Author: Sharron Burnett

I am grieving today! A beautiful soul has left us and I am finding it difficult to convey how horrible that feels for me. There is an irony in the situation because I knew of the person for whom I cry for many years but I did not really know her until quite recently. Bren Ortega Murphy was one grade behind me in school from the time that we were both quite young. If my parents had not insisted on placing me in the first grade when I was only five years old Bren and I would have been classmates and in all probability the best of friends for a lifetime. Instead it took Facebook and national events for us to realize how kindred our spirits truly were. 

Bren was an amazing individual from the time I first really noticed her when we were both in high school. She seemed capable of doing virtually anything with a kind of excellence that few ever achieve. Even selling World’s Finest Chocolate was a skill that she mastered so well that she won kudos for the number of bars that she sold one by one with her warm smile and charismatic charm. Her brilliance really shone through in her participation in speech and debate where she became an outstanding member of our high school forensic team. She brought home medals and trophies with her seemingly natural ability to mesmerize an audience whether reciting poetry or arguing a point in debate. 

When I was a senior in high school and Bren was a junior we formed a slate of candidates for school wide offices. I ran for secretary of the student body and she ran for treasurer. Our campaign materials included a photograph of the two of us along with the two young men who represented our party as president and vice president. None of us won but I still remember how cool and calm Bren was in delivering her speech to the entire school. If the vote had been based on her speaking ability and confidence she most surely would have been a victor. 

I left high school and rarely looked back. A lifetime of living filled my days and weeks and months and years as happened with Bren as well. She went on to earn a doctorate and become a tenured professor at Loyola University in Chicago. There she built a resume of achievement that was stunning. More significantly she earned a reputation of kindness, wisdom, profound compassion. She left her mark on papers, books, films and hundreds of students and colleagues who felt that she had changed their lives for the better. She also created a family that loved as deeply as she loved them. She spread happiness and understanding wherever she went.

Retirement and Facebook and the pandemic happened for both of us and suddenly Bren and I realized how alike we were. We shared stories and talked on the phone. She invited me to come stay with her anytime that I wanted to visit Chicago. We mailed each other cards and messages. She even sent me a special stamp that she said reminded her of me. I felt the rush of excitement that comes from realizing that I had truly found someone who totally understood me. In fact we were in such sync with each other that we might have been sisters and it was beautiful. I imagined our relationship growing deeper and deeper for many years into the future.

Bren supported me as I became more and more willing to take a public stance on political ideas. She helped me to challenge injustices and encouraged me to be myself when stating my beliefs. She made it easier to find a strength that I didn’t even know that I had. I excitedly told everyone about this wondrous person who had become my friend. I felt so comfortable with her while also being in awe of her goodness, her intellect, her accomplishments. It felt like an honor just to talk with her even has she treated me as though she was the lucky one. 

Bren fell last Friday and died from her injuries. I still find it difficult to think of a world without her. She was important to so many people. She was a whirlwind of energy with a boundless supply of love and encouragement for everyone she encountered. She seemed to literally adore all of the people in her sphere of influence but most especially her family. She liked to decorate her home with a whimsical touch and make even the most casual gathering a special occasion. She proudly posted joyful messages about her children and made it clear that life with her husband had been a profound romance. 

Bren was a deeply spiritual person with a Christian spirit that embraced the message of Jesus without reservation. Her heart was pure and open to everyone. After the death of George Floyd she and I discussed injustice, inequality and issues that affect far too many people on this earth. She guided me to books and articles that enlightened and supported my own views. She was indeed the quintessential friend, teacher, mother, wife, follower of Christ. 

I feel a void that will not be easily filled. I had hoped to one day visit with Bren in Chicago. i wanted to continue our talks. I wanted to know more about her. I wanted to tell her how much she had impacted my life. She was so vibrant that I thought we had more time. I never expected to lose her so soon. 

