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!

All Summer Long

All summer I was attracted to Kid Rock’s song “All Summer Long.” It not only brought back the memories, it made me feel the primal draw of that time in my life, the desire to kick off my shoes and dance under the stars, flirt with boys and do what feels good without thinking too much of the repercussions. I know it is because Kid uses the guitar riffs from Lynyrd Skynyrd’s “Sweet Home Alabama” which hit the charts in 1974 about the time I hit full swing in my adolescent experimentation with life. That song continued to draw me to the dance floor every time I heard it way into my 40s. In fact the “boyfriend” I had when I turned 40, played in a band and used to play and sing that song for me. I cannot hear those riffs and not want to dance today. Thank God I can still dance at 50, and my heart remembers that tug.

You have to see the video! http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=PhjvpGt4r44 Throughout it, Kid is in a vintage Century boat that is IDENTICAL to my grandpa Hamilton’s. Take out the bikini clad girls and the stripper pole and you have my summers between Ohio and our cabins on Jack’s Lake in Ontario. Kid sings that it was 1989, for me it was ’74 through ’76.

It was 1989, my thoughts were short my hair was long
Caught somewhere between a boy and man
She was seventeen and she was far from in-between
It was summertime in Northern Michigan

Splashing through the sand bar
Talking by the campfire
It's the simple things in life, like when and where
We didn't have no internet
But man I never will forget
The way the moonlight shined upon her hair

[Chorus:]
And we were trying different things
We were smoking funny things
Making love out by the lake to our favorite song
Sipping whiskey out the bottle, not thinking 'bout tomorrow
Singing Sweet home Alabama all summer long
Singing Sweet home Alabama all summer long

Catching Walleye from the dock
Watching the waves roll off the rocks
She'll forever hold a spot inside my soul
We'd blister in the sun
We couldn't wait for night to come
To hit that sand and play some rock and roll

While we were trying different things
And we were smoking funny things
Making love out by the lake to our favorite song
Sipping whiskey out the bottle, not thinking 'bout tomorrow
Singing Sweet Home Alabama all summer long
Singing Sweet Home Alabama all summer long

Now nothing seems as strange as when the leaves began to change
Or how we thought those days would never end
Sometimes I'll hear that song and I'll start to sing along
And think man I'd love to see that girl again

WARNING: If you are one of my kids, you may not want to read this.

As a parent, I have never admitted to the wild nature of my youth although they try to convict me of it now and then. I have tried to steer my kids toward more productive uses of their time and energy. I did not permit lazy summers without sports, jobs or summer classes. Their curfew was my bedtime and sleeping past 10 AM was rarely acceptable. I have no doubt they found ways around some of my rules and I probably don’t want to know. At the very least it was much later in life that they got to be wasteful of their time and bask in the hormones of youth. And, maybe life is different and the dangers of wasting time in youthful folly more serious and important to avoid today.

My youth was very different and I don’t regret a moment as I reflect from this vantage point. My parents both worked and I was left in charge of the household from about the age of ten. I took care of my younger brother, seeing that he was fed and followed the rules I deemed appropriate. By the time I was a teenager out of school for the summer, I would sleep until noon and still have time to do all my chores, make dinner for the family and find a reason to necessitate going “out” that evening. The reasons given never matched the actual activity planned, but served to make everyone comfortable. My last two summers at home, I worked in town but that gave me more money and opportunity to follow my passions.

Cruising was still a popular way of finding the like minded and available. Firebirds and Camaros were the hot cars, but I dreamed of a red TR6 convertible. What I had to drive was a Dodge Coronet. Thank god, I had other assets besides a cool car. I loved hip-hugger bell bottoms, midriff tops, platform shoes, cut off jeans, long straight hair, afros, guys with tight jeans, WNCI and dancing. There was always a local band playing somewhere. Shoes found their way to the sidelines and I never waited to be asked. I didn’t need a guy to dance when there were girlfriends and the members of the band to flirt with. I admit we were trying different things and sometimes smoking funny things, but I was never into drinking whiskey from the bottle, maybe a beer now and then. Honestly, I felt high just from the music, flirting and dancing. It was intoxicating to move to the rhythm, know the power of sexuality and to make the guys do stupid things because they were thinking with the wrong organ. My girlfriend, Denise’s family wanted her to stay away from me saying, “that long blond hair attracts the wrong types.” Thank you god for long blond hair, because I sure liked the wrong types.

