Incomplete Information

            How many opinions have we formed based upon something we’ve heard? Unfortunately in this technological age when, with typing a few words, we can find resources that are trusted, based on researched facts, too many cement their beliefs in place, closing off polite discourse.

            The past four years serve as a good example of how anyone can throw out ideas that quickly become firm beliefs even though the person held no credentials, had done no research and was not a member of a reliable organization or college, yet spoke as if he was all those things and more. Divisiveness resulted, creating deeper caverns as time passed.

            I have to admit that I am sometimes quick to form opinions. Without evidence I would decide that a certain individual wouldn’t like me and so walked away. What if she could have been my new best friend? What if he could have helped me solve a problem? I will never know because I made my decision based on incomplete information.

            I’ve also chosen potential friends based on that same lack of  information. During my senior year of college two of my roommates seemed to be friendly. They greeted me politely and would stop and talk before heading off. I can’t recall ever doing anything with them outside of our shared suite which should have sent a message, but it didn’t.

            After graduation, since the three of us lived in the Bay Area, we thought we’d get together. One lived in Marin County. She had money and a car. I had neither. She invited me to her family home, which was nice, but it would have required me getting permission to borrow the family car and driving somewhere I knew nothing about. This was before GPS systems so paper maps were all we had. I was a fairly inexperienced driver, so the thought of driving over the Golden Gate Bridge was terrifying. I backed out, giving her a feeble excuse.

            She got married a few months later and sent an invitation. I had little money to buy a gift, but I chose the nicest thing I could afford, some soft, pretty towels. I intended to go to her wedding, but as it got closer to the date to respond and confirm, I backed out. When I called her to tell her, I suggested meeting somewhere in San Francisco so I could give her the gift. She refused.

            That’s when I realized that I had used incomplete information when deciding that she was my friend. I was not in her social class and so could never mingle in her circles. It made me terribly sad.

            After a disastrous event during my college years, I was terrified of men for quite some time. I assumed that all men were like the one who abused me. He had seemed like a friend, had acted like a friend, and was, in fact, my brother’s friend. I trusted him. When he invited me to the apartment he shared with his wife, I felt no fear. However, when he bolted the door behind me I questioned his intent, but didn’t ask.       

Allowing myself to be in that situation was a reliance on incomplete information. I had heard of women being attacked, but knew no one personally who had been a victim. I assumed that my university was a safe place. That no one there would take advantage of me. When it happened I was shaken. My trust was shattered.

I did not know how precarious of a position I had walked into until it happened. My ignorance caused me to form an opinion that all men would treat me in the same way. It was years before I could trust a man again.

            As a child of a dysfunctional family I assumed that all families were like mine. Because I had not been permitted to enter others’ homes, I had incomplete information. I thought that all families were like min, where insults and ridicule, threats and punishment were every day events.

My eyes were opened when my parents allowed me to spend a night at a classmate’s house. Until the visit, I did not know that a family could gather around the table for a meal and share jokes and stories without criticism. I didn’t know that families could sit in front of the television and laugh at the antics of characters without being ridiculed if I found something funny that they did not. I also discovered that children could be sent to bed with hugs and kisses as opposed to spankings and other threats of punishment.

My information base shifted. I now knew that something was wrong with the way I lived. There was nothing I could do to escape as I was too young and had no one I could turn to. The one thing that I did do was begin gathering information using my eyes and ears.

Several years later I fell ill when away at college. A friend’s family took me home and nursed me back to health. They were kind, gentle and patient. They were quiet people who never spoke loudly. There was no hate, no mean comments, no divisiveness. They didn’t monitor my activities but gave me space to heal.

I had never experienced such kindness before. This rattled my opinions about what constituted family and how families behaved toward one another. I was surprised at how they spoke to each other and listened to what each of them said. One evening when I was feeling better, they took me to a play. Their son had a lead role. He was a good actor for someone so young. What struck me was that after the play, no one teased him or made fun of him. Instead they congratulated him and praised his performance. I was pleasantly shocked.

My experience of family changed based on gathering information. There was nothing I could do to change my own family, but I could hold the lessons dear for future reference.

