The Real Tragedy in Charleston

19 06 2015

Very few of us have been spared the sorrow of facing loss. I found it so incredibly sad today as I watched the families of those whose loved ones were so heartlessly massacred inside a church building during a Bible study as they struggled to understand the senseless killings. And yet, there they were, in the courtroom, speaking with such love of those who were killed, and then saying to the young man who took those lives, I forgive you.

Wow. And then the statement made later that we should be focusing on the family of the young man and the families of those who lost loved ones and not focus on the perpetrator. To hold in prayer the families involved in the tragedy, both sides of the families (please note here the compassion being shown the Roof family as well as the families of those killed).

I’ve thought about this a lot since this shooting occurred. Obviously, Dylann Roof was mentally ill. He admitted to having second thoughts about what he was about to do because “they were so nice to me.” But it makes me wonder what the real issue is in this situation as in so many others in recent months. Are we focusing on the wrong thing? Gun control is always the topic that comes to the forefront. We need more gun control. No, we need to allow people to carry guns.

My thought is this: maybe we need to do less about the whole gun issue and much more about teaching the value of life to our young people. Maybe we need to tell them that each person out there has a life that matters, has a family who loves them, has a purpose in his/her life, has a right to live that life, is a sacred being. Respect, inclusion, honoring God’s creation, agreeing to disagree, allowing for differences—isn’t that what life should be all about?

How boring it would be if we all agreed about everything. Differing opinions allow us to expand our horizons, learn to see other sides of a situation, teach us that maybe, just maybe, we aren’t always right. And differences add color and depth to our lives. And leave blame at the front door. And differences don’t kill someone for being different.

Well, that’s how I see it. God bless and comfort all those families. Maybe, especially, the Roofs.

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The Forgotten Ones

6 04 2015

IMG_1145I have this picture of my mom. She’s wearing a kerchief over her hair, a knife in one hand, an apple in the other. She has the serene smile of someone who has  a deep-seated contentment, a trait she shared with my dad. Mom loved all fruit, but the apple is the one I associate with her the most because of that smile as she sliced it. She was a purist–loving all things in their simplest form. Meat was always cooked with salt and a little Dutch spice, potatoes were ungarnished and served quartered, vegetables had freshly grated nutmeg and a pat of butter on them. Dessert was pudding and stewed or fresh fruit. On special occasions we were allowed home-made ice cream.

In the summer as she gardened Mom would pop a carrot or radish into her mouth. I can still smell the earthy odor of the garden soil as she pulled root vegetables free, shaking each before laying it in the bucket beside her. The red of beets, the orange of carrots, the white of peppery radishes, the brown of potatoes she dug out of the hills, each with its own brilliant green foliage, all colors of summer.

Year round Mom hung wash on the line strung in the back yard, allowing it to flop in the breeze until the smell of fresh premeated each piece. Sheets carried the sweet scent of outdoors, and I remember as a child burying my nose in in them after climbing into bed on washday. I followed her lead  after starting my own family. I gardened, froze and canned the produce, hung out the wash, allowing my children to enjoy that experience of freshness only Mother  Nature can provide.

And then one year it was Dad who planted and tended the garden while Mom sat motionless in her chair gazing out the living room window at nothing. She had ceased to speak or acknowledge us. Dad was the one who froze the strawberries and canned the abundant harvest of beans. Dad cut the juicy stalks of rhubarb, discarded the poisonous leaves, sliced the sour stalk into a cooking pot and covered it with sugar. Dad fried the meat, peeled the potatoes, topped the beans before settling them into boiling water. And Dad decided to use the dryer instead of the wash line.

Mom had slowly walked into the mist of Alzheimer’s Disease. Bit by bit, her spirit ceased to exist as she became a shell of the person we loved. Dad was her sole caregiver (by choice), at first handling things well. Mom was docile, easily steered to the table or her favorite chair, able to take care of her private needs, to feed herself. That lasted only months, soon giving way to Dad having to take her to the bathroom, help her take care of her hygiene. Then the night wanderings began, and the care that had covered daytime hours stretched to 24 hours a day. She lost bladder and bowel control, so he changed her adult diapers,cleaned her, washed sheets, towels, clothing as they were soiled. He carefully fed her at each meal. And he lost weight, this tiny man who hadn’t an ounce to spare. He looked weary. He looked old.

