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Help from on High

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            The only prayer I knew before first grade was; “Now I lay me down to sleep, I pray the Lord my soul to keep. If I die before I wake, I pray the Lord my soul to take.”

            Pretty dismal. Imagine being three or four and thinking about dying in bed. I was terrified to close my eyes and drift off, certain that I’d be dead before sunrise. In my mind, God was not a friend and not someone I wanted in my life.

            To enroll my brother in the Catholic elementary in Dayton, Ohio, we had to prove that we attended Mass and gave money to the church. We drove into town, sat through a boring service conducted in Latin, a language I didn’t know, then hurried home to watch football or bowling.

            The next year I enrolled in the same school. Now my days began with prayer, ended with prayer, included instruction in religion, and had prayer time all day long. Lots of praise God and Alleluia. Threats of eternal damnation and black spots on your soul. Displeasing God so badly that he’d turn his back on us.

            At home I had to get on my knees every night and pray next to my brother. I’d learned new prayers: Our Father and Hail Mary. At least now I didn’t go to bed thinking about my death. But I had new things to worry about.

            Did I talk back to my mother? Did I have awful thoughts about my brother or sister? Did I hate my teacher? Classmates? Did I waste food that could feed kids in China?

            God took, terrified me, and shook His finger. He offered nothing positive. No hope. No escape from my dysfunctional family.

            While part of me didn’t believe God cared about me, I prayed to Him anyway. I prayed for relief from the constant torment from my siblings, from the anger directed toward me from both parents, from the overwhelming sense of despair that surrounded me.

            Even as young as eight, I hoped, prayed, that God would lift me out of my living situation and drop me into a happier one. By twelve I was planning on running away. By fourteen, when we moved to California, I studied so as to go to college, another escape. In fact, it was the only way out, other than marriage, something I was opposed to given the poor relationship between my parents.

            Considering years of prayer, with little change, I thought about giving up. Why pray if no one was listening? It seemed like a fruitless activity.

            But when things worsen, when life becomes unbearable, you must do something. I was too young to move out plus I had no means of supporting myself. No relatives lived nearby, so I couldn’t change residences. The one hope; having good enough grades to earn a scholarship.

I prayed constantly. In between classes? A prayer. Eating lunch? Pray. Riding the school bus? Another opportunity to pray.

I refused to give up, to think that God had abandoned me when I hadn’t done anything seriously wrong.

Toward the end my junior year of high school, a letter came addressed to me. I was a recipient of a scholarship from the State of California! It could be applied to any college, whether public or private. I had done my research and knew what colleges were at the top of my list.

San Francisco State University and College of the Redwoods had excellent teacher education programs. SF State was also strong in math, my top subject. My parents wouldn’t let me go to either. They laughed at the idea of me being a teacher. Good, old, shy me. The girl who could sit among others and say nothing.

I prayed.

I applied to the University of Southern California, in the math department. I got accepted! My scholarship would cover the tuition. I borrowed to pay room and board.

It wasn’t at the top of my list, but because my brother has been accepted there, my parents let me go, only after telling him to keep an eye on me.

I thanked God.

While at college, I was walking back to my dorm when I heard this amazing music coming from a one-story white brick building. I stuck my head in, to discover Mass with drums, guitar, tambourine, and folk music that I knew and loved.

That discovery led me back to God. Not the fire and brimstone version in my younger life, but a God who loved me and cared for me. I went on a retreat with the Neumann Center. When I got off the bus somewhere in the mountains, and smelled the pine needles, walked among the debris on the forest floor, touched the bark of a redwood and looked up, up, up so high that it hurt my neck, I knew there was a god.

That experience changed me. Things still went wrong when I had to go home. After all, my parents were the same, my siblings were the same, so why would I expect something new?

I’d like to think I grew a spine, thanks to Divine Intervention. God infused my soul with grit. He empowered me to take risks, to stand up for myself. To create goals that I wanted to accomplish and strive toward them.

