Tag: #reflections

I and Thou: The Labor of a Shell

Do you ever wonder about seashells? How they form? How critical they are to our environment? After reading a few articles, seashells are very important. They are mostly calcium with a sprinkle of protein and form from mollusks. Who knew? In fact, they are so vital that it is against the law in some countries to remove them from the ocean. When I think of a seashell, I can imagine the length of refining it took for what it became rather than how it began. And that sure sounds like labor.

A friend recently posted on lifelong labor, retirement, and the meaning of life. It was a great post – so feel free to check it out.

https://www.facebook.com/robertmullinswrites

Photo Credit: Carol Leigh, “South African Turban Shell” fineartamerica.com

I commented “life is about finding meaning and the worth of existence. The word retirement needs to be thrown out the window and replaced with refocusment (I made the word up) or, perhaps even better, refinement?“

Which got me thinking about what refinement might look like. Could it possibly be the process of discovering ourselves in the bigger scheme of existence in relationship to others? If we put others first, a basic tenet of Christianity, perhaps labor would feel less like labor.

As I muddled through life, I performed an array of odd “labor.” I cut lawns, lifeguarded, and babysat so I could pay college tuition. I worked at a sporting goods store for three years too. Then, I was lucky enough to earn a college degree and start my first full-time professional job. What they didn’t teach in college was that a degree in psychology and working in education would never afford you to have any real discretionary income. But it was enough to provide food and shelter. Then, I found my knight in shining armor, or so I thought.

I had been blessed as a stay-at-home mom for nearly ten years while I raised my two boys. Most honest parents will tell you that raising kids is no picnic. But not having to dress in a corporate suit and wear heels every day was lovely. Then, I hit a rough patch of another ten years where it seemed that working was all I was doing. It sure sounded like Joseph telling the Pharoah that seven years of famine would follow seven years of abundance. (Genesis 41). I worked at a grocery store and taught pre-school to pay bills and have food on the table. At the same time, I was trying to launch a consulting firm. I did manage (by the grace of God) to pick up a few consulting gigs at fascinating places – and the best part? I didn’t have to wear heels. And then the money started to flow. My college degrees were finally paying off. I can’t imagine people who have to work to survive over the long haul.

During this almost penniless, having three dollars and forty-three cents to my name timeframe, I had to work with little time to refine. Yet perhaps that whole time spent piecing together four part-time gigs was part of the refining process. I certainly would not be the person I am today; had I not had the experience of being thrown down into a deep dark tunnel only to climb myself out of it with the help of others. Not that I wish that experience on anyone, but it was undoubtedly a testimony to my grit.

It took a village to support and encourage me to take a leap of faith—a leap to Arkansas, where I found peace and my tribe. And, if you are being pulled in a specific direction – take the leap of faith! I miss my tribe dearly – but I know they are all within me and part of the refining process. Kind of like the shell, taking years to form from cells, calcium, and proteins floating in the ocean. Yes, it takes a village; sometimes, it is one person, and at other times, it may be many people. What does your village look like?

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I and Thou: Knock, Knock

Knock, Knock

Crying out to the Lord,
Where are you, Sir?

The Lord of the universe,
Hello, anybody out there?

Crying out again to the Lord,
Why must I suffer this profound loss?

Bowing head in reverence,
Asking to change hearts and minds.

The Lord of the universe,
Where are you, Sir?

Are you listening?
Can you hear me screaming?

Anguish, hallow, pit,
Drip, drip, drip.

Insides swirling and twirling,
Lamenting, questioning – a crisis of faith.

Don’t you care?
Where are you, Sir?

“My child, you are most precious to me,
I am right here, beside you.“

“Go ahead and put your head on my shoulder,
It is okay to cry and be heartbroken.“

And, in all of this deep despair,
A gentle voice whispers, “I love you.”

Graphic Credit: The Perseus Galaxy Cluster greatbigcanvas.com

I and Thou: A Father’s Day Tribute

Father’s Day Tribute

Caption:  Even though I grew up with the expectation that I would have to fend for myself, I saw a rare moment when my Dad was a bit sad at letting go of his youngest little girl.

Photo Credit: Lucinda Photography

Because there are gaps in the ages of my siblings, we each have very different memories of our parents.

Dad – The Music Man

The fondest memories I have of my dad involved his love of music. He sang in the church choir for decades. Even sang solos! He also played several instruments. The sweetest picture I have embedded in my mind is him playing his mandolin for my almost 1-year-old son. My son’s face shone as he lovingly looked at his grandfather, and my dad was beaming as he played. My dad played by ear. He played the piano. The organ. The banjo. The harmonica. And the mandolin. I’m pretty sure he passed on his good singing and music talent genes to both of my sons. My oldest played trombone, and my youngest played saxophone. Each also sang in the church children’s choir for many years.

