on the 29th-to-last day of my 30s....

 ...I am once again thinking about how little we know about each other.

Over the past few years I have conducted a lot of funerals. And after at least half of those meetings with families, I have marvelled at how much people don't know about their loved ones. I'm something of a broken record about asking my friends to write down things about their lives, or to talk to their kids about their pre-parenting experiences. Because so much of what we know about our parents is really centred around ourselves rather than being about them, and too often the person's identity and personality ends up feeling pretty one-dimensional when we try to talk about them. 

What sort of things did they enjoy as a child? How did they get into (or out of!) trouble? What skills did they pick up or abandon? How did they meet the person they married? What did that relationship look like before children? What hobbies have endured, or were only for a season? What accomplishments have been forgotten along the way? What adventures did they take, meals did they love, places did they visit? How did they meet friends, and what kept those enduring friendships alive over the decades? How did they feel about things that happened in the world? Where were they at pivotal moments in history? What were the pivotal moments in their own lives (sometimes these are much smaller than a marriage or kids!)? And once children are grown and out of the house, what sorts of things filled their days? What did they enjoy doing for themselves, or for their community, not just for their kids? What kinds of things did they think about, pray about, wonder about that didn't have anything to do with their kids or homemaking or job?

So I suppose the lesson from this end of the decade is that it's important to share our lives with each other. Every time I make a "wine and the word" video I begin by sharing high and low points of the day, and I say something about how important it is that we share even these mundane things, because they are what make up a life. Living this life together in community, deepening our relationships through regular sharing of ourselves, matters. This is what it means to be community, to be in relationship: to know each other beyond just the small talk, and beyond just the most visible aspect of our days.

In what is probably not a coincidence, this is the poem I flipped to this morning as I was revisiting Nadine Aisha Jassat's debut collection "Let Me Tell You This":

Mother

He told me not to heed the Old Wives' Tales,

superstition and elaboration

bound in proverb and fable.

At home, by the kitchen table,

I watched my mother's hands spin the yarn

of meals and housework,

of duty and obligation.

I long to hear the tales in you.

To know that self beyond dinner time and bedtime,

to know the time of the tick of your heart,

which echoes in mine.

I wish I could press my ear to you like a shell,

to hear the ocean of you,

to know the roar that is yours.

What if it gets washed away too quickly?

And I live my life without your tales -- 

Searching, in the empty space by the kitchen table,

in the silence, for the words which were my mother.

12 years....

Grief is weird.

Some years the end of October is a horrible nightmare of epic proportions. I cry constantly and have no ability to do anything other than wish I still had a mom.

This year I've just been exhausted. Eyelids heavy, brain slow-moving, unwilling to use energy for exercise or figuring things out, so sticking to routines, or recipes, or work I already know.

As I live through this new adventure, I wish I could talk to my mom about places I go, people I meet, possible jobs I read about. I wish I could go through the pro and con list of different options, and hear her advice about them. I love my friends and colleagues, both here and far away, and many of them have been great about patiently answering my questions and listening to my verbal processing, texting away at weird hours. But it isn't the same. And this is the time of year when I'm extra aware of how not-the-same it is.

The position I'm in is tiring anyway, as my colleague keeps reminding me though I resist--knowing my current place is temporary, trying to discern where I'm meant to be for the next period of my life and work, learning how to live without a backup credit card or easy access to things I'm used to (like Minute Rice, or bactine, or white vinegar by the gallon, or the books I packed in the crate and now wish I could thumb through, or the purple scarf I must have packed but really wish I had here). But it hasn't felt exhausting until now, when I'm in the thick of searching AND the thick of October-ness. Now is when I wish I could talk to her, and am brought up short every time with the fact that I never can.

So...yeah. This year I'm just tired. Needing a nap every day, going to bed early, sleeping in late, hoping my subconscious will let me catch a break from missing her.

This is also the time of year when I remind people to have someone take photos at their ordinations, because I have none from mine (11 years ago this past weekend). But I also don't have many photos of my mom, or of us together. So I'll add this reminder: take pictures of people you love. And allow yourself to have your photo taken with people you love, because one day they might want those, and they won't care if you didn't like your hair or thought you needed to lose five pounds, or whatever. They just want you.

Love you, mom, and miss you every day. Most of all today.

that time cooking dinner made me cry

It's been 10 years to the day (November 26, 2005) since my first visit to the pyramids of Giza (and Sakkara, and the temple/city at Memphis...but Giza is the part most people recognize).

It's been 10 years to the Fourth Thursday Of November since I returned to Egypt after my mom died--I went "home" when she died, and after a few weeks I went "home" to Cairo, where I celebrated Thanksgiving with the other North American mission personnel from at least three denominations. I even managed a green bean casserole, which was harder than it sounds.

