Category: Sadness

My Glass

Published on by Sharron BurnettLeave a comment

half-full-glassLast week amid new comments of angst from some of my grieving progressive friends one of my cousins noted that I tend to roll with the world’s punches because I am a “glass half full” kind of woman. That is certainly true. I cling to my optimism even in the face of daunting odds but my outward calm is not always as easy to come by as it may appear. In fact, I often vent privately before I am able to emerge publicly as a paragon of reason and good cheer. The members of my nuclear family can attest to this little known aspect of my character with countless examples of times when I actually behaved badly at home and then pulled myself together for the outside world. Ultimately I always come to the same conclusion that everything is going to be alright but it often takes time for me to get there.

I suppose that my generally rosy outlook on life came early in my development. My father’s death did more to direct the evolution of my character and my thinking than any other event in my life. At the age of eight I was hardly able to deal with tragedy like an adult and yet I somehow did. I felt a responsibility to my mother who was broken and unrecognizable and to my brothers who were far too young to understand exactly what was happening. I suppose it was then that I first realized that our world was not going to end even though that certainly appeared to be the case.

Family and friends came to our aid just as if a clarion call had resounded over the land. We were not alone, not for one minute. I have never forgotten the kindnesses that were showered on us. Even though the first days and weeks and months without my father were some of the most difficult and horrific of my life, we eventually gelled as a different kind of family. My mother regained her spirit and strength. We took baby steps together and before long we were sprinting with the confidence that we were going to make it. I knew then that looking forward and believing that there is a bright future becomes a self fulfilling prophecy. We found the security that we needed because we were convinced that we would do so. Had we simply pulled back into a cocoon of hopelessness the results might have been tragically different. Holding on to dreams of better days was our route out of the sadness that initially consumed us.

Because the cadence of life is rarely routine I have encountered countless moments that overwhelmed me. I allowed myself the luxury of fretting and railing at the heavens when I was with the people whom I had learned to trust implicitly. I knew that they would never turn on me no matter how ridiculously I behaved. They saw me at my lowest points when my behavior was akin to that of a petulant toddler. They gazed at the cracks and flaws that I carry in my soul. They allowed me to free the poisons that were attempting to overtake me. They heard me crying in the bathroom or throwing objects at a wall. They endured my tantrums out of love and sometimes laughed with me when I finally realized the ridiculousness of my outbursts. Once I had faced down the emotions that were clouding my ability to reason I always found the answers that I needed. The storms passed and the sun rose again.

I’ve had some minor irritations of late, issues with things either lost or broken. So many disappointments piled one on top of another that I finally lost my cool. I wanted to clean my carpet for the Thanksgiving festivities and so I brought my handy dandy Bissell carpet cleaner in from the garage, filled it with shampoo and merrily began the process of freshening my floors only to realize that the machine was not working properly. I made a few adjustments with no success. My husband came to the rescue but after several attempts to get the mechanisms actually doing their jobs we came to the conclusion that the carpet cleaner was broken. I was appalled because I had only used it a few times. My daughter had warned me not to purchase it. Hers had similarly died long before it should have. I became infuriated. I wanted to smash the offending appliance to pieces. I thought of taking it to the garage and beating it with a hammer. The idea of using it for target practice was enticing. I imagined it filled with holes that I had made. By the time that I had described all of my evil thoughts to my husband I was cackling with impish glee and resigned to the reality that I had made a bad purchase in spite of being counseled not to do so by my daughter. I placed the offending carpet cleaner on the curb and made somebody’s day because it disappeared in the dark of night. I truly hope that they have better results with it than I did.

