A Time For Understanding

puerto-rico-9-28-17-4I’m enrolled in a continuing education class at Rice University. The professor has spoken of the atmosphere in the United States just prior to Pearl Harbor. Much of the rest of the world was already engaged in conflict but most people in our country were intent on keeping peace and isolating ourselves from the disagreements. My teacher noted that the concerns about either Germany or Japan were most notable in parts of the country that were closest to possible invasions from those respective countries. The east coast was particularly observant of happenings in Europe, while the west coast was watching the Pacific nations. The big middle of the United States was almost blissfully unaware of the looming war in which our country would one day find itself. Such is the way in which we view events. Those of us who have more at stake in particular situations are more likely to have more interest and understanding of them.

I live in a part of the United States that is subject to hurricanes. Each year when the season for those storms arrives I am alert to every change in the ocean waters of the Caribbean, the Atlantic Ocean and the Gulf. I have personally experienced the frightening and devastating effects of hurricanes on multiple occasions. Thus it is that I have a visceral understanding of what it is like to endure both the passage of a hurricane and its after effects. I have had my roof blown away, my fence flattened, my roads made impassible by rising waters, and the flow of power inside my home interrupted by downed lines. I know what it is like to wonder and worry how long it will take to repair the damage and return to normalcy. I have stood in long lines to get food from nearly empty shelves. I have seen my city broken and confused. Such events are difficult even in the best of circumstances when relief pours in quickly and repairs are tackled from volunteers from all parts of the world. When those things do not happen in a timely fashion people get sick. Some of them die. Frustrations and fears begin to form inside even the most calm among us. It is a scenario that I have seen firsthand. I am close enough to such situations to have an idea of how people feel about them.

My father-in-law was born and raised in Puerto Rico and I have learned a bit about that island from him. I know that the people there are citizens of the United States, something that many Americans don’t seem to realize. They serve in the military just as my father-in-law did in Korea. They are free to come and go from their island to the mainland of the United States. Puerto Rico is a territory rather than a state and as such the citizens do not have representation in Congress, but their rights are otherwise much like ours.

The people of Puerto Rico are industrious and generous. I have found them to be interesting and delightful. In my one visit to the island I marveled at the beauty of their land and the depth of their history. I also know that they are even more conscious of the possibility of hurricanes than I am. They build their homes out of cinderblock in anticipation of the arrival of the strong winds of those storms that seem to be almost magnetically attracted to their homeland that sits so precariously in the Caribbean. As with my city every new hurricane season brings the possibility that a storm will hit, and this year was no exception. Sadly the brunt of destruction that the people of Puerto Rico have had to bear has been, as in my city of Houston, more horrific than any in more than eighty years.

In September not one but two hurricanes passed over the island with unimaginable force. The second storm took aim for the center of the territory and left indescribable damage in its wake. Now the people of that island are suffering mightily with little hope for a speedy conclusion to the hurt and pain that has been inflicted on them. The category four winds destroyed buildings and took out power across the entire landscape. Without electricity, with roads damaged and impassable, and with shortages of virtually every major need from food to medicine, the citizens are beginning to panic. I for one intimately feel and appreciate their sense of anxiety because I have only lately lived through the worst flood in the history of our country. The uncertainties of such dilemmas are fraught with fears.

Some would have us believe that the Puerto Rican people are responsible for their own misfortune because they have accumulated debts and neglected the country’s infrastructure. I would argue that such discussions are meaningless, having little to do with what has happened. Our own country is hopelessly in debt and we know for a fact that our roads, bridges and power plants are outdated and in need of upgrades. Nonetheless, natural disasters over which we have no power will visit our towns and cities. When they do it is a waste of time to point fingers and attempt to determine guilt. Our only response should be to render aide as quickly as possible. Such emergencies are not political contests. Nor should they provide opportunities for airing personal grudges. The person who needs dialysis and cannot get it cares little for excuses. The individual who doesn’t know how to store medications that require refrigeration is not interested in debates. Those without water or food only want to know that their hunger and thirst will soon be satisfied. They really don’t care if their aide comes from Republicans or Democrats, governors or presidents. They only pray that someone will recognize their plight and take pity.