My Dad taught me some people have the gift and talent of music, and some do not.

Although I love to sing – I have been told I am in the “not gifted and talented” camp. Oh well, I still sing loudly and proudly and off-key.

Dad – The Putterer (Is that even a word?)

My father was a putterer. He puttered around the house most of the time. Except in the evenings, he would sit on the floor, lean against the couch, and watch animal shows or the World Series. He was not much of a sports guy, yet he enjoyed watching baseball and would root for the team that played the best. It was never a “this team” or “that team” sort of thing. It was what team was the most strategic and played well.

I learned from my Dad that playing the game is more important than winning or losing.

Dad – The Master Camper

Camping was my dad’s favorite thing to do in the whole wide world. It still gives me the willies. I don’t care for bugs, dirt, being dirty, or not having a bathroom nearby. Camping was not my thing. Growing up, we all endured week-long camping adventures each year. We usually didn’t go too far – my dad wanted to escape from the smog and sounds of everyday life in suburban New Jersey. So, our usual jaunts were New York state and Pennsylvania.

Before “aging” out of this family ritual, our last adventures were in a campground named Scot Run in PA. A few years ago, I visited the campground, and even though it was now a “members only” sort of place, the kind lady allowed me to drive around for posterity’s sake.

My Dad taught me how camping is for some people, not others, and definitely not for me!

Dad – The Peacemaker

Peace, at all costs, was the name of the game growing up. If we were mad or angry, we had to keep it to ourselves. No loud voices, no yelling, no calling names. Simple rules. Maybe not so simple. In adulthood, I learned that sweeping emotions under the rug is not the way to go.

Growing up in this peace-at-all-cost mentality did not prepare me for real people who get angry and yell.

It took me years to figure out that conflict can be helpful. Who knew?

Dad – The Chef

Last month, I promised to fill you in on my dad’s role as Chef when he retired. When he retired, he took over the meal prep and execution and was surprisingly creative. He would go into the cupboards, see what was there and work with whatever he could find. Rice Krispies? Sure – he would throw them in a stew or use them as batter for fish. Nuts? Sure – we can throw them in too! Cheerios? Sure – Mash them with potatoes. Spices? If he didn’t know which one – he would use them all. Most of the time, the meals were tasty and colorful, unlike my mom’s typically gray and overcooked meals.

My Dad’s culinary skills brushed off on me and he taught me to experiment and not be afraid of mixing odd ingredients.

In my cooking, I try to balance the plate through color. For example, orange, green, blue, and red would be sweet potatoes, peas, blueberries, apples, and fish or chicken. Just the other day, I used cornflakes as a batter for fish.

Dad – The Pie Maker

Now onto pie-making. Pumpkin pie, apple pie, and lemon meringue pie. Since my dad was the baker of the house, the holidays were filled with various yummy homemade pies, and he also would make the obligatory Fruit Cake each year. Seriously – my dad was a great pie maker. Fruit cake? Not so much! I learned that pie-making requires a skill set that I don’t have. Baking neither. And that’s okay – I’ll stick to gourmet cooking! By the way, Sprouts has the best vegan cupcakes!

Dad – The Tool Man

Dad had an elaborate workbench and toolset in the basement. He could bend the aluminum. Use a vice, cut wood with an electric sander, paint a door on horses, and use his power tools, including a drill press. He seemed to have lots of tools and knew how to use them for odd jobs around the house. He was the consummate jack of all trades – handyman and overall jerry rigger. Why spend money on a specific item for a particular purpose when you can make one yourself and have to go buy parts that were more expensive than the item you needed anyway?

Growing up with a fixer Dad, I learned to hire professionals who are experts in their field.

Dad – The Consummate Driver

Drive to the comfort of your passenger was my father’s mantra. When he was driving, which was most of the time, he would routinely ask if you were comfortable. Which seems to be a bit comical because we didn’t have air conditioning, and he didn’t like the windows opened because he might get a draft leading to a stiff neck. Hmm.

Like my Dad, I ask my passengers if they are comfortable as well. 

Speaking of driving, I remember my sister driving (my dad’s car) and hitting a guard rail in a rainstorm because the tires were threadbare. This incident taught me to maintain my vehicle regularly by scheduling maintenance visits with the car dealer according to the manufacturer’s recommendations because they are the experts!

When driving, if my dad saw a person he knew walking on the street, he would pull over, roll down his window, and ask if they would like a ride. He would say,

 “God gave me this car, and I need to offer rides to others who don’t have one.” It was a nice gesture. I’m not sure if anyone ever took him up on his offers.

