Compassion

I needed a break.  I felt absolutely exhausted today.  Though I have been working hard all week, I didn’t feel physically tired.  No, I was instead emotionally stressed and overwhelmed.  The events of the past 72 hours have been difficult for everyone.  Because of the fallout from the election of November 8, 2016, I just felt the need to escape from all of the hatred and anger, the chaos and noise, the endless arguments and rhetoric.  Though I had kept myself personally out of the fray, the constant barrage of angry Facebook posts, disturbing news images, and self-righteous online articles has proven somewhat upsetting to my inner sense of peace and balance.  I wanted to be alone; I wanted to place my feet up and escape into a good book.  I decided to spend an hour or two this afternoon just relaxing in a fast food restaurant with a cup of tea and my own peaceful thoughts.  I had the foolish notion that I would be hidden and safe here away from all the turmoil of the outside world.  I was wrong.

I had had just a few minutes of peace before my attention was suddenly captured by an older man who walked directly in front of me.  I watched as the man slowly moved over to a table in the middle of the room.  The short, heavy-set man was dressed in gray slacks and a yellow plaid shirt.  Upon his gray, balding head were thick, wire-framed glasses, and a halo.  Though I have never had to wear one of these contraptions myself, I am familiar with halos.  I have had several friends who have had to use them.  Basically, a halo is a medical device designed to hold a patient’s head straight after a neck or spine injury.  It is constructed of short, steel rods that rise up from the patient’s shoulders and connect to a round piece of metal that surrounds the head.  The halo is secured in place by several small screws that are placed through the metal and directly into the patient’s skull.  The apparatus is lightweight but can be a little awkward for some patients who struggle with balance and stability.

I smiled at the man and said a silent prayer for him as he carefully sat down on a tall, brown stool next to a high, white table.  Though I found the man fascinating, I didn’t want to stare at him, of course, so I turned my attention back to my book.  After a moment, though, I looked up again when I heard him holler out, “Ketchup.  I want ketchup for my fries.”  His comment made me smile because he sounded just like a little boy.  I don’t know if it was his demeanor, his tone, or his words that made him sound so young.  I just grinned, though, as the man jumped up and down in his seat for a moment in happy anticipation of his meal.

A few minutes later, a thin, middle-aged woman with dark, shoulder-length hair and black-framed glasses walked over and sat down across from the man in the halo.  She placed a tray of food down on the table between them and the two began to eat their meal.

I returned to reading my book and enjoying my peace of mind when all of a sudden I heard the woman yell.  “Goddamn it!”  I looked up in surprise at the sound of the woman’s deep, strained voice as she pushed the angry words out through gritted teeth.  “Goddamn it!  Watch what you’re doing!”  The woman then sighed heavily as she threw the food she was holding down on the table.  “Look at you!  You have ketchup all over yourself now.”  The woman shouted as she got up from her seat and walked around the table.  She grabbed a napkin and started swiping at the man’s shirt.  “Goddamn it!” she snarled again.  “Look at this mess!”

I was horrified by her words and actions as she furiously swiped at the man’s sticky, stained shirt with the tattered, paper napkin.  I had no idea what the relationship was between the man and woman, but that didn’t matter.  I didn’t care if they were father and daughter or husband and wife.  What mattered was the way they related to each other and I was shocked as I heard the woman talk to the man as if he was a ten-year-old child.  How could she treat another human being like that, especially a person who was already dealing with a medical condition?  This woman actually had some nerve to…

And then suddenly she turned around and looked at me…

And I was surprised to see in her dark eyes a reflection of pain and heartache.

Our eyes met for just the briefest of moments before she looked away.  She quickly walked back over to her chair and sat down.  She looked at me one last time and I surprised myself by smiling at her.  She stared at me for a moment as an agonized look clouded her face before she looked away.  Though I hadn’t been happy with the way she had treated the man in the halo, when I looked into the woman’s eyes, I suddenly understood.

This wasn’t an evil woman.  This wasn’t a cruel woman.  This was a woman who must have been struggling to take care of this man for a very long time.  Oh, my God, she must be so tired!  Her stress and exhaustion must be completely overwhelming her.

And haven’t we all been guilty of doing the very same thing?  Haven’t we all screamed and yelled and cursed and been sarcastic and impatient and hateful when we have been tired or hungry or overwhelmed?  What possible right did I have to hate or criticize this woman when I have behaved the very same way at times myself?

If I witnessed the man being horribly abused, I would have definitely intervened.  But what I had witnessed was a kind woman caring for a sickly man and having a momentary loss of composure.  I don’t know this woman; I don’t know the situation.  But I do know I saw hurt, and pain, and exhaustion within the woman’s dark eyes during her sudden outburst.  A singular moment of being human, a flash of angry emotion, could not erase all of the time and effort and sacrifices she must be making on a daily basis for another human being.

Hoping I hadn’t embarrassed the woman, I turned my attention back to my book but I couldn’t focus on the words that were floating around on the page.  Instead, I prayed, “Dear God, thank you so much for letting me be compassionate in this moment.  Thank you for allowing me to understand this situation instead of being disrespectful and jumping to awful conclusions about this woman’s life and intentions.  Please let this man heal and please give this woman the strength and courage to take care of her family and help this man’s medical needs with a kind heart.”

As I finished my prayers, the couple stood up from their table and threw away their trash.  Slowly, they made their way to the exit door.  As the woman pushed and held the door open for the man, she looked back at me one more time.  I smiled at her and she smiled back at me with a shake of her head before stepping outside and letting the door close softly behind her.

I wanted to go back to my book then but I couldn’t focus.  Instead, I just sat my book aside and thought about the times I had misjudged and been unnecessarily critical of someone else’s life.  It is really true: you never really know what another person has been through.  You never really know the path another person is forced to walk and the cross he or she must carry.

And maybe even with all of the turmoil from the election, we can learn to really see each other, to understand what another soul may be suffering.  Maybe the only think that can make a difference now, while facing an unsure future, is how we treat each other, how we can show understanding, support, and love to each other.  Maybe in our own way we can learn to show compassion in such hard times.  It starts with us.  We have to make the difference.  It starts with our own understanding and ends with unconditional love.  It’s the only way we can maintain our humanity amidst such incredible chaos.

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Surprise Attack

Several years ago, I decided to take a long weekend trip to San Diego.  I really wanted to go to SeaWorld and the zoo.  I love animals and thought that this would be a fun getaway.  My mini-vacation was joyful and going really well until an odd occurrence happened at SeaWorld.  After walking around the park for a while and playing with the penguins and sea creatures, I decided to go to the arena and see the dog show.  The bleachers were packed with people cheering, clapping, and laughing as intelligent, beautiful dogs jumped through hoops and raced around the colorful stage.

When the show ended, I stood up and joined the crowd of people moving towards the exit of the arena.  Because there were so many people and only one narrow exit, the audience became somewhat bottlenecked as we tried to leave.  I just kept staring straight ahead as I shuffled along in small steps with the rest of the crowd.  When I was about four feet away from the exit, the throng came to a sudden stop.  I stood in the middle of the crowd, staring straight ahead and keeping surprisingly patient.  I guess I was just in a great mood after seeing the amazing dogs.  I just love dogs.  I think they are so…

HEY, WHAT WAS THAT?

To my surprise, I suddenly felt something smack against the back of my head.  Though I was shocked, I choose to ignore the situation.  The hit didn’t hurt me.  Besides, I just figured that since I was in such a large crowd of people accidents were bound to happen.  People were going to stumble over each other.  Bodies were going to collide together.  People were going to get hit on the back of the head.  These were just accidents; nothing was intended.  Just let it go.  I didn’t show any reaction at all.  I was sure the smack was just an awkward mishap.  I just took a deep breath and continued scuffling forward with the rest of the crowd.

BUT THEN SOMEONE HIT ME AGAIN!

This time the smack was a little harder but otherwise it was the same as before.  A quick sharp whack swooped across the top of my head.  Accident, just an accident, I told myself again, though I could feel my face beginning to beat red and my hands curl into fists.  Except for sweeping my hand over the top of my head to make sure there were no foreign articles tangled in my hair, I choose to ignore the sudden, surprising contact.  I kept my eyes focused on the exit and sighed deeply as the crowd surged forward once more.

BUT THEN I WAS HIT A THIRD TIME!  A THIRD TIME!  I couldn’t believe it!

For the third time, something or someone smacked me directly on top of the head.  Now, I was MAD!  This was no accident.  Someone was hitting me purposely.  This was intentional!  Why?  Situations teased through my mind.  Maybe I had a bug in my hair someone was trying to remove for me.  Maybe there were bees around and someone was trying to swat them away.  What if someone behind me thought I wasn’t moving quickly enough and was trying to force me to walk faster?  This was mean!  This was cruel!  Why would anyone think he or she had the right to put his or her hands on me for any reason, especially to hit me?  I just wanted to have a good time, and I didn’t want to argue with anyone.  I had been trying to avoid a confrontation, but now I felt like I had no choice.  I would have to deal with the situation or be beaten absolutely senseless before I made it to the exit.

A quick small slap suddenly landed on the side of my head as I spun around to face my assailant.  I turned and came face to face with…a baby!  A BABY!?  Oh, my goodness, the child couldn’t have been more than a year old.  She had bright, sparkly, clear, brown eyes, beautiful pure skin, and dark hair that was hanging down in chunky spikes all over her head.  Some of her thick hair was  tied with a red ribbon into a poofy little sprout that shot straight up and then over on all sides as if the baby had a miniature little chocolate fountain on the top of her head.  She was dressed in a ruffly, little, pink sunsuit.  I have never been assaulted by anyone wearing a cute sunsuit and red ribbons before.

I was shocked to see that my abuser, my tormentor, my adversary was about twenty inches tall and weighed approximately nineteen pounds.  This was not at all what I had expected, especially when the child smiled a big, three-toothed, gummy grin as I stared into her tiny adorable face.  Now, the baby was all excited.  “Hi, Hi, Hi!” she started shouting to me as she waved her little hands frantically.  I stared at the child and watched as her tall, attractive, sun-glassed father tried to hang on to her with his right arm and hold the child’s hands down with his left.  “I’m so sorry,” he whispered to me as the baby continued her chatter of “HiHiHiHiHi!”  “I really tried to make her stop hitting you,” the father was saying.  “She just really wanted to meet you.  I think she just likes your red hair.”

I told the baby hello and reached out for one of her little hands.  I shook the baby’s hand and said Hello back to her and then introduced myself.  I couldn’t stop laughing.  I had been getting angry over what I had assumed was an assault, an insult, rude behavior, hatefulness…and my hater was  actually a baby who just  wanted to say hello.  I walked with the baby and her father until we finally reached the exit and then went our separate ways.

I thought about the situation as I continued walking through the park and watching all of the animals.  I couldn’t stop smiling.  It’s funny how we judge situations before realizing what’s really happening.  How many times in my life have I been angry?  How many times have I gone off on tangents and raged over situations that turned out to be completely different from what I had imagined?  My reality is usually so different from any of my pre-conceived or conditioned viewpoints?  So funny that the times I have been so upset have usually proven to be nothing at all.  How many times have I worried, stressed, and been angry over situations that turned out to be to my advantage?  Lessons to be learned or good things coming my way.  Because sometimes what we fear or what we believe to be a threat is really nothing more than a blessing, a message, or a baby who just wants to say Hi!

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Those People

What was I thinking!?  I thought to myself as I stood inside one of the stalls in the small bathroom.  Why was I so anxious?  This moment hadn’t been a surprise.  I had spent the last several weeks reading through all of the Facebook posts describing the details, the “what, where, when, who, and why” of this event.  Each post made me feel alternately excited and depressed.  I couldn’t make up my mind what I wanted to do.  I debated continually back and forth.  I couldn’t decide if I really wanted to participate.  Because I was so unclear, I sought advice from many different people to give me some direction.  Unfortunately, I continually received the very same response from everyone without any diversion or counterpoint.  “God, why would you ever want to do something like that?  I never will.  Why would I ever want to see Those People again.”  “I wouldn’t go.  I couldn’t stand Those People.”  “  Well, you know, all of Those People were rude and mean.  They treated me horribly.  I never want to be around Those People again?”  The answer was the same again and again though everyone was talking about a different group of people.  But it was absolutely clear.  Everyone seemed to hate Those People….no matter who they were or where they came from.

And for a while, honestly, that’s how I felt, too.  It had been 35 years now seen I had seen Those People of mine!  Why would I even think about going back?  Well…maybe it was just curiosity…morbid curiosity, at best.  Maybe I just felt a horrible need to belong somewhere.  Maybe I just needed to reconnect with the past in order to move on with my life.  Maybe I just needed some closure.  Maybe I just wanted to show off that I had survived my teenage years…High school hadn’t killed me as I imagined it would at the time.  Had it made me stronger?  I can only hope so, but I do know this:  for good or bad, I have certainly come a long way since my high school days.  So, whatever the reason may have been, I was now standing, (oh, alright, I’ll be honest!), hiding in the bathroom  of St. John’s Catholic Club in Kansas City, Kansas, as I psyched myself up to join my classmates for our 35^th high school reunion.

