All It Takes Is A Little Love

I often think of one of my neighbors who spent years caring for her wheelchair bound mother-in-law. My friend was a model of patience and kindness, tied to her house unless someone came to relieve her of her duties of watching over her very ill guest. She once asked me to stay with her mother-in-law for a very short time. It was not an easy task. The old lady was anxious and angry and let it be known that she did not like the idea that I was substituting for her long-suffering daughter-in-law. I found myself glancing often at my watch and hoping that I would soon be free to leave. I felt quite guilty as I thought of my neighbor doing this every single day for years, always with a saintly smile. Not once did I ever hear her utter a complaint. She was a model of love. 

I have known many such souls who literally dedicated years to the care of a family member and did so with the most amazing calm. They certainly encountered frustrations and became weary, but somehow they were driven by a sense of great devotion. Regardless of how many years of their lives passed as they sacrificed the kind of freedoms that most of us enjoy, they shouldered their responsibilities with grace and inspiring determination. There really is no greater love than this. 

We bandy about phrases like “true love,” but all too often when real life rears its head the relationships built on fantasies fall apart. It is in the toughest of times that we find our real friends and soulmates. These are the persons who are willing to walk through fire with us and more often that not, they are rare. 

A friend from high school recently celebrated her wedding anniversary. She spoke of meeting her husband and falling in love with him. God was at the center of their relationship. Little did they know when they pledged their fealty to each other that she would encounter multiple health problems in the ensuing years. Their fun together was sorely tested in those times but her husband proved to be the real deal. He cared for her with great love and patience. They found joy in the small victories over her illnesses. They understood their calling to honor one another in both sickness and health. 

Love can certainly be passionate but it is so much more than just a physical attraction to someone. Its greatest moments are found in the times when life throws challenges our way. Things all too often fall apart if the connections between people are only skin deep. The man who lovingly watches over his brain injured wife for decades is the incarnation of love. The woman who patiently nurtures her husband with dementia is a treasure. Such people are rare angels in our midst who tirelessly give of themselves in the truest sense of love. 

Philosophers and theologians speak of love. The Christian faith looks to Jesus to demonstrate what love is. He showed us that love is sacrifice for the sake of others, no matter how painful that may be. Love is the greatest gift that we might give to the people we encounter and we are told that it is always patient, never jealous. Love is also forgiving, a trait that can be very difficult to muster when someone hurts us. 

I have observed that true love requires effort. There is a give and take, an up and down to the flow of love. We often find love in the most unexpected places. Over and over again I have seen powerful examples of love that may have seemed quiet and unremarkable, but were in fact profound. My grandfather adored my grandmother and they enjoyed a life filled with fun and laughter. They were rocking along enjoying their dream of owning a farm when my grandmother was diagnosed with terminal cancer. The next many months were crushing for my grandfather as my grandmother slowly slipped away. 

They were both in their late eighties and there was no Medicare at the time. My grandfather watched his life savings dwindle until the money evaporated in a pile of medical bills. She spent her final months at home because no hospital would take her. My grandfather dutifully nursed her and never once complained even though he was drowning in debts from her illness. He loved and cherished her until she took her last breath and then he sold everything he had ever owned to pay off his bills. He would spend the next twenty years of his very long life speaking of the joy that she had brought him and wishing that they had been able to squeeze out a bit more time together. He often boasted that she had been his best buddy, a title that told of the deep friendship.that brought had brought so much joy into their days. 

Love is all around us but we often misrepresent it. It is not just between a man and a woman or a married couple. It is a deep relationships between two people who are willing to walk with one another through life’s sometimes fiery journey. It is a parent’s love for children. It is the love exchanged between friends. It is an adventure that can be as smooth as a sail on a quiet lake or as rocky as a hike up a steep mountain. Love is human, often imperfect, but always concerned with the well being of others. We know it when we see it, and it is a beautiful thing even in its more ordinary forms. It is what we all seek and dream of finding even as we know it must begin with each of us. It need not be reciprocated to be real, but when it is, the world becomes a better place for everyone.

