My Social Butterfly

For four years she was my constant companion. Being the first born gave her the privilege of my undivided attention. Audra and I did everything together, from the house work and cooking to socializing to creative projects. She was often sitting on the kitchen counter or standing on a chair pulled up to the counter as I was cooking, doing dishes and even laundry. Every aspect of home and garden were projects for us to do together. It is interesting that when I look at what Audra enjoys today it seems to be the very things we did together in those first 4 years. Audra is a great cook, can entertain with the best of them and always has a creative project in the works. I would imagine we are carrying on the traditions of the women in our family from generation to generation. I know it was at my mother’s side that I learned cooking, sewing and caring for a home and family and it was at my side that Audra developed not only the skills but the joy of domestic arts. I think at the heart of this enjoyment for both of us is the joy of giving others the gift of a delicious meal or a welcoming home. We share a love of caring for others through these comforts of home.

At some point during those first years Audra’s friend Rink joined us. I was never formally introduced to Rink so I am not sure how Rink and Audra first met. Rink would mysteriously appear sometimes without notice and Audra would have to warn me not to sit on Rink or remind me to include him in lunch or snacks. I never heard Rink say anything, he must have been shy, but he provided Audra with endless conversation and companionship while playing house and Barbies. I never knew what happened to Rink but gradually he joined us less and less and then he was gone. I always wondered if Rink moved out of town or did we leave him in Memphis when we moved. We all have fond memories of Rink. I think he would be a nice young man by now.

When Jacob arrived just before Audra’s fourth birthday, she was excited about her new brother or so we thought. Being the inexperienced father of two, Mark went to answer the phone leaving Audra alone with her new baby brother, less than twenty-four hours old. Upon returning, he found the baby on the floor and Audra and the dog both on the sofa where the baby had been left. Both dog and girl looked innocent and Audra swore she did not know how the baby ended up on the floor.

Like everything else we had done for the previous four years, Audra and I took care of Jacob together. It was just another part of our day, taking care of the baby. I don’t recall any jealously. Why would there be? He was her baby too. One day we went to the pediatrician’s office for a well baby check up. I laid the baby on the exam table and undressed his for the doctor’s exam. Audra pushed the chair she was sitting on to the side of the exam table so that she could be in the center of what was happening. The doctor was appalled when she answered questions about the baby. He informed me that she needed to know that she was not the baby’s mommy. She was the sibling, another child and needed to know her place. I don’t think Audra has ever known her place. She takes the place she wants to have and assumes it is hers for the taking! We really didn’t like that pediatrician and soon found a replacement.

I remember a roller skater, and ice skater, a wrestler and a swimmer, cheering her on from the sidelines and taking her to practice and being a soccer mom. It was not so much that Audra was an athlete as much as she was a social butterfly, always loving to be with people and in the center of the action. Today the activity might be different but Audra still likes to be with people and at the center. One of her greatest gifts is her warmth and effervescent personality. She was born an incurable flirt; big blue eyes and petty blond hair complement her endless smile. Audra has used those big blues eyes to get what she wants more than once. Men who like curvy women with big personalities are no match for her feminine wiles.

Audra works hard for the things that she wants, able to put forth the effort and dedication when she needs to pull herself out of a mistake or take a new path. I have never doubted her determination and strength when she is sure of the prize. Audra is a butterfly, having struggled through life’s challenges to emerge from her chrysalis. Now, spreading her wings, drying them, testing their strength she is preparing to take flight. Look out world! Audra is about to soar.

Happy 27th Birthday Audra, and have a really great year, I love you! Mom

The Man I See in the Boy I Raised.

Born under the most wonderful conditions, gently birthed and never separated from me, Jacob was the most welcomed of babies. I had longed for another chance and thought I might never have a second opportunity at motherhood. Due on Christmas Day 1986, he finally appeared on January 2, 1987. He graciously held tight until after the Buckeyes won the Cotton Bowl against Texas A&M, 28 to 12 on New Year’s Day. Maybe that explains his being a fervent Ohio State football fan today. His respect for the tradition began in utero. Yesterday we texted throughout the Buckeye victory in the Rose Bowl. I would have loved for him to be there with me.

