All It Takes Is A Little Love

We visited Westminster Abbey during our twenty seventeen trip to London but both felt that there was so much to see that it was almost overwhelming. We decided that we wanted to take the tour one more time now that we had a better understanding of the layout and much of the history. After leaving the Dickens’ Museum we got a ride to the City of Westminster and made our way to the famous cathedral where we waited for the time of our appointed reservation.

The audioguides of the present day were far easier to use than the ones that had left us a bit confused the first time around. We also felt far more comfortable and less overwhelmed my the majesty of the cathedral itself so we slowly made our way to each section knowing that nobody was going to rush us from one place to another. We took our time and let the history soak into our very skin. 

While we were there a mass was taking place and we decided to tarry for a bit and celebrate with others who had taken seats and were praying together. It made the cathedral feel more sacred and personal to see it first and foremost as a working church, not just a collection of historic artifacts. As a Catholic I noticed that resemblances between my faith and that of the Church of England. 

After the mass we continued our journey, viewing the final resting places of kings, queens and important figures in the history of Great Britain. Each story was so touching and personal that I found myself feeling reverence for the hundreds of years that the cathedral had been a place of worship more so than the pomp and circumstance of history. Itfelt a clearer understanding of journey that humankind has taken over the centuries. 

Soon we were at my favorite spot in the cathedral. Poets’ Corner, here famous authors are either buried or remembered for their literary contributions. I was like a kid in a candy store as I read off the names of so many of my favorite authors. Just as before I was in a state of awe, wishing that the English teacher who had first introduced me to these people were there to discuss the importance of each person. The world would have truly been a duller place without them. 

Next came the resting places of scientists, explorers and political leaders like Isaac Newton and Winston Churchill. There was even a plaque dedicated to Franklin Roosevelt whose partnership with Britain during World War Ii will never be forgotten. I was happy that we came back to this glorious place. I felt a clearer understanding of its in role in the history of Britain but also of the world. 

What was most exciting to both me and my husband is that I had learned that there was going to me an Evensong that very afternoon starting at five. All we needed to do to partake in the event is show up around four thirty. We left to rest a bit in our hotel and to gather our coats knowing that nights became rather cool in London during October. 

At four thirty we were ushered into the cathedral with clear instructions that there would be no photography of any kind allowed. We learned that the event would include a special tribute to the ambassador of Fiji who was there with his wife celebrating their anniversary. Soon enough the sounds  of angelic voices filled the air as the choir processed into the church. I was immediately so moved that I was unable to keep tears of emotion from forming in my eyes.

There was an alternation between readings from the Old And New Testaments, sacred songs, and a homily. The whole event was moving and inspiring and I felt that we were part of something so much bigger than even the sum of all of our lives. It was a spiritual moment in time that bound us together with all of the souls who have gathered to praise God. It was so profound that I could hardly catch my breath. 

We all left the church soundlessly and once we were outside I turned to my husband who proclaimed his own reference for what had happened. It seemed such a fitting way to understand the true meaning of what Westminster Cathedral has meant to the people of Great Britain over time. 

We rode the tube from Westminster back to the Embankment Station quietly pondering what we had just witnessed. We followed with a lovely dinner that seemed to bookend the day perfectly. It had been glorious in every possible way.

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We were quite tired when we returned from our whirlwind one day trip to Paris and we were nearing the end of our vacation. I had purchased tickets to the Dickens’ Museum for the day after our Paris adventure and my husband was feeling squeamish about having to arise early in order to eat breakfast and arrive at the museum in the time slot that I had reserved. He rather meekly asked if I felt the need to go there rather than taking it easy in the morning. 

I suppose he saw the look of disappointment on my face when I reluctantly agreed that maybe it was a bit too much to ask him to rush around without a great deal of sleep. We were quite exhausted from rising before dawn to catch the the 6:00 train to Paris on time and it was after ten in the evening before we were back at our London hotel. Somehow what had seemed like a good idea on paper didn’t sound so wonderful in our exhausted states but I still hesitated and suggested that we play it by ear when we arose the following day. 

