Thank You, Again

I wrote and posted the piece below two years ago.  Doesn't seem like so much time has passed.  I feel the same way today, only stronger.  

I saw the video clip of the dog who mourned at the casket of his brave owner who gave his life protecting American freedoms, my freedoms.  It got me to thinking, again, about the price paid.

This is a special re-post to thank those in uniform who make it so I can go to the church of my choice on Sunday and worship as I please.  A thanks for letting me be an educated woman, free to read and speak as I choose.  A thanks for making a place where my sons can become men of honor wherever their talents and hearts take them.

I love being American.  I appreciate the price paid.

To my Uncle, retired Navy, my cousin, retired Marine, and the "kids" of mine who serve proudly today - thank you.

To those who go in when fire pushes everyone else out.  To those who lose countless hours of sleep trying to figure out who is selling drugs to the latest juvenile overdose victim.  To those who risk their lives to keep the peace.  To those who race off to the latest tragedy to try to save one more life today....

Thank you for taking care of us.  This planet doesn't hold enough to pay you.  

To the Police, Fire and Rescue professionals - thank you.
  
Pass it on.

Friday, September 11, 2009

September 11th - 8 years Later

I wasn't there. I didn't see the planes or smell the dust or hear the screams or the agnonizing silence.

Safely tucked away in the Midwest where nothing bad like that ever happens, I listened in horror. The radio newscaster's voice broke as he tried to relay information about unreal events. It sounded like a bad Hollywood movie, but it was real.

This time it wasn't Jerusalem or Belfast or Seoul. It was happening in our country. The United States of America.

Someone had the audacity to take advantage of our trust. The idea that everyone here from wherever they came could learn to become whoever they wanted to be.

No one expected that would mean that a would-be pilot would destroy instead of build.

Over the years I have spoken with New Yorkers about what this meant to them. They tell of their sorrow, who they knew, how they got out, where they were. They never tire of the telling and I'm grateful.

We can't forget this.

Not so we become angry, refusing to allow "foreigners" to learn new trades. Not so we become suspicious of everyone who looks like someone who might have been involved.

So we can be wary, alert, cautious and protect not only our country from this violence - but other countries as well.

This time it was New York City. It's true. How did we feel?

Many, many times in my lifetime it's has been Beirut, Kabul, Seoul, Belfast, Jersusalem. Lockerbie, Moscow. How do they feel?

What can we as human beings do to lessen the violence in our world? What would Jesus do?

Finding Loss

I have seen too much loss in the last couple of weeks.  Big losses.  Wake-up-and-think-about-them-again losses.  Nothing –you-can-do-to-change-it losses.

Life, mostly, but not only.

I have a friend who is getting a divorce.  I understand the good and bad that melt together in that season and it makes me sad.  I want to get her past those days into the next season.  The one where she will be re-building, re-identifying herself and her purpose.  I want her to get to the season where she feels good about herself again, full of confidence and hope.

But I can’t.  She is in the deleting season and it must be lived to get to the next place. 

So I pray and ask God to help her through.

I have another friend whose only child was diagnosed with leukemia and then gone in three weeks time.  Three long, life-filled, overwhelming weeks. 

The obituary would say some lovely words about his being a husband and father, perhaps make mention of his new, exciting business.  But there aren’t enough words to describe how much this man meant to his family.  He was healthy, strong, young just at the cusp of making a deep impression on the world.  And now he’s gone.  I have cried many tears for this young man and for his father, my friend.  I don’t understand why some things happen.  It makes me sad. 

So I pray for my friend and his family and hope they see God stringing the threads together to make them stronger.

The tragedy undermines the heaviness of the other sad news – my friend whose twins were born much too soon.  Struggling for life in a plastic cube an hour away from all of their family, they begin this life alone, together, and I pray for their miracles to build mountains for them.    On the same day, my son was diagnosed with a troublesome, bothersome, persistent condition that will complicate things for him when he least expects it. 

So I pray for them that they will see the gift and not the challenge of life.

Finally, a long time friend is found in his chair.   It had been two days since he was last seen.  Someone  wondered where he was and they found him, sleeping eternally.   

