What About Saturday (Repost with Revision)

Originally posted on April 3, 2015 - update at the bottom.

Today is Good Friday. The day that Jesus was crucified.

Imagine the craziness of that day. Since the night before, when Jesus was taken away, His followers were probably trying to find out what was going on while frantically trying to keep from being taken themselves. They were human, after all, and I expect that their self-preservation tendencies were pretty darn strong that day. Through what passed for a trial, the whipping, the march to Golgotha, the night prior and the early part of the day were packed with crowds, shouting, pain, and terror. Then, all of a sudden, it was over.

So what did their Saturday look like? We talk about Good Friday, and we talk about Easter, but what about Saturday? The furor had died down, but it was the Sabbath so nothing could be done. And the disciples’ hopes and dreams had to have been shattered. They had followed the one who they were sure was the Messiah. The one who many expected to be the king to finally defeat the Romans and take back the lands that the Lord gave their ancestors. But instead, he died. False prophets had come and gone, and now…was it possible that Jesus was a false prophet as well? He wasn't supposed to die. He was supposed to rise up and take over.

And now what? I imagine that they huddled together somewhere safe. Somewhere they wouldn't be found. All were grieving, all needed comfort, but who would take that role? Because all were grieving, and all needed comfort. I imagine them in small groups, talking quietly to each other about what they knew to be true, and what they questioned. I imagine there were tears – both of grief and of disappointment. There might have been arguments. But in the end they only had each other, so I imagine that by evening, they clung to each other, shared a meal, and put the question of what to do next aside for the time being. Maybe they remembered that Jesus told them to love each other, and decided that whatever lay ahead, they should at least do that.

The next day, of course, everything changed again. But oh, that Saturday. What a dark, hopeless day that must have been.

I’m struggling with how to end this post. I don’t have any wisdom to impart, I was just thinking about those poor disciples and needed to write it down. But maybe we should take a little bit of time tomorrow to say a prayer for anyone in our lives who might be experiencing pain or despair. Pray that they might have an Easter coming soon to show them that there is light after darkness. 

ADDENDUM - March 29, 2024. It is Good Friday again. I attended a funeral today for a young man who died much too young. I also know of two friends who lost their mothers in the past week, and another dear lady who lost her adult daughter. I still wonder about that Saturday, but also realize that people I know and love are experiencing their own "Saturdays." As I said above, please take a minute to pray for those who are hurting. Or better yet, reach out to someone who needs to know you love them.

Solvitur Ambulando

In January of 2022, I made the declaration (only in my head) that this would be the “Year of Maryann.” I was going to write, get healthy, be happy. Big plans, for sure.

That year turned into one of the worst I’ve ever endured. I lost several friends, a job I loved and hoped to retire from some time in the future, two beloved cats, and, in August, my mother.

I was depressed, although I didn’t know how deeply until I was mostly on the other side of it. I’d curl up on the bed or in my chair in the TV room, rewatch as many episodes of The Great Pottery Throw Down as I could fit in, and putter around until I finally found a new job in mid-November.

I never completely gave in to the darkness, though. I knew somewhere deep inside that I had to fake it until I could make it true again. So, I faked it - faked joy, faked faith, faked purpose.

One thing I didn’t have to fake was my love for music - listening to it, leading my bell choir, singing in the choir at church, and, best of all, singing a song or two once a month at my friend Micah’s 2nd Saturday Jam. This is mostly a jazz jam, but Micah always lets me sing what he calls “Micah-adjacent” tunes by Bonnie Raitt, Parker Millsap, and others.

I performed extensively throughout my childhood. Violin recitals first and then voice recitals, chorus concerts, musicals, and school variety shows. But it had been a long time, and these monthly jams helped me build my confidence and remind me what it means to want to do a thing really well, even if it’s just at a monthly jam in front of the most gracious audience who would clap even if William Hung was in front of them, singing “She Bang.”

The year closed out, and I gradually came out of my funk, thanks in part to a good therapist but also because I really had faked it until it was at least mostly true.

One of the things I lost when I lost my job was the opportunity to take a month-long sabbatical. I was planning on hiking 100 miles or so of the Camino de Santiago in May of 2023 as a way to ring in my 60s. I didn’t know the term “Solvitur Ambulando*” at the time, but it basically means “it is solved by walking.” I didn’t have anything specific to solve except the trek into my senior years, but I knew that pilgrimage could give me perspective I’d never had before.

So instead, I plugged away at my new job, sang and directed, planned a church retreat and a writers' conference, and basically put one foot in front of the other - still faking it some, but meaning it much more than I had. Solvitur ambulando-ing without knowing that was what I was doing.

Then Micah asked me if I’d like to record a song for a new band he had put together with a group of amazingly talented musicians. Of course, I said yes - this was a dream I’d had since high school - albeit one that I assumed was unlikely to come true.

And now, I’ve recorded a song in an actual studio, sung in my first gig, and have a song on an album that is so full of beautiful and exciting songs that the band members wrote and collaborated on; it almost makes me cry every time I listen to it.