As would happen we managed to sleep like Rip van Winkle and awoke fully refreshed and ready for new adventures. After breakfast at our favorite cafe we we on our way to the Dickens’ museum as planned. Taking the tube would have required a great deal of walking so we used an Uber which turned out to be yet another wonderful interaction with Londoners. The driver was from Nigeria and his intelligent discussion of the world’s present situation including commentary on both the United States and Great Britain was like having a noted professor giving us a crash course in world politics. He was so interesting that I almost wanted to stay in the car even after we had arrived at the museum. Sadly he had another customer to serve and we needed to get inside to claim our reserved time. 

The Dickens Museum is housed in one of Charles’ Dickens homes and to say that it proved to be delightful would be an understatement. We began in the basement where the kitchen was housed and moved our way upward with delightfully crafted audio guides that explained the importance of each room as it related to the history and personality of Dickens. The information was interspersed with lovely readings from the novels that Dickens wrote. The whole experience made the house and Dickens’ time in it come alive. 

Some of the rooms additionally had live explanations from guides dressed in the clothing of the Dickens era providing personal details of what had happened there. One of the most touching took place in the bedroom of Dickens’ sister-in-law who died suddenly at a very young age with no real explanation for what had happened to her. She and Dickens had shared a very personal relationship and her death took its toll on both Dickens’ personality and his marriage. Some even hinted that he had been secretly in love with the young woman and that the tragedy was more than he and his wife could bear. Eventually their marriage fell apart. 

Each room was filled with wonderful stories as well as sources of the ideas that gave birth to the many novels that Dickens wrote. We learned about the hardships that he had endured as a child that lead him to have the great compassion for the poor that is reflected in his work. He was very much in tune with his times and so each book that he wrote seems to reflect the London of his era as perfectly as might be possible. 

The home itself was enchanting and there were moments when I fully expected Charles Dickens to walk in on our spying. The neighborhood around the house made us imagine what it would have been like when he was in his study writing the stories that have become so familiar. He would have known that Camden town where Bob Cratchit lived may have been nearby in distance but was hundreds of miles away in terms of difference. Dickens was haunted by his own success and its unevenness with the experiences of his youth. 

The top floor of the museum was dedicated to a study of all the times that plays, movies and television productions had turned to the works of Dickens for plots. He made his characters so human that their essences jump off of the pages and their stories seem as important today as they were back when they were first written. We sat for almost an hour enjoying clips of Dickens productions, making note of books that we want to read and shows that we want to view. It was with reluctance that we left even as we both agreed that it had been one of the most delightful moments of our trip. 

When I was in the second and third grades I became addicted to stories about saints in the Catholic Church. The librarian, Mrs. Martin, noticed my propensity to choose the books about saints and often set aside new ones that she had purchased so that I might be the first to read them. I must have gone through every such text that the school owned before tales about the early American pioneers began to tickle my fancy and steal my attention. 

For some reason I’ve always had a tendency to read everything in a particular genre until I suddenly have little interest and move on to new frontiers. I don’t actually recall many details about the saints that I found the most interesting other than the common trait of courage that so many of them seemed to have. If their personalities were too syrupy sweet I quickly became bored by them but those who bucked the system in the name of what they believed to be right fascinated me. 

At the time that I first encountered books about the lives of the saints I was a little mouse afraid of her own shadow. I would never have had the strength to speak out or buck the system so I suppose that I felt a sense of admiration for anyone willing to speak the truth as they saw it. Women like Joan of Arc and St. Theresa impressed me with their courage and their humanity which often included anxieties that made them question the status quo. 

I suppose such people, especially the females. have always seemed quite special to me. I loved a childhood neighbor who stood up to a man who had just murdered his wife in order to protect his children. All of the other adults were frozen in fear waiting for the police to arrive but she would have none of the reticence. She saw the little ones screaming for help in the living room window and dove into action. She pounded on the front door with all of the force that her tiny body allowed demanding that the murderer free the children into her care. I was only seven when I witnessed her audacity but I have never forgotten how impressed I was with her. I tend to believe that she is now one of those saints that remain unnamed but definitely worth remembering. St. Kathleen is my secret icon and I have never forgotten her.

I have known others who were willing to risk their jobs and even their standing in the community to do what they believed to be right. Each time I saw such a person I chided myself for not rising to difficult occasions the way that they had. I so wanted to be like them but never quite found the chutzpah I needed to overcome my shyness, I would be in my mid twenties before I found something deep inside of me that allowed me to openly sand up for what I believe. It eventually led me to become a Peer Facilitator for teachers and a Dean of Faculty. At the same time I stood firm in my defense of students who were being bullied or abused. 