As with most people, high school had been a traumatic experience for me.  I always felt unattractive, stupid, and awkward.  Gym class certainly didn’t help me gain any confidence.  Instead, the class seemed to reinforce  my negative feelings.  Many times, I was chosen last when deciding teams but, honestly, I can’t blame my classmates for this.  I wouldn’t have wanted anyone as uncoordinated as I was on my team either!  I believe I was the main reason my team always had to run laps around the gym for losing volleyball matches.  I would cower away in terror from any ball that came rolling, spinning, or zooming my way.

I fared no better in the actual classroom environment.  I was extraordinarily shy and quiet.  I never wanted to speak up in class and would continually play dead if the teacher called out my name.  I just could never seem to find my voice in a room full of people.  Giving presentations was torture for me.  I usually pretended to be sick on presentation days.  If that didn’t keep me out of the classroom, I would beg my teachers for any additional assignments to replace the presentation.  Many of them refused; they explained that the experience would be a good confidence builder for me.  It actually didn’t work.  I would stand up in front of the class with my paper shaking and rattling wildly in front of my face as I  mumbled through random information for the allotted five minutes of time.  I didn’t care about the grade; I just wanted to get through the experience without being laughed at or teased by my fellow classmates.

My social experience of high school was routinely painful.  I was the kid who continually seemed to have the runny nose, the drooping socks, and the untied shoelaces no matter how I tried to present myself.  I was overweight and wore thick, heavy glasses.  Every weekday, I just put on my green plaid school uniform, my sagging socks, and my arch-correcting saddle shoes (for my flat feet), and went off to school where I walked around with my head down and my shoulders protectively wrapped around my upper body.

In my senior year, I begged my mother to let me quit high school.  I am relieved and grateful now that my mother rejected all of my arguments for dropping out.  She refused to allow me to leave school until I safely had my diploma in hand.  But for years immediately following graduation, I failed to see the benefit of this at all.  I swore I would never go back to school or see any of those people ever again.

But there is one problem with the word NEVER.  It has a friend named KARMA.  Because no matter how much we hate certain experiences in our lives, they all happen for a reason.  And no matter how often we say NEVER, life has a way of recycling lessons until we learn them.  For example, even though I swore I was finished with my education, after a few years of working minimum wage jobs, I suddenly found myself drifting back to school.  I began attending Johnson County Community College and loved the experience of learning so much,  I transferred to the University of Kansas and found, quite literally, that the whole world slowly began to open up for me.  Over the next several years, I found myself in all kinds of interesting jobs and positions.  I worked as a model, a reporter, and a photographer.  I traveled the world, even waking up one morning to find myself in Thailand and soon I was backpacking by myself across Malaysia.  I lived successfully in New Mexico, Tennessee, and California.  After high school, I went on a 35-year journey to find myself.  I finally stumbled my way back to my hometown in Kansas last year.

I proudly put the information of my return on Facebook and was amazed that a lot of my old high school classmates reached out to me.  That was fine.  I could handle Facebook relationships.  But four months after my return, posts began to appear about our upcoming 35-year reunion.  I was surprised because it seemed a little ironic.  How was it possible that I would return to Kansas the very year a reunion was scheduled?  Maybe…just maybe…it was KARMA challenging my never-ending use of the word NEVER and my reluctance to see Those People again.

I was NEVER going to attend a high school reunion.

For years, I had agreed with Jase Robertson of Duck Dynasty when he said, “Do I go to high school reunions?  No.  If I haven’t talked to you in over 25 years, there’s probably a reason.”  For the 10, 20, and 30 year reunions, thankfully, I continually had the excuse of being “out of town” to avoid the events.  But now, I no longer had any excuse.  So there I was on Saturday night, April 23, 2016, in Kansas City, Kansas, at my 35-year reunion, hiding in the bathroom at St. John’s Catholic Club.  Of course, this brought back even more unusual memories of my high school experience.

Once a month, my school sponsored a mixer for all of the students on a Friday night.  I never wanted to attend these dances with Those People.  My mother forced me to go.  She thought it would be good for me to get out and mingle with my classmates.  I hated it!  I wanted to stay home and watch Donny and Marie.  I had a huge crush on Donny at the time, which I think my mother considered somewhat unhealthy.  It would be a good thing for me to get away from my teen idol for a while.  Mom and I would argue about the mixers before and after the events, but every month, I was expected to attend.  Once I was at the dance party, I would spend the first few minutes standing around the refreshment table before retreating to the bathroom where I would hide in a stall until it was time to go home.  I never danced and I never talked to anyone.  I would just stay in the bathroom and wish that I was at home watching Donny.  Though I have seen him in Vegas, I no longer watch Donny now.  I have traveled all over the world.  I have published.  I have modeled.  I have had my own business.  I have taught struggling students.  I have had an amazing life.  But here I was, at the reunion still huddled in a bathroom stall instead of facing my former classmates.

I took a deep breath and willed myself to leave the bathroom and yet I continued to linger.  I may have stayed in the bathroom all night if I hadn’t thought of Janice and began to feel terribly guilt.  Janice had been a good friend to me during my awkward elementary and high school years.  I was fortunate to  reconnect with her several years ago on Facebook.  Janice had confessed to me that she too had debated about attending the reunion.  But then she said something that really got my attention.  “If I don’t go,” Janice had stated, “I’m afraid I’ll regret it later.”  Her statement made complete sense to me.  What if this was my last chance to make amends?  Janice was right.  We decided then to go together so we would each, at least, have someone to sit with during the event.

Since I was still relearning my way around Kansas City and, especially, Strawberry Hill where the event was taking place, Janice offered to drive us to the reunion.  Because sections of the I-70 were closed, we got a little lost on the way to St. John’s and ended up in downtown Kansas City, Missouri.  If I had been driving alone, I would have used “getting lost” as an excuse to just go back home.  Janice took it all in stride, though.   She stayed completely calm; methodically and strategically, she  found the way back into Kansas.  She did a great job navigating the one- way streets and the closed roads to find St. John’s Catholic Club.  She never gave up.  She never got upset.  I need to be more like Janice.  Because now I realized that while Janice had gotten us to the reunion, I had suddenly deserted her to go hide in the bathroom.  What a horrible friend I am!

With that thought in mind, I forced myself move out of the stall.  I walked over to the sink and washed my hands while I stared at myself in the mirror.  Oh, God, what have I done?  My make-up didn’t look too bad, but my hair was a stiff, unnatural, badly blended mess.  I usually don’t fuss with my hair.  I tend to just brush it and run, but tonight I wanted to look good for the reunion.  So before I met up with Janice, I had taken the time to carefully curl and style my hair, which is something I never really do.  Once I had my hair in the design I wanted, I had grabbed the hairspray and didn’t stop spraying until I was sure not a single strand of hair would dare to move out of place.  Though I began to choke on the fumes, the spray hadn’t been enough to ease my hair anxiety.  I also had a can of spray-on hair dye to touch up my roots.  (Yes, I dye my hair to cover the gray…what of it!)  I didn’t have time to dye my hair earlier and I didn’t want any of my (gray!) roots to show.  I thought I would just touch up my hair with the red spray.  I had tentatively tried the dye on a thick strand first, and when that looked okay, I went crazy spraying the dye in a solid line down the center of my head.  Oh, my gosh, it wasn’t until I was at the reunion that I realized that the spray-on dye didn’t match my hair color at all.  The color from the can was much darker than my normal (I said normal, not natural) lighter strawberry blond color.  The spray had turned the center of my scalp horribly bright red.  I looked like I had a badly oozing wound on the top of my head.  Seriously, it looked like I had split open the top of my skull and blood was seeping out.  But I couldn’t wash it out now.  I would just have to make sure that no one could stare down at the very top of my head.  Man, I need to stay away from hair products when I’m in the midst of a panic attack.  Hair products are the bane of an anxious woman…well, at least for me.  I always go overboard in order to hide my scars and imperfections.  I try to save myself from ridicule but just tend to make everything worse and much more noticeable.  So, now, I was already at the reunion and had no choice.  But what was I really worried about anyway?  I just needed to get through tonight and then possibly NEVER see those people  again.

I took a deep breath, turned away from the mirror and walked out of the bathroom.  I stepped into the main room of the Catholic Club.  The lights were down low and a soft golden glow filled the room.  Ten tables were lined up parallel on both sides of the room and covered with white tablecloths and black beads.  There were several people standing around in small groups up by the stage.  And suddenly to my surprise, I began to smile…and it felt natural…and it felt good.  My smile did not feel faked or forced or strained.  For some reason, there was an energy about the room that made me feel excited and happy.  I don’t really know what brought on this feeling.  I had expected to find myself standing on the outside of any gathered group and out of my own comfort zone, but that’s not what happened.

Instead, I felt relaxed and happy when Cindy walked up to greet me with a hug.  I felt comfortable in her presence, but in all honesty, Cindy wasn’t a challenge.  She looked radiant and her personality always sparkles and shines as much as her physical appearance does.  She has always been welcoming and charming.  She makes everyone feel like a friend.  Cindy was my very first Facebook friend from high school and continually communicated with me through that medium for the last six years.  We had already met for dinner twice before this reunion, so I already thought of her as a friend.  I was pleased that she was the one of the first people I saw at the reunion that night.  That situation helped set the mood for the rest of the evening.

After a moment, Cindy moved away and I found myself talking to Gregory.  His soft, gentle voice and easy-going manner put me right at ease.  After talking to Cindy and Gregory, the rest of the evening suddenly became easier and, to my shock, I found myself connecting, hugging, and talking to many people I hadn’t seen in over three decades!  The conversations came easily, the hugs were heartfelt, the emotions sincere.    I talked to more people that night than I did in my four years of high school!  It was a surreal and unusual situation to see everyone again.  Most of the people looked just like older versions of their high school selves.  I felt completely disoriented whenever someone’s seventeen-year-old face suddenly superimposed itself over his or her current, older facial features.  Remember, I had never seen the adult version of any of Those People.  I only knew them as teens.  I felt for a moment as if I was in a time-travel movie.  Maybe I was actually traveling forward in time.  I suspected that I would wake up the next day and it would be 1980 once more.  But for now, it was fun to see everyone again after so long.

There was Julie looking as young as she did in high school.  And Mary who always had a great sense of humor.  She was a little more serious now, but still putting out positive, good vibes.  Joan still retained her good heart and sweet smile.  Teri continually displayed enthusiasm and pride in the school and her classmates.  Karen definitely had to be the most honest of all of us.  She confessed that she didn’t remember Janice or me at all.  Her candor made me laugh.  While some of us ran around the room trying to remember everyone, and cheating by deviously reading name tags first (well…I did…),  Karen was refreshingly open and straightforward, which was greatly appreciated.  I couldn’t help but smile when Brian suddenly sat down next to me and talked about his family.  And I was comfortable when Jeff did the same later that evening.

Most of my former classmates gave me sweet compliments on the way I looked that night and congratulated me on publishing my first book.  The most consistent compliment I received from Those People, however, was for my Facebook page.  I was completely stunned to hear people mention this.  After a few months of posting comments and statements about my life, both positive and negative, I decided that I wanted my Facebook page to be encouraging and motivating.  I have posted only positive quotes and stunning artwork on my page for the last five years.  I am not trying to be pretentious.  My Facebook page is my creative attempt to keep myself inspired and focused on the optimistic aspects of life.  I was thrilled that so many of my classmates, especially Therese, Terri,and Melissa, expressed their appreciation for my posts and asked me to keep the positive thoughts coming.  I was pleased that so many people felt inspired by my Facebook page.

Everyone happily conversed and engaged with each other, but sitting in a small group of five women later in the evening was a surreal moment for me.  I never had children and so as my former classmates talked about their families, I had nothing to add to the conversation.  But that didn’t matter to me.  I didn’t care.  I was absolutely fascinated by their words.  Thirty-five years ago, the conversations had been about tests, classes, homework, and teachers.  It was an unusual experience to listen to my classmates talk about their grown children.  “They just don’t get it.”  “I have been encouraging them to move on.”  Every comment was made with a mixture of joy, love, concern, worry, and stress.  There was no doubt that these people absolutely loved their children and wanted the best for them.  It was incredible to hear these same sweet teenage voices discussing grown-up issues.  I just sat there mute and quiet as I usually was in high school.  Only this time, I was fully attentive and could have listened to them all evening.

