Month: December 2020

The Christmas star has come for the first time in 800 years. The same phenomenon that guided the three wise men to the manger where the baby Jesus lay has shone above us in a hopeful moment of this year of turmoil and death. Over two thousand years later we still pause each year to remember and celebrate the birth of Jesus of Nazareth, a prophet who would teach us how to live and then sacrifice his own life to save us from our sins. The convergence of planets that heralded a great event on that night of long ago is a reminder of the example and lessons that Jesus gave us. If we are willing to stop our bickering long enough to ponder his words and his actions perhaps we may find a way to heal our souls even as we seek ways to prevent more suffering and death from Covid-19.

I am a Catholic, a Christian, a believer in the miracle of Jesus for he was indeed the way, the truth and the light. His ideas need not be linked only with religious institutions. His teachings are universal and capable of transforming the entire world into a place of peace and love if we humans are willing to accept his guidance in its purest form. Put quite simply he told us over and over again that there need only be one rule and that is to love one another just as we would want others to love us. 

Jesus spurned many of the edicts of his time, both political and religious, in favor of the unconditional love of which he often spoke. He showed us that people were more important than power and titles. He healed on the Sabbath, fed the poor, embraced the lepers, He lived a simple life and asked his followers to do so as well. He loved Samaritans and tax collectors and outcasts equally and without judgement. When the elders of his Jewish faith clucked their tongues at his flaunting of their laws he reminded them that his new way of living in peace and harmony was a way of embracing all people at all times. He performed miracles not for his own benefit or power but always to help those who were suffering.

Christmas Even will be quiet for most of us this year. Many will be alone with the members of their households rather than partying with large groups. We will have the time to meditate on what the life of Jesus really meant for humankind. We will be able to consider ways that each of us might be more like him, without self righteousness or control. If we walk beside him in our hearts surely we will see that our goal for the coming year should be to be compassionate and loving even toward those whom we do not understand. 

I have often considered how wonderful it would be to sit next to Jesus for an hour. There are so many questions that I would like to ask him. I want to know if he thinks that we are following his word the way he wanted or if we have distorted his views to fit our own. I would like to hear his ideas of how he really wants us to live. I would ask him who the best examples of his teaching are in today’s world. I would want to find out how he thinks we have done things right and how we should change. I would sit quietly and listen to the greatest teacher of all time and attempt to learn from him. I would want him to be honest about what my personal responsibilities should be. It would be a blessed and enlightening time.

I sometimes compare myself to the apostle Thomas. I am curious but also wary. I question everything and require proof before accepting theories. I have a difficult time following someone or some idea wholeheartedly but when I strip down the story of the life of Jesus it seems so apparent to me that he kept things simple, not complex. We humans are the ones who have taken his word and turned it into ceremonies and rules and divisions that separate us from one another. His way was organic and beautiful. It needed nothing more than his gentleness and understanding. Sadly we often forget that.

On this day read of the humble beginnings of Jesus of Nazareth. Meditate on his life and his teachings. Think of what they really told us and then pledge to live like him, not from inside a church building or sets of rules that exclude or indict others but from a spreading of love to everyone that you encounter. That is what happened on that night in Bethlehem in the long ago when the Christmas star shone over a manger where two simple people welcomed their son. Love was born and his name was Jesus. The world rejoices that he came to show us how to live. Now it is time to follow his example and spread the love.

I’ve stayed home for so long that I feel like someone being let out jail for the weekend whenever I ride around in my car. I’ve found one store that is small and rarely has many people where I feel comfortable shopping. Everyone there wears masks and the place is spotlessly clean so I believe that I am quite safe whenever I shop for a few supplies. On the other hand, I have not been inside a department store, mall or even a boutique since January. I’ve purchased all of my Christmas gifts online, sometimes with great success and other times not so much. I miss a number of experiences and people but then I hear about poor souls who are lining up to get food or are about to be evicted from their homes and I am overcome with guilt for even thinking of pitying myself. 