I’ve chased my mother down the street when she was in a full blown state of mania. I’ve sat beside family members while they breathed their last breaths. I’ve lost the best of friends and missed them so much that my heart felt as though it would burst and I would surely join them. I’ve felt pain so terrible that I wanted to stop the world and get off for a time. My trials have been no different from those of anyone else. They are simply part and parcel of the human experience. They come and they go as inevitably as sunrises and sunsets. Never once have they overtaken me to the point of hopelessness. I certainly don’t intend to allow the tragedies that I experience to deny me the triumphs that I believe will always follow. I cling to my optimism because it has never failed me even when I have been the most hurt. It is centered on the love that is ever present around us. I find it over and over again even in the darkest hours.

I have a friend who lives in a small town in Georgia. Shortly after arriving there to begin a new phase of life her husband had a stroke and has been bed ridden ever since. What was to be a happy time has become an endurance test for her. She spends her days caring for him and worrying over the business of keeping the two of them safe and secure. She has found great kindness from strangers over and over again. People have learned of her plight and done the most remarkable things.

Someone brought her a turkey for Thanksgiving which she quickly decided to share with the people who live in her apartment complex who have no place to go on the holiday. Her idea quickly evolved into the making of a party and generated excitement where there had once been gloom. A couple that she barely knows will travel almost two hours to Atlanta early on Thanksgiving morning to meet her husband’s son who is flying in to visit with his ailing father. She marvels at the unexpected gifts that the townspeople have bestowed upon her little realizing that they have seen her courage and devotion and want to help. Somehow she has managed over and over again to wipe away her tears and her anger with her situation. She finds little snatches of happiness and goodness that keep her moving slowly forward.

The way of the world is often difficult and rocky but it rarely stays that way permanently. Just when we think that we are all alone someone almost always emerges to give us the comfort we need. We pick ourselves up over and over again and find hope in places that surprise us. Our hurts and disappointments go with us but we don’t have to allow them to dictate how we will view the world. I have found that the glass is rarely empty. I believe that I will always somehow find that tiny drop of promise that will lead me out of any misery that plagues me. I may not be able to control the situations that affect me but I do have mastery over how I will react. I choose optimism. In sixty eight years it has never failed me.

An Awakening

Published on by Sharron BurnettLeave a comment

deadbigfootwoundedkneeThe ultimate beauty of being retired is that life is no longer ruled by a calendar. Week days are generally no different than weekends. Responsibilities are minor. It is acceptable to run away on a whim. Thus it was on that summer day as we left Drake, Colorado intending to return home. Having no pressing obligations, at the junction that would have led us south we instead chose to head north in search of Mount Rushmore, a national treasure that we had never before seen. It was only three hundred miles out of our way, a mere five hour journey.

We drove quickly across the northern planes and into the wide open spaces of South Dakota. Our plan was to visit the monument in the afternoon, catch the nighttime presentation there, sleep in a local hotel and then make the return trip home. Of course as is often the case our best laid plans indeed went awry. A sudden storm brought a driving rain, hail, and threats of tornadoes, dashing our hopes of a quick side trip. Instead we decided to spend two nights and another day in the area, learning about a part of our country that we had never before explored.

The imprint of the native Americans who once roamed freely across the land is everywhere in South Dakota. It takes little imagination to visualize the great Sioux tribes following the buffalo and taming the wild expanses in the ways of their ancestors. The geography seems ill suited for modernity. It is wild and unpredictable, best left to those who understand its whimsy. It is also strangely beautiful and even spiritual. With the very small footprint that I left I at times felt like a trespasser. It somehow didn’t seem right to be gawking at the places that were once ruled by great chiefs like Sitting Bull.

We visited a refuge for the animals that had been the mainstay of life for the people who lived in South Dakota long before settlers came in search of new homes. We enjoyed viewing the Sitting Bull monument that is still a work in progress. Our time at Mount Rushmore was more breathtaking than I had imagined. Still something about our presence seemed wrong and I understood my nagging feelings when we drove through the Pine Ridge Indian Reservation and found ourselves at the site of Wounded Knee.