Everyone asked after Mom. How was Anne? She didn’t look sick. Was she in need of anything? She seemed fine in church on Sunday. Did she get around all right? Was she staying healthy? How was the disease progressing? (Dad had fed and dressed her, guided her to the car, put on her seatbelt, taken her out of the car, steered her toward the church building, gotten her through the door and delivered her to a pew before sitting beside her. And then he did it all in reverse after the service).

But here’s what amazes me. No one, not one person, bothered to ask how Dad was doing. All the attention was focused on my mom, and Dad became secondary. He’d lost 20 pounds (a huge amount for a man who weighed 140 at his peak) and his face was drawn, the lines of exhaustion right there for them to see. I was over 2000 miles away, raising a family and holding down a full-time job, unable to help more than a couple of times a year, but I saw what his care-giving was doing to him. Was I the only one? Really?

I begged Dad to get help, hire someone, have Mom admitted to the local nursing home. He refused (I promised ‘in sickness and in health’) until he had no choice. One day Mom couldn’t stand. When Dad tried to get her out of bed she crumpled to the floor, and he couldn’t get her up. Not only did she outweigh him, she had become inert. At last he acquiesced and had her admitted to nursing care. Six weeks later she died. Though he mourned losing her (he said he lost her twice; once to Alzheimer’s and then again through death), gradually, my dad became his old self. The weight came back on, his humor returned, he slept well at night. But it took a while.

I know several caregivers, individuals who dedicate each day to filling the needs of a loved one, ministering to both their physical and their spiritual needs. I see it happening to them just as it did to my father, that gradual wearing down. People show concern for the ill person. Ask questions as to the sick one’s welfare. But what about the caregiver? I try very hard to let those earthly angels know that they are in my prayers along with the one they care for. They are heroes, every one of them. I know it’s lonely work, I know they’re exhausted. Do you know what they tell me when I thank them for their service, these invisible, forgotten  people? They consider it holy work, a sacred gift, a privilege. A privilege. That gives me chills. It is all they have to give their beloved one who is dying, and they give it with joy.

I am in awe. God bless them, every one.





Saint Paddy From My Perspective

16 03 2015

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In past years I used to envy the Irish just a little bit–the Dutch people don’t have a day equivalent to Saint Patrick’s day to honor our heritage. And since I’m not Irish, March 17th had no major significance for me,  that is not until two years ago when my husband Mel died of a massive heart attack on that day. It’s the kind of anniversary no one wants to celebrate.

My first experience with anything Irish was  when I was 8 years old and someone gave me a music box with a small ballerina that twirled round and round to “When Irish Eyes are Smiling.” Later, as an adult, it was fun to adopt an Irish heritage just for that one day (though O’DeVries sounds, well, weird. But still. . . ).  It was fun to see the river turn green, beverages and food items dyed green, and shamrocks pretty much everywhere. Today I see the day through a different lens.

The week after St. Patrick’s Day two years ago, my friend Diet Eman (author of Things We Couldn’t Say) gave me a shamrock plant as a thank you for taking her to a Passover service at my church. Though she didn’t know that Mel had died on that holiday a week earlier, and I wasn’t sure how to handle the constant reminder, her sweet gift has become precious to me.  This morning as I watered the shamrock I wondered about the significance behind it.

I didn’t know much about either the holiday or the plant. As I began to research the beginnings of St. Patrick’s Day, I found some interesting, little-known details. Although Patrick is the patron saint of Ireland, he was born into a wealthy Romano-British family in Roman Britain in the 4th century. His father was a deacon in the Christian church, his grandfather a priest.

At age 16 Patrick was kidnapped by Irish raiders and taken as a slave to Gaelic Ireland, where he worked as a shepherd for six years. During that time he was said to have ‘found God,’ and was told by God to flee to the coast where a ship was waiting to take him home. In Roman Britain he became a priest, returning later to Ireland to convert the pagans to Christianity. He worked mainly in the northern regions of Ireland (Wikipedia, et al), using the shamrock as a way to explain the Christian trinity.

