Family and Loss

Each one of our family tragedies ends with a variation on the same theme.

"We should do this more often."

"We should get together for happier events."

"We should plan a family reunion."

"I wish we would have done this when grandma/grandpa/dad/cousin were alive to enjoy it."

We should. But we never did. Decades of secrets, simmering resentments, real and imagined slights, and suspicions of favoritism  all conspire to keep extended family members apart except for the saddest of occasions when attendance is obligatory. We share DNA, a last name and a history, but little more. Somehow, though, for those  brief hours amidst the flower arrangements, dollar buns, and potato salad, we recognize the frailty of this fleeting life, and vow to move past the drama and dysfunction that has defined us for many years.

Tomorrow we'll meet again to celebrate the life and mourn the loss of a man gone too soon. We'll hug and we'll forgive. We'll share memories and we'll tell stories and we'll promise- Promise!- this time will be different. And in a month or a year or a decade when the time comes to say goodbye to another one of us, we'll do it again.

Abundance

November has brought an avalanche of thankful posts to my newsfeed. From an abundance of food, to good health and a loving family, many are writing their blessings on the walls of social media to share with the world. I gave it a try, but didn't quite find it comfortable to give thanks in such a public fashion. 

Here is the truth: I feel guilty for the abundance in my life.

I am keenly aware that while I followed the rules- graduated from high school and then college, got married and had babies, in that order- I didn't do it by myself. Some might argue my husband and I have earned our abundance by working hard and making choices. That's true, to some degree, of course. But many factors beyond our control led to life where we have enough food in the refrigerator and a warm roof over our heads. 

I was born to a stable family. My parents have been married for over 40 years. They modeled tenacity, hard work, and honoring commitments, and I absorbed the lessons of their example. 

Abundance.

My family wasn't wealthy, by any stretch of the imagination. I grew up in a mobile home and dreamed of living in a house without wheels. Yet my parents made their blue collar earnings stretch, and I never worried about filling my stomach or whether Santa would show up in time for Christmas. I had my own room and new clothes, and like many kids took it all for granted at the time.

Abundance.

I escaped abuse of any kind. I do not know what it is to fear for my physical or emotional safety, and I know experiencing those fears would have changed me in fundamental ways beyond the range of my imagination. 

Abundance.

My husband is a good man. He works hard, respects women, and takes his responsibilities seriously. He models what is a good man to our daughters, so that they will understand at the cellular level that they are worthy of respect, honor, and love. Marriage is not easy, but the good outweighs the bad, and we love each more after 15 years than we did on our wedding day. 

Abundance.

 

I am part of a community full of friends eager to support and help when needed. People who worry, people who care, people who can be depended upon to offer what they can with cheerful spirit.

 

Abundance.

My children were born bright, beautiful, and healthy. I do not have to expend resources searching for specialists, schools, or doctors who can help them have a future. I don't worry about them beyond the everyday worries that all mothers experience. 

 

Abundance.

My college degree allowed me to find a job that guarantees a solid income and good benefits. I do not have to choose between staying home with a sick child or losing a day's wages. I do not have to wonder if I'm sick enough to justify the price of a visit to the doctor. I can do what is best for me and my family without worrying if my job will be waiting when I return.

Abundance.

Don't misunderstand. I really am thankful for these great gifts  in my life. Countless people in the world are just as deserving, but life simply hasn't been as kind to them.  Any small twist of fate could have- would have- changed where my family is today. So I find myself in the odd position of feeling  both undeserving and hopeful that my luck will continue. Abundance.

You Are Not So Special

Like mothers everywhere, I am secretly convinced my children are just a little bit more than other children.  A little bit more smart. A little bit more beautiful. A little bit more likely to grow up to be president, or winner of a Pulitzer, or the world's best mother.

But this is what I tell them: You are not so special.

