tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-365941552024-03-14T05:22:24.229-04:00Heirs in Hope<i>Reflections on loving God, being Catholic, being a woman, being ill, loving life and anything else that comes to mind.</i>Unknownnoreply@blogger.comBlogger190125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-36594155.post-1171787147162064022014-04-29T21:17:00.005-04:002014-04-29T21:17:32.137-04:00Y Is For YearningThough I am an adult, I still yearn for my mother as I did when I was a very little girl.<br />
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<br />
It was a chill, rainy day. I waited outside my classroom for the
bigger children to call for me. They didn’t come. I was cold. “I know
the way,” I softly told the Presence. “It’s not far.” Two blocks from
the school, four big boys jumped from behind some shrubs. I had recently
seen them quarreling with Gerard and Charles. “That’s Gerard’s sister!”
one of them called out. “Let’s get her!” another one answered. Then I
was on the ground. Pain throbbed in my arm and back; sharp pain stabbed
my knees. A sneaker connected with my side. “Let’s go,” a voice said.
“Old man Marcus’ll see us.”<br />
<br />
My book and lunch pail were in a puddle. I picked them up and limped
to the house still stunned and sobbing. “I want my mother,” I sobbed to
the Presence. The woman met me at the door. I stood on the porch as she
blocked the entrance. “Where have you been?!” her face was like the sky.
“They forgot me so I walked by myself but some big boys beat me up!” I
wailed. “You should have gone back to school and reported them to the
principal.” <em>I want my mother,</em> I mutely pleaded with my Friend.
“Turn around,” she pointed in the other direction. “This instant.” “It’s
dark,” I pleaded, “and raining.” “Go back to school and report them to
the principal,” she closed the door.<br />
<br />
I limped back in the rainy twilight. Discovering a rip in the navy,
corduroy skirt I wore, the well gushed out with such force, my chest
hurt. “It wasn’t her!” I sobbed to the Presence. “It wasn’t her! It was
just that woman!” Something dark caught my attention. I jumped, then
peered closer. It was a shadow. “They’re waiting for me,” I insisted to
my Friend. “I know they are. They’ll get me again.”<br />
<br />
Mr. E gave me a puzzled look as I limped into his office, “Did they forget you?” The well gushed afresh. Between <em>heh-huh</em>
hiccups, I began to choke out the story. He lifted me into an armchair
and, when I was quiet, dried my tears. I watched his hands as he emptied
the contents of a packet into a styrofoam cup and added steaming water
from an electric kettle. Handing me the cocoa, he smiled, “Let’s see if
we can do something about those cuts and scrapes. Now, this will sting.”
He cleaned and bandaged my wounds, then drove me back to the house and
walked me to the door. The woman let me in, “Go change into something
dry.” Mr. E remained on the porch. As I climbed the stairs, I saw his
stormy face, stormier than the woman’s had been. He spoke to her for a
long time.<br />
<br />
Pain woke me the next morning: the pajama bottoms had stuck to my
knees where the bandages had fallen away. The man ripped them from the
wounds. “Stop!” I screamed as he began to pull. “Big baby!” he sneered
and slapped my pajama clad thigh.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-36594155.post-43364462286972779192014-04-29T21:16:00.002-04:002014-04-29T21:16:25.852-04:00X Is For 10 + XWhile writing <a href="http://lovedasif.com/">Loved As If</a>, I’m
also recovering from Sjogren’s, Crohn’s, fibromyalgia and a
mis-diagnosed dance injury that was treated as rheumatoid arthritis. For
the past five-ish years, I’ve been disabled. But I hate disability. I’m
a dancer. In high school, I was on the water ballet squad. Walking five
miles each day in in NYC was average. When fighting with God, I’d walk
as far as I could until I was so physically exhausted, I couldn’t resist
anymore and suddenly, usually with a rush of tears, I’d tell Him the
thing I was trying to hide. Walking leisurely back to my starting point,
I’d reflect on how silly I must be to think I could keep anything from
the One who has been with me and cared for me my entire life. Life is
movement, at least for me, spiritual, intellectual, and physical.<br />
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When I moved to Houston for my health three and one-half years ago, I
used a scooter to shop in the giant supermarkets. My pain was so bad, I
swallowed 60 milligrams of a morphine derivative each day, 1600
milligrams of another highly sedating medication for fibromyalgia, and
another 60 milligrams of sleep medication (not Ambien – I made macaroni
and cheese while taking that drug). I wanted off them all. Sedation
isn’t at all attractive. After a year of physical therapy, I no longer
take the narcotic and treat fibromyalgia with exercise, diet and
adequate rest. Until a few months ago, I was tapering off the sleep
medication as well. Then came a Crohn’s flare-up.<br />
<br />
Inflammation in my small intestines put an end to physical therapy using a <a href="http://www.powerplate.com/" target="_blank">power plate</a>
(a cool device). But I refuse to lose everything I gained. Writing
requires me to be awake and as healthy as possible. Swimming was the
logical alternative and highly recommended by my doctors. So on Friday, I
slathered on sun block, pulled on my bathing suit and swam ten laps
across an Olympic sized pool. In high school and college, twenty-five to
fifty laps was warm-up. Today, ten laps is exhausting. Remembering that
two laps in a half-sized pool was beyond me when I first moved to
Houston is helpful. But ten laps still feels inadequate. So today, I
developed a formula, 10 + X (where X = a multiple of 2). For two weeks,
I’ll swim ten laps three times each week. Then I’ll add two laps every
two weeks until I can swim twenty-five to thirty laps without stopping.
It’s like looking forward to going to New York when I was a child. When
circumstances seemed hopeless, the knowledge that I had a goal was one
of the things that pulled me through. Whether 10 + X works out as I’d
plan doesn’t matter. The goal and the attempt to reach it is what
counts. I’ve learned, to look back every so often and am always
surprised where I’ve come. I look forward to looking back in a few
months at 10 + X and discovering what X equals then. Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-36594155.post-18805681541729686392014-04-29T21:12:00.005-04:002014-04-29T21:12:51.589-04:00W Is For "Who Will I Be?"A howling beast lives within me though I may look much like a lamb.
She longs to sit in the public square bellowing: “See my wounds! They
did this to me! Evil people hurt me! Took everything from me! Shredded
me! Look at what they’ve done!” The beast longs to attract passersby.
She grasps their garments, tries to convince them to chorus her lament.
She is filthy, angry, hungry to control so that she will be forever
safe. I don’t like her. I don’t want to be her. But if not her, who will
I be? I can’t lock the beast away. Once, I may have been just a lost
lamb. Now, I am also beast. Answers will always include her. If I cannot
find something of value through the beast, I will find nothing at all.
The wounds that have shredded me must also be the fountains from which
healing comes.<br />
<br />
So much was torn away from me. I have so little left. But I want to
have something. I want to be something. I want the tatters of my soul,
of my identity to grow into something worth having. I want the beast to
be transformed into something beautiful. So I offer the tiny bit I have
as a young child offers weeds to his mother. I’m not a child. I know
what weeds are — not much. I tell God, “I’m sorry I have only anger and
hurt and terror to give You. I wish I had more. I wish I was brave and
everything You have created me to be. But all I am is a shredded soul
and Yours.”<br />
<br />
He asks me, “Will you be an occasion for heaven to rejoice over the repentance of a lost sinner?”<br />
<br />
“Huh?” He must be joking. Can the victim, lamb and beast, help those
who wounded her? Perhaps. Perhaps not. God asks for my cooperation but
doesn’t reveal the results; ours is a strictly “need to know”
relationship. I do know, being an occasion isn’t just about those who
wounded me. Sometimes it’s about allowing God to take my shreds and use
them for someone else: another victim, another abuser, another who might
choose evil but instead chooses the hard road of fighting their beasts.
Being an occasion places something in my hands that I can give
passersby. Their beasts may be tamer than mine. Then again, I may be
much stronger, may have been given more aide. All that matters is I can
let God do as He pleases with my shredded soul, no matter how much it
hurts. This is worth more than my ease, my comfort, my life. This is
really belonging to the Love of my life.<br />
<br />
So I will be an occasion for repentance. And that makes me an
occasion for hope. My beast’s howl may actually become a song of joy, a
thing of great beauty.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-36594155.post-83549664588283968572014-04-29T21:11:00.003-04:002014-04-29T21:11:44.587-04:00V Is For Mr. V.The classroom buzzed with whispers, “Where is Mr. Y?” “He’s not
coming back.” “Why?” “I don’t know.” “There was something about him in
the paper but my parents wouldn’t let me read it.” A man in a plaid
shirt and jeans entered the room, “Good morning students.” He spoke
through a stuffy nose. An illustration of Ichabod Crane flashed across
the screen of my mind. “I’m Mr. V. I’ll be taking over for Mr. Y.” We
looked at each other. <em>Taking over?</em> our eyes grew wide. “I don’t
have his lesson plans,” the stuffed voice rang out again. “So let’s
just begin with the standard seventh year curriculum.” Gary held up his
hand, “Mr. V.?” “You are?” he looked down at a sheet of paper on his
desk. “Frank Murgum?” Gary’s forehead puckered, “I’m Gary Wright.