My favorite high school English teacher sought to make us citizens of the world. He challenged us to leave the protective bubbles of our childhood and learn about the vast collage of diversity and ideas that encompasses the globe. He wanted us to realize that there is more to life than just the tiny plot of real estate where we were born and spent our childhoods. He introduced us to literary tracts and world views that we had never before imagined. In the process he helped us to understand that we are all part of a vast interdependent network of people and ideas that transcend the narrow limits that we sometimes place on ourselves. He was the first to challenge me to explore and think beyond the barriers of time and place. 

I may not have travelled to every part of the globe like my sister-in-law from Taiwan, but because of that teacher I was open to understanding and appreciating the cultural differences that she introduced to our family. I learned from her about an ancient culture that had often seemed so different from my own. I realized that while the two of us had grown up under very different circumstances and customs, we were literally more alike than different because of our universal human needs. 

We are not alone on this planet. While it might feel comforting to isolate ourselves from the continuing problems of the world, it is a fools game to believe that we can close our borders and simply enjoy our good fortune while ignoring what is happening in faraway places. The days of using the oceans to protect us from concerns about foreign affairs are long gone, and thank goodness for that. We are a country of people from many nations and while our allegiance is to our own, our interdependence with the rest of humanity is a given that we cannot ignore. 

The world is a gooey mess right now. People continue to get sick and die from a virus that has left so many families and nations devastated. The inevitable chain reaction of events stemming from the long years of sickness, lockdowns, loss of income and production has fallen down on all of us like a heavy hammer. People are warring with one another both literally and figuratively. Crime and mass shooting are on the rise. The people of the world are hurting and worried and even angry. It’s important that we try to understand that we are all on the rollercoaster of this crazy time together. Our goals should be to work as a worldwide team to help all people get past the traumas of the last few years. It will no doubt be a difficult time wrought with privations for some and sacrifices for others, but if we remain aware of not just our own little corner of the planet, but the needs of the entire world we will all make it through this dark and daunting time.

We never quite know if what we are doing from one moment to the next is the correct way of solving the multitude of problems that are stalking us. All we can ever expect is that sometimes our efforts will work and sometimes they will fall apart. We just have to keep unselfishly trying and hoping that we will find the answers to our questions before too many people are hurt. This will require us to open our hearts to suffering wherever it lives. It will no doubt mean that our lives may not feel normal for a time or that everything will forever change. If we are willing to set aside our politics and prejudices we can make it to happier days once again.

There is so much to be done. Complaining about the cost of gasoline is the least of our worries. We have to help those who are being crushed by the economics of the pandemic and war. We have to move beyond our own desires and realize that it may be a long time before we feel settled and secure. We are in for a long haul of Covid repercussions in the entire world. The sooner we accept that fact, the better we will handle the continuing difficulties that crop up. It’s well past time to quit the blame game and work together with all of the members of the family of humankind. 

Each of us is a microcosm of the universe in which we live. Our bodies are very much alike under the skin. Our minds differ in cultures and beliefs but in the dark of night when we are honest with ourselves we must know that our desires are rarely that different from those of people in far away lands. We all need safety and love and belonging and self-esteem and self-actualization no matter where we were born or where we now live. Here in the United States many of us have opportunities and privileges that allow us to reach the peak of living as comfortably much like the lords of old. It is our duty to spread our good fortune to those who are in dire need both near us and far away. 

I recall a time when I was at a baseball game with friends. The stadium was packed with fans. it was a standing room only crowd. One of my companions commented that if we just asked each person who was present to contribute one dollar, and we did that at every such venue across the world, we would be able to fund so many important causes without people even noticing the difference in their pocket books. I often think of his idea when I am paying twenty dollars to park and drinking a five dollar soda at such events. I realize that if those who are able, were to set aside one dollar each day of the year for worthy causes, the coffers for aide would always be full.

