I Am Afraid

Of heights, deep water, spiders, zombies and ghosts, driving in heavy rain, dark.

            I am afraid my children will never forgive me and will think I was a bad mother.  I used to yell at my kids, and their little faces crumpled in pain that I caused, blinking back tears and whispering, “Sorry, Mommy,” when I stopped yelling.  Sometimes I cried, too.

            I am afraid of flunking out of college.  I am too old, too set in my ways, too far past the age when languages come easily, too busy, too dumb, too disorganized.  There is no way I can keep up with these college kids.

            I am afraid of Dr. Nichols, Dr. Tanner, and Professor Legg. 

            I am afraid of meeting new people.  I never know what to say or how to say it.  I am awkward and shy, but I think I come across as snobbish and unfriendly, which makes me more awkward and shy.  I am afraid I’ll never make friends at school, and more afraid that I will.  If I make friends, I have to maintain a relationship with real conversation, more than just casual greetings. 

            I am afraid of emotional exposure, looking foolish, feeling lost, loud noises.  I am afraid that this paper will escape into the public eye . . .

Cathedral of St. Matthew the Apostle

            Confessions are part of life for devout Catholics the world over.  The opportunity to confess and repent, in order to obtain forgiveness, is a blessing for the deeply religious Catholic.  Catholic priests in Washington, D.C. hear confessions, or what passes for confession in that great city of America.

“In the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit, Amen” (Taylor).

            “Bless me, Father, for sins have been committed.  It has been one election cycle since my last confession.”

            “What sins have you committed, my son?”

            “Oh, I can neither confirm nor deny that it was me caught in sin, Father.  But it is possible some things were taken out of context, or twisted to further the cause of my opponent.

            “Funds have been misappropriated, or rather, misplaced.  There is money that cannot be accounted for in any public records.  I have no knowledge of where these funds came from, nor can I say where they currently are.  My opponent believes it is my responsibility to keep track of my campaign funds, but I’m a busy man.  I cannot be responsible for the actions of others who act without my knowledge.”

            “I see.  Go on.”

            “Sexual relations have been had with an intern in the oval office.  Again, I can neither confirm nor deny this act, but there is no proof that I was in my office that day.  Anyway, by my definition of the phrase, there were no sexual relations of any kind in the oval office, then or any other day.  That woman is not known to me, and I have no recollection of her ever being in my office.”

            “You have no recollection of a pretty woman who worked for you?”

            “She may or may not have worked for me, Father, but I have no recollection of her being in my office at any time.”

            “Go on, my son.”

            “Some records have been destroyed, without my participation or knowledge.  The destruction of the records was ordered, but I am not a crook.  I was not in the building at the time the records were destroyed.  Criminal acts were documented in the destroyed records, but I have no knowledge of those activities.”

            “Of course you don’t.  Go on, please.”

            “It was suggested that FEMA be disbanded, leaving victims of natural disasters stranded.  Sandy destroyed the upper Eastern coastal cities, and FEMA will move in their aid.  After this disaster, FEMA may be discontinued due to political climate and financial concerns.  My concern, of course, is only with the people who are suffering in the aftermath of the storm.  Those reporters had no right to ask me about early campaign rhetoric in the face of all that suffering.”

            “So you think the reporters sinned?”

            “Yes, Father.  Compassion was not shown.

            “Please grant absolution and forgiveness for the sins that have been committed.”

“Please, my son, pray for the souls of any who may have sinned, with or without your knowledge.”

            “O my God, I am sorry if You have been offended.  Wrongs have been chosen, and good has gone undone.  I firmly intend, with Your help, to avoid getting caught in sin.  Our Savior suffered and died for us.  In His name, have mercy on those who need mercy.”

            “God the Father of Mercies, through the death and resurrection of His Son, has brought forgiveness of sin to the world.  Through the ministry of the Church, I grant pardon and absolution to those who have sinned in the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit, Amen” (Taylor).

            “Thank you, Father.  May I count on your support this November?”

Bibliography

Archdiocese of Washington. Cathedral of St. Matthew the Apostle. 2007. 1 November 2012.

Taylor. Catholicteenapologetics. 24 May 2012. 1 November 2012.