That was fifty-four years ago. God is still in my life. I believe He watches over me, helps me make decisions and guides me in many, many ways.

Sometimes we need a little help.

Faith Formation

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            I raised as a Catholic. Considering that my dad was baptized as a baby, it was almost predetermined that I’d also be Catholic. My dad seldom mentioned faith or sharing his history of attending church. He shared that he had received the sacraments of Communion and Confirmation, but as far as I knew, it wasn’t that important to him.

            Perhaps sharing a bit of his past might clarify why faith wasn’t a major part of his life. His father died when my dad was around five years of age. His mother remarried shortly after, and then proceeded to give birth to a goodly number of half-siblings. My dad was jealous of his siblings, and so regularly tormented them, as well as intentionally aggravated his mom. She’d get so angry with him that she’d chase him around the house, holding a wooden spoon about her head, threatening to spank him.

            My dad relished in making life miserable for anyone in the house. If a sibling was on the phone, he would disconnect the call, without warning, just so he could call someone. Not Christian-like behavior, that’s for sure. He stole food from their plates, dirtied their clothing, and when he wanted to go somewhere, would either take the only car or ride away on a bike belonging to one of them.

            After he graduated from high school, his mom kicked him out of the house. At that time, my dad worked at a bowling alley, setting pins. He’d stand in the back, waiting for a player to knock down whatever pins the ball happened to hit. As soon as the ball had cleared the lane, my jumped over the wall, cleared away the downed pins, then jumped back before the next ball could be released.

            His salary wasn’t enough to support an independent lifestyle. By that time the United States had entered WWII, so my dad enlisted in the Navy.

            I don’t believe he attended church as an adult.

He met my mom at a USO dance in Dayton, Ohio, and convinced her to bring him home. She lived in a small apartment with an older sister. The two women struggled to make ends meet on meager salaries. According to my mother, they never had a lot of food in cupboards or refrigerator.

My dad was a narcissist, only caring about himself. Whenever he was in my mother’s apartment, he’d rummage through cabinets until he found something to eat. He’d then demand that my mother prepare it, even though it was often the only food my mom and her sister had.

            Supposedly my mom loved him. He was handsome, with a rakish smile. He was buff, after years in the military. He walked with a confident air and exuded power. Perhaps that’s what she admired in him, for she’d grown up poor, he family traveling from job to job, often living in a farmer’s barn, alongside farm animals.

What my mom had going for her were her looks. She was petite, slim and gorgeous. She said she’s weighed about ninety pounds when they met. She was also naïve, having never dated until that USO dance.

They married in May, in a hastily arranged ceremony in a local Protestant church. Eight months later my brother was born.

            I came along a year and a half later, then my sister was born when I was seven.

            When it was time for my brother to begin school, my parents wanted him to attend the Catholic elementary school in Dayton, Ohio. A requirement of enrollment was that the family had to be practicing Catholics.

            That’s when my brother and I were Baptized and when the family began attending Mass on a regular basis.

            As a child, then even into my teens, I loved the atmosphere of the church. The Mass was in Latin, a language I didn’t understand, except for the prayers my parents made me memorize. As I graduated from first to fourth grades, I learned more and more Latin, until I knew what the priest was saying and what the words meant.

I loved the pomp, the processionals, the colorful garb the priests wore. I loved the ceremony, which the Catholic Church still relies on today.

But, instead of paying attention to the service, I’d stare at the stained-glass windows, reciting in my head all the stories depicted in colorful glass.

            The lives of the saints intrigued me. I wondered how they maintained their devotion to God despite horrendous torments. That they’d die rather than denounce their faith. That they’d walk through deserts in search of God or attempt to walk on water if God commanded, despite believing, rightfully so, that they’d sink.

            Such stories enthralled me, for they carried me away to some other, happier place, somewhere very different from my own living life of hell.

            Imagine growing up in a supposedly Catholic home, but knowing that nothing my parents did or said was holy. I was spanked with hands or belt for doing stupid things, like farting in the family room or not eating creamed corn. I was often commanded to squeeze into an old high chair, situated in front of the stove, until I’d deigned to eat the raw pancakes my dad had made.