I also enjoyed seeing Steve, Jeff, Duke, Aldo, Nick, Joe, Chuck, Keith, Michael, and Brian again.  I think I talked to the “boys” more that night than I did through the four years of attending Bishop Ward High School.  This was an extremely bizarre moment.  What happened to all of the boys from my class?  And why was every one of them so tall?  They were not scrawny, little kids any more.  Now, I was surrounded by fully grown, handsome, strong men.  If I had realized that was going to happen, I would never have left Kansas 35 years ago!  I smiled as I looked around at all of these incredibly tall, incredibly attractive, older men.  I just prayed that none of them would suddenly look down on me and notice my “oozing” painted-red scalp.  That became one of my challenges of the evening.  I strutted around and kept moving just to make sure that my wayward vanity would not be discovered.

It had been a real challenge trying to make sure no one could look down on my red scalp.  Maneuvering away from tall men became easier when I got out on the dance floor where I was now  too happy to worry about my “bloody” hair.  Now, I could shimmy and move and turn without looking like I had to go to the bathroom.  Yes, I danced!  I was actually out on the dance floor with several of my classmates as we threw our hands up in the air, spun around, and kicked our legs.  I was not hiding in the stall now as I did at the mixers 35 years ago.  I was wiggling around in the middle of the dance floor.  I was actually dancing!  Look at me, Momma!  Look at me!  And I didn’t care at all what anyone else thought of me.  I didn’t care if I made a fool of myself.

The evening was perfectly summed up by Natalie’s comment about me.  “When we were in school, Jamie, you were so shy and quiet, most people didn’t even know you existed.  But look at you now.  Look at all of the amazing things you’ve done!  It’s incredible!”  I couldn’t help smiling at her statement.  I felt completely different than I did in high school.  And as I looked at my former classmates, I realized that we had all grown into a successful, good-looking, kind-hearted group of people!

And that’s when I suddenly realized something.  I was not the only one who had changed.  All of my classmates had grown up, too.  None of us were the same people we had been in high school.  As much as I have grown and changed, so have they.  How could I ever hold anyone responsible for what they said or did as teenagers?  I wouldn’t want anyone judging me now based on my 16-year-old self and I wasn’t going to do that to anyone else.  Those awful high school years when I felt so battered…well, I suddenly realized now that most of my scars had been self-inflicted.  It was my own reserved heart and negative mindset that had kept me locked up and hidden away in bathroom stalls.  But now, we were all (a little?!) older and a whole lot wiser.  And we were beginning to connect on a whole different level.  We were no longer the jocks, or the brainiacs, or the geeks, or the cheerleaders, or the nerds, or the loners.  Those were just labels we gave each other as we all struggled to find the place where we belong, as we all strived to find our own identities.  Those titles are laughable now and certainly don’t reflect who we have become…

And the strange thing was…I really wanted to keep partying with my former classmates because, on this night of the reunion, I truly loved those people…

So, at the end of the evening, I proudly gathered with my classmates for a group picture.  I was a little concerned when my high school crush walked over to me.  Oh, my gosh, he could still make me shiver as if I was sixteen-years-old again.  I quickly maneuvered myself away from him, though, and moved to the other side of Janice.  Well…okay, maybe a few insecurities still remain.  I just didn’t want my old crush to think that I was still clumsy enough to injure myself.  “Help, someone!  Jamie’s bleeding from the top of her head!”  So, yes, I definitely needed to move away from him.  I may never see him again and didn’t want that to be his last impression he had of me.

Hopefully, that will not be the last impression anyone has of me.

So here is my advice.  Do NOT go to your 10^th or, even 20^th, reunion.  Wait for the 30^th or 35^th reunion.  Do not see anyone from high school for at least 30 years.  Wait until everyone has had the chance to experience life.  Give everyone the opportunity to grow up.  See everyone again when they are seasoned, when they are weathered.  Become friends with high school classmates after everyone has had the chance to experience life.  Give each other the chance to experience life as God intended.  My classmates are people…real people.  People who are raising their families, working their jobs, and suffering their losses.  People who have cried and laughed and loved and hurt and grieved.  We are all really not that different after all…

Even though we had originally debated about going, now Janice and I really didn’t want to say good-bye.  We finally left the reunion around 10:30 pm because, unfortunately, I had to work early the next morning.  As Janice and I walked out of St. John’s Catholic Club and into the dark night, we turned right to walk down the steep hill to her car.  Suddenly, I gasped and had to catch my breath.  I stared at the scene in front of me.  From the top of the hill, I saw the beautiful, white, round moon shining down on the bright Kansas City skyline.  It was an amazingly beautiful image.  The sight filled me with wonder!  I now suddenly realized I was home.  I knew where I belonged.  I was loved.  I was safe.  The past had been put to rest…well, it had been put into perspective.  And the future, for my classmates and me, seemed even brighter now than it did 35 years ago.  Beautiful days loom ahead of us.  And though I may not always now where I am headed , I certainly now know where I have been, and where I come from…

I feel united and am proud to say I am one of Those People.

 

 

 

 

 

New Year’s Resolutions

I almost didn’t go to the gym on New Year’s Eve, December 31, 2015.  I expected it to be uncomfortably crowded.  I don’t worry about exercising in front of other people.  I don’t care if people are watching me even when I’ve done some really stupid things.  For instance, one day, I accidentally hit the emergency stop instead of the pause button on the treadmill and went flying off of the belt and landed on my bottom on the hard concrete floor.  Another time, I walked right into a large, white rack and cracked my head on a forty-pound weight.  I’ve fallen over while doing squats and dropped barbells on my feet.  Whenever I fall over, run into walls, and drop things, I always try to pretend that it was something I had meant to do and it didn’t hurt a bit.  I don’t think anyone believes me and I seriously doubt anyone has gained work out tips from watching me.  I have been laughed at, mocked, ridiculed, and teased all in an effort to keep myself in shape.

…And it is this effort, this drive, to stay in shape that got me up off my hopefully toned bottom and into the 24-Hour Fitness gym in Shawnee, Kansas, last Thursday.  I had been right; the gym was packed with people.  A crowd at the gym usually makes it difficult to exercise because I can’t always get the machines I need for my workout.  Thursday was “back day” and so I would need all of the machines that would exercise my trapezius, latissimus dorsi, and spinalis muscles.  Unfortunately, all of those machines were already in use.  The machines were occupied by very large men who didn’t look like they were into sharing, especially with a small, older woman dressed in trashy, loose, blue sweatpants and a gray, ragged hoodie sweatshirt.  I always wear my oldest, sloppiest clothes when I go to the gym.  I intend to work out really hard and build up a sweat.  Why would I want to dress up for that?  I am always amazed to see young women in full make-up with their hair and nails done out on the gym floor.  That’s way too much effort.  I’m proud of myself that I am at the gym at least five times a week.  To exercise in full make up seems a little desperate to me.

But who am I to judge as I looked at the people around me.  It takes all kinds of kinds, I thought as I started to make my way over to the one lone exercise bike not in use.  I pushed my steps a little bit faster hoping I could reach the bike before anyone else grabbed it.  I guess all my runs on the treadmill were paying off!  I did it!  I reached the bike first! It was all mine.  I quickly sat down on the seat, placed my diet coke in the water bottle rack (okay, okay, I know), and draped my towel over the handlebars.  I programmed the bike on a manual, medium speed and opened up my book.  I am one of those rare people who read while I exercise.  This practice works great for me.  As long as my mind is active, I can exercise for hours.

I had just started pedaling and focused on my book, when an elderly woman suddenly got my attention.  The woman had to be in her late 60s or early 70s.  She had short, pure white hair and thick, black glasses.  She was dressed in a yellow, long-sleeved t-shirt and Capri-length, black sweatpants.  I watched in amazement as the woman pushed her walker across the gym.  I have seen this woman many times before.  Using a walker doesn’t seem to slow her down.  She very carefully moves over to one of the machines and then grips the side handles of her walker as she carefully lowers herself onto the seat.  Once she is securely seated, she lets go of her walker, and then painstakingly, manually maneuvers her legs into place.  She leans forward and wraps her hands around her right leg and places it into position before she does the same thing to her left.  After she has finished her sets, the woman reverses the procedure with her legs, grabs a hold of her walker, and pulls herself up from the machine.  She stretches for a moment before moving to the next machine.  I always smile when I see her.  I hope I am just like this woman in the years to come.  Though I may have disabilities, I don’t want to be idle.  I don’t want to be sitting on the sidelines watching everyone else.  I want to be exercising; I want to be moving, even if I, too, have to adjust my legs and get around with a square, steel walker.

I watched as the woman walked over to the hamstring stretch machine.  I watched as she preformed her usual ritual.   She held onto the walker while she moved her body into place; she sat down slowly on the seat and let go of the walker; she manually moved her legs into place, first the right leg and then the left.  The woman had just gotten herself into position when a large, young man walked up to her.  The man smiled but still informed the woman, “I was using that machine.  I haven’t finished yet.”  I stared in absolute horrified shock as the woman smiled back at the man and then began her slow routine of getting off of the machine without having performed one single movement to stretch her hamstrings.  The young man just stood by as the elderly woman now maneuvered one leg and then the other off of the machine.  She grabbed hold of her walker and pulled herself up out of the seat.  She nodded her head at the man as she slowly began to shuffle away.  The young man did not say another word as he sat down on the machine, shifted his legs into place (without using any manipulation), and began to exercise.

I watched in surprise as the woman shuffled around the gym trying to find a machine that was not in use.  The gym was just too crowded that day for anyone to immediately do their workout unless they were rude enough to chase elderly woman and others off of the machines.  The woman tried to make her way to several exercise machines that suddenly became free only to have younger, more mobile people race ahead of her.  The woman just stood on the side of the room and waited for a moment before finally giving up and walking back to the locker rooms.

I wanted to chase after her and apologize for the rudeness that she had encountered.  I wanted to tell her, “Hey, you know, it’s New Year’s Eve.  Everybody has a resolution to lose 10 to 50 pounds.  I’ve been going to gyms long enough to know…just give it a month or two.  Most people will give up and then the gym will be ours again.”  But I didn’t do anything.  I just watched as the woman shuffled by and I was ashamed that I had said and did nothing.

I usually don’t make New Year’s resolutions because, like many people who promise to exercise, I don’t always follow through on them.  But maybe this year I should make a resolution to reach out to people who feel like they don’t belong.  Maybe the world would be better off if instead of making useless resolutions we never keep, this year, 2016, we just try to be a little kinder to each other.

Tolerance and Hope

For a quiet moment, I stared anxiously at the beautiful black and white photo that was printed on the small plastic white card I held reverently in my right hand.  I couldn’t stop staring at the face of 13-year-old Helen “Potyo” Katz.  I couldn’t seem to turn away from the haunted look in her large dark eyes.

“Bring your card over here,” I suddenly heard the young museum docent say to me.  “If you place the card into one of the computers, you’ll get a print out about your child.”

I smiled and followed the young woman over to one of the computers that was lined up against the far wall.  I placed the card into the slot on the front of the computer.  A few second later, I picked up the single sheet of paper that had seeped out of a nearby printer.

Helen “Potyo” Katz

The same black and whiter photo of the young girl with the large dark eyes stared up at me from the page.  I quickly read through the text that was printed on the pure white paper.  I suddenly found myself choking back tears as I read the last two paragraphs.

“Potyo and her mother were immediately separated from her brother and sisters, and they were murdered.  Potyo was 13-years-old.”

“Potyo was one of 1.5 million Jewish children murdered by the Germans and their collaborators during the Holocaust.”

I took a deep breath and looked at the three tall card dispensers that were stationed at the front of the room. Each dispenser held stacks of white plastic cards.  Each card presented a picture and name of a child murdered during the Holocaust…

1.5 million children…

Looking at the stacks of cards I still couldn’t seem to wrap my head or my heart around that number.  I was still contemplating this fact when my friend, Allison, walked up beside me and asked if I wanted to go downstairs and attend the presentation by the guest speaker. Affirmatively shaking my head, I quickly followed Allison to the elevators and we rode in silence down to the lower level.

Allison and I had decided to tour the Museum of Tolerance in Los Angeles, California, because we both have a huge interest in the Holocaust, World War II and the events of the 1940s.  The exhibits at this museum were beautifully and respectfully designed to honor the people of the Holocaust.  I was pleased to see though that the museum also paid tribute to all people who were targets of hate crimes. All minorities that have suffered violence and discrimination are respectfully honored at the Museum of Tolerance.  Looking at the displays was a sobering and profound experience.

Allison and I took our seats in the large back room on the second floor that had been set aside for presentations.  As I sat comfortably in the plastic seat on the end of the third aisle and waited patiently for the presentation to begin, I glanced anxiously around the room.  I was pleased to see that the audience contained many young people.  A large majority of them were with a school group.  Others were sitting next to their parents.

A few minutes later, a short, slender man with dark hair walked up to the front of the room.  He introduced himself as Michael though he was known to his family as Miki.  For the next hour, I sat riveted to the presentation as Miki spoke of his experiences in the Auschwitz concentration camp during the Holocaust.  I found myself swept away as he talked about the separation of his family, the condition of the concentration camps, and the brutality he witnessed on a daily basis.  Listening to Miki’s words, I couldn’t keep the tears from flowing down my face.  I wanted to scream.  I wanted to cry out loud at the details of Miki’s horrific life story.  I had to continually turn my head to the open space on my left and forcibly breathe out to keep myself from screeching.