We are a generous nation. In fact we are a generous world. I have watched volunteers from all parts of the globe coming to my city to help people that they have never known and whom they will probably never see again. Their motives are kind and generous. They do not expect praise for their efforts. They just want to make life a bit better for those who have undergone terrible loss. So it should be in Puerto Rico.

I understand that it is a bit more difficult to transport workers and supplies to an island in the middle of the Caribbean Sea, but that challenge should not become an excuse for the chaos that continues to hamper the relief efforts that the Puerto Ricans so desperately need. There should be less talk and more action. That is what saved the day here in Houston, and it is what will get the people of Puerto Rico on a road to recovery more quickly. We also need sympathy and understanding from everyone. Memes and soundbites critiquing those who have been victimized by nature’s fury are the very last activities that should be engaging us. Prayers, supplies and action are the only things that will suffice. We need leaders who will manage the process with loving concern.

Long ago when my paternal grandfather was born his last name was Mack. Those who new me as a school girl will remember that my maiden name was Little. That is because my grandfather was orphaned as a young boy and had to choose a guardian to watch over him. He selected an uncle who was a graduate of West Point. That man was named Little. After a horrible hurricane devastated Puerto Rico near the beginning of the twentieth century he was given the job of managing the relief efforts. History says that his attempts were remarkably effective. My grandfather would have asserted that it was because the man who provided him with his care and his name was a noble and kind man of the highest character. He was successful in his mission because he approached it with kindness and leadership. That is the type of person that we need to put in charge right now, someone who will demonstrate genuine feelings for the people and who will not be afraid to do whatever it takes to get things done.

I pray for Puerto Rico and my heart hurts for its people. I hope that our leaders remember that the people there are just as entitled to our help as any other United States citizens are. We all need to push for the aide and the leadership that they need.

   

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Resilience

21766401_1868966163120008_6720605651907966418_nI’ve written a great deal about the massive floods that inundated the city of Houston a month ago. The national media has featured multiple stories from varying points of view about the tragedy that befell my town. We will be working to rebuild for years and debating how best to prevent such destruction in the future for an even longer time. To say that all of us who live in Houston and surrounding areas have been deeply affected by what happened is an understatement. What has struck me most is the courage and resilience of the people with whom I share my part of the world as well as the outpouring of support and love that has been showered on us. I thought that I had written about most of the main themes regarding this event and its impact on human nature until I saw a photo from one of my Facebook friends that moved me so strongly that I have not been able to erase that image from my mind.

I still think of the woman who posted the picture as the little girl who lived across the street from me many years ago. She spent so many hours inside my house playing with my two daughters. She was always a very sweet child and I never minded having her around. She seemed to be smiling even in her sleep and she possessed a pleasant optimism about life that just felt so good. Her name is Priscilla and I never really forgot how much I liked her as the years marched by and we lost touch.

Eventually through the power of social media we found each other on Facebook and became friends again. I learned that she was happily married and had a handsome son of whom she was understandably proud. She lives in the same part of town that I do, and so one Christmas season I met up with her and my two daughters at a local restaurant. We celebrated our reunion with hours of conversation and recollections of happy memories. Now and again I encounter Priscilla at stores and eateries, but mostly I keep track of her via the Internet, and I enjoy hearing of her adventures with her family.

Not too long ago Priscilla made a move to her dream home in Pearland, a suburb of Houston. She excitedly kept her friends apprised of the decorating and landscaping that she and her husband undertook to make their house special. I was excited for her and enjoyed seeing all of the updates. So it was with a very heavy heart that I learned that Priscilla’s home was among those flooded by hurricane Harvey. In fact, the place took on water on the first day of the massive rains. It broke my heart to think of the sadness and fear that she must have been feeling.

I had forgotten that Priscilla is one of those people who is a survivor by nature. In almost no time she had managed to find a safe hotel in which to ride out the rest of the storm. She did her best to remain upbeat even in the face of so much uncertainty. It was as though she was more concerned about easing the fears of the rest of us than concentrating on her own fate. She kept us posted so that we would know that she and her family were secure and she exuded a confident belief that ultimately all would end well for them.