I have a new sense of confidence, I am happier, I am more engaged with those I love, I’m writing again, I’m finding joy and meaning in all sorts of little things, I have a renewed faith. Obviously, I know that life has its ups and downs, but I’ve proven to myself that I can weather the storms by walking through them.

The name of the album is Solvitur Ambulando, and it is a compilation of the perfect music to listen to while walking and solving (paraphrasing Micah here - but I second the sentiment). And if you’re listening closely, you’ll hear me on track eight, singing an old song by Paul Simon. You’ll hear more than that, though. You’ll hear my life being changed for the better through music.

I’ve told Micah that he changed my life, and while it sounds histrionic, it is true. I didn’t know it then, but the day that Rick and I met Micah and his wife Shea at the Growler Store was one of the most important ones in my adult life. It led me to confidence and joy when those things were hard to come by—and that day led me to a place where I have met a group of new people who are affirming, talented, and kind - Micah and Shea, most of all.

Go download Solvitur Ambulando by the band Standard Candle from your favorite streaming service, grab your headphones or earbuds, and take a walk. And then tell your friends how great it is.

*Attributed to St. Augustine

Still Missing You

The author with her mom, circa 1967 or 1968

Yesterday, August 9^th, marked the one-year anniversary of the last thing my mother ever said to me. The day after tomorrow will mark the anniversary of her death.

In the past year, I’ve run the gamut of emotions regarding my mother’s passing – sadness, guilt, anger – and everything in between. Recently, I’ve replayed her last few months in my mind, wondering if there was anything I could/should have done differently. Should I have been more present (yes), was I loving and kind when I was with her (yes as well) – you know – things we all struggle with when a loved one dies. All the things we can’t change.

We got Mom into hospice care about eight months before she died, and that was a true blessing because I didn’t have to be the “first responder.” When she tried to get out of bed and fell (again), the assisted living’s staff first call was to the hospice nurse, who could determine whether or not Mom needed to go to the hospital.

Two weeks before she died, a substitute/contract med tech found Mom on the floor and couldn’t immediately get in touch with the hospice nurse. She told me she “wasn’t losing her job just because I didn’t think she needed to call 911.” So off to the hospital Mom went, with me following soon after. This was the first time that Mom clearly didn’t know who I was. When I told her I was Maryann, she said, “You don’t look like Maryann.” I pulled down my facemask, and I guess that was enough to convince her, but it was unsettling. In the car on the way back to her Assisted Living facility, she told me she was glad she didn’t have to go to work that night because she didn’t feel good. I’m not at all sure she knew who was driving her home.

Looking back, there were times when I’d walk into her room, and her face would light up. She’d say, “Oh. It’s you!” I now know that she was likely giving herself time to get my name into her mind, but she at least recognized that I was someone she should know. That trip to the hospital marked (or caused?) a big, and what was to be the final, decline in her mental state.

For the two weeks after the hospital visit, her grasp on the here and now got weaker. She spent a lot of time in the past – things like telling me her homework was in the drawer and to make sure she didn’t forget it when she went to class and wondering if she had completed her nightly paperwork before she signed out from her shift as a nurse. I just played along.

The Monday before she died, I went to visit her. She was very agitated, and her restless legs were at a peak restlessness. She was also talking, talking, talking, but I couldn’t understand much of what she was saying. She did ask me where her cigarette was (she quit smoking about 50 years prior), and I told her I put it out.

The most striking thing that happened that day was that, for a period of time, Mom was having a lovely, quiet conversation with someone who was right in front of her. I could tell she was looking directly in front of her face, not off into the distance. And she seemed so happy to see that person. I wish I could have understood what she was saying. Dementia and mobility issues had robbed her of so much joy, and it would have been nice to hear her true sweetness one more time.

Besides the question about the cigarette, the only other thing I understood that day was her saying, “Bye, baby!” when I left. I kissed her cheek, told her I loved her, and that I’d be back soon. I wish I had known that was the last time she’d talk to me. I would have said more.

I went back two days later, at about 3:30 in the afternoon. Her room was dimly lit, and Mom was awake but completely still – a stark contrast from the previous visit when she had been so agitated. A couple of people were in the room, including the regular med tech and the hospice social worker. I asked what was going on, and the med tech said, “She’s transitioning.” Mom’s breathing was labored and loud, but otherwise, she seemed completely at ease.

I thought I was prepared for this next step, but I really wasn’t. Thank God for my brother, Phillip, who jumped in the car and drove down from Knoxville as soon as I called, and the social worker, who stayed all night with us.

Phillip and I held Mom’s hands and spent the night telling the social worker stories about our childhood and ones we knew about Mom’s life. For a time, we were sure she was aware we were there. I’m sure she enjoyed listening to us talk. She liked nothing better than to hear people’s stories. I hope it made the transition easier for her, knowing we were there.

Eventually, Mom’s breathing slowed and then finally stopped altogether. We stayed for another hour or so and then went home to get some sleep. Her cat, Nike, who lives with me now, curled up on the bed with me, keeping watch like he always did for Mom.

And now, a year later, I don’t know any more about how to live without her. I have to resist the urge to take the exit that would take me to her assisted living facility. I have questions only she can answer – forgotten names or events I’m sure she’d remember. Time can be generous and blur out the hard spots, and I know it wasn’t all roses and sunsets, but I sure do miss her.