I was not alone in this grief.  Miki’s story was so intensely horrific that the audience reacted in shock and despair.  I looked around the room and saw many people in tears.  I struggled to hold in my sobs as I noticed a young blond boy gripping his mother’s hand and patting her arm as tears ran down both their faces.

When his hour was over, Miki still had not completed his entire story.  As terrifying as the story was, I didn’t want Miki to stop talking.  This moment was so incredibly enriching to my soul, I didn’t want it to be over.  I have read many books about the Holocaust, but hearing a first-hand account made the events more personal and realistic.  I wanted to remain connected to the people in that room, who were joined together to honor the tragedy and awesome courage of another person’s life.

When Miki had to end his presentation, Allison and I stood in the line of people walking to the front of the room to thank Miki for telling his story.  Allison and I patiently stood by as we watched audience members move up to Miki one at a time.  Now, I didn’t fight back my tears as I watched the young blond boy and his mother approach Miki.  Miki asked the boy how old he was to which the boy responded “Thirteen.”

“Thirteen!” Miki repeated.  “Aaahhh…that’s the age I was when I was sent to the Auschwitz concentration camp.”

Now the boy and the man stood staring at each other for a moment of profound silence.  Then, the boy suddenly threw his arms around Miki and held him in a long embrace.  I watched as the two generations held onto each other, trying to find some peace and understanding in life’s atrocities.  When the two separated again, I watched in awe as other young kids—13-, 15-, 17-year-olds—each took a turn to shake hands or hug Miki while thanking him for sharing his story.  I watched as one young girl with long dark hair offered her hand to Miki.  Her chin quivered violently as she tried to hold back the tears that were swimming in her eyes.  Miki took her hand looked into her eyes and said, “It’s okay to cry.”  He paused and then added, “And it’s okay to laugh.  We are all just human.”  The young girl’s tears now spilled down her cheeks as she embraced Miki quickly and then ran from the room.

Allison and I were the last in line and now we stood in front of Miki.  As Allison talked to him, I addressed the short, dark haired, elderly woman standing beside him.  Miki’s wife and I stared at each other for a second before embracing.  As we held onto each other, words just slipped out of my mouth.  I whispered to her, “You are beautiful.”

The woman pulled away and stared at me for a minute.  “Oh, no, not me,” she now said with a gentle laugh as a sweet blush eased across her cheeks.  Her suddenly rosy face and shy smile gripped my heart.  “Of course, you are,” I answered as the woman embraced me again.

I turned then to Miki and choked on my words as I said to him, “It was an absolute privilege to hear your story.”  Miki and I shared a gentle hug.

As I pulled away and turned towards Allison, I suddenly heard Miki’s wife excitedly say to him, “Did you hear what she said to me?  Did you hear what she said?!”

I turned back around to find the woman beaming joyfully at me as she stood next to her husband.  She seemed to be waiting anxiously for me to repeat the words.  “I told her she was beautiful,” I said even though my tears caused me to choke on the last word as the woman’s smile suddenly radiated out around the room.  I wanted to run back to her, take off the big white sunglasses she was wearing, stare into her eyes and ask, “Hasn’t anyone ever said that to you before?”  The woman seemed so pleased to be addressed in such a manner.  I suddenly realized that it was not ego that made her want my words repeated, but a deep aching need that we all have to be acknowledged and humanized.

I turned around then and followed Allison out the door and down the hallway to the bathroom.  I stepped into one of the stalls, leaned my head against the wall, and cried.  I don’t think I’ve wept that hard in a long time.  After a few minutes, I stepped out of my stall at the same time Allison came out of hers.  For a moment, we stood staring at each other as we noted our tears…

And then suddenly we smiled…

And then we started to laugh.

Because it really is okay to cry…

And it is okay to laugh.

Allison and I walked out of the bathroom and back into the main hallway.  We looked at a few more exhibits until the museum closed at 5 pm.  I didn’t want to leave.  I loved being at the Museum of Tolerance.  I certainly wouldn’t say it is the place that make me the happiest.  I certainly wouldn’t say it is the place that makes me feel the most alive.

The Museum of Tolerance, instead, is the place that makes me feel the most human…

I was always concerned that in years to come people would forget about the Holocaust, that it would simply over time just fade away into the pages of dusty old history books.  I think about the evil that people continue to do to each other.  I worry about the disrespect we, including myself, demonstrate to each other on a daily basis…

….but then I think about all of those young people who cried, and laughed, and honored a Holocaust survivor…

And I know there’s hope for the next generation.  Oh, yes, there is tremendous hope for the generations to come.

Human Chain

Last Monday, during a two-hour break between my classes, I decided to drive over to Clark’s, the local health food store and grab some healthy snacks.  I really enjoy shopping through all of the bulk bins that are at the front of the store.  I grabbed several plastic bags and began to fill them up with sesame sticks, blueberry granola, and unsalted peanuts.  Once I had chosen my snacks, I walked over to the registers and got in line.  A few minutes later, the clerk was scanning my purchases while I searched in my wallet for my credit card.  Suddenly, I heard a voice loudly saying to me, “What are you going to do with all of these peanuts?”

I glanced over to see my bag of peanuts suddenly dangling in front of my face as I heard a deep rumble of laughter.  At first, I was a little aggravated.  I don’t like to have my grocery selections questioned or my food touched.  I don’t always like strangers shouting at me, mocking me, or teasing me.  I never know how to respond.  So, yes, I could feel myself becoming irritated.  I looked up from my wallet and suddenly found myself looking into the face of a young man with the most dazzling, happy smile I had ever seen.  The smile was so kind and endearing, I couldn’t be upset.  I stared at the man whose eyes behind his thick glasses were slightly crossed and the look of Down’s syndrome graced his face.  The young man was wearing a green Clark’s apron.  The nametag on the apron had the word “Volunteer” stamped on it.  How cool!

Suddenly, I heard the female clerk’s voice laugh as she said, “Well, she is going to eat them.  What did you think she was going to do with all those peanuts?”

I started to laugh now.  “Do you like peanuts?” I asked the volunteer.

He shrugged his shoulders and said, “I like them.”

“I do, too,” I answered.   “I think they’re really good.”

“Yeah,” the volunteer answered, “that’s why you have a whole bag of them.”

“Yeah,” I laughed at his observation, “you’re right.  I guess that’s why.”

The clerk interrupted us then as she ran my credit card and asked if I wanted paper or plastic.  I told her I didn’t need a bag at all.  The clerk turned to the volunteer then and smiled, “She doesn’t want a bag, Mike.  Just hand her the items.”

But the volunteer still seemed fascinated with the bag of peanuts.  Suddenly, his face lit up.  “Hey,” he said then, “I know what you can do with all these peanuts!”

“What?”  I asked him as the clerk listened in on his suggestion.  “What should I do with all these peanuts?”

“You can make peanut butter!” he said triumphantly.

The clerk and I laughed then, “Yes,” I told him.  “That’s a great idea!  I just might do that!”

The volunteer handed me the plastic bags of peanuts and sesame sticks as I told him thank you and have a good day.  He smiled at me and wished me the same.  I walked out of the store and started walking over to my vehicle.

As I reached my car, I suddenly noticed a middle aged, blond woman in a silky short black dress and high black heels walking across the parking lot.  The woman was taking very small tentative steps as she pulled at her dress.  She continued to fret with the skirt of her dress, awkwardly pulling it down her legs to her knees as her fingers slipped and tangled in the loose flowing material.  I watched her for just a moment.  The woman walked a little sideways on the balls of her feet as if she was afraid she was going to fall.

As the woman approached me, I smiled and called out to her.  “You look really nice.”

The woman stopped and stared at me for a moment.  Then she smiled as she blinked several times as if to block tears.  “Oh, thank you so much,” she said.  “You look so nice, too.”

I smiled and blushed a little at her words.  I was wearing what I normally wear when I teach my classes.  I want to be comfortable so I wear a long skirt, simple shirt, and flat sandals.  And though I do think the woman was only trying to be nice to me, there was a hint of sincerity and kindness in her words that I don’t usually hear from a lot of people.

I smiled at the woman and said “Thank you.”  I was grateful for her kindness.  The woman stopped walking for a moment as I stood by my car door.  She hesitated as if she was going to say something more to me.  I waited, but she just stood awkwardly still, looking at me with a shy smile as her fingers tugged at the hem of her skirt.  We smiled at each other for a moment more before I said, “You have a great day!”

“Oh, thank you so much,” the woman said as she began to take awkward steps again.  “You, too.  You have a great day.”

I got into my car then and watched as the woman shuffled her way across the parking lot and then stepped inside of the sliding front doors of Clark’s.  As I watched the doors close behind her, I smiled as I thought of all the unusual, amazing people God had brought into my life that day.  I had the greatest feeling that the people I had encountered were in my life for a reason.  Just these brief encounters made me feel incredibly blessed.  I hoped that I had been an inspiration and blessing to other people as well, too.

I drove back to the campus feeling incredibly connected to the Oneness that bonds all souls.  I thanked God for allowing me, in some brief way, to be a link in His amazing human chain.  I don’t want to be the weak link in this chain!  I want to love and be kind to people.  It is always return to me. It comes back around.  For I love myself the most when I love other people.

Mother’s Day

“A queen is wise.  She has earned her serenity, not having had it bestowed on her but having passed her tests.  She has suffered and grown more beautiful because of it.  She has proved she can hold her kingdom together.  She has become its vision.  She cares deeply about something bigger than herself.  She rules with authentic power.” –Marianne Williamson

My mother has always been my best friend.  Maybe because we saw the world in a way that other people around us didn’t understand.  Mom and I shared visions and predictions.  We would get into long conversations about spirits, reincarnation, out of body experiences, and angels.  My mother would grip my hands, stare into my eyes, and say, “I can’t talk to anyone else the way that I can talk to you.”

You see, my mother was a seer, a psychic, a sensitive, a traveler, a seeker…and, for her, it was a horrible burden.  She would continually be misunderstand, mocked, and criticized.  She would suffer through 40 years of domestic abuse that left her depressed, bitter, and broken.  She would only regain her spirit after my father passed and my mother suddenly found herself alone and free to be the woman she was meant to be.  She began to reclaim her life.  She would then tell me the most amazing stories about God and the universe and I was always so eager to hear and to understand.

I share my mother’s gift.  I carry the same burden.  It was a tremendous relief for me when my mother finally found the strength to reveal her true self, even though there were still days that it left her lonely and confused.  Her visions and intuition had caused her to be lonely and isolated.  Being a sensitive, my mother was always aware of the thoughts and feelings of the people around her.

One night, I was with my mother in a hotel room in Atlantic City.  We had just spent a long week traveling through the northeast together, exploring Ellis Island, the Statue of Liberty, and Niagara Falls.  I don’t know if it was exhaustion or exhilaration from our 8-week wander through America, but my mother sat on the bed with her legs tucked up under her.  She started to talk about her life, her visions, and the suffering she endured.  She began to say to me, “I know people don’t like me.  I know most people laugh at me.  But I can only be who I am.  I can only be me.”  Though her voice was strong and her declaration clear, the tears running down her face were breaking my heart.  I sat down on the bed beside her and wrapped my arms around my mother and together we shared tears and strength and visions until mom became silent and drifted off to sleep.

The next morning, mom was up early.  She was dressed, packed, and ready to continue our journey through America.  I was so happy that I was able to share this adventure with her.  I was so glad I got to live with her every day for the last nine months of her life.  Though my mother always doubted herself, she taught me to be strong; she taught me to be proud of my visions; she taught me to enjoy all of the wonders of the universe, both on earth and in heaven.  And this I can say with deep love in my heart and joy in my soul: My Mother was the greatest woman no one ever knew.

Happy Mother’s Day, Momma.  I love you.  I miss you every day.

And to all of the mother’s, all over the world, who love their children, who teach their children respect and kindness, who hold their children close to their breast and even closer to their hearts, who give their children strength to stand on their own two feet and yet pick them up when they fall…

To all the mothers who give of themselves without asking for anything in return; who stay in the shadows and allow their children to shine…

To all the mothers who are proud of their children even when sing off-key, miss a dance step, or strike out every time they are up at bat…

I know who you are…

I had a mother just like you…

And though it may not always be said, you are always loved and honored…if not by family, if not by neighbors, if not by friends…

You are held in the greatest admiration of God and the Blessed Virgin…

They see your suffering; they know your heart; they understand your deepest intentions and listen to your continuous prayers….

Giving birth was a blessed event and a blessing event…

You are honored…

I wish you all a very Happy Loving Mother’s Day….

