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State of the Portrait Writer Report

31 Dec

How Did We Fare in 2015?

As 2015 draws to a close, it’s time for the now-annual State of the Portrait Writer report, in which I will examine my writing progress thus far. In re-reading my year-old journal entry of expectations for 2015, I’m amazed at how many of the events I planned or promised last year (to myself and others) never materialized. This is to be expected because, as I’ve learned and re-learned throughout the year, I’m not in charge. In fact, if everything had turned out as I planned, it would have been quite the boring year. Instead, it’s been a year of victory and surprises, and a wee bit of sadness. However, it’s also been a year of seeing first-hand what God can do in our lives if we step aside.

Many of you who have been with me from the start might be bored by this list, but in celebration of the 130 new readers I picked up in 2015 (yay, and thank you!), for today’s blog I will recap the highlights of the Portrait Writer’s year:

In January, the hubby and I celebrated 31 years of marriage, which translates into 30 years of him listening to me yammer about being a “real writer” and one year of watching me in action. By that time I’d been working from home for 11 months and still had nothing to show for my efforts. After a financially challenging and emotionally frustrating year, however, he was, and miraculously still is, my greatest supporter, without whom there would be no Portrait Writer…and no cheesecake.

February was a month of learning to listen, or to discern exactly what I should be listening to. I was fooled by imitation voices in I Got Screwed!, and later fooled by lovely noises, in Ask Not for Whom the Phone Rings, both of which brought much frustration, until I wizened up. I sure hope I’m smarter now, but it’s a daily battle.

Willa

Love

March brought sadness and a greater appreciation for love and family, when Willa, the Fitzsimmons’ matriarch, left us for a far better place. Although her four children are still reeling from the loss, and miss her more with every Bronco victory they wish she could be sharing with them this year, they are finding solace in knowing she’s no longer in pain. One beautiful ray of light that has emerged from this cloud, her children—the Fitzsimmons Four, who seemed to have been drifting apart, have created new, tighter bonds. Despite the California/Virginia divide, they spent more time together and kept in e-touch more in 2015 than they have in many years, and we’re all praying this trend will continue.

Food staring

Livin’ in the Fridge…

April started in a delightfully silly way with a foolish fridge, and then devolved into a month of contemplation. We examined the need for sports-fan-like loyalty for one’s spouse in Married for Life, and hubby tackled school lunches in No Fishy Business.

In May I shared with you my love/hate relationship with lists in My Ship Will Float, and I finished out the month on an overwhelming high with the cover reveal for my first book, “Caged Sparrow.” I also made promises I couldn’t keep for June, but that’s an entry for…

…in June, I realized I couldn’t make my self-appointed deadline for “Caged Sparrow,” and contemplated cutting corners, which gave me a new appreciation for my Best Boss Ever, in Deadlines and Rocket Surgery. I chose my next writing project in Who Says you Can’t Go Home Again?” That project quickly fell to the sidelines to make room for another and to show me that, once again, I’m not in charge. Rest assured, the project is still on the horizon.

Sparrow in prison book cover

Caged Sparrow

In July, “Caged Sparrow” became a reality, bringing to fruition my life-long dream of becoming a PUBLISHED AUTHOR. I gave my first Totally Made-up Interview in Let the Caged Sparrow Fly! And, while the book is not exactly flying off the shelves—more like falling off—sales are progressing as expected. Reviews on Amazon are quite kind, and some aren’t even from friends and family. Joe and I wanted only to hear that people’s perspective changed upon reading his story, and we received many notes and comments that this, indeed, is happening. Also in July, Hubby and I hit the open road and all the open doughnut stores between San Francisco and Pittsburgh, in Down Home America. This saga turned out to be so great it rolled into…

Corn and bean field: Succotash

Succotash, get it? Corn and beans? Nevermind.

…August, with Salt, Bugs and Doughnuts, which lulled me into inertia, nearly bringing my writing career to a halt with its Dangerously Pleasant Anchor. I’d say the biggest revelation of August was that not everyone gets my sense of humor. The succotash field pic is a joke. Get with it folks!

In September we explored the undervalue of Teachers (If You Can Read This…) and canines (Treat Each Other like Dogs), both of whom improve our lives significantly.

October was just plain fun. After examining the light in the darkness in Storms May be Brewing, I took you on a somewhat scary journey through a typical ADD writer’s sleep-deprived night in Left Brain, Right Brain. Then I took you to Naples, Florida for a book signing and interview with the now famous Joe Tuttolomondo. What a blast that was, and I haven’t even shared about it yet…hmmm…could be a January blog…

In November and December, I let my blog wind down, paying tribute to my friend Michele in Five Years Strong and Counting, remembering my non-Norman Rockwell Thanksgivings of long ago, and ending the year contemplating the preposterousness of Peace on Earth.

Last year the Portrait Writer published one book, edited two others, wrote 20 short stories and about 30 blog posts—all fulfilling, fun work. The short stories provided enough income to keep me writing, and I’m excited about what’s around the corner. More on that in 2016.

Have a happy and blessed new year, everyone. And remember, you’re not in charge.

————–

In his heart, a man plans his course, but the Lord determines his steps. — Proverbs 16:9

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That Seemingly Preposterous Peace on Earth

14 Dec

Hi everyone,

I’m so sorry to be absent for such a long time. Certain (good) priorities seem to be taking all my time lately. However, because people are asking if I’m still here, I will post a favorite Christmas piece from last year. I should be back in the writing saddle next week. Until then…be at peace!

Peace on Earth? Preposterous! Or is it?

We’re entering what the angels announced to the shepherds as a season of, “Peace on Earth, good will toward men,” according to the King James’ version of Luke 2:14.