A Letter About Pronouns

To the teacher who believes that using preferred pronouns "will defile the holy image of God":

Dear Mr. Cross,

You state in your lawsuit against your school system that “[you] will not affirm that a biological boy can be a girl and vice versa because it is against [your] religion.” I am assuming by “your religion” you mean Christianity, and as a Christian, I gotta call a big steaming pile of BS on you.

You might not be comfortable with it. You might believe that gender dysphoria is nothing more than a problem that can be solved with prayer. You may think it’s disgusting and wrong. But let’s be clear. There is NOTHING in the bible that says gender dysphoria is a sin. But there are lots of things written in the bible that tell us that God made us to be exactly who we are.

Take Psalm 139, for example. The psalmist says “you created my inmost being; you knit me together in my mother’s womb I praise you because I am fearfully and wonderfully made…” Do you think that you get to choose who is excluded from being wonderfully made? 

And what about the beginning of Ephesians 2:10 (my favorite verse in all of scripture)? “For we are God’s workmanship…” Are we not all God’s workmanship? Are some people excluded because they were made differently than you? Does God create a piece of art and then discard it because it’s not good enough? I certainly don’t think so.

God made me a straight woman – I’m guessing you’re okay with that because it fits into your view of what is “right.” But God made trans and gay and all LBGTQ women and men as well. God doesn’t make mistakes. All of us are wonderfully made, indescribably magnificent in our own way, created by a God that cherishes us no matter our sexual preference or preferred pronoun. I for one am thankful that we live in a time where people can live the lives that they were born to live, not one that is censored by two thousand years of (mostly) men who thought they were the only ones who get to decide what God wants.

In the end, I hope we all remember that Jesus gave us only two rules: love God and love others. Loving others includes accepting those who are different than you and not assuming that their differences make them wrong in God’s eyes. You don’t have God’s eyes, so you don’t get to speak for Him. 

Tell your own truth for what it is—bias and fear. Don’t disguise it as Christian thinking because it isn’t. 

I wish you no ill will, but I hope you lose your lawsuit. 

Sincerely,

Maryann Lozano

Unconscious Bias Revisited

June 2, 2021 

I wrote this blog post last year around this time. I have worked to recognize my own unconscious bias but I still have much to do. It isn’t enough to work silently. At a minimum, one needs to be an ally — better yet a partner in change.

June 1, 2020

Man. Just what we need, right? I mean, we already have this stupid virus cramping our style – and now we have to deal with riots and looting? Why can't people understand that violence and destruction won't change anything?

Real talk. It has been too easy for me to ask questions like this. I’m not saying that the question isn’t valid, but it’s not the right question for me - a white, privileged, employed, healthy, woman who lives in a safe neighborhood, has health insurance, and can walk in the park without being accused of threatening another person because of the color of my skin – to ask.

As I watched the events unfold in Atlanta on Friday, my emotions, like so many other people’s, went from pride to dismay as the sun dropped below the horizon. Early Facebook posts, Instagram posts, and news stories all celebrated the peaceful rally. “This is how Atlanta does it,” they said. “We have a history of peaceful protest,” they said. We were all so proud.

Then things changed. There are all sorts of theories about why: police who were too aggressive, rioters who were only intent on destruction, outside extremists working to further destabilize our country. I have no idea what happened. But I watched the destruction unfold through my white eyes and asked the question, “why can’t people understand that the violence and destruction won’t change anything?”

That evening, my daughter, Hannah, sent me a blog post titled Why Do They Riot? Rioting and the Overflow of Racial Trauma. I don’t know anything more about the author, Kyle J. Howard, than what is on his website, but his post hit me right in the center of my white privilege and white guilt.

“Generally speaking, white people tend to care more about the rioting itself than the overflow of trauma/pain that leads to such destruction… When black people have rioted, historically speaking, it has always been due to the overflow of trauma & the reactionary rage that occurs when a community has been squeezed too hard for too long.”

Howard goes on to say that “White America does not listen to the laments of Black people unless it’s forced to,” and that “power is rarely ever willfully relinquished.”

I was brought up in a household that was actively, vehemently, anti-racism. If I'm honest, I've always been kind of proud of myself in that regard. And yet…I know I am plagued with unconscious bias. Friday night, as I read Howard’s post, some of my biases were brought to the forefront – unconscious no more and insisting that I own them and face them head-on. 

Let’s take a look back. “We were all so proud.”

What was I proud of, really? What did I even have a right to be proud of? Should the sentence have read, “We were all so proud of how peaceful our black people can be?” Ouch. Maybe. Maybe at least a teeny, teeny bit. And only for a nanosecond. But crap, even that is shameful. Unconscious bias brought to the forefront.

"Why can't people understand that violence and destruction won't change anything?"

Easy question for me to ask because I've never been suppressed, pulled out of a car and tazed for no reason, or followed in a store to make sure I’m not going to steal anything because of the color of my skin or the hoodie I’m wearing.

Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr. said, "…a riot is the language of the unheard." Well, I've never been unheard. I haven't lived in a pressure cooker my entire life—I have nothing to boil over. I don’t have any “overflow of pain/trauma” that would cause me to explode.

The question I should have asked is, "What can I do to help keep this from happening again." Or maybe, "Why didn't I do it sooner?" 

I need to shut up and listen. I need to support and learn. I need to act.

I still have a lot of work to do. I didn't know it, but I do. Honestly, I am ashamed of myself. I have many black and brown friends who I love dearly. I'm asking them to call me out when my unconscious bias is showing. Tell me how I can help and tell me when I am not helping. Be my cultural informant.

I realize that this post is all about me. But maybe some reader will recognize themselves in my struggle and start the hard process of admitting weakness and working to change.

Karens Anonymous

Hi…my name is Maryann… I mean Karen. I mean apparently, my name is Karen… I mean…

God. This is hard. I think I might be a Karen – maybe? I guess that’s what I’m here to find out. And I’d like to apologize to my friends who are named Karen (or Keren, Caren, or Karin). I don’t know who decided that Karen is the bad one but know that you are wonderful.

First of all, I’m not one of those “hey you kids get off my lawn!” types. And I don’t compose Nextdoor posts about people of color driving through my neighborhood looking suspicious because they are people of color. And I don’t write snarky responses to the people who DO post these things, starting a neighborhood war over the likelihood that the person driving down your street is your neighbor’s grandnephew coming for brunch. Frankly, the worst people driving through my neighborhood are my own neighbors DRIVING OVER THE SPEED LIMIT!

Oh, wait. See? There she goes. My inner Karen just showed her ugly, grey roots. (She seriously needs to get a box of color – and soon!). Breathe, Maryann. 

Okay, I’m better now.

I will admit that I am likely to give someone not wearing a mask at the Kroger the stink-eye, but that’s not so bad, is it? All I’m asking is that my fellow shoppers GIVE A DAMN ABOUT THE PEOPLE AROUND THEM FOR ONCE IN THEIR LIVES!

Crap. There she is again. It seems as though she’s been breaking through more easily in the past few months. I’ll ignore the fact that the timing lines up perfectly with me cutting my meds in half, blame it on the pandemic, and do some more deep belly breathing.

I did notice the other day that the neighbor down the street – you know the one with the mid-century modern house - they need to mow their lawn, don’t you think? Thank God we don’t have any houses for sale on the street right now! I’d hate for a prospective buyer to see that. And I know that my lawn is a little bit overgrown, but I’ve been really, really busy and just haven’t gotten to it.

Oh. Yeah. I see it now. That’s kind of a pot and kettle situation, isn’t it? Shut up, Karen, and mow your own lawn.

Oh fine. I see on everyone’s faces that you think I need to mind my own business, avoid being a b-word on social media, and maybe up my meds again. I promise I will try. I will try really, really hard. And I’ll attempt to not fly off the handle the next time my neighbor complains about how many trees someone has taken down in their yard and whether or not they got approval from the county tree department. I mean, seriously. IT’S NONE OF YOUR BUSINESS!

Oh well. I guess I’ll see you again tomorrow. 

Eulogy for a Friend

 

We said goodbye to a friend today via a Livestream of his funeral. (That is one positive thing that this pandemic has given us - the ability to "be there" when we can't be there.) He died unexpectedly, in his sleep, leaving a daughter, a son, and three grandchildren to figure out how to live without him.

We had known Jason for over 30 years; he worked with Rick for a while and then after he changed jobs, he would stay with us when he was in town - both in Baltimore and here in Atlanta. Our visits were filled with good food, good wine, and gut-busting laughter. There is not one memory I have of our time together that doesn't make me smile. Things like him telling me "a lesser driver would have missed that one" when I ran over a pothole on the highway. Things like watching South Park and laughing so loudly that Rick had to remind us, more than once, that our very young kids were asleep. I will never again hear the phrase "Katie, bar the door!" without thinking of him with a chuckle. There were so many great conversations about every possible subject and it seemed like we would never run out of things to say.

But time happens, doesn't it? His territory changed with a new job, and there was no reason for him to travel to the Southeast anymore. Rick would sometimes run into him at trade shows and they would always call me so I could say hello. Jason was never a social media guy - no Facebook or Instagram - so communication trickled down to emails on birthdays, or congratulations on career news shared on LinkedIn. He did email me to tell me he was going to be a grandfather - something he was very excited about.

Jason was a man who loved deeply, without holding anything back. He loved his children so fiercely that he fought the Texas Family Court system - a bureaucracy that seemed to believe that children are always better off with their mother, regardless of circumstances - to win custody of his son and then his daughter as well. I imagine that when death came, had he had the option, he would have fought against it in order to stay with his children, for whom he had fought so fiercely when they were young. And his grandchildren. But for whatever reason, it was Jason's time to go. I hope that it was peaceful and that if there is a heaven, he is there.

Reading the guest book entries on the funeral home website and hearing the stories from the people who spoke at his funeral, I am happy to know that Jason seems to have been loved by everyone who knew him. He was warm, funny, quick with a hug, easy to talk to, and ever so kind. He will be missed by so many people whose lives were made better by their time with him.