My brother tormented me, kicking me, punching me, pinching me, treating me the way our dad treated him.

            My sister did the same, adding additional torments that she could inflict behind our bedroom door. She’d leave her side a mess, then tell our mom that I had rumpled her blankets or dumped her clothes on the floor. She’d whine whenever I was listening to my radio, run out of the room, complain to our mom, which resulted in my radio being taken away.

She wore corrective shoes with metal toes and insoles. She’d kick me so hard my legs were covered in bruises, then tell my mom that I was the one doing the kicking. She’d steal my clothes, pour something on them to make stains, which then angered my mom for my wasteful and inconsiderate behavior.

My siblings made my life miserable.

            Back to being Catholic, well, we attend Mass regularly, except when it snowed or after we moved to California, it poured. When in Ohio, the drive would have been dangerous as back then, snowplows weren’t as common, and so the combination of ice and snow created could have led to a deadly accident.

On those days, we’d gather in the front room, missals in hand. Dad read the Mass. We responded appropriately.

            I hated it.

            There was nothing holy in it for me: I saw it as an excuse to pretend to pray. To imitate the Mass, but without reverence. How could people who seemed to hate me, sit in a circle and recite passages of the Mass, a sacred worship service, after having tortured me the rest of the week?

            During my eighth-grade year, my last one at the Catholic school, our class was ushered into the church, for talks about what service meant. Priests, monks, and brothers attempted to recruit the boys, while nuns spoke of service to the poor, or teaching, or worshipping behind the walls of a closed convent. I still remember the joy I felt when I learned about a monastic order of nuns that lived in silence, offering work as a prayer to God.

            I wanted to join.

Imagine living in peace after years of being tormented. Imagine not being forced to talk out loud, instead listening to the call of birds and the whisper of the wind. Imagine living in harmony with other women who sought out that life. I loved prayer, and spending night and day in devotion to God and the saints soundly heavenly.

            My parents refused to allow me to join, saying that I’d regret not having children. Considering how often my mother reminded me that the only purpose for my existence was to serve her for the rest of my life, I didn’t relish the idea of either marriage or childbirth.

            Despite my young age, I had dated even though none of the boys interested me. I hated being touched by them, based upon the fact that the only touch I’d felt was in the form of punishment. I despised kissing and even their breath on my skin. I hated holding sweaty hands and being forced to sit thigh-to-thigh.

            I didn’t see myself sharing a home with a man, let alone bearing his children.

            To join the convent, I needed my parents’ permission. Once I turned eighteen, I could join on my own. With tears in my eyes, I prayed for that day.

However, the opportunity never arose, because as soon as my freshman year of high school ended, we sold the house and drove across country, eventually settling in South San Francisco, California.

            I have no idea if there was a Catholic high school in the area, so I attended the nearby public school. It was a short walk around the block. I hated that as well. It was too big, the kids either ignored me or teased me as I was an odd duck, and the classes boring.

Because I was no longer enrolled in a Catholic School, my parents insisted I take classes in a CCD program, the Confraternity of Christian Doctrine, which was supposed to reinforce the Catholic doctrine.

            My teacher was a parent with no teaching experience or training. The students disobeyed her. They talked when they should be quiet, refused to answer when called upon, chewed gum despite being told to throw it out, and refused to stay seated. It was a waste of my time.

            I begged to stay home, but my mom insisted until the end of that school year, my sophomore year. At this time, I was somewhat jaded about faith. Catholicism had lost meaning for me ever since I wasn’t permitted to join the convent.

            The beatings at home continued. After each time my dad beat me or my brother pinched me, I lay awake at night trying to come up with a way to approach a priest. I hoped he’d help me escape. I never did, though, as I was too afraid of what punishment would befall me if I did such a thing, for I knew the priest would tell my parents all my complaints.