I see stories of people who are I’ll with Covid 19, suffering from symptoms that seem to linger for weeks. I watch the hospitals filling with some who are so seriously sick that it is uncertain that they will make it. I hear of much loved individuals who have died from the horrific virus. That’s when I am filled with great remorse for complaining that I have to stay in my lovely home with all of its comforts. Surely I should be on my knees thanking God that I am still well. 

For all of the inconveniences created by this pandemic I have been relatively unscathed and that makes me fortunate indeed. This is not just a flu and its health, economic and mental repercussions have rocked the world. I find myself asking how dare any of us whine or grumble about inconveniences or disruptions if we are still well and have incomes and food and warm homes for enduring the winter. We should all be asking what we might do for those less fortunate, how we can share with people who are feeling desperate right now. 

I see people insisting that Covid 19 is in fact not so bad, that most people have a worse time with a winter cold. That may be the case for many, but it is not so for all. Making such statements not only demonstrates a lack of understanding regarding this virus but is also incredibly rude and unfeeling toward those who have been so sick that they thought they might die or those who have lost a loved one to this horrific scourge. Fussing that most of us are having to change our lives for only a few seems to me to be about as selfish as they come. I wonder when we became so cold as a society.

I hear some of those who are doing well insisting that anyone in need of food should just look around for a job. Many don’t want to use tax money to pay rent for those who are behind in their payments. Instead they remark that people should have planned for an emergency and if they had they would not be in dire straits. I can’t imagine why anyone would be so reluctant to help in this unprecedented time. There have been layoffs without good jobs to replace those lost. I wonder where people are supposed to go to get enough income to pay rent or purchase food. Certainly we should all realize that a minimum wage job probably won’t be enough to save them. 

I feel guilty for not doing more to help but I also feel indignant toward anyone who is underestimating the extent of pain that the pandemic is producing on level after level. I chide myself for not doing more to defend those who are being beaten down by overwhelming circumstances. I know that I have to speak out on their behalf whenever they are belittled by people who choose not to demonstrate compassion for their suffering. 

I worry about the morale and the mental condition of our healthcare workers who have been working tirelessly for months and are literally exhausted and frustrated. Far too many people simply do not believe that the precautions that they ask us to follow are necessary or even effective. Folks complain about their rights to react however they wish. Too many insult the doctors and nurses and scientists, acting as though they know more than those who studied for years to become experts.

I feel guilty for living in a nice neighborhood in a country where hardship is so remote from my circumstances. I have certainly worked hard but I also have so many freedoms and opportunities that are not available to every person in the world. I was blessed with academic abilities and talents and an education all of which helped me to be successful in finding and doing work. I am essentially healthy, other than my bones, and have boundless energy. All of these are gifts that I did not earn which makes me feel even more empathy for those who are faced with brutal challenges. Sometimes just providing someone with a little boost is life changing. Watching so many fall through the cracks is so difficult without doing something constructive.

Guilt is a bad thing if it overwhelms. If instead it moves people to consider the need for changes to improve lives then it has a noble purpose. A little bit of guilt can build character as long as it is not neurotic. Guilt can be the realization of having failed an obligation. It is Christmas time and I sense that I must find ways to somehow make things better in so many ways. Time to set aside the guilt and determine what I might do to meet my obligation to my fellow human.    

I awoke to a chilly morning, one of those times when it is a bit more difficult to jump out of bed and get on with the day. There was comfort under the blankets and a sense that leaving the warm nest was not as desirable as staying there. As I lay in that place of comfort and security I realized how fortunate I am to live in a home secure from the elements and dangers of the world. I thought of how far I had come from my humble beginnings and remembered the first apartment I shared with my husband when I was still a quite young twenty year old. We had a tiny one bedroom accomodation that overlooked one of Houston’s many bayous and we thought of it as a mansion. We squeezed our bed against one wall and crammed our belongings into a dresser and a small closet. We were as happy as any millionaire has ever been and filled with dreams of adventures that lay ahead. 

I had little idea in the first idyllic months how much I would be forced to grow in a very short time. My head was still filled with ideas and ideals of how things were supposed to be. I was naive about the ways of the world and my innocence about life was the product of ignorance and inexperience. My bliss seemed infinite because it had mostly been tested in a bubble. I had gone directly from the care of my mother to the guidance of my husband who seemed worldly to me but was really still as much of a boy as I was a giddy little girl. 