Frankie is over there.” Gary pointed. Frankie held up and waved his
freckled hand. “That’s not right,” Mr. V. studied the paper again. “The
seating chart has Frank where you’re sitting and you,” Mr. V.’s forehead
wrinkled, “I’m not sure where you’re supposed to be.” The class
exchanged swift glances. “Mr. Y. didn’t use a seating chart,” Gary told
him. “He didn’t,” our voices chorused; we shook our heads. “And we’re
the gifted class,” Frankie told him his bright blue eyes serious. “We
don’t follow the standard curriculum.” Mr. V. raised his head and looked
into Frankie’s eyes, “We will follow the standard seventh year
curriculum.” An almost mute collective groan hummed throughout the room.
My heart tumbled into my stomach.<br />
<br />
“I’ve been reading the Aeneid,” I told Mr. V. “Next year we begin
Latin and Mr. Y. wanted to prepare us.” Mr. V. sighed, “The Aeneid is
not part of the standard seventh year course. I want a book report on
“Where The Red Fern Grows.” Today’s Wednesday. Get it to me by Monday.”
“I read that two years ago,” my head bobbed in time to my words. “I
wasn’t here then!” his stuffed voice snapped. Mr. V. stared out at the
class, “You’re to stop telling me what you’ve done in the past. Just
follow my instructions.” We breathed a collective sigh. Mr. V. placed
stacks of thick books and workbooks on each desk in the front row, “Take
one of each and pass the others back.” A collective groan rumbled
through the class.<br />
<br />
“Here’s my book report,” I placed it on Mr. V.’s desk on Thursday
morning. “It’s two days early,” he looked puzzled. I shrugged and raised
my hands, my eyes wide, one corner of my mouth lifted. <em>I’m bored,</em>
I mutely told my Friend. My eyes returned to the Aeneid hidden in the
history workbook. Mr. V.’s voice snuffled. I lifted my head, caught
Lourdes’ eyes and smiled to her across the room.<br />
“You ought to be doing your home work,” I jumped at Mr. V.’s
stuffiness booming in my ear. Our eyes stared at the sketch of a horse I
had been working on. I left it face up and pulled a pile of workbooks
from under my desk. “It’s done,” I shrugged one shoulder. “Then do the
next lesson,” he held the books out to me. I sighed, “They’re all done.”
I pointed at the stack of books he held, “That’s all my homework, for
the rest of the year, for every subject except French; M. Abadie does
not use workbooks.” Mr. V. ran his fingers through his hair. Dandruff
flakes fell onto his dark plaid shirt. “Then you’ll have to sit quietly,
won’t you?” he placed the stack of workbooks on my desk. I returned to
my sketch and, later, to the Aeneid.<br />
<br />
A paper airplane landed on my desk. I looked up. Frankie’s bright
blue eyes sparkled, a big smile lit up his freckled face. “Read it,” he
mouthed. I unfolded the plane. Inside, “Toss me to Gary!” was written in
block letters. I refolded it and tossed it to Gary. Mr. V. sat at his
desk grading papers. “Have you any books on making paper airplanes?” I
asked the school librarian. “Or aerodynamics?” Gary hastily interjected.
I mouthed, “Thanks.” “I think I have some books on making model
airplanes,” the librarian directed us to a shelf. At lunch, the students
in the gifted seventh year class, pored over a book. “We can make
these,” Gary assured us.<br />
<br />
“I ought to give you an F in citizenship,” Mr. V. blocked the doorway
as, I, the last student to leave that day, approached the door. “You’ve
disrupted my class from the first day,” the stuffed complaint was like
nails on a chalkboard. “But you won’t,” and, without thought, I knew he
wouldn’t. “You think so?” more scratching. I sighed, “You won’t. An F
will look strange next to all those A’s.” The words tumbled out, “I’ve
been at this school since kindergarten and skipped two grades. Mr. E.
will want to know why, all of a sudden, I have an F in citizenship.
He’ll find out you’ve been teaching the gifted class the standard
curriculum.” Mr. V. swallowed and stood aside. “A ‘B,’” I told my Friend
as I walked along reading my final report card. “I can live with that. I
did deserve an F; I’ve been really bad. But we’ve all been so bored.
And we’ll be behind next year.”Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-36594155.post-78663175266110759252014-04-29T21:10:00.003-04:002014-04-29T21:10:39.872-04:00U Is For Ugly“Oh no!” I cried out. “What is it now?!” Claire’s demanded. “My
zipper broke.” “Change your dress,” she placed a hand on her hip and
rolled her eyes. “But it’s my last picture day,” my voice was a small
squeak. “I wanted to wear this dress.” “Well, if you hurry up, I’ll wait
while you fix it,” Claire plopped onto the window seat. I removed the
dress and began quickly tacking the zipper tape to the folded opening.
“It’s in back.” I took a locking stitch and sealed the first side. “My
hair will cover most of it and I can do a better job later.” “What are
you two doing here!” the man’s voice roared. He wore pajamas. His eyes
were red. Claire and I exchanged <em>Why isn’t he at work?</em> glances.
“I broke my zipper,” “I’m just waiting to walk out with her,” our
voices jumbled together. “Get out of here!” The man grabbed the broom
from the hall closet. <em>Crack!</em> He brought the handle down on
Claire’s arm. “No! Daddy!” she jumped up and ran down the stairs. The
front door slammed. “And you!” I raised an arm and turned away from him.
The broom handle descended, <em>Crack! Crack!</em> “Get!” <em>Crack!</em> Out! <em>Crack!</em> Of! <em>Crack!</em> This! <em>Crack!</em> House! <em>Crack!</em>
The man grabbed my arm and pushed me out the door. I pulled a coat from
the downstairs closet and stumbled to school. “I hate him!” I told my
Friend aloud. “I hate him!”<br />
<br />
The face of the girl in the photograph was puffy. The eyes were
swollen and red. Pain was etched in every furrow of her forehead; the
mouth did not smile. <em>It’s ugly!</em> I mutely told my Friend. <em>I hate it!</em>
I ripped it into tiny shreds. “What are you doing?!” the vice-principal
demanded. “Give me that.” She held the tiny bits in the palm of her
hand. “You were supposed to put each photo in the right file! I didn’t
give you permission to destroy any of them!” shock filled her voice but
her eyes narrowed. I knew she was planning my punishment. “What’s
wrong?” Mr. E.’s voice asked quietly. “My “helper” destroyed one of the
school photos!” the vice-principal held up her hand. “I’d never imagine
you’d do such a thing,” Mr. E looked at me, his eyes wide. I dropped my
head. “It’s of me,” tears smarted in my eyes. <em>Please don’t let them fall,</em>
I begged my Friend. “It was ugly.” My voice became a tiny whisper, “I’d
been crying.” Mr. E. placed one hand on my shoulder, “I think you can
take the rest of the hour off. We’ll see you tomorrow.”Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-36594155.post-8527925417209648772014-04-29T21:10:00.000-04:002014-04-29T21:10:03.172-04:00T Is For Tess (and Troublemaker)“Charlotte laughed because your mother died,” Tess stood before me,
her head to one side, a hand on her hip. It was my first morning at
school after the woman died. “She said it was funny.” Tess glanced
around the semicircle of sixth, seventh and eighth year girls who
listened, their mouths wide ovals or smiles. <em>I don’t want to do this,</em>
I mutely told my Friend. I took a deep breath, squared my shoulders and
marched off to the tetherball court where Charlotte waited for a turn.
“Charlotte!” I made my voice hard, “I heard what you did!” Charlotte
turned to me. I socked her in the eye. Charlotte swung back. I continued
to hit at her. We missed more than we connected. A whistle shrieked in
the crisp morning air. “Break it up!” Mrs. L, the vice-principal called
out. “I’m surprised at you two,” Mrs. L. held us each by one arm. “I
thought you were friends.” My lower lip felt big. A sharp pain filled my
mouth when I touched it with my tongue. <em>We are,</em> I mutely told my Friend.<br />
<br />
Mr. E. gently wiped blood off my chin and handed me a paper towel,
“Here, hold this to your mouth. It will stop bleeding soon.” He went
over to examine Charlotte’s eye, “Well, I don’t understand this.” “She
hit me!” Charlotte declared, her good eye opened wide. Mr. E. looked at
me. I dropped my head, “Tess said you laughed because my mother died.”
Tears filled my eyes. “I didn’t laugh!” Charlotte insisted looking up at
Mr. E., then over at me. “I said, ‘It’s so sad your mother died.’ I
said, ‘I’m so sorry for her.’” My tears fell on my lap. I looked up, my
voice a tiny whisper, “She said you laughed.” “I would never do that!”