I could go on and on, but it isn’t necessary. Thanks to the Internet it’s now possible to conduct research by checking out a variety of sources. Some are to be trusted while others are not. A discerning individual can ferret out which are reliable and which are not. Through this process a person can gather sufficient information to make an opinion based on fact.

Relying on incomplete information is no longer acceptable. Look about, read, investigate, ask questions of yourself and others. Peruse a variety of articles. Figure out who the sources are and what their credentials are, whether or not they are qualified to be dispensing information.

Once you are convinced that a piece of information is accurate, then formulate an opinion, but be open to challenges from outside sources. As time passes often foundations are rattled. New evidence appears or the source goes off on an unsubstantiated rant, making you question whether or not that person is a reliable source anymore.

The important thing to remember is that incomplete information is misinformation, plain and simple.

A Thanksgiving Lesson

            I am not a particularly good cook. In fact, I am a pathetic cook because I have no interest in cooking except for the simple act of putting food on the table. I can usually follow a recipe, but there’s no guarantee that the finished product will look or taste as advertised.

            The problem goes back to my teen years when my mom insisted I learn to cook. She’d make me stand next to her and watch every move she made. It was incredibly boring. I needed to study. If I didn’t earn straight As I’d be punished. My allegiance went to books, so I’d stand next to her with book in hand.

            That meant I wasn’t paying attention. So when I was told to replicate her concoction, I couldn’t. My mom cooked from memory, not from books. Unless she wrote it down, there was no way I could produce the item. When she did record her recipes, she often left out an ingredient or a crucial step.

            One year my family decided that my husband and I should host Thanksgiving dinner. Mike is a good cook, so he took charge of the turkey and gravy, leaving me to handle the rest. I pulled out every cookbook I owned to find recipes for dressing, green beans and pumpkin and mince meat pies. I chose the easiest options.

            Things were in the oven or on the stove when my family arrived. Altogether there were fourteen hungry people crowded into our house. Fortunately we had planned snacks of cheese and crackers for that kept the kids happy and held the adults at bay while they downed mixed drinks.

            There was only about thirty minutes to go before the turkey would be done, the gravy could be made, the potatoes mashed and the green bean casserole put in the oven.

            The adults were getting restless. They had arrived with a preconceived notion of when the meal would be ready and we were not meeting their mental deadline. I was anxious. While everything looked okay, what if my concoctions didn’t meet their approval? My family could be obnoxious when disappointed, so as time ticked by and tempers began to flare, I knew things were going horribly wrong.

            Then the power went out. One moment the stove was working, the next it wasn’t. Was the turkey done? The beans? Potatoes? Everything appeared to be mostly done, but what if it wasn’t? You can eat the side dishes even if they aren’t quite finished, but you can’t serve an undercooked turkey.

            We waited for the power to return, but after thirty minutes it was obvious that it wasn’t happening. My dad and brother offered advice laced with sarcasm, almost as if it was something we had done to switch off the power.

            My husband is a calm, easy-going man. He moved the barbeque into the backyard and lit the coals. When it was ready, he placed the turkey outside. Everything else went into the still-warm oven.

            The troops, however, were impatient, frustrated and hungry. They had allotted only a certain amount of time to be at our home and that time was ending. Either food would be served or they would leave. The options were not politely phrased.

            I hung out in the kitchen pretending that I knew what I was doing and that things were in hand. Mike monitored the turkey, which meant he was outside leaving me inside getting the brunt of the criticism.

            When the turkey was finally done, I was able to breathe a tiny sigh of relief. As he cut and placed meat on a platter, I pulled everything out and got it on the table. He made the gravy and poured it into the bowl.

            Dinner was served. People sat. Grace was said. The food was edible even though most things weren’t hot. Tempers settled. A bit of peace entered the house.

            Just as the last of the dishes were being rinsed off, the power returned.

            People left, some bearing leftovers.

            The meal worked out, but never again would I host a family meal. The stakes were too high and I refused to bear the brunt of their anger when the fault lay not in something I had done, but in the failure of the power to stay on.

            Later on Mike helped me understand that things had worked out despite my nervousness and fears. After all, food had been served. No one left hungry unless by choice.