Maybe for now we need to all consider our individual places in the world and ask ourselves what more we can do and how we might come together rather than throwing darts and jabs at those whose ideas and ways of living differ from our own. While we quibble over the small stuff, the pain on the planet only grows. It’s time we rise up with all that has always been best about humanity and let there be peace on earth beginning with ourselves. 

I have just begun reading The Year of Magical Thinking by Joan Didion. A confluence of events lead me to this beautiful and insightful text beginning with the long term illness of my father-in-law’s second wife. I was already in an emotional tizzy from watching her slowly drift away into a haze of pain as her body shut down. It was so difficult for me to watch, and the fact that her demise came shortly after the anniversary of my father’s death, close to the anniversary of my mother’s passing, and the murder of nineteen innocents in Uvalde did not help my state of mind. I commented to my daughters that I do not do death well. In fact, I don’t think I have any idea how to deal effectively with sorrow. But then, who does?

As fate would have it, a friend whose son was murdered almost a year ago wrote about his journey through grief and the complex emotions he has experienced during that time. He told us about his own magical thinking and quoted Ms. Didion’s book. At that moment I sensed that I needed to read her story as well. I needed to know if the jumble of feelings that have come and gone since my father’s death were okay or the sign of a disturbance that lives on incessantly inside of me. It was as though I had found a place to feel safe with my muddled thoughts. 

I became a dutiful people pleaser, a fixer of problems, on the day that my father died in spite of the reality that I was only eight years old. I approached death by doing things, attempting to take control of uncontrollable situations. My version of magical thinking was pretending that I was strong and capable. This was the face that I showed the world. Like Ms. Didion people thought of me as the “cool” presence in an emergency, but like her my rationality was little more than a reaction, a way of coping that denied the reality of what was happening. 

I remember a time when my brother and I took my mother for a consult to find out why she was coughing so much, spitting up blood, having difficulty breathing. My brother has told me that when the doctor gave us his diagnosis that my mother was dying from lung cancer I was angry and yelling. I do not even remember this. Try as I may I cannot believe that I did not hear what the doctor had said, or rather, I did not accept what the doctor told us. I was angry with my mother for overacting and giving in to tears of despair. I was certain that we would be able to fix her health and I did not want her to be pessimistic. All of it was a fog in my mind that I have never been able to unravel or explain. 

I learned from The Year of Magical Thinking that Joan Didion had similar experiences. Her husband’s sudden death and the events surrounding it were a blur in her mind. She had difficulty remembering the sequence of events and how she had reacted. She only remembered that the paramedics had commended her for being cool, but she did not recall being cool. In fact, she was “so determined to avoid any inappropriate responses (tears, anger, helplessness, laugher…” that she shut down all response.

When I read that line in Ms. Didion’s book I cried tears of relief because I suppose that I had trained myself to shut down in the face of tragedy or death. I did that unconsciously to protect myself from the truth, which would have been too much to accept in the moment. I had to give myself time to overcome my sorrow and my anger. In spite of my calm demeanor there has always been a core of rage in my heart that frightened me and made me feel abnormal. Through Ms. Didion’s words I saw myself over and over again. I realized that the little girl in me needed to know that I had reacted in a perfectly acceptable and typical way to my father’s death and every other death thereafter. 

My mother reached a point in life where she was not longer able to attend funerals, not so much because she was physically unable, but because she was no longer able to handle the sorrow. She grieved quite openly in private. She was able to shed tears with little or no effort. She had decided that she would no longer hide her feelings to make others feel comfortable. It was a freeing experience for her that I envied because I had long ago become a stoic, someone who often confounded people with my steadiness. 

I suppose that we are experiencing a kind of global grief right now. There is much anger in our hearts over the loss of millions of souls to Covid-19. We rage at the horrors of wars, not just in Ukraine but wherever such conflicts exist. We are weary of violence, crime, injustice. We worry about our future on a planet that is rapidly heating up and causing natural disasters that rent our sense of security in two. We are reacting in many different ways to the horrors that we witness, including adopting a kind of magical thinking that if we can just stay calm and hang in there it may all go away. Some run to movies, and trips and entertainment to pretend that all is well while others worry that we are doomed to a tragic future because of our unwillingness to face issues and take positive actions. Surely there is a way to quell our grief for humanity that lies somewhere in between, that allows each of us to be ourselves and love ourselves. 