            To add to my disillusionment, shortly after settling in South San Francisco, my dad began shopping around for the shortest Mass. The closest church to us was beautiful, built in the Hispanic style out of stucco with red tiles on the roof. Inside it was airy, with high ceilings coming to a point. The altar was a huge edifice, painted white with gold trim. The stained-glass windows were enthralling.

I loved attending services there. Something about the atmosphere enticed reverence and prayer.

However, my dad deemed the Mass too long, so he began driving us all over in search of the shortest Mass. We attended services in Pacifica (where the priest preached fire and brimstone), Half Moon Bay, Daly City, and Burlingame. The priests seemed indifferent to our presence and not one parishioner approached in greeting.

Eventually my dad found a tiny church behind a strip mall, in San Bruno. The Mass lasted only thirty minutes, pleasing my dad. He declared that the church would be our only church.

It wasn’t pretty. It felt like an extension of the strip mall out on the El Camino Real. The inside was plain. While it had the requisite statues of Jesus, Jospeh, and Mary, the windows were ordinary glass. No colorful scenes depicting stories from the Bible. No organ music swelling to a crescendo. In fact, no music at all.

Around this time the Pope had declared that services were to be held in the people’s vernacular, so every word spoken, either by the priest or the congregation, was in English.

That part I liked.

Unfortunately, nothing about my attendance there provided any respite, offered no consolation, and didn’t fill my soul with awe or a sense of calm. It was a waste of thirty minutes of my life.

            My senior year of high school had me looking forward to college. My goal was to get far, far away.

            I was accepted at several colleges. My first choice was Ohio State, where I could live with my Granda Reiske, my dad’s mom. I’d help around the house in exchange for room and board. My parents refused to let me go.

My next was San Francisco State. I could live at home, to my dismay, as it wasn’t too far of a bus ride away. But they were afraid of San Francisco, so said no, once again.

The only college they would let me attend was the University of Southern California, only because my brother had been accepted there as well. He was to be my guardian. If only they had known how that would play out!

When school began, I intentionally did not attend Mass.

            I told myself that I didn’t miss it, that it meant nothing, that Sunday was just another time to study.

            One day, as I was walking back to my dorm room, I heard beautiful music coming from a small, one-story building. I stood there, listening, to folk songs I’d heard on the radio. I studied the sign out front, which declared it the Neumann Center. I didn’t know what purpose it served, but the songs invited me inside.

            Toward the front of the building, a folk group strummed guitars and pounded drums. They sang joyful songs, the entire congregation joining in. Everyone in attendance looked like me: college students of varying ages. I sat near the back, and soon found the joy returning.

            I went back the next Sunday, and then the next. A retreat was announced. I had no idea what that was, but a weekend in the woods sounded fantastic.

            On the assigned day, I boarded the bus with about thirty other people my age, plus a few adults as chaperones. The drive was joyous, with lots of singing and praying Halleluiahs. It didn’t feel artificial at all. My fellow travelers rejoiced in the Lord, praised Him and spoke of the many ways He filled their souls.

            To my amazement, our destination was a log cabin deep in the forest. When I got off the bus, my heart sang. When I looked up, the tips of the trees touched the sky, pointing to heaven. The bark was rough, an imitation of my life, but I felt warmth, the heat of life within.

            The needle-strewn path was soft underfoot. It comforted me, much like falling into a mother’s arms might have been, if one had such a mother.

            God came to me. He entered my very being. He made me feel loved, special, cherished.

            When time came to return to the chaos of Los Angeles and college, part of me cried inside. I wished I could have stayed in that forest, feeling the power of God’s love day after day.

            That weekend opened my eyes. I knew that I was loved, that I had a place in the church. I didn’t yet know in what shape my calling would arrive, but I knew it was out there, waiting for me.

            People talk about having a come-to-Jesus moment. That weekend retreat was mine.

            I knew that I’d never be alone as God was walking by my side. I understood that my life would turn out okay, if only I was patient and let God direct my path.