Almost as soon as the storms had moved from our area she was back at her house doing the work of cleaning out all of the muck that had found its way inside. She continued to send communications showing the progress that she and her family were making, somehow finding ways to joke about the pile of debris that grew and grew on their lawn. She always managed to allay our anxieties with photos of the cleaned out rooms now devoid of half of the sheetrock and all of the flooring. In essence she and her family had taken the place down to the studs, at least on the bottom half of the rooms.

I laughed at images of Priscilla’s garage which now housed a big screen television, a few lawn chairs, a barbecue smoker and a toilet. Priscilla had noted with a hint of sarcasm that the scene was about as redneck as one might ever get. She remained upbeat, at least publicly, and it was among the few times that I smiled rather than cried over what I witnessed after the storm.

Last week Priscilla posted an image that seemed to capture her spirit and that of my hometown. She and her family had moved back into their house even though there was still much work to be done. With a great deal of imagination she and her husband had created a makeshift kitchen that was a true sight to behold. The bottom cabinets were gone as was the flooring and even the sink. Only the sheetrock had been replaced. Instead of the normal amenities there were long folding tables serving as countertops, clear plastic bins providing cabinet storage, a camping sink acting as a station for washing dishes, and a new stainless steel stove gleaming like a beacon of hope. That photo spoke of Priscilla’s fighting spirit and resilience and at the moment that I saw it, she became for me the symbol of all that is good in our town. Hers was the story that I knew I needed to tell.

There is no doubt that Priscilla and so many others have suffered in ways that should not have happened. We all understand that we must address concerns about climate change, shoring up of levees around neighborhoods, improvements to dams, aggressive building in flood plains, increased attention to drainage systems and so forth. In our quest to reflect on what happened we cannot forget to applaud the human spirit that Priscilla so embodies. Rather than complaining or waiting for someone else to help, she and her family did indeed pull themselves up by their bootstraps. They tackled the hard work and found ways to make do until their world is rebuilt once again. They are models of how to react with positivity and inspiration in hard times.

I wish that Priscilla’s story and photos would be shared until they become viral because hers is a lesson that we all should strive to follow. Life is a series of events both wonderful and sometimes even horrific. We have little ability to control many things, but we always are in charge of how we react. Priscilla has chosen faith and joy and hope. We are all the better for seeing her example, and we somehow know that she will find a way to be just fine. We’d all do well to emulate her spirit. I’m thankful that she has been willing to share her journey. I know that I am humbled by what I have seen and I vow to attempt to be as resilient as she most assuredly is.

Bearing the Sins of Our Fathers

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I’m a bonafide Baby Boomer. I was born at the beginning of the Baby Boomer years. People in my age group were affected, and maybe even traumatized, by certain events that defined a great deal of how we see the world. Many of us were raised according to the recommendations of Dr. Spock. I know that I was. My mother often mentioned how he would suggest dealing with particular situations. We all remember crouching under our desks every Friday at noon in a drill designed to keep us safe in the event of a nuclear attack by the Russians. We remember Nikita Khrushchev taking off his shoe and banging it on a table at the United Nations and promising to destroy our country from within. The way we learned in school was reimagined after the Russians launched Sputnik. We are all able to vividly recall exactly where we were and what we were doing when John Kennedy was assassinated. The sound of the cadence of the drums at his funeral march still ring eerily in our heads. We saw the Civil Rights movement changing our country for the better and wished that we had been old enough to travel to Alabama to take part in marches of civil disobedience. Perhaps more than any other event, however, we were forever marked by the Vietnam War, a conflict that somehow both defines and divides us to this very day.

My generation paid little attention to what was happening in Southeast Asia up until I was in high school. We had been much more enthralled with the space program and the progress that we were making in journeying from our planet into the universe. Suddenly, in spite of our former ignorance, we began to hear more about a civil war in a faraway land and a supposed fight against Communism. We learned about the Domino Theory, a belief that if one country in Asia fell under the domination of communism others would follow and the boogie man of communism would be banging on our own doors. None of it had particular meaning for us until President Johnson began increasing our involvement in that conflict, and because there was a draft system all of the young men my age had to register for the possibility of involuntary involvement in the military.