You are not so special that your wants trump the needs of everyone else.
Sometimes (often, in fact) you will experience disappointment and must accept it with grace and understanding. Your wish for a new bike or game or whatever will take a backseat to your sister's need for a new coat and boots, because you, my dear child, live in a world of finite resources. Accept it early and you can avoid a lifetime of looking over your neighbors' shoulders to see if they have more, because it won't matter. You'll have enough.

You are not so special that you are absolved of responsibility for helping make the world a better place.
You have been blessed with the tools you need to create a good life- a warm house and nourishing food,  a loving family, and a quality education. But let's be clear that you did nothing to earn those things. It was an accident of birth, just the same as those born into poverty, dysfunction, and hopelessness. Your birth privilege requires you to work toward helping provide for those born under lesser circumstances. Donating your money and volunteering your time are requirements for you to live with gratitude. Speaking of gratitude...

You are not so special that you can afford to forgo gratitude for complaints.
The world will disappoint you. People will let you down, and the movie reel of dreams that runs through your head will often look nothing like the reality that comes to pass. But choosing to focus on those disappointments and complain about your circumstances rather than recognize the tremendous gifts of love and opportunity that surround you is simply not an option if you want to live a life of joy.

You are not so special that you can ignore your talents and expect them to grow.
Every talent, every skill needs your time and attention to grow and develop. Whether your  heart is fullest when you play the guitar, or look at the stars, or paint a landscape, you must nurture that love to give it a chance to make your life rich. Ignoring what you love in favor of earning money may help you earn a living, but if it's at the expense of feeding your soul the price is too high. Practice, practice, and practice again to give your talent a chance to play a meaningful role in your life.

You are not so special that you are not responsible for your own actions, decisions, and behaviors.
Do not explain away poor behavior by telling me what someone else did to earn it. You have no control over another person's choices, but you can control your own reactions and responses. Bad behavior on the part of another will never, ever, excuse yours. So don't even try.

You are not so special that you can avoid apologizing when you should.
Since you are human, you'll make mistakes. You will be jealous and judgmental and mean and small-minded. You will be sarcastic and dramatic and emotional and defensive. You will lie and twist the truth and overreact. And it will all be okay- as long as you apologize. Mistakes are forgivable, but refusing to acknowledge your mistakes will make it very difficult for people to see past your human foibles to that unique combination of qualities that make you your fabulous self. So when warranted, take a deep breath, open your mouth, and say, "I'm sorry." Don't worry- it will get easier with practice.

You are not so special that excuses will be accepted in place of action.
Listen, I know. Sometimes you just.don't.want.to. There are moments when you'll have to drag yourself kicking and screaming into whatever action is required of you at that time. Do it anyway. The world is a pretty smart place, and whatever excuse you'll come up with to justify your inaction will not  be met with the response you hope for. Trust me on this.

You are not so special that you can choose anything other than integrity to shape your days and guide your choices.
Tough choices await you. Sometimes the easy choice is the wrong one, so learn to listen to your heart and conscience and always, always choose with integrity.

You are not so special that the world owes you anything except the opportunity to forge a path through determination, hard work, and effort.
You have already won the lottery of life. (Remember the warm house, nourishing food, and quality education we've already discussed?) It's up to you, and you alone, to use those winnings to shape your future. You've been provided with the building blocks you need to step onto the path,  but your own effort will determine the direction that path takes. Work hard with gratitude in your heart, and life will reward you.

You are not so special that you can avoid forgiveness.
People are imperfect. Forgive them anyway. Holding on to anger and hurt will poison you far more profoundly than it will punish them. The most important person you ever forgive will be yourself, because the best relationship you nurture is with the person who stares back in the mirror. Forgive your own mistakes and imperfections, find balance, seek out joy, and you will live a life of meaning and love.

Lincoln

Powerful movie. Developing tension for a story in which the ending is no secret must pose a difficult challenge, and yet I watched with hope, sorrow, and true anticipation. For 150 minutes I really believed Daniel Day Lewis was Abraham Lincoln.