If you get nothing else from this post, please take the time to reach out to the people who matter. Trust me, you will regret not having jumped at the chance for one more conversation while you could. I certainly do.

RIP, Jason. I will miss you, my friend. 

"I've been one poor correspondent

And I've been too, too hard to find.

But it doesn't mean you ain't been on my mind."

"Sister Golden Hair" - Gerry Beckley, songwriter

Loss in the 2020s

I lost an old friend today. No, she didn’t die. But she’s definitely gone and I’m really sad about it. We had been friends for about 30 years.

 

I lost her in that quintessential 2020’s way—she unfriended me on Facebook.

 

I’ll take some of the blame— I posted something last night after watching the only three minutes of Trump’s speech that I could stomach and knew that would be the end of our friendship. Full disclosure: I used the word “vermin.” And I added an #unfriendmeifyouwant hashtag. And she took me up on it.

 

I have strong political beliefs that have gotten stronger during the past four years. I make no secret of my dislike of the current administration. My grown children and my husband also have strong political beliefs (fortunately for our family we are on the same side of the spectrum). My daughters might choose different words than I would, but I unequivocally support their sentiments and am incredibly proud of the outspoken, caring women they have become.

 

My friend made a dismissive, nasty remark about “culling the herd” and “we’ll just look at each other’s pretty pictures on Instagram.” I knew she was talking about my daughter (her Goddaughter, who happens to be an excellent professional photographer), and I confirmed that she had indeed unfriended Hannah. And sure—go ahead and unfriend someone if you can’t stand their posts or politics. That’s your right. I’ve done it. Rarely, but I’ve done it.

 

But why be so blatantly mean when she had to have known I would see the post? I guess thirty years of close friendship doesn’t mean much. Or maybe it wasn’t that close after all. Maybe the last four years created a bigger divide than I thought.

 

But why? Just because we disagree? I didn’t attack her. I didn’t attack her politics. I’ve never attacked her or her politics. We’ve had many opportunities to disagree about the current administration and we’ve always been respectful of each other’s opinions—or I thought we had.

 

In the end, her being crappy to/about my kid in a forum she knew I’d see told me pretty much all I need to know about how much she cares about me or our past.

 

But it’s a past that was important to me. Shared inside jokes. Long, important conversations. Crying together at the end of movies. Supporting one another through difficult times. Laughing until we cried. I wish that had mattered to her.

 

I goaded her; I know. But the problem is so much deeper than snarky hashtags. And it’s a problem that so many of us are dealing with right now. We have no capacity to have discourse on things about which we disagree. I’m as guilty as the next person as far as that is concerned. I know what I believe but am mostly incapable of explaining why I believe it. And as much as I can’t understand how people can believe a thing, they can’t understand how I don’t believe that same thing. And around and around we go.

I know some of my tens of readers (lol) are going through the same thing. I have no solution, of course. I just needed to write it out because that’s how I process.

 

I do know that it’s a hard world out there right now.

 

Be nice. Be patient. Maybe don’t use the word “vermin” to describe the political side you disagree with.

 

And post lots and lots of pictures of puppies and kittens. Those are generally pretty safe.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Unconscious Bias

Man. Just what we need, right? I mean, we already have this stupid virus cramping our style – and now we have to deal with riots and looting? Why can't people understand that violence and destruction won't change anything?

Real talk. It has been too easy for me to ask questions like this. I’m not saying that the question isn’t valid, but it’s not the right question for me - a white, privileged, employed, healthy, woman who lives in a safe neighborhood, has health insurance, and can walk in the park without being accused of threatening another person because of the color of my skin – to ask.

As I watched the events unfold in Atlanta on Friday, my emotions, like so many other people’s, went from pride to dismay as the sun dropped below the horizon. Early Facebook posts, Instagram posts, and news stories all celebrated the peaceful rally. “This is how Atlanta does it,” they said. “We have a history of peaceful protest,” they said. We were all so proud.

Then things changed. There are all sorts of theories about why: police who were too aggressive, rioters who were only intent on destruction, outside extremists working to further destabilize our country. I have no idea what happened. But I watched the destruction unfold through my white eyes and asked the question, “why can’t people understand that the violence and destruction won’t change anything?”

That evening, my daughter, Hannah, sent me a blog post titled Why Do They Riot? Rioting and the Overflow of Racial Trauma. I don’t know anything more about the author, Kyle J. Howard, than what is on his website, but his post hit me right in the center of my white privilege and white guilt.

“Generally speaking, white people tend to care more about the rioting itself than the overflow of trauma/pain that leads to such destruction… When black people have rioted, historically speaking, it has always been due to the overflow of trauma & the reactionary rage that occurs when a community has been squeezed too hard for too long.”

Howard goes on to say that “White America does not listen to the laments of Black people unless it’s forced to,” and that “power is rarely ever willfully relinquished.”

I was brought up in a household that was actively, vehemently, anti-racism. If I'm honest, I've always been kind of proud of myself in that regard. And yet…I know I am plagued with unconscious bias. Friday night, as I read Howard’s post, some of my biases were brought to the forefront – unconscious no more and insisting that I own them and face them head-on. 