Bren is with the angels now. She has always been one of them in so many ways. Heaven rejoiced in her arrival because she lived on earth as a saintly person while still being delightfully human. She squeezed every second out of the time that she was here with us and gave us an example of how we all should live and love. May she now rest in peace and hopefully know how magnificently she changed the world into a better version of itself. Those of us fortunate enough to spend time with Bren Ortega Murphy will be eternally grateful for that opportunity. She showed us all what true love is like and how to live a purposeful and happy life.

As a child one of my duties, especially at my grandmother’s house, was to set the table for dinner. From an early age I learned how to properly place the silverware on each side of the plates as well as where to position the napkins and the glasses, the coffee cups and the salad plates. I always felt rather important as I gently opened my grandmother’s china cabinet to remove the lovely dishes that I needed. I handled them as though they might break in my fingers because they seemed so fragile.Then I went to the big wooden chest where she kept her silver and took out the gleaming knives, forks and spoons that she kept polished to a lovely luster. I was awestruck by how grand the setting always looked complete with a freshly laundered and ironed tablecloth. My grandmother went to great lengths to make dining a special time even on an ordinary day. She was definitely a master cook but the extra touches provided by her tableware made each meal taste even better. 

My mother was a stickler for manners so she also taught me and my brothers how to behave when we were eating. She told us to never make negative comments about the food no matter what was being served. She also encouraged us to take small helpings at first and then go back for seconds only if we decided that we really liked the food. We were never to pile our plates high and then leave half of the items uneaten. Another hard and fast rule was never to talk with food in our mouths and to keep any conversation positive. We were to place a napkin on our laps and clean our mouths and our fingers with the cloth, not with our tongues. She even showed us the proper way to pass the bowls from one person to another and insisted that we use “please” and “thank you” with any requests that we had. 

I have always felt comfortable dining even in the most elegant places because of the instructions and practice that my mother and grandmother gave me as a child. I sometimes wonder if children today are lucky enough to learn such things. The manners of fine dining sometimes seem to be outdated and yet they were designed to make everyone comfortable during a meal. Nobody did or said gross unappetizing things. Nobody insulted the cook. Nobody wasted food. It was a rather civilized and kind way of doing things.

Studies tells us that most people do not even eat together at a table anymore. I’ve noticed that young people have sometimes asked me where the various utensils go. I know that phones find their way to the table as do comments that might have landed me and my brothers in hot water. There is a much more casual and free atmosphere that may be relaxing but often feels less polite. Without table manners we become too much like the folks of the Middle Ages who ate with their hands and threw bones on the floor while belching with glee. Let’s face it nobody really wants to see something like that but my guess is that some people actually do encounter barbaric behavior at dinnertime. 

Maybe we don’t need the fine china and silver and tablecloths but a bit of decorum never hurts in any situation. One of my daughters is of the mind that if we all followed the manners outlined in an etiquette book the world would have fewer conflicts. Rules for mannerly behavior were developed to demonstrate respect for one another. I can’t think of any reason why honoring the people we encounter with dignity is anything but a good thing. I would love to see more opportunities for young people to learn the ways of table manners and other tidbits of a more considerate way of doing things. 

I realize that not everyone has fine china or silver. I had only stainless flatware until my mother died and left her silver to me. Many young folks no longer invest in china either but setting a paper plate with a plastic knife, fork and spoon in the correct place is all one really needs to learn a few tips about how to do things. More important are the rules for just being decent by staying positive, not being gross, being certain not to waste anything. Let’s face it, when we are eating it’s nice just to have a pleasant environment that is relaxing and kind. Surely such a situation makes for better digestion if nothing else. 

Some of the very best memories of my childhood are associated with dinners at my grandmother’s home. The food was legendary but that is not what I most appreciated. It was the feeling that everyone at the table was special. All of the elements of table settings and manners created those incredible feelings that I had. The sharing and and kindness were as tasty as the food.

Breaking bread at a table has always been the supreme gift that we might offer one another. Eating together represents life and and healing. It has always been a very personal human experience especially when we follow rules that make it more special for everyone. Perhaps it is time we do more of that. 