One scene in particular moved me, although not in the way you might expect. When the House of Representatives requires information from the president, a note is hastily scrawled  on a scrap of paper and a man literally runs from Congress to the White House to deliver it. The response is conducted in the same manner, and it occurred to me how much drama has been lost the world in these days of instant communication. Those moments of waiting, anticipating, hoping, are largely lost to us in these days of text messages, emails, and impatience.

There are exceptions, of course. The images of our current president and his cabinet watching the screen during the raid that ended with the death of Osama bin Laden are riveting. How many of us watched over and over, fascinated by the sheer energy in that room, wondering what it might have felt like to have a front row seat to history? Perhaps it held the interest of the population precisely because there are so few of them now, when network news anchors break stories even before the individuals involved know exactly what is the story.

Don’t misunderstand- I love my iPhone as much as the next guy. But there is power in recognizing the losses to our culture- our humanity, even- when the drama and tension in our lives is erased with a push of a button.

See Lincoln. You won’t regret it.

 

Her Voice

*This article was published in the Fall 2012 edition of Her Voice magazine.

"How was your trip?" The most dreaded question I faced upon my return. What was the right answer?  Wonderful? Horrible? Emotional? Exhausting? Exhilarating?

Yes.

Years ago, in the midst of the emotional turmoil of adolescence, I read The Diary of a Young Girl, Anne Frank's iconic diary, and developed a deep lifelong interest in a topic that most people find depressing at best, horrifying at worst. Yet I marveled at the humanity of a world tragedy that seethed with death, life, sorrow, joy. At the time I had no way of knowing that my chosen profession- teaching- would provide me with the opportunity to share the story of the Holocaust with hundreds- even thousands- of future students.

The chance to spend three weeks immersed in Holocaust study was irresistible. The program is subsidized by the American Gathering of Jewish Holocaust Survivors and Their Descendants, an organization encouraging educators to teach the Holocaust from the perspective of Jewish resistance, remembrance, and artifact study. On a steamy July morning I kissed my family goodbye and boarded the first of many flights that would take me from the bustle of Washington D.C, across the sweeping deserts and cramped streets of Israel, through the quiet hamlets and solemn memorials of Germany and Poland.

I wanted quotes, anecdotes, statistics- the flashy little facts that make adolescents sit up, pay attention, and connect to something beyond their own world. Something that, to them, is ancient history.

Instead, I got heartbreak. Daily tears, sorrow, and disbelief.

For me, the Holocaust became a story of women. Entire museums are devoted to remembering the men who made the fateful decisions and placed the orders that resulted in murder on a mass scale.  History books tell the stories of the men who led their countries in the fight against Hitler's tyranny. But we are missing the names of so many of the women who faced choiceless choices, made impossible decisions, and lived and died under the most heartbreaking of circumstances.

My goal, my mission, is to give voice to the woman who stood on a train platform and, recognizing the source of the smoke that rose unceasingly toward the sky, pushed her son toward the other line- the one that would give him a chance to live even as her own story was coming to an end.

Or the woman who saved her meager food rations for her children, knowing that shortening her own life was the only way to offer them a chance to live for a few more days, months, years until this nightmare would end.

Or the woman who opened her home to another mother's child in the hopes that one small life could be saved. Could she have imagined the agony of that mother who buttoned her child into a warm coat, placed a suitcase in impossibly small hands, and kissed a cheek, quite possibly- probably- for the last time before sending her very own heart into an unknown world with nothing but hope to guide her agonizing decision?

Those women, each one a small voice echoing among the millions and millions for whom the Holocaust became a part of their story, deserve for their stories to be told and celebrated. In the words of Maya Angelou, "History, despite its wrenching pain, cannot be unlived, however, if faced with courage, need not be lived again."

