Forever. Amen.

Another Christmas has ended and I am thankful for many blessings. I had family, and love, and more memorable moments than I could ever count. But there is always one moment for me that I anticipate each year, and that stands out more than any other each Christmas. That moment is when my mom softly squeezes my hand as we finish praying the "Our Father" during Christmas Mass. Holding hands, as the congregation prays... "For thine is the kingdom, and the power, and the glory, forever. Amen", my mom always gently holds my hand just a bit tighter over the words "Forever. Amen."

Growing up, attending Mass every Sunday was not so much required as it was just a normal part of our living. As much as eating, and sleeping, and breathing - we went to church on Sundays. As I look back over the many hours that I've spent in a pew sitting between my parents, it is their hands that I remember most clearly. My mom's hands holding the missalette and guiding me with a pointed finger to our current place or the current hymn, when I had lost my place. My mom's hands folded in prayer as we kneeled side by side. My dad's hands - often good distraction for a child during Mass. Whether he was cleaning his fingernails with his long pocket knife or playfully "trapping" my hand to the pew as we stood in a silent hand-wrestling competition, he was always present and always open to the humor of a moment.

I pay a lot of attention to hands. For years, I've taken pictures of people I love - and I always like to pay special attention to focusing solely on their hands. Our hands tell our stories and they are where our character is revealed. When I think of any person that I know, that I love, one of the first images that I call to mind is always that of their hands. Though drawn to these images, I was never really able to articulate what caught my interest until sometime this last year when my Dad sent me an email about an old woman who  relates the story of her hands and I realized, her thoughts were exactly my own. Our hands have touched, have experienced every thought, emotion, and action throughout our lives. They are marked with our stories. They are as imprinted and scarred as our hearts are with all the memories of our lives.

I look forward each year to attending Christmas Mass with my mom - though it is late at night, often times brutally cold outside, and always after a full day of holiday celebration. I look forward to it each year for that one moment. When our hands are connected and she gently squeezes mine - telling me with her hands in a way that is stronger than any words, that she loves me. I have many photographs of the hands of those in my life, but in my minds eye, the image of hands (and of love) that is most prevalent is that of my hand in my mom's hand...and all the love that is there. Forever. Amen.

My Hands...

Mom's Hands...

Dad's Hands...

Following is an edited excerpt from the email that my dad sent me with the old woman's story of her hands...

"Stop and think for a moment about the hands you have, how they have served you well throughout your years. My hands have been the tools I have used all my life to reach out and grab and embrace life. They braced and caught my fall when, as a toddler, I crashed upon the floor. They put food in my mouth and clothes on my back. As a child, my mother taught me to fold them in prayer. They tied my shoes and pulled on my boots. They held my husband. They have been dirty, scraped and raw, swollen and bent. They have wiped away tears, clenched in anger, and trembled with grief. They have held my children and grandchildren. They have covered my face, combed my hair, and washed and cleansed the rest of my body. They have been sticky and wet, bent and broken, dried and raw. These hands are the mark of where I've been and the ruggedness of life. But more importantly, it will be these hands that God will reach out to when he leads me home and there I will use these hands to touch the face of God.'

So John and I got kicked out of Bethlehem. True story.

So John and I got kicked out of Bethlehem on Friday night. I am not making this up. Of course, it wasn't the real Bethlehem - but instead, was a Living Nativity in Longville, MN. The idea is that you drive past a series of vignettes where actors are recreating the story of Christ's birth. It sounded interesting to me so I talked John into driving through on our way out to dinner that evening. 

I thought it was strange that the first vignette we saw was the stable scene and I thought it even more unusual that the "Baby Jesus" was laying in the manger while Joseph leaned on a near-by wall talking to one of the wise men, and Mary stood in the opposite corner drinking a coffee. John asked what I thought so far and I said "I think it would be more believable if Mary wasn't drinking a Starbucks". 

The second vignette was the Inn that turned them away - with a sign on top that read "NO RMIN" (honestly, you can't make this stuff up.) The innkeeper seemed to scowl at us as we continued on our way.

At the third vignette, the shepherds stood in the nearby field with their sheep. We slowed down as one of the shepherds approached and signaled to roll down the window. He very kindly said "I'm sorry but Bethlehem is a one-way street and you are going the wrong way. Would you please back out the way you came in?"

"Oh man," I said to John, "we just got kicked out of Bethlehem!"