Charlotte placed one hand on my arm. Mr. E. passed me a tissue, “I think
the best thing we can do is start the day over.” Charlotte and I looked
into each others eyes, then back at Mr. E. Our heads nodded slowly in
unison.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-36594155.post-81954160408424387242014-04-29T21:09:00.001-04:002014-04-29T21:09:12.137-04:00S Is For So SadThe photograph caught my eye, <em>Giants?! </em> I quickly lifted the section of newspaper that sat atop Eve’s purse. <em>Oh! It’s just sports,</em>
I told my Friend with a loud sigh. Eve walked into the kitchen just as I
replaced the paper. “You went into my purse!” she shouted. “I’m going
to tell! You went into my purse!” She ran up to the woman’s room. I ran
after her, “I didn’t go into her purse! The newspaper was on top. I just
picked it up to read and put it back!” “She went into my purse!” Eve
insisted. “Even though it was on top, it’s still my purse!” “But I
didn’t even open your purse!” “She’s right,” the woman told me sternly.
“If it was on top, you went into her purse.” I shook my head. A flash
exploded inside me. I saw it across the screen of my mind, was surprised
it failed to light up the shaded room: “I. Did. Not. Go. Into. Her.
Purse.” Each word was precise, clipped, definite. My voice rang with an
accent similar to, but different from, more proper than the woman’s. I
stood upright, as at the barre, my shoulders down, my head up. “Yes you
did,” the woman declared. “You should spank her,” Eve declared. “Come
here,” the woman reached her arm out to me. “No.” the same precise tone
and accent rang through the room. “What?” the woman’s forehead crumpled.
“Leave me alone!” it was a command. “What?!” the woman’s eyes opened
wide. Eve’s mouth was a large O. “Leave me alone!” my voice was louder
now. “Get over here,” the woman’s face was steely. “Leave! Me! Alone!”
it was a scream. I ran from the room, locked myself in the hall
bathroom, and stared out the window at the balcony railing.<br />
<br />
<em>Bang!</em> “Let me in!” I ignored the woman’s voice. <em>Make them go away, please,</em> I begged my Friend. <em>Bang! Bang!</em>
“Let me in!” the woman demanded again. I said nothing. My breath came
faster, my chest heaved, the well inside me sloshed over, became
wracking sobs and then, <em>Cough! Cough! Cough!</em> “You’re going to make yourself sick!” the woman’s voice was sharp. <em>I don’t care,</em> I mutely told my Friend. <em>Tap. Tap.</em> “Let me in,” the steel was gone from the woman’s voice. “I promise, I won’t hit you.” Shaking, emitting shallow, <em>he-huh, he-huh</em>
breaths, I unlocked the door and opened it. The woman came in, “You
didn’t know. I understand. But even if something is on top and sticking
out, you must not take it. That’s Eve’s private bag.” Eve nodded. Claire
guarded the doorway. The woman sat on the toilet and tried to pull me
onto her lap. I stiffened my body. She released me. <em>He-huh. He-huh. He-huh.</em> The wracking sobs would not stop.<br />
<br />
“You’re so sad,” the woman said to me, her forehead wrinkled. <em>He-huh! He-huh! He-huh!</em>
the sobs grew louder, shook my entire body. I hugged my arms around me.
Claire came in and closed the door. “Eve wears lipstick,” Claire told
the corner of the room. Eve took a sharp breath, “Huh!” The woman looked
at Eve, “You know you’re not supposed to wear lipstick.” “It’s just lip
gloss,” Eve’s voice held a rising note. “You girls don’t think I
understand. But I do,” the woman caught up Eve’s hand. “Your father
doesn’t want you wearing lipstick until you’re eighteen.” “He’s too
strict,” Eve poked out her lower lip. “Yeah!” Claire chorused. “He is
strict. But he’s your father”. “He won’t even let me date. You know I
had to lie whenever I went out with Ray. He’s known Ray since he was a
baby!” Eve’s voice reached a higher octave. “And he nearly hit me
because I bought shoes with little heels!” Eve paused for a breath. Her
eyes narrowed, “You lied to him about those.” “I know,” the woman still
held her hand. “You want to go to dances and parties.” She took a
breath, “And you will when you’re older. But now, you must respect your
father. And you can dance in your bedroom or at your girlfriend’s
houses.” Claire muttered, “Like that’s fun.” “What’s that dance? You
asked for a tape for Christmas,” the woman smiled. “Stayin’ Alive?”
Claire asked. “The Hustle?!” Eve crowed. The woman nodded at Eve, “Show
me that dance,” the woman told them. Eve twirled with Claire knocking
into the tub and laughing. The woman laughed too. I stood in the corner.
The explosion within me dimmed to a glimmer. The well seemed blocked by
something cold and stony.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-36594155.post-8222576134020908052014-04-29T21:07:00.005-04:002014-04-29T21:07:56.690-04:00R Is For "Rust, Dust, Grittiness"Rust, dust, grittiness against my tongue: I pressed my mouth against
some sort of metal mesh. My feet were bare. I stood on a cool, smooth
surface, wore pink and white pajamas with legs that ended before they
reached my ankles. The mesh was set into the upper part of a white,
wooden door. Outside, trees bloomed, a few puffy clouds wafted across a
blue sky; the fragrance of grasses, wild flowers, growing trees tickled
my nose. <em>Where am I?</em> I was like an electric light that had
snapped on. I felt inside myself for my name and encountered a palpable
blackness, a thick, rubbery barrier.<br />
<br />
I was not alone. A Presence was with me. Separate. Accompanying me.
My physical senses were intensely aware of Him. I felt on the verge of
touching, smelling, seeing Him. He was absolutely clear to the eyes of
my heart. Though He spoke no word, I understood. I stood there probing
the barrier, mutely questioning the Presence in my heart and mind. A
harsh voice intruded: “Go and finish your nap!” I looked toward the
sound, saw a narrow stream to my right that disappeared between the
trees. Several indistinct figures sat or played near the stream. <em>Who are they?</em>
The voice intruded again, louder: “Go and finish your nap!” I turned,
ran into a room, climbed onto a bed. With the eyes of my heart, I looked
towards the Presence and shrugged.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-36594155.post-46708535306175174562014-04-29T21:07:00.001-04:002014-04-29T21:07:09.360-04:00Q Is For Quick Breads“This is good,” Ella took a huge bite of applesauce, raisin bread.
“It’s even better with butter,” I told her taking the butter dish from
the refrigerator and placing it on the table. “Would you show me how to
make this?” she slathered butter on her remaining bread and took another
bite. “It’s just a quick bread,” I told her over my shoulder as I
washed the dishes from my baking experiment. “There’s a section in the
big cookbook,” I raised one soapy hand and pointed at the dark green
cloth covered book. “Just follow the directions and once you understand
the proportions, try using substitutions.” I put the last dish in the
rack to drain. “The trick is never beat the batter. Just stir it until
the dry ingredients are moist.” “Your dad says a good cook doesn’t need a
cookbook,” she ate the last piece. I took a deep breath, <em>I guess she doesn’t know.</em> I flashed my Friend. <em>He hasn’t told her.</em> I shrugged, “I’ve got homework.”<br />
<br />
“What’s this?” Ames poked the hard brown shape on his plate. “Bran
muffins!” Ella announced brightly. Ames poked it again. “Bran bricks,”
he whispered. Charles, Matthieu, and I laughed silently. The man walked
into the kitchen, “Something smells good.” He looked into the saucepan
on the range, “What’s for lunch?” “I made some soup and bran muffins,”
Ella’s flashed him a huge smile. The man poked the hard missiles in the
muffin tin. “I just remembered,” he jingled his keys in his pocket. “I
have to meet a client in half an hour.” He headed for the back door. “At
least take a muffin with you,” Ella called after him; he was already
pulling the car out of the driveway. Two hours later he returned bearing
the fragrance of french fries.<br />
<br />
“You don’t have to eat them,” I told Ames and Matthieu. “Just put
them in the refrigerator.” Ames knocked the raisin muffin against the
table, “First bran bricks, now raisin rocks!” Matthieu and I laughed
quietly; Ella played the piano in the small parlour. “She won’t use
recipes,” I shrugged. “This would break a window,” Ames hefted the
raisin-studded missile on the palm of his hand. “Don’t!” I commanded.