As a little boy, Jacob was an independent explorer seeking to know and understand everything. My first born, never roamed far from my side so maybe she gave me a false sense of security. Jacob would challenge that security often, scare me to tears and was no doubt cause for wrinkles and gray hair. Wherever we ventured, stores, malls, or fairs, Jacob would inevitably roam off. Taking advantage of the two parent system, where we each thought he was with the other, Jacob would escape. It was always something that intrigued him, something new and compelling, something thought provoking that lured him away from the safety of my side. Jacob was an explorer seeking to touch, examine and understand the things in his world. Shopping malls were vast unexplored wildernesses calling him to discovery and the safety of his mother’s side was of little concern. Thanks no doubt to his guardian angel, I always found him in the next isle over, two stores down in the mall or holding the hand of a stranger who discovered him out in the parking lot alone. Embarrassment at my lack in parenting skills and anger over his direct disobedience to the rules would give way to the immense relief at seeing him safely returned to my side. I can’t help but think this is one of the reasons Jacob excels in academics, especially math and science; he began his life wandering and seeking answers.

It would be years before he understood the pain and terror he caused in my heart. Maybe it is his juvenile understanding of that pain that caused him to use running away as a tool to get my attention and make me realize how much he was hurting at times in his preadolescence and into his early adolescence. My favorite was the day he packed a partial loaf of bread and a jar of peanut butter into a bag and went to his makeshift tree house on a nearby hillside. He ran out of food and came back angry that I had not yet noticed he had run away. It only added to his fury and proved his point, “I was not paying any attention to him.” It was hard to be the middle child, the usually self sufficient and trustworthy kid of a mother overwhelmed with grad school, a crumbling marriage and trying to run the household. I am sure he was right and I deserved the wake up call even if he had to explain the situation to me before I would realize just how much he needed me right then.

Jacob still has some of that quest to see and understand that caused him to roam, but the world has somehow created a tad bit of shyness not noticed in the innocence of his childhood. As an adult he ventured off to college without any noticeable homesickness. He moved into an apartment and began a five year path at Cal Poly without looking back. This year he moved into a suite with 6 unknown roommates all of whom have become his companions and friends. The extroverts managed to get him to agree to shared meals most evenings, but being an introvert, he has no problem eating alone, or hanging out with himself in his room.

Jacob has always been big hearted and sensitive. His big brown eyes easily fill with tears even as a young man and he has a way of saying Mom, with the vibrato of a little lamb that will immediately cinch my heart. One of the hardest lessons of his young life was the day our beloved dog Duchess was hit and killed by a car. Jacob’s heart was broken as he came to terms with the fragility of life and the responsibility we have in caring for those more vulnerable. Jacob was devastated. When we brought home a new puppy, Jacob adopted Trudy as his dog. He would play endlessly with this scrappy little pup as he bonded with her. Throughout her life, Jacob would be ultra protective of her, dropping everything and running when she escaped through the front door or in any way escaping our tether. I will never forget the day she jumped from the car and ran to the edge of the Grand Canyon with Jacob running behind her screaming her name. Thank God the dog had the good sense to turn before reaching the edge. I am not sure Jacob would have stopped if she had gone over. Thus began his protective nature. We have come to the conclusion that is why he was the meanest babysitter Leah ever had; he was protecting her from all dangers on his watch. Today, I watch him with his dog, Millie and his girlfriend, Corrie and see the same protective nature manifest in this young man as head of the family. It makes my heart proud to watch him care for his girls both canine and human. It is as it should be.