At my age, I have no use for mind altering drugs except for the post surgery vicodin, and a Starbucks latte. I have since given up midriff tops (to everyone’s relief), platform shoes and long straight hair. I would have added hip huggers, but everything hugs MY hips. The “wrong types” once attracted to me have been replaced by the kindest friends, most intelligent conversationalists, people who care about the world and their impact on it and just the “right types.” Although, maybe the wrong types just became the right types when we grew up. Ok, I still have an eye for bad boys who ride Harleys, but have hung up my leathers (notice I did not say I gave them away.) I prefer strong, intellectual, accomplished men; who, while wearing conventionality have just the slightest edge and dance to a slightly different beat.

What hasn’t changed is that in my mind (and maybe my heart) I am still that young girl; still capable of most of the same thoughts and feelings although I may choose a different experience. I have not forgotten nor have I aged beyond the capacity to desire the intoxication of life. What a strange place to be. I could have never imagined back in 1976 that I would still want to dance every time I hear the guitar riffs from Sweet Home Alabama.

Praise God, from whom all blessings flow, and Lynyrd Skynyrd.

A Change is Gonna Come

Dressed and ready for next steps!

I woke this morning hearing strange, somewhat melodic sounds from my insides. Gurgle, whine, purrrr, gurgle whine purrr. Michael had warned me this would happen, that as my body began to recover it would get noisy reacting to the anesthetic and to the fact that even in a simple procedure, things had been moved, and everything had to readjust. When my mind became more alert, I realized another important change, I was almost pain free lying there in my morning haze.. There had been a significant change over night. It felt so good to experience the change.. the healing. It was such a hopeful feeling to have this very concrete feeling of change. My mind could not help but drift to wondering if I could keep going with the flow of change and experience the healing of my heart.

For some strange reason the song, A Change is Gonna Come, by Sam Cook as performed my Adam Lambert on American Idol came to mind. I had to sort through the DVR list to find it and listen again.

I was born by the river in a little tent
And just like that river I've been running ever since
It's been a long time coming
But I know a change is gonna come, oh yes it will

It's been too hard living, but I'm afraid to die
Cos I don't know what's out there beyond the sky
It's been a long, a long time coming
But I know a change is gonna come, oh yes it will

And then I go to see my brother
And I ask him to help me please
And he just winds up knockin' me
Back down on my knees

There were times when I thought I couldn't last for long
But now I think I'm able to carry on
It's been a long, been a long time coming
But I know a change is gonna come, oh yes it will

One thing in life is certain - change. With every second we are changing; the people around us are changing; the circumstance of our existence is changing. This morning was confirmation that I am changing towards strength and healing, recovering from surgery. It gave me hope that positive changes are happening in other aspects of my life. But, not everyone can say that the daily, momentary changes are towards healing and wholeness. What about those who are on a course of deterioration, who’s bodies are diseased and dying. What about those who are stuck in destructive patterns, of addiction or denial and avoidance?

I have come to know myself professionally as a “change agent.” Multiple vocational assessments have identified that I am one who is excited by change, help others to accept it and welcome new circumstances. I have changed jobs fairly often and been a part of restructuring within those jobs. It doesn’t always translate to proficiency in working with change in my personal life.

But I know a change is gonna come, oh yes it will

Trying Not to Flinch

At the beginning of the year my sole prayer for myself became, “God make me open to love.” I recognized how closed I had become in an effort to protect my heart. For those who have been hurt it is a persistent struggle to teach our hearts to be open. Whether it is pain experienced in friendships, jobs, churches or intimate relationships, the scars can become restricting. The desire to protect ourselves from pain is natural and even makes sense at times. But, I was aware of the potential to rob myself of all the love and enjoyment that I could be experiencing. There are so many ways that we allow the tragedies of the past to destroy our present. Hard as it may be, I have vowed not to let pain, and disappointment keep me from experiencing love and relationship now and in the future. I am trying not to flinch.

Naomi Levi writes, “The blows we endure in our lives usually come from the outside. But the worst torture is the one we inflict upon ourselves. Each and every one of us knows this curse all too well. Sooner or later we all find ourselves reacting not to the present event before us but to some old hurt, some distant wound. We are all aware of the pieces of ourselves that we have let die because of some pain that took place in the past. Perhaps we have lost our ability to trust, or to love, or to believe that our lives can and will get better. That’s what happens when the past invades and destroys the present."