Political Freedom

“I want to leave the country.  I don’t like the direction our country is taking.”

“The trade towers collapsed 11 years ago.  We need to get over it, already.”

“Our President is ruining our country.”

These are all heard (or posted on Facebook) all around us.  I have heard these and similar sentences many times, from the most surprising people.  People love to complain about the country, and disparage patriotism, and criticize the government.

That is their right.  That is our right. We have the right to hate everything about our country.  We have the right to complain about everything, loudly if we wish, to great throngs of people if we can get them to listen.  We can argue bitterly and angrily about every policy, procedure, or law.  We can campaign to change any one law, or all of them. 

That is the beauty of the United States.  The right, guaranteed by the early founders of the government, to hate the government.  Do we ever consider how great our freedom is, in the midst of all our groaning?  By law, our government must defend our right to call them all idiots, and worse. 

We are not the only people in the world who have this right.  Other countries allow their citizens to openly criticize government.  We are probably not unique in the extent to which we exercise this right. 

But this right is not granted to all people.  There are people who risk imprisonment, banishment, even death for suggesting their governments are less than perfect.  There are people who go along with corrupt government out of fear for family, for friends, for life and limb.  There are people who must escape under cover when the situation becomes unbearable, unable to leave openly.

There are, or course, people who risk all to fight injustice.  These brave men and women choose carefully the things they protest.  They will not take the risk for things that do not matter a great deal.  Pick your battles, is the way we say it here.  These people, Nelson Mandela and others, deserve our respect and admiration.  They saw injustice, and took risks to change their corners of the world. 

Perhaps here we have an obligation to protest things that bother us.  We don’t make huge sacrifices just to voice an opinion, so perhaps we should make our voices heard amid all the clamor of other voices out there. 

But while we protest and complain, we should never forget how great our privilege is to do so.  Although you have the right to forget that, too.

For My Children

”Mom” is a title she wears with

Ease and grace,

Loving without condition

In spite of challenges

Sacrificing

Self for

A little girl.

Stealing

Tender moments and

Etching them in

Photographs to share with

Her family, who can’t

Always be

Near to watch her children

In captivating,

Energetic childhood.

Allowing affection from his mother

Leaning his tall frame down to her height

Elegant and handsome in his uniform

eXuding strength

And character.  His mother beams with

Nervous pride while he

Departs for his triumphant

Entrance into adulthood and

Real life.

Anyone can

Make it in New

York.  It takes unique

Bravery and strength to

Rise above the challenge and

Yell in the face of

Negative addictions, emerging a

New, beautiful person.

Dedicating his life to being

A person she can love,

Vowing to cherish his wife

In spite of her tiny

Dog.

Mingling with angels

In Heaven, keeping

Close watch over

His brothers

And sister on

Earth until they come to

Live in Paradise, too.

Mending

Anything and everything

Rescuing broken furniture and

Curing the ills of the building

Unsung heroes roam the

School.

Keeping busy

Expending energy with

Vigor, as if he never needs to

Rest, doing it

All if possible, and staying

Neatly out of trouble.

Dictionary

/dik-shuh-ner-ee/

A

lphabet n. She is a precocious three-year-old.  She knows all the letters and what they say.  “What does ‘cat’ start with?”  “C,” she declares, and runs to “look it up” in the old encyclopedia on the bottom shelf.

B

utterfingers n.  Consistently dropping things, pain shooting up to my shoulder.  When I finally see a doctor he sends electricity from fingertips to forearm.  He says the nerves are blocked; I need a ligament clipped before the nerves completely die.  When I come out of surgery, the incision hurts less than the blocked nerve did.  I don’t bother to fill my painkiller prescription.

C

artoon n. Mel Blanc (1908-1989) performed the voices of Bugs Bunny, Porky Pig, Pepe le Pew, Sylvester, Yosemite Sam, Foghorn Leghorn, and Daffy Duck.  He died in 1989, leaving a generation of cartoons speechless. 