In a year when I will be letting go of my father as his cancer advances, I can’t help but notice how much Jake, as he prefers to be called these days looks and acts like my father. From the distinctive nose, and deep set eyes to his hairline with widows peaks, it is not hard to see the resemblance. Like my father, Jake has a cool and calm demeanor that can be deceiving when his temper flares. Resembling a flash of lightening it is sharp and usually short lived. As someone who’s temper is slow and rarely expressed outside acceptable limits, I have never known how to help him manage his man-sized anger. My father didn’t always manage his well and I know he regretted the times he hurt others in his rage. I am confident Jacob’s huge heart and his amazing intelligence will guide him in finding ways of channeling his anger into healthy expressions. At Thanksgiving, when we all gathered in Ohio, I watched with a swollen heart as Jake helped my brother install a ramp for my father’s wheelchair. Taking his place as the youngest generation of Hamilton men, Jake did much of the physical labor as my brother instructed him in the process and Dad watched from his wheelchair at the window. He was the man I could not have imagined on January 2, 1987, but the one who makes me so proud today.

The girls tell me I favor Jacob; maybe they fear I love him more. I don’t think it is possible for me to love one of my kids more than the other two, but I understand why they might think so. There is something special about a mother’s boy, the way he can touch my heart, and make me proud in the simplest of ways; just being a boy and growing into a man.

Happy 23rd Birthday, Jacob. I am proud of you. Love always, Mom.

Magnificat Sermon from Evensong 12-20

Tonight, we encounter God’s embarrassing and threatening “challenge to good order” Pregnancy comes unexpected, and out of order to a young peasant girl named Mary who then runs off to visit her cousin Elizabeth after being made aware of her pregnancy. Elizabeth who has miraculously conceived in her old age, confirmations the miracle of Mary’s pregnancy and proclaims her blessed.

The scene is absurd, the coming of the Messiah who will redeem Israel is anticipated and proclaimed, not by archangels or high priests or emperors or even ordained preachers … Rather it comes from two marginalized pregnant women. Two marginalized, pregnant women carry the future and proclaim the messiah.

Last night I watched the movie Precious. It is a raw look at how the vulnerable are oppressed and can in turn oppress the even more vulnerable and one young woman’s decision to stop the chain of oppression. A very powerful scene in the movie is when Precious is given one more piece of bad news:one more way in which she will be marginalized, she begins to cry and says, “Nobody loves ME.” She teeters on giving up and giving in to her vulnerability. Yet in that moment.. she is able to hear, really hear her teacher say, “Your baby loves you, and I love you.”

Precious helped me to hear that powerful choice that Mary made in her vulnerability… to give praise and be grateful after being affirmed by Elizabeth. Hear again the words of her song:

My soul magnifies the Lord,
and my spirit rejoices in God my Saviour,
for he has looked with favour on the lowliness of his servant.

Surely, from now on all generations will call me blessed;
for the Mighty One has done great things for me,
and holy is his name.

Mary’s reaction could have taken many forms and maybe it did. Yet in her vulnerability as a young unmarried peasant woman, who did not know at this moment how her world would react to this pregnancy, chooses to give praise, not only for the reality of her situation; the new life growing within, but in the privilege of being an instrument of God. From her most vulnerable place, she gives praise and becomes a participant in God’s miracle. It is from our vulnerability that we can most easily connect with the compassion of God and from our gratitude that God can most easily make us instruments of God’s love, God’s peace and God’s mercy.

When faced with challenges, I am one who’s first reaction is often to lead with my strength, react with my intellect and persevere in self determination. It is hard not to use my places of privilege, such as being able bodied, educated, middle class and white. And yet it is when I allow myself to be vulnerable; out of my comfort zone; maybe in unfamiliar settings such as standing in this pulpit for the first time tonight, that God can use me.

Tonight as we listen to Mary’s song and we visualize her story, you and I can ask ourselves where God is calling us to be vulnerable to the work of God’s world?

As Mary in her vulnerability, accepts her role in this drama of the incarnation she becomes more than she ever thought possible. The vulnerable becomes powerful and at the same time, …just who God created her to be; bringing to mind the quote from Maryanne Williamson, used by Nelson Mandela in this acceptance speech.