True Justice

Sometimes, it can be hard to teach a basic reading class to college students who don’t like to read.  Most of the young students I have in my class are more interested in their cell phones and social media.  They prefer to play video games than to finish the assigned readings from their textbooks.  It’s nothing my students are actually doing wrong.  It’s just the way things are today.  Very few people enjoy opening up a book.

So before the start of the new term, I read through all of the stories in the basic reading textbook and choose the ones that I think the students would find the most interesting.  Most of the students are in the Criminal Justice program, so I concentrate on the stories that reflect their field of study.  I assigned several of the true crime and short story murder mysteries for the students to read.  This strategy worked very well.  The students were reading the stories and coming into every class ready to discuss the information.  I really love it when students are excited to discuss the readings because it provides me with tremendous insight and amazing observations about the work and the students themselves.

So, last Monday, when the students were settled into their seats, we began to discuss the reading assignment for that day.  The essay focused on the true story of Eric Clark, a teenager who is imprisoned for shooting and killing a police officer.  Many people, including Eric’s mother, claim that Eric is schizophrenic.  Eric believed that the city is full of aliens and the only way to stop them is with bullets.  The essay considers if Eric is really troubled or if he is a cold blooded killer.

I was pleased that the students had a lot of different opinions about this situation and the discussion became very exciting as students continued to debate if Eric was mentally ill or guilty of his actions.  This is what really brings me alive as an instructor.  I love and encourage my students to give their opinions.  Many of them are highly intelligent, some of them are hysterically funny, and others…well, just need to go back and read the assignment again.  But as an instructor, I love it when students feel free and safe to share their independent thoughts and opinions.

After discussing Eric Clark for a while, the students began to discuss other cases that had been in the news.  Jody Arias, George Zimmerman, Amanda Knox, even OJ Simpson all came up in the discussion.  The students became very excited about who they thought was guilty or innocent.  The students discussed who they thought should have gotten life or the death penalty and why.

Other than every now and then guiding the discussion and throwing in the few points of law I knew, I refrained from sharing my personal opinion.  I wanted the students to think for themselves without being influenced by their instructor.  Many students believed in the death penalty.  I refrained from telling my thoughts on this.  I don’t agree with the death penalty.  Why not?  Because I think it is too easy.  I think that when people commit a crime, they should live out the rest of their days contemplating the evil act that they did.  I remember hearing about one judge who ordered a convicted killer to write out and send a sympathy card to the family every year on the anniversary of his victim’s death.  The judge believed it was a way to remind the convict of what he did.  I agree.  Instead of the death penalty, criminals who commit crimes should have some reminder every day of the crime that they committed and the people that they hurt.

I was influenced in my thinking by the book The First Man In Rome by Colleen McCullough.  I love this book which details the start of the Roman Senate.  The book stressed the punishments for criminals in ancient Rome.  Instead of going to jail or being put to death, criminals were made outcast in society.  The criminals were shunned.  They lived in society but could not be a part of it.  They could not get married, vote, own any property, hold jobs, have children.  Criminals could not be talked to or acknowledged by the rest of society.  The ancient Romans believed that this was the worst punishment that a citizen could endure.  The enforced isolation caused the criminals to more away from the town or commit suicide.

I was thinking about this situation when one of my students suddenly exclaimed, “Casey Anthony was at the Palm Desert mall a few weeks ago.  Yeah, the woman who got away with killing her kid, she was here in town and she was shopping at the mall.”

Several of the students turned to look at the woman who had spoken and asked her for details.  “How do you know?  Were you there?”

“No,” the first student answered, “but my sister works there.  She suddenly saw this huge crowd of people in front of Charlotte Russe and was wondering what was going on.  She walked over and found that people were circling around Casey Anthony.”

“Well, what happened?” Students all suddenly started talking at once.  “God, what did they do?  Man, she is so evil.  Did your sister talk to her?”

“Oh, no,” the student responded. “It was really bad.  People were gathered all around her, totally blocking her on all sides.  They had her completely surrounded.  Of course, some people were taking pictures.  But the majority of the people were dumping their soft drinks on her and throwing food and other stuff at her.  Everybody was swearing at her and, man, people were spitting on her.  It was really gross.  Just really nasty spit.”

“Was Casey upset?” someone asked.

“No, in fact, she actually stood there just laughing at everyone.  It was a really nasty laugh.  But people wouldn’t let her go.  They kept surrounding her and trapping her.  They were right in her face, screaming at her.  Security finally had to be called to get her out of there.”

As I listened to the student’s story, I suddenly felt a chill go through my body.  I suddenly felt myself in Casey Anthony’s place.  For most of my life, I have been bullied and felt like a real outsider.  It used to be a very painful situation.  Fortunately, I like myself now, but I know many young people commit suicide for being bullied and targeted.   I shivered as I thought of Casey Anthony being held up to public humiliation.  What would it feel like to be trapped in a mob of people who surround you, scream at you, ridicule you, spit on you.  Yes, Casey may have laughed, but we are all social creatures.  Some part of Casey, some human part, has to be slowly dying inside.  I suddenly felt like I was going to be sick.  What could be more devastating than to be publicly hated?  I’m not saying Casey Anthony didn’t deserve it.  No, I’m saying, I think the Roman Senate had it right.

Spot on the Sun–A Short Story

Something strange happened to me last week.  I don’t know why or exactly how it happened.  All I know is that it did.  It all started this way.  It was Monday, just a Monday, like any other Monday ever since time began.  This Monday was behaving the same as any Monday would.  I am used to it, but, I have to admit, I wish that Mondays would behave like other days of the week.  I would like Monday to become more like a Sunday, reverent, quiet, and lazy.  Or maybe Monday could become more Friday-like, with wild, carefree fun.  But Monday can’t be anything other than a Monday.  And I can’t be anything more than what I am.  I am Stephanie, a quiet woman, a philosopher, a poet, an explorer…the one who looks underneath while everyone else is over the top.  I see things most people don’t see…and that’s exactly what happened last Monday.

It was a typical, sad, lonely Monday, a day of little energy and, even worse, little emotion.  Nobody cares about anything on a Monday.  Everything felt off balance like it normally does on a Monday.  So, this particular morning of hazy sunlight and visible rain didn’t really make an impression on me.  I would expect a Monday to be like that.  I wasn’t really happy about it.  But again, what am I gonna do?  Mondays are going to come around again whether I want them to or not.  They are just always there like an unwelcomed relative.  At least, Mondays know when they have overstayed their welcome and leave after 24 hours.

That certainly isn’t like my cousin John who came to visit me one afternoon, and now, two months later, is still sleeping on my living room couch.  I could hear him snoring as I got out of bed and walked down the hallway to the bathroom.  I could usually hear him snoring anywhere I was in the apartment.  The noise never ends.  He is loud and obnoxious and I wish he would stop.  But he doesn’t.  I almost prefer to hear him snore because then, at least, I know where he is and what he is doing.  It’s when he’s quiet that I panic.  He likes to sneak up on me.  I don’t know why he does that and I really wish he would stop.  Sometimes, I don’t think he realizes that he is doing it.  John just seems to exist wherever John is.  He doesn’t think about anything.

So this particular Monday, I woke up around seven in the morning, rolled out of bed, and walked into the bathroom.  I needed to get ready for work.  I used the toilet and then quickly showered.  After drying myself off with the one good clean towel, I got dressed.  Getting ready on a Monday doesn’t take much thought.  I just put on the same clothes I wear every Monday.  Life is easier that way.  Why complicate a Monday with concerns about what to wear?  Monday will always be Monday regardless of whether I wear pants or a skirt.  Why do people stress over what to wear or what day it is?  Very simply, it was Monday, so I would wear my comfortable black pants, white short-sleeved blouse, and black pumps.  I sighed as I looked at myself in the mirror.  Monday was a cruel manipulator.  It always dictated what I wore and how I felt.

So, even though, it appears that I was off to a great start, it honestly takes me a little longer to get going on Mondays.  I’m always late for work every Monday.  It’s not that I’m lazy or hate to work.  No, it’s just hard for me to get focused after the weekend.  I have a hard time getting in the mindset to go to work on Mondays.  I get easily distracted.

For instance, last Monday, I was twenty minutes late because I stopped to watch a leaf floating in an inch of water in the storm drain down the street.  I can’t tell you why this actually caught my attention but it did.  I just stood there on the sidewalk and watched the leaf swirling around in the dirty water until it was finally swept down into the storm drain with the excess fluid.  Though my body moved on, my mind was still stuck.  I walked to work contemplating how the leaf had fallen so far from the tree and ended up in the storm drain never to return.  So, that’s what happened.  I was twenty minutes late to work last Monday because I was watching a leaf.  The week before I was counting the cracks in the sidewalk and before then I was noticing how much the grass had grown in the courtyard outside my apartment.  So, yes, I’m always late on Mondays.  I usually am not completely focused until Wednesdays.  Then I’m usually fifteen minutes early to work for the rest of the week.  But come Monday, I am late again, and people in the office are beginning to notice.

That Monday, Linda, who works at the desk next to mine suddenly looked at me when I walked into the office and commented, “Well, I guess some of us need extra time to recover from the weekend.”

I hate Linda.

I wish I didn’t have to work next to her.  She is very mean to me.  She constantly makes rude comments to me since I became the Administrative Assistant to Mr. Davis at the law office a year ago.  Maybe she’s afraid I’m going to take her place as Senior Administrative Assistant, as if that is something I really aspire to be.  Maybe she thinks I’m not smart enough for my job.  But whatever the reason, she is always making rude comments.  The data entry clerks in the office are always laughing at the comments Linda makes at me.  I don’t know why the two clerks always laugh at Linda’s remarks.  The comments are never funny.  I think the women are just terrified of Linda.  She can be really scary…

And she loves to eat.  There are always snacks at her desk.  Linda especially loves to eat corn chips.  I can hear her crunching throughout the day.  The smell is disgusting.  I never know what to say to Linda about the food or her rude comments.  One day, I’m going to tell her to stop and leave me alone, but for now, I just prefer to keep my distance.

I pulled my long blond hair back in a loose ponytail and put on a few splotches of make-up before picking up my wide red plastic-framed glasses and sliding them onto my face.  When I was ready, I opened up the bathroom door.  I walked back to my room and grabbed my purse and keys.  I guess I was ready to go.  Maybe I could make it to work on time today.  But it was Monday, and it had been raining since early this morning.  Who knows what manifestations may distract me on my walk to the bus stop today?  Anything can happen, though, I guess.  Maybe that’s what makes life so interesting.  I sighed deeply as I walked out of my room, down the hallway, and…

“AAAHH!”  I suddenly screamed jumping back.  I took several deep breaths and stared at John who stood directly in front of me.  God, I was so caught up in my thoughts about Monday and Linda, I hadn’t noticed that the snoring from the living room sofa had stopped.  John was standing quietly in front of me.

“Geez, Sis,” he stated, tossing back the long, straggly, blond hair that was hanging in his face.  “You need to calm down.  What’s wrong with you, Sis?  You need to relax.  You’re always screamin’.”

I stared at John for a moment.  He always says he doesn’t purposely try to scare me.  He claims he only startles me so easily because I’m never paying attention…

He may have a point…

It’s not fair though…I do pay attention…just not to the things other people think are important.

But I didn’t want a lecture on the art of relaxation from John right now, even though I know he is an expert on doing nothing.  I didn’t want John to tell me about relaxing when I am the one working hard to support both of us.

And I wish he would stop calling me Sis!  I don’t know why he does that.  I am not his sister.  I am his cousin.  Yet, he always says Sis no matter how much it irritates me.  It sounds dismissive to me as if he is just patting me on the head and pushing me away.  I’m beginning to think that he says it on purpose, just to upset me.  One of these days, I will demand that he calls me by my real name—Stephanie Ann Davis.  And then, I’m going to tell him he has to leave.  And then, I’m going to ask for the hundred dollars he owes me…

Just not right now.

I needed to get to work.  Besides, I didn’t want to talk to John about my life or my job or money or anything really.  Talking to John was like talking to a parrot.  He just repeats back what he hears but doesn’t contemplate anything.  It’s amusing for a while, but ultimately pointless.  I push past John and walk into the living room.

“Not even a good morning today,” John called out sarcastically from behind me.  “You can at least say good morning.”  But I was too shocked at the mess I saw as I entered the living room to say anything to him.  Clothes were all over the floor, and a few paper plates of food and several cans of coke were sitting next to the couch.  The place was a disaster.

“John, why did you make such a mess?”  I asked as I pointed to his clutter in the living room.  John stared at me for just a moment as if he thought I was somewhat ridiculous.  I didn’t care about that, though.  I was past the point of worrying what John thought about anything.  I just sighed dramatically.  I had to admit that I was a little irritated when John just chuckled and shrugged his shoulders at my question.  I knew that the mess would wait until I had time to clean it up when I got home from work.

“Yeah, yeah,” John was saying to placate me.  “I’ll get it cleaned up.”  He said the words in a lazy monotone without much commitment.  “But I got stuff to do today.”