Well, by now, my interest was certainly piqued so I convinced John to drive through once again - the right way this time. Yes, it made much more sense this time. There was Luke writing the gospel, and then Mary and Joseph journeying on their donkey. We then again, came upon the shepherds in the field and as we rounded the corner, a light came up on the Angel proclaiming the birth of Jesus. There was a man dressed as the angel strapped to a tree no less than 40 feet above the ground. Fantastic!

We drove past the innkeeper again and then were back to stable. Now everything was as it should be - Joseph stood by protectively as Mary held the baby in her arms. 

We had been thrown out of Bethlehem, but thankfully we found our way through eventually.

On a much more serious note, as we left, the image of Mary looking down at her child was an image that I could not shake from my mind. On a day when so many mothers had tragically lost their children. I think I needed the Living Nativity on Friday. I needed to be reminded about what this season is really about. And, more importantly, I needed to remember that sometimes we need to put down our coffee. Sometimes we have to be fully present in the moment. And, always, we need to hold closely those we love.

Don't Honk. I'm Pedaling As Fast As I Can.

The 1960’s era cherry-red Plymouth (or Dodge or Chevy, I don’t know for certain) was only remarkable for a few reasons that I can recall. First of all, it was owned by my Grandma Hart, and second, because it was always one of the first things we saw parked in her tiny garage when we came to visit her in Pine River. And finally, because the rear bumper was decorated with a bumper sticker that always made me smile, “Don’t honk. I’m pedaling as fast as I can.”

My Grandma had a terrific sense of humor – she laughed at the world, and was also never afraid to laugh at herself. She loved to tell stories and she surrounded herself with things that would make people smile – cartoons all over her refrigerator, quirky knick-knacks and such. She was an artist – painting, sewing, and crocheting were just a few of her many talents. My Grandma was also a lifelong learner – she never stopped having an interest in a wide variety of topics. And she fed her hunger for knowledge with constant books by her side. While Grandma could be completely fantastic through the eyes of a little girl due to her love of dolls, comfort foods, and laughter, she was in fact a very no-nonsense woman with a strong dose of common sense. Grandma was a hero to me and the traits that I so admired in her are things that I try everyday to model in my own life. She taught me so many lessons about being a strong woman and about being a good grandmother. I remember one of the very last times that I visited her in the hospital. A nurse came to check on her while she was sleeping and I was sitting by her bedside. The nurse asked if I was her granddaughter and I nodded. Then, she asked, "how many grandchildren does your grandma have?". The question struck me as I thought for just a moment and then replied “My grandma has many, many grandchildren. But she always made me feel like I was the only one.”  The nurse said “Ah, that sounds like a very good grandma.” Yes. She was. And she continues to teach me lessons even now.

I thought of Grandma one day at work this week, as I was rushing to figure out which priority was truly most important and working to get all the priorities accomplished, scrambling as fast as I can to get it all done. While also thinking about all the holiday tasks that have to be completed at this time of year: gift buying, wrapping, sending cards, entertaining, events, etc.  As everything rolled through my head, I suddenly clearly saw Grandma’s car in her garage and that bumper sticker saying “Don’t honk. I’m pedaling as fast I can”, and I smiled just like I used to do everytime I saw it 30 years ago. I know that if she were here, Grandma would remind me that of course some things NEED to be done, but some of the stuff is just…stuff. It isn't really the priority. She would remind me that this time of year should be about honoring what is really important – remembering all the people who have impacted my life, and loving all the people who are part of my soul. She would tell me to focus on what is important and maybe not to “pedal as fast as I can” but instead, to “pedal only as fast I need to”. There is a difference.

So, thanks Grandma, once again, even after you are no longer here with me, for continuing to teach me lessons. I will keep pedaling through this holiday season, but I plan to pace myself – accomplishing what has to be done while focusing on what is important.  Don’t Honk…I’m Enjoying the Moment.

PS: Because many of my readers are family, I'm sharing the following story with you as a post script. Years ago, I asked Grandma to write me a story about what Christmas was like when she was a little girl and this is what she shared…