Now, decades later, many of the voices who lived to tell their stories are being lost to time.  Soon, the Holocaust will no longer exist in the memory of any man or woman alive. It is the fate, however, of mothers to remember. Who better than the givers of life and nurturers of body and spirit to celebrate the lives that were lost and the lives that were saved? To remember in quiet, singular ways and to remember in loud, public displays of grief, passion, despair. To understand that each woman and child had a voice that still calls out for solace and relief from a horror that is impossible to understand and impossible to reconcile with what we believe about human compassion.

During one of my last evenings in Jerusalem I strolled through a street filled with shops and restaurants that were just reopening after being closed for the Sabbath. Faintly, at first, I heard the strains of music, before it fairly bloomed into a joyful song as dozens of vibrant, happy teenagers literally sang their faith into the streets.  It was a joyous testament to the resilience of the human spirit.

I knew I would absorb an astounding amount of information and meet dedicated educators who would help me develop my skills in teaching this sensitive subject. I was supposed to become a better teacher, but I didn't know I would return a better wife, mother, daughter, friend, woman.

Lessons

A young woman died yesterday. I didn't know her well, but I did know her name, her face. The loss is not mine, really, but it's closer than those tragedies I read of in the newspaper. She woke up one morning healthy- loving her daughters, being loved by friends, family, her community. Today she is simply gone- erased from the earth but for the devastation her sudden death leaves behind.

We have all read those inspiring quotes about living each day as though it is the last, because one day it will be. We smile, nod at the truth of the words, then forget them mere moments later. We go about our lives, more focused on the irritations and aggravations than those simple moments of love and joy.

I wish I could say that this time will be different. That the lesson of this young woman's death will settle into my heart and remind me daily to celebrate more and complain less. Chances are, though, that soon this loss- once removed from my life- will fade into a sad memory, and with it the lessons that today seem so obvious, so real, so heartbreaking, will fade as well.

Today I hope the people who loved her, who can't comprehend that the story of their lives will continue without her to write on every page, find peace and acceptance in the midst of their grief.

Faith, Church, and Belonging

I went to church today. I realize that, for most people, this event would be barely worth noting. But my relationship with organized religion (religion in general, if I'm honest) has been nonexistent and complicated. But mostly nonexistent.

When I was eight or nine I asked my mom what religion I was. Her answer was concise, "Lutheran." Apparently that was enough for me, because I don't recall asking any follow-up questions. Other than a few experiences with Bible camp in the summer (thanks to well meaning family friends who were probably, looking back, concerned for my soul), my exposure to God was minimal. Having no real frame of reference I didn't really mind, although I do believe that somewhere in the dim recesses of my childhood brain I understood I was lacking a common awareness and experience that most people take for granted.

Fast forward through middle and high school, where a few classmates casually commented that I was probably destined for hell because I had never been baptized and didn't belong to a church.  Their asumption was that I was a non-believer, and who knows? Maybe they were right. I had no clear idea of what I believed. I did know that I could never believe in a God who sent people to hell because of the choices made for them by their parents, and my feelings toward people who did were dark, judgemental.

I was married in a church- my husband's. We baptized our daughters, mostly because he likes the traditions associated with the church. I felt nothing. It was just words- something I did because that is what people do. Signs of religious hypocrisy- hate, judgement, using God as a weapon- had convinced me that religion was something to be wary of and to avoid.

Like many parents, children changed my mind. Despite my own hesitation, I don't want my girls to feel the same unease with all things religious that I do. So we chose a church and signed them up for Sunday school and confirmation class.

While I doubt I will ever become devout, the service today was nice. The message- Success should be determined by service, not status- resonated. And the story of members of the congregation singing to a young woman dying of terminal cancer literally moved me to tears.

Perhaps I was wrong, all these years, to only notice the negative, the dark side of religious fervor. Perhaps I've found a place where the message of God is one of hope, light, and inclusion. One of tolerance, acceptance, and love. One where the shadows of hate, judgement, and exclusion can be chased away.  One where I belong.