It wasn’t until the 1600’s that a coin was minted showing St. Patrick holding a shamrock. From that point on the Irish

St. Patrick and shamrock

began to wear the shamrock on their lapel as a symbol of their patron saint. I found it interesting that the initial color associated with Patrick was blue, but was replaced by green in the late 1700’s mainly due to the shamrock. During the Irish rebellion the shamrock changed from a symbol of St. Patrick to one of Irish patriotism. The Irish government adopted it as the country’s official trademark in 2003. St. Patrick died on March 17, 461 A.D. He was buried at Downpatrick in Ireland, and has been considered the patron saint of Ireland since 1903.

Our Christian culture considers the evergreen a symbol of eternal life. I think initially the Irish had it right–the three sections of the shamrock leaf remind us of the Holy Trinity–Father, Son and Holy Spirit–and the green reminds us of the promise of eternal life. Fr. Vincent Twomey was quoted as saying, it is time “…to reclaim St. Patrick’s Day as a church festival.” Who knew that’s what it once was, since we’ve known it only as a secular holiday.

That brings me to my personal feeling about March 17. I have spent two years without Mel. My life changed forever because of the events of that day. The loss is still  fresh, the pain very real, but somehow it seems fitting that God chose this day to take him home. Knowing the true meaning behind the story of Saint Patrick makes me realize there is a much larger plan at work here, that maybe I need the reminder of an eternal goal. My little shamrock plant leans toward the sun each day just as I ought to be reaching for the Son. Everlasting sounds pretty good in the light of the promise of eternity we as Christians have. Mel just got to experience it a little sooner than the rest of us. Maybe he’ll be wearing a shamrock in heaven.





CONFESSIONS OF AN INTROVERT

25 02 2015

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Soon it will be two years since Mel died. Conventional wisdom says that by now I have settled into my life as a widow and should be doing well. Outwardly I suppose I am, but the truth is I’m really good at not saying what I feel. I specialize in maintaining the illusion that I have survived my tragedy and now all is great. Yeah, right.

The truth? I used to think there was a timeline. I used to believe you eventually get over a loss. I used to think life would return to normal after a respectable time of mourning. Today I’m on the other side, and I’m here to tell you that none of those things is true.

Here’s the honest truth. Grief never ends. It changes, it’s a passage. It’s not a sign of weakness or a lack of faith. Grief is the price of LOVE. Grief is as unique as a fingerprint, but for those who share this state of being there is a common thread. I’m there too. My grief  is different than yours, but I share the common bond of pain with you. I understand the long-term effects. I know you don’t get over it.

Being an introvert can be extremely difficult in the lens of loss. Some of the widows I’ve been privileged to meet are quite vocal about their grief, and I envy their natural ability to express themselves. I wonder if that freedom relieves their sorrow in some small way. Much as I wish I could speak so freely, that is not who I am. So I nod and smile and say what I’m expected to say: I’m fine. Doing well. Thanks for asking.

Patrick O’Malley, a psychotherapist in Fort Worth, wrote the following article titled Getting Grief Right for a series in the New York Times Couch series (January 10, 2015):

“Mary was a successful accountant, a driven person who was unaccustomed to being weighed down by sorrow.     She was also well versed in the so-called stages of grief: denial, anger, bargaining, depression and acceptance. To her and so many others in our culture, that meant grief would be temporary and somewhat predictable, even with the enormity of her loss. She expected to be able to put it behind her and get on with her life. . .
THAT model is still deeply and rigidly embedded in our cultural consciousness and psychological language. It inspires much self-diagnosis and self-criticism among the aggrieved. This is compounded by the often subtle and well-meaning judgment of the surrounding community. A person is to grieve for only so long and with so much intensity. (Italics mine.)
To look at her, she already had done so. The mask she wore for the world was carefully constructed and effective. She seemed to epitomize what many people would call “doing really well,” meaning someone who had experienced a loss but looked as if she was finished grieving.”

That last sentence hit the mark for me. Looked as if says it all. Outward appearance can be such a liar, something most people will take at face value, want to take at face value. After all, if you dig into it and ask more pointed questions, things could get really messy. Most people don’t want to get their hands dirty or become invested because they fear the dreaded I never know what to say.