D

ead adj. Dusty, dried roses hang from a hook in the corner of the ceiling.  They crumble under the touch even of housefly wings.  They are left over from a funeral, and no one can bear to throw them away.  A spider made his home in them once, but even the cobweb is dry and dusty now, the spider is long gone.  Sometimes red and lavender petals fall to the floor, and get swept up with the dog hair. 

E

volution n. Coke began as a medicinal concoction of cocaine and caffeine and sugar.  Early addicts must have felt fantastically energetic and productive.  It evolved from there into Coke, New Coke, and Coke Classic.  I depend on Diet Coke to get through my day.

F

ashion n. I hear compliments often about how I always look pulled together, dressed up, and fashionable.  I will tell you my secret: throw on a blazer.  That’s it.  That’s the whole secret.  A blazer turns any top and any pants into an outfit in one easy step.

G

ood adj. Good food.  Good kids.  Good sex.  Good education.  Good book.  Good movie.  Good student.  Good teacher.  Good dog.  Good day.  Good twin.  Good grief.  Good business.  Good game.  Good music.  Good loser. 

H

ungry adj. I met him on an internet dating site, and agreed to have dinner with him.  He stole my lobster off my plate and ate it.  I ate salad and breadsticks and went home hungry.  I vowed never to go on a blind date again.  My friends refer to him as “Lobster Boy.”

I

mpressionism n. Perhaps Claude Monet was actually a realist, seeing through nearsighted eyes the vague shapes and colors of distance.  His paintings inspired a movement of nearsighted artists, all painting the world in soft focus, as they saw it. 

J

oke n. I only know one good joke.  It is in American Sign Language, and makes no sense in English.  There is no written form of ASL, so I cannot tell my joke here.

K

issing v. When the boys started school, they stopped allowing goodnight kisses from me.  Kisses embarrassed them, made them look uncool, like mama’s boys.  Still little boys, they needed affection as much as they avoided it.  Still a mom, I needed affection from my little boys.  Their dad and I discovered a way to kiss them goodnight that let them look cool anyway.  We kissed our fingertips, and tapped the tops of their heads, passing kisses from lips to hands to heads.  As they grew older, the tap grew stronger—never strong enough to damage, but enough to make them laugh and keep from crossing the tenderness limit.  One of the boys laughingly avoided the tap, so we would wrestle him to the ground, giggling and shouting, at bedtime every night, trapping his hands and forcing a kiss/tap on the top of his head. 

L

ove v. A teenage couple sits on my loveseat, fighting to trap each other’s thumbs in a battle that makes them both laugh.  If she succeeds and captures his thumb, she declares a victory for herself.  If he wins, she rules the game a mismatch, and demands a rematch.  By this point system, she wins every time.  His advantages of size and strength are nothing in the face of her big blue eyes.  He loses, but he loses with good cheer because he gets to sit with a pretty girl on the loveseat.

M

yopia n. And God said, “Let glasses be invented,” and Ben Franklin invented them.  And God said, “Let soft contacts be invented,” and Otto Wichterle invented them.  Every morning I put my glasses on, or I put contacts in my eyes, and God and I both see that it is good.

N

o adv. When our granddaughter was two, and behaving like a typical terrible two-year-old, her mother asked if she ever threw temper tantrums at our house.  We were puzzled.  We never told her “no.”  What on earth would she throw a temper tantrum about?

O

mnivorous adj.  I will read anything with words, from the meaty Jeffrey Eugenides to the whipped fluff of James Patterson.  I will even read the back of a shampoo bottle since books get ruined in the shower.

P

arenting n.      Me: “Will you do my homework for me?”

                        Son: “If I do it you won’t learn anything.”

                                    How long has he been waiting to say that to me?

Q

uasi adj.  All of the nominal power of a university resides in the president’s office.  The real power flows in the classrooms and halls, with students and professors working in concert to change minds, change methods, change the world.

R

elease v. My baby will grow up, become an adult, move out of my house.

I will let him go, unwillingly because he is my baby.  It will be the end of an era.

I will cry at my empty nest.

I will wish for his babyhood.

I will wander aimlessly through my clean, quiet house, remembering the fingerprints on furniture and walls (and footprints on the ceiling. don’t ask).