I stared at him in shock for a moment.  “What could you possibly have to do today?  You don’t have a job.  You don’t go to school.  How can you be too busy to clean up today?”  I turned away, and walked to the door, but John followed closely behind me.  “Leave me alone, John,” I said to him even though my words didn’t sound threatening at all.  Instead, my voice came out of my dry throat as a bit of a squeak.  So, of course, it didn’t stop John from following me to the front door.

I opened the door and stepped outside into a usual Monday morning.  The sun was just beginning to break through a few of the lingering dark gray clouds.  Large, dirty puddles covered the steps and sidewalks.  I found myself leaping widely in an effort not to splash through the puddles as I made my way down the four wide concrete steps to the sidewalk.  Well, this is different, I mused.  This wasn’t like any other Monday or most rainstorms.  I wasn’t jumping into the puddles and enjoying them like I usually do.  This morning, I was sidestepping the puddles and fighting to keep my thoughts focused on just moving forward.  I didn’t want to get distracted right now.  Any place I stopped to contemplate life, I would have John right beside me.  I wanted to him to leave me alone, but he continued to follow me.  I hoped that the wet morning would deter John, but it didn’t.  He continued to tag along behind me as I walked out the door, down the steps, and onto the sidewalk.

A nasty little thought occurred to me then.  Did I lock the apartment door?  I don’t remember if I had turned the little button on the knob before it swung shut behind us.  I wickedly hoped that I had locked John out of the apartment!  Here was John following me outside while he was wearing the soft flannel blue shorts and white t-shirt that he usually wore to bed.

…And he always tells me that I am oblivious.

Didn’t he realize that he was walking outside in his pajamas?  I hoped we got further from the apartment before John realized that there could be a problem.  I wondered how many people would see John in his pjs.  The thought made me laugh and I was momentarily happy before I began to feel a little bit guilty.  John is not a bad person, I tried to tell myself.  He’s just very misguided and a little selfish.

Hey, maybe I could be a role model for him…

My brilliant idea dissolved into dread as John followed me across the apartment complex parking lot.  Oh, man, he was asking me for money again!  “Just twenty dollars,” he was saying.  “Could you just give me twenty dollars to see me through the week?  I’ll pay you back.”

“You’ll pay me back,” I laughed.  “You already owe me a hundred dollars.”  I glanced back at John who looked rather hurt that I had the nerve to keep track of the money he had borrowed from me over the last few weeks.  I just shook my head at him.  He had no right to feel insulted after he was has been living on my sofa for two months now.  “When are you going to pay me back, John?”  I asked.  “How are you going to pay me back?  You don’t even have a job.”

I didn’t want to give John any more money.  I know how John operates.  He’ll stay with me for a while, bleed me dry, and then move on.  I tell him things like “I’m short on cash right now” or “I haven’t gotten paid from work yet this week.”  I don’t think he believes me.  I’m not an effective liar.

Why don’t I just tell him what I think?  Why can’t I just be honest with him?  John, I should say, just get your crap and move!  I don’t want you sleeping on my couch anymore.  I don’t want you eating all of my food.  You need to contribute.  But instead, I keep my mouth shut and just hope that he will somehow realize that he is no longer welcomed in my home.  But John seems just as oblivious to the things happening around him as I am.  We are family.  Neither one of us really pays attention to anything other people think is important.

John continued to follow me across the parking lot to the opposite sidewalk.  I don’t have a car right now.  That is a bit of a relief.  I know John would ask to borrow it if I had one.  He wouldn’t think anything of taking my car for the day and leaving me stranded, without a way to get to and from work.  I actually take the bus every day.  It’s kind of a hassle…but, at least, John doesn’t get to use my car…if I had one, that is.  The plan backfires sometimes, though…

Two or three times, I had to stay late at work and I missed the bus.  I had to humble myself and ask Linda to give me a ride home.  She was mad, but she eventually did it.  She drove me three blocks and asked me for ten dollars in gas money!  She even lives in my apartment complex!  It wasn’t as if she had to go out of her way to take me somewhere different.  I gave her the money, though.  I didn’t know how to say no.  I was scared to say no, but, honestly, what would she have done?  Driven me back to the office and left me over night?  I don’t know.

I hate Linda.

Now here was John trailing after me down the sidewalk and still asking me if I could please give him twenty dollars…twenty dollars, he claims, is all he needs.  I only had 30 dollars to get me through this week.  That was just for my lunches and bus fare.  I tried to walk a little faster but John was right on my heels.  I could hear his voice behind me.  “C’mon, Sis.  I really need the money, Sis!”  I could feel tears of frustration burning my eyes.  I couldn’t argue with John any more.  I just needed to get away from him.  Now, I hoped I hadn’t accidentally locked the door.  I would have preferred it if John just went back inside the apartment and left me alone.  But, no, matter how fast I walked, he was still there stalking along behind me.  Finally, as I approached the bus stop, I irritably reached down into my purse, pulled out a few dollars, and turned around to face John.

I turned around angrily and probably with more energy than I had intended.  I spun around…and walked right smack into him!  I hadn’t realized that he had been quite that close.  My face collided with his left shoulder.  I felt a sudden whoosh as air spilled out of my lungs and my glasses were knocked off my face.  I caught my breath as I heard my glasses fall onto the sidewalk with a scrapping thud sound.  Oh, man, I hope I didn’t break my glasses…

As I bent down to retrieve my glasses, John did the same thing, and we suddenly cracked our heads together with a hard, loud thump.  The head bump was so hard it caused me to stumble backwards for just a moment.  Before I fell back on my butt, though, I suddenly felt myself being pulled in the opposite direction and back up on to my feet.  I righted myself and then noticed that John was standing in front of me, holding on to my left elbow to prevent me from following over.  I didn’t want to thank him for his help.  I would have preferred to fall on my butt than to feel obligated to John.

Once I had my feet back under me, I yanked my elbow out of his grasp.  John looked at me for a moment as if he expected a reward for his help, maybe like twenty dollars.  When I didn’t respond, John bent down and picked up my glasses from the sidewalk.

“I’m sorry, Sis,” he was saying as he held my glasses out to me.  I bit my lip because I didn’t want to cry and I didn’t want to scream at him.  “Sis,” John was saying.  “I really am sorry…uh, can I have the 20 bucks now?  It’s cold out here.  I want to go back inside my apartment.”  I glared at him for just a moment.  The fact that I had to squint to see him put more menace into the look I shot at him.  “I mean your apartment,” he mumbled.

“Just give me my glasses,” I screeched at him as I reached out my right hand towards him.  I am practically blind without my glasses and feel very vulnerable without them.  At first, John held my glasses away from me.  I heard him laugh once or twice as he yanked them further out of my reach.  “That’s not funny, John!”  I shouted at him.

“Geez, alright, Sis,” John stated.  “I was just playing.  You really needed to relax, Sis.  Why are you always so uptight?”  I continued to stagger around, slashing and sliding through puddles as I batted blindly at the air around me.  I heard a grunt of laughter from John.  I had this strange feeling he was going to hold my glasses hostage for a twenty-dollar ransom.  But, instead, I suddenly saw his blurred image up close as he stood directly in front of me and dropped the glasses right down onto my face.  I jumped back for a moment at the sudden sensation.  As John put the glasses on me, I felt a little cold sliminess settle across the bridge of my nose.  Oh, man, the glasses must have fallen directly into a puddle and John didn’t care enough to wipe them off.  “I’m sorry, Sis.  I really am,” John was saying.  He was quiet for a moment and then added, “I really need the 20 bucks…”

I blinked several times trying to adjust my vision.  Something didn’t seem right here.  I staggered around and then looked up….and that’s when I saw it!  I had glanced up at the sky just as the sun began to shine through a few of the dark clouds.  But the sun wasn’t complete and perfect as it usually was.  Instead, the brilliant golden orb now had a round dark spot right in the center.  Why was this happening?  Oh, my gosh, was this an eclipse or something?  No, no, it couldn’t be that.  The sun wasn’t a solid circle this morning.  Instead, the dark spot on the orb was a small blip with jagged uneven edges.  Could this morning’s storm have washed away the center of the sun?  While John continued to beg for money, I just stood there in front of him, staring up at the sky, and contemplating the sun.  I couldn’t believe that John continued to talk and other people just continued walking down the sidewalk while such a phenomenon was taking place.

And everyone thought I was oblivious…

Why didn’t these people look at the sun?  Why didn’t they notice that the sun was slowly dissolving into a black icky mess?  I wanted to grab people’s arms and yank them over.  I wanted to point up at the sky and demand that they look at the sun.  I wanted everyone to see what I was seeing.  I wanted to share this spectacle with the rest of the world.  This wasn’t just a leaf caught in a storm drain or grass growing in the courtyard.  This was a happening, a miracle!  Why was everyone else ignoring it?

I didn’t reach out to anyone though.  I just continued to stand there, quietly staring up at the sky and studying the sun.

And suddenly, I realized that John had stopped talking.  He was no longer begging me for money.  Instead, he was suddenly standing by my left side.  His gaze had followed mine until he, too, was staring at the sun.  I suddenly felt myself filled with so much joy.  I had never felt so close to John in my life.  My cousin John and I were standing together on the sidewalk just a few feet from the bus stop staring up at the phenomenon of a black spot on the sun.  It felt for a moment like the planet had stood still as John and I stood together in silent communion staring into a far-off world.  I had suddenly slipped into my contemplative mood as I wondered what would happen to the world if the sun dissolved.

And then suddenly, I heard someone shuffle up to stand just to my right side.  I didn’t turn around to look.  I was scared that if I took my eyes off the sun I would miss something.  I just had the sense that there was a person standing beside me.  I didn’t know who it was or what he or she looked like.  I didn’t know if the person was male or female, short or tall, heavy or thin.  I didn’t know if he or she was black or white or Asian.  I didn’t know if he or she was Muslim or Christian or Jewish.  I didn’t know if his or her hair was black, or brown, or blonde.  I didn’t know if the person was gay or straight.  I didn’t know if he or she was college educated or a high school dropout.  I didn’t know if he or she was rich or poor.  All I knew was that the person stood beside me as we stood together staring up at the sun.

Then I felt someone else standing to my left directly behind John.  And again, I didn’t know who it was.  I still couldn’t turn my face away from that spot on the sun, so I didn’t turn to look at the person.  I didn’t see his or her face.  I didn’t know if this person was male or female, short or tall, heavy or thin.  I didn’t know if he or she was black or white or Asian.  I didn’t know if he or she was rich or poor.  I could just feel the person standing to my right staring up at the sun.

Then I could feel someone standing directly behind me but I didn’t turn away from the sun to look.  I could just feel warm breath on the back of my neck and the heat of a body warming me in the chilly Monday morning air.  I didn’t know if this person was male or female, heavy or thin, tall or short, rich or poor…and I really didn’t care.  I was just so happy to be spending this moment with these people.  I hadn’t had anyone share my contemplations with me before and this moment now made me smile.  For the first time, people were seeing the world the way I was!  What an extraordinary and exhilarating moment!

I could feel someone now standing in front of me, but with my eyes turned up to the sun, I was looking right over the top of his or her head.  I could just see a soft fuzziness below my face.  It could be a hat, scarf, or hair.  I couldn’t tell if he or she was heavy or thin, rich or poor.  It didn’t matter.

I could feel the heat of a hundred souls around me.  The sensation warmed me and made me feel safe and loved.  I had never before felt so connected to other people.

Like a magnet, our quiet, calm moment caused more people to gather around John and me.  There were so many of us that we filled the sidewalk and drifted into the street.  There were so many people I couldn’t tell where I stopped, and they began.  I could feel a variety of people on my right and on my left.  There were people in front of me and behind me.  I didn’t know who they were.  I didn’t know if they were male or female, tall or short, rich or poor.  I didn’t know their race, religion, or culture.  It didn’t matter.  Everyone was looking up, staring in one direction.  All of us united in one common goal: to contemplate the phenomenon of the dark spot on the sun.

And I felt so much love for the people around me.  I could feel John standing a little forward on my right side.  My sweet cousin.  I loved him so much.  My heart swelled as we stood together contemplating this occurrence.  We stood together, sharing a phenomenal moment of witnessing something so unique and original.

As I stood there, basking in the warmth of the human experience, I suddenly heard a child’s voice break the silence as he loudly asked, “Mommy, what are we looking at?”

“We’re looking at the storm clouds,” his mother answered.

Though a multitude of voices began to sound all at once, each one rang out as a separate solo in our unique symphony.

“Clouds?” a male voice suddenly echoed.  “I thought we were staring up at the trees.”

“No, no, no,” another female answered, “there is nothing in the trees.  We’re looking at the roof of the building across the street.”

“The roof?  There’s something on the roof over there?  Why would we just stare at a roof?” a different woman shouted.  “No, no, we’re watching for planes.”

“Planes!?” a male voice asked angrily.  “Why would we all just stand around waiting for planes to go by?  That’s stupid.”