Tonight I was making black beans and olives--which is so delicious, even though it sounds weird, so just stick with me--which was one of what might be called my mother's signature dishes. It's the thing most people still remember, even all these years later. I both miss and try to recreate lots of things she used to make--enchiladas, homemade refried beans, bagels (ok, I haven't tried those...hers were so good I just can't bring myself to do it). She decorated cakes and indulged curiosity brought on by cookbooks and later the advent of the internet.

But black beans and olives...seriously, people, delicious. With basically three ingredients:
green olives (with pimientos)
black beans
garlic
you can have so much goodness on your plate you won't even want to eat anything else.

(I did...I also had brussels sprouts, cooked Susan's way. So it was a Scott Sisters dinner at my house today.)

Anyway, while I was slicing what turned out to be a sort of obscene amount of olives, I was thinking about my mom. Which, who are we kidding, is what I do in the kitchen anyway. But then I started thinking about Thanksgiving, and how ten years ago I actually worked really hard to be back in Cairo by Thanksgiving, because a) I didn't want to miss the trip to the pyramids, and b) I couldn't imagine Thanksgiving in the US without my mom.

So while I was remembering that, and slicing more olives, and using my pressure cooker (thanks mom) to soak beans without waiting overnight, and I thought about all the people who made that possible. Laurie, in the Louisville office, who kept her AOL Instant Messenger open all the time and arranged my plane tickets within minutes of me asking. (and who sent flowers!) Beverly and Martha, who planned a beautiful service so I could have that before I went back. The congregation of Church of the New Covenant, where every single person stayed after Sunday worship for the extra service. My fellow YAVs, who tried their best in a very strange situation they didn't sign up for. The RevGals, who were virtually present at every time of day or night. (when blogger got comments, I lost all the comments I used to have when I had an add-on service for them, so you can't tell, but they were there, I promise.)

In general I feel like this October-November has been harder than others. I'm not sure if it's because it's a big milestone year, or if the early onset winter is ruining my coping skills, or having a knee injury (which she had a few of in her lifetime) or what. But I miss my mom a lot. All the time.

So I thought I'd just look in the drawer where I keep a few things. Nothing drastic, just a few pieces of paper.

Note to self: it's never just a few pieces of paper, even if it is.

obituary....so little space to sum up so much life lived in just 47 years

the card that came with flowers

Beverly preached a homily in the form of a letter from my mom to me, in response to this letter I wrote while she was dying thousands of miles away. This is the first time I've pulled it out of the drawer since she gave it to me, ten years ago November 20. I can barely even read it because just remembering it puts me into ugly-cry territory.

1063

I am one week into the second decade of living without my mother.

This is my one-thousand-sixty-third blog post since she died.

I don't even know how to do any of that.

Ten years and one week later, it is just as hard as it was the first week. Harder, maybe, because the first week was so busy with details--flying home, having a visitation, family everywhere, scattering ashes, sorting and donating clothes, being sick. Now, ten years and one week later, it's regular life (and well past the time when we're all supposed to have figured it out and gotten over it) and it turns out that sometimes that's much harder without a mom than doing all those immediate post-death things. Sure, I hated sorting through her clothes knowing she would never wear them again. But now I have to cook, and make decisions, and buy my own clothes, and have experiences she will never hear about.

Ten years is a long time. A lot changes in ten years. There are so many things I wish we could have done.

I never exchanged a single text message with my mom. I wish we could text. It would be hilarious.

I have very few photos, because cameras had film and phones didn't have cameras. Usually phones were attached to walls. (heh.)

We never stayed up late posting stickers into Facebook messages.

She never saw me wear that geneva gown she bought me.

Neither of us ever said to the other "you can google that."

We never went wine tasting together, though we both love(d) it.

I will never know *for sure* what her Enneagram number is (though I have a pretty good idea).

We never got to discuss the relative merits of kale (and how gross kale chips are).

She never got to see me actually do something almost sporty, after all my years of complaining about how I didn't like things I couldn't read while doing. (13.1 in 2:57)

She never got to read my book.

We never binged on a Netflix show...never talked about Dr. Who or Downton Abbey.

She never came to my house.

We never used hashtags to offer commentary on our conversation.

She never saw affordable health care (such as it is, still....), and I think that is part of why she's dead now.

She never knew President Obama, or marriage equality, or lots of other things.


It's bizarre, really. I'm not convinced the second decade will be any easier...more new things she never got to experience, more of my own life I have to do without her. And yet...onward. Because life. (a "sentence" construction she never used.)