You may have heard it many times, but permit me to remind you:

“Our deepest fear is not that we are inadequate. Our deepest fear is that we are powerful beyond measure. It is our light, not our darkness that most frightens us. We ask ourselves, Who am I to be brilliant, gorgeous, talented, fabulous? Actually, who are you not to be? You are a child of God. We are all meant to shine, as children do. We were born to make manifest the glory of God that is within us. It's not just in some of us; it's in everyone. And as we let our own light shine, we unconsciously give other people permission to do the same. As we are liberated from our own fear, our presence automatically liberates others.”
Then in her place of power beyond measure, Mary delivers one of the most subversive messages in the Bible. Mary gives voice to a song for the ages, a song that invites us beyond our realistic expectations and our dull imaginations. She announces the larger implications of the upside-down world that God has inaugurated.

Listen to her words again:

His mercy is for those who fear him
from generation to generation.
He has shown strength with his arm;
he has scattered the proud in the thoughts of their hearts.
He has brought down the powerful from their thrones,
and lifted up the lowly;
he has filled the hungry with good things,
and sent the rich away empty.
He has helped his servant Israel,
in remembrance of his mercy,
according to the promise he made to our ancestors,
to Abraham and to his descendants for ever.’

The song proclaims the toppling of oppression and human power such as the oppression that grounds Mary’s very own worth in her ability to bear a son and the culture that deemed men as the owners of her procreative power.

I have seen two powerful movies in just over a week. The second was Invictus, the story of Nelson Mandela’s first year in office. He was faced with monumental challenges in bringing together a new government that would not only topple the oppression but would represent all South African’s regardless of race. One of the scenes that struck me was his wisdom in preventing those who had been oppressed for generations from becoming oppressors and retaliating against those who had once oppressed them. The South African rugby team named the Spring Bocks had once been a symbol of apartheid, and oppression. It was beloved by White So. Africans and hated by Black So. Africans as a symbol of oppression with its all white team.

While in prison, Mandela himself had cheered on any competitor of the spring bocks in hope of seeing this symbol of oppression loose. But in office he would not allow the now black leadership of national sports to change the name and take away this team beloved by White So. Africans. Rather he changed the country’s relationship with the team and the team’s relationship with the country. In All Saints fashion, he sent the team on a transformational journey out into the community teaching Rugby to the neighborhood kids, becoming their heroes and learning first hand the atrocities of oppression.

What looked like a foolish waste of time united a country to cheer and support this team which now represented a United So. Africa. The movie is named for the poem Invictus that Mandela used as a meditation, and mantra while in prison which he later shares with the captain of the Spring Bocks.

I could not help but believe that the poem Invictus also fit the life of this abused young woman, Precious. Especially the last two lines:

I am the master of my fate:
I am the captain of my soul.

At age 16, Precious, the mother of two topples the powers that be and becomes the master of her fate and the captain of her soul.
Few of us have ever faced those specific challenges, so what does that

Magnificat say to us on this night:
Begin with Gratitude. Allow your soul to magnify the lord and your spirit to rejoice in the lord. For God has scattered the proud and put down the mighty to make us the masters of our fate and the captains of our soul.In your vulnerability, connect with the heart and compassion of God that each one of us might become instruments of Gods love, peace and mercy. And, While Precious did become the master of her fate, she had hands along the way: A school administrator who went the extra mile to give her the information that eventually was a catalyst to change; A teacher who chose to work in the alternative school and chose to get involved in this young girl’s life; A nurse, who like the teacher used his own resources and went beyond his job description to give her a hand. None of whom had to go far or sacrifice much at all. But, their participation made a difference; their willingness to be instruments of God’s love and mercy and justice toppled the powers that be and created a new world for one young woman and her children.