            That Thanksgiving was over thirty years ago, but it left an indelible mark. Never again, I told myself, would I host a family gathering.

            Little did I know that when my mother-in-law died that my husband’s family would decide that we would host a brunch for sixty people. I announced that I would cook nothing. I would take care of paper goods, but that was it. The family would have to prepare every dish and clean up afterwards.

            Guess what? I held to my pronouncement. When cooking was happening, I stayed out of the kitchen. I picked up no dirty dishes, washed not a single thing, refilled no snack bowls and did not monitor the ice chests of drinks. I found myself a quiet place away from the crowds and stayed there for the five hours that people were in my home.

            One failure was sufficient to keep me from ever cooking for a crowd. Even though I had had not control over the power going out, blame was still laid at my feet. If my husband’s family wanted a party, they would have to shoulder the effort. Never again would I shoulder the mantle of responsibility.

            It’s amazing how liberating it is to refuse, to loudly proclaim that I would not be in charge. If only I had applied that motto to other areas in my life, things might have been different. But that’s another story for another time.

Song of Hope

Come, gentle rain, come

Cleanse the earth of all sin

Brighten the world

With the color of blooms

Blossoming under your watchful eye

Drip, drop upon the soil

Soak deep into the dirt

Feed tiny creatures down below

Feed forgotten roots, long dry

Yearning for your magic touch

Watch, oh, kind heart

As rejoicing spreads

Across the world

Wild with unmatched hues

Breaking out in fervent song

As all sing of your glory

Sing of the gift of life

Praise renewal of the spirit

Knee-deep in exuberance

Smiling the smile of hope

Come, gentle rain, come

Drip, drop upon the soil

Watch, oh, kind heart

As all sing of your glory

Soapsuds

Soapsuds, please, scour away

The scalding tears searing

My pathetic, rapidly pounding heart

Erase the train-track rivulets

Tumbling terribly into the very

Fiber of my frivolous, fragile feelings

Blot out the blanketing pools

Pulsating through my pores

Preventing my pupils from seeking sight

My heart aches horribly

Heat burns through the hull with a

Heaviness that drags me into my private hell

I yearn for luminosity of light

The cleansing cacophony of children’s

Mesmerizing melodies of merriment

Refreshing refrains of unadulterated relief

To wipe away the weariness weighing down

On my overburdened shoulders

Comforting water, wash a cool calmness

Over me, obliterate this one source of pain

So that my open spirit may rise with the dawn

Bubbles babble at my unburdened feet

Boosting me into the blueness of sky

Freeing me to begin at the beginning

Before the pain blocked my peripheral view

I can see more clearly now, for the scrub

Has done me great good.

Thanks to God’s Helpers

God appears as a total stranger

When you least expect Him.

In the form of the woman

Who perilously stopped at the side

Of the road and ran to our rescue,

Terror crossing her face, thinking only

Of the safety of those tossed about

Expecting injured bodies,

Her cell phone in hand

And already calling for help.

In the shape of the dark-haired man

Who stopped on the shoulder of the road

And ran to our car

Wearing his EMT jacket and asking

Over and over, “Is anyone hurt?”

Who did not leave until he saw

Us safely back on the highway

And driving away.

In the face of the kind Army officer

Dressed in his snug winter khaki green

Uniform, face full of concern,

Who jumped from his own car and ran,

Thinking the baby inside might be hurt.

Then climbed behind the wheel and drove

So carefully out of the ditch

Then cautioned us to be careful and to

Return home to the safety of our loved ones.

Thanks to the truck driver who passed by first

After witnessing our zigzag route

Across the ice-encrusted road.

Who smiled when I climbed out uninjured

And honked in sympathy to let us know

That he had called for help.

Thanks to the snowplow driver

Who waved as he went by in the fast lane

A salute to the living

A salute to the blessed survivors

Who were able to get up and walk away.

Thanks to the countless others

Who took time from their busy lives

To care about total strangers

Stranded in a snow back,

Two women

And a child strapped into her seat

Cold, but safe from harm.

All these carried Jesus in their hearts

Opening themselves to the

Possibility of grace returned in equally measure.