Happy Mother's Day

To Mom, who worked hard for her education and insisted we do the same: Thank you for your love, support, and help along the way. And thank you for always pushing and challenging, always insisting that we love people and work to make the world a better place--you made me who I am today. Love you, and miss you every day. In your honor, I'm paying it forward:

You can give one too, or any number of other awesome gifts, at rescue.org. 

Lest you think I hate baseball, apple pie, and mom....

I don't hate Mother's Day.

I think the celebration of mom is good and important. So good and important it shouldn't really be confined to a day defined by florists and greeting card companies, but whatever.

I used to love making my mom breakfast and drawing cards and coming up with little gifts (usually coupons for things like "cleaning my room without complaining"). Later I used to love going to pick out plants (tomatoes and peppers) and finding ways to gift them to her...mostly so we could eat them later, I confess, but also because she loved to grow them. I would give anything to be able to do that again.

Which is how Mother's Day is supposed to be celebrated, really. Notice that the very name of the "holiday" gives us a clue: Mother's Day. singular mother apostrophe s... possessive: My Mother.

My mother. Our mother. Each family that wishes to do so appreciating its mother(s), in a personalized and specific way.

Not a generalized celebration of all mothers. Not a generalized celebration of women on a day that we associate with motherhood, thus equating womanhood and motherhood. Especially not a generalized celebration of women while we still devalue the work of mothering and pay women 23% less than men for their work outside the home, all the while "complimenting" them on the sidewalk, teaching them to be afraid, and asking what they were wearing.

When we make Mother's Day into a generalized celebration of all the moms/women/mother figures, in many ways we water it down into unrecognizable slop.

This is also the reason Mother's Day is hard for so many people. Because what should be personal becomes so public and meaningless, and along the way we are forced into some stereotypical ideal of womanhood and motherhood. It obliterates our actual lived experience for the sake of profit (and more than a little sexism). (the latter part is true of Father's Day too, of course.)

So yes: If it is appropriate to your experience, tell your mother (or someone of any gender who has been a mother figure in your life) you love her. Give her something meaningful to her, if gift-giving is part of your family's love language. Make her dinner, bring her breakfast in bed, make up some clean-my-room-without-complaining coupons, or whatever it is. And if that isn't how your relationships work, then do whatever you need to do--binge watch Netflix, order pizza, go for a walk, whatever--without shame or guilt.

Don't confine this appreciation to one day.

Don't insist that your specific experience be generalized to the whole. Know that there are people who don't find much to celebrate in the mother-child relationships they have been a part of, and those who grieve what was or could have been, and those whose mothers were and still are the most amazing perfect people ever.

And don't forget to work for a world where women--mothers and not, single and partnered, gay and straight, young and old--are valued for the amazing people they are, and their work is compensated fairly.

Happy Mother's Day, mom. Happy Mother's Day, grandma. Happy Mother's Day, Martha and Sherri and Betsy and Kim and all of you who have stepped in to be my extras. I appreciate you all, and am so glad you have been a part of my life.



*we still won't be celebrating Mother's Day in church.

Mother's Day Flowers

So, it's Mother's Day again.

Again.

Every year, it keeps coming. It's worse than Sunday, which comes every week without fail.

From where I sit as a motherless daughter, I do not need to be reminded to love my mom. I do not need to be reminded to appreciate her. Besides the fact that every single organization/store/person under the sun is sending 400 emails a day with subject lines like "don't forget mom!" (who forgets their mother? Even if she was terrible. I mean really. Sure, we may not realize how close we are to the fake holiday that allows us to pretend it makes up for the other 364 days, but the idea that anyone forgets their mother is fairly ridiculous.) there's also the part where I no longer have the privilege or opportunity to appreciate her or to show my love for her. Instead I spend these days thinking of the times I hurt her feelings, the times I didn't tell her how much I loved her, the things I wish we could have done together. I spend the days leading up to Mother's Day, and often the day itself, longing for something I can never have. And then, because I'm in my mid-thirties now, also being reminded of my apparent slacker-ness when it comes to the becoming-a-mom front.

my inbox looks like this, and more, every day for about 2 weeks before Mother's Day. ugh.

Whose idea was it to insist that Mother's Day (and Father's Day) be on a Sunday? It has led us into dangerous territory, church-wise.

Too often, Mother's Day (and to a lesser extent Father's Day, and Memorial Day, and the Fourth of July) has become a religious holiday, even though it a) is not and b) was even disowned by its creator for being too commercialized and sappy.

I realize that in some churches (and in some families), Mother's Day just has to be observed via some kind of liturgical practice.

If that is true in your church or family, I beg you:
Do it some time other than the usual worship time. 