Following the American Civil War there was a great push to move the nation ever westward. Our military became engaged in what would eventually become known as the Indian Wars. Soldiers were sent to outposts far from Washington D.C. to insure that the ever growing numbers of citizens and immigrants moving west would be protected from tribes of native peoples who became increasingly concerned about the encroachment on land that had once been theirs to roam freely. The influx of people and the tragic encounters led to horrific misunderstandings and battles, particularly in places like South Dakota.

After the Battle of Little Big Horn efforts were made to broker peace with the native people. They were promised a huge reservation in South Dakota in exchange for acceptance of certain conditions. Many of the leaders were weary of the fighting and agreed to the terms but Sitting Bull refused to abide and instead moved further north with his people. Sadly when gold was discovered in the Black Hills the American government reneged on the contract, drastically reducing the available land for the tribes.

After a difficult winter in which his people suffered the ravages of hunger and disease Sitting Bull was forced to return to the land that had been his home and submit to the terms of the Americans. He was informed that he must accept a Biblical name, learn English, wear westernized clothing and farm the land on which he lived. The agents and teachers who worked in the area sincerely believed that it was only in assimilating to modern ways that the native Americans would ultimately be successful in transitioning to a new kind of life. It was a demeaning defeat for a once great warrior.

There was great tension in the area as Congress attempted to strike a final deal with the members of the tribes. They offered each man one hundred sixty acres of land and a paltry sum of money for the area around the Black Hills that had been so egregiously taken away. Sitting Bull wisely noted that as families grew the amount of land would not be enough to sustain life and refused to sign the agreement.

In the meantime a shaman had a vision that the Sioux tribes would rise to power once again. He told the people that if they performed the ghost dance in their traditional regalia their ancestors would make them immune to the bullets of the white men. Feeling desperate and with nothing to lose they began the rituals which frightened and angered one of the Indian agents who called for military reinforcements in the region. When the same man decided to arrest Sitting Bull for inciting insurrection one of the great tragedies of our nation ensued.

The inexperienced and frightened soldiers tasked with procuring Sitting Bull shot and killed the great chief and members of his families. When word spread many of the already angry members of the tribe rebelled and the troops reacted with heavy fire. Even women and children fleeing from the melee were mowed down as they attempted to escape by crossing the Wounded Knee River. The encounter marked the end of the Indian Wars and served as a black stain on American history as both sides argued as to whether it had been a battle or a massacre. Much later the United States Supreme Court would rule that the entire affair was one of the most horrific examples of greed and outright theft in the history of our nation.

I was stunned when I saw the simple painted wooden sign marking the site of Wounded Knee. Somehow I had thought that it would have had a beautiful monument designating the site of such an important moment of history. Perhaps the lack of pretense in marking this place was intentional because it struck me far more deeply in its humble reality. The land was as wild as it had been over a hundred years ago. It was rocky and dry, hardly the kind of place amenable to growing enough crops to keep a family alive. It exuded a poverty of spirit. I understood as I looked at that bleak area just how our government had murdered a whole way of life.

I was overwhelmed with sadness and a sense of guilt after visiting Wounded Knee in the Pine Ridge Reservation. The area was dotted with alcohol and drug rehabilitation centers. The signs of poverty were unmistakable. I wondered at what our ancestors had done.

We stopped for gasoline before beginning our journey back home. I stood in line to purchase a few snacks for the road. The mostly native American people who surrounded me were affable but there seemed to be so many who were not working on a day when they should have had jobs. They wore defeated expressions as they languished at tables attempting to fill the hours. I wanted to announce my apologies but knew that I would seem crazy in doing so. I simply paid for my wares and drove away forever touched by the knowledge of the unfairness with which their ancestors had been treated. I left a piece of my own heart at Wounded Knee.   