By the time I was a senior in high school there were hundreds of thousands of US troops fighting in Vietnam. Some of the members of classes ahead of mine had already gone to war and a few of them had died. It was as though the world had suddenly blown up and anti-war fervor began to overtake the land. Some saw those who did everything possible to avoid the war as traitors and instigators. Others called soldiers who served in Vietnam baby killers. The evening news brought scenes of violence and bloodshed into our homes each evening. It was impossible not to have an opinion regarding the volatile political situation, and it was my generation that was caught in the big middle of a war being run by old men using young boys as canon fodder.

Of course that war did not end well. The United States eventually had to leave Vietnam without victory, an outcome that the French and British had predicted, possibly because they had endured similar situations in the past. North Vietnam took over the governing of the entire country. Dominoes did not begin to fall all over Asia. The world eventually settled down and forgot most of what had happened back then, but those of us who were intimately part of that history have never forgotten. We were all changed in one way or another by the Vietnam debacle. We have been unfairly judged on both sides of the debate by our elders and our children. We were teenagers and young twenty somethings who were asked to sacrifice for a cause that we now know even the Secretary of Defense did not believe would end well.

We began as advisors to the government of South Vietnam, a political machine that was at best riddled with problems and at worst was filled with graft. The conflict was a civil war among people attempting to decide their own fate. Our interference was never taken well and the anger over our involvement only grew when we appeared to be invading the country rather than just offering suggestions. The United States was so fearful of Communism that it allowed itself to become more and more entrenched until it ultimately appeared to be an actual war between North Vietnam and the United States. The truth was that the more we bombed and threw napalm, the greater became the distrust and dislike of our country. Sadly, the young soldiers who were the same age as I was became victims not just of the horrors of war, but also a backlash against them from their own fellow citizens. They were caught in a controversial middle ground that was quite unfair.

At the same time those who protested the war were accused of being disrespectful and traitorous, but in truth they were not unpatriotic. In fact they demonstrated love for their country in voicing their concerns, most of which have been shown to have been correct in retrospect. Private correspondence between Secretary of Defense Robert McNamara and President Lyndon Johnson has revealed that there was indeed great worry that the war was being fought in vain and that our youth were being wasted on the battlefield. How awful to think that so many died when they needn’t have. How terrible to realize that the divisions that tore open a national wound should never have happened. It is detestable that the war continued mostly because nobody wanted to admit that they had been so wrong.

I was recently listening to an elder statesman who participated in both World War II and Vietnam. He felt that the most unfair outcome of Vietnam was the idea that the generation that fought against Germany and Japan was somehow more noble than those who went to Vietnam or their counterparts who stayed home and mounted resistance. He noted that we attempted to fight the two wars in the same manner when it was obvious that they required different tactics. He also defended the soldiers of Vietnam in noting that they were as good and courageous as their forebears had ever been. The only difference was that the leaders of World War II set up plans that worked, while the leaders of the Vietnam War made one mistake after another. He insisted that it is totally unfair to look upon the Baby Boomers as somehow less patriotic than their parents were because the circumstances were so very different.

We Baby Boomers were never the same after that war. It defined us in uncomplimentary ways. It was used to turn us against one another. We were pawns who have never quite been understood by either our elders or our children. It was run by a man who had been a systems analyst and who believed that it would be possible to create battle plans based on data such as tallying the numbers of those who died on each side. He neglected to take into account aspects of human nature until it was far too late. The entire rationale was built upon a false premise that left our country damaged. We are still attempting to reconcile the differences that tore us apart back then. As for the Baby Boomers, we have become symbols of failure and lack of character when we were not the ones in charge. We were simply the group that was used so that politicians would not lose face or power.

If there is one dream that I have it is not so much that we Baby Boomers will one day be vindicated, but that no other generation will be put through such a horrible introduction to adulthood ever again. Those who wield authority must always be conscious of the human cost of their decisions, and have enough moral character to be certain that no group will be so badly abused. If we are one day able to admit openly to past mistakes and reflect on how to avoid them in the future, then the sacrifices of so many Baby Boomers will not have been totally in vain.