If your worship service(s) are on Sunday morning at 8:30/9/10/11:15, or Saturday at 5pm, or Sunday at 7pm, or whenever...please, for the love of God and all that is holy--and for the good of people in the congregation and community, and for the integrity of worship--have your Mother's Day observance either before or after worship. Do not do it in the context of regular Sunday worship. Ever.

Why?
Because too many people--women and men, old and young--find Mother's Day to be exceedingly painful. And people who have these experiences that make Mother's Day painful (infertility, miscarriage, grief, abuse, etc) are often the very people who seek out church community...and the very people that will turn around and walk out the door at the first sign of carnations on the second Sunday of May.

Let's picture some scenarios.
a) During worship, there is a contest for who's been a mother the longest. All the mothers stand, and more and more progressively sit down as the ages of their children are called out, until the last woman standing is 102 and has an 84 year old child (and we all pretend we can't do math, because surely in those days kids were much better than now), and she is given a prize of a bouquet and some chocolate. Meanwhile, the woman who had a miscarriage last year wonders if she's really a mother. The woman who doesn't want to be pregnant looks around furtively to see if anyone notices her. The woman whose child died by suicide wonders if she still has the right to stand up. The woman who desperately wants a child but doesn't have the partner/finances/job/insurance/fertility treatments looks on while trying to hold back tears....and wonders what does this have to do with worshipping God?

b) On the way into the sanctuary, women are given flowers indicating their status as mothers.

Women who are obviously mothers (i.e. those with children in tow, those we know) are given carnations in different shades for different ages of children. Women who are not obviously mothers (i.e., visitors, new members the ushers don't know yet) are asked brightly "are you a mother?" and if they say no, the usher pulls back the basket of flowers and looks disappointed before saying "one day, dear!" and turning to the next unsuspecting woman. Meanwhile, the tone and purpose of worship has been set, and it isn't about Jesus.


c) On the way into the sanctuary, all women are given a carnation to wear on their lapel. Because all women are motherly. All women are nurturers. All women mother someone, whether or not they have children. Because obviously to be a woman IS to be a mother, so we must all be one. If you can't already hear the buzzer on this one, imagine it now. To conflate womanhood and motherhood is to tell those of us without children that we are incomplete, not real women...and to imply that all women are nurturing/motherly/whatever is a bunch of sexist BS that I never want to hear again. Because it's a) not true and b) ignores the nurturing men.

d) On the way into the sanctuary, everyone is given a carnation, because "everyone has a mother!" as the ushers will cheerily remind you as you come in. Sometimes it will be different colors for alive or dead, sometimes it's whatever was cheapest at the grocery store on Saturday when someone thought up this idea. Here's the thing: it's a terrible idea. (as if the previous ideas were not terrible?) Yes, it is biologically true that everyone has a mother. It is also true that many relationships with mothers are not best characterized by flowers. It is also true that people getting those white carnations will now spend much of the worship service thinking about their dead mother rather than about God. It is also true that people who were adopted, people whose mothers died very young, people who were abused, people who are estranged from their families, people whose mothers are living in the memory care unit and will not recognize them when they go over for lunch...these people came to church to focus their attention on the One who knit us together, who called us into being, and who is worthy of praise...and instead they are getting a slap in the face, a poke in the gut, a ripping of the heart in the one place and time that should absolutely be about God.


So what do we do in church on Mother's Day?
*Well, for starters, toss the carnations. Even at their best they remind 90% of us of funerals anyway.

*Next, nix any idea of "recognizing moms" during worship. At best, it is patronizing as we spend one minute thanking them for everything we take for granted the other 525,599 minutes of the year. At worst, it is a stake through the heart of a sizable number of people sitting in the pews.

*Absolutely feel free to mention it in the prayers of the people, the same way you would mention any other cultural or news event. In other words, not a special mother's day prayer, but a few lines acknowledging those who show us God's mothering love (best to use scriptural metaphors...mother hen, she-bears...) and acknowledging the pain that sometimes occurs in our human relationships.

*If you really have to do something, reach back to the first attempt at creating a Mothers Day...in 1870. At least that had meaning and purpose beyond just giving us another year to, apparently, forget our moms.


If you need more than that, please, I beg you: do it at some time other than the regular worship time. Have a special Mother's Day service. Have something during coffee hour. Allow those of us who find Mother's Day a trauma to worship God and then leave before the carnations and clapping.




Dear mom: I haven't forgotten you, I promise. And I'm pretty sure you didn't like carnations anyway, so this is one thing I don't feel guilty about. Sorry for the times I was a crappy/bratty/obnoxious/know-it-all kid. And young adult. Sorry I didn't get to tell you how much I love you more often. Sorry the Mother's Day cards mostly suck and are apparently the best we can do. I miss you. So much that if I thought it would bring me even ten more minutes, I would hand out carnations to every person who does so much as drive by the church, let alone walk in. 
(They would, of course, not be pink. duh.)

