blouse I'd bought at the same time. The pieces coordinated nicely but I wasn't happy with my reflection in the mirror. Then it hit me, these clothes were TOO BIG. I went back into my closet thinking, "I wonder...". I reached to the back of closet to my dresses and pulled out a hot pink sheath I had not worn in two years (at least). When the zipper went up smoothly I started to feel giddy. I took a step back, glanced in the mirror and whispered, "YES!"

As with any healthy pregnancy, I gained some weight with each of my three children. It was bound to happen of course and a small sacrifice to have three healthy babies. But although I couldn't return to the slender figure I had in high school, and although I am in agreement with my husband that becoming a Mom gave me some nice new curves, the past 10 years have been a challenge for me. On maternity leave with my youngest, I became a powerhouse pushing the stroller up the big hills of our development each day. I returned to work after my 10 months at home feeling and looking great. But then the stress of being a working mom hit me again. Juggling the demands of more responsibility at work and the schedules of three busy children, I cut some corners with quick convenience foods and fell onto the couch too often thinking, "I've worked hard enough; I deserve this bowl of ice cream". The numbers on the scale started going up but more unsettling was that my body confidence was going down. I thought of joining a gym or an exercise class but I would find an excuse not to follow through with exercise, time after time. I did walk however, kayaked in the summer, and pushed myself out the door in the winter to snowshoe on trails in my backyard, but I skipped breakfast, made poor choices at meal times, and didn't watch my portion sizes.

Anyone who knows me well, knows I am a clotheshorse. I absolutely love fashion and although I don't like to go shopping too often, knowing I need to save my money and my time for more important things, I also acknowledge the fact that looking good on the outside makes me feel good on the inside. Seeing my weight increase, I fought against the urge not to buy anything new until I dropped the weight because I knew I had to look stylish lest I lost all confidence. But this past month, a wonderful new place to shop has opened up for me...my own closet! Having dropped eight pounds over the summer, "What was old is new again!" Blouses are fitting better, smaller skirts and dresses that haven't seen the light of day for awhile are once again making appearances. I am a little regretful of having bought stylish new clothes in those larger sizes, but I am excited to be getting back into those smaller numbers and will happily send those bigger clothes packing.

I am not sure why my motivation and dedication couldn't have found me sooner, perhaps in time for my 25th class reunion this past July for example?! But I will not think on that for too long. I am back on track now and looking forward to the continuation of this healthy wellness plan. No crash diets, no tricks, just day to day accountability in the form of a food journal, a stronger commitment to regular exercise that is fun and family friendly, and a stable "lose one pound a week" goal. I'm anxious to begin the kickboxing class I signed up for this fall, and I am excited to show my new puppy those snowshoeing trails once again this winter. Before the snow flies however, the wii and I will renew our friendship and my kettle bell and I will go after Michelle Obama's gorgeous arms!

But for today, I will pat myself on the back for the accomplishment of those eight pounds lost in two months' time and I'll celebrate the several "You look great!" exclamations I received today as I walked confidently down the halls at work in my hot pink dress. I am not sure what I'll wear to work tomorrow but I have the greatest accessory already picked out, my big smile. I have more to lose, but this girl is feeling good in her own skin again!

Unwavering Devotion

The other day, Mom and Dad left home to spend the day at their camp on the lake, 15 minutes outside of town. They packed their dinner in the cooler. Dad had prepared one of my sister’s recipes, “tuna cakes”, in the morning before leaving. Upon their arrival at camp, Dad lit a fire in the stove to warm it up a bit (“Old folks can't seem to take the cold”, Dad told me), and Mom made the salad and peeled the potatoes. “We made a good pair”, Dad said. I know he was referring to their meal preparation, but that’s an understatement if I ever heard one. In their early eighties, Mom and Dad have made a great pair and have been one another’s lifeline, for over 60 years.

In 1951, my parents were married and left their hometown city in the southern part of the state where each of them had lived for over 23 years. They took a huge risk leaving all they knew, but followed the job Dad had been offered, and made their home in a small community which back then took an entire day’s journey to reach. They rented a little apartment and created a home for themselves. My four siblings arrived in 1952, 1954, 1956, and 1958. My parents saved their money then bought a home, and despite their initial plan to live in that town for “Just five years”, they raised their family in that same community. They still reside there, all these years later.

For all of their married life, there were budgets and penny pinching. “Children of The Depression”, my homemaker mother was a clever and resourceful woman, and Dad was incredibly handy in taking care of the home and in building a camp at the lake with only the help of his four young children. The camp was built as my Mom was expecting me. I came along in 1968 and soon, two of my siblings were finishing their high school years. By the time I was eight years old, each of my siblings had moved out of the house. Mom and Dad began helping out with their new grandchildren and each with an aging mother, Mom and Dad frequently were the caregivers for my elderly grandmothers. For years, Nana and Grammy each spent a great amount of time, convalescing at our home. I know those years were not easy. They were juggling many challenges.

Through the years my parents have lovingly put one another first. Mom watches over Dad’s diet and activities, making sure he does not overdo. Dad, in turn, keeps his eye on Mom. Their worry over one another was always apparent to me growing up. Small gestures, big gestures, they took care of one another, without fail. All these years later, I am still touched by emails they send which share with us children their days at camp, listening to the loons, preparing meals side by side. Dad tells us Mom continues to beat him playing Scrabble, and it’s very apparent that they continue to worry over one another. They continue to make “a good, (no, a great) pair”.

Life throws us many challenges. Some are more difficult to face than others. My parents, side-by-side, struggled through many hardships over the course of their marriage, but never faltered in displaying, to each of us five children, their unwavering devotion to us and to one another. As they age, the challenges for them continue. But for richer or for poorer, through sickness and in health, those vows are unbreakable. Mom has always been Dad’s sweetheart and Dad has always been Mom’s knight in shining armor. And I am so blessed to have witnessed their love and to be their daughter.