Let’s take a look back. “We were all so proud.”

What was I proud of, really? What did I even have a right to be proud of? Should the sentence have read, “We were all so proud of how peaceful our black people can be?” Ouch. Maybe. Maybe at least a teeny, teeny bit. And only for a nanosecond. But crap, even that is shameful. Unconscious bias brought to the forefront.

"Why can't people understand that violence and destruction won't change anything?"

Easy question for me to ask because I've never been suppressed, pulled out of a car and tazed for no reason, or followed in a store to make sure I’m not going to steal anything because of the color of my skin or the hoodie I’m wearing.

Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr. said, "…a riot is the language of the unheard." Well, I've never been unheard. I haven't lived in a pressure cooker my entire life—I have nothing to boil over. I don’t have any “overflow of pain/trauma” that would cause me to explode.

The question I should have asked is, "What can I do to help keep this from happening again." Or maybe, "Why didn't I do it sooner?" 

I need to shut up and listen. I need to support and learn. I need to act.

I still have a lot of work to do. I didn't know it, but I do. Honestly, I am ashamed of myself. I have many black and brown friends who I love dearly. I'm asking them to call me out when my unconscious bias is showing. Tell me how I can help and tell me when I am not helping. Be my cultural informant.

I realize that this post is all about me. But maybe some reader will recognize themselves in my struggle and start the hard process of admitting weakness and working to change.

American Pickers/Fun with Mom

We moved Mom into a new Assisted Living community last August. We liked the old one, but the company that owns it decided to change the way they determine the cost for care, and Mom's fees more than doubled*, so we had to find somewhere new. I used a service that helps families find facilities, visited several around town, took Mom to visit two, and she chose where she wanted to move.

The process was easier this time because she was a willing participant (until the day of the move when she had second thoughts, but we got through that). Unfortunately, the new place was at the end of a renovation process, and the elevator was to be out of service for a few weeks. Instead of moving directly into her 3^rd floor 2-room apartment with a balcony, she ended up in a 1-room efficiency for 3 weeks.

Her biggest complaint was that she could only watch one channel on the television (The History Channel). This was my fault – I didn’t want to have to mess with Comcast more than once, so I figured I’d get it hooked up once she moved into her real apartment. When we plugged the cable that was in the wall into her old cable box, THC was magically on her television but, without a proper remote (that she wouldn’t know how to use anyway), she had no way to change the channel. So, for three weeks, I heard daily complaints that all she could watch was The History Channel, and why did I think she wanted to watch American Pickers and shows about alien landings all of the time.

We finally got her moved upstairs, and basic cable installed. But guess what? The basic package from Comcast does NOT include The History Channel. Then all I heard was daily complaints that she couldn't watch American Pickers, and that was the only show worth watching in all of tv-dom. We upgraded her, and now she has access to pretty much whatever she wants to watch, which consists solely of American Pickers, Ancient Aliens, and a Soundscapes music channel that plays wallpaper for your mind music and shows pretty pictures.

Now—if only she could figure out the remote.

*Interestingly, Mom has far less care at the new place and is much healthier than she was at the old one. She’s more independent, happier, physically stronger, and less likely to fight with her caregivers. I know that with dementia things tend to slide along on a plane until a decline happens—and when it does, it’s usually not a steady drop but a precipitous one. For now, I’m going to enjoy this time of relative calm.

Finding Joy

Today is Mother’s Day – my 27th Mother’s Day if I’m counting. I am at the beach with my sweet husband and my wonderful girls, so today should be a good one, right?

We drove down yesterday. Sara and Rick were in one car. Hannah, Spike (beloved diabetic cat), Bella (beloved dog with heart issues) and me in the other. Bella was very excited to be going with us. She is always sad when we leave her, and when she saw me putting her doggie car seat in the car, she jumped in and wouldn’t get out. She stayed in there a good hour before we left.

By the time we got to the beach house, Bella was obviously not breathing well. About twenty minutes after we got here, my sweet puppy died.

And now, today, my mom fell out of her bed and is being taken to the ER for x-rays. It would be a drag for Mother’s Day anyway, but with me being seven hours away, it’s worse. She’s probably okay – she really didn’t want to go to the hospital, but agreed to go, “just in case.” My brother, who lives in Knoxville, will be down there if there are any major issues, and my amazing neighbor is going to go over to St. Joe’s to check on Mom. But still…

So, I have lots of reasons to be sad and anxious today, which makes it the perfect day to find reasons to be joyful.

I’m not saying I shouldn’t feel the feelings. Every hour or so I’m washed over with sadness about Bella, and that’s a good thing. Feeling sad means I loved her, and I want to honor that. And it’s okay to be anxious about my mother. But I can’t let these feelings overwhelm me to the point that I can’t find joy.

So, here’s a list of things that I’m joyful about:

That I’m in a beautiful place with my family
That the sun is shining
That Anthony will be here in a couple of days, completing the family unit
That we all get along so well
That there are love bugs all over the deck…well – making love, apparently
That Spike is asleep on the ottoman
That I have a job that I absolutely love
That I have really wonderful friends
That I got to eat a croissant today
That I have a church that feeds my soul
Dishwashers
Photographs
Books

There are more. But this is a good start.