No other phrase I know makes less sense these days. As you read this, members of the Islamist group, Boko Haram, are marching across Nigeria, killing all Christians in their wake; ISIS members are beheading children and innocent civilians of all faiths who block their attempts to forcibly institute an Islamic State In Syria; and Russia-funded operations have now killed more than 4,300 people in eastern Ukraine. In our own country, hate mongers are cackling with joy as decent human beings are led astray by the promise of entitlement. “You don’t have to think—we’ll do it for you,” the hate-mongers say. “Don’t waste time examining your lifestyles and searching for answers, just burn, burn, burn and take, take, take!” Our nation is weighed down with rioting and protests, murders, rapes, theft, smuggling, drug dealing…and an increasingly pervasive hate-thy-neighbor attitude.

How did we get here? Does it not make a complete mockery of God’s promise that we would have Peace on Earth?

I don’t think so. I don’t believe the angels were heralding a healed world as much as an escape plan for those who must endure its gradual demise.

To clarify, let’s consider my youngest, who started driving this week (audible sigh). This event forces me to dwell on his impending adulthood. Soon, he will be out there “in the world” making daily decisions about right and wrong without our counsel. His father and I taught him as best we know how to respond to tough situations, but the rest is up to him. My parting words to him as he heads off to college will not be, “don’t murder and don’t hate.” Instead, I will tell him two things: “Remember your God, and remember you are a Fitzsimmons.”

That’s all he needs, in any situation. When he’s at a party that turns wild and learns that the punch he’s been drinking all evening has been spiked, I’m counting on him to remember God and say a prayer for protection. If he keeps a cool head, he will then call home, and his father or I will drive to wherever he is to pick him up. When we find him, will he be crying hysterically? Will he have joined the revelry and be hanging from the chandeliers? Not if he remembers who he is.

Instead, I prefer to believe he will be sitting on the couch, or on the curb, watching the world he knows crumble. He will have likely witnessed some incredibly bad behavior by people he’d thought were upright and responsible. Classmates will be smoking and drinking, and doing things they wouldn’t do in front of their families. Some poor girl will throw herself on a boy just to be liked and give away more than she should. Perhaps he will feel the same heartache we feel when we watch the evening news.

In the midst of the chaos, however, he will know peace. He will know his parents are on their way, and that there might be punishment in his future depending on the situation, at the very least, admonishment, but they will forgive him and love him as much as they did the day before. Then he will be wiser about the world, which should help him deal with the next tough situation.

On the other hand, he might choose to forget us and join the ranks of the lost. Should he choose this path, his life will falter, and he will struggle more than he has to, and bad things will happen. He will scoff cynically at the word “peace,” and perhaps convince himself that God is a liar. In his shame, he will likely turn from his parents. Nobody wants to be reminded of the good when they are pursuing evil. But the moment he decides to turn from that activity, the peace will return. His parents will forgive him and help him get back on his feet. They will never stop loving him. He knows that.

He may also fall victim to the revelers and be injured or even killed by their activity. This is a risk he takes, as we all take, just by being in the world. However, he cannot live in fear of attending parties just because someone might show up with a gun. He can have peace though, in knowing that if something does happen, he belongs to God and God will take care of him in life or death.

Luke 2:14 is translated in different ways, from one Bible to the next. When I struggle with a verse in King James, I’ve found the New International Version often does a better job of translating the original Bible into English as we know it today (and yes, Kevin, this book has been vetted, tested, and authenticated). The NIV version of Luke 2:14 is written, “Glory to God in the highest heaven, and on earth, peace to those on whom his favor rests.”   

Jesus My Savior

Peace on Earth starts in the heart.

Surprised? I was. Reading this translation changed everything for me. From this perspective, the angels did not proclaim a blanket promise of peace on earth at all. In fact, Jesus told anyone who would listen that there would never be peace on earth. Our world has become an increasingly wild frat party, enticing good people to forget who they are and seek only to make themselves happy, right now. In the process, innocents are hurt, the line between right and wrong is blurred, and many partiers fall hard into the abyss.

Peace on Earth starts in the heart.

Jesus came to remind us to remember God and remember family—you are a child of the King, after all! If you do that, then you will be able to find peace, even in a crumbling world. Wherever you are, and no matter how bad it looks, you can call him and he’ll go to wherever you are and help you escape.

No, you cannot change the world. It is dying. However, you can change a part of it. Use your talents, skills, and every blessing you’ve been given, to make a difference where you can. LOVE your neighbors (we’re talking the action verb, not the noun). In doing so, you will pull people from that frat party, one-by-one, and put hope and peace into their hearts by sending them back to the loving, forgiving arms of the Father they’re trying so hard to ignore.

If you’re still at the party, and you’re looking for Peace on Earth, try getting on your knees. You’ll find it there.

“The peace of God, which transcends all understanding, will guard your hearts and your minds in Christ Jesus.” –Philippians 4:7

 

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Not A Norman Rockwell Thanksgiving…

25 Nov

The only Thanksgiving element I absolutely cannot do without is family. For me, Thanksgiving is synonymous with loud, boisterous, prank-pulling, bowl-dropping, too-many-in-too-small-a-space, story-telling, story-denying, over-hugging, over-cologned, and occasionally under-showered, family.

As one of nine children, I remember Thanksgiving as the one day of the year we hosted both sets of grandparents (we’ll call them the Ungers and the Maddisons), and one or two relatives whose branches we never quite located on the family tree but were always called Uncle and Ginny. The uncles changed nearly every year. I remember one who was particularly fond of loading chips into his big floppy fishing cap and walking around offering chips to everyone. Never saw anyone but him take from that cap.

…Plus a Saint Bernard and small black mutt with the heart of a lion and teeth of a piranha. And when they both went to puppy heaven, two dogs stepped in to take their place. Always two dogs.