God’s grace falling in the snow

Of redemption.

For all these things and many more

We bless the Lord this day

And grant them peace and serenity

All the days of their lives.

The Shell

Walking along the beach

I found a shell,

An ordinary shell.

Perfectly formed.

Six rows of ridges

Ruffles

Completely round

Except for where it joined

Its twin when still whole.

It felt surprisingly cool

And light

As it its soul’s mate

Disappeared long ago.

As I stare out at the Pacific Ocean

I wonder where this clam

Might have lived

And how it got to this spot

On this day

In time for me to pick it up.

Years ago my family moved

To California

A long journey.

I felt the hollowness

Of forced abandonment.

Like the clam

I was not in charge of my destiny

That power lay in my parent’s hands.

I was an ordinary teen

No great beauty

Smart, but lacking common sense

Or so I had been told,

So I had no say in the decision-making.

My parents picked the city,

The house, even the school

All I did was move in

Confined by their overarching rules

Until I went away to college.

For years I drifted through life

Swept by the tides

Working at one job, then another

Until marriage grounded me.

Now I stand with feet deep in sand

Rejoicing in the gifts given me.

Much like this simple shell

Held in my hand.

Memorable Doctor’s Visits

            When I was quite young I needed some type of surgery. My mom took me to the hospital and stayed with me while I waited to go in. I remember being in a large crib that had a plastic top. I was too old for a crib and that upset me.

            At some point someone put a mask over my mouth and told me to start counting. A beautiful kaleidoscope swirl of rainbow colors filled my brain. The swirl continued for some time, but I didn’t mind because I found it intriguing.

            When I woke up, the nurse asked me what I wanted to drink and then proceeded to name a number of choices. As soon as chocolate milk came out of her mouth, I smiled. Milk was rarely served in our house and chocolate milk, almost never. Oh, I was happy when she brought me a container with a straw.

            Unfortunately in the process of sitting down, the milk spilled. Tears immediately streamed down my face because I knew, rightly so, that I was in trouble. My mother took away my milk and chastised me for being so clumsy. She told me that the nurse would be angry.

            When the nurse returned, she smiled, got a towel, and cleaned the spill. She then brought me a new carton of milk, followed by a bowl of ice cream. This was all new to me: not being punished, but being rewarded! I even got a second bowl of ice cream.

            When it was time to leave, I was very sad.

            My mom loved taking me to the doctor’s. She brought me if I had a rash, bumps or cuts. Sore throats were a cause to celebrate. I complied by contracting measles several times, primarily because each was a very light case. I had mumps which I then gave to my siblings.

            When I was fourteen I discovered lumps in my tiny breasts. My mother wasted no time dragging me to the doctor. Undressing and then having him touch me was embarrassing. Then, to make matters worse, I had to have a mammogram. I undressed once again before a different man. He had me sit in front of a large table, then he touched my breasts, trying to get them to lie flat on the table. Over and over he manipulated my breasts until I think he simply gave up or decided that was the best he was going to get.

My mother sat at my side the whole time. That might have reassured some girls, but not me. She peered over my shoulder looking at my breasts, watching every move the man made, insisting that he take images over and over. She manipulated the situation, making it last longer than it should. That was a horrible experience, made even worse when there was nothing wrong.

At some point my dad put a stop to running to the doctor’s for every little thing. I recall a huge argument about bills and how expensive it was. I was relieved as it meant no more humiliating experiences.

My mom turned to homeopathic treatments. Cod liver oil dispersed nightly. A special tool that removed blackheads from my face. (It was actually a torture device.) A variety of cough medicines, cold medicine’s, rubs and steams. Vitamins and tablets of all kinds.

She bought a guide to conditions that became her bible. She read it faithfully and self-diagnosed illnesses of all depress of severity. In fact, that guide remained on her shelf even after she lost the ability to read.

When I was in college I played flag football. Our teams were coached by the football players. I loved it. I always felt I would be a good football player, and it turned out that I was right. I was built like a rock, and even though I am short, I could hold back linesmen or push them aside to allow my players to get through. Unfortunately I broke two fingers and seriously sprained my wrist toward the end of the season.  