Be vulnerable to those places in your life where you can make a difference. Amen

A Life Worth Living

Among the many things that my dad has given me, is the strong conviction to live a life worth living. I am committed to loving passionately, leaving the world a tiny bit better because I was here and to never stop learning new tricks or taking new opportunities. It is regretfully not how I see my father’s life in the last twelve years and therefore I cannot bear to think of repeating his mistakes. Knowing he has not been happy with his life after retirement for which he worked so hard, makes loosing him all the more sad.

My father hates dialysis, even though it has been his lifeline for the past two years. He hates the very thing that is entirely responsible for giving him two years of life. Mondays, Wednesdays and Fridays my dad has gone to a dialysis center and been hooked up to a machine that functions similarly to his kidneys. Years of high blood pressure had deteriorated his kidneys and his heart attack left them inadequate to sustain his life. I used to call him during his dialysis and try to bring some laughter and cheer to that time, but little by little, it became harder and harder. Our conversations seemed like reruns, and I felt hopeless to affect any change in his mood. I tried talking about sports, world politics and even resorted to the weather. During the presidential campaign, when the front runners were a female and an African American man, I still could not get him to engage me about this historic election. As a teenager, we had heated discussions and even fights about women’s lib and race relations. Where was that man who could argue me into a frenzy of passion over what a woman should have the right to do or who could love whom? Finally I decided I would just give him an update on my life and mostly an update on his grandchildren. It was usually a one sided conversation. Rarely did he add anything he had done or thought to the conversation. The one bright spot was saying “I love you, Dad” and hearing, “I love you too, Babe. You take care of yourself.” To which I replied, “I always do.”

I always do, Dad, take care of myself. I make the plans and execute them. I take care of the business of life and look after myself. Is that part of what you taught me, by being an example of the opposite? My father has abdicated responsibility for making plans and taking care of family business to my mother, possibly from the beginning of their life together. She has managed the money, managed the house; managed the parenting; managed what little social life they had. She made all the plans and led the execution of those plans. By the time I was born she managed almost every aspect of his life, what he ate, his clean clothes, his schedule and most of his time. Today she is totally responsible for his very life. She sees that he gets food, medication and to dialysis. He cannot even tell you what medications he takes or when he had his last pain pill. My dad has given his life over to her complete control, but that is not such a big stretch from where it has been for several years. God help me, Dad, I never want to abdicate my life to another or to have them abdicate theirs to me until the moment there is no other choice.

In my last conversation with him, I was driving to work and the discussion led me to say I would probably never be able to retire; that I will work until I am physically or mentally unable. To which my father replied that retirement had not been good for him. He expressed unhappiness with this life since retiring and I can see it so clearly. I had many talks with him about finding a part-time job or volunteering and doing things that would put him in contact with others, able to make friends and have conversations about the weather. He would always agree that working, having a place to go and interacting with others would be preferable to sitting at home reading, napping and watching reruns. But, it was a conversation that never materialized into action. He always agreed that getting active would be good for him and yet never made a change. Did he just procrastinate so long that his health failed? Was he depressed? Was he paralyzed by the fear of something new?

I am left to contemplate how to give him even the slightest joy in these last weeks or months. I am left to contemplate how to use this perplexing experience to grow stronger in my resolve to stay engaged in life. I am left to contemplate how to tell you not to procrastinate in doing what makes your life worth living. Risk it all to find where your greatest passion intersects with the worlds greatest needs. Risk it all to experience passion and love that makes your heart sing. Risk it all to partake of the opportunities you are given. Don’t be afraid to risk living large.

Praise God From Whom All Blessings Flow!

Touched

The other day someone described me as “refreshing and real” after we had dined together for the first time. I have pondered those words since hearing them. Of course I am real. Maybe it is the phenomenon of turning 50 that prompts the need to be real, authentic and true to those 50 years of life’s lessons. And, I realize I have not always been able to be real. My desires to be loved, accepted and to excel in any given context have had more influence than I would like to admit. Whatever its origin, being authentic to who I am at the center of my being is very life giving at this time. What I have discovered also is that I am not significantly different at heart than the girl who left Radnor or the earthy young mother in Memphis, or the thirty-seven year old housewife from the burbs who entered seminary. One consistent longing identifiable in all of those stages has been for someone to connect with my true self, the real me, which I cannot always reveal.