We’re not talking a Norman Rockwell painting here. We’re talking at least one child lying under the living room coffee table with a stomach ache after downing a jar of pickles, another with peas stuck in her nose (you thought I forgot, huh sis?), the always proper Nana going through at least five martinis while Dad played endless pranks trying to get her to swear at him (he always got at least one good shriek out of her—usually involving Pop Rocks or a plastic spider frozen into an ice cube), Grandma doing her best to look unfazed by the chaos but not fooling anyone, and Grampa being the only one of the elders truly having a good time…because he sat in the rocking chair the entire time with his hearing aid off.

There was always a roaring fire in the fireplace, with one or two soot-smudged older boys piling on way too much wood or sword fighting with the pokers. They must fight stealthily to avoid stepping on the Saint Bernard’s massive form splayed in front of the fire, or the youngest siblings who are using him as a pillow. The little dog, for some strange reason, thinks the safest place would be at Mom’s feet. Every so often we’d hear a yelp and a “Someone get this damned dog out of here!” (Sorry about the language, but that was typical Thanksgiving Day vernacular, if not from Mom, then from Nana when Dad finally scored.)

And the rest of us? Let’s just say my Mama didn’t raise any quiet children. By the time we were all seated around the two or three tables, we’d already run up and down the stairs 50 times, played 20 rounds of HORSE at the frozen basketball hoop outside, consumed all the olives (after chasing each other through the house with scary olive fingers, of course) and all the chips, pickles, and anything out of Mom’s slotted spoon range. (Mom was deadly accurate with a slotted spoon.) Frankly, we sat because we were tired. Mom, too, come to think of it.

Here’s where I have to give props to Mom. I don’t remember helping her with Thanksgiving dinner. I honestly don’t. I know for certain the boys didn’t. I do remember the flour on her cheeks and hands, the strand of curly hair that always fell across her face when the steam hit it, and the mounds and mounds of delicious food she put on the table. Every year the feast was fabulous and perfectly cooked, all timed just right and served hot. Pies for days, and gravy the likes of which I’ve not tasted since. If I could send a message to her now in Heaven, it would be, “Mom, I didn’t know. I’m sorry, and I’m amazed, truly.”

Fast forward 40 years to a quieter time. Much quieter. Thanksgiving means so much more to me now, but my family is so much less chaotic. Funny, I only really miss the chaos on Thanksgiving. My siblings all have families of their own, and we live in five different states, so reenactment is highly unlikely, although, combined I think we own a zoo’s worth of dogs and cats.

Thanksgiving_table

Hoping your table is bountiful and your blessings overflowing

To make up for the quiet, and to maximize the joy we feel for this day, my husband and I spend every Thanksgiving in a huge Cabin in Prince William Forest Park with about 70 of our closest friends, primarily our church family and their guests. They won’t run around with peas in their noses or olives on their fingers, nobody will be tripping on dogs (although I hear we may have an Australian Shepherd on site tomorrow who’s also an Afghanistan war veteran, so there’s potential), and everyone will behave, I’m sure.

But I’m bringing Pop Rocks, just in case.

 

Wishing everyone a fantastic Thanksgiving, and praying a grateful thank you to the men and women in uniform, both military around the world and our first responders at home, who will be on duty while we celebrate. Your sacrifice does not go unnoticed.

_________________

 

For everything God created is good, and nothing is to be rejected if it is received with thanksgiving, because it is consecrated by the word of God and prayer. — 1 Tim 4:4-5

 

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Shout Out to Michele: Five Years Strong and Counting!

7 Nov

“Friendship is unnecessary, like philosophy, like art… It has no survival value; rather it is one of those things that give value to survival.”  – C.S. Lewis

Today’s blog is dedicated to good friends, and one in particular. We all have friends—people we love and enjoy being with, but we should also have one or two best friends (spouses aside), who stand above the rest. Those are people we connect with on a deeper level, and for whom we’d go through fire if they needed us to. God has blessed me with two such friends.

The first is Lisa, who lives in Boston, my friend since we the 6th grade (nearly 40 years ago). I could write volumes about the trouble we got into (well, mostly me while she watched) when we were young and foolish (well, mostly me again).  Lisa and I can, and often do, go months without hearing from each other, but when we get together, it’s as if we never parted. I don’t see Lisa often, but she knows if she were to call me tonight and ask me to come to Boston, I’d be packed and on the road within the hour.

The other is Michele, the reason for today’s musings. If Michele and I were fighting in a battle, we’d be the ones standing back-to-back, each watching out for the other the Jonathan and David battled in the Bible. I’ve only known her for about 12 years, but whenever I read about how David was “knit to Jonathan’s soul,” I get it, because that’s how I feel about Michele. And I know she feels the same way about me because she volunteered to (and actually DID) drive me to the airport last month during a Friday afternoon rush hour. Not Dulles; Ronald Reagan. In the city. Knowing that after dropping us off she’d have to merge with the homeward-bound masses on I-95. That’s a friend.

Michele, my friend

My friend, my hero.

Michele is one of the kindest people I know. She has put others before herself all her life. As long as I’ve known her, she’s never stood in the spotlight. In fact, when she sees this, her first reaction will likely be “This is ridiculous. I’m not special.”

But she is. This is a woman who has endured more than the rest of us would consider a fair share of trials and heartwrenchingly wrong turns, and nobody who knows her entire story would have faulted her if she’d turned bitter. Yet she continues to laugh, to encourage others, and give every ounce of herself away.

Michele’s capacity to love is so great, she’s practically a professional worrier because she can’t bear the thought of those she cares about to be hurt. She thinks I’m the strong one because I tend not to be a worrier, but I want to take this opportunity to say, Michele, it’s your strength, your generosity, and your courage that inspires me most.