During my long career as a teacher I mostly worked in areas of town where life was difficult for those who lived there. They were places where gangs and violence were far more commonplace than in the suburbs. I saw the underbelly of poverty and neglect and its impact on good people who were doing the best they could to care for their families and provide opportunities for their children. By far the vast majority of my students in such places were hard working, law abiding individuals who were simply caught in the uncaring cycle of economic want. They were generally determined to better themselves and most of them eventually did. Sadly a few bad eggs sometimes spoiled the whole lot giving the impression that life in such places was by definition violent and dangerous. I learned instead that such communities were filled with vibrancy and hope and that misbehaving adolescents usually grew into fine adults. 

Nonetheless all too often certain students achieved reputations as troublemakers when in fact they were actually quite sweet. Whenever things went missing they rose to the top of the suspect list and so became victim to a kind of self fulfilling prophecy. One of them was a very bright young man with whom I formed a relationship of mutual respect. I saw that behind his tough veneer was a bright and eager student who struggled to be seen as a good person. His quick temper had often landed him in hot water either from talking back to his teachers or refusing to be pushed around by his peers. He and one our counselors were working on anger management but his fame as a firebrand often preceded him. When I overlooked his antics and focused instead on his intellectual abilities he calmed down into a model student whenever he was in my class. 

I was in charge of a fundraising program from St. Jude’s Hospital that involved recruiting students to get sponsors who would pay them for working a series of mathematics problems. Those funds along with the completed workbooks would then be returned to St. Jude’s. I was such an enthusiastic supporter of the annual event that I volunteered to do all of the work involved in checking the student work and compiling the money into one check for the organization. It took extra time from the students but they took pride in being able to do something for others. They were as enthusiastic about the mathathon as I was, so the donations came pouring in from the community. 

On one afternoon I was busily counting the money at my desk when there was a disturbing commotion in the classroom next door. Without thinking about securing the funds I rushed over the see if I might assist the teacher there. It ended up that she had fallen and so I helped her get to her feet and waited to see if she was going to be okay. I then called the school nurse to come to do a brief inspection. All the while the stacks of money sat unguarded on my desk. 

When I finally returned the notorious young man who was often regarded as a delinquent by my peers was sitting casually behind my desk. He immediately chastised me for being foolish enough to leave so much cash unattended but assured me that he had watched over it in my absence. He cautioned me to be more careful in the future. 

I was probably more lax than I should have been when it came to protecting valuables. Not long after that someone stole my wallet which just happened to be filled with money that I had withdrawn from the bank for a trip to a conference that many of us were planning to attend. I only realized the theft when I decided to purchase some snacks for the road trip and found that my wallet was missing. Several people immediately suggested that they had seen the same young man who had guarded the St. Jude’s donations lingering near my classroom. They were as certain that he was my thief as I was that he was innocent. I was so sure that he was innocent that I didn’t even want him to be interrogated. 

Many years passed when I received a call from the neighborhood police department. A city worker had found my wallet while cleaning out the sewer system. It was intact with all of my bank and credit cards neatly placed in the leather slots of the wallet. Only the money was missing. 

I was overjoyed to get the wallet because it was the final proof that my student had not been involved in the theft. He did not live in the neighborhood where is was found and there was no way that he would have been there. Each afternoon he boarded a bus that took him in the opposite direction to an apartment complex that was far away from the place where my wallet was found. He had always been vindicated in my mind but now I absolutely knew that he was not involved. 

I will never know who stole my wallet but I am glad that I was unwilling to jump to conclusions based on innuendo. I have always believed in the saying that a person should be considered innocent until proven guilty. We often jump to erroneous conclusions about people that have nothing to do with the truth. Justice demands that we do not equate the circumstances or appearance of someone with reality. Past mistakes do not make someone a criminal. In fact I have found that given a chance most people want to do the right thing. We all need someone to believe in us but sadly some among us are too often denied that basic equality that most of us enjoy. Reputation does not equal guilt.