Dear church, and all the people who have been like a mother to me over the years, in churches and out of them: I love you. And we will not be celebrating mothers during worship. We will be celebrating the grace of God, whose love and peace pass all understanding, and who is a far more perfect parent than even the most amazing among us. 

cooking and baking

Tomorrow night we're having a potluck at church. It's going to be amazing.

Whenever there is a potluck, I almost always bring two things. Mostly because I'm a vegetarian, and I generally assume that there won't be much veggie-friendly at a potluck...and also because I like to show people that vegetarian food is delicious.

For this potluck, I'm bringing two soups. Because: winter. First will be my aunt's recipe, a vegan potato corn chowder. The other will be a crockpot version of the chili that Amy and I created in seminary (the original recipe includes the words "If Teri is coming over in 30 minutes, cook on high and stir constantly, as if over the flames of hell.").

I'm also bringing an apple crisp with a pomegranate sauce, because I have a TON of apples and 2 pomegranates just waiting for me to do something delicious with them.

I'm also in charge of bringing some delicious pie crust snacks like my grandma used to make at holidays--pie crust, butter, cinnamon, sugar. So good.

Plus I had to make myself dinner today (butternut squash and sage pasta, side of brussels sprouts. mmmm.)

All this cooking has me mentally connecting to my mom and grandma. I think about how I used to beg my mom to double the topping for fruit crisp. I roll out the pie crust dough using her marble rolling pin and marble pastry board. I follow my grandma's instructions to spread the butter with my fingers and be liberal with the cinnamon. I make things up when it comes to "pomegranate sauce" because frankly recipes are overrated.

I love to cook. I used to love to cook with my mom, and now I cook with her tools and appliances, hearing her voice in my mind as I neglect to measure anything. It's not the same, but it's better than not at all.

(and also, everything so far is DELICIOUS. yes, I always taste before I serve to others!)

last sheet, in progress!

happy birthday, grandpa!

Today was my grandpa's 80th birthday. Or it would have been, except that he died three years ago.

I don't even understand how it's been three years already, but that's what grandma said, so it must be true.

My grandpa was pretty awesome. Not a saint, but still awesome. He worked with his hands all his life--building things, growing things. He was kind, though quiet. Not an intellectual by any means, but hard working and honest and friendly. I loved him, and still do.

Bonus: he helped make my mom and my aunt amazing too. Played ball with them, taught them to be self-sufficient, gave them skills that are still useful today. He taught us all that we girls could just as well drive a tractor, use tools, and throw a baseball as anyone else could. And even with only one eye, he could see more truth in people and the world than many can.

Happy birthday, grandpa.

in honor of Albert Martin Scott, a selection of photos from 3rd grade to age 70...

the beloved dog, and the beloved car

seminary graduation...obviously my grandparents are on the right, parents on the left. ;-)

All Saints

Dear mom,

I usually write you letters on Halloween, the anniversary of your death. Sometimes I've written on your birthday, or my birthday (the last time we spoke), or Mothers Day. This year I thought maybe one extra day would make the letter feel different somehow.

I know you weren't into the church thing, but stick with me on this one. Today is All Saints Day--the day when we remember those who have gone on before us, and celebrate the ways they let the Light shine through their lives.

So rather than focusing on how much I miss you (spoiler: a lot), I thought maybe I'd try thinking about the ways you shone a light during your too-short life, and the ways your light still shines in me.

(also...I kind of thought I might cry less with a letter like this. It's not working, since I've only just started and already the screen got all blurry.)

You were smart and you loved learning. I'm so grateful that you passed that love on to me. I cannot seem to stop learning new things, and I know that's because I grew up with you always facilitating my ongoing education (even when I was annoyed by that).

You loved people, no matter who they were or where they'd been. You were fiercely loyal to your friends, and worked hard to make sure they knew they were appreciated.

You loved music, and gave me permission to dance in the kitchen or sing along with the radio. I'll never forget the way we timed out our Sunday clarinet-lesson drives and their accompanying CDs so that we would get to sing Come Sail Away as the last thing before we pulled up in front of the house.

You laughed, often and well. People say my laugh is distinctive...I suspect some of it is yours. You taught me to see humor and not be too serious all the time. (Though I have to say that I'm not *always* sad to no longer have to wear a crazy yellow hat when it's my turn to deal the cards.)

You lived life in the moment. Sure, you planned, and sure, you took pictures, but I never got the sense that everything was being documented or that you were always behind the camera. We talked together, played together, opened presents together, looked at tidepools together...you were there with us, not just snapping photos but missing the moment. I'm going to choose to believe that the reason I have no photographs of my ordination day is because I subconsciously took this lesson to heart.