The fingers healed, but my wrist did not. My mom found a new doctor to torture me. He x-rayed my wrist over and over. He put it in a splint. He wrapped it with bandages. It didn’t heal.

Pain became a constant. My mom insisted he do something. His solution was to amputate the ulna where it contacted the hand. He was surprisingly excited to operate which should have sent warning signals to my mom. He told her he would use my surgery as a model for other physicians. She loved the idea so much that she gave him the okay.

The surgery did take away the pain but it changed my life in many ways. I was quite the bowler. My scores often fell in the 200s, which is excellent. I also played badminton for my college. I could no longer do either. Instead I taught myself how to play sports left-handed.

For a long time I had to write with my left hand. Considering that we did not have computers back then, all assignments were handwritten, except for major papers which were typed on manual typewriters. It took me longer than my peers to complete in-class assignments. No allowance was given me. When I had time, I practiced writing until my speed and readability rose.

I reached an age where my mother no longer controlled when and if I went to the doctor. This was a blessing even though it was also terrifying. Each time I had a bump or rash or ailment I had to decide if it merited a visit to the doctor’s office. At first I chose to abstain, but in time I learned how to distinguish between minor injuries and serious conditions.

One would think that my earlier experiences would make me fearful of seeking medical advice. Thankfully, it did not. I have found that when needed, doctors can be reliable dispensers of advice. They have diagnosed and treated my asthma, helped save my youngest son’s hearing, and set broken bones for myself and my children.

I liked some doctors more than others, primarily due to their ability to look at me as a person, not as an obese blob of worthless flesh. When I felt disabused, I switched doctors. When I found one that treated me as an intelligent being, I stayed with him or her.

I can look back now on those times with a modicum of interest. I am not the hypochondriac my mother was. I do not live in fear that something might befall me. I am not afraid of contacting a doctor when it is necessary.

Going to the doctor’s might have been something I would have avoided considering my earlier experiences, but I forced myself to brush the past aside. There is a time and a reason to call on the doctor and to trust their diagnosis. I am old enough to now the difference.

Favorite Holidays

            As a child with a vivid imagination, I loved all holidays. The Tooth Fairy, Easter Bunny and Santa were all real to me. Even when I should have been well past the age of belief, there was something about beings that would drop into my house and leave me gifts that kept me transfixed.

            The Tooth Fairy was a cheapskate as she only left a dime or nickel. Even back in the early 1950s that wouldn’t have bought much of anything. On top of that my father exacted a toll, a donation to the church on Sunday: a dime every week. So if the fairy left a dime, the entire amount became a tithe. I hated it.

            I figured out fairly early that there was no Easter Bunny, but I kept up the act, hoping that if I pretended to believe my parents would still hide baskets of candy about the house. Because I have a younger sister, the “Bunny” continued to come well into my teens.

            Christmas was always a special time. Tension in the house eased. There were fewer fights and punishments exacted. Perhaps it was the effect of the colorful decorations, the anticipation of opening gifts or knowing that the reason we celebrated was because of Christ’s birth. No matter the reason, the house was a bit happier and therefore easier to live in.

            We lived in Beavercreek, Ohio when I was in fourth grade. I still believed that Santa flew all over the world leaving gifts for good little girls and boys. I wasn’t the best child as I often fought with my siblings, usually over stupid stuff like who should pick up all the army men or who was responsible for cleaning my sister’s half of the room. I sulked a lot and found solace in the outdoors, away from family and all the troubles that came with them.

            On the last day of school before Christmas break, my class had a party. I don’t remember the details, but because I was not well liked, I doubt that I received any cards or gifts. However, sometime during the course of the party the subject of Santa came up. When my classmates insisted he was imaginary, for some reason, me, the normally mute child, spoke up defending him. I still recall the guffaws, the humiliation.

            I cried all the way home. My mother attempted to console me, but she only confirmed what my classmates had said. She was an impatient woman, so by the time we got home, she was angry at my inability to accept reality. I was sent to my room.

            When my dad got home from work, he tried talking to me. He explained that the Tooth Fairy, Easter Bunny and Santa were all imaginary beings created to entertain little kids. And that I was no longer a little kid. Nothing he said could change my mind.