Basketball great, Bill Russell once said, “Our whole lives, it seems, we are only deciding how often and to whom we should expose ourselves. We learn to make a shell for ourselves when we are young, then spend the rest of our lives hoping that someone will reach inside and touch us–just touch us. Anything more than that would be too much to bear.” [from Sports Illustrated, June 8, 1970]

Hoping that someone will reach into my shell and touch me, I have deliberately been more open and accessible in the past year. Along about February, I began to pray this simple prayer, “God make me open to love.” It has been my deepest longing and most confusing pursuit. I have experienced great joy through connections made and strengthened and I have experienced disappointment, maybe even heart break at connections that ended before they could bear much fruit.

Today I can identify three ways in which I have been touched beneath the shell.

As a theologian, I have strongly held beliefs that it is only God who can fill our deepest longing to be touched and to be known. I believe that each one of us has a God-sized hole within us that will continue to be empty until we know God dwells in us; that unconditional love is already ours. There also seems to be a requirement that we allow that love to flow from us out into the world; outflow governing the inflow. I have felt it flowing through me as I reach out to others in times of need and for no reason at all. One of my great joys is laying hands on someone who has come for prayer. I can feel the love of God pouring through me and out of me and when I am done I am more filled than I was before the prayers. As amazing and awesome as this is, sometimes it is not enough, the longing to be touched still exists.

Somewhere in my 37th year of life, I discovered the great joy of deep friendship -maybe for the first time. I walked across the campus of Pacific School of Religion headed towards orientation. In my path was an attractive woman with a pleasant smile. I remember her brunette hair was in a French braid that extended down her back and was tied with a white ribbon. On her left hand I noticed a wedding band. My first thoughts were, “someone like me.” It was immediately comfortable to talk and to share experiences with Phyllis. That evening I would discover we weren’t as much alike as I had imagined, and that it didn’t matter. In just 5 short months, Phyllis would become a pillar of strength in my life as I relied on her through my husband’s “coming out” process and divorce.

One day Phyllis went too far in an attempt to help me stand up for myself and we got into an argument. She had no idea that an argument with me meant I would not only walk away from the fight, but away from the relationship. Time passed and my interaction with her was limited to polite greetings. I had added another layer to my shell and closed her out as I had done every other female friend to that point. When the relationship got rocky, I would cut and run. But, Phyllis would have none of that. Tired of my attempts to close her out of my heart she got right in my face and confronted me. It might have been the first time a woman had ever said she loved me and then she let me know that it did not depend on whether I returned that love or not. She reached right into my shell and touched me. Phyllis showed me the great joy of loving a friend and being touched. Because of this breakthrough relationship, I now enjoy much more intimacy with friends and am able to resist the urge to take flight when the going gets tough. But for whatever reason, it isn’t enough.

The third source of touch that seems to complete the circle, when in combination with the other two, is the kind of touch that only happens with a man. I am blessed and cursed to have known the briefest of touches by some amazing men. The blessing is to know that there are differences in their touch and I have experienced the differences. The curse is that there have been several and not one with whom I can plumb the depths of our ability to sustain that touch. My experience has taught me that Russell is right on one level, anything more than just a touch would be too much to bear. But I have a belief -no an intuitive certainty that there is more to be experienced from a sustained relationship where the touch deepens our ability to sustain the connection. As evidenced by how the physical intimacy of a couple can grow to new heights of pleasure and satisfaction, I know the ability to bear the connection of true self to true self for more than a touch can be reached. I long for the chance to prove what my heart knows.

God help me to open my shell at just the right times.

What if This is the Last

What if this is the last time that we all gather around the table for Thanksgiving?