"Each year about 3-4 weeks before Christmas, Ma would board a train for Chicago. There, she and Pa would buy our Christmas presents and each year some new tree trimmings. About 2-3 days before Christmas, my brother Leo would get the Christmas tree and set it up in the living room. Then a goose was killed and dressed. Ma usually made our Christmas dresses for the school program and of course knitted stockings, always black. We generally had new shoes ordered from Sears. On the day before Christmas, chores were done early. After supper, the dishes were done and the old tin tub brought in and everyone had a bath, then we hung our stockings and we kids were sent to bed. The older girls scrubbed the kitchen floor with lye soap and a scrub brush, then the tree was trimmed and presents were arranged. We were wakened to come see what Santa brought. I can still see the tree, the top almost touching the ceiling, all the candles lit, and all the gifts around it. One trimming I remember most was a fragile little red bird with a feather tail and if you blew in the beak, it whistled a bird call. One year, my sisters Lillie, Rosalind and I got a fur neck piece to fit over our coats and a muff to match. I remember it most because we were allowed to wear them to school and one evening, we were trudging home through the snow and a neighbor driving a team and wagon with a load of fresh sawed lumber, stopped to give us a ride. When I was boosted up, I leaned on the lumber and got my muff all full of resin from the lumber and got soundly scolded when I got home. Usually in our stockings by the chimney, we had a small bag of candy, an apple and an orange but one year my brother Leo filled our stockings with apple and potato peelings. He got scolded for that! My sister, Bessie, would come with her husband and children for dinner. Then we got to play with our toys while the older ones visited. I always remembered the house where I was born as a big house. Years later, as an adult when I saw it again, I was amazed how small it was and wondered how we all fitted into it!"

Trust Me: This is NOT your average movie review...

So, John and I decided to go see "Skyfall' tonight. We were running a few minutes late and expected to miss the previews, but were surprised to come in and the movie was already in full action. Bond was shooting, running, and evading death in (what we thought) was a very exciting opening sequence.

However, about 35 minutes in, suddenly the action stopped and the theme music started to play. I thought to myself...in this exact sequence...
"Geez....that was the longest opening Bond movie sequence ever."   Then... when the closing credits started to play, I thought:
"Geez....that was the shortest Bond movie ever."  Then...not until my third "Geez"....
"Geez...we came into the wrong theater."

Yes, we had intended to start with the 6:10 but had joined a movie that probably started somewhere around 4:30.

So, of course, we did what any rational thinking couple would do, we got up and headed to the theater next door (which was the original 6:10 showing we intended to see) and caught the full middle section of the movie.

When we got to the part where we had come in to the FIRST theater, we got up and went to the next theater for the 7:45 showing and finally...enjoyed the real opening sequence!

So we watched the end, the middle and then the beginning. As if a Bond movie isn't confusing enough, we had to see it out of sequence. Of course, after realizing our error, we were laughing so hard at our own stupidity that we had no other choice but to carry it through in order to see the full movie.

We needed a laugh...and fate brought it to us.

Sometimes, that's how it works. Moments come to us out of sequence and if we just let it happen, we are able to pause, take a step back, and enjoy the show. Thank you, James Bond, for bringing us some laughs tonight.

PS - The movie is awesome - you'll love the opening sequence...that comes at the end....

This Is NOT A Political Post...well...not really...

A scene from "You've Got Mail"...
KATHLEEN: I have something to tell you. I didn't vote.
FRANK: What?
KATHLEEN: In the last mayoral election, when Rudy Giuliani was running against Ruth Messinger, I went to get a manicure and forgot to vote.
FRANK: Since when do you get manicures?
KATHLEEN: Oh, I suppose you could never be with a woman who gets manicures.
FRANK: Forget it. It's okay. I forgive you.
KATHLEEN: You forgive me.

Do you remember this scene from the movie? I do. I remember the look on Kathleen's (Meg Ryan's) face when Frank told her that he "forgave her" for not voting. Clearly, in his mind, this was an act that required forgiveness. Clearly, in her mind, she couldn't quite equate the importance of voting to what it meant about Frank's perception of her as a person. I love this scene for two reasons: first,  I have been Kathleen; and second, because I think it is very telling about where and how a couples's relationship crosses political lines.

Let me be clear. I am not a political person. In fact, for most of my life...46 years..I have prided myself on being completely "a-political". Not aligning with a certain political party...felt safe to me and I've always liked safe. Add to that, the fact that when the kids were young, I felt like I never really had time to be political. There were many years that I felt that would just be a luxury...I was worrying about day-to-day issues...kids homework, dance classes, laundry, dishes, work, family, etc. I didn't have time to worry...or even think...about the bigger picture. Ok - I see now that might have been an excuse but at the time, I was simply too busy. However, voting has always been very important to my husband, John, and through most of our marriage...politics has been somewhat of a taboo subject. Because, for many years, I didn't even care about my right to vote. And for the other years, because I have reserved the right to maintain complete confidentiality about who I vote for.