We were married on an October evening and determined to make our way on a wing and a prayer. Mike was a teaching assistant in graduate school and I had landed a job as a teacher’s aide at a local elementary school. Our combined monthly income only barely covered our rent, the food we ate and the gasoline we needed to get to our jobs in the one car we had. Our plans would only work if everything went perfectly but we soon learned that living without glitches is generally impossible. We struggled to stay afloat but generous offerings of food disguised as gifts from our parents helped us to get through our first months of wedded bliss. 

The summer of 1969 came and with it the big push at NASA to send the first human to the moon. Mike’s uncle headed a crew of electricians there and he offered Mike a job as a helper pulling cable under the floors of various buildings for a salary that was heaven sent. Mike left before dawn each day with his uncle who swung by our apartment to give him a ride so that I might have the car. They would not return until late in the evening which translated to lots of overtime and more money than either of us had ever seen imprinted on a paycheck. It was a good time that would keep us solvent as we both continued our educations.

When July came and the whole world was fixed on watching the American astronauts land on the moon things had gone badly wrong with my mother. She was acting in strange ways that I had never before seen. By the end of the month it was apparent even to a naive girl like me that she was experiencing a mental breakdown and needed immediate help. I begged all of the adults I knew to help me but in the end the responsibility fell solely on my shoulders. At the age of twenty I became the caretaker for my mother, a task that nearly broke me in the beginning even as I thought that it would be only a temporary thing. I had no idea that I would spend the next forty three years of my life making certain that my mother had the doctors, therapies and medications that she needed to keep her bipolar disorder under control. 

Sometimes caring for my mother meant taking time off from work and bringing her to my home until she was well again. Most of the time it meant checking on her each day, spending time with her in her home to be certain that she was taking her medications and visiting regularly with her psychiatrists. Her illness was chronic and so it ruled her life and in many ways it also ruled mine. 

When she was compliant with directions from her doctors things went smoothly and we settled into a comfortable routine. When she decided to do things her own way rather than theirs, which was more often than it should have been, we sparred with one another and both of our lives became difficult and tense. Over the years a seasonal pattern developed with my mother becoming very ill in early spring, recovering by Easter and then becoming sick again in July followed by increased vigilance on my part. The trend would occur each October as well with Mama returning to her happy healthy self in time for Christmas each year. And so went our lives as I more and more left the girl child I had been far into a past that often felt more like a dream than the reality that my mother and I faced together.

Over the years my mother’s symptoms became worse and worse because she played with her medications rather than taking them as prescribed. She frustrated her doctors and angered me because I knew that if she had only followed directions implicitly her life would have been so much more normal instead of being continually disrupted by psychotic episodes of dark depression, extreme mania and paranoia. Eventually she became so unreliable in living independently that my brother and I took turns caring for her in our homes. 

Ours was a love/hate situation that depended on her mood swings. She fought me constantly over visiting her psychiatrist and taking her medications. She insisted that I was a control freak who wanted to assume her role as head of the family. She had little idea that I had often longed to be free of all responsibility and that I had dreamed of running over and over again. Still, I felt enormous compassion for her because it seemed so cruel for her to have to endure the hideous disease that had invaded her magnificent brain. I hated what it had done to her and felt determined to keep her as safe as possible. My brothers, who had grown into the role that I had followed from the time that I was twenty, joined me in the lifelong battle for the sanity of our mom. 

I have the deepest empathy and compassion for those who are longterm caretakers but also for those with chronic illnesses that incapacitate them for years. It is difficult to be in either situation. The person who is sick longs to be normal and the person who cares for them longs to find rest. It is only love that keeps either person going.