You loved to cook, and experiment in the kitchen, and find new delicious things to eat. Me too, on all fronts. (though I may experiment more and use recipes less, judging from the sheer number of your cookbooks that sit unopened on my shelf.)

You believed in us, and pushed us to be the best people we could be--people who lived passionately and changed the world for the better. I hope to be like you one day.

Thanks, mom, for letting your light shine--and helping mine shine too. Church or no church, you're a saint for sure.

love,

me

our first ever selfie, before selfies were a thing (and before smartphones)--on the beach in Hilton Head, 2005
(no, we absolutely did NOT sneak out on the beach in the middle of the night surreptitiously looking for sea turtles laying eggs on the beach. Why would you even think that?)

the life of a lamp

The other day, Andrew was particularly clumsy*. He knocked over a number of things, from my water bottle to a stack of books...and also a lamp. This particular lamp has been sitting on the same table in the same place for nearly 8 years, and this was the first time either of the cats had ever knocked it over, despite plenty of behind-the-couch escapades.

The lamp is special for two main reasons. One: it's made out of my first clarinet. Two: my mother made it for me.

This Artley brand clarinet (made of resin) belonged to one of my grandma's friend's daughters before it became mine, for a mere $60, when I was in fourth or fifth grade. It served me well and faithfully until my senior year of high school, when someone stepped on it during a basketball game at which the pep band was playing. The plastic broke just below the middle joint.

Luckily I already had my professional (wood) clarinets by then, and I was able to get by until the end of the spring marching season with some other instrument. In the meantime, the broken Artley sat in the case.

In a pawn shop, I'd seen an all-metal clarinet, and the shop owner had (jokingly?) mentioned that they're really only suitable for lamps.

And in my mom's mind, the clarinet lamp was born.

I'm not sure how much other family members had to do with this, but...the broken piece was glued, a base was constructed, a cord threaded, a lightbulb attached, a lampshade purchased. It's basically the perfect lamp--tall and thin, classy and bright, all at the same time.

Plus, it's mine.

And Andrew knocked it over, and that old break re-broke.

The clarinet lamp sat on my couch, in two pieces, along with my heart.

And then I went to the store, picked up some Krazy Glue (did you know you need to show ID proving you are over 18 in order to buy Krazy Glue?), and came home to put the lamp and my mom-memories back together.

It was a relatively easy fix, unlike so many other parts of life. And now the clarinet stands again, lighting the living room with memories of love.

If only the washing machine could be fixed/replaced so easily.


*no matter how much he may have deserved it, no cats were harmed, other than by my very loud and anguished yelling.*

dear dad

my awesome dad in front of the Modern Wing of the Art Institute, when it had just opened

I write a lot of dear-mom letters. I miss my mom every day, and there are some things a girl just needs her mom for.

But I haven't written a dear dad letter, maybe ever. I don't know why--you would think I'd have learned my lesson about saying the important stuff before it's too late.

So, here goes.

Dear Dad,
Thanks for being awesome. You took on a lot when you came into our lives more than 20 years ago. You wrapped up me and my brother in your heart in ways we could never have expected. You've supported us through more bad times than seem fair, and innumerable good times too. You're generous and kind, and even though you don't talk much (which I confess I joke about sometimes!), I've never wondered if I matter, I've never wondered if I was good enough, and I've never wondered if you love me.

I appreciate how you always send a Valentine box and an Easter basket and just about whatever I've asked for in terms of birthday and Christmas presents (even when I say it's ridiculous as I ask). You've been beyond patient when I couldn't quite figure out how to get the gift-giving thing in order myself, and only joked a little about the year that you got a combined birthday-christmas-fathers-day gift because I couldn't decide what picture frames to get. You've been keeping me (and my brother) above water for years, holding us together when we couldn't quite do it ourselves. Actually, I should write that whole sentence in the present tense, because who are we kidding: I like to pretend I'm a real grown up, but we both know the reality isn't quite as neat or independent.

I'm sorry I'm difficult sometimes. If it was possible to apologize on behalf of my brother, who's equally difficult, I would, but since I can only speak for myself...well...please just know that we both know we're a pain in the you-know-what, and we're grateful for your patience and your encouragement and your challenge.

Thanks for teaching me how to do things, and going along with some of my wild ideas, and being willing to try out opera, and helping me through life, and sending me random movies and books.

Love you, dad. Happy Father's Day.

love,
me!

PS: I'm glad you're coming in summer this year....we should take some more pictures. lol.

lifeline

I am preparing for a conference next week, and one of the things I have to do is create a "life-line"--a timeline of my life, divided up in whatever way I wish...presumably divided by major events, turning points, or other demarcations that indicate a season of life.