It seems to me that this is one area above all others in life, where a person can truly maintain complete secrecy...confidentiality. And even though I occasionally share somewhat personal stories through my blog (as I guess, I'm doing right now), you might be surprised to know that I am actually a person who values personal confidentiality to the highest regard. This has occasionally been an issue with people in my life who want to discuss their personal political choices and don't understand my reluctance to share my own. I think they might view my silence as lack of commitment, or lack of personal character to stand behind my own beliefs. But in fact, it is really something else for me. It is just my personal right to keep my choices private.

That stance might be fine among co-workers, friends, or even family...but what happens when your political views (or your willingness to even discuss your political views) differs from your partner? 

We're back to the scene between Kathleen and Frank.  In the movie "You've Got Mail', this particular scene is a defining moment in Kathleen and Frank's relationship. She seems to realize that they are not on the same page...not necessarily politically...but on another level - understanding and accepting one another for who they are outside of their politics.

My hope is that, unlike Kathleen and Frank, you have a partner who understands that you are two separate people, with two separate minds, and two separate visions for managing your political viewpoints. I hope that you both support each individuals' right to make their own decision, as well as each individual's right to privacy about their choices. 

I'm not quite "so busy" these days and I have carefully watched the campaigning and election process. I'm not proud to admit to you that it has taken me this long to become "political", but I will be honest and tell you that is the case. However,  I was very proud to be able to vote for my choices today and did so without any hesitation about what I decided.

I maintain my right to right to privacy about my political views - even among those who are closest to me. However, I also support your right to share your views if that is your choice. For me, that is what democracy is all about...the freedom to stand for what you believe. 

Running Away From Home...

I’m absolutely furious as I throw everything into my suitcase. Tears flood my eyes making the task even more difficult. I can’t believe they would treat me this way, can’t believe they would do this to me. It was so undeserved! But it would end right here, right now. I feel slightly victorious as I imagine how bad they are going to feel when I’m gone, how much they will miss me…and how mad Mom and Dad will be at them.

I’m 7 years old (and perhaps just slightly over-dramatic). My older brothers and sisters are teenagers and they have been gleefully teasing me….for what I can’t even recall. With the benefit of hindsight, I know it was probably something silly (which was likely deserved since I was a bit of a geek) – they were never cruel or hurtful to me in any way. I just wanted their respect so badly that any level of teasing felt like betrayal. Anyway, at the time, I was really mad. I do remember storming to my room and filling my floral suitcase with all the essentials: a pillow, 10 pairs of underwear, and a candy bar. I remember sitting down at my white plastic cosmetic vanity which doubled as a desk, staring soulfully into the small mirror, and then putting pen to paper for a letter to them filled with all the threats and hatred I could muster. I remember trying to quietly sneak, with suitcase in hand, past the living room where they sat laughing at me, towards the door to my ultimate freedom.  Once outside, I took a deep breath and felt powerful as my lungs filled with fresh air…and with the open road before me, I set out – I was running away from home and they would be so sorry. I had traveled quite a distance, at least three driveways away from home, when one of my sisters came running after me and convinced (or threatened) me to come home. 

I was reminded of this day last week while doing some shopping in Northfield. There, in a small boutique, I saw the floral suitcase of my youth, marked “vintage 1970’s”. Without suspecting or having a chance to prepare, I was instantly transported back to that day when I was 7 – just by seeing a suitcase similar to one that I held that day. It was as if time and distance never separated me from that moment and I was full of the memory. I’m guessing this has probably happened to you too. You are going about your day when a song comes on the radio, or you smell a familiar fragrance, or you see something that you had long ago forgotten, but now suddenly remember so clearly. It’s as though you’ve been given the opportunity to travel back in time. And the chance to take a longer look around, and live in that moment for just a bit. As I get older, there seem to be more of these kinds of memories. And as I continue to age, I know at some point, those memories will become fuzzy and more difficult to recall. So, for now, I just take pause and live in those vintage 1970’s moments when they arrive.

What happened to my tormentors? Did my expertly written note to them inspire them to see my side of things and relent in their teasing? Nope…not a bit…because that is what brothers and sisters do. And of course, I also was guilty of teasing my little brother with little mercy. However, in spite of that (or maybe even because of it), they are all my best friends. We have laughed together about this day and a thousand other moments, a million times since I was 7 years old. And there is one thing I know with absolute certainty in this world - there is nothing they could do that would ever make me run away from them, and nothing I could do that would make them not come to bring me home.

I Got Lost...

I did something really stupid this past weekend. I got lost. In the woods. By myself. For hours. I’ve been kicking myself about it ever since because it was a foolish thing to do and because I panicked when I should have kept a clear head.