Neither my parents nor grandparents ever traveled on a plane nor did they ever express a desire to visit any place beyond the United States. My father had wanderlust like a fever so I suspect that had he lived beyond his thirty three years he would have eventually become a world traveler. He had already made his way to most of the states and planning vacations was one of his most avid hobbies. At the time of his death flying was still a kind of luxury that he could ill afford but I have little doubt that he would have eventually found his way onto a jet to cross the globe. 

After Daddy was gone vacationing usually meant visiting his parents in Arkansas or spending a few days in San Antonio or Austin. Most of the time it just meant not having to go to school rather than actually packing up and driving to some far away destination. I did not miss exploring other places because I had burned out on long hauls after our whirlwind year of driving to California and back to Texas again just before my father’s demise. Somehow I associated long trips with the end of his life and so I had little desire to be anywhere but home. 

The first time I rode on a plane was on my honeymoon. My husband and I flew to New Orleans, a quick jaunt from Houston by air. In those days we had to walk onto the tarmac and climb a flight of stairs to reach the cabin. Friends without tickets were allowed to follow us to take photos of the big event. There was a naïveté about the whole process that is now long gone. I was so excited about being married that I actually recall little about the flight other than the fact that a cabbie who drove us to the French Quarter from the New Orleans Airport took a circuitous route that cost us a fortune in fare. 

It would not be until twenty years later that I would fly again. Life took hold of me and the idea of jetting off somewhere seemed overly frivolous. Instead my little family and I travelled across America by car, camping in the outdoors and creating awesome memories. Then we suddenly received a free ticket to anywhere in the USA as a promotion from our bank. It was time for me to fly again. 

My dear friend Linda had recently moved to Los Angeles and I missed our fun times together so I decided that I would use that ticket to go see her. My daughter Maryellen wanted to visit the family as well so I purchased an additional fare for her and we were off to see the Schefflers in LaLa land. From that moment forward I was hooked. I found the take off and the landing to be exhilarating and I had no sooner returned home than I was mentally planning my next journey. A whole new world lay before me and I began to understand why travel had brought so much joy to my father. Going by air made even places across the ocean accessible.

I might have been in Scotland last May but for COVID 19. I gladly gave up that dream for the sake of precaution but I find myself more and more often longing to hear phrases like “Fasten your seatbelts” or “Ladies and Gentlemen, we are ready for takeoff.” I long to be able to explore the world once again, a treat that I suppose I had begun to take for granted before the virus made it impossible. 

I’m not sure when there will be freedom to travel anywhere I wish once more. I worry a bit that I it will take far longer than we once thought. I miss being able to so easily jump on planes to see the world like it was only a year or so ago. I am more than eager to plan a whirlwind tour across Europe and settle into a seat on a plane that will take me wherever I wish to go. 

In the meantime my husband and I are busy planning a camping trip for the summer. We know how to do that quite well and we are certain that such journeys are always fun. I have the patience to wait until it is deemed safe to fly somewhere without having to quarantine in a hotel for weeks. I’m optimistic that I will once again hear all of those familiar phrases that tell me that I am about to leave the ground and fly in the air to the places that fill my dreams. 

I’ve decided that I will never again take juch trips for granted nor will I be frugal and purchase economy seats. My last experience in the “cattle car” section of a plane was excruciating. I’d rather go less often in the comfort of business class than sit for hours with my knees in my chin and my arms cramping from having to hold them so close to my chest. My old bones really can’t take such cramped quarters for twelve hours anymore. My last trip in the back of a plane felt way too much like the long journey to and from California of my youth when I was stuffed in the backseat of the car with my two brothers for hours on end, sometimes sleeping on the floorboard while my siblings snoozed on the seat. I suppose today’s economy class for overseas flights give me flashbacks that I do not wish to recall.

I’m confident that the day is coming when I will be settled into my seat filled with anticipation as the wheels go up and the pilot announces that we are on our way. I am patient for now but in truth I can hardly wait to fasten my seatbelt.  