My writer’s mind seeks justice to bring balance.  Where is God?  What is this about?  What is He thinking?   My logical friends tell me God isn’t really real and I’m clutching straws.  Life happens and you just have to deal with it.  My education tells me to think it through, write it out, analyze it and set it on a shelf for someone else to think about, write about, analyze.

I have had difficult seasons before.  Closer than the one degree of separation of this season.  Maybe that’s why this sadness affects me more?  I am brought back to other, closer, sadder days.

This circle brings me back to my friend sleeping in his chair.  Funny, but I can’t imagine him sitting still.  I see him laughing with a bag of groceries in his hand, “I brought some breakfast.”  Eggs, potatoes, onions, butter.  Not very healthy, but very filling, especially when served with a little flirtatious teasing and a lot of compassion.   Stone soup perfected!

I see his youthful strength and confidence.  No fear.  No failure.  Somehow everything would work out allright.  Somehow, mostly, it did.  Unexpected kind words smoothed the dark days.   And laughter.  Wow… we laughed in those days.   Strains of Janis flitting in the background, living on the underside of poverty with nothing left to lose, we laughed. 

We talked much of God in those days.  Never doubting His presence, never doubting His grace.  Not quite sure about how to apply it and who He would accept, but sure in our knowledge that somehow He would make it allright.  He would figure it out.  And He did. 

Time, distance, more life separated my path from my sleeping friend, but the impressions remained.   What we have to give, we ought to give.  When we can share a kindness, we should.  Laughter does good, like a medicine.   Believe in Someone greater than yourself.  Trust Him, even when you can’t see Him.  Don’t be afraid to love.

I can’t solve the great theological debates to answer the question of where is God in bad days, but I know He is there.  His comfort surrounds me.  I pray my friends see Him, too, in their dark days.  I pray He is tangible to them and they know how much He loves them. 

I guess that’s really the writer’s answer to sad days.  We pray.

Oddly enough, when I pray, I see the immensely good things that God sends to bring me balance.  The flowers picked for me and the little gentlemen whose generosity is outshined only by their shy smiles.  The tender touch of angelbabies who just want to be held.  The co-workers laughing in complicity over nothing.  The warmth of the sun kissing my skin on a perfect summer walk.

Life is life and we just simply must live it.  Good and bad jumbled together.

Wanted: Lost Words

I’m not sure where my words went.  Have you seen them?  I figured they would inundate me the moment I walked across the stage and got that long awaited diploma cover.   I half-expected them to jump out of the rose bushes in the English Garden during my last stroll.

But they didn’t.

They are frighteningly quiet.

Well, I shouldn’t say frighteningly or completely quiet. 

I have heard some whispers in the distance.

Sappy, syrupy, sashaying phrases tripping over the clouds and whisping away in the wind.

But I don’t want those words.

And I don’t want the sad ones, either.  You know, the ones tucked away in the drawer of memories.  I take them out when I want to cry, but I’m so sick of crying.

I need a little laughter and so I’m looking for the guffawing words.

But I don’t know where they went.

It’s not like I don’t have any laughter or funny events or things that make me smile.

I seem to have a plethora.

I mean, have you ever spent ten minutes with Anna the Angelbaby?  Oh my word!  That girl is guaranteed to make you smile.  She is five now, you know, and so she can go to choir, be in children’s church and say stinkin’.   

Just like her brother.  Who is six.  Which makes him every much older.  He graduated, too, you know.  From kindergarten.  He’s kind of a big deal.   He plays baseball and got a homerun.  That will make any Bapka smile.  Broadly.

Don’t even get me started on Arthur and his tendency to pick and choose the people he wants to populate his world.  “He is not my friend.”  Not haughty, just definite.  If you wear the Arthur Stamp of Approval, you are kind of a big deal.  

Eli just smiles.  All the time.  At everything.  And hugs so gently and sweetly it has to make you smile.