Dad – The Christian Guy

My dad had quite a black-and-white view of Christianity. You were either “in” or “out.” There was no room for any gray areas. He grew up Presbyterian and somewhere along the way figured out it was not “Christian enough.” In his early years of marriage, he, my mom, and my older brother attended a church, and when they moved, they attended another similar “fire and brimstone” church. The second minister seemed to have filled their minds with an orthodox type of belief. No playing cards. No dancing. No make-up. No alcohol. If you did not believe 100% the way they did – you were not worthy and doomed to hell. When my brother was a teenager, he started attending a non-denominational church with much more lenient views much closer to home. That very same non-denominational church is the church I grew up in.

A sandwich, an apple, and a bible in a lunchbox. This is what he brought to work each day. He used his lunch hour for a “devotion” time where he would read and pray. He believed the bible’s every word as gospel, even the parts that make no logical sense. It certainly would have been interesting to witness his life at the turn of the new century. He left this earth in 1994. His steadfastness is what impacted me the most.

I learned that faith is an everyday affair, and I am truly grateful for the love of God that my Dad instilled in me.

Dad – The Blue-Collar Worker

My father was a typical father of the ’60s and ’70s. He was a blue-collar worker and worked hard for an honest day’s pay. He had quirky theology both about religion and labor unions. In retrospect, this makes perfect sense to me since he was never a member of anything. He would probably say he was a member of God’s army. And that was all. He was not an official church member – although he attended more regularly than any member ever could. He would not join the labor union, the Masons, or any other organized structure. Not sure where any of this thinking came from – I’m assuming God, of course! I also believe he would have been much happier being a priest or a monk. 

Father’s Day is a day to honor all the dads who worked hard to support their families, trying their darndest.

Dads are not perfect.

Not my dad.

Not his dad.

And certainly not my children’s dad.

Today, I honor my dad. The father of four children – each one with significantly different perspectives.

(or, maybe not so much?)

He was by no means perfect. He was not the warm and fuzzy type. And I know he did the best he could and made the best decisions for himself and his family at the time. I wish I had been closer to my dad even though we were cut from different cloths.

So, go ahead. Call YOUR father and wish him a

HAPPY FATHER’S DAY!

One day, he might not be on this earth to pick up the phone.

Call to Action: Share, Like, Follow, Comment. I would love to know what you learned from your father.

I and Thou: A Mother’s Day Tribute

Mother’s Day Tribute

Photo Credit: Bob Walton

Caption: My Mother and I didn’t always see eye to eye, but every once in a while, we did!

Because there are gaps in the ages of my siblings, we each have very different memories of our parents – especially our mother!

The fondest memories of my mom were the daily emails through AOL Prodigy (way before social media), in the middle of the night in my early thirties, after giving birth to my first newborn son. My mother was right on the other side of the computer or the phone. As a new mom, I had loads of questions, and I just needed someone to talk to. Any time.

Night or Day.

Faithful.

Loyal.

Kind.

Loving.

I used to keep those emails in a big black binder. I sure wish I had them now.

My mom taught me the importance of two-way communication.

Growing up, my mother happily went along with whatever “career” I was pursuing at the time. She did not lead me in any one direction – in fact, I felt like a fish out of water several times. I wanted to be a missionary. Then, an accountant, physical therapist, public relations specialist, and then a human resources administrator. My mother accepted me for who I was, except, of course, my hair. She did not like how I did my hair – no matter how I styled it. But that was okay – I learned to ignore it.

My mom taught me to love myself and my hair no matter what people say. (Especially her!)


I also remember not-so-great things. One time, Mom said I could not have a Jewish person for my best friend. That was when I was five years old. Then, a few years later, maybe 10 years old, she said I could not have a Catholic girl for my best friend. At the time, I couldn’t really argue with her, but something inside of me thought it was pretty odd.

My mom taught me that her Christianity was flawed. Love one another, but only those who look like us and believe like us – I didn’t buy it.


I began to realize then that religion and faith were very different. Were we really reading the same Bible? Were we really attending the same Church? It was so strange that my family seemed so different from the other families who attended our non-denominational Church. Anyway, I am grateful that my mother raised me in faith and supported my faith walk even though she always tried to convert me to her way of thinking. Toward the end of her life, she became more accepting and even supported my nieces who had gay friends. That was an enormous change in mindset for my mom, and for that, I am grateful.

My mom taught me that wisdom is truly gained as we age.


My mother and father dragged us to Church, kicking and screaming each Sunday. It was miserable. But, sometimes, I actually liked going to Church. I remember in 7th grade getting up at 6 a.m. in the morning to attend a bible study at 7:00 a.m. in the summer. My parents supported anything “Christian,” except a car ride at 7:00 a.m., so – off I went and rode my bike to Church.