A little over five years ago, cancer and a series of other potentially debilitating medical issues came crashing into Michele’s life. Do you know what this single mom’s biggest worry was?  That OTHER people’s lives might be impacted. Sure, she went through some serious woe-is-me times, and there were many tears, but except for those incredibly horrible down-for-the-count chemo days, she fought hard throughout those years to ensure her two teenagers’ daily routines went on as unimpeded as possible. Think about those years: weekend college visits, driving lessons, prom dresses, high school graduation, and angst and drama out the wazoo. She mommed with a vengeance and got them both off to college.

Now, thanks to her faith, her stubbornness, her many friends, and some rather outstanding medical practitioners, Michele is celebrating being more than five years out from cancer. She wanted to throw a party, but, as you might have guessed, other people and commitments came first.

So today we’re putting Michele first. Some of her friends and I hijacked her selflessness, and we’re throwing her party. We’ll practically have to tie her hands to a chair to do so, but we’re going to sit her down and make her laugh and eat carrot cake and be waited on until she knows, without a doubt, how special and how inspirational she is to all of us.

Now, if we’d invited ALL her friends and ALL the people she’s helped and ALL the people who love her, we’d have had to rent a stadium. But all we have is a private home, so we’re celebrating with those people she leaned on through the toughest years. However, if you know Michele, or if you don’t know her but can relate to what she’s been through, you can celebrate with us and really make her day all the more special if you leave a WOOT! Or a Way to Go! Or any other words of congratulations on this page for her to read during the party. Yes, I’ll make sure she reads it.

After all, she’ll need something to do while she’s tied to that chair.

———————–

“Two are better than one, because they have a good return for their work: If one falls down, his friend can help him up. But pity the man who falls and has no one to help him up!” — Ecclesiastes 4:9-10

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Caged Sparrow Launches in Naples!

17 Oct

Who would have thought it possible? Here I am, two hours away from a moment I’ve been dreaming about since I was about 14 – my first official book signing!

And to make life even better, I’m in Naples, Florida, sitting with the no-longer Caged Sparrow himself, Joseph Tuttolomondo, without whom I’d still be sitting in a government cubicle and without whom this day would still only be a dream.

Caged Sparrow and his ghost writer

Caged Sparrow and his ghost writer

So, of course, for today’s blog, I will interview Joe, the former Buffalo undercover narcotics chief who had the decency to get himself framed and tossed into prison so I could write his story nearly 35 years later. We’re in the First Baptist Church Naples, so if you’re in the neighborhood, feel free to drop in. It’s the only way you’re going to get not one, but two signatures on your copy of “Caged Sparrow,” Tonight until 8 p.m. and tomorrow 9 a.m. until 1 p.m.

Me: Joe, let’s talk about your story, since that’s why where here. How long have you been thinking about making it into a book?

Joe: Since I was released from prison in 1979. Considering the circumstances and all the surprising things that did and didn’t happen, I just thought there were things that should be told.

Me: Why did it take you so long to write it?

Joe: I couldn’t find a Christian writer who would take it on. I tried a bit right after I got out of prison, but didn’t know how to go about it. One publisher who was referred to me listened to my story and said, “There’s already a lot of that Serpico kind of stuff.” I was discouraged, and over time, although I always wanted and prayed that it be written down, I figured if God wanted it, it would happen.

 

Me: With hindsight, is there anything you would change if you could re-live the whole trial and prison scene?

Joe: None what-so-ever. The results were the best thing that ever happened to me and I’m grateful to all involved.Even those who kicked it off.

Me: What went through your mind when your friend Linda told you someone you never met wanted to write your book?

Joe: I was overwhelmed with joy. It affirmed the fact that the Lord answers prayer. He may take His time, but He answers.

Me: What’s the best part of seeing your book in print?

Joe: First and foremost, I’m thrilled because it glorifies the Lord for who he is and what he did in my life and my children’s lives and for so many I met in prison. Secondly, I’m excited for what this book can accomplish, particularly for those who don’t know Jesus. You can’t stuff Jesus down someone’s throat. He’s a gift you have to offer and the recipient has to accept it voluntarily. This book is a gift to those who are wondering.

Me: What’s your favorite recipe from your Mom’s cookbook?

Joe: That’s easy. Pasta Fazola (macaroni and white kidney beans). You make a roux of caramelized onions and garlic (use chicken stock instead of water), then you marry the roux with some kidney beans and let it simmer. Then you par cook ditalini – a short stubby Italian macaroni. Add the pasta to the beans and cover it with grated parmesan cheese. The first time I fed it to the guys in prison, they turned their noses up at it, but once they tried it, I had them hooked. Even the guards liked it, and you know if the guards don’t like something it doesn’t get served. Pasta Fazola became a regular favorite.

Me: Do you still keep a live turkey tied up in your bathroom as Thanksgiving nears?

Joe: No, only because we no longer have a radiator to tie one to.

————————————–

So do not be afraid; you are worth more than many sparrows. – Matthew 10:31

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Storms May be Brewing, but the Sun Ain’t Goin’ Anywhere

1 Oct

Today is a dismal, bleak, rainy day here in Virginia.

From my window I can watch dirt and mulch, wrenched away from once-splendid summer gardens, tumble in clumps down the street and become caught up in a swift-flowing rainwater river. The debris bumps along on an aimless journey, careening into a pile of leaves at the end of the road, where it rests briefly before slipping through a gaping sewer opening that leads to who-knows-where?

Wet bird in the rain

Hunker down, or deny it’s raining. You decide.

A nor’easter is heading in from the sea, threatening to raise floodwaters, close roads, fill basements, and sweep cars from under people who refuse to believe they’re vulnerable, despite warnings to hunker down.

South of us, Hurricane Joaquin is gathering steam for a pass up the east coast. Hundreds of tree limbs will break off in its gale-force winds, nearly ripened fruit will never make it to harvest, and puzzling objects from the depths of the ocean will stir, and rise, and wash ashore. People will be hurt, and some may die.