When my mother’s final days had become more and more difficult. I was weary and wondered if I would ever find respite while she was tired of being viewed as someone who was abnormal. We both wanted better for ourselves and for each other and kept searching for some miracle that would make it so. Life intervened once again and Mama developed lung cancer that took her very quickly. In the end she was clear headed and ready to be with the God who had sustained her through it all. I miss her terribly and would take her back in a heartbeat even if it meant engaging in those sporadic battles over her health. As hard as it was to care for her for forty three years it was also an honor, one that actually made me a better person than I might otherwise have been. In retrospect I know that I enjoyed a closeness to my mom that was borne from her illness. What I learned about her and about myself in those sometime tortuous days ultimately helped me to view the world through clearer eyes. Eventually I learned the importance of being a caretaker for all of mankind and even the planet. It’s a tough but ultimately rewarding job.

I enjoy cooking but admit that I am spoiled by having some of the best tools of the culinary trade. It was not always so. I began with a set of Farberware stainless steel cookware that was a wedding gift from my mother and Mrs. Gracey, the mother of my dear friend Nancy. Those pots and pans have served me well for over fifty years but in the early years I was sadly lacking in decent cutlery or other important implements. Over time my husband gave me top of the line gear to use whenever I entered my kitchen, including a set of knives that would make a world class chef smile. I have enjoyed the cutlery greatly since so many recipes call for ingredients that must be diced or chopped into various sizes. There is really nothing better than a sharp knife designed for a specific task. 

Whenever I cook in other homes I sometimes find myself silently stewing over having to use cheap cutting tools that make it difficult to slice without great effort. Generally when I encounter such situations I consider purchasing better cutlery for the individual whose kitchen is so lacking. Sadly few people understand that a great knife might cost hundreds of dollars. Such a gift might appear to be inexpensive to the uninitiated. Still, once someone receives their first beautifully crafted knife they never want to turn back to those created with little effort or skill. 

A nephew of mine got married recently in the midst of the pandemic. He already has a nice house that is filled with all sorts of things so I did not know exactly what he might appreciate as a gift. I decided to send him a knife block filled with good knives even though some say that giving cutlery as a wedding gift is bad luck. I can’t imagine any worse luck that what the entire world has been enduring in the past few months but I know that having good knives for cooking is a joy. I decided to send him and his lovely new bride the one tool that I think is essential for making the art of cooking a pleasant task. I included a cutting board to insure that his countertops are not damaged as he slices and dices and chops. 

I hope he enjoys creating yummy food as much as I do and hopefully he and his wife will use the times when they are preparing ingredients to talk and laugh and grow even closer to one another. Cooking can be as much of a shared adventure as traveling and it costs very little to do. I suspect that so many are using the time of Covid to prepare dinners and desserts because it is a way to celebrate our creativity and to bring families together. The very image of a table is a metaphor for community and love. Gathering for a meal is basic to our natures but also an opportunity for sharing and communicating both our hopes and our fears. If those knives make it easier to have a lovely meal then I cannot imagine how they could ever be a symbol of bad luck. They will not cut the ties that bind the newly weds, but instead become instruments for keeping them together always as they work together to feed their love.

This is a season of gifting. Sometimes we don’t quite know what to give the people we love. My husband asked me for a gift list and it was difficult to think of what I might want given that I have essentially spent ten months mostly in isolation due to the virus. I asked for some very basic things like a journal and a book of writing prompts. I also wanted new dish towels and an apron for using in the kitchen which has become the center of my world these days. 

I find that Covid 19 has made me feel a deeper and deeper connection with my grandmothers.  My memory of them is in their kitchens. That room was their domain and the work they did in there was focused on love for their families. I’ve thought of how both of them must have witnessed the pandemic of 1918. My paternal grandmother’s first husband died in 1918 and he was a very young man. I have often wondered if he caught the flu and it killed him. Grandma never spoke of either her first husband or the worldwide tragedy of 1918. She ended up working as a cook in a boarding house shortly thereafter where she and her daughter lived and toiled just to keep a roof over her head. Eventually my grandfather ended up there as well and their love began over the delicious meal that she had prepared for him and other boarders. 

My maternal grandmother managed to feed a family of ten on a wing and a prayer during the Great Depression. My mother often boasted that they never missed a meal. She said that Grandma found ways to stretch the limited ingredients that she had into filling delights that kept their tummies satisfied. Even years later Grandma would take great pride in having a fresh loaf of rye bread to offer guests along with a warm cup of coffee. I can still see the loaf sitting on a board with a butcher knife sitting ready to cut a slice. I suppose that if I had been allowed to ask for one thing that had belonged to my grandmother I would have wanted to have that knife because to me it was always a symbol of her concern for her family. 