I'm debating the best way to do that...

*do I want to mark my life by the places I've lived?
   0-8 Hubbard
   8-10 the farm
   10-13 Seattle
   13-17 Yakima
   17-21 Chicago
   21-24 Decatur
   25-26 Cairo
   26-32 Crystal Lake

The divisions make sense, because I think I am influenced by the place where I am. There's something about my environment that matters to how I experience the world and go through life.

*Maybe I should divide by the things I've done at various times....
   0-9 read, run from sheep, gymnastics
   10-21 play the clarinet
   19-32 church church and more church

It's a less clean demarcation, but it could work.

*I suspect some people use their school/work life as the defining experiences...
   0-17 school
   17-21 college
   21-25 seminary
   25-26 missionary
   26-32 pastor

That would be a more interesting division if I had space to think about the overlaps (volunteering on Iona, changing academic foci, etc).

*I could have a really disturbing lifeline centered around boys. (because you know I define myself by my boyfriends, obv.) (that was sarcasm.)
   0-19 none because dating wasn't allowed
   19-20 P.P.
   20-21 T.S.
   21 B.M.
   22 M.H.
   23-26 J.C.
   30 G.F.

Maybe not.

*I could arrange my lifeline on my travel experiences...
6: disneyland!
14: Washington DC
16: Interlochen, MI
17: Hawaii
18: Belgium
19-20: Scotland
22: cross-country road trip extravaganza
23: Jamaica
24: Middle East Travel Seminar
25-6: Egypt, Palestine, Italy
29, 30, 31, 32: Caribbean/Bahamas
31: Scotland
32: ???

*Maybe by pets...
   Crash
   Ole
   Tang and Rusty
   Sammy
   Doris and Spot the goldfishes
   Ollie
   Andrew

probably not the most meaningful division ever.

*So...yeah. I really don't know. I think I'm being blocked by the fact that at this time of year, my life timeline has only two sections.
   0-25: mom
   25-forever: no mom.

That before/after split is so noticeable in May, when every email subject line is about gifts for mom, every church discussion is about how to (or NOT, hopefully) address mother's day in worship, every advertisement my eyes fall on is mom-focused.

Pretty sure that's not the kind of timeline they're hoping I show up with....so I'll probably go with the places I've lived. Seems safer.

now to find a catchphrase, song, movie, or book to thematically describe each segment...

new

last week I got a box from dad, and it has all kinds of new-to-me cookbooks from mom. I'm not really a baker, but who knows, I might just try something new. (and if not, I might be willing to turn them into new-to-YOU cookbooks!)

New recipes, new life for books off the shelf, new pictures to look at (and these are some gorgeous cookbooks, let me tell you!), new opportunities to try things out...

Fifth Sunday in Lent photo-a-day (when the lectionary text was "behold, I am doing a new thing--now it springs forth, do you not perceive it?" perhaps a sign related to dough rising and becoming springy.)

Who Am I?

Who Am I?

I am my mother's daughter.

(and I totally jury-rigged a bunch of stuff together to make it possible to take this photo, which I'm pretty sure is further proof that I am my mother's daughter. All I was missing was duct tape. lol.)

Photo 1 in the Lent 2013 Photo-A-Day challenge.

red fruits tea

I've probably written before about the Red Fruits Tea. I'm not in the mood to go looking for that post, but I'm sure it's in there somewhere, probably with a "mom" tag on it, just like this post will have.

When I graduated from seminary, my parents and grandparents came down and we all went on a fun vacation to Hilton Head. It was lovely. We spent a day in each of the towns easily reachable from HH too--including a day in Savannah, where we visited lots of cool places, including the Tea Room (which I'm pretty sure we'd heard about on the Food Network--we were Food Network junkies back then).

Among the teas we sampled that day was the Red Fruits tea ("a mild fruity taste in a black tea base infused with stawberries,red raspberries and red currants."). One of the things I remember about that outing was a conversation about sugar in tea, and how that particular tea really needed a bit of sugar to really bring out the berry flavor.

We bought some of that tea and brought it home. Later in the summer, when I visited my parents before moving to Egypt, mom and I drank Red Fruits tea (with a touch of sugar, of course!). When I left, I packed the tea ball. I will never forget the phone conversation with my mom, who was hoping to make tea and couldn't figure out where I'd put the tea ball, and I had to confess that I had taken it with me. I've never felt so selfish and horrible in my entire life. And basically every time I use the tea ball, I remember that conversation as one of our last.

Tonight I happened upon the packet of Red Fruits tea on the top shelf of my tea cabinet. I know that tea really only lasts about a year or so, and that it's been 7.5 years since we bought that tea. But I wasn't about to waste it either, after all the emotions tied up in it! So I made a pot, using the last of the tea in the packet. Sans tea-ball, which I have started using as a strainer instead (yes, the same tea ball...).