It could be days before we see the sun again.

But still, the sun will remain in the sky, peacefully, gloriously, shining, just above the gray clouds and the calamitous vortex of wind and rain. It shines just as brightly throughout this storm as it does on any other day, whether we can see it or not. Regardless of how cold, how wet, how dark we feel over the next few days, it will continue to blaze with its usual fiery heat, sending down to us the exact amount of energy we need to sustain our planet, sufficient vitamin D to keep each of us healthy, and light enough to see where we ought to step (or paddle) next.

I have faith in the sun’s existence, because I’ve seen it and I paid enough attention during science class to know roughly what’s going on up there. I made the requisite Styrofoam solar system and know the sun is securely stationed at the center, even without the help of a wire coat hanger or a tube of Elmer’s glue. I don’t understand why or how it works, but I don’t need to know. I can trust it’s there. I’ll see it again.

Of course, I can chose to deny the sun’s presence, pointing to the eerie gathering darkness as proof of its ineptitude. And when the clouds clear and the rains subside I can still refuse to see the sun by closing my eyes. But that won’t make it not there.

Still, I will prepare for the dark days ahead by stocking the shelves with canned goods, ensuring we have propane for the grill and the fire starter handy for the candles, digging the flashlights out from under last year’s winter coats, bringing family treasures out of the basement, and probably finishing off the coffee ice cream in the freezer, you know in case the power goes out—wouldn’t want that to go to waste. Then, as the winds howl outside my door, I can remind myself: we’re okay, and this will pass.

light peeking through clouds

We can lose sight for a while, but it’s always there.

That’s how it is with God. We can lose sight of Him sometimes, but He’s always there, despite our fiercest storms. We know this because we’ve done our homework and answered that one question we must all answer for ourselves: Is the Bible true? We’ve made the requisite Styrofoam Gospel scene and know that God burns securely in the center of our hearts, even without our duct tape and glitter. We don’t completely understand how He can do this, but we don’t need to know. We can trust He’s still there.

So we’ve prepared for the storm by studying God’s promises, trusting His Word, and telling Him our concerns. Then, as the wolf howls outside the door, we can remind ourselves: we’re okay, and this will pass.

Yet, for some reason, some of us will huddle there in the dark for days, weeks, even years afterward, denying ourselves the warmth and peace He offers. Why do we do this?

We may be angry at Him for not preventing a limb from breaking during the storm, and deny that he’s filling the fields all around us with new life. But we cannot anger him away or close our eyes to the evidence. Just not looking won’t make him not there.

We may be hiding from Him, cowering in the shadows in shame or worry because we’re sure we’ve somehow let Him down, but His light sees into those darkest places, knows everything we’ve done and failed to do, and loves us anyway. He’s there with you under the basement steps, extending a hand. He wants to bring you out of there.

The storms will end soon enough. I challenge you, even while they still rage, to leave your hiding place, venture out, and look up, into the light. Offer Him your hand, your hurt, your sorrow, your regrets, and He will shine on you, just as brightly as He has been doing all along.

The difference between God and the sun, though, is He can make YOU shine as well, because His light is brighter than the sun, and His presence many times more trustworthy. Trust Him. He’s there.

_______________

For our light and momentary troubles are achieving for us an eternal glory that far outweighs them all. So we fix our eyes not on what is seen, but on what is unseen, since what is seen is temporary, but what is unseen is eternal. — 2 Corinthians 4:17-18

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Improve the World: Treat Each Other Like Dogs

23 Sep

Today’s blog is brought to you by a reader who will remain unidentified because I didn’t get her permission to splay her name across cyberspace, and I’ve learned that I can burn through friends quickly by shining the spotlight on them when they think they’re hidden.

Anyway, she suggested I write about dogs because their unconditional love is a vital comfort in these troubled times.  I couldn’t agree more, and although I don’t own a dog at this time because our cat simply would not permit it, I’ve been on the receiving end of that unconditional devotion many times, and so, dogs it is…

My friend might chuckle to know that I’m writing this DESPITE my incredibly Pomeranian morning, during which I had to wrestle my neighbor’s pint-sized ball of teeth into the tub, not once, but twice, because her delicate constitution became, well…matted.

Neighbor Pom aside, I do love most dogs.  I cannot remember a time growing up when our family did not have at least one, and usually two canines on duty. My favorite pairing was Barnacle the Saint Bernard (so named because he would help us scrape said critters off the boat hull), and Dickens the mutt (so named because she ran like it. She’d race alongside the car on Sunday mornings when we went to church, which was more than a mile away, and be waiting when we arrived. Dad would unload us all and then whistle for her to get in for the ride home). Dickens, who was about the size of a toaster, had the heart of a Viking warrior. Barnacle was as big as a house and had the heart of a koala. He was a clinger—a loveable, drooling, clearly mis-categorized lap dog.

We particularly enjoyed watching the show whenever the water dude came to our back door to read the meter. He’d eyeball Barnacle like a prison escapee sneaking past a sleeping guard. Barnacle, always an eager greeter, would bound forward as far as his rope would allow (that thing didn’t hold him back, mind you, it just gave visitors a false sense of safety) and just howl. In Barnacle-ese, he was likely saying (through a spray of slobber), “Oh boy, oh boy! Welcome! Come on over and let’s cuddle!” Then, as the unsuspecting victim edged cautiously toward the meter, Dickens would leap out from seemingly nowhere and nip his ankles.

Most of our utility bills were estimates.

Brandy

Brandy, the seafaring Malamute

We even kept a dog when the family moved onto a boat for a while. Brandy, our seafaring Malamute, had to learn how to leap from the ladder to the boat deck, and back to the pier. Occasionally she missed, but she enjoyed any chance to share the joys of life on the water with her humans, and so considered the sporatic sea bath part of the job.