I hope that my gift to my nephew and my new niece will bring them great happiness. One day I would like to tell them the stories of their great grandmothers who used cooking to keep their families satisfied and happy. Their kitchens were delightful havens of generosity and love. That’s why I thought that a set of knives would be a wonderful gift for starting a long life together. It was a gift of love.

The commercial begins with a montage of movie scenes with characters saying, “No!” in a variety of ways, something that some of us have a difficult time doing. Whether turning down a request that we really don’t want to fulfill or just saying, “no”, to some bad habit that we’d like to overcome it’s an attitude that we too often associate with negativity or lack of compassion but which can actually be one of our best mental health allies. 

I have to admit that I am the very worst when it comes to saying, “No!” It is as though there is something in my DNA that makes me feel uncomfortable asserting myself by stating my true feelings. I literally run from aggressive sales people because if they manage to corner me I will soon be agreeing to purchase something that I do not need or want. Those creatures who lurk at kiosks in malls particularly terrify me. I once made the mistake of responding to a smile from one of them and practically had to pull out a can of mace to get away from her. She kept piling goop on my face and arguing with me about whether or not I should purchase hundreds of dollars worth of it. Luckily I was more worried about what my husband would say if I spent three hundred dollars on a tiny jar of cream that was supposed to perform miracles on my eyes than the obstinate creature who refused to let me go. I finally concocted a lame story that so confused her that I was momentarily able to flee. 

I admittedly disliked myself in that moment because I realized that all I really needed to do was utter that one little word, “No!” I would have been instantly free to walk away and have a good day but somehow I was never able to muster the courage. I was all too concerned about the feelings of a complete stranger whose goal was to strip me of my good sense and my money. I knew that, but allowed myself to be manipulated for way longer than I should have. It reminded me of the time in my youth when I signed up for a thousand dollars worth of knives from a college friend attempting to earn his way through an education by hawking overpriced blades. After a guilt filled and sleepless night I was able to cancel the order but I suffered from feelings of anxiety each time I encountered my acquaintance. It became the incident that neither of us ever spoke of again. I realized that none of it would have happened if only I had said, “No way!” from the beginning. 

So many troubles begin with someone hawking an idea that makes us uncomfortable but we nonetheless agree to accept because we fear hurting his/her feelings or losing the relationship entirely. Far too many innocents have ended up in grave financial trouble or even encounters with the law simply because they lacked the courage to voice their true feelings by refusing to participate. “No” is such a powerful word that protects us from harm when we use it wisely in conjunction with our gut feelings. Those who have learned how to express themselves honestly and kindly by refusing to do uncomfortable or overly risky or morally wrong things are the true adults among us. 

Always standing up for what we believe is right can be tough. We humans generally dislike conflict and so we turn our heads  and walk silently away from situations that look like trouble. When confronted we often use weaselly words to describe how we feel rather than diving directly into the situation. We rely on others to say the obvious, to stop the madness by insisting that, “No, this is wrong and it must stop now.” 

John McCain was a man who proved his mettle time and again. He stood up to his captors in Vietnam and later followed his conscience in the United States Senate. He followed a moral code combined with bravery that allowed him to give a thumbs down to anything that he believed was wrong. So too was Abraham Lincoln unwilling to bow to pressure in following a path of uncomfortable truths. 

We honor the courageous among us who are willing to voice a “No” when we need it because most of us are reluctant to say what is in our hearts. The saddest aspect of our society today is that so few have enough moral honesty to speak up and just say what needs to be said. Of course when the brave are ostracized or even threatened with harm or death it is easy to understand why most shy away from being the one person in the room willing to curb bad actors with a demanding, “No!”

I’m growing, getting better. I am becoming more and more immune to pressure. I have begun to use the word “No’ more and more often. I have learned that “no” is not actually negative. In fact it is sometimes the most positive word that I might use. When it comes to protecting my finances, my family or my country from harm’s way my new mantra has become, “How bout, No!”