I speak for many others in my position when I say we often feel isolated, standing on the sidelines while the rest of the world moves on with their normal lives. It has become my world, not ours. It is now my weekend, not ours. I talk about my house, not ours. We has changed to I, ours to my. The list goes on, every item I tick off with a singular pronoun instead of a plural.

Don’t misunderstand, I’m not saying you shouldn’t talk about your lives and the things you are doing. You definitely should. I want to hear about them and share in your good times. It helps make life balanced for me to be told of your vacation, or some silly (or annoying) thing your spouse did last week. I need to know that how we communicate hasn’t changed. The sense of normalcy we all crave is especially prevalent in those of us who have lost a precious member of our family, so hearing about your life and your family keeps me grounded. Please don’t tiptoe around me. Pretty complicated, right?

So here’s the thing. In this broken, hurting world we live in, God’s intent is not for us to suffer alone. Regardless of our psychological makeup, it’s important to let each other in. We were not created to handle life by ourselves, but rather to bear each other’s burdens, to help lighten the load we see a friend carry. Sharing is hard, especially for those of us who hold our feelings close. It requires a certain amount of risk in the form of being judged, abandoned, mocked, or maligned. I’ve had lots of experience in those areas, and it makes me cautious. I am so thankful for the friends God has given me with whom I feel safe, feel able to share those deepest feelings. What blessings they are.

For those around whom I wear the mask of ‘I’m just fine’, I would ask that you remember this: Sometimes when I say I’m okay, I need someone to look me in the eyes, see the pain there, hug me tight, and say, “I know you are not.”





A Lesson in Compassion–Part Two

2 02 2015

I adore Anne Lamott. Her books border on irreverent, and yet there is such a wealth of faith and honesty in them. She says what most of us feel but are afraid to say. Last spring I was privileged to hear her speak at the Festival of Faith and Writing and discovered tIhat she speaks the way she writes—so straightforward and from the heart.

Her post on facebook last week hit home with me: “The world is always going to be a dangerous place, and people get badly banged up, but how can there be more meaning than helping one another stand up in the wind and stay warm?”

That is empathy. One of the best comparisons of empathy versus sympathy is a youtube short I’ve included below. 

If you have the ability to experience the feelings of another person, you have empathy for them. It goes beyond sympathy, the caring and understanding of the suffering of someone. Those words differ in their emotional meaning. Sympathy is acknowledging another person’s emotional hardships and providing comfort and assurance. With empathy you understand their feelings because you have experienced it yourself in some way–you can put yourself in their shoes.

Then there is compassion. You feel empathy for someone, you want to help alleviate their suffering, and you take action by putting that person first.

Sympathy focuses on awareness
Empathy focuses on experience
Compassion focuses on action

I can feel your pain. It must be so hard to get through alone. Is there any way I can help? And then give that person a hug. You have no idea how much that small action will mean to someone in the pit. I know. It means the world.

p.s. I apologize for the different fonts and font sizes. I’m having  difficulty in adapting to the new WordPress format.

 





A Lesson In Compassion–Part One

26 01 2015

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First of all, I have to admit I can be pretty self-centered. Though I could blame my background for that shortcoming, (another story for another day) it is ultimately a problem I could control if I worked at it with more intensity. Maybe this post should have been titled ‘It’s All About Me’. Because it is.

Let me explain. I have a big yard with several flowerbeds which require constant maintaining. Just a few blocks away is Blandford Nature Center. It has a huge deer population, many of which love my yard. I swear after dark there’s a flashing sign in deerinese that says ‘y’all come and graze here’. So they do. A lot.

I’ve seen them meander across my yard during the day as well. You’d think they owned the place. Many flowers, bushes and trees have seen their demise because of these creatures. The purportedly ‘deer proof’ plants have been devoured with relish. Four hundred plus tulip bulbs were an appetizer. Gone. Thirty rose bushes served as dessert. (Why aren’t they blooming? Oh, silly me, the deer ate the buds.) The rest (or most of it) has been the main course.

Am I frustrated? You bet.