Our family pets were usually large dogs. Good dogs. Well, there was one mean-spirited dachshund named Gidget who only lasted two days because she didn’t care for my dad, but she didn’t understand that his was the hand that fed…and she bit it. Repeatedly. Dad loved his dogs. They were all his before any of us could lay claim. Even my sister’s dog, Boots, a golden retriever mix of some sort, took to my Dad like a surrogate. I think it was Boots my parents found in the kitchen (after they’d been away one evening) standing over a pool of blood, grinning as much as a dog can grin. By the looks of the room, significant activity had taken place there, but they’ll never know what happened except that Boots had done his job.

Boy and dog watching the rain

Jenny, a loyal dog who would never leave you, even when the rain clouds gathered.

We could learn a lot from dogs, particularly with regard to how we treat each other. Dogs are fiercely loyal, quick to forgive, and grateful for our every kindness toward them, and they’re happy to see us come home, whether we’ve been deployed six months in a foreign land or we just stepped out to get the mail. A dog will sit quietly by your side when you’re sad and will dance with you when you’re glad. Dogs will not share your secrets with others or tell you what to do when you tell them your worries. When a dog looks into your eyes, you can see full love and devotion—no deceit, no distraction; you are the center of the universe.

Oh, that we would treat each other the way dogs do. I believe that it would make the world a better place…although perhaps a bit more slobbery.

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Love is patient, love is kind. It does not envy, it does not boast, it is not proud. It does not dishonor others, it is not self-seeking, it is not easily angered, it keeps no record of wrongs. Love does not delight in evil but rejoices with the truth. It always protects, always trusts, always hopes, always perseveres. Love never fails.   –1 Corinthians 13:4-8

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If you can read this, thank a teacher

2 Sep

I picked up my youngest Monday after his first day of the 11th grade, and, after much grilling about his day, managed to penetrate the layer of, “It was okay,” down to a second layer, which was, “We didn’t do much,” to uncover that hidden bit of substance. He turned to me and said—

(Hold on. I need a moment. Still reeling over the phrase, “First day of the 11th grade.” How the heck did that happen? Deep breath…Okay, I think I can continue.)

—So he turned to me and said, “I like all my teachers.”

And just like that, I knew what I have to write this week. Imagine, all over the country teachers are welcoming a fresh batch of potential rocket scientists and brain surgeons and truck drivers and dot-com entrepreneurs and, yes, teachers. (Regrettably, with those students come attitudes of belligerence and self-righteousness—pointing the blame at teachers for shortcomings that are their own faults. Yes, I’m talking about parents, but I digress.)

So I’m thinking this is the perfect week to applaud the teachers. Teachers are amazing. Theirs is the only profession I know where the employees spend their own money to buy office supplies and posters and story books and anything else that might reach that one child who hasn’t completely taken in a particular lesson. They take work home because their in-school hours are never enough. They offer to stay late to work one-on-one, particularly in the case of high school students, because some topics are difficult to grasp. They take lunch room duty, playground duty, hall monitor duty, and the occasional janitorial duty. They attend school plays, sporting events, and band concerts (that last deserves more than a mere mention—have you ever had to sit through a 5th grade performance? I’ll just say this…clarinets.)

Mr. DeRobbio was my English teacher in the 9th, 11th, and 12th grades. He was also my creative writing teacher, and one of the first people in my life to suggest I should consider writing as a vocation. I could never thank him enough for his patience, his encouragement, and the genuine interest he took in my work. Mr. D. was ancient when I attended school in the 70s, so I’m not even sure he’s still with us, but I’ll hunt him down in Heaven, for sure.

My two boys are 14 years apart, so I’ve been sending someone to school for 25 years now. That’s a lot of parent-teacher meetings, don’t you know. My oldest, my precious Attention Deficit child, was labeled “unteachable” in his early years. I’m going to tell you a special story about the teacher who saved him.

Mrs. Neff taught 3rd grade at a school in Yuma, Arizona, where my oldest had been placed in a “special” classroom for incorrigible students. He hated that class because he loved learning and most of the kids placed there did not. (Sadly, the room earned the nickname “animal house” for the behaviors displayed there). Few people had heard of ADD at that time, and they just thought he was a bad kid. In fact, he was so smart, the teachers just couldn’t keep him busy, and so he self-entertained, often to the point of disruption. Mrs. Neff noticed he had a knack for math and challenged him one day, saying that if he could sit still in her class he could visit her for math class each day.

Well, that young man did such a good job that Mrs. Neff opened the door wider, inviting him to visit during reading time as well, and then for science. She also took on the challenge of learning all about ADD, taking night classes and incorporated many of the tips she learned into her teaching, specifically to keep him engaged. By the end of the school year, my son was fully “mainstreamed” and behaving (for the most part) like the rest of the children. My heart nearly broke to think he would have to start over in the 4th grade with someone new.

But he didn’t. She moved with him. Just to keep his world consistent. And he thrived.

Journal entry for crater in Arizona

Chronicling a cross-country adventure.

When he neared the end of the 4th grade, we received orders to Virginia and had to leave. My son made a scrap book of the trip across country that he mailed to his class when he arrived on the east coast. Mrs. Neff shared the book with the class and had them all write notes of encouragement and well wishes on the pages. Then she sent it back to him.

What a teacher. I swear to this day that she is the reason he didn’t fall through the cracks. Well…there was also his 6th grade biology teacher who pretended she didn’t know he was listening when she said to us, “Frankly, I don’t think he’s got what it takes to make it in my class,” which sparked an “I’ll show her!” attitude that carried through the year. And Mr. Brown, his high school band teacher, who made band a family, and fostered a strict but caring environment that my son loved. For the privilege of staying in the band, he not only made sure to stay out of trouble in his other classes, but he became an accomplished saxophonist and still plays today. And many others.