            Little did I know that God’s work was amazing. He spoke to me in quiet moments. He calmed me, when I’d had to return home after graduation. He gave me strength to handle the torments inflicted on me until I’d earning enough money to get my own apartment.

            And once I was free, He helped me find solace, even when my parents ridiculed me, called me names, attempted to destroy my marriage and told me I was a horrible mother.

            If I hadn’t found the Neumann Center, I don’t know when God would have found me. It’s because of that chance encounter that my faith returned.

            This is the story of how I went from being a child in awe of the material things of a church: the windows, the silence, the altar. How I discovered the pure joy of celebration. How it changed me forever.

Faith Formation

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            I raised in a Catholic home. My dad was baptized as a baby, but he never spoke about attending church. He did receive the sacraments of Communion and Confirmation, but as far as I knew, if wasn’t that important to him.

            His father died when my dad was around five years of age. His mother remarried shortly after, and gave birth to a goodly number of half-siblings. My dad tormented his brother and sisters and aggravated his mom to the point that she’d chase him around the house, threatening to spank him with a wooden spoon.

            If a sibling was on the phone, my dad would disconnect the call, without warning, so he could call a friend. Not Christian-like behavior, that’s for sure.

            After he graduated from high school, his mom kicked him out of the house. My dad had a job setting pins in a bowling alley. After a player had knocked down whatever pins the ball happened to hit, my dad would jump over the wall, clear away the downed pins, then jump back before the next ball could be released.

            His salary wasn’t enough to support an independent lifestyle. By that time the United States had entered WWII, so my dad enlisted.

            I don’t believe he attended church during that time period. He met my mom at a USO dance in Dayton, Ohio. He convinced her to bring him home, a small apartment that my mom shared with an older sister. When there, he’d rummage through their cabinets and demand she fix whatever food he saw. At times, it was the only food my mom and her sister had.

            But, my mom loved him. He was handsome, with a rakish smile. She was petite, slim and gorgeous. They married in May, in a hastily arranged ceremony in a local Protestant church. Eight months later my brother was born.

            I followed along a year and a half later, my sister when I was seven.

            There came a time when my parents wanted my brother and I to attend the Catholic elementary school in Dayton. To enroll, however, my parents had to show that our family were practicing Catholics.

            That’s when I was Baptized and the family began attending Mass on a regular basis.

            I loved the atmosphere of the church. Instead of paying attention to the service, which was in Latin, a language I didn’t understand, I’d stare at the stained-glass windows, telling myself the stories depicted.

            The lives of the saints intrigued me. The maintained their devotion to God despite horrendous torments. They’d die rather than denounce their faith. They’d walk through deserts in search of God. They’d walk on water if God commanded, despite believing, rightfully so, that they’d sink.

            Such stories enthralled me, for my own life was a living hell.

            To think that I was growing up in a supposedly Catholic home, yet knowing that nothing my parents did or said was holy. I was spanked with hands or belt for doing stupid things, like farting in the family room or not eating creamed corn. My brother tormented me, kicking me, punching me, pinching me, treating me the way our dad treated him.

            My sister did the same, adding additional torments since we shared a room. She’d leave her side a mess, then tell our mom that I had rumpled her blankets or dumped her clothes on the floor.

            In terms of worship, we did attend Mass, except when it snowed. I understood that the drive could have been dangerous. We’d gather in the front room, missals in hand. Dad read the Mass. We responded appropriately.

            I hated it.

            There was nothing holy in it for me: I saw it as an excuse to pretend to pray. To imitate the Mass, but without reverence. How could people who seemed to hate me sit in a circle and recite passages of the Mass, a sacred worship service, after having tortured me the rest of the week?

            During my eighth-grade year, our class was led into the church, where various religious orders gave talks about what serving with them meant. I still remember the joy I felt when I learned about a monastic order of nuns that lived in silence, offering work as a prayer to God.

            I wanted to join. Imagine living in peace after years of being tormented by my siblings and parents. Imagine not being forced to talk out loud, imagine listening to the call of birds and the whisper of the wind. Imagine living in harmony with other women who sought out that life.