“Well, I don’t know what we’re looking at,” a female voice admitted.  “I’m just looking because everyone else is.  What is it?  What are we all looking at anyway?”

Now, to my surprise, most of the people were saying the same thing.  “I don’t know what we’re looking at.”  “Everyone’s just staring.”  “What is everyone looking at?”  “What is it?  Why are we here?”

What was wrong with these people?  I wondered.  Couldn’t they see?  Why didn’t they know?  How could they not see it?  And then I realized something.  We weren’t united in the same experience as I had imagined us to be.  I was alone in my contemplation of life while others just stood around lost and oblivious.

Now, there was a quiet moment as everyone turned to stare at each other.  Everybody was searching for an answer.  Tension began to riffle through the crowd as everyone was trying to figure out why they had just wasted several minutes of their busy Monday morning staring at nothing.

“You were here first,” a couple of people suddenly said as they looked at John and me.  “You started this?  What were you staring at?”

“I don’t know.  I have no idea.  I was just looking because she was,” John said as he casually pointed at me.

“And I was just looking because you were,” another voice answered John.  Several other voices responded in the same way.

Oh, my gosh, I thought, they really didn’t see it!  They didn’t understand.  Nobody else understood the magnitude of the situation.  Before I could think of anything else, John suddenly said, “Yeah, it was you, Sis.  You started all of this, Sis.  What were you looking at?”

Now, I could feel all of the eyes turning away from the sky and focusing on me.  It was completely silent, except for the shallow breathing of the people around me.  “The spot,” I whispered, “the spot on the sun.”  I didn’t turn around yet to face the people gathered around me.  I felt safer staring directly at the sun.  I slowly pointed up and said again, “I was looking at the spot on the sun.

“The what?”  And I suddenly could hear the different voices of the people around me.  I looked away from the sun then and at the people gathered on the sidewalk and in the street.  Where we were all one before, now I could see their race and culture and religion.  Where we were all in silent communion before now there were angry, confused expressions on their faces.

…And, oh my gosh, what was this!?  Every face I saw seemed to be missing a particular feature.  There was one face with a hole where the nose should be.  Another with an eye missing.  As I turned around, I noticed a woman’s face with a hole in her forehead.  Oh, my gosh, what was happening?  Everyone’s face was beginning to dissolve into darkness as the snarky voices continued questioning me.  “What is happening?”  “What do you see?”  “What is it?”  “A spot on the sun?”

My confidence and excitement was beginning to vanish.  I didn’t know what else to say.  I continued to repeat myself.  “It’s the spot on the sun,” I said again, but in a softer voice.  “Right there.”  I pointed up at the sky.  “There’s a black spot on the sun.”

I turned to look at John now, my eyes silently begging him to back me up.  But instead, he looked at me with a really odd expression.  Oh, my gosh, he seemed to have a hole on the left side of his face.  I stared at him, trying harder to focus on his features.  I couldn’t make myself look away.

John was staring at me incredulously.  And then he said, “Oh, for God’s sakes, Sis!  You have something on your glasses!”

Before I could stop him, he reached out and grabbed the glasses off my face.  He glanced at the lenses for just a moment and then started to laugh.  “Sis, look,” he stated.  “Your glasses got dirty when they fell into the puddle.  There’s a small piece of grass or a leaf or something on them.”  John rubbed the lenses on the front of his white flannel shorts.  Before I could protest, he plopped the glasses back on my face again.

“Oh,” I said as I was now able to see clearly.  I glanced up for a moment.  The sky was beginning to clear of the dark clouds and a brilliant, clear, whole sun was shining through.  “Oh,” I whispered, “I guess the sun is fine then.”  I giggled for a moment to hide my discomfort and embarrassment, but no one laughed along with me.  Instead, everyone stood around me in complete awkward silence.

Everyone was quiet for a moment.  And then suddenly one voice shouted out.  “This was a damn waste of my time.”  “Stupid,” another voice called.  “Idiot,” I heard someone else say.  “Damn fool,” was another comment that stuck in my brain as I felt a bright blush rushing up into my face.  My eyes began to burn as I struggled not to show any tears.

“Well, if I’m such an idiot, why were you all following me?” was my weak reply.  Nobody answered.  People were brushing roughly against me, almost knocking me over, as they walked away.  They were waiting to see a miracle, not realizing that they had already created one.  For on that dreary Monday, a miracle had occurred.  For one brief moment, everyone had been united.  People had joined together and contemplated the world.  It did happen.  Why was I the only one to notice?

Why did this happen to me?  Why couldn’t I see the world the way other people do?  Why do I always have to see the earth through my own imperfect eyes?  I had felt so close to these people just a few minutes ago.  It hurt now that they would call me names and laugh at me as they walked away.

In just a few minutes, John and I were the only two people left standing together on the sidewalk.  I struggled to fight back tears as we looked at each other.  “That was really stupid, Sis,” John said as he stared at me.  “You had everybody all confused.  You were an idiot.  How could you not figure out that it was just a spot on your glasses?  Sis, you really embarrassed me,” John said then as he shook his head.  “Why did you do that?  You need to start waking up and paying attention to the real world.”  He paused for just a moment and then said, “Can I have the twenty bucks now?  I want to go back to the apartment.”

I just stood there staring up at John hopelessly.  But we were one, weren’t we, John?  I wanted to ask him.  But John just stood there looking at me like I had lost my mind.  I stared at him quietly for a moment, seeing him clearly now, too.  “No,” I said in a small voice then.

“What?”  John asked as if he didn’t hear me…or didn’t want to hear me.

“No,” I said louder now.  “No, you can’t have twenty dollars, John.  I will not give you any more money.  I want you to pay me back what you already owe me.  A hundred dollars, John.  ”

“Oh, c’mon, Sis…”he started to whine, but I was having none of it.

“No, John,” I was all fired up now.  “I may have made a ‘stupid’ mistake.  But, I’m a good person.  I try to help people and I think about life.  I don’t need people standing around telling me that I’m stupid.  I don’t need people in my life to hurt me.”  Maybe I wanted to believe in another world.  Maybe I was looking for a miracle.  And then that’s when I did it.  I turned to John and told him that he had to leave.  “You need to be gone, John.  I want you to leave my apartment…You’ve mooched off of me long enough.  I want you to pack your crap and leave…NOW!  Not tomorrow and not later.  NOW, John.  I want you gone!  Get your things and go.  I want you gone by the time I get home from work tonight.” I stopped for a moment and took a deep breath, before adding,  “You need to go.”

I turned around and walked away from him then.

“Hey, Sis?”  John called out after me, but I wasn’t going to turn around.

“Leave, John,” I said as I walked down the sidewalk.

John still screamed out behind me.  “C’mon, Sis.”

“And stop calling me Sis!”  I demanded.  “My name is Stephanie!”

I continued on my journey without looking back at him again.  I had missed the bus, but that was okay.  I felt like walking anyway.  I walked the three blocks to work.  I splashed through puddles and didn’t care if I arrived late, wet, and dirty to my job.  This is who I am.

This Monday, I walked into the office half an hour late.  Of course, Linda had something to say about it.

I hate Linda.

As I had walked in the door of the law office, Linda looked up from her computer screen.  She started to make a few comments as I walked over to my desk which was right behind hers.

“Well, look who finally decided to show up for work today.  Late again?  It must be Monday,” Linda stated as the two data entry clerks looked up at me from their computer screens.  They didn’t even try to hide their giggles.  They always seemed to get excited when Linda made fun of me.  “My God, what happened to you?  You’re wet.  You look like a drowned cat who…”

“Stop it, Linda!  Just shut up!”  I said.  The data entry clerks suddenly looked away and found something important to do on their computers.  The deep, patient tone of my voice even scared me.  “Leave me alone.  I’m a good person and I do work hard, so just back off!”

Linda stared up at me.  Her eyes were wide and her mouth hung open.  My own words were even a shock to me.  I had never talked back to Linda before.

In the eerie silence that followed I continued.  “Why do you always have to make fun of me?  What have I ever done to you?  I don’t want your job.  I don’t want to hurt you.  I haven’t done anything to you.  Why are always making fun of me?”

Linda just looked at me for a moment.  And when she finally found her voice again, she said, “Would you like a doughnut?”  I stared at her as she picked up a large pink box that was sitting on the corner of her desk and held it out to me.

I wanted to stomp away from her but my hunger won out.  I didn’t get anything to eat before I left the apartment earlier.  This morning’s adventures made me really hungry.  “Yes, Linda,” I said.  “I would really like a doughnut.”

I reached into the box then and picked up a perfectly round, shiny, glazed doughnut.  I looked it over once before I bite into it.  “Thank you,” I whispered to her as I chewed.

Usually, Linda just ignores me throughout the rest of the day.  To my surprise, though, today, she continued to talk to me, asking me if I had any questions or needed any help getting the rest of my work completed.  It was a little uncomfortable at first, but slowly I began to relax into our comfortable truce.  I was surprised how pleasant and friendly Linda could be.

I like Linda.

…Today.  I don’t know about tomorrow yet.  We’ll just have to see.

Our pleasant camaraderie that day made the time pass very quickly.  Soon, five o’clock arrived and another Monday was over.

As Linda and I closed the office, she suddenly looked over at me.  “Do you need a ride home?” she asked.

“No,”  I answered her in a shy whisper, “I’m taking the bus.”  Honestly, I thought that muggers on the bus would be safer than being with Linda in her Toyota Scion.

“It’s no problem,” Linda said.  “I can drive you home.”  She looked at me for a moment and I couldn’t turn away.

And then she smiled at me!  Linda actually smiled at me!  Though at first I tried to fight it, I couldn’t help smiling back at her.  “That would be great, Linda,” I said, as I glanced out the window at the dreary evening.  Though the sun had started to come out that morning, the rest of the day had dissolved into dark clouds and heavy rain.  I couldn’t help but feel that the weather was my fault. Had I embarrassed the sun to the point that it no longer wanted to show its face?  I reminded myself that that was an awful way to think.  I know that the world didn’t revolve around me and that I certainly didn’t possess that kind of power.  But I couldn’t help feeling a little bit guilty for ruining everyone’s day.

But then again, whose choice was that really?

So now, I had a choice to make.  “Yeah, Linda,” I answered.  “I would appreciate a ride home.  But I really don’t have any extra money this week to give you…”

“Money?”  Linda asked as if in shock.  “Forget about it.  It’s not necessary.  The weather is just so bad, I don’t want to see you walking to the bus stop.  Besides, we live in the same apartment complex!  It’s okay.”

I smiled as Linda and I walked out of the office, locked up, and ran in the rain over to her car.

I like Linda.

As Linda drove us home, we just made general small talk about projects in the office…until we came to the corner of Third and Madison.  The atmosphere in the car suddenly seemed to change.  Linda suddenly became very quiet and took a deep breath as she pulled up to the stop sign.  Finally, she said, “This is it.”  She breathed in heavily.  “This is where I lost my son two years ago.”

I turned to look in shock at Linda.  Her revelation took me by surprise and all I could think to do was murmur, “What?”

“It was a motorcycle accident.  It was on a day just like today.  Dreary and dark and rainy.  A Monday just like today.  Mike was on his way home from work on the bike he loved so much.  A car headed the other way didn’t stop and ran right into him, killed him instantly.  I didn’t even get to say good-bye.”  And then she suddenly turned and looked at me.  “He was just about your age.”  Linda was quiet for a moment as she stared out through the windshield.  The atmosphere in the car was grown thicker, so I turned to look out my passenger side window.  I was contemplating the row of houses in the neighborhood and wondering who were the people who lived in these decaying, aging homes.

“He used to have your job,” Linda’s soft voice was strong enough to shock me out of my reverie.  “Yeah,” Linda continued, “He had just turned 21 and needed a job.  He started working with me in the office.  Then one day, he left the office about a half hour earlier than I did.  I was driving home and I saw him there, lying on the side of the road.  The paramedics were already working on him, but it was too late.  The driver of the car took off and left my son lying in the gutter.  I lost my son, and then two months later, you took over his job in the office.”

I shivered as I looked at Linda with more insight now than I had experienced in all of my moments of contemplation.  I began to understand Linda’s animosity towards me.  It really had nothing to do with me.  Linda’s world did not revolve around me either.  Wow, even though I contemplate life, I guess I’ll never really know what another person has been through until they tell me.  I suddenly found myself reaching over and giving Linda’s hand a quick squeeze.  She just offered a faint smile and slowly drove through the intersection then.

Suddenly, Linda started to talk again, “For a while, I refused to believe it.  For months, afterwards, I still called his cell phone.  I would tell friends that I couldn’t go out because Mike needed me at home…even after he was gone.  I was just crazy then.  It’s a little embarrassing now.”  She gave a small giggle then and shrugged her shoulders.  “I used to…I used to see Mike walking down the hallway of my home late at night even after he was gone.  I saw him.  I know I did.  It sounds so crazy.  But he was there.”  Linda just rolled her eyes then before saying, “I was just…just crazy.”