He will have children, and they will come, and I will feed them cookies and let them put dirty fingers on the coffee table, and tell them how their father got footprints on the ceiling.

And I will laugh when they try it at home.

S

platter v. My granddaughter drops her water cup, murky brown from rinsing her paintbrush in it.  My kitchen wall now looks like a splatter painting by Jackson Pollock.  She giggles and wants to splash more paint on the wall.  Maybe I should have her sign my wall with one of her markers.

T

hought n. As I sit in meditation, I notice thoughts rise and fall in no particular pattern: only vague impressions of ideas remain in the ridges of the gray matter in my brain.  Sometimes the ideas are good, but I never remember them clearly.

U

vula n.  What is that little hangy-down thingy in the back of my mouth?

V

illain n. Fantasy novels make everything very clear.  The good guys display every virtue, and no vices.  The bad guys, usually in positions of power, slaughter and imprison innocents by the dozen.  Fantasy makes perfect escape literature, showing the world in stark relief of black and white, with no complicated grayscale.  Would that real life were so easy.

W

ar n.  I have two sons in the Army.  They volunteered to risk life and limb for the freedom of people around the world.  Military moms beam with pride at the honor and courage of our sons, but we worry, a lot.

X

-ray n.  Dr. Seuss says, “X is always for ‘x-ray’”  I would not dream of proving the good doctor wrong.

Y

es adv.  Will you marry me?  Am I pregnant?  Will this hurt?  Is there a cure?  Are you mad at me?  Can we get a dog?  Do you swear to tell the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth?  Have you found Jesus?  Would you like to dance?

Z

apper n.  The spring air whispers softly through the newly leafed trees.  The night smells of lilacs and apple blossoms.  The only sound is the occasional sizzle of a dying moth.

Loss

            The moment a woman suspects she might be pregnant, she begins to love that baby.  She may give up her favorite vice—caffeine or nicotine, perhaps.  She eats healthy food in place of junk, maybe.  She starts taking vitamins more consistently.  She wears her seatbelt in the car, even if she hates it.  Why?  Because she knows hers is not the only life affected by what she does.  Everything she takes into her body, or puts her body into, has an effect on someone else now.  She can’t pretend to be her own person anymore. 

            One day she is sure.  She tells her husband, and he changes his behavior, too.  He notices how small and fragile his wife is.  He spoils her, takes care of her, coaxes her to take care of herself.  He loves her more than he did before, because she is building this whole new person that is also a part of him.  He makes her feel so loved and cherished that she begins to wonder why she didn’t get pregnant months ago.

            The two of them start to talk.  They talk about names, about money, about how to arrange the furniture to accommodate a tiny person.  They debate the merits of a family bed, private preschools, the children’s program at their church.  They laugh over his conviction that the baby will be a boy, and commiserate over her conviction that the baby will be a hellion. 

            It’s too early to tell their families yet, but they talk about how to tell, and when to tell, and wonder what their reactions will be.  Is this a long anticipated baby that the entire family will be thrilled to welcome?  Is this a complete surprise that will shock the family into a few—rare!—moments of quiet?  Will the baby’s older siblings be delighted or jealous?  Will the baby’s grandparents laugh with delight over a first grandchild?  Or with outright hilarity that she is forty (40!) and pregnant, again?

            It’s a secret the two parents share.  They wink at each other when people talk about babies, sneak smiles at tiny people in the grocery store, walk slowly past the baby department at Target, holding hands.  It’s a lovely secret that they whisper about late at night after the kids are in bed and the dogs are asleep.  They plan and dream together, and they love the tiny mass of cells that will become their baby.

            Sometimes, at five or six weeks, or eight or nine, there are tiny signs that all is not well.  These become unmistakable signs that this baby will not be coming into the family.  This realization is devastatingly, wrenchingly sad.  She cries, and he holds her in helpless frustration.  He can’t fix this for her, and he can’t fix it for himself, either. 

            Their dreams die without a chance to really live.  They are sad for all the things they will never get to do: the cradle they will never buy, the room they will not repaint, the swing set they will not build, the first date they will never meet (and perhaps, the low-heeled shoes she will never wear).  Their hearts break over the loss of this unborn person.