RIP sweet girl

The Right Next Thing

This morning I attended a meeting of The Order of the Daughters of the King. There’s a lot to say about The Daughters that I’m not going to say here, but for now, I’ll tell you that we are dedicated to prayer and service, and we meet once a month, September – May. 

The guest speaker today was from the Atlanta Mission (https://atlantamission.org/). There’s a WHOLE lot more to say about the Atlanta Mission, and I highly recommend you check out their website and help where you can, but that’s not really the point of my story today.

Before our guest speaker, Michelle, was introduced, Sue Burtenshaw, the wife of the late Fr. Noel Burtenshaw, spoke for a few minutes. Fr. Burtenshaw, who passed away a couple of months ago, was a beloved priest at St. Martins. Sue had come to thank The Daughters for the amazing reception that the ladies of our Order arranged for Fr. Noel’s funeral, and she also gifted us with some “Noelisms” that she had captured over the years.

Here’s the “Noelism” that caught my complete attention this morning:

Choose the right next thing.

Our group and the Endowment Fund from St. Martins donated all sorts of home goods to the Atlanta Mission to help women who are moving from their shelter program into their own apartments. There was more than Michelle could take in her car, so I offered to load whatever I could into my SUV and take it to the Atlanta Mission offices after the meeting.

When I got to the offices, Michelle wasn’t there yet, but there was a woman sitting on a bench in the shade. She wanted to know if they were open today, and I told her I had no idea but asked her if she wanted to sit in my air-conditioned car while we waited for Michelle. She declined because she was charging her phone and waiting for a call from her son.

When Michelle got there, we unloaded all of the stuff with the help of this lovely, soft-spoken lady, Leah, who was waiting for her son’s call. Leah has two children. Her 12-year-old daughter, who has some mental health issues, lives with Leah's mother. Her 8-year-old son lives with his father in Atlanta. Leah needed help.

The Mission offices are not open on the weekends. Michelle and I had discussed taking all of the donations to her house so she could take them to the office on Monday, but in the end, we decided to go ahead and take them to the office today. Had we not, I don’t know where Leah would have gone.

When we left, Michelle took Leah to the Mission’s emergency shelter so that she could get the services she needed.

As I was leaving, I gave Leah my best wishes and told her she and her children would be in my prayers. She told us that things were hard. And she told us how startlingly easy it was for a family to fall apart. I told her that she had taken a step today towards asking for help and getting the help that she needed.

Let me be clear. The only thing I did for Leah was that I treated her with respect and caring—something I try to do for anyone I meet. But what was really remarkable was what Leah did for herself and her family. It takes a lot of courage to ask for help. It will take more courage to accept help and to develop enough self-awareness and self-love to make lasting changes.

But the only way to start is to CHOOSE THE RIGHT NEXT THING.

I’m like every other human on earth. I screw up all the time. I make terrible choices. I deliberately avoid what is good because it’s hard.

It doesn’t help to beat ourselves up about our past. That’s not to say that we shouldn’t learn. That’s not to say that we don’t need to make amends and ask for forgiveness.

But the only thing we can control is what we do next.

So, take power in your ability to CHOOSE THE RIGHT NEXT THING. And then choose the next right next thing.

The Writing Life

There  is a quote from Henry James’ book, The Art of Fiction, that says to be a good writer, one needs to “try to be one on whom nothing is lost.”  I try. I really do try. It’s a struggle for me because I’m always somewhere else. I’m either listening to the song in my head, trying to figure out how to solve whatever challenge has presented itself or daydreaming about what I’d do if I won the lottery.

In an effort to make the documenting of all of the things that haven’t been lost on me easier, I’ve taken to carrying around blank index cards a la Anne Lamott. Unfortunately, I still have just as many blank cards in my various bags as I had when I placed them there. The one tool that I do use, however intermittently, is the notes function on my phone.

I recently perused these notes, to see what it was that I thought needed to be documented. I share them with you now, and you can decide for yourself if anything has been lost.

The first few notes are a shopping list for the ingredients for Pancho Villa Stew; a line of text that reads “Lg itns16122v 15.7 cubic feet,” which must be something other than the measurement of a human large intestine, but I can’t for the life of me figure out what, exactly; the pin to unfreeze my credit reports; and the name of a movie, Leningrad Cowboys go America.

Based on the dates, these notes were taken prior to my determination to not lose anything. The next one, though, is a real gem: Crab piles of beige and hold sand flecked with sparkling bits of broke. Shells. Dog pees. Insult to injury, die one she killed last night. This is prize-winning stuff here.

Next are more shopping lists, a quote from Jack London, a shopping list, and then the details of a dream, written as a list: Dream. Final Exam. Hospital. Not dying. Go to bathroom. Come back person waiting for me. Crack head on floor. Find me under bed. Exam over – crying. Back to Dolly’s house. Keep dog cause she’s being a pain.  At least I didn’t die, I guess, and I got to go to my grandmother Dolly's house, which makes it the best dream ever.