I of course added a bit of sugar, remembering that afternoon at the tea room.

And the tea was delicious, even 6.5 years after it should have been stale (or whatever happens to tea).

Except that I inadvertently let the second half of the pot steep too long, and the last cup, seven and a half years after the first, had a hint of bitterness to it.

Which is probably exactly as it should be. bittersweet.

the day we drank tea in Savannah...

Miss you, mom. Wish we could drink tea together again.

I had something to say...

...but it was eclipsed by the fact that today marks 10 days until my birthday.

We all know that the 10 days after my birthday are less fun...so I'm now celebrating the 10 days before instead. Today I'll be in the city at three awesome workshops, meeting new people and learning cool stuff and figuring out how to apply those things to my work and life...and who are we kidding, I've already been plotting how I can make a trip to a vegetarian restaurant (or two?) during the day. And it's supposed to be not-too-cold (low 60s, but windy), so that's great too!

So, you know, I'll be back to writing worthwhile stuff about what I've learned this week. Later. Right now I'm in "it's almost my birthday!" mode.

funfetti cake--just add ice cream!

hello October

I simultaneously love and hate October.

First: October is my birthday. (that's right, not just one day, but the whole month!) I heart birthdays.
Second: The weather in October is kind of awesome. It can be warm or it can be crisp, it's often clear and sunny, and it is not humid. The colors of October are bright and wonderful and change every day. I love it.
Third: my mom died in October. The last time I ever spoke to her was on my birthday (the actual date of my 25th birthday, in fact).
Fourth: my ordination anniversary is in October...on the anniversary of my mom's death. yes, that was on purpose.

So...yeah. October has lots of ups and downs for me. It's a little like a rollercoaster, only without most of the fun (I love coasters, just like my mom did). There is a part of me that so loves the month that I would happily live in October forever, and there is a part of me that can't wait for it to be over. I'm not sure which part has the upper hand most of the time. So rather than trying to figure it out, or predict the swing, or whatever I normally do, I'm trying this year to just pay attention. It's beautiful outside this year...maybe it is every year, but I haven't always noticed. It's a little less beautiful inside, but maybe by the end of the month I'll have paid enough attention to change that too.

hello, October. Nice to see you again.

an anniversary spent with no internet

Living with grief is a strange thing.
Years, made up of months of weeks of days of hours
spent keeping busy
doing the job
getting things done
making people proud
proving you can do it
even when the person you most want to make proud
the only person you ever needed to prove anything to
is gone.
Every other anniversary (and many other days)
has been filled with reliving every moment of that day
and the days leading up to that day
wondering pleading crying
but not truly functioning, whatever other people might be able to see.
This year was different
a day in the muddle of days

in a place with no internet and no clock

where time stands still…
a day spent reading mystery novels with women detectives, just like she did
a day spent cooking, in a pot that once was hers, just like she did
a day spent, for the first time in six years,
just resting.
It seems counterintuitive—
we’re told to keep busy to keep our mind on other things to distract ourselves and move on
but that may not actually work
I thought a retreat would mean thinking more, obsessing more, crying more
but instead it meant rest,
and some relief—
relief from trying to hold it together,
relief from hiding the sobs,
relief from doing everything the best to make her proud.
This year was different.
No relentless memories of the phone call,
No wondering if the day would ever end,
No what-ifs about how the world might have been different,
No sobbing until throwing up.
Just…reading. cooking. rest. Finally.
I still miss her.
I still want to pick up the phone and find her on the other end.
I still want to go on those adventures we’re (in)famous for.
But maybe a little rest from all of that

was what I really needed on this year’s anniversary.

Dear mom...

This is the first year I haven't written to you on mother's day. I mean, it's not midnight yet so I suppose technically, this counts, but you know what I mean.

I spent my day trying to relax, but often thinking about you. Except that's not different from any other day (well, if you replace the word "relax" with "work" anyway). What's different about this time of year is the build-up. The emails, the internet ads, the newspaper ads, commercials, etc. They always say things like "don't forget mom..." Which always makes me wonder: who forgets their mom? In our advertising saturated world, you can't forget mother's day anyway, but who forgets their mom? I haven't been able to talk to you in five and a half years, but you are not forgotten. I think of you every day. I wish I could pick up the phone or send a card or get you a present from one of those ubiquitous email advertisers. Instead I stay home from work, I sit on the couch with my cats, I make myself brunch...

I don't think much of the world has turned out the way you thought it would. I know it hasn't turned out the way I thought it would. But one thing is the same: I won't be forgetting my mom. Ever.

I love you.