See?  Now you're smiling and I've only talked about my angelbabies.  I have kids, too, you know.  Those boys of mine are crazy!  Forever up to something.  Graduation Day, for example.  Full of pomp and circumstance.  I wanted a nice picture, a formal picture, before the green doors of the chapel.  Famous, pompous green doors, by the way.  

"Sit up there, Mom," says the younger.

I do, of course.  Trying to be dignified with the cap and gown and diploma cover.  It was a little breezy.  The breeze caught the gown and let's just say it was a moment Marilyn Monroe would have been proud of.

Do you know what those sensitive, caring, wonderful little boys of mine said?  "I got that one.  We'll keep it for the funeral."

Which, of course, made me laugh.  The things they say crack me up.  Maybe it's only me, but I think they totally have the Ewend sense of humor down to a science.

There is an abundance of pleasantness in my world.

The happy, silly, giddy words just don’t seem to apply.

Maybe the problem isn’t that there aren’t any happy words, but they are so scattered across the landscape I can’t seem to capture them.  Like a Monet, they cannot be appreciated when viewed too closely. They dot together in random patterns seemingly nonsensical until you take a step back.  Then, yes, then, the masterpiece is revealed!  

The sunny days in the field with casual conversation about cows and poppies; the common threads of children and work and life shuffling through the papers at work; the vitamin D soaking, park bench sitting, stranger listening nights along the river; the colored pictures and snapshots freezing moments all lumped together make a veritable wildflower field of words. 

Not of a particular event, but of many.  Not of a specific person, but of many.  Not one memory, but many.  That’s where the words are hiding. 

Hey, thanks for helping me find the words again.  I thought for a moment I had writer’s block.

About my Dad

It's been awhile since I've sat still long enough to write.

Truth be told, I just don't have the gumption to write about the next logical piece.  I've graduated and I need to write about that.  However, the Week-End Class schedule at St. Kate's keeps us as students for a bit after the ceremony.  I'm not really "done" until June 25, 2011.  I am relishing each moment.  Stretching out the experience, the friendships, the connections, the safety of being a student for as long as I can.

I thought I would write about my Grandpa today.  It's Father's Day and I haven't really written publicly about him.  You ought to know him.  He was a wonderful, wonderful man.  And I don't just say that because he spoiled me, took me everywhere, taught me to read, chased butterflies for me, squished bugs on my behalf and loved me absolutely.

Others will tell you the same about him.  He was amazingly compassionate.

But I find myself not able to write about him, yet, either.  I hold the treasure of his memory closely, jealously against the day the words won't stay.

Why am I bothering you, then?  Well, I thought I ought to touch your life in some small way lest you leave me for another blogger.  I do want to keep your attention.  I just am not publicly writing now.  The words are all together full these days and can't just be randomly thrown into the universe.  They require protection, still.  I will share them when they are grown words.  I promise.

But not today.  Today I am re-posting a couple of prior pieces.  They are also both in the Book of Pages About Crossing Bridges.  If you like them, you might like the Book.  Honestly.  People do.  Which always surprises me some.

In any event, here are links to the pieces written for and about my Dad:  Daddy's Hands and Before I Know It.

I hope you enjoy them.  Happy Father's Day to all the dads and all the grandpas and all the men who love like dads. 


Daddy's Hands   Daddy's Hands

Before I Know It    Before I Know It


The Book of Pages About Crossing Bridges can be purchased through the EStore at:  krisanewman.webs.com.  If you would like a signed copy, please e-mail me at newkris@yahoo.com with your contact information. 


If you like this blog, I think you will like the book.  


Blessings galore!  Kris

One Week Before the Beginning

Today is a writing day.

Sometimes I can hardly sleep for the words push and play and demand my expression.  Today is one of those days.

I’m going to graduate from college next week. I really am.  I have the gown, the tassel , the yellow chord, the guest tickets.  It’s real.

I remember clearly two events leading to this day.

First, my daughter-in-law’s voice saying, “John says it’s his fault that you didn’t go to college.”  Fault?  Interesting choice of words. 

It’s true I didn’t go at 18 because I had to take care of us.   In those days, when you aged out of foster care you simply aged out.  It was up to your parents or foster parents to send you to college and mine couldn’t. The concept of After Care for foster kids was many years away when I turned 18.