Life is Shiny and Awesome

Published on by Sharron BurnettLeave a comment

13165981_10206207146842968_828197429741817811_nI’ll be the first to admit that the end of May through the beginning of June is not my favorite time of year. In fact, I tend to dread this period, for it cycles through the dates when each of my parents died. I’d love to be able to tell everyone that there comes a moment when I actually forget the trauma of Memorial Day, 1957, when my father was killed in a car accident, but that would be a lie. For fifty-nine years I have felt the same pangs of loss that I experienced way back when I was only eight years old. The fact that my mother died quite suddenly and unexpectedly on the very day before I was to celebrate my retirement five years ago, only compounds my solemn mood as I watch the calendar head to those two terrible anniversaries.

Of course I have learned how to cope and move on. It’s what we all must do, but somehow the sorrow that I felt upon the deaths of the two people who gave me life lingers in a back corner of my mind. The scars of those events have healed but the calendar annually reminds me of the magnitude of my loss and I experience a tiny itch of sadness. The faded memories return and always among them is remembrance of how wonderfully understanding my Uncle William was when my father died. It was he who took the time to check on me and my brothers amidst the confusion and chaos of that day. It was he who showed us what real love was when we needed it most. Ironically decades later it would be his son, Paul, and his granddaughter, Jan, who would lift up our hearts with stirring tributes to our mother at her wake.

The lovely spirit of Uncle William lives on so beautifully within the hearts of Paul and Jan. They are both special souls who bring a pure and innocent kind of sincerity to every situation. Like Uncle William they are both wise and far stronger than people might suspect. They provide me with important links to my past, stalwarts for the present and promise for the future.

Jan has seen her own share of tragedy of late. Perhaps the most shocking event was the death of her cousin last summer. In what seemed a horrible replay of my father’s death, Jan’s cousin was killed while on vacation in a freak motorcycle accident. He was young, full of life and Jan’s special confidante. He had a family that loved him and so much more that he needed to do. This wasn’t supposed to happen and yet it did, leaving Jan bereft beyond measure.

Jan and her family have struggled for months to deal with the emotions that have stalked them. In an almost unbelievable turn of events her mother’s father died within weeks of her cousin’s passing. Because she is such a loving person, Jan’s grief has been almost unbearable to watch. Somehow she has managed to keep herself together because she had a very specific goal. She was in the midst of earning a Masters Degree in Communications at the University of Houston. The demands of her coursework was unforgiving. She had to keep studying, researching, writing papers and defending theses. Somehow it was in the work that her healing process began.

I suspect that Jan still wishes that she might have one more conversation with her departed loved ones but she also knows that they would have insisted that she continue to move forward, and so she did. She graduated in early May with her degree and a host of honors. Somehow I saw in her the image and spirit of my Uncle William. He ever so quietly and humbly lived a most remarkable life. He was not as learned as Jan but he brought so much to every single interaction, even with strangers. He delivered mail in the same neighborhood for years and made a point to know the people on his route and to treat them with dignity and respect. He did odd jobs here and there so that he might provide his family with special treats. He always carried fifty cent pieces to give to us children and he often insisted that we have ice cream to celebrate even an ordinary day.

Jan is so much like him. She lights up a room with her generous spirit. My mother adored her and would have been touched beyond imagination to hear Jan’s praises. Jan is bound for a wonderful life just as my mom always said she would be.

On the occasion of her graduation Jan shared what she thought to be “wise nuggets” that demonstrate the depth of her character. “It’s what I’ve lost that makes me so incredibly thankful for what I have. It’s what I haven’t achieved that pushes me to achieve more. And it’s what I wait for that makes me excited for the future. I may be a dreamer, but I can guarantee that I will do anything in my power to achieve it, whatever it may be. Life is confusing and messy. You hit a few bumps and that frustrates you. Then, you see this light, and it’s awesome and shiny (because you life shiny stuff). What appears from the light? See, that’s the beauty part of life, you take the good with the bad until you reach that shiny light to find out what is there. Take the good with the bad and hold on to those you love.”