“You’ll just cause trouble. Just put it in the dish in the
refrigerator.” We quickly stowed the raisin rocks as the piano music
ceased and Ella’s footsteps announced her pending entrance.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-36594155.post-62704100364440787222014-04-29T21:06:00.002-04:002014-04-29T21:06:13.696-04:00P Is For Rev. P., Rose P., and mostly Pouting At God“You do have a lovely voice,” the choir director told me. “Do you
know this?” I took the sheet music, and began to sing, “Why should I
feel discouraged?” He stopped me, “Make ‘feel’ two syllables, the second
a bit lower than the first.” He played the notes on the piano. “And
hold the last syllable of discouraged.” I sang as instructed. “Now try
raising ‘raged’ up a bit,” he played again. “Why should I fe-el
discou-raged,” my voice raised at the end. “I want you to learn this. I
want you to sing this!” I bounced in my seat. Rev. P. walked in, a big
smile on his face, “Hello…” His forehead furrowed, “Are you practicing
with the choir?” “She can sing!” the choir director’s face lit up with a
huge smile. Rev. P. ushered the director to a side room. “I have to say
‘No’,” Rev. P. told me when they returned. The choir director’s face
was stormy. “If I let you sing with the adult choir, I’ll have to let
every child who is ten or older sing. You’ll have to wait until you’re
sixteen.” My heart was down in my toes. I slowly left the choir area and
went to sit in the back of the church.<br />
<br />
“God Never Fails!” Someone had written the words on the chalkboard
that hung on the wall over the last pew. I blinked moisture from my
eyes, looked at the words again. My lower lip quivered, “Yes You do!” My
voice was a low hiss. “You do fail! All I wanted was to sing with the
good choir but You won’t let me! You do fail! I’m never speaking to You
again!” The well gushed out. I wiped the tears away with the back of my
hand, “I’m never speaking to You again!” My nose ran. I wiped it with
the back of my hand, “I’m never speaking to You again!” Rose drove me
home. As we waited for someone to open the front door, Rose held her arm
about my shoulders, “I’m sorry you can’t sing with us.” Her voice was
gentle. I looked up at her, my lip quavered again. I mutely hissed, <em>I’m never speaking to You again!</em><em> </em><br />
<br />
<em>Good morning,</em> I silently told my Friend as I did when I awoke each day. <em>Oh…</em> My face was suddenly hot, <em>I’m never speaking to You again!</em> My reflection in the mirror was puffy, my cheeks tear-burned, my eyes red. <em>I’m never speaking to You again!</em>
I walked to school alone. Crocuses poked their head from the earth, “Oh
look…” I stopped, my face hot again. I hissed, “I’m never speaking to
You again!” The well spilled over. I gave my lunch to Frankie, <em>I’m never speaking to You again!</em> I sat alone on a bench in the schoolyard, the well continued to leak, <em>I’m never speaking to You again!</em>
Thursday passed. Friday passed. Saturday passed. The well leaked often.
Over and over, I forgot, began speaking to my Friend. Each time, my
face flushed with heat, “I’m never speaking to You again!” <em>I’m never speaking to You again!</em> “I’m never speaking to You again!”<br />
<br />
In his long black robe, “The ladies usher guild will be hosting
Sunday dinner before the evening Communion service next week,” Rev. P.
announced. I sat, doubled over, looking at my face in the black patent
Mary Janes, “I’m never speaking to You again!” Rev. P. cleared his voice
with a clicking cough, “I have one last announcement today.” Another
clicking cough, “It’s come to my attention we need another choir.” My
back straightened. My eyes were glued to Rev. P.’s face. “We have enough
nine to fifteen year olds to begin a youth choir.” Another clicking
cough. A bright warmth soared from my toes into my heart. “The adult
choir practice will be moved back half an hour to seven-thirty. The
youth choir will begin practice at six-thirty.” My face was a huge
smile. It filled my eyes, filled my heart, filled my toes, <em>You didn’t fail me!</em> The words sang withing me. I wanted to shout aloud, <em>You didn’t fail me!</em> In my heart, I pranced around the aisles, a young colt: <em>You didn’t fail me!</em>
Rose met me on the church porch, “I’ll see you on Wednesday. You’ll
have to come early for dinner.” I nodded my head eagerly. Bright light
shone within me; the tingle of my Friend’s arms suffused me.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-36594155.post-10563068569032708222014-04-16T21:36:00.000-04:002014-04-16T21:36:00.437-04:00O Is For Mrs. OrmanThe phone rang as we opened gifts. Fourteen year-old Dawn, ripping a
paper wrapping, shouted, “That’s probably my mother! I want to talk to
her!” She opened the large box, “A coat! My uncle sent me a coat!” She
held up the long chocolate garment, “Isn’t it beautiful?” Claire and I
oohed and awwed. Five year-old Felicia alternately sucked her thumb and
one of the peppermint twists I had placed in the stockings while hugging
the large doll the uncle had sent her. The man’s voice cut through our
Christmas morning chatter, “What? You don’t say?” Pause. “Yes! I’ll tell
them. And don’t worry. They’ll be fine here.”<br />
<br />
“I told her!” the man crowed coming into the living room through the
small parlour, his arms thrown above his head as if he was one of the
“thank you Jesus” women at church. Eight heads flew up; eight pairs of
eyes stared at his broad smile, his laughing face. “I told her!” he
looked at Dawn. “You kids heard me.” His chest expanded for a deep
breath. “I told her, ‘If you don’t stop drinking, you’ll be dead before
the sun rises on Christmas morning!’ Your mother died this morning.”
Dawn froze, a bit of paper in her hand. “Our mother?” Felicia’s voice
was a tiny whisper. The man nodded, laughing. A silent rushing, roar
overwhelmed the man’s voice. My body was suffused with an electric
tingle. I looked over at Dawn. Felicia huddled in her lap. Slowly, I got
up and climbed the steps to the room I shared. I dressed in the outfit
Mrs. P. had bought for me and walked out the back door.<br />
<br />
The cast iron balcony railing was rough under my fingers. My feet
tried to move through the waist-high bars. I watched my foot lift,
watched my arms push my body upwards, watched my leg begin to swing over
the top of the railing. “Merry Christmas,” a voice greeted me gently.
“Merry Christmas, Mrs. Orman,” the words came of their own accord. “I’m
so glad you’re here,” Mrs. Orman moved so that she looked into my eyes.
“I’d love your help with Christmas dinner.” “Help?” I shook my head.
“Yes,” she continued to hold my gaze. “If you could just sit with me in
the kitchen while I cook. The kids are with their father and I don’t
know where my daughter has gone.” I swallowed. “Okay,” my voice came
from far away. Mrs. Orman placed one hand on my upper arm and gently
guided me into her kitchen. “Tell me about your Christmas morning,” she
placed a glass of water near my hands that lay palms down, fingers
splayed on her table. My forehead wrinkled, “Mrs. Parn,” I swallowed
again. “Our housekeeper,” I swallowed again. “Died this morning.” My
head floated far above my body, too far for me to reach and pull it
down.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-36594155.post-48108598388037798782014-04-16T14:46:00.001-04:002014-04-16T14:46:05.603-04:00N Is For Nurse's Club
<br />
<em>Maybe something happened,</em> I suggested to my Friend as I trailed my hand across the frames of the huge cork boards. <em>Why else would the nurse want me? I’m not sick… Am I?</em>
“Have a seat,” the school nurse pointed to the only empty chair in her
office. “Now,” she smiled. “We’re all here.” I glanced at the two girls
seated to my left and Charlotte, who had also skipped from fifth to
seventh year, who sat on my right. “I want to invite you four to a join
my club.” <em>Club?</em> I asked my Friend. “You four have all been
moved ahead one or two grades. Until this year, you’ve had recess but
now, there’s only lunch and you have little time to spend with other
girls your age. So I thought we’d have a club, just for you. We’ll have
lunch each week and do some things together.” Ours eyes widened. Our
faces reflected each others smiles. “It’s important you have friends of
your own age,” she handed each of us a sheet of paper. “This will
explain the club to your parents. Have them sign it; we want to be able
to take short field trips.” My heart fell into my stomach as we stood to
leave. <em>They won’t sign it,</em> I told my Friend. The nurse placed
her hand on my shoulder. Once the other girls had left, she gave me a
little smile, “I’ve already spoken with your mother. She said she would
sign your permission slip.”<br />
<br />
My kite soared in the sky, a white diamond with an abstract red and
blue collage spreading out from the center. “This reminds me of a
painting at the museum,” I had told the nurse as I pasted ripped chunks
of coloured tissue paper on a large white sheet. “It’s very
interesting,” she smiled down at me. “You do have a lot going on in your
head, don’t you?” I raised one shoulder, lifted one corner of my mouth.