Embracing Grief

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I have a memory of being very young and quite frightened as I sit on my mother’s lap. We are on a boat of some kind and I can feel the rocking of the craft on the waves. My mother comforts me as I cling ever closer to her chest. There are many people around and all of them are chattering and unwittingly making me feel quite nervous. The sea breeze is brisk and I don’t like the way that it stings my face, so I bury my head in my mother’s gentle caress. Suddenly everyone is moving toward the railing of the ship, even my mother who appears to be happy and excited as she carries me toward the crowd that is cheering and pointing at something that is confusing to me. Whatever it is seems gigantic and I don’t want to look at it, but my mother’s soothing voice convinces me that I am safe. I quickly glance just long enough to see a huge object seemingly floating in the water. Then the imagery of that long ago recollection instantly stops in my mind.

I have often wondered where I might have been on that day. My mother seemed to think that we were on a vacation trip to New York City. My vague description of my recurring vision led her to believe that I had somehow remembered going out into the harbor to view the Statue of Liberty. Still she had her doubts because I was well under two years old when we took that trip together, so she often mused that perhaps I was recreating an image from a movie that I had seen and attributing it to my own life. Somehow I believe that the incident was absolutely real and so scary to me that I was able to relive the scene even decades after it had occurred. Mostly my thoughts of that day are reminders of how safe and protected I felt in my mother’s arms, a feeling that never changed in all of the years that I have journeyed in this world.

Mothers have been on my mind of late. Three of my friends have recently lost their moms. Another is agonizing over the anniversary of her mother’s death a year ago. Her grief was renewed as the date that her mother left this world approached. In her honesty about her sadness and her descriptions of the wonderful things that she and her mother shared, I have found myself realizing that a mother’s love is unique in its intensity. A mom is eternally connected to her children in a spiritual way that transcends even death. I know that I have felt my mother’s enduring presence in my heart again and again in the six years since she has been gone. I find that I actually understand her more in her absence than I ever did when I was rushing around and taking her for granted. It is not difficult at all for me to identify with the men and women that I know who are filled with a mixture of sadness and joy as they are reminded of the unconditional love that their moms showered on them.

It’s funny how we find ourselves thinking of small moments that meant so much to us whenever we begin to think back on the influence that our mothers had on our lives. I always return to a cold February when I was nine years old and bedridden with a high fever and a measles induced rash. I felt weak and my head pounded incessantly. My mother kept me warm under quilts that my grandmother had made. She constantly checked on me and brought me cool drinks and homemade soup to keep me sustained at a time when I had no desire for anything other than sleep. Best of all she hugged and caressed me and softly assured me that I would soon be well again. Even in the middle of the night as I tossed and turned uncomfortably she was there watching over me. I needed her so, and she was my guardian angel.

Thinking back I realize that this happened only months after my father had died. Mama had somehow managed to create a safe environment for me and my brothers in such a short time. She had set aside her own tears and worries, at least on the surface, so that we might feel confident that all would be well. She must have felt overwhelmed by the responsibilities that had so suddenly fallen upon her, and yet she never let on that she was even remotely concerned. She threw herself into the task of parenting all alone, never even hinting that it might be quite difficult. All I knew back then is how much I loved her and how good she always made me feel.

Mothers can be such imperfect beings but somehow those of us who are their children ultimately see only the perfection of their love. They are our mentors, our muses, our cheerleaders, our rocks, our security. No matter how many mistakes that we make their love endures. They see us without the criticisms that others may heap upon us. They believe in us and want all that is best for us, but mostly they just want us to know that they will never leave us, so I always understand the profound sense of loss that occurs when someone’s mother dies.

Sometimes it is the other way around. A mother loses a child, an unnatural event that is capable of tearing a woman’s heart from her soul. I often think of my grandmother Minnie when my father died and the startling pain that remained etched on her face from that day forward. I thought of her when my friend Tien lost her baby boy Jhett. I sense that there are few greater tragedies than the untimely death of a child, and even though I have witnessed the great courage of those who have endured such misfortune, I also have seen their quiet desperation and undying love for the children who might have been.