The more often I spoke my mind, the easier it became to be an advocate for anyone who was in a dire situation. Perhaps it began with those books about the saints or with my admiration for certain women whom I had known. Maybe it was having to care for my mother when she became ill with bipolar disorder. I will never know for sure, but I found my voice and never again looked back.

I have learned to price of speaking my mind. I once enraged one of my bosses so much that I feared that I would be fired even as I knew that I had been fair in my complaints to her. What I saw was an insecure and power hungry woman who quite unfairly misjudged her employees seemingly to make herself appear to be more in control that she was. I stood my ground because I believed that with a bit of self reflection she might have become a decent leader. Instead she only became more and more threatening until her authority collapsed under the weight of her damaged psyche. She was eventually judged by her own bosses to be incompetent and they relieved her of her job, thanking me for attempting to right the wrongs long before it was too late to salvage the situation. 

I tend to think of my fortitude as good trouble but not everyone agrees. I have lost friends and been marked as a trouble maker for mentioning hard truths. There is a price to be paid for speaking one’s mind. Not everyone sees me as a heroine whenever I attempt to bring difficulties to light. I often remind myself that Joan of Arc was burned at the stake. I have slowly learned when my words and actions will do good and when they will make things worse. There is a balance that I must attempt to achieve but some things are so egregious that silence would be morally wrong under any circumstances. 

I have been surrounded by brave women for all of my life. My mother forged an incredible path in life in spite of her illness. My mother-in-law would raise her eyebrow and state her views when she witnessed someone being hurt. Both great men and women of integrity abound. They are the kind of heroes that I still strive to be. They are people willing to sacrifice for truth and justice. They are the living saints who keep me striving to live an honorable life. . 

• “When it is obvious that the goals are unattainable, don’t adjust the goals; adjust the steps” — Confucius 

I taught a lovely young girl who sat attentively in the front of the room during my first period Algebra I class. Next to her was a young man filled with energy who often had a difficult time sitting still, but not in my class because the students on either side of him made sure that he was always on task. Next to him was another outstanding young lady who would rise to the number one spot among her peers. Between the three of them there were many dreams which may have seemed daunting when they were freshmen but would ultimately come true because each of them set goals and then adjusted the pace and the steps that they would need to accomplish what many might have believed were unattainable dreams. 

One of the girls wanted to be a medical doctor. She had good grades and earned admission to an excellent college where she strove to graduate with a strong enough GPA to impress a medical school but to her dismay she just barely missed what most universities were looking for in their students. She went to work in a hospital as a medical scribe following doctors and writing down their diagnoses and treatments for the record while she recalibrated her plans. She had a knack for all of those medical terms that most of us would not know how to spell. 

Eventually she confided to the physicians of her longing to work in the medical community in a more challenging way. She was worried about what her grades on the MCAT exam might be, so while she was studying for that test she went back to college to earn a masters’ degree in hospital management. She graduated with honors and worked for a time until she felt brave enough to take the MCAT and apply once again to medical schools. She not only got a good score on the test but many of the doctors with whom she had worked enthusiastically wrote recommendation letters for her. This time she got an acceptance from Howard University and finally fulfilled her dream. This fall she will take the medical board exams to determine if she is soon to be called a doctor. 

The young man in the middle wanted to be an engineer so he went to a university of south Texas where he was not tempted to party or do so many of the usual college extra curriculars. He worked hard and earned a degree by taking classes step by step until he had earned enough credits to graduate. Sadly there were few jobs in his field when he graduated so he found work that was unrelated to his major. Eventually an opportunity arose out of the blue in a small town. He jumped at the chance to show his mettle, working long hours and on weekends until the managers of the company saw his work ethic and enthusiasm and began to mentor him for better things. This month he will take the test to become a Professional Engineer. 

The third young lady went to Syracuse on a scholarship and graduated with honors in four years but she was not ready to quit working toward a higher degree. To earn funds she drove an ambulance and took all kinds of little jobs here and there while plugging away at earning a Masters degree and then a PhD. Hers has also been a long journey during which some wondered why she kept working so hard. Now she is doing a fellowship at a hospital in New York City and she proudly bears the title of Doctor. 