“A lot!” I mutely told my Friend. “They’re all flying,” I called out to
the nurse as the five diamonds danced in the wind. Charlotte let out a
loud, “Whoop!”Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-36594155.post-81441620905839867052014-04-16T14:45:00.003-04:002014-04-16T14:45:17.023-04:00M Is For Memory (and MArmar)I stood in the open barn doorway. An old man sat on a stool near the
back end of a brown cow. The cow was munching hay; something made my
nose itch. <em>There we are,</em> the old man’s voice was a quiet lilt. <em>You’re a good cow Sassy,</em> he patted the side of the cow’s rump and went to lift the pail from under the cow’s body. <em>Oh,</em> the old man spied me. <em>You must be the little miss who’s visiting us.</em> I moved so that the barn wall hid most of my body but not so far that I could not see the cow. <em>It’s okay,</em> the old man’s voice was a quieter lilt. <em>Old McPhearson won’t hurt you.</em> I remained partially hidden. <em>Would you like to see Sassy?</em><br />
<br />
He sat on the stool, placed the pail under the cow again. <em>I’ll bet you never milked a cow.</em> His soft lilt invited me, <em>Would you like me to show you?</em> Moving, almost against my will, through the fog that filled my inner ears, filled my heart, I slowly approached the cow. <em>That’s right,</em> the old man coaxed. <em>I won’t hurt you.</em> Now, I was next to him. He took my hand. My eyes shut. I felt something firm and furry against the skin of my fingers. <em>That’s Sassy,</em> the old man lilted. <em>Take a look,</em> I opened my eyes. My hand stroked the short fur on the cow’s underside. <em>Would you like to try milking her?</em> the old man’s blue eyes looked into my dark brown ones. He took my hand and placed it on one of the soft furry teats. <em>Now squeeze,</em>
his lilt instructed. I contracted my hand. Nothing happened. I looked
at the old man’s leathery face which, lit with a smile, had crumpled
into deep ridges and valleys. <em>Your hand’s too small,</em> he chuckled. I returned my eyes to my hand. <em>I’ll just have to help you.</em> The old man placed his hard, leathery hand over mine, <em>Now, we squeeze and pull.</em> A stream of milk squirted into the pail. I jumped. <em>It’s okay,</em> the old man’s face crumpled into more ridges and valleys. <em>You’ve just milked you first cow!</em><br />
<br />
<em>Lysse,</em> Marmar’s voice called. <em>Off to your mother,</em> the old man lilted. <em>We’ll milk some more tomorrow.</em>
Slowly I walked away from the cow, the fog a little less dense. At the
door, I turned and looked back at the cow. The crumples in the old man’s
face had relaxed into many deep lines.<br />
<em>Cow,</em> I held up the book for Papa to see. <em>Cow.</em> Marmar stood beside him, her face a puzzled smile, <em>It’s just books.</em> Marmar lay a hand on Papa’s arm, <em>She’s fine.</em>
I sat on the pile of books, some of them open face down, that had come
crashing down when I stood on a lower shelf to reach the one I wanted. A
picture of me, my arms wound around Papa’s arm as he turned the pages
of the book had flashed across my mind. The cow, standing in a field
munching clover, was etched in the midst of that flash. <em>Cow,</em> I showed Marmar as she bent over to lift me and the book into her arms. Papa began replacing the pile on which I had sat. <em>What are we going to do with her?</em> he asked Marmar sighing. <em>Cow,</em> I pointed to the page for Marmar would see. <em>Love her,</em> Marmar, her voice a gentle definitive, kissed my cheek.<br />
<br />
<em>I have something for you, </em>Marmar opened a big white shopping bag. From a swathe of tissue paper, she lifted something brown. <em>Cow! </em>I hugged the stuffed leather beast, nearly a quarter my size, to my chest. <em>Yes, </em>Marmar nodded her head. <em>A cow.</em>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-36594155.post-27941995623832242752014-04-16T14:44:00.001-04:002014-04-16T14:44:29.170-04:00L Is For Leave<em>You’re old enough to learn to do your own hair,</em> the woman tugged the comb through my wet hair. <em>Sssshhh!</em> I winced through my teeth and pulled away. <em>Don’t be such a big baby! That didn’t hurt you!</em> she tugged again. <em>Your hair snarls so easily. It doesn’t snarl when you braid it,</em> I struggled to keep my voice level as she encountered an especially tangled area near my scalp. <em>Huh,</em> she finally pronounced. <em>No more snarls. I’ll set it but you’ll have to stay in this afternoon.</em> <em>Why can’t I cut it?</em> mutely, I queried my Friend as, inside, I heard all the voices that shouted, <em>Comb your hair!</em> each Sunday when the tight French plaits were released and my hair allowed to flow freely. <em>If I can’t cut it, then why can’t I wear braids?</em> I silently asked Him.<em> They stick out like Pippi Longstocking’s! And they stay neat all week!</em> The image of tucking and smoothing wisps of hair flashed across the screen of my mind.<br />
<br />
I sat in the window seat in the room I shared longing to loosen the tight curlers but kept my hands clasped firmly on <em>Little Women </em>instead.
The sound of bike riding, jump roping, running and shouting children
called to me through the open window. The mild weather beckoned. <em>I want to play too,</em> I told my Friend. <em>May I go out?</em> I made my face as sad as I could hoping the woman would ease her restriction. <em>Little ladies do not go out with curlers in their hair,</em> she responded. I slowly and heavily walked back to the steps. <em>Whose making all that noise!</em> the man was watching a baseball game. <em>Me!</em> I squeaked. <em>Why aren’t you out playing? I’m not allowed to go out with curlers in my hair. All I can do is watch television… Tchah,</em> the man scoffed. <em>Or read a book,</em> I continued. The man clicked the remote to a golf match. <em>You can go out if you put on a scarf,</em> without looking around. <em>Don’t leave the garden!</em><br />
<br />
<em>What are you doing outside?!</em> the woman called from the back porch as I rode the blue bicycle around the paved area in the back garden. <em>Come in here! All of you girls! Come in at once! I told you,</em> she wagged her forefinger at me, <em>Little
ladies do not leave the house with curlers in their hair! But he said I
could, if I wore a scarf and didn’t leave the garden,</em> my voice was
an indignant squeak. The pink colour drained from the woman’s face. Her
mouth was a straight line. She walked quickly from the kitchen.<br />
<br />
<em>Why did you tell her she could go outside?!</em> the woman’s
voice demanded with a steeliness I had never heard before. Claire, Alex,
and I crept into the dining room and sat in silence around the table. <em>Why do you always countermand me?! Can’t you see I’m trying to watch a game!</em> We knew the man had not looked away from the television. <em>Stop bothering me! The game is about to start again!</em> <em>I will not stop bothering you!</em> the woman retorted sharply. <em>I told Eve she must stay home and help me get the children ready for church. You gave her permission to go over to Veronica’s!</em> She took a loud breath, her voice raised and octave, <em>I asked the boys to rake the lawn! You told them to play ball in the park! They were making too much</em> noise! the man interjected.<em> Can’t you just let me watch my game?!</em> Claire, Alex and I stared at each other in silence. <em>And now!</em> the woman’s voice crescendoed, <em>you tell her she can go out with curlers in her hair!</em> The sound of the baseball game came from the living room. The woman’s tread sounded on the stairs.<br />
<br />
The woman’s room smelled of the lavender soap she kept inside her
suitcases and bureau drawers. She folded clothing into an open case, her
mouth compressed into a tight, straight line. <em>I’m sorry,</em> I told her from the foot of her bed, as she pressed her brown pumps along the side of the case. <em>I promise, I’ll never leave the house with curlers again. I’m not leaving because of you,</em> she said, her mouth still a tight, straight line. <em>I’m leaving because daddy never supports me.</em> I wiped at a tear making it’s way down my cheek. She looked into my face, <em>Little soldiers don’t cry. You want to be a little soldier for Jesus, don’t you? Yes,</em> my voice was a small, breathless squeak. <em>Then you mustn’t cry.</em>
She folded the dress she always wore to vote, placed it in the case and
closed the lid. A yellow cab arrived. The woman got drove away in it.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-36594155.post-16430000657169438532014-04-16T14:43:00.004-04:002014-04-16T14:43:24.301-04:00K Is For Keepsake <em>Sometimes, I miss my mother so much,</em> I stared at my reflection in the mirror above the booth, my eyes rimmed with red, my face pinched, lips sere. <em>I
think what hurts the most is I don’t even have a picture of her. Her
face feels so clear, sometimes. If only I had something to touch,</em> the well spilled a few tears. Alethea handed me a tissue, <em>How old were you when she died?</em> Not quite five, my voice was a tiny whisper. <em>I don’t even have the cross she gave me so I’d never be lost again. I’m so glad I have all my mother’s photos and keepsakes,</em> Alethea stared off into space. Elizabeth spoke up, <em>I’ve got my mother’s things but I never look at them. It’s hard to be reminded of the way she treated me.</em> Alethea and I reached out and rested our hands on Elizabeth’s shoulder. <em>Ah well,</em> my sigh broke the silence after a long moment. <em>Maybe we should talk about piety, study and action.</em> Alethea smiled, <em>It’s about that time.</em><br />
<br />
Alethea, Elizabeth and I met each week for <em>Ultreya,</em> small weekly <em>Cursillo</em> community meetings. Amid secrecy and rules, that led up to the long weekend, I had made my <em>Cursillo</em> a year before them. On Thursday night, I sat in a confession/counseling session with a priest who told me, <em>You’ve certainly been crucified in your life.</em> He smiled as I solemnly nodded my head. <em>But that doesn’t mean you should continue to crucify yourself,</em> he told me gently. <em>But how do I stop? Perhaps you’ll discover something this weekend that will help.</em> By the procession on Sunday, I had tangible experience of the risen Lord through the love of the those who served on the <em>Cursillo</em> team and through strangers I’d probably never meet. I longed to immediately begin living the <em>Fourth Day.</em><br />
<br />
Elizabeth and Alethea had made their <em>Cursillos</em> together, I
sponsoring Elizabeth. Both had had experiences similar to mine. And now,
we met each week for coffee or dinner and discussed the ways in which
we each lived out piety, study, and action in our day-to-day lives. <em>You know what I’d like?</em> I asked as we waited for the server to bring our cheque. <em>I’d like to go on retreat, just the three of us. We could each give a meditation. It would be a lovely way to end the year.</em><br />
<blockquote>
O God of peace, who hast taught us that in returning and
rest we shall be saved, in quietness and confidence shall be our
strength: By the might of thy Spirit lift us, we pray, to your presence,
where we may be still and know that thou art God; through Jesus Christ
our Lord. Amen. (Book of Common Prayer, page 832)</blockquote>
<em>I find it so difficult to trust that. I always want to do things, to control them, to ensure all is going well.</em> I paused to gather my thoughts. Alethea and Elizabeth, eyes staring into unseen depths, nodded in agreement. <em>But
the harder I try to save myself, the more I fail. I have no idea what
God is doing with me. But I know, He knows what He is doing. For this
year, I’d like to replace abject terror with confidence. At least,
sometimes.</em><br />
<br />
<em>Let’s open presents,</em> Elizabeth smiled cheerily, bouncing up
from her chair to retrieve the small pile of gifts we had placed near
the guesthouse Christmas tree. We oohed and awed over the books and
simple jewelry we had chosen for one another. Perusing Julian Of
Norwich’s, <em>Showings,</em> I didn’t notice Elizabeth standing before me, a small package in hand. <em>This is for you,</em> she told me, a big smile lit up her face. <em>Oh! For me?</em> <em>But I’ll get an extra gift,</em> I mutely told D’Abby. <em>Thank you,</em>
I opened the box. An oval chunk of silver on a fine chain lay atop the
cotton packing. Etched into the oval as if it were a smallsection of bas
relief, the Blessed Virgin held the infant Jesus closely. <em>Read the note,</em> Elizabeth demanded. I lifted the small card and read softly, <em>This medal is to remind you of your mother…</em> my voice cracked, a few drops sloshed out of the well.<em> …and the Eternal Mother…</em> many drops fell on the cotton. <em>As you gaze on it’s loveliness, remember that your mother loved you and did the very best she could for you.</em>
I crumpled, my head on my knees, the well flowed as I rocked myself.