Holidays come with their own brand of stress but this one could be particularly anxiety producing. Thanksgiving has always brought stress and trepidation for my mother whether it was celebrated at our house or that of one of my aunts. She might stress slightly about food preparation, but most of her anxiety was around family dynamics. For me, it was exciting to anticipate seeing all of my relatives. I imagined playing games with my cousins and having so much fun. The funny thing is, it was usually not as much fun as I imagined. I had “thin skin” as they say; my feelings were easily hurt. They all lived in the same town and went to school together which made for closer relationships. I lived on the other side of the river, six miles away. Many of those holidays I found myself in the company of the adults, running to sit on my fathers lap when someone made me cry. Sometimes it was to my grandfather chair that I would run. He secretly professed that I was his favorite even though he said he loved all his granddaughters equally. I loved being “special” even if it might have been the source of friction with the other granddaughters.

There was never any question about whether our nuclear family would be together, Mom and Dad, Bill and me. We were a unit and always attended family functions together; always coming and going in the same car at the same time until I dared to move away. I am the one who split the family up. I am the one who married and took off for other lands. In the early days I would return occasionally for holidays and with me I brought extras. Audra, Jacob and Leah filled out the family table and made for even more joyous holidays. The noise level rose and the variety of foods increased as we brought new recipes from Memphis, Owensboro, Ann Arbor and finally from the land of fruits and nuts. The California kids brought colorful language to the table along with those colorful new dishes. Little did they know that grandma considered “pissed” a bad word and one should never even slip and utter anything close to the f-word. But they were from California, “that’s the way they do things out there.” They didn’t know any better.

What they did know was that Grandma and Grandpa would be waiting for them when they arrived from the airport; in the same old house where I had grown up; with the same old furniture and the same old furnishings that smelled like an antique store. No doubt there would be a Texas sheet cake, warm from the oven sitting in the middle of the table, begging to be eaten. They didn’t even have to ask if they could cut it while warm. They knew just where the knife was and Grandma would be reaching for plates. This is the place where food means love. Of course, there is no use of that word, but not much doubt about its existence when there is warm Texas sheet cake.

Whether it was Thanksgiving or any of the other big holidays, food would be prepared as it had been for generations. The women would slave over the hot stove and the men would watch sports until called to the kitchen, at least until I brought Mark into the family. He never seemed quite comfortable hanging out with the guys, talking about guy things and waiting to be called to the table. He would rather be in the kitchen for girl talk and he was the number one dish washer. I picked a husband like no other guy in the family. Looking back I wonder why we never knew. I wonder why we never considered that possibility that he was gay. Then again there was Audra, Jacob and Leah; pretty good cover wouldn’t you say?

When the men were finally called to the table, the windows would be steamed and my mother’s cheeks would be bright red, but the table would be filled with all the old favorites, turkey, mashed potatoes and gravy, Grandma Kennedy’s stuffing, green Jello salad, green peas with butter …and that strange looking stuff from California. There would be the usual clamor and discussion around seating. The thin ones would be directed to slide to the back against the wall. It is funny to see how that changed over the years! Who is skinny this year and who’s not. What never changed was my father’s seat at the head of the table. No one would dare sit there. Once in awhile one of those kids from California might unknowingly try to sit there. Maybe they did it on purpose to hear his decree, “outta my chair.” Everyone would laugh and the chair was quickly emptied.

We never bothered with a Thanksgiving prayer. The Hamiltons aren’t much for public or private displays of faith. My dad never carved the turkey either. For us it was a useless tradition only observed in sappy holiday movies. We were more interested in ingesting the meat than appreciating the beauty of the golden browned carcass. As with most food preparation, carving was woman’s work, done before the bird reached the table. My dad was usually the first to be served and my mother would make sure he had everything he needed before sitting down to enjoy her meal. It has been her practice to always see to his needs before attending to hers. So many times I have asked him not to make her get up and retrieve something from the refrigerator for him. So many times I have asked him to get his own coffee when his meal was finished and she was still eating. It was a waste of words. They have their own ways that are not my ways and I have tried to love him in spite of what I perceive as his disrespect for her.