Long ago a priest told me that the story of Jesus’ final days on earth was an example of the ups and downs of human existence. He noted that Jesus entered Jerusalem as a hero with crowds cheering him and creating a carpet of palms for him to walk upon. By the end of the same week he had been betrayed by a friend, abandoned by his closest disciples and tried and convicted as a political criminal. As he was dying a brutal death on a cross the only people willing to be present for him were his mother, a cousin, a woman follower of sometimes questionable reputation and a complete stranger. Many who had only recently cheered him now taunted him and some who had been closest to him denied even knowing him. 

Such it often unfolds in our own lives. Over the entirety of our time on this earth acquaintances come and go, friendships sometimes disappoint, our popularity rises and falls until over time we think we have a good idea of who might be at our sides through the best and the worst of our days. More often than not family members are the core of those on whom we know that we may depend, especially our mothers and fathers who seem to love us no matter how imperfect we are. 

I saw the cycle of relationships unfold rather dramatically with my mother, an outgoing and generous woman who seemed to always be surrounded by people who loved her. She was the woman in the neighborhood and at church whom people trusted with their hidden feelings. Her door was always open and people flocked to her until the quirks of her mental illness made her more difficult to understand. One by one people became too uncomfortable with her depression or manic outbursts to keep visiting or even talking with her on the phone. They offered excuses for not accepting her party or dinner invitations. Her world shrank to a small group of ever faithful friends and family members who refused to abandon her even as her mind became more riddled and confused. Most of those who truly loved her were her brothers and sisters and nieces and nephews and of course her children and grandchildren who stood by her no matter how dark her changing moods became.

For the majority of us family is the constant in a world of variables. By the time one reaches an age like mine the hangers on and flatterers have been culled and the people who really care are apparent. They are the ones who will sit with us in an ICU, comfort us when life feels cruel, check on us when we seem not to be ourselves, love us even when we have difficulty loving ourselves. At the center of our shrinking sphere of influence is family, people who know us better than anyone and still accept or at least overlook all of our many flaws. 

Family has provided me with rock solid support from the moment that my father died when I was a very young child. My mother was my number one fan, a woman who cheered me on when I was a winner and hugged me when I failed. Until the moment she died she was ever present with her unconditional love. I still miss her random unannounced visits when she would gleefully honk her horn in my driveway to announce that she had come bearing gifts of food or plants or ideas for how to spend a sunny day when I might otherwise have stayed home. I long for her birthday cakes and quirky gifts and the sound of her voice singing Happy Birthday with the memory of my coming into this world that only she would ever fully understand. 

My brothers have been fellow travelers with me through thick and thin. As we grew and went our independent ways the bond that we forged as children stayed as strong as ever. Now it is extended to my sisters-in-law and my nieces and nephews. We form an ever growing circle that feels unbreakable. It takes little more than a phone call or text to rally all of them to my side. I feel their genuine warmth and love and know that I am never really alone.

All but one of my aunts and uncles are now gone. It has fallen to my cousins to keep our once large and raucous extended family together. The clan has grown so large that some of us do not really know each other. Still there is a solid group of us who once laughed and played together at our grandmother’s house on Friday nights. Each of us has seen more of all sides of life than we might have wished. We may not get together as frequently as we once did and in fact often wish that we would not wait for weddings or retirement parties or funerals to take the time to visit once again. Still when we do rally the feelings that we have always had come back to the fore and our links are strong again.

Then of course there are those closest to me, my husband and my daughters and sons-in-law and grandchildren. They are my strength, my pride, my joy. We can be totally open and honest and still not break the ties that bind us together. We laugh and cry with the ups and downs of daily life. We create our family history together, a story that is still unfolding minute by minute. 

Family matters to each of us. We hold each member tightly in a special place of our hearts. We love them whether they are almost perfect or perfectly flawed. In a world that can sometimes feel cruel and without compassion if we are really lucky we will have a family that embraces us just as we are.