Today my oldest is a bright, funny, hard-working, compassionate man, and it wasn’t my doing, I assure you. Without just the right people in just the right places, using just the right mix of love and psychology, I honestly don’t know if he would have graduated.

So, today I send kudos to all the teachers out there. Know that you are making a difference. And when you get the “unique” students, don’t wonder why they’re in your life. Ask why you’re in theirs. You matter. A lot.

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Let my teaching fall like rain and my words descend like dew, like showers on new grass, like abundant rain on tender plants. –Deuteronomy 32:2

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NOTE: Thank you to everyone who sent me blog ideas. My list runneth over. I will certainly be drawing from it as the month unfolds. Stay tuned!

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Family and the Open Road: Down Home America

28 Jul

Home.

Jerry and I recently journeyed 3,200 miles over ten days, through 12 states and numerous cities from San Francisco to Pittsburgh, following the path of family. We crossed deserts and mountain ranges, skirted farmlands and big cities, and stopped at every roadside curiosity that caught our fancy.

…on our way home.

Funny word, home. For the past 20 years, home to us has been a cozy place in Virginia where we live and love, and where coffee is served in ceramic mugs—not those annoying, plastic lidded paper cups that emit all substance and steam as a single, scalding jet stream through a tiny, razor-sharp puncture hole…but I digress. Sorry, it’s been a long trip.

However, as we drove eastward, the idea of home took on an entirely new meeting.

We sure felt right at home for three nights in Sacramento, staying with Troy and Jodi and their beautiful girls. Jodi put out the Call to Family, and people I haven’t seen in years swooped in like excited chickadees to say hello.

I’m truly honored to have married in to this Anderson/Perkins/Fitzsimmons tribe, (part of the Mary Oswalt’s Daughters clan). The Oswalts know many secrets about life, inherently or otherwise. They put family first, they love fiercely, and they speak the universal love language: good food. If I wrote about all the wondrous foods I consumed in Sacramento I’d quickly max on word count and make us all hungry again, but I will say that Liz’s carrot cake and Melissa’s banana pudding are worth the price of a plane ticket, should you be so inclined.

…which led to an invite to see the garden—a tamed jungle of nearly all the richness our earth has to offer to anyone like Cousin Liz who can coax it out. Liz is also an artist, although I’m not sure she knows that yet. I cried when she gave me a piece of Sacramento Home that I’ll treasure always: A Liz-made quilt that belonged to Aunt Lois, one of The Sisters.

I could stay here for a while and just love these people, I thought.

Strawberry Reservoir

The Strawberry Reservoir in Utah–looks like home.

All too quickly we hit the road, headed East on Highway 80 through Nevada and Utah, a beautiful route lined with forests and mountain lakes. Such beauty! For days we flew past, (and stopped occasionally to gawk at) glorious evidence of God’s infinite imagination.

We could live here, we said to each other.

NOTE: In another blog post I’ll tell you about the salt and the bugs, Steamboat Springs, doughnuts, and Touchdown Jesus, but this post is about home, so let’s get back on the road.

We paused again in Loveland, Colorado, an amazingly beautiful town just east of the Rocky Mountains, to see my sister Sue and her husband Dan. We stayed long enough to enjoy some brontosaurus steaks and home-made potato salad,(a recipe I aim to acquire soon). Sue and Dan are storytellers, and, after the boys toured Dan’s amazing automotive wonderland, we sat in their back yard well into the night listening appreciatively to their NASCAR-sales tales in the soft glow of garden luminaries, wishing we had more time.

But the next day we were back on the road, driving toward Denver. There we stopped to see Jerry’s dad and Cathy, who, because of a tragedy, are now parents to 9-year-old Precious in what should be their retirement years. There’s a light in Grandpa’s eyes that makes me think that sweet little girl is not a burden at all.

Still meandering eastward, we lingered for a while in Indianola, Nebraska, where Uncle John and Aunt Peggy filled our bellies with home-cooked stew, complete with vegetables freshly harvested from the plot of goodness outside the kitchen door. We lamented together over the butterflies in the peach trees (who knew they could destroy a peach crop?) and the varmints in the garden, and, after pulling up a few new potatoes and admiring the pair of ‘68 Fords John is loving on in his shop, we again had to wrench ourselves away from home to continue the journey.

Life is so simple here. We could get to like this.

We drove through miles and miles of waving cornfields in Iowa, Illinois, and Indiana, loving the abundance of it all. And the peacefulness. Nearing the end of our journey we traversed Ohio and holed up for the night in Pittsburgh, where we met our oldest son for dinner at a nice, home-style restaurant. Sorry, I experienced no inclination to settle down in Pittsburgh; however, I so enjoyed being with my son that I treasured every minute, even the part where he and Dad just sprawled out on the hotel bed afterward, watching the Nats play ball while I finished some editing work.

I could be happy doing this for a long time.

One blog post isn’t nearly enough for me to record my pining. How much I wanted the time to…get to know Jodi like a sister, particularly in a busy season I recognize oh, so well, and assure her that, despite not getting more than a glimpse of her man over the heads of those two bouncy girls, she and Troy will get time to themselves again…to read Paddington stories to Blake and hang out with Margaret—who I suspect shares my sense of humor…to learn about Sue’s childhood, especially the years before I was  born…to play that perfect practical joke on Doug…just because, well, he’s Doug…to have a real talk with John about more than just the weather…to be there with Uncle John when he turns the key on one of those cars…to—well, again with the word count issue…

In essence, Jerry and I gathered snippets of family across America, and came back to Virginia with a new definition of home. Our home is a bountiful and beautiful nation filled with natural wonders, some harnessed by man and others too magnificent to tame, and we want to see it all. Our home is a 3,000-mile stretch of people gathered around tables in kitchens and backyards across the country, bound by a love that endures across time and distance. Our home is family.