It is important that we acknowledge the feelings of children who have lost their mothers, or mom’s who have lost their children. The mother/child relationship never really dies and so the emotions that surround the memories are raw and real. Our role as friends is to simply be supportive and willing to embrace the feelings that they have, no matter how deeply sad they may seem to be. In many ways the person who is willing to admit to their overwhelming emotions is actually just being honest. Our society tends to look away from grief and want people to pretend that they are stronger than they really are. Being able to admit to feeling crushed by loss is actually a healthy way of dealing with reality.

My mother was always the stoic, the person who gave the impression that all was well. I suspect that she did this to shield me and my brothers from the many worries that stalked her. When her mother died she finally decided to let all of the world see her true state of mind. She sobbed openly and spoke of her mom incessantly, so much so that one of her brothers cautioned her to get a grip on herself. By that time in her life she had been treated for bipolar disorder for many years. She went to her psychiatrist concerned about the intensity of her grief. He assured her that she was finally reacting in an incredibly healthy and normal manner and he congratulated her for learning how to deal realistically with the feelings that are so much a part of being human.

Yes, our mothers are such special people. They are our first teachers and the people who like us just the way we are. It is indeed perfectly natural for us to miss them when they are gone and to want to remember them, sometimes even with tears in our eyes. Be kind to those who have those moments of remembering how much they miss that relationship. It is something to honor and embrace. Be the person who allows them to express themselves. Be the person who understands. Help them to embrace their grief.

A Wedding, Two Funerals, and A Hurricane

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This summer has left me forever changed in ways more dramatic than I might ever have imagined. It began innocently enough with a visit to New Orleans with grandson Ian. He saw my favorite city with a new set of eyes that were innocent and inquisitive. It was the history of the place that fascinated him more than even the food and entertainment. He was particularly entranced with the World War II Museum which filled him with wonder and so many questions. I suppose that in many ways the day that we spent reliving the drama and importance of that era when was the beginning of a circle of life that left me profoundly different by the end of my journey through the warm lazy days that have heretofore represented fun and frolic to me, but would no longer be so simple to consider.

After our sojourn in New Orleans we travelled to Cancun for the wedding of two of our favorite friends, Tim and Dickie. We learned just how powerful love can be and that how it cannot be narrowly defined. We also went on a journey back in history to study the Mayan people and their glorious civilization that had been quite advanced in its time. It humbled us to learn of the ingenuity of mankind, but also to understand that the upheavals of life and how we humans react to them have the power to take down or raise up even nations.

We had scheduled so many more amazing travels for July and August when our world was shaken to its very foundation. My husband Mike had a stroke on July 3, and it was as though the earth itself had stood still. Nothing really mattered to me other than Mike’s health and I was thankful that he was still alive and that I would have more time to convey my feelings for him. I suppose that from that exact moment forward I quit taking anything for granted. I became more attuned to the colors and sounds and people all around me. I rejoiced each day when both Mike and I arose. I reveled in even the smallest bits of joy that came our way. Somehow I found myself caring little for things and greatly appreciative of relationships and love.

Mike and I shared a viewing of a partial eclipse of the sun rather than than the total one that we had planned to witness. I suppose that I should have been disappointed that we were not able to travel to Wyoming for the event, but having the pleasure of sitting with Mike in a park watching the little piece of wonder that we were given was more than ample for me. I felt that our day together was truly glorious just because we had the gift of being together. Whenever I thought of what might have been, I felt frightened but mostly grateful for my blessings. Each new day was glorious, but I had little idea that an even greater test of my endurance lay ahead.

As the summer drew to a close my two eldest grandsons readied to go off to college. We celebrated at our favorite Cuban restaurant, El Meson, in the Village area of Houston near Rice University and the Medical Center. It was a beautiful night in which we enjoyed knowing what fine young men our Andrew and Jack had become. It was yet another reason to be thankful and our hearts were filled with joy.