Besides, I was pregnant.  I had made my life choices and I chose to give life.  I never, ever regretted that decision. But it complicated things for me.  Rent and food and childcare stood between me and course catalogs.

College for me was an impractical dream lived by other people.

Time and life flew by.  We made do and God provided in amazing ways.

Then came the day I sat in my son’s kitchen and listened to his wife tell me how responsible he felt that I hadn’t done what I always wanted to do.

“I’m not dead yet.”  Was my answer and the gauntlet was thrown.

I was 39 years old.  I was a legal secretary and worked part-time at Milwaukee Area Technical College.   I knew adults went back to school all the time.  I could easily join their ranks.  Like my father before me, I looked at the peers which might be mine and I feared failing before them.

Kind people told me I was capable, but what if I wasn’t?  What if I failed?  What if I embarrassed my Grandma’s memory by finishing short? 

Fear of failure was the hardest obstacle.

I had certain, particular friends at that time who unknowingly encouraged me. 

A simple phrase spoken by someone whose opinion I held highly, “I keep forgetting you don’t have a degree already.  You know so much about literature.” 

And another, “You should work on getting published.  You’re good enough.”

“You would blow them out of the water!”

Block by block, word by word, their words built me up until I could see over the fear and I started cautiously down the road.

The second memory, the one which pushed me above the fear, makes me smile to this day.  I was having lunch with my boss on a beautiful fall day.  I told him I was going to start taking classes.  I needed him to know I didn’t plan to stay where I was, I wanted to be more than a secretary at some point in my life.

He looked farther beyond than I was dreaming.  “Well, I know a lot of people who went to law school after having a full career somewhere else.  You would make a great lawyer.  I think you can do this.”

 “One level at a time,” I laughed, “I don’t want to be a lawyer anyway. “  But his confidence in my ability so far beyond my dream pushed me over the fear of failure.  If he thought I could finish grad school, then surely I could graduate from undergrad!

So many seasons have come and gone in the last six years. 

Mavrik was only a few months old when I started this journey, and now he is graduating from kindergarten – a boy who can read and run and loves the world unabashedly.  Anna, Arthur and Eli have been added to our clan - tangible reminders of God’s plans larger than our own.

Johnathon, my first son, and his wife have matured into leaders and parents who give more than they take from the world around them.

Thi, the younger, graduated from high school, expanded music and ministry learning with his college, and is now a youth pastor sharing grace with those set in his path.

I have moved from city to small town traveling between married and divorced, legal assistant to educator and back again, skirting the line of plenty and poverty.  Names have been added and deleted from the list of those called “family” through birth and death and weaving of life’s story.

The blog, the book, the acceptance of my words and voice have given me a new identity.

I am not the same woman who sat in my son’s kitchen tantalized by the unlived dream. I am a writer.  My expansive life experiences have given me something to share with those who come behind me. I am a stronger, more compassionate, quieter version of the woman who started this journey.

Next week I will walk across the stage with my robe and tassel and chord ready to begin the rest of the story.

Blogs and More Blogs

This blog is about a blog.  Well, actually it's about a blog about this blogger.

Some of you may know I have written many times in the past for an e-zine called ninetyandnine.com.  Based out of St. Louis, MO, 90&9 started as a connection point for Christians to share information and creativity with other like minded Christians.  There were short stories, reviews of various media, devotions, poems and all sorts of other "stuff."

I have written for them quite a bit over the years.  The Tolstoy review is there and so is the Mitch Albom book reviews and, of course, the review of Hope's Boy.  Some interviews, too, with some friends enjoying their 15 minutes of fame.

And now my own 15 minutes is ticking away.

Lee Ann Alexander, a writer and literary expert in her own right, writes about me.  I am very honored.

And since you are my readers, I share the link with you.

Toast to the good days!

It's a new season.  I do declare, winter has come to an end!

NinetyandNine Interview with Lee Ann Alexander is found here: http://www.ninetyandnineword.blogspot.com/

Only Just Begun

Music and other sounds play behind the 48 hours I spent in St. Louis last week-end. Jets’ chatter, voices clattering and laughter tinkling like sunshine.