I imagine my mother, my Uncle William and all of the other folks who have always loved Jan are feeling rather proud of her right now. I know I am. I can’t wait to see which one of those six pending job offers she ultimately lands and where her journey will take her. One thing that I know for sure is that she will be not just fine, but remarkable.

Congratulations, Jan! We love you with all of our hearts. You bring us joy with your presence. You have a huge fan club and we plan to hold on to you with all of our might. You are truly shiny and awesome.

When We Would Rather Cry Than Smile

Published on by Sharron BurnettLeave a comment

EmotionsMost of us go about our business each day quietly bearing burdens that we rarely mention. We tend to downplay our worries and sorrows, instead displaying a stiff upper lip and carrying on as if nothing has happened. When things become too much for us and we feel broken, we may find ourselves unable to keep it together. We experience a moment when we confide our woes or shed tears without the usual filters that we place on our feelings. Then there are those among us who always manage to keep a public face of strength and optimism even when they feel as though they are dying inside. We each have our unique ways of dealing with death, disappointment and hurt.

In today’s world there are so many avenues for venting our feelings, sometimes anonymously. We may adopt a pseudonym and comment on Disqus without anyone ever knowing who we are. We write in our diaries and journals and then lock them away for nobody’s eyes but our own. It is when we take our thoughts to the places of public discourse that we open ourselves to the slings and arrows of misunderstanding and criticism. Casually written words lack the meaning and nuances of a one on one conversation. Our ideas become twisted into the perceptions of someone who doesn’t really understand us. There are no intonations or facial expressions to bring subtlety to the discussion. It becomes difficult to clarify our intent after the fact or to exclaim, “That’s not what I meant at all.” Once we have to defend ourselves the true effect of what we had hoped to say is lost. Others have decided who we are.

Most people use public discourse to simply keep in touch with the outside world. They maintain a lighthearted front and may even be just naturally happy and optimistic. Their posts show us the wonderfulness of their lives. They stay away from political commentaries or any subject that might be misconstrued. They have learned how to be wary of revealing too many of their private thoughts. We sometimes wonder if their worlds are as truly perfect as they seem to be.

Braver souls continually allow us inside their heads. They have learned that this may be a dangerous thing to do but don’t appear to worry about what others may think. If they voice their beliefs they are likely to anger those whose thoughts are different. If they open their hearts and let us see their pain and suffering some will turn away in discomfort. It is risky to be honest about how we really feel, especially when the emotion that is ruling us in a particular moment is anger. Many among us prefer not to see the fears and uncertainties that are a part of each and every one of us and yet it should not be so. The truth is that no matter how hard we try to create perfect images of ourselves, the time comes in all lives when we only want to cry or scream or lock ourselves away in the dark. We feel a profound need for human compassion and understanding at the very times when we feel the most uncertain that it will be available to us. Sadly, we are sometimes ignored, spurned and even judged by how we react to life’s horrors.

Mike and I watched a documentary on Friday called The Flat. It was an innocuous title for a moving film. It all began when a young man’s grandmother died in Tel Aviv. He and members of his family gathered at the apartment where his grandmother had lived to help with the task of culling through her possessions to determine what was worth keeping and what needed to go. It soon became apparent that the home was a treasure trove of memories and history that opened up many questions about who the deceased woman had really been. The young man, a filmmaker, began an emotional journey along with his mother that would take them back to Germany.

The story itself was intriguing but I was even more fascinated by the way that the people dealt with their emotions. The young man became intensely curious about his grandparents’ past that had always been mysteriously left unmentioned. His mother insisted that what had happened to her mother and father before coming to Tel Aviv was in reality none of their business. She insisted that her parents only wanted to move forward in life and that she had respected their wishes, never probing to find the missing pieces of their stories.