Alethea and Vera’s arms held me enhancing the warm tingling enclosure of
D’Abby’s everlasting embrace.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-36594155.post-32420029955545340112014-04-11T10:57:00.004-04:002014-04-11T10:57:52.993-04:00J Is For JusticeThe big cookie jar was on the counter, open. The cupboard above was locked. <em>She forgot!</em>
a big smile filled my face as I whispered the words to my Friend. I
pulled the kitchen stool over, climbed up, grabbed a handful of cookies,
and stuffed them in the pocket of the light jacket I wore. Shooey ate
one. I gobbled down the rest. His bulk and the shadows of rose bushes
concealed me from the woman who sat reading near the playhouse, and from
the other children as they biked and ran. My mouth was parched. I
returned to the kitchen for a glass of water. The cookie jar still sat
open on the counter. I grabbed another handful, carefully replaced the
stool, took the cookies to the room I shared and ate them as I read
Johanna Spyri’s, <em>Heidi</em>. Later, I walked back through the
kitchen. Still, the cookie jar remained on the counter. I pocketed
another handful and shared them with Shooey under the porch. Twice more,
I repeated my careful promenade through the kitchen. Then, the jar was
then empty.<br />
<br />
<em>Who ate all the cookies?!</em> the woman demanded, her face red.
Twelve children sat around the dining table or on the chairs pushed
against either long wall of the room. The woman waved her arms
excitedly, <em>I can’t believe this!</em> <em>I go in to make dinner and all the cookies are gone. Whomever ate the cookies, confess right now!</em> I remained silent. <em>If no one confesses, I’ll punish all of you.</em> I remained silent. <em>Eve! Follow me,</em>
she led Eve into the little parlour and closed the door. The sound of
her hand smacking Eve’s body resonated through the small glass panes of
the door. Eve cried out, <em>I didn’t do it, Mommy! I didn’t do it!</em> The woman’s voice sounded, <em>Send Gerard in.</em> Eve came back through the parlour door. <em>Gerard,</em> she sniffed and pointed to the partly open parlour door. Gerrard disappeared behind the closed door. <em>Whoever ate those cookies had better confess!</em> she demanded, her face red and wet. <em>It’s not fair that I should be punished! I didn’t eat them!</em>
I remained silent. Each child disappeared in turn behind the parlour
door, returned crying, and loudly demanded the culprit confess. I
remained silent. My stomach sank down to my toes. I sat sideways on the
chair hiding my face in the hard upholstered back. <em>I don’t want a spanking,</em>
I mutely told my friend. The youngest child in the house at the time, I
was called in last. A lump filled the back of my throat; I closed the
parlour door behind me.<br />
<br />
<em>I know you didn’t take them,</em> the woman spoke softly. <em>I’ll spank the piano bench and you cry.</em> She spanked the upholstered surface and I howled. <em>You’d better run upstairs or they’ll know you’re not really crying,</em> she told me. I covered my face with my hands and ran up the steps howling. Gerard cried out, <em>Whoever took the cookies had better confess.</em> <em>They deserved it,</em> I told my Friend, as I sat on the window seat and hugged the eyeless bear: <em>They hit me. And pinch me. And hurt me. And call me names cause I don’t look them or sound like them; cause I’m little.</em> I took a deep snuffly breath, <em>You know the horrible things the boys do to me?</em> The warm, gentle tingle of my Friend’s hug filled me. <em>Even Eve does those things to me! I hate them! They deserve to be punished!</em> The well within me gushed over, <em>She won’t give me anything to eat! Neither will he! She always gives them them things they can eat! I hate being hungry!</em> The tingle surged to powerful, electric surge.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-36594155.post-28942604944357793272014-04-11T10:56:00.003-04:002014-04-11T10:56:57.838-04:00I Is For Isaiah<em>But Zion said, “The LORD has forsaken me, my Lord has forgotten
me.” “Can a woman forget her sucking child, that she should have no
compassion on the son of her womb? Even these may forget, yet I will not
forget you. Behold, I have graven you on the palms of my hands; your
walls are continually before me. …Then you will know that I am the LORD;
those who wait for me shall not be put to shame.” Can the prey be taken
from the mighty, or the captives of a tyrant be rescued? Surely, thus
says the LORD: “Even the captives of the mighty shall be taken, and the
prey of the tyrant be rescued, for I will contend with those who contend
with you, and I will save your children. I will make your oppressors
eat their own flesh, and they shall be drunk with their own blood as
with wine. Then all flesh shall know that I am the LORD your Savior, and
your Redeemer, the Mighty One of Jacob.” </em>(from Isaiah 49:14-26)<br />
<br />
A series of silent sobs poured from my depths and gradually birthed sound, <em>Huh! Huh! Huh! Huh!</em> I took in a deep snuffly breath, <em>Huh! Huh! Huh! Huh!</em> The pitch rose, <em>Hnhh! Hnhh! Hnhh! Hnhh!</em><br />
<br />
<em>Is it true?</em> words finally came to mind, found their way out my lips. <em>Are they really dead?</em> <em>Hnhh! Hnhh! Hnhh! Hnhh!</em> sobs clicked in the back of my throat. <em>All this time they’ve been dead?!</em> I crumpled the papers in my hand. I saw myself ripping them to shreds. <em>I might need this,</em> some voice of reason whispered in my head and stayed my actions. <em>And how will You make it right now? How will You set me free? What good has it been?!</em> My thoughts reached a shrieking crescendo, <em>Waiting and hoping!<em> </em></em>Another snuffly breath,<em><em> Hnhh! Hnhh! Hnhh!</em> All this time?!</em>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-36594155.post-67838034515275132742014-04-11T10:55:00.003-04:002014-04-11T10:55:31.541-04:00Why the Harrowing Of Hell<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg0tLpsc8uLTZyb359TDe-JpsIERR9VTj30zr-boj8YBCYGfFSbcl8lm2cnh-mKscBBGnMVWByk-P6OZdKF4W0zc7AtshnRGP4kago_zNafRpKBroP_JFFYqryTFstossvsFrfh/s1600/harrowing+1.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg0tLpsc8uLTZyb359TDe-JpsIERR9VTj30zr-boj8YBCYGfFSbcl8lm2cnh-mKscBBGnMVWByk-P6OZdKF4W0zc7AtshnRGP4kago_zNafRpKBroP_JFFYqryTFstossvsFrfh/s1600/harrowing+1.jpeg" height="147" width="200" /></a></div>
Revised <a href="http://lovedasif.com/about-loved-as-if/">“about Loved As If”</a> page which discusses why I chose the Harrowing Of Hell as my motif. There is no hell too deep for God.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-36594155.post-63586143318498421092014-04-11T10:54:00.000-04:002014-04-11T10:54:01.693-04:00H Is For Happy Again<em>She died,</em> the man’s face twisted as he pushed the words out. His eyes were puffy and swollen, his voice a breathless dullness. <em>Your mother is dead,</em>
he looked around the living room at the six faces so much like hers and
my face that was like none of theirs. Six faces crumpled and broke into
tears, <em>Mommy! Mommy!</em> <em>Oh Roberta!</em> the man caught up
the smiling photograph of her that had been taken on the family
photograph day less than two years before. His entire face was suddenly
bright red. It crumpled. Tears flowed. <em>I’ve never seen him cry, </em>the
thought flashed through my mind. I sat and watched, eyes wide, eyes
dry. A hard lump plugged the well in my heart. The image of the man’s
hand slapping the woman played across the screen of my mind. I heard him
shouting, <em>You’re crazy!</em> He cried. I went to get my books and the coat I wore. The day was bright and crisp. <em>You’ll be staying out of school for a while,</em> the man told me as I descended the steps.<br />
<br />
<em>I’ve brought you some dinner,</em> Mrs. P. caressed my hair. <em>You like macaroni and cheese and green beans?</em> She stared hard into my eyes, <em>You poor child.</em>
Mrs. P. fluttered around the kitchen. I sat on the kitchen stool
watching. Every half hour or so, the front doorbell rang. Women carried
food into the kitchen. <em>A turkey, and stuffing!</em> I told my Friend as I helped shift the contents of the refrigerator. Mrs. P. served cups of tea. Feminine voices whispered, <em>Those
poor children! What do you think he’ll do? I don’t know. He can’t raise
all these children alone. And he certainly can’t take in anymore!</em><br />
<br />