At the head of the table, my dad sits in honor for what he provided, his kingdom, his legacy, his offspring. He has always been faithful to that place at the head of the table. He has always been there. I can’t remember a time without him in that place. There he sat with his back to the door and his face towards his family; protector and provider. As a little girl, I believed nothing could get past my dad to hurt us. No person or beast would ever enter that door to do us harm. My dad would never allow it. At six foot three, and somewhere around two hundred and forty pounds, trained in martial arts and handy with the rifle that always sat to the left of the door, my dad was a force to be reckoned. No question the real man was tough but the little girl’s fantasy was able to leap tall buildings in a single bound.

This year, like years past, Dad will take his place at the head of the table, but it will be in his wheel chair. My mother will serve him first and make sure that he has everything he needs before she puts food on her plate. But he won’t be able to eat much because the cancer has spread to his stomach and he is already having a hard time eating more than a few bites at a time. What I hope he enjoys most is the lively conversation of grandkids who have become young adults with hopes and dreams and challenges. I hope he will know how much a part of them he is and will always be. I hope he tells the old family stories and reminds the kids of all the things they love about him. I hope we can enjoy each other, laugh, cherish the time together and stay in the moment. We know this could be the last time, but in the moment there is nothing more we could need or want but to have those moments. To think about the future would be to steal from the present. God, help us stay in the moment.

When She is Ready

Due on Halloween, she took her time and arrived 10 days later -when she was ready. The blessing of that day is beyond words. “Flesh of my flesh” there is no greater joy than to have grown her inside of me and brought her into this world –when she was ready.

Whether because she was the baby of the family or because she marches to her own beat, Leah has crossed all thresholds and embarked upon all chapters of her life –when she was ready. Leah was in no hurry to grow up, small and cute; her classmates would carry her around, tie her shoes and button her pants. All she had to do was look cute and the world would open its arms to her. I worried about how the world would react; how she would do when she ceased to be cute. It happens to all of us at some point, doesn’t it? But, I don’t recall a moment she has not been cute.

Leah has always known she would be famous someday –when she is ready. By third grade we were sure it would be as a performer, singing and dancing her way into our hearts. Everything was a microphone and every guest in our home was obligated to provide an audience. She hates for us to remind her, but Celine Dion and songs from Titanic were her favorites. Then she discovered art; her ability to draw and to use line, shape, contrast, proportion, and color. She may have given up on becoming famous, but not on being successful. I am so proud of how hard she works at learning product development and the fashion industry. She just may make a name for herself someday in the fashion industry –when she is ready.

Leah turned 20 today: a beautiful young woman with loads of talent; a discerning intuition and an old soul that understands beyond her years. It amazes me at how well she knows herself, knows what she wants out of life and stays the course to achieve her goals. Where did she get such determination and such wisdom for her age? And bossy, how did this cute little girl grow into such a leader. She competes for leadership and leads with determination to reach the goal. No longer do classmates carry her around, they often end up taking direction from her as the project leader. She is still small in stature, that never changed but her cuteness turned into stylish beauty. She has a sense of style all her own, even if it is informed by the likes of Hepburn, Channel, Lagerfeld and Jacobs.

Without Leah, I would never have taken off to Southern California to pursue my dreams and promises of a new life. She agreed to come with me and embark upon this journey which meant leaving much that was familiar. She would reunite with her siblings, her father, and her friends on monthly pilgrimages to the bay area. She has been a frequent flyer on Southwest for the last five years. We made a new home together, shared the chores of everyday life and looked after each other. We have remained closely bonded even through difficult set-backs and adolescence. I can remember only a handful of times that we actually fought, or really got angry at each other. I know the closeness that we share and our time as roommates is short lived. It is not long before she flies from this nest and embarks upon her own journey, her destiny, her dreams -when she is ready.

Happy Birthday, Leah!