Later we had the privilege of having our twin grandsons Ben and Eli at our home while their parents helped their older brother to check into his dorm at Texas A&M. I was charged with helping the two boys to complete a project for their English class and we worked quite hard for an entire Saturday. I woke them up early on Sunday so that we might finish and still have time for some fun before their parents returned. Just as I had hoped we found ourselves with enough free hours that we were able to go bowling at the Main Event. Later that evening we played a rousing game of Scrabble with no holds barred, and Eli literally blew us all away with a remarkable score. We laughed and felt so good that I once again found myself silently saying prayers of thanks for such precious moments.

Then came the threat of hurricane Harvey. It seemed that because the eye of the storm would be so far away we would be in little danger. There were predictions of massive rainfall but somehow that didn’t seem to be much of a problem, and so we decided to stay in our home. On the first day after the hurricane made landfall we spoke of the hysteria of the forecasters because their promises of floods appeared to have been premature. We were much more saddened by images of the devastation in Rockport, Texas, one of our all time favorite camping spots. It was not until the evening that the rains began and kept going and going and going for three solid days leaving forty three inches in our neighborhood alone.

We began to hear dire reports of friends and family members whose homes were taking on water. The television stations showed us live pictures of familiar places that looked like ocean front property. More and more people that we knew were evacuating, sometimes in the middle of the night. Suddenly I became fearful because it was apparent that if my husband had another stroke there would be little that we might do to get the help that he would need. Those three days became a kind of terror for me. I watched the rain and the street in front and the yard in the back, ever vigilant and unable to sleep lest I might need to get Mike to a medical facility. I cared not about any of the things in my home, but only about my husband and his safety. I realized that I was going to do whatever it took to get him through.

When the rain finally stopped and moved away from our city after dumping fifty one inches across a one hundred mile wide area I was emotionally drained and filled with conflicting emotions. I cried for all of the souls whose worlds had been turned upside down. I sobbed for those who had lost their lives and their homes. I felt lucky that Mike had made it through the days and nights in good condition. I laughed that we had stayed home from camping trips and the eclipse lest he be in a situation in which he might not be able to receive immediate medical care, and ironically for three days we had essentially been trapped on a kind of island with so much happening all around us that we were actually quite alone. I had to praise God for caring for us and for giving me the strength and the calm that I had needed to weather the storm.

Last week our city began to attempt a return to normalcy in earnest. Children returned to school. Adults went back to work. There were actually days that felt so much like the glorious beginning of fall that has always made Houston a kind of Chamber of Commerce postcard. Only rides around town reminded us of the horror of what had happened. Still we had to be happy that we were able to meet with great friends for a brunch on Sunday. We were grateful that we got to visit Mike’s father on Monday and see that he was doing well. Then our week was punctuated with the sorrow and celebration of the lives of two incredible women who had died. I think that perhaps more than any other event their funerals impacted me with a realization of what is truly most important as we live out our days.

Both of these beautiful souls had lived through those harrowing events of World War II that we had studied in New Orleans with Ian. One of them had resided in England. She met her soulmate during that conflict, an American GI. The two of them fell in love and he took her back to his home in Texas where they had seven children that they raised in a home filled with love and goodness and faith in God. The other woman had been born in Italy but eventually immigrated to New Orleans where she too met the love of her life. They also wound up in Houston in the same neighborhood where I grew up. They had four children who would become dear friends of mine. Both women were devoted to their families and required very little in the way of possessions or wealth to be happy. They sacrificed for family and felt honored to do so. In the end they were in turn loved and adored by their children and their friends.

When I attended the two funerals I was accompanied by people that I had known since I was quite young. We had each accumulated a lifetime of stories and memories, but somehow we knew that those women had demonstrated to us how to truly get the most out of life. I felt a sense of peace and a feeling of understanding that has all too often eluded me as I have fought to accomplish rather than to relate. I saw that these women had always realized that titles and bank accounts and possessions were not the things that define a life well lived, but rather the moments when we touch hearts. Somehow I understood that in spite of the topsy turvy nature of this summer, it had been magnificent because it had opened my eyes to how I need to embrace each moment that I have. Somehow I am all the better for what I have learned from that wedding, the hurricane and those two funerals.