I’ve tried many remedies. Liquid Fence for the low, low price of $40 plus per container (I need at least two of those a year) and other more creative options have all failed. Can I say it without being judged? I hate the deer. Absolutely hate them. The hunters can just have at it as far as I’m concerned. (Wait, don’t send hate mail just yet! Please read on first.) Used to think the fawns were adorable and the adults were beautiful. Not anymore. They have cost me hundreds in replacement foliage, plus all the gallons of Liquid Fence. Did I mention the smell of the aforementioned spray? Well.

So yesterday I caught a glimpse of some type of large animal outside my bedroom window. When I looked more closely, I saw a full-grown deer leaning up against the house. Grabbing my iPhone, I snapped a couple of pictures as the deer stared at me not moving. It didn’t seem at all afraid as I shot the photos. The deer’s eyes were calm as it studied me and I saw no fear, only that steady gaze meeting mine. I could have touched it had there not been a window between us.

Then I saw something else. The deer was standing on three legs, the fourth held high off the ground. It was too close to the brick to see why it stood like that, so I waited. Several minutes later when it hobbled away from the house I was able to identify the problem. It had been permanently crippled, the back left leg somehow mangled. The deer stopped a few times, looked back at me, then limped on slowly working its way to the back of the yard.IMG_1058

I can’t get the image out of my head. I will never see the deer in that hateful way again. That creature will die this winter, of that I’m sure. Its ribs were prominent, the speed with which it was able to move was minimal, and it certainly had no allies. Here’s what that deer did for me: it made me see it as real. A living, breathing, beautiful yet damaged creature created by God. What an awful fate it will face. My heart broke for that deer looking for shelter and food.  A hard thing for this crippled one. And it made me think.

Although many of our handicaps aren’t visible, aren’t you and I damaged too? That part in the first paragraph of this post about it being all about me, that’s a handicap. My vision of the world around me is limited to how it affects me. Poor me. Pretty sad that I’m so absorbed in myself that I can’t see the pain of the world around me. Gotta work on that. When others get accolades about their accomplishments or have something good happen to them, it’s so human to think but what about me? I deserve that. I work hard. Why not me? Gotta work on that, too.

Can I become a better person? Absolutely. That deer taught me to appreciate what I have instead of envying what others have. My kind of crippled can be worked on, but that deer–well, its fate is pretty much sealed. Those animals need to forage in order to survive, regardless of what that does to my yard. As for me, I have hundreds of blessings to appreciate. It’s not all about me. God created me, so I know I’m not junk. He gave me much in relationships, in good health, in a  brain that serves me well, in circumstances that could be so much worse. . . He gave me enough. So if the awards or recognition don’t come, if I never make it in the publishing world, if all I do is write what is in my heart and share with those I love, leaving the rest to God, so be it. I’m working on accepting that, not as willingly as I should, but still.

By the way, I’m starting a new career–cheerleading.





Legacy

16 07 2014

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My father was born in 1915, the youngest of seven, to farm-laborer parents. He was the only child who had farming in his blood and after completing sixth grade, he became a full-time worker in the fields alongside his father.
As he grew older he knew he wanted to farm, but buying land in the Netherlands was impossible. He decided his best avenue would be to learn a trade and save up to move elsewhere, though the place he would go wasn’t yet clear.

After taking night classes and completing his required training, Dad became a barber, first as an apprentice and later owning his own shop. When he and my mother married in 1943, he began in earnest saving every penny he could, a difficult task since war had begun the year before.

The thing about Dad was, he had the most optimistic view of life of anyone I’ve met. Pair that up with sheer determination, add an adventuresome spirit and a fearless attitude, and you have Dad. So he packed up his little family of four and set off for America in 1947. And he worked hard.

Fast forward to the 1950’s and Dad owned a small, seven acre farm in Washington where he raised asparagus and tomatoes and milked a handful of cows. He moved us from farm to farm until he purchased a forty acre parcel growing concord grapes, with a contract to sell each crop to Welch’s for juice and grape jelly.

Dad became a successful man who farmed well and worked hard, but most importantly who loved his family and his God without reservation. A man of principle and faith, devotion and loyalty. A truly good man. The world was blessed to have him for 92 years.

And I miss him.