Since making this simple prayer my mantra, I have made new friends and deepened some old friendships. Beyond the relationships I would label as friendships, I have seen and experienced a world that cares and nurtures. There is nothing like being dependent upon others to make that unavoidably clear. As I prepared to go to surgery, a very sweet nurse bent the rules to allow two friends to hold my hands and pray for me when the rules allowed for only one companion. As they let go of my hands I began to tear. I did not tear up when I was taped to the IV, as I had anticipated, but when I could no longer feel their touch and see their assuring faces. To my surprise, total strangers stepped in with reassuring eyes, and humor. Then, Dr. Patterson with is smiling face began to tell everyone that I am allergic to every adhesive known to him; that I have a history of breaking open stitches and making him redo his handiwork. Somehow in his recollection of me being other than the easiest patient, he makes me laugh and reassures me that he will be looking after me.

By the end of the day, friends had helped me put on my underwear (no small feat when on pain meds; held my hair while I vomited in the car and rubbed my arm until I stopped shaking and crying for no apparent reason after getting in my own bed. It was one small step for my friends and one hefty leap for this one who guards her independence, not to mention privacy. I know this is just preparation, bringing me one step closer to really embracing the loving, nurturing world in which I live, in which my heart will sometimes be heavy with grief or disappointment and yet I will try not to flinch. I will try not to resist the love that comes my way.

A Prayer from Levi:

It is hard to trust when we have been hurt. It is hard to hope again when we have known tragedy. It is hard to stop flinching, to stop responding to past pains. It is hard to face the present with an open heart. Help me, God. Restore me. Revive in me all the optimism that I once had. Remind me of the person I used to be. Help me to return to life, to openness, and to You, my God. Amen.

Fear of Tears

I seem to be stuck with the fear of tears these days. Where is it appropriate to cry and with whom can I cry? I may not cry in front of my father, but I am one who finds it almost impossible NOT to cry when I am frustrated, sad, or vulnerable. My tears are near the surface these days and I do not want to share them with everyone, it is a far too vulnerable place. Thinking of surgery tomorrow, I am reminded that I often begin to tear up when they tape the IV to my arm, and confine me to a hospital bed wearing that stylish gown. I have no fear of needles, I just hate being so dependent upon those caring for me. Few things make me feel as helpless as this hospital routine. It is anything but routine for me. I also remember that I usually come out of anesthetic crying. It is pure hell to think of how vulnerable I am going to be tomorrow; how dependent on my friends. God, I hate crying and I do it so much lately.

In the Genesis story of Joseph and his brothers, you may remember that after being sold into slavery by his brothers, Joseph becomes governor of Egypt and in charge of the food rations. His brothers come to Egypt begging to buy food to take back to their family during a famine. They do not recognize the now mature Joseph, but he recognizes them. He taunts them at first making them jump through hoops to get what they want and taking his revenge. But his heart is heavy. At first, when he is moved to tears he excuses himself and cries in private. But eventually he can no longer hold it back and he, "wept so loudly that the Egyptians heard it and the household of Pharaoh heard it.” (genesis 45:2) In her book, To Begin Again, Naomi Levi writes that, “Perhaps in those tears was the pain of looking into the eyes of a brother and seeing a stranger. And perhaps in those tears was the joy of looking into the eyes of a stranger and seeing a brother.”

I think I am afraid of what I will see through my tears and what others will see through my tears. How will I react to others when the tears come and how will they react to me? I know that my tears will be layered with far more than surgery and my vulnerability is much deeper than being without my clothes in a hospital bed. I don’t think I could bear up if it all came blurting out; my real fears; my real disappointments; my real vulnerability. I can still hear my father warning me not to cry before my grandfather’s funeral. On one hand it would have been an embarrassment for him and he would not permit my weakness. On the other hand he was protecting me, showing me the only way he knew to survive this cruel world. Don’t show them your weakness.

When Joseph could no longer hold back his tears, and was unable to contain them to private moments, his tears were actually very healing. It was as if walls were torn down or callousness removed and he was able to forgive, to feel, to love and to be affectionate once more. It was the miracle of tears that enabled him to create new relationships with his brothers.

My friends will see me cry tomorrow, I don’t have much hope that I will be able to contain my tears to private moments only. Will I let it be a bonding experience to draw me closer to them? Can I show them that I am vulnerable right now? Can I stop trying to be OK for one day and just BE? I like being seen as a strong, independent and self-assured single woman, but it is quite possibly a burden and an impediment to true intimacy with those I love. Intellectually, I would choose true intimacy, but when faced with the first few minutes of uncomfortable, unfamiliar sensations will I let go, or will I revert to my tried and true toolbox containing impenetrable armor for my heart and a mask to hide the tears of vulnerability?