            My parents wouldn’t let me, saying that I’d regret not having children. Considering how often my mother reminded me that the only purpose for my existence was to serve her for the rest of my life, I didn’t relish the idea of marriage or childbirth.

            I’d dated, some. None of the boys interested me. I hated being touched by them, based upon the fact that the only touch I’d felt was in the form of punishment. I despised googling eyes and their breath on my skin. I hated holding sweaty hands and being forced to sit thigh-to-thigh.

            I didn’t see myself sharing a home with a man, let alone bearing his children.

            To join the convent, I needed my parents’ permission, until I turned eighteen. That opportunity never arose, as after my freshman year of high school, we sold the house and drove across country, eventually settling in South San Francisco, California.

            Because I was no longer attending Catholic School, my parents enrolled me in CCD, the Confraternity of Christian Doctrine, a program that laid out what religious concepts were taught for each grade.

            The students in my class disobeyed the teacher. They talked when they should be quiet, refused to answer when called upon, chewed gum despite being told to throw it out, and wasted my time.

            By this time, I’d become somewhat jaded about faith. Catholicism had lost meaning for me ever since I wasn’t permitted to join the convent.

            After each time my dad beat me or my brother pinched me, I lay awake at night trying to come up with a way to approach a priest to ask for help. I was too afraid of what punishment would befall me if ai did such a thing, for I knew the priest would tell my parents everything I had said.

            Shortly after settling in South San Francisco, my dad began shopping around for the shortest Mass. The closest church to us was beautiful, built in the Hispanic style out of stucco and red tiles on the roof. Inside it was airy, with high ceilings coming to a point. The altar was a huge edifice, painted white with gold trim.

I loved attending services there. Something about the atmosphere enticed reverence and prayer.

However, my dad deemed the Mass too long, so he began driving us all over in search of the shortest Mass.. We attending services in Pacifica (where the priest preached fire and brimstone), Half Moon Bay, Daly City, and Burlingame. Most of the priests seemed indifferent to our presence and not one parishioner approached in greeting.

When the Mass in a San Bruno church only lasted thirty minutes, my dad declared that we would only attend service there. The church was a squat building, seeming more like an extension of the strip mall out on the El Camino Real. The inside was rather plain: it had the requisite statues of Jesus, Jospeh, and Mary, but the windows were ordinary glass. No colorful scenes depicting important stories from the Bible. No organ music swelling to a crescendo.

By now the Pope had declared that services were to be held in the vernacular of the people, so every word spoken, either by the priest or the congregation, was in English.

That part I liked. The time spent provided no respite, offered no consolation, didn’t fill my soul with a sense of awe of calm. It seemed to be a waste of thirty minutes of my life.

            By now I was seventeen, looking forward to going away to college.

            When I finally escaped my family after enrolling in the University of Southern California down in Los Angeles, I intentionally did not attend Mass.

            I told myself that I didn’t miss it, that it meant nothing, that Sunday was a time to study.

            One day I was walking back to my dorm room and heard beautiful music coming from a small, one-story building. Out front was a sign declaring it the Neumann Center. I didn’t know what purpose it served, but the familiar songs invited me inside.

            Toward the front of the building a folk group strummed guitars and pounded drums. They sang joyful songs, the entire congregation joining in. Everyone in attendance looked like me: college students of varying ages. I sat near the back, and soon found the joy returning.

            I went back the next Sunday, and then the next. A retreat was announced. I had no idea what that was, but a weekend in the woods sounded fantastic.

            On the assigned day, I boarded a bus with about thirty other people my age, plus a few adults as chaperones. The drive was joyous, with lots of singing and praying Halleluiahs. It didn’t feel artificial at all. My fellow travelers rejoiced in the Lord, in praising Him and speaking of the many ways He filled their souls.

            Our destination was a log cabin deep in the forest. When I got off the bus, my heart sang. When I looked up, the tips of the trees touched the sky, pointing to heaven. The bark was rough, an imitation of my life so far, but I felt warmth, the heat of life within.