I often think back to when those three students sat in the front of my classroom taking notes, asking questions, eagerly pushing themselves to get better and better at math. They became three of my all time favorite students and I somehow always knew that there was no question that they would be quite successful. 

The funny thing is that I actually had other teachers come to watch me instructing my students to discover how I inspired such studious behavior in these three and others in that class. The truth is that I had nothing whatsoever to do with their hard work. They were the ones teaching me. From them I learned the power of determination and patience. I watched them create goals for themselves that many of the adults in their lives thought were fantastical. They were never once derailed from the paths that each of them ultimately took. I admired them then and admire them even more now. They have surpassed me in every measure and I am honored to have known them and been a tiny part in their success. 

We all too often underestimated ourselves and those around us. We forget how tough the human spirit can be. These three showed me the power of sticking with dreams even if the ways of doing so had to change a bit. In the end each of them has scored an enormous victory and created a well lived life just by adjusting the steps one at a time.

We often speak of love but what is it really? What does it look like? How do we know it is there?

My mother often spoke of growing up during the Great Depression. She remembered how her father had carefully worked to pay for their home in small steps starting with purchasing the land with cash. Then he saved enough money to build a home one room at a time until it was large enough to lodge a family of ten people. When the worst economic downturn of the Great Depression came, the family was safe because my grandfather owned the house and the backyard where he had been wise enough to plant vegetables. He had also purchased enough land to serve as a pasture for a cow that provided the family with milk. His job at a meat packing plant was a source of meat and while the diet that each person enjoyed was sometimes meager, nobody ever missed a meal. This was love at its best.

While my grandfather was working all day long doing back breaking labor, my grandmother was mending clothes that were handed down from one child to another. Grandma repaired old shoes as well, keeping a stock of cardboard boxes to carefully line the worn leather of the soles that had become dotted with holes. All the while there were meals to prepare and budgets to stretch so that none of the children went to bed hungry. 

My mother often spoke of how her mother served everyone before she herself took a bite of food. Sometimes all that was left after the children had taken their share might be a few bits of meat clinging to a bone or the head of a fish. My grandmother would never complain as she sucked on the bone or ate the head of the fish. In fact she acted as though she had saved the best part for herself. Her love for her husband and her children was totally selfless.

My paternal grandmother was diagnosed with stage four colon cancer when she was in her eighties during a time when Medicare was not yet even a dream. The bills for her care were enormous and ate away at the savings that my grandfather had attempted to accumulate when he was still working. To pay for the doctors and hospital visits he went to work at the age of eighty eight installing rings for recessed lighting at NASA. When a manager saw the old man working on a tall ladder he was shocked to learn how old he was. He understood that my grandfather needed the money but still had to let him go for safety reasons. 

After that my grandfather ran out of funds to pay the doctors and the hospital. The powers that be sent my grandmother home after instructing my grandfather in the methods for caring for her colostomy bag and her wounds. He nursed her for many months, never telling her how dire their financial situation had become. He collected debts and lovingly did his best to keep her comfortable until she died. it was only then that he announced that he would have to sell his home and his belongings to pay all of the people and entities that he owed. He would spend the rest of his life in a rented room but mostly he was happy that he had able to keep my grandmother feeling safe and loved without ever telling her how close they had come to being unhoused while she was dying. His love for her was apparent until the day that he died at the age of one hundred eight.

I have been fortunate to have been inspired by people who showed me how to love in the most powerful ways. Their examples have been a guiding force for me even as I have never had to work as hard or endure as much as they did. Then, of course, there was my mother who courageously raised me and my brothers alone after my father died. it was a Herculean task in a time when women had fewer options for earning an income than we enjoy today. So many odds were stacked against her and yet she never let on how hard it must have been for her. She made me and my brothers believe that we should have no worries as she magically and proudly made sure that we lived in a sturdy home and never missed a meal. She took us to church on Sundays, sent us to Catholic school, kept us in touch with our extended family and somehow helped us to always feel safe and most of all, loved. She never missed her night time ritual of tucking us in and telling us how much she loved us. In truth she did not need to profess her feelings because the evidence of her devotion was visible in everything she did from dawn to dusk. 

Love is a beautiful thing found in small moments and sometimes big sacrifices that we may not even notice at the time. I often hope that my children and grandchildren understand how much they mean to me. I hope that they will see the legacy of love that has been handed down from one generation to the next in our family. We are certainly not perfect but the love is always there.