And we love you all. Thank you for your generosity and your love. We miss you already.

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People will come from east and west and north and south, and will take their places at the feast in the kingdom of God. — Luke 13:29

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Who Says You Can’t Go Home Again?

3 Jun

All that’s left of my childhood home is a tree. A modern, efficient-looking bank now occupies the land where once stood a beautiful gray Victorian-style home with a wrap-around porch. I lived there with two harried parents, seven rowdy siblings, two parakeets, a Saint Bernard named Barnacle, and a tiny black mutt named Dickens.

This weekend I made the nine-hour drive from Virginia to Rhode Island to join a celebration for my oldest brother’s 60th birthday. We had a great time at the party Friday night, particularly because all but three of the nine siblings (we moved from the house above before the ninth was born) made it to the event. We sat around for hours, trading hilarious stories about pranks and escapades of years past, and reminiscing about the awful way everything turned out.

Saturday I traveled through time to a place somewhere between A Tree Grows in Brooklyn and Mommy Dearest. In the morning I rode with my youngest brother, Erich, and his lovely family through Portsmouth (where we lived from the time I was 10 until I left home after high school) and then through the neighboring towns of Middletown and Newport, which had been my family’s big back yard during those years. We drove slowly, looking for the familiar haunts of our bicycle-enabled youth, noting gleefully that the Tasty Freeze on East Main is still there, and glumly that we’d never again buy candy at the Getty station at the top of our street because now it’s a pest control business. The roller skating rink where I spent many Friday nights…gone. Each landmark, whether it still stood or had been plowed under, evoked memories and prompted stories.

Our former home on Braman’s lane in Portsmouth is still there, but it’s yellow and small-looking. Foreign. Not nearly large enough to have hosted all that happened there. None of Mom’s rose bushes or Dad’s fruit trees remain. The acres of farmland that once surrounded our house have been stripped and sub-divided. Unfamiliar houses are everywhere. A sense of melancholy crept into our day, and I noted that this was the last place our mom lived before she started to self-destruct…well, not all was her own doing. I’ll say only that much for now.

Gazeebo

In the middle of the road, 200 feet from the library and overlooking the Narragansett River–what’s not to love?

Then Saturday evening my oldest brother, Steven, took me to Tiverton, our childhood home in the 1960s. My beloved Essex Public Library has closed, but the huge gazebo in the center of the street below it still stands. I told Steve and his young son who accompanied us how I used to sit there on quiet summer mornings, pouring through my newly-checked-out storybooks and then head back up in the afternoon to return them for a new batch.

Steve and I went to the old house, or to where it used to be. We stood in the bank parking lot, searching for something familiar. The small mom and pop grocery store next door is gone. Condos and other new housing are clustered all the way up the once-famous sledding hill. The huge wooden gate at the base of the hill, which we’d open at sledding times and where we posted guards to stop traffic so the sleds could cross the road…well, that’s gone too.

That’s when I saw it: a tree in a stone wall. The memories came flooding back. This wall had marked our property line. There was the gap where we crossed daily on our way to Fort Barton Elementary School. Ten feet from the gap stood the large, gnarly (elm tree, I think) that had once served as my hiding place from the world around me. It was much bigger, of course, but I recognized it.

Twisted tree that used to be my playhouse

“It’s much bigger now, Steven Jr.  Honest, I used to play here…”

As a young girl with too many brothers, I spent hours under that tree, whose limbs had touched the ground to offer perfect sanctuary. There I would read books, play with imaginary friends, and hide treasures among the holes formed by its extensive root system. As Steve chatted behind me about the Sylvia’s store, I choked back tears for what was never to be again.

My melancholy mood continued as I drove back down Highway 95 toward home the next day, passing landmarks and exit signs that stirred up memories. Past RI Hospital, where my grandmother worked as director of Community Relations—an amazing position for a woman in the 1970s; the exit to Kingston, where my husband and I were married; the sign for Exeter, where my parents are buried; and Exit 3, where they found my dad—oh dear, now I’m getting ahead of myself.

It occurred to me as I drove that God has given me the one thing that can revive the faded memories and keep alive those places and events that made us who we are today. He made me a writer.

All this to say, I know what I have to do next. I have many short stories and writing projects in my head and on scraps of paper all over my office, but it’s time to put most of them on a shelf and focus on telling the story that shouts to be told: The story of nine children and the lost parents who raised them; the story of a woman who gave everything she had, only to learn it wasn’t enough; the story of a man with a perpetual objective to shame those who said he’d never make it, yet at every turn only managed to dig his own hole deeper. The story of us.

My sister Jo has been encouraging me to tell this story for years, but I never felt it was the right time. Too much pain. Do we really need to open all those wounds?

Yes, we should. I know that now. Some of us still have some healing to do. I hope taking this journey together helps us do that.

Soon you’ll see a new tab on my website. A tab for “Mom’s Story.” There I will chronicle the making of what now has a working title, “Fading Rose.” To do this right, I’ll need to talk to each of my siblings, who now live in RI, Massachusetts, North Carolina, New Mexico, and Colorado, because it’s their story too. Get ready guys, I’m heading your way!

Because our past gave us more than just a tree, and because you CAN go home again, as long as the memories stay alive.

Honor your father and your mother, that your days may be long in the land that the Lord your God is giving you. –Exodus 20:12

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Christmas Year-round: I’m making the same suggestion for June and July, simply because it’s just that important. Please consider making a food drive and donating to your nearest food bank. Once they’re out of school, some area children will no longer receive that one guaranteed meal of the day, and yet, food bank supplies tend to diminish in the summer months. Sadly, many of us blessed with much think of making donations only during the Thanksgiving and Christmas seasons. Can you help? You’ll be glad you did.

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