            The needle-strewn path was soft underfoot. It comforted me, much like falling into a mother’s arms might have been, if one had such a mother.

            God came to me. He entered my very being. He made me feel loved, special, cherished.

            When time came to return to the chaos of Los Angeles and college, part of me cried inside. I wished I could have stayed in that forest, feeling the power of God’s love day after day.

            That weekend opened my eyes. I knew that I was loved, that I had a place in the church. I didn’t yet know in what shape my calling would arrive, but I knew it was out there, waiting for me to come home.

            People talk about having a come-to-Jesus moment. That weekend retreat was mine.

            I knew that I’d never be that frightened little girl ever again. That my life would turn out okay if only I was patient and let God direct my path.

            This is the story of my faith formation.

            How I went from being a child in awe of the material things of a church: the windows, the silence, the altar. How I discovered the pure joy of celebration. How it changed me forever.

Being Alone

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            I loved being alone.

            Whenever my father was home, someone was being punished: my mother, most likely, myself, but also my brother. He never yelled at my sister.

            I never understood why he didn’t slap her about or smack her with his belt or lecture her on her many faults. Granted she was seven years younger than me and had petit mal seizures, but since he didn’t go after her, she’d become a brat.

            I felt sorry for my brother. He was exceptionally bright, a model student, but he had zero athletic skills. He tried to be an athlete, joining one baseball team after another where he never got to play because his lack of skills would have been detrimental to the team. He joined a football team in middle school, but the only purpose he served was to be pounded by the other team’s offensive line.

            He took out his frustrations on me. When our mom wasn’t looking, he’d pinch, kick or slap me until he left marks where they couldn’t be seen.

            It wasn’t until college that the torture stopped, probably because we were both out of the house, alone, no longer under the critical eyes of our parents.

            He was the only son and so he never had to share a room. Me, on the other hand, only had one-half of a room once my sister was out of the crib.

            The lack of privacy bothered me. Sometimes, if my sister was out and about (she had friends whereas I did not) I could hide in my room and listen to my favorite music on my little transistor radio. When I was alone, I imagined it always being that way, that I wasn’t sharing a room, had never shared a room, would never share one in the future.

            I knew it was only my imagination, but it released the pressure in me that built during the times in between.

            College dorm rooms provided no privacy at all. So tiny that only two steps separated my half of the room from my roommates, I was aware of everything she did. I overheard every phone conversation, had to step over her mess, and when her many friends came over, I even lost the privacy of my bed.

            And when I returned home during breaks, I felt unwelcome in the room which now completely belonged to my sister. She had taken over the master bedroom so as to have her own bathroom. There was a bed for me, but she had filled the closet and every drawer with her things.

            After college graduation I set two goals for myself: to buy a car then to rent an apartment.

            I needed the car so as to find a job. My brother had priority using the family car, my mother second. If I needed to go to an interview, my brother drove me if it was on his way, my mother drove as well, but often applied for the same position, at the same time, or my dad would take me. When my dad drove, he’d go inside the business, and if he didn’t like what he saw, he’d grab my arm and pull me out.

            I don’t recall how it happened, but I got a job at a chain furniture store. Someone must have driven me there for the interview, then driven me to and from work. Because I was not told to pay rent at home, I was able to save money for a down payment on a car.

            Even then, I wasn’t permitted to choose the one I really wanted. I was twenty-one, but apparently not smart enough to pick out a reliable car. I ended up with the ugliest Ford Pinto imaginable, only because that was the car my dad approved.

            I now had wheels of my own. When I wasn’t working, I’d take off for the morning. We lived not too far from a reservoir, a forested lake with a paved road that traversed one side. I’d pack myself a lunch, then set off, listening to the radio to my choice of music. I’d sing along, loving the solitude, the ability to do what I wanted, when I wanted.

            Being alone was beautiful.

            Once I’d saved up more money, I found a studio apartment that I could afford. My parents let me take one of the twin beds and a chest of drawers