<em>You three kids had better get to bed,</em> at nine o’clock the man’s voice cut through the silence of the living room. <em>I want to stay down here,</em> Ames hugged the man’s arm. <em>Eve, put Matthieu to bed,</em> the man lifted Matthieu from where he nodded on his rocking horse. <em>Poor little boy,</em> the man kissed the sleepy child and passed him to Eve. I followed her up the stairs and locked myself in the bathroom. <em>I have to be alone with You,</em>
I told my Friend as I bent over the sink to splash water on my face. I
looked at my wooden face in the mirror. Suddenly, my mouth broke into an
ugly, wide grimace. I shrugged. Tears burst out but the hard place
remained. I tried to cry harder, to release the well in my heart but
could not budge the stoniness. <em>I’m not really crying, am I?</em> I queried my Friend. The tears that were not tears subsided. <em>You are going to New York.</em>
My head whipped around. There was no one to be seen. Still, the sound
echoed through the room, bounced off the white tiles and pale green
walls. I looked at myself in the mirror again. My forehead crinkled, <em>God?</em> The voice spoke again, <em>You were happy once. You will be happy again.</em>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-36594155.post-59867570493579402862014-04-11T10:52:00.004-04:002014-04-11T10:52:52.699-04:00G Is For Goldie<a href="http://lovedasif.com/wp-content/uploads/2014/04/yellow-mutti-cropped.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="yellow mutti cropped" class="alignleft size-full wp-image-211" height="165" src="http://lovedasif.com/wp-content/uploads/2014/04/yellow-mutti-cropped.jpg" width="185" /></a><em>Come here boy,</em> I put the pan on the ground. The shaggy golden dog tilted it’s head to the side, cocked one ear and stared at me. <em>Come on,</em> I urged gently. <em>This is for you.</em> He slowly approached, grabbed a mouthful and skittered back. <em>It’s okay, I won’t hurt you,</em> I told him. <em>You can be my dog.</em> He moved back to the pan and began to eat. I stroked his fur. <em>You need a bath,</em> I told him and giggled. <em>I told Charles I could catch you.</em> <em>He was trying to catch you with a piece of bread but I knew you’d like gravy. You’re a dog.</em> I looked around quickly to be certain I was alone, <em>Her gravy tastes like dog food.</em><br />
<br />
<em>We have a new dog!</em> Charles and Ames greeted the man. <em>We got him with gravy!</em> Ames hopped up and down. <em>Can we keep him? Can we keep him?</em> Ames and Charles begged. <em>Let’s see him,</em> the man laughed. <em>We gave him a bath and everything,</em>
Charles assured. I remained silent even though Charles and his brother
lay claim to my work. The man examined the dog’s ears, eyes and teeth, <em>He seems to be in good shape. He’ll need a visit to the vet and you boys will have to take care of him.</em> The man nodded. <em>But I think we can keep him. I want to name him!</em> Ames hopped with delighted anticipation. <em>I want to name him too,</em> I mused ruefully and mutely to my Friend. <em>I think we’ll call him Goldie, </em>the man declared.<em> He looks like a Goldie to me. Come here Goldie,</em> the man held out a hand. Goldie walked over and licked it. The spring inside Ames suddenly stopped.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-36594155.post-11856401331414080292014-04-11T10:51:00.002-04:002014-04-11T10:51:39.675-04:00F Is For Foster CareToday’s post for the A to Z Blogging Challenge. If you like my posts, please share them and please like my <a href="https://www.facebook.com/LovedAsIf">Loved As If</a> Facebook page. Thanks:<br />
<br />
When I began telling others about my experience as a child, I always
called the man and woman my foster parents. Technically, I was correct.
They were not my parents either by birth or adoption. They were just
people with whom I lived, people who took in other children, people, who
on at least one other occasion, tried to keep children as they kept me.
They fed me (sort of), clothed me (sort of), sent me to school (sort
of), made certain I did my homework — they provided a place for me to
live. They also abused and neglected me, and did their best to pulverize
my spirit and psyche. It’s what many foster parents do.<br />
<br />
Certainly, there are wonderful people who foster children because
they want to love the “least of these.” Some are grandparents, aunts,
uncles, cousins or family friends. Others are strangers. They take in
children who need care, even sacrifice to provide that care. Other
foster parents have less altruistic motives, but are basically decent
people who provide decent care to children who have no other home.<br />
<br />
Then there are predators who vent their rage and frustration on the
children they are supposed to protect and raise. Foster children are
easy prey. A tiny fraction of those predators appear in news reports.
But many more are more like high-functioning addicts who methodically
molest and abuse, sometimes for years, children in their care. Many
child predators wear highly respectable faces. <em>I recall hearing, What wonderful people! They care for so many children! And they don’t have to! If only they knew,</em> I’d tell God. <em>They don’t know how bad it is? How hungry I am. The things they do to me. </em>And I didn’t know who to tell, who would believe me.<br />
<br />
Unfortunately, the foster system tries to use a bureaucracy to
address very human needs. It will never be able to protect children.
Systems may be perfect for filing information but children (or “beds” as
they are called) need loving, stable homes. Caseworkers can, at best,
provide some oversight and represent the state’s interest in caring for
minors. They cannot be parents to those they think of as so many “beds.”
Neither can they be present when predators neglect and abuse children.<br />
There will always be a need for foster care. And there will always be
those who prey on children: this is a fallen world. Sin is real. And
those who suffer the consequences of sin are too often children, whom
Jesus strictly warned us not to offend. I have no easy answers. I can’t
fix the flawed system because I cannot fix flawed people. I can try to
shine a spotlight on the innocent victims. I want those who can love a
child to step forward and do so. I want those who make policy to speak
with those of us who have survived and use our wisdom to begin to change
the lives of children today. And most of all, I want adults to really
look into the eyes of children, and ask themselves, <em>Is she really okay?</em> I want adults to befriend children, not in a creepy way, but as watchers alert for signs that all is not well.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-36594155.post-29550286362719560522014-04-11T10:50:00.001-04:002014-04-11T10:50:30.676-04:00E Is For Easter Dress<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiX_F45J1akbPGxDdpTiKmSGdJOyOt0MswBF68OqUHQtvrWZjmI4gp5vCVGF0PwrpngCKQmSrfV3WKli5fqZRZ0hz1rIi6fNig6cAS6wdegId7SDzocm4r3l1L1C4lqav8x0yVk/s1600/navy+&+red+polka+dot+dress.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiX_F45J1akbPGxDdpTiKmSGdJOyOt0MswBF68OqUHQtvrWZjmI4gp5vCVGF0PwrpngCKQmSrfV3WKli5fqZRZ0hz1rIi6fNig6cAS6wdegId7SDzocm4r3l1L1C4lqav8x0yVk/s1600/navy+&+red+polka+dot+dress.jpg" height="290" width="320" /></a></div>
<em>Albert! </em>the woman studied a tag. <em>Look at this!</em> The man leaned against the wall, holding a bag, checking his watch every few minutes. <em>I don’t want to spend all day shopping,</em> he warned as he roused himself and moved towards her. <em>You stay here,</em>
he shoved the bag into my hands. A whispered conversation followed. The
woman’s face became red, excited. The man’s right shoulder twitched as
he pumped his arm up and down, smacking one finger in his left palm. He
threw up both hands, <em>Do whatever you want!</em> He stalked back to me and snatched the bag out of my hand. <em>Come here,</em> the woman face wore a big smile. <em>What do you think of this?</em> She held up a navy cotton dress with red polka dots and trim. <em>It’s pretty!</em> my voice held a rising note. <em>Why is she asking me?</em> I mutely inquired of my Friend. <em>Let’s try this on you,</em> she led me to an empty dressing room.<br />
<br />
Kneeling at the bed, I buried my nose in the skirt. <em>See?</em> I raised my head. <em>A new Easter dress!</em> I sniffed the unwashed newness again. <em>And new shoes!</em> I held one black patent Mary Jane to my nose. <em>I have a new Easter dress, God!</em> I said aloud. <em>Who are you talking to?</em> Claire opened the door and looked around. <em>God,</em> my voice was small. <em>You think you’re so special, don’t you? You’d better thank God you have that dress. </em>
She grabbed a lock of my hair. My mouth became a serious straight line.