            If this were an older person, the neighbors would bring dinners in, the family would gather, friends would call from all over the world.  But this is not an older person.  This grieving couple is completely isolated.  This is a new secret they share.  No one knows, so no one cares.  No one cries with them or visits them; no one sends sweet cards or kind words.  The world goes on without pause, carrying these two broken people along in its wake. 

            Somehow, they put on public faces and go out to meet the world.  There are bills to pay and jobs to do and life to live.  They stumble through those first days and weeks without really noticing.  They say nothing to their friends and families.  This society does not discuss such things.  This society pushes death and loss into the background, out of sight and out of mind.  There is no language to talk about this loss.  If they did talk, their loss would be minimized, belittled, brushed aside as a small glitch in the universe.  “There will be other babies.”  “It’s probably for the best.”  “It’s nature’s way of taking care of problems.”  Dreading these awful words of sympathy, the grieving parents say nothing. 

            But their sadness is real, their tears are real, their aching hearts and empty arms are real.  Millions of couples know this same heartbreak, these same dying dreams.  They may never know which of their friends most understands, but someone certainly does.  Someone knows just how bad this feels.  They are not alone, not really.

Reason NOT to Marry and Older Man

Today I am mad at him.

Not because of anything he said.  He’s always kind.

Not because he did anything awful.  He never does.

Not because he has quirks and foibles.  Everyone does.

I’m mad because he is going to leave me.  He won’t leave me today or tomorrow, probably not for years to come.  But eventually, he will leave.

He will leave because he is much older than I.  He will leave because, statistically, men die at a younger age than women.  He will leave because he is less healthy than I.  He will leave because his father left his mother way too early.  He will leave because he is not immortal.  In all likelihood, he will die, leaving me alone for 20 years or more. 

Every sign of middle age scares me.  Every forgetful moment or repeated story reminds me.  Every aching joint or numb foot, every threat of high blood pressure, every gray hair and every lost hair angers me.  Every birthday pulls us inevitably closer to the day he leaves.    

I can manage all practical matters surrounding his death.  I can ensure adequate life insurance, buy burial plots, make wills and talk about funeral plans.  I can plan to support myself, make arrangements for the disposition of property, pay off my house and get out of debt.  I can develop a relationship with a grief counselor, increase my faith in an afterlife, pray for strength.

There is no way to prepare for the devastating loss of him.  His DVDs will gather dust, his bookmark won’t move, his glasses will sit untouched in the car.  No one will tell me stories late at night or yell at my shoes.  I will have to learn to make perfect pasta al dente and grill a perfect burger myself. 

He sends the children out the door with the words, “Be careful.”  Everyone knows he means, “I love you.”  He never fails, never forgets.  If someone sneaks out without telling him he sends a text message, “Be careful.”  “Come back,” he means, “You are important.  You matter to me.”  After he leaves, “Be careful” will only mean “be careful.” 

He plays devil’s advocate for all political issues, skillfully and convincingly arguing both sides.  He is annoyingly even-handed and fair-minded, willingly discussing the logic on both sides, and calling out the silliness and stupidity.  When he leaves, I will struggle to see the other sides and different points of view.

He teaches.  I’ve always had a thing for teachers.

He carries soda cans all over the house, needs help to match patterned shirts and ties, turns the light on too early in the morning and off too early at night, leaves socks on the floor and dishes in the sink, thinks four is the correct number of shoes to own, and eats sardines in mustard sauce (shudder!).  He ignores my faults and idiosyncrasies as easily as he ignores bugs on the sidewalk, so I am learning to ignore his.

When he leaves, the chair on the other side of the table will be too empty, the couch will be too long, and the bed will be too cold.  My house will suddenly be too big, but the world will become too small. 

I am mad that he will leave me.  I cry when I hear the songs he’s chosen for his funeral, in anticipation of the real funeral.  Some days, my heart breaks for my own loss.  I lie awake at night, listening to him breathe, dreading all the long, silent nights ahead. 

Today is worth tomorrow’s pain.  He is here, he loves me, he is mine.  I will save up all of the todays, and bring them out one at a time during the tomorrows, chasing pain and bringing remembered love.