I am not healed from my personal losses, and may never be, but it has been good to search my heart in a rational and honest way and to forgive myself for simply being human. Sometimes I react in the voice of an awkward eight year old who continues to dwell in my brain. I have to love her and calm her and then be my present self who has learned more about life and how the world works. I have to use my grief and the anger that follows from it more wisely and thoughtfully. What I really want is to make the world better and I believe that it can be done. 

I was fortunate to have to wear a uniform for all but one year of my pre-college education. Most of my peers hated the white blouses, pleated skirts and blazers that we had to wear, but for me they were a disguise that covered the fact that I owned a very limited wardrobe. I attended private school by the good graces of the nuns and priests who gave me free tuition because they understood my family’s economic situation after the death of my father. My mother was a financial wizard who managed to provide us with a seemingly comfortable lifestyle by using her talents for saving money at every turn. She often reminded us that the best class that she ever took in high school was Home Economics. It was there that she honed her skills at running a household efficiently with a very narrow margin of income. 

I never had to worry about looking out of place with my classmates. They had no idea how careful my mother had to be in setting priorities for spending. From the time that our family settled into our new life without a father I got by with a school wardrobe that consisted of two skirts, five blouses and a sweater or a blazer with one pair of shoes that hopefully lasted for an entire school year. Sometimes when I did not grow I used the same set of clothing over and over again. My clothing collection also included some play outfits into which I changed each afternoon to preserve my school clothes and two or three dresses that I used for special occasions and church. 

I grew up knowing nothing about fashion or designer labels. My mother shopped the sales all over town, hunting for the best quality items for the lowest price. If the cost was right and the articles fit they went home with us, otherwise she left them behind. In the big department stores I never saw the fully priced fashions sold on the higher floors. I was only familiar with the area often known as the bargain basement where I learned about discounts and percents. 

Somehow with my mother’s eye for a good deal I always managed to find something that was well made and had the look of quality. Mama often told me to find what complimented my shape and my coloring and to stick with classics rather than fads. She was as gifted when it came to fashion as she was in cooking. Somehow I always looked good and ate well under her tutelage. She worked hard to keep me and my brothers feeling safe and secure and often joked that she had a secret money tree in the backyard that she used only in emergencies. 

If I fretted over wearing the same clothing over and over again my mother would wisely tell me that most people were so worried about themselves that they rarely noticed how other people were dressed. She urged me to get over myself and think about others instead. She insisted that a nice smile was much more beautiful than a new dress. 

While I loved her philosophy I have to admit to sometimes doubting the veracity of it during my most angst ridden teen years. It would be decades before I came to fully realize how wise and wonderful she actually was. Somehow her lessons unconsciously guided me even when I did not realize how impactful they had been. As look back on how I did things I realize that I followed her lead without even thinking about what I was doing. 

To this day I head immediately to the sale racks in stores. I can’t think of many times when I have ever purchased an article of clothing that had not been drastically marked down. I know very little about designer labels or trends. I shop for items that will last for years and make me look thinner than I really am. I feel uncomfortable spending large amounts of money for anything other than shoes, which I consider to be the foundation on which I stand. I want my footwear to be comfortable and sturdy. 

There are certain labels that seem to always fit me well and last beyond a season, so I search for them on the sale racks. Calvin Klein seems to have tailored clothing just for the idiosyncrasies of my shape. Michael Kors has a way of slimming me. Still it is the cut of the clothing and quality of the fabric that makes all the difference, so I often find low priced items at Walmart or on Amazon Prime. I suppose my mother’s spirit continues to live inside my head. 