I let Linda’s words sink in for a moment before I finally said, “Linda, this morning…the reason I was late…I thought there was a spot on the sun.”

Linda turned to look at me briefly before turning her attention back to the road again, “What are you talking about?”

“Well, this morning I was walking to the bus stop and I had gazed up at the sky…and I swore there was a spot on the sun.  I thought the sun was dissolving.  I don’t even know why I would have thought that.  I think I’m always looking for the unusual…I don’t know,” I paused before I told Linda the rest of the story.  “Several people stopped around me and they were looking, too.  But they weren’t seeing what I was seeing.  There was nothing there.  I had just dropped my glasses in a puddle.  My glasses were just dirty.  There wasn’t a spot on the sun.”  I gave a little hurtful laugh then.  “What an idiot, huh?”

I cringed, waiting for Linda to make some snarky comment at me.  Instead, her face glowed with a gentle smile that I had never seen before.  “No,” she answered slowly.  “I would love to see the world the way you do.”  She smiled then as she turned into our apartment complex parking lot.  “My son…he used to see things like that, too.  He used to talk to me about aliens and ghosts.”  Now she cringed a little.  “Not in a crazy way, I mean.  Sam wasn’t crazy.  He just lived in a world of possibilities.  He believed anything could happen.  He always saw the most amazing things in this world.  He thought he would live forever.  He thought he was invincible.”  Linda sighed deeply as she pulled the Toyota Scion into her assigned parking space.  “Miracles hurt sometimes,” she sighed.

We both climbed out of the car.  I walked around to the front and thanked Linda for the ride home.  “It’s okay,” she whispered.  We didn’t say anything more.  It was still raining.  With a quick smile and a “See you tomorrow,” we both headed to our separate apartments.  I was really grateful that Linda didn’t laugh at me when I told her about the spot on the sun.

I like Linda.

I unlocked my apartment door and took a deep breath.  What am I going to say to John if he’s still here?  What am I going to do if he is angry with me?  I nervously pushed open the door and stepped inside the apartment.  “Oh, my gosh,” I breathed slowly as I walked inside and looked around.  I walked through the living room and into the kitchen then back to the bathroom.  The whole place was completely clean, except for a single sheet of paper lying on the dining room table.  I walked over and picked it up.  Underneath the paper was a single hundred-dollar bill.  “Oh, my gosh,” I sighed before I read the note.

“Dear Stephanie,” the note began, “I cleaned up the apartment and packed up my stuff.  Thank you for letting me stay with you for the past two months.  Here is the hundred dollars I owe you.  I will be staying at Rob’s place if you want to contact me.  I have a job interview tomorrow at Von’s grocery store and I’ll start looking for my own place.  Thanks again, Stephanie.  You’re the best!  John.”

I didn’t know where he got the money.  I wasn’t going to ask.  I placed the note and the money back down on the table.  I walked back into the living room and sat down on the couch.  I picked up the remote from the coffee table and turned on the TV.  Oh, my gosh, I sighed as the picture on the screen flickered on and a strange gray light filled the darkening room.  I stretched my arms up over my head and kicked my legs out straight in front of me.  I swung my lower body up on the couch and lay down.  I had my couch back!  It was all mine again!  And I can watch anything I wanted to on TV now.  I didn’t have to watch just John’s favorite shows.  I picked up the remote again and flicked through the channels.  I sighed deeply…

I miss John…

The following Monday, I woke up and stretched as I got out of bed.  I walked down the hallway to the bathroom.  I showered and then went back to my bedroom.  Today, I decided to wear red.  I pulled the bright red, full-skirt dress over my head.  This Monday felt special, as I knew all Mondays would feel from now on.

I walked back into the living room and smiled as I saw John lying on the couch.  He was breathing deeply in his sleep.  John had moved back in with me again.  But this time, I just knew it would be different.  He got the job at Von’s and he had agreed to pay half the rent and buy all his own food.  I’m glad he is living with me now.  I feel safer with John around and it’s nice having help with the rent.

I walked over to the door and quietly opened it up.  I tiptoed outside and pulled the door shut behind me.  What a great morning!  I thought as I took a deep breath.  A cool breeze was blowing over me…and the sun…well, the sun was full and bright and complete.  I ran down the steps and walked across the parking lot.  “Good morning, Linda,” I called cheerfully.  “How are you?”  I approached her car, feeling happy and warm in the glow of our new friendship.  Linda has offered to drive me to and from work while I was saving up to get my own car.  I have already giving Linda a few dollars for gas…and, funny, it felt good this time when I handed the money to her.

I walked over to where Linda stood quietly beside her car.  “Are you okay?”  I asked her as I looked at her with concern.

Linda looked up at me again and smiled, “Ants,” was all she said.  I followed her gaze back down to the asphalt of the parking lot.  In one of the zigzagging cracks of the pavement, a small, brown, sandy anthill had been created.  Now, Linda and I were suddenly squatting down and watching the ants as they worked.  Tiny, black ants were scurrying back and forth, in and out and around the hill.  The ants appeared to be incredibly busy as they ran around in circles.  Their day would be full and they would be as busy as most people I know.  I wondered if they ever stopped to notice the whole large world around them…the ants, I mean.  I already know most people are oblivious.

I thanked God then that I have always been able to see miracles.  My world and the people in it had suddenly grown so precious, all because, one glorious Monday morning I had seen a dark spot on the sun.  After a few minutes, Linda and I looked up and smiled at each other.  I laughed as I realized we were both going to be very late for work on this Miraculous Monday Morning.

My Mother’s Dream

My mom and I would sit side by side on the small square concrete porch in the back yard on hot summer evenings in Kansas.  Our small house had no central air conditioning and there was nowhere else to go to escape the humid heat of the day.  We would just sit together and watch the day slowly disappear as we told each other our dreams.  My 10-year-old self talked about castles, princesses, movies, music, poems, and Donny Osmond. I would weave complicated future lives for myself of success and fortune.  My mother would just listen.  She never took a side.  She didn’t encourage nor discourage my dreams.  She would take a neutral position believing that would keep us both safe.

My mother was a woman of simple dreams.  She didn’t wish for large houses or fancy cars.  She didn’t want stylish clothes or expensive jewelry.  That summer, the only thing my mother dreamed of was an apple tree.

My mother sat on the porch one lazy evening.  In the glow of the setting sun, she stared out at our large fenced-in backyard.  I followed her gaze but couldn’t figure out what was so fascinating about the brown grass that was slowly decaying under the pressure of the hot summer sun.  I looked at the patches of dry, dusty, balding earth that pushed up sporadically through the grass.  My father had continually screamed at his four children to stop running, sliding, playing, and wrestling on the lawn.  But without video games, DVD players, cell phones, and stereos, there was really nothing more to do.  My siblings and I continually played outdoors.  One of our favorite games was to chase each other up the high hill that was part of our backyard.  We would tackle and then drag each other down the hill by the arm or the leg.  It was always more fun after a rainstorm.  We would pull and push each other down the hill and into the small puddles of mud that formed on the flat land that lead up to our back porch.

My mother’s eyes, however, saw something completely different as she stared into the distance.  “I want an apple tree,” my mother stated in the strongest, most determined voice I had ever heard her use.  “I want an apple tree to plant in this back yard.  Wouldn’t it be amazing, Jamie?” she asked, trying to draw me into her fantasy.  “Can you imagine just walking out our back door and pulling apples right off of our very own tree in our very own backyard?”  Her voice grew lighter as her eyes sparkled.  “I can make fresh apple pies for us.  I can make apple fritters and turnovers.  We would be cooler, too.  We could sit under the shade of the tree and get out of the heat for a while.”

I just smiled at my mother and didn’t say a word.  I was just a child and couldn’t see her vision.  I just saw a dry, dusty yard; the earth cracking apart from the heat.  My mother’s apple tree dream didn’t inspire me.

But Mom was determined.  The next day, she searched through the plants, flowers, and trees in the garden shop at our local K-mart.  This isn’t the first time Mom had browsed through the garden section.  Mom loved plants and had been successful with small gardens she had created in the back yard.  She grew roses, marigolds, tomatoes, and green beans.  Why not an apple tree, too?

Mom carefully looked through all of the trees and finally held one up triumphantly.  “Look at this one, Jamie,” she shrilled.  “Isn’t it beautiful?”

I silently stared at the 3-foot stick Mom held in front of her.  That’s all it was.  It was just a long stick with the far end encased in a plastic-wrapped wad of soil.  Mom lovingly placed the apple stick in her basket and carefully pushed it over to the check-out.

I watched as Mom opened up her small wallet and warily counted out four dollars.  She hesitated for just a moment as she held the money tightly in her hands.  She looked at the stick for a moment and then down at her money.  She glanced back at the stick and then down at me.  Then she slowly handed the money over to the cashier.  Even at a young age, I knew how much my mother had to scrimp and save just to have those four dollars.  She rarely spent any money on herself.

“We’ll have fresh apples, Jamie.  The whole family will enjoy the fruit from this tree.  We’ll make all kinds of pies and tarts.  This is going to be a great investment.”  On the way home, Mom talked on as she tried hard to justify her purchase.  I think part of her felt guilty about spending the money on something she really wanted.  Thinking she could share it with her children and that the family would benefit was the only way Mom could ever spend money on herself.

When we got back home, Mom proudly carried the apple stick out to the back yard.  At the base of the hill on the right side of the yard, my mother dug a hole about two feet deep.  She carefully stuck the now-unwrapped soiled end of the stick down into the hole.  She quickly maneuvered the dirt around the base.  Mom smiled then as she slowly backed away.  Suddenly she jumped forward quickly as the apple stick began to tilt to the left.  Mom quickly righted the stick and packed the dirt a little tighter on the left side.  My mother then sat back on the ground and smiled.  She lay back on the grass just staring up at the stick for a few minutes.  I’m sure she was seeing the tree as if it were already full grown and looming over the backyard.  I’m sure she was imaging the tree blooming, the apples growing, and the shadow of the tree hiding her from the sun.

Over the next several days, my mother tended loving to her apple stick.  It wasn’t an easy task with four energetic, rambunctious children, who had nothing to do on a lonely summer day, running around.  My siblings and I continued to play in the back yard.  Mom would run out of the back door every few minutes as she saw her beloved tree tilting dangerously to one side.  “Be careful,” she would scream to us.  “Watch out for a tree!”  All four of us would stare at Mom in surprise.  A tree would be easy to see and avoid.  It proved to be a little more difficult to sidestep a stick.  My siblings and I continually and accidentally ran and stumbled over Mom’s apple tree.

My mother kept a close eye on her tree over the next few days.  She constantly shouted to her children to be carefully when we were running, playing, and dragging each other around.  Over time, we became use to the tree sticking straight up from the ground.  However, the stick was hard to see in the dark.

One hot June night, with her children and a few neighbor kids playing tag in the backyard, Mom finally allowed herself to join in the fun.  In the dark, she whooped and cheered and laughed as she chased the kids around the yard.  Mom was having so much fun being a child again, she wasn’t paying any attention to where she was going.  Suddenly, all of the kids froze as we heard a crack, snap, and then a sad anguished cry.

My brother ran into the house and flipped on the back porch lit.  Now, the yellowish glow revealed the source of the strange noises.  My mother sat sprawled on the ground.  Her beautiful apple tree was now lying across her legs.  My mother reached down and picked up the stick.  The single stick of my mother’s apple tree had cracked and split right off at the roots.  I just remember the sadness in my mother’s eyes as she looked up at me. Anguish creased her face as she struggled to hold back the tears.

“Momma…”  I said slowly.

“It’s okay,” she answered as she brushed her hands over her face.  She pulled herself slowly up from the ground, still holding her apple tree in her hands.  “It’s okay,” she said.  Then she chuckled sarcastically, “I did it myself.  I killed the tree myself.”

Mom then slowly walked toward the house as her kids followed her like little ducklings.  We were all silent as we climbed into bed and went to sleep.

My mother was in the back yard early the next morning.  I watched through the bedroom window as she slowly dug up  the ground and pulled out the last remnants of her destroyed dream.  I watched my mother refill the hole with dirty as tears rolled down her face.  My mother’s tree was gone. My mother’s dreams were gone.  I’m sure she grieved, too, over her hard-earned money.  She had felt so guilty spending on herself in the first place.  Now, it felt like such a waste when she could have used the money for her children.  I watched my mother carry the roots of the tree over to the trash.  She paused before she dumped the bundle inside the large garbage can.  I swear I saw her pray over the tree before she let the roots drop from her hands.  She looked down at her dirty palms as tears again rolled down her face.  Then, she wiped her hands in the grass, took a deep breath, and smiled as she walked in the house to awake her children for the morning.

My mother kept her dreams private after that.  She never asked for anything more.  We would sit together on the back porch on summer evenings.  We were silent as we would sit side by side and watch the sun go down.