More shopping lists follow (I shop a lot I guess), and then the inexplicable, “While you were sleeping. My crazy Uncle Irwin who fell asleep in the Mac and Cheese.” While You Were Sleeping is one of my favorite movies, but I don’t have an Uncle Irwin, that I know of. And certainly not one who fell asleep in the Mac and Cheese (although I do know someone who did).

Another list: fun, charcoal, beer, being corn. Seriously? I get the charcoal and beer, and maybe I could purchase fun somewhere, but being corn? Something was definitely lost here.

The most recent note actually makes sense to me, maybe because I wrote it just recently about an elderly woman at the rehab center where my mother was recovering from a fractured pelvis. She was tooling around in her wheelchair and rooting through the uneaten trays from the kitchen looking for dessert. She found a piece of cake, and my mother and I watched her enjoy it. She was clearly in heaven. I just hope she isn't diabetic.

Promises

My mother is in the hospital again. She just moved back to her home after being with me for about six weeks following hip replacement surgery. Three days after being home she fell and fractured her pelvis in two places. According to her, she was just hanging up her coat when she lost her balance.

Of course, it’s obvious to me, and to my siblings, that her townhouse isn’t the place for an 82-year-old woman with limited mobility. The sunken living room and the many stairs going up to the bedrooms and full bathrooms are more falls waiting to happen.

It’s also obvious to my siblings and me that her companion is…well, in the interest of avoiding slander and/or bad language; suffice it to say that we’re not fans.

But today Mom made it clear to my brother and sister that she doesn’t care what we feel, worry about, want – she’s going to do what she’s going to do and if we don’t like it, well, so what?

So where does that leave me? Angry, to be sure, and hurt. But what about the bigger picture? It’s easier for my siblings – they don’t live here, so they don’t have to decide on a day-to-day basis if they’re going to check on Mom, go to the store for her, make sure she has her prescriptions, etc. And when Mom was at my house right after her surgery, she told me she didn’t know what she would do without me. I promised her she’d never have to find out.

Now she’s making a decision that maybe shuts me out. She doesn’t want my opinion, and I can’t just be silent if I think she’s unsafe. And to be honest, I don’t want to be manipulated. Do I jump every time she needs something that her good-for-nothing “boyfriend” won’t get for her because he doesn’t like the ethnicity of the customers at Kroger, or doesn’t want to use the gas to go to the pharmacy? Am I allowed to say something then or am I just supposed to swoop in, save the day, and then shut up again? Am I allowed to point out that if she falls and breaks something doing a normal thing like hanging up a piece of clothing, maybe that means it’s time to make some hard decisions before she hurts herself more? Apparently not.

That makes this relationship something different than I thought it was. That means that Mom wants something different than maybe I’m able to offer. That means that maybe I won’t be able to keep my promise. And I don’t know what to do with that.

Prayer Requests

A dear friend sent me a text today, asking for prayers for a family member who is having some health issues. Now, I believe in the power of prayer. I know of an instance where a very powerful prayer warrior got his prayer circle together – probably circling the entire United States, if not the world – and prayed a brain tumor to change colors so that the surgeons could tell the difference between tumor and brain tissue. I myself have had some remarkable, life-changing things happen in response to prayer. But while I know that prayers for her family are in order, I’m not sure that’s what my friend really needed.

I think that she might have just needed some encouragement. Someone who loves her to say, “I totally understand why life sucks right now.” Or, “Gosh, you’ve worked so hard forever, and you’re one of the best people I know. This just isn’t fair.” Or maybe even “You sound like you need a break—how can I help?” But it’s usually easier to ask for a prayer than an ear.

We don’t like to complain. Someone always has it worse than we do, and it feels wrong to bitch about the fact that your house is a mess because no one will clean it but you; or that the mortgage is going to be late again because the power bill was higher than expected; or that a family member is sick and you’re worried, of course, but it’s really hard to get your own stuff done because you have to take care of him/her. Saying any of that out loud feels petty and whiny. Even the big stuff like major illnesses or job losses or *add your own big thing here* can sound bad. This is especially true in the era of Facebook and Instagram, where we put forth our shiny, happy, selves and only rarely expose the painful, dark side of our own lives. Showing the darker side makes us look weak and desperate for affirmation.

But let’s give ourselves permission to text, or better yet, call a friend and say “Man. This really crappy thing just happened and I need to vent. I need someone who loves me to listen to me without judgment. I need some encouragement.”

I hardly ever give myself permission to do that. I’m supposed to be the positive one. And I’m sure my stupid issues are nothing compared to someone else’s problems. So, I’ll just keep it inside. My blood pressure is up, I’m not sleeping well, and I’m angry all the time, but I’m definitely NOT going to bother anyone else with my stupid problems lest I sound like the whiner I believe I am.

So, my friend (I know you know I’m talking to you), I will pray. In fact, I’ll pray for your whole family. But mostly I’ll pray for you and that you know that all you need to do is pick up the phone and text or call. You can count on me to answer, and to commiserate, and mostly to understand. Because I love you. And I know you’ll do the same for me.