As the tale unfolded the young man was visibly moved at every turn. He was upset that his grandmother’s prize book collection seemed to be worthless to everyone save himself. He grieved to learn that his great grandmother had perished in a concentration camp. He wondered aloud how his own mother might be so cavalier about all of their discoveries. She in turn continued to act as though she had been unaffected by the revelations that had been so surprising to her son. Sadly not even the more emotive son appeared to notice that his mother’s eyes told a story far different from the one that she tried so hard to portray. They displayed a deep and enduring sadness that was impossible to hide.

Grandmother, mother and son each approached the world in differing manners. The elder woman lived as though her life had never been touched by unspeakable tragedy. Her daughter respected those wishes, never asking painful questions. She simply played along with the pretense out of respect. The grandson was from a different generation. He needed to know the truth and to grieve for a family that he had never truly known. Thus it is with all of humanity. We choose different ways of reacting to life.

I am not an expert in the psychology of emotions. I’m not certain what kind of behavior is best. I suspect that it must be very difficult to maintain a steadying composure even in the face of tragedy. A stiff upper lip may serve well at work but to also maintain it in private must be truly painful. Likewise respecting another’s choices is something that we all must do from time to time but denying the way that we really feel is no small task. I suspect that allowing the natural God given feelings that we all have to come to the surface is the healthiest way to live. Admitting that we are feeling despair or anger in a given situation is akin to accepting that we are human. It does not seem necessary or even healthy to always be strong.

It really is okay to sometimes admit that we feel lost or even unappreciated. There are things that happen that make no sense, that seem so unfair. We can’t be expected to accept every aspect of our fates with smiles. It is appropriate that we “rage against the dying of the light.” It makes sense that we admit to how much we miss someone who is gone. Our feelings are very real and if we embrace them when they are appropriate, they will help us to overcome the most difficult moments of our lives.

My mother’s psychiatrist once told her that the sadness and depression that she felt after her mother died had nothing to do with the depression that was part of her bipolar disorder. He encouraged her to cry over the loss of her mother, noting that in doing so she was demonstrating just how normal she was.

We should not fear our emotions. Each of them was given to us for a valid reason. We simply need to learn how to embrace them appropriately. Nobody is immune from experiencing the entire range of feelings during a lifetime. We should celebrate those who are courageous enough to free themselves from the artificial constraints that our society sometimes imposes on us. There is no dishonor in letting the world know that, at least for the moment, we would rather cry than smile.

Mighty Women Part II

Published on by Sharron BurnettLeave a comment

One of the goals of KIPP Houston High School, where I spent my last years as an educator, was to assist students in the journey to and through college. We developed an iron-clad three pronged relationship between our students, their parents and all of us who worked in the KIPP world. That connection continued even after our pupils had graduated. The idea was to offer our support so that the young men and women might be able to navigate through the many ups and downs of life and still earn college diplomas. I always felt that the most powerful aspects of the triumvirate were actually the students themselves and their families. We teachers, counselors and administrators were mostly a safety net and source of information, facilitators if you will. It was the grit inside the hearts of our kids and the love that they experienced from their parents that has made them so enormously successful. This past weekend I witnessed the power of my former students over and over again.

Christine Marsh was a standout in my Algebra I class, someone that I noticed on the very first day. She is beautiful, intelligent, friendly and loving. She is the kind of student whom teachers love, the golden girl with all of the characteristics of a truly gifted and talented individual. Somehow she has managed to also be humble and thus she has always been quite popular with everyone. As she progressed through the four years of high school her aura of greatness only increased and everyone who knows her suspects that she is destined for great things.

Christine started her college career at the University of Texas and it did not go as well as she had hoped. Somehow it was not a good fit for her and so she came back home feeling a bit defeated. She went to work and reflected on how to make a comeback. It was a bit rough in the beginning but Christine is made of hardy stuff and she began the process of going to college anew at the University of Houston, applying the full force of her determination and intellect to both her job and her studies. As Christine likes to joke, she took “the six year scenic route,” which was often grueling and tested her endurance to the max.