            After dinner reports of Santa’s journey came on the television. Ah, ha! I was right. There was his sleigh, over Russia. Europe. The Atlantic Ocean. He flew over the eastern United States and was heading toward Ohio. By this time was siblings had gone to bed. My mom as well.

            My dad stayed up with me, watching the night sky for Santa. Somewhere around midnight, when the television went off the air, my dad told me to go to bed. I refused, insisting I needed to stay up so I could catch Santa coming in our house. We had no chimney, but that didn’t dissuade me.

            Eventually I was told to go to bed, and when my dad commanded, you had to obey or face the consequences. I don’t remember much else of that night, but when I got in in the morning and saw gifts under the tree, I tried to believe, but when I was shown store receipts, I was shattered.

            Christmas never held the same joy for me until I had kids of my own. We hid gifts, I’d sneak out the back window and creep around the side of the house so I could go shopping without the kids knowing. I’d pretend to be ill and lock myself in my bedroom, turn on a radio and wrap as many gifts as I could.

            After the kids were asleep, Mike and I would haul everything out. I loved the multicolor packages, the glittering lights, the homemade and store-bought ornaments, the tinsel on the tree. I loved the music, the decorations that Mike spread around, the nativity scene that took center stage in our front room.

            I loved the suspense, waiting until morning when the kids would creep out into the front room and shout, “Santa’s been here.” Mike would get up first to get a fire going in our wood-burning stove. Once it was a bit more comfortable, I’d join the family. We took turns opening gifts, a tradition from Mike’s family. It was wonderful. The looks of joy when it was something they wanted, the disappointment when it was socks or underwear. All the while Christmas music played in the background., reminding us over and over that we were celebrating the Lord’s birth.

            After opening a few gifts each we’d get dressed and go to church. Oh! The church would be so beautiful! Bright colors and poinsettia plants everywhere. Music of joy and comfort and redemption throughout the Mass. A homily seeking peace. Prayers lifted in community. It was, and still is, marvelous.

            Mike’s family has a traditional breakfast, so after church we’d go to his parent’s house for sausage, eggs, and something they called sticky rolls. There’d be gifts to open there as well. Eventually we’d return home, open the rest of the gifts, then watch a new movie.

            In the late afternoon we’d go to my parent’s house for more gifts and dinner. Most of the time my siblings came, filling the house with conversation.

            It made for a long day, but because everyone was on good behavior, (most of the time), things were quite nice.

            The one tradition that we kept up until our kids went off to college was the hiding of the Easter baskets. Mike always found the best spots, but the kids were clever and so didn’t take long to find their baskets under a blanket or stuffed behind a cabinet. The kids hid their candy, making sure that their stash was kept private. Even now as empty-nesters Mike and I love our Easter baskets.

            I think what I like most about those holidays was the good cheer. My family was not peaceful. It was all too easy to do something that angered one parent or the other. I lived in fear of the spankings that followed any incursion, no matter how inconsequential. The discord, the anger, was often put aside when we were expecting the arrival of an imaginary being.

            Perhaps this is why I clung to belief long after my peers. I wanted peace, comfort and joy, just like in many a Christmas song.

The Meaning of Christmas

the angels sang a lullaby

the night that Christ was born

in chorus of sweet harmony

they sang  upon that morn

the Magi came from far and wide

to worship at His feet

they knelt and prayed right by His side

and vowed of Him to speak

the shepherds gasped in awe and fear

for Christ had come that day

to bring a message all must hear

before they fall astray

a star shone bright up in the sky

above His tiny head

and peace to all it seemed to cry

while He slept snug in bed

and so, dear friends, let us all fall

upon our knees and pray

for we must answer Christ’s call

rejoice in Him today

Love Me Tenderly

Love me with all your heart

Or bid me goodbye.

Very few have touched me

Even though many have tried.

My mind spins at cyclone speed

Even when asleep, and so

The challenge is complex.

Enough so that I stand alone.

No one by my side as I cry

Dear One, come to me

Each day, every night.

Reaching for that special person,

Looking for the light love,

Yearning for precious caught moments.