There was a time when my mother designed and tailored my clothing by hand. Her skill at a sewing machine was unrivaled. She was definitely a brilliantly gifted woman who had learned how to manage a household with aplomb. I used to internally roll my eyes whenever she quoted lessons she had learned in her Home Economics class. I did not appreciate the art and science of all that she had learned. Now I look back and wonder if we would have survived as a family well as we did without her amazing knowledge and skills and optimistic outlook. She had a designer label all her own.

We were all devastated after the death of my mother-in-law, Mary Isabell Fisk Gonzalez. Most especially sorrowful was my father-in-law, Julio. He was very lonely, but learned how to carry on with his life by working out at the gym and playing bridge a few times each week. He slowly replaced his grief with a determination to make the best of his new situation, but it was always obvious that he was very lonely even with family attempting to fill his void. Little did we know that in the twilight of his life he would meet a lovely woman named Janell who would help him to be happy once again. 

Sixteen years ago he introduced us to this beautiful and vibrant woman who would become a new member of our family. Janell was a most interesting person. She was born in El Dorado, Arkansas but spent much of her youth living in east Texas during a time when the discovery of oil in the area was booming and famous performers came to her neck of the woods to entertain the men and women working in that industry. Her beauty, outgoing personality and kindness made her an attractive young women indeed. She soon married a World War II veteran and over time gave birth to four beautiful children, Frances, Ann, Don, and Scott. She would be a proud mother for the remainder of her life, always regaling anyone who would listen with descriptions of how bright, successful and wonderful they had all become. 

Janell and her children lived for a time in Paris where she soaked in the history and art of that romantic city. She collected paintings and antiques and explored every corner of the City of Light. She enjoyed her time there and lit up with joy whenever she spoke of her adventures. She enjoyed the markets and the cooking and became quite the chef in her own right. 

Long after her children were grown and she had spent years as a single woman, Janell and my father-in-law met each other at a dance. She was such a strikingly beautiful vision with her youthful appearance and engaging smile that it is little wonder that he noticed her and fell for her quickly. Just after the infamous hurricane Rita threatened Houston, Texas the two of them announced that they were engaged and were quickly married after that. 

Janell fit in well with our family. She and my mother shared stories of being single moms and they developed a kinship that was sweet to observe. Best of all she managed to help my father-in-law smile and laugh again. They were like young newlyweds taking trips to Las Vegas, Puerto Rico and Europe. They loved going out to eat and being with family. 

Janell redecorated my father-in-law’s home with her colorful flair and brought in the lovely things that she had collected during her lifetime. She gave wonderful parties and pampered my father-in-law with all of his favorite foods while carefully adhering to his diabetic dietary restrictions. The two of them had fun together sitting on the deck in back of their house and visiting with the neighbors. Sometimes they even babysat with Janell’s great granddaughter who delighted them both with her innocent spirit. 

I often joked with friends that I got fashion tips from Janell. She really knew how to dress and look like a million dollars no matter where she was going. She and I talked about good books and great places to shop for bargains while my father-in-law and husband worked on the computer. I felt very comfortable with Janell from the very beginning and before I knew it, I realized that she and Mike’s dad had been married for sixteen years.

I understood that Janell had some heart trouble, but with extra care she had managed to forestall any big problems for quite some time. Then her health began to wane..She spent more and more time in the hospital but she remained hopeful that there might be some treatment that would help her improve. Sadly that was not the case. It was so difficult to witness this once vibrant and optimistic woman being sidelined by her illness. 

Janell was a very Christian woman. She was a long time member of Second Baptist Church and had even played featured roles in that congregation’s annual Christmas Pageant. The photos of her in costume are as stunning as she always was in person. She and I often spoke about her love of God and her belief that one day there would be a very special place for her in heaven. She had grown very weary of her life of pain and felt God’s call for her to go home.

On June 2, 2022, Janell quietly passed away at the Houston Hospice. She was a good and godly woman, a mother who adored her children, a grandmother who doted on her grandchildren and a wife who loved deeply. We will all miss her smile and her compassion. I feel certain that she is now at peace and that her soul is as beautiful as her outward appearance has always been. Rest in peace, sweet Janell, and thank you for taking care of our Papa over the years.