This past Friday Christine Marsh walked across the University of Houston stage and proudly accepted the diploma that speaks of her triumph. She promises to continue to work hard and be nice, never forgetting the KIPP mantra that helped her to reach her goal.

Cindy Lugo-Jaimez, another KIPP alumna, always seems to be a friend to everyone. She has a generous heart and an unflagging willingness to help anyone in need. Her kindnesses haven’t always been returned, but Cindy just smiles and continues to be the sweet person that she is, regardless. In the spirit of giving, she enrolled in the College of Healthcare Professions and somehow managed to give her all to her family while earning high marks and consistently landing on the Dean’s List. 

Cindy proudly continued to dote on her three beautiful children, which is a full time job for anyone, but proved that she is truly a super woman when she earned a diploma that seems perfect for her giving personality. She is now officially certified to be a medical assistant. She has become an awesome role model for her kids and for all of us who have watched her persistence. She will without a doubt be incredible in her new job.

Brooklyn Taylor was what some educators might call a challenge. She went through high school with a bang, ever vigilant for signs of  unfairness. She possesses a brilliant mind that is as strong as a steel trap. If we had offered debate at our school she might have been a champion. As it is, she always speaks up whenever she feels that anyone has been wronged. Her logic and her arguments are flawless and her fellow students admire her for her courage.

While in high school Brooklyn served as the Vice President of the National Honor Society and introduced her classmates to the world of autism by raising awareness and funds for a program that channeled the unexplained mysteries of autistic children into skateboarding. Brooklyn’s concern for those with special needs goes far beyond a cursory interest and she has continued to spend her summers serving as a camp counselor and devoted advocate for them.

At our school, Brooklyn had a following among certain members of the faculty who saw a uniqueness in her inquisitive nature. I was not alone in admiring her. She developed a strong bond with one of her social studies teachers who had attended William and Mary University as an undergraduate. He saw greatness in Brooklyn and encouraged her to apply to his alma mater. We were all quite happy for her when an acceptance letter arrived. Now, she is officially a graduate of William and Mary and the rest of her days are bound to be as exciting as they have been thus far.

When Linda Ayala was at KIPP Houston High School she was a founding member of the UNICEF club. She donated countless hours of her time to raise funds for various causes, including providing help for those devastated by the earthquakes in Haiti. She is an unassuming young lady who worked hard at her studies and helped without a great deal fanfare or hesitation. I remember her mostly for her sweet and sincere smile and her willingness to do any job that I gave her.

In my last days before retirement there was still a great deal of money in the UNICEF account and the officers of the club voted to distribute the funds before I left. After giving to the American Red Cross and several local charities, the officers felt that it would be nice to provide a small scholarship to a deserving member of the organization. Linda was their overwhelming choice and she used their gift well. This weekend she graduated from Syracuse University and is now ready to put her many talents to the test.

Gabrielle Martin caught my eye way back in high school. She bears herself with the kind of unassuming dignity that befits a woman of distinction. She had been looking forward to her graduation with great expectation but the realities of the world intruded on her celebration. Sadly her mother ended a battle with cancer only days before the commencement exercises. Gabrielle graduated from the University of Houston with a degree in Public Health on Friday and buried her mother on Saturday. It was a bittersweet moment for her because it had been her mother who had always inspired her to be her very best. It seemed unimaginably horrific for such a thing to happen and my heart has been grieving for Gabrielle unremittingly. 

In many ways, Gabrielle is the mightiest of all of the outstanding women whose stories I have told. She has demonstrated the depth of her strength in a situation that would have broken most of us. I am certain that her mother’s bright spirit lives on inside of her. I pray that one day her broken heart will heal and she will know that her mom is indeed an angel guiding and protecting her forever. 

Gabrielle is truly my hero.

I am so proud of each and everyone of these young women. As long as they grace our world we are all just a bit better. Let their adventures commence. They will be fascinating.