And music.

A worker hums along one hallway while another sings softly as they push their brooms and dust rags. Their harmony hastening the timeclock, smoothing the drudgery.

A smiling voice greets me at the end of the journey’s first leg, “I’m here! In the white car. I see you!”

Accommodating a tired traveler, refreshing with genuineness. Whisked to the wedding where pictures were prominently promenading causing guests to stroll down memory lane. Snatches of time full of love and promise, white lace and kisses for luck. A reminder that dancing in the mine fields can end in strength. Faith, it appears, is a major foundational component to win this dance.

The ceremony begins with a tradition continued. Family memories caried on the straings of a song. A reminder that though some have gone before, some yet remain. True, pure voices touch my soul.

I pondered the men standing before me – the groom and groomsmen – I know them all, well.

I watched most of them grow from small to tall, learning to stretch their wings, choosing paths. “I’m going to college. “ “I want to learn this language, to use it to affect the world.” “I plan to let God use my music.”

The great debut moments: Junior Camp Band, First Time Song Leaders, bow ties.

And laughter.

So very, very much laughter. All the tears feel less lonely shared with those whose laughter keeps us all from falling apart.

Well, laughter and prayer. How many hours have these men joined in prayer as a bastion protecting one another, building up walls of faith to support, surround, cover one another?  The unleared mayhap cannot discern it, but I know some of the difficult days these men have seen. I remember the day Saul’s anger turned. The day Absalom’s jealousy overtook his loyalty. Events that cut to the quick and lay bare foundations. Comfort and peace replaced by deep sadness. I saw the wind blow fiercely pushing the chaff away from the stalk.

Yet, together, these men stand, strong.

I am so proud to know them.

As this day continued to tell its story, I learned I was not in St. Louis for only a wedding, as incredible as that was to me. I found myself immersed in conversations, particular, with two of the women of these men. The first wives, the examples. Those allowed into the circle, those who stand behind and with them. As one of the mothers, it is fitting I would share time with the wives on this day when another was added to their ranks. It’s what women do.

The whirlwind stopped as we chatted. We talked first of these men. Sharing experiences, stories, common bonds and then crossed the chasm to ourselves. Our dreams. Our ideas. Our plans. Our hearts opening before the other over a piece of cake and snacks of strawberries and homemade whip cream. Like hummus on chips, we dipped into one another’s lives.

The songs of the workers, the music traditions at the ceremony, and the musical conversation wasn’t all the music of this week-end, however. After all was said and done and everyone was where they should be next, a gathering spontaneously grew in the hotel lobby. Tables and chairs moved and arranged for a haphazard stage.

Have you ever been to a symphony? If you’re early enough, you hear them tuning their instruments. It sounds disjointed, a cacophony of sound confusedly babbling without purpose. Then, suddenly, a tap-tap-tap as the conductor draws their attention and smoothes the rough edges and united music fills the air.

I saw that in the lobby that night.

Youngest cousin first on the violin. Proudly smiling, deeply bowing, sharing his beginning talent with the world. A showman through and through looking for audience approval.

He gave the stage to his older brother, then. Shyly, uncertain his voice and guitar awkward at first until he forgot we were there and began to play for an audience of One. Clean sound from a beautiful soul resonated with innocence. Amazing grace! How sweet the sound. Sensitivity revealing an artist at the beginning of his life’s canvas.

Older cousins took the floor next. Sharing their more polished, perfected talents. Humble confidence mixed with anointing. The artist traded the stage, but his eyes held raptly to the older player’s hands. Watching every chord, every nuance, recording them with his moving fingers.

I looked around me and considered the richness of this family. Generations of music flowed through their veins. Open faces sharing His grace, the wonder of His blessings.

The day came to a close, but the time wasn’t full. Sunday began with praise music in the cab, friendly laughter exchanged through the airport, a friendship sparked and grateful reflections.

When at last I lay my weary self down I can hear the songs still. The score of this 48 hours will long play in my heart.