My mom taught me perseverance.


Growing up – our meals were primarily gray. My mother was the type of mother who tried to cook but wasn’t any good at it. She seemed to love using a pressure cooker where the round steel top would blow off every once in a while, causing quite an explosion. Once my dad retired, he because the Chef of the house – and boy, was he ever creative! I laughed. It was funny. (I promise to fill you in next month for Father’s Day.)

My mother’s hatred of cooking taught me to fall in love with it and led me to experiment and be colorful and creative when cooking.


Another virtue that I admired in my mother was her encouragement of my physical activity. It would seem quite normal for most people, but you didn’t know my mom. She hated physical activity. She once told me how she hated the gym when she went to high school. I loved it.

I’m really grateful that my mom supported my running track in high school and my first two years in college.

Ah, high school. My mother did not really push me at all academically. In fact, she didn’t want me to work as hard as my older sister did. In a weird way, I felt as though she favored my sister over me. Again, mothers are not perfect. I could never compete with my sister, who seemed to be the most intelligent person in the whole wide world, and that was okay. God makes us all different and unique.

I learned that I had to work really hard to earn my grades. It did not come naturally to me at all. My mom taught me how to motivate myself.

I remember riding my bike everywhere. Even on Route 46 from Clifton to Totowa. Looking back, I was quite a risk-taker. Danger didn’t compute with me at all – probably because I had a deep faith realizing that when my ticket was up – it was up – no matter what I did or didn’t do. I learned to trust God and PRAY when crossing significant highways on a purple bicycle I bought myself.

Mother’s Day is a day to honor all the moms who have nurtured a child or spent time trying their darndest.

Moms are not perfect.

Not my mom.

Not her mom.

And, certainly not ME!

Today, I honor my mom. The mother of four children – each child seemingly having a different mother. She was by no means perfect. And I know she did the best she could and made the best decisions for her and her family at the time. She was a constant in my life. The good and the bad. She was my confidant. She was the one I called at 2:00 a.m. when I just felt overwhelmed as a new mom myself.

So, go ahead. Call YOUR mother and wish her a HAPPY MOTHER’S DAY!

One day, she might not be on this earth to answer your call.

Call to Action: Share, Like, Follow, Comment. I would love to know what you learned from your mother.

I and Thou: Happy Passover!

Image credit: wearehebrew.com

     17 After taking the cup, he gave thanks and said, “Take this and divide it among you. 18 For I tell you I will not drink again from the fruit of the vine until the kingdom of God comes.” 19 And he took bread, gave thanks and broke it, and gave it to them, saying, “This is my body given for you; do this in remembrance of me.”  20 In the same way, after the supper he took the cup, saying, “This cup is the new covenant in my blood, which is poured out for you.21 But the hand of him who is going to betray me is with mine on the table. 22 The Son of Man will go as it has been decreed. But woe to that man who betrays him!” 23 They began to question among themselves which of them it might be who would do this… 47 While he was still speaking a crowd came up, and the man who was called Judas, one of the Twelve, was leading them. He approached Jesus to kiss him, 48 but Jesus asked him, “Judas, are you betraying the Son of Man with a kiss?”  

Luke 22:17-23 & 47-49

Thought:  In this game-changer passage, Jesus takes the annual ritual of Passover and turns it upside down.  It is here in this story; we learn that the kiss of betrayal leads to the declaration that Jesus is the sacrificial lamb of Passover.   Passover is a celebration of the Angel of Death, passing over the Israelites, who had placed the blood from a sacrificial lamb upon their doorways to keep their families safe.  It is about the plagues set upon Pharaoh and the Egyptians.

12 “On that same night I will pass through Egypt and strike down every firstborn of both people and animals, and I will bring judgment on all the gods of Egypt. I am the Lord. 13 The blood will be a sign for you on the houses where you are, and when I see the blood, I will pass over you. No destructive plague will touch you when I strike Egypt.

Exodus 12:12

In Exodus 12:14, this is a day you are to commemorate; for the generations to come you shall celebrate it as a festival to the Lord—a lasting ordinance. In Luke, Peter and John, two of Jesus’ disciples, prepare the Passover meal.  Christians call this the Last Supper.  It is here that Jesus blesses the elements of Passover and creates a new covenant, thus transitioning Passover to the Last Supper.  Jesus proclaims He is the Lamb, His body – the bread and His blood – the wine.  No longer will God’s chosen people have to sacrifice a lamb for the forgiveness of sins.  Right here, Jesus is announcing his death to come, and He is the lamb sacrifice for the sins of humanity.    Thanks be to God. Happy Passover!