We were up north and John had gone dirt biking with a friend. I told him that I was going to take a drive and look at the Fall colors. I had barely gotten out of town when I saw a sign for a scenic park with hiking trails and thought that would be an easier, safer way to look at the colors rather than constantly pulling to the side of the road. I parked the truck…and perhaps should have been concerned that I was the only vehicle there. I glanced briefly at the trail map that was posted and…perhaps should have paid closer attention. I stepped over the vehicle barricade and entered the forest.

It was beautiful and peaceful and truly spectacular…for about the first 1.5 hours. The trail seemed to just kind of keep going and though my gut told me to turn around,  my head told me that I had to be nearing the end of the trail “just around the next corner”. Unfortunately, the simple loop suddenly changed and it seemed to split every couple hundred yards. One minute, I could swear I heard cars on the main road and must be close to the parking area, and the next minute it was again complete silence. I never passed another person anywhere on the trail. I never heard another person. I was completely alone and realized, that nobody had any idea where I had gone. Along the way, I had been taking pictures and collecting leaves, but at a certain point, that was no longer important and I dropped the leaves and stopped taking  photos. I was starting to wonder how lost I had become? Was I going in circles? How would I find my way out?

I walked faster and I breathed harder – both from the walk and from the rising panic. When I spotted a clearing up ahead, I was so thrilled but my excitement was soon diminished when I reached the clearing and found myself not at the parking area where I anticipated, but instead on an unmarked (and unpopulated) gravel road. After initially standing in the middle of the road and screaming a few choice words in frustration, I decided I had no choice but to keep walking…so I did. I walked…and walked…and walked. And never saw a sign. Never saw a house. Never saw a person.

By this point, I will tell you that I was truly in a full-on panic attack and I couldn’t seem to think clearly anymore. I had my cell phone with me and left an obscure, very frightening sounding message, for John. But it never occurred to me to actually use the compass/GPS on my phone to tell me where I was. After a period of time, I heard a car and as I turned around, I saw a truck approaching. I felt such tremendous relief that someone might be able to point me in the right direction, that I wasn’t even cautious about approaching a truck with a stranger on a deserted road. I was lucky. He was very kind. I told him I had gotten turned around and where I was trying to find my way back to. I asked if he could point me in the right direction. He said “of course ,but where you are trying to go is several miles back" and he offered me a ride. I’ve told my daughters a million times to never get in a car with a stranger and I think if my instincts had told me not to, I probably would have declined. Or maybe, my sense of relief would have over-ruled my instincts. In any case, I did get in the truck. And he brought me safely back to the parking lot. Again, I was very lucky and he was very kind.

Once back to my own vehicle, I tried to wipe away the tears (yes, I was full-on crying at this point) and tried to stop my hands from shaking. It might sound silly to you and looking back on it, I can laugh at my own foolishness. But in the moment, panic took over and I couldn’t seem to make myself think clearly. In retrospect, my mind is filled with “shouldn’t have’s” – I shouldn’t have gone out hiking by myself, I shouldn’t have gone somewhere that nobody knew where I was going, I shouldn’t have ignored my first instinct to just turn around, I shouldn’t have let panic overtake my better senses, I shouldn’t have selfishly forgotten to let John know that I was Ok, and maybe, I shouldn’t have gotten into a vehicle with a stranger. 

But when you are lost, you can’t see clearly. That’s the whole definition of being lost, right? Not knowing where you are and not knowing how to get where you want to be. It is terrifying and small obstacles suddenly seem so large. We do things that we wouldn’t normally do. And that sense of being displaced can lead to great panic which doesn’t allow you to breathe, or slow down, or gather your bearings. It was a gorgeous Fall day and I was never in any real danger; but the panic wouldn’t allow me to see that. I know that rationally now and I know that if I could have just calmed down, I would have made myself think clearly and found my own way out. Then it would have just been a nice (albeit long) walk in the woods, instead of cause for such fear. However, even telling the story now when I am safe at my computer and know exactly where I am and where I’m going, I can feel that panic rising as I remember my walk. Though I can’t justifiably describe it to anyone else, for me, it was real.

I’ve been lost before…in a million different ways - both physically and emotionally. I’ve taken wrong turns, I’ve made foolish choices, I’ve ignored road signs and maps, and I’ve lost my way. I’ve been lucky though to find myself back on the right path – through a clear thinking head, or through the help of someone around me. I’ve been lost before and I eventually find my way home. But for those minutes, or hours, or days in between, it is frightening to be alone and confused. I found my way home and learned a few lessons from the experience. I hope that wherever you are today, you are finding your way to a safe place and if you are lost, try to take a deep breath and keep your eyes open for someone who might come along to guide you.