I held my head very still. My shoulders tensed. Claire released my hair
and fingered the edge of the new dress. <em>You should’ve worn my old dress from last year,</em> her voice was low and rough; she wasn’t speaking to me. She looked at my face, <em>You’d better take good care of this dress.</em>
I grabbed my Bible from the nightstand and propped myself on my elbows,
leaning over the dress to protect it from her, and began to read softly
to myself. One at a time, I knocked the new shoes under the bed skirt
with my knee. Claire jerked open her desk drawers and slammed them shut.
Finally, she stomped out of the room.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-36594155.post-30678085315573149742014-04-04T18:16:00.000-04:002014-04-04T18:16:42.146-04:00D Is For Dog FoodDuring April, many bloggers participate in the A to Z Blogging
Challenge. This is my first year. I'll post twenty-six excerpts from<a href="http://lovedasif.com/" target="_blank"> </a><a href="https://www.blogger.com/null" target="_blank">Loved As If</a>, one for each letter of the alphabet, every day except Sunday.<br />
<br />
<em>I’m hungry,</em> I told the woman as she rummaged in the refrigerator. My stomach rumbled. My head ached. The world wobbled. <em>You may have an apple,</em> she said in her warning voice and handed one out from the refrigerator. I looked at the red fruit in my hand. <em>Eat it on the back porch and then you can play.</em> I looked back at her standing with one hand on the open refrigerator door as she watched me walk away, <em>That’s all you get ’til dinner. Scoot!</em> I sat under the porch next to Shooey, the large part collie, part golden labrador, and looked at the apple. <em>Do you want an apple,</em> I asked him. He tried to lick my face but I held him back, <em>I don’t want dog spit on my face, Shooey!</em> Shooey sniffed at the apple and sat next to me again. <em>Are you hungry boy? I’ll get you something,</em> I told him.<br />
<br />
Charles sat on the porch reading a comic book. <em>Do you want my apple?</em> I asked him. <em>Yes!</em> He looked at me, suspicion in his eyes, <em>Why? I’m not hungry,</em>
I told him. He took the apple and crunched into it. The woman had left
the kitchen and had locked the refrigerator and cupboards. One of the
lower cupboards held a large bag of dry dog food next to a stack of
tinned dog food. I filled both front jean pockets with the dry food and
went back to sit with Shooey under the porch. <em>Here boy,</em> I held a piece of dog food from my right pocket on the palm of my hand. <em>How does it taste?</em> <em>Is it good?</em> I reached in my left pocket and removed another piece. Shooey began sniffing at that pocket. <em>No!</em> I told him. <em>You can have some from this pocket.</em> I pulled him around by his collar sand pointed his nose to my right pocket, <em>I don’t want dog spit on mine.</em><br />
<br />
<em>It’s crunchy. Crisp.</em> <em>Like crunchy, tinned, corned beef hash,</em> I informed Shooey, giving him another piece from my right pocket. My head began to bob. <em>These are Crispy Treats, Shooey.</em> I began to sing in time to the bobbing of my head: <em>Crispy treats are so nutritious, good for you and perfectly delicious!</em> The image of boxes in the cracker aisle of the supermarket filled my mind, <em>Maybe we could sell these.</em>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-36594155.post-1337121067354622732014-04-04T18:14:00.000-04:002014-04-04T18:14:02.295-04:00C Is For Carrots And ChickenDuring April, many bloggers participate in the A to Z Blogging
Challenge. This is my first year. I'll post twenty-six excerpts from <a href="http://lovedasif.com/" target="_blank">Loved As If</a>, one for each letter of the alphabet, every day except Sunday.<br />
<em> </em><br />
<em>You’re old enough to help me with dinner,</em> the woman announced from the playroom door. <em>You’ve had your nap and finished your homework; you can read later. I want you to peel the carrots.</em>
I looked up from my book, eyes wide, my mouth a straight, serious line.
She turned and walked to the kitchen. I followed. Wrapped in a big
apron, I stood on the stool. My head felt light, the kitchen wobbled.<em> Use the peeler like this,</em> she showed me how to peel away from myself. <em>When you’re finished, you can scoop all the peelings into the bin.</em> The metal implement soon became slippery. <em>Ahhh!</em> I cried out and dropped the peeler. Blood dripped onto the peelings in the sink. <em>Let me see.</em> I held my shaking hand up. <em>It’s just a little scrape. Don’t be a baby.</em> She jerked my finger under the running tap water. She looked up at my face, <em>Why are you crying? It hurts,</em> I whimpered. <em>You’re too big to cry over a little scrape,</em> her voice was firm. <em>You don’t want to be a cry baby, do you?</em> I wiped my eyes with the back of my uninjured hand. The carrot juice stung. I sniffed hard, my shoulders shaking. <em>You want to be a little soldier for Jesus, don’t you?</em> her voice remained firm. <em>Yes,</em> I said softly. <em>Then you mustn’t cry over every little thing.</em><br />
<br />
<em>Mommy I.,</em> Lyssa’s voice called out. <em>Can you help me with my homework?</em> <em>Finish the carrots,</em> the woman told me. <em>I’ll check them when I return.</em>
Once the carrots were peeled, I used my uninjured hand to make several
trips back and forth to the bin dropping many of them on the floor. I
sighed as I bent over to clean the floor, <em>I’ll never finish.</em>
Standing upright again, the room swirled about me, sparks of colour
exploded and then the room faded to dark grey; my suddenly head ached. I
leaned against the cupboard until the room resolved into its usual
coloured blur. I opened the cupboard and filled my pockets with <em>Crispy Treats</em>. About to return to the playroom, I espied two unwrapped chickens in a pan on the counter.<br />
<br />
<em>They look like little people with no heads and no feet,</em> I told my Friend. I dragged the kitchen stool to the counter that held the chickens and climbed up onto my knees. <em>Hi chickens!</em> I told them brightly. <em>Do you want to play?</em> I balanced one on the stump of its legs. <em>Would you like a walk,</em>
I asked the chicken as I used the wrist of my injured hand to support
the chicken and moved it’s legs with the unharmed one. I held it up by
its outspread wings, <em>You want to fly away, don’t you? You don’t really want to be eaten, do you?</em> Footsteps sounded in the dining room. I hurriedly replaced the chicken in its pan and dragged the stool back to the sink.<br />
<br />
<em>I’m all done,</em> I told the woman. <em>And all cleaned up too,</em> her voice sounded glad. <em>Well,</em> she looked closely at the pile of peeled carrots, <em>I
suppose you could have been a bit more thorough but this isn’t bad for a
first attempt. Now you may go play or read. May I visit Angela,</em> my stomach sank below my knees. The woman looked up at the clock on the wall, <em>I
think half an hour would be okay. But wash your hands first, put on
your sweater and be sure to thank Angela’s mother for having you over.</em> I skipped to Angela’s house after stopping under the porch to share my <em>Crispy Treats</em> with Shooey.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-36594155.post-63459154539851261482014-04-04T18:11:00.000-04:002014-04-04T18:11:02.642-04:00B Is For BibleDuring April, many bloggers participate in the A to Z Blogging
Challenge. This is my first year. I'll post twenty-six excerpts from <a href="http://lovedasif.com/" target="_blank">Loved As If</a> one for each letter of the alphabet, every day except Sunday.<br />
<br />
The man called us into the living room: <em>A family ought to read the Bible together every day.</em> He read from a book. My ears perked up: <em>What is this?</em> I asked the Presence. When some of the children were told to read a verse from their books, I piped up, <em>May I read?</em> <em>You haven’t learned to read yet,</em> the woman gently responded. <em>I can read.</em> <em>No you can’t,</em> the man glowered at me. He waved his hand in the oldest boy’s direction: <em>Charles, read.</em> <em>But I can read!</em> I insisted. The man turned the pages of his book and pointed to the middle of the one, <em>Read this.</em> I walked towards the book, moved my face closer until the words became clear and said, <em>Jesus wept.</em> <em>Read the next verse.</em> I continued, <em>Then said the Jews, Behold how he loved him!</em>
A huge grin cracked my face. I reseated myself and bounced in my chair
as with open mouths and wide eyes, the man and the woman looked at each
other.<br />
<br />
After we each read, the man talked for a long, long time. The other
children fell asleep. I looked over at the woman, she too was sleeping. A
loud snore came from a corner. The man quickly removed his leather
slipper and threw it at Eve: <em>Wake up!</em> he shouted. <em>This is good for you! All of you! You ought to stay awake and listen! This is good for you!</em>
Startled snorts sounded through the room. I did not sleep. I wanted to
know everything about God. After his talk, the man asked, Are there any
questions? <em>Why did Jesus weep?</em> But I didn’t hear the answer. I continued to bounce in my seat: <em>This is grand!</em> My heart pounded. I hadn’t known there was such a big book about about the Presence. I hugged myself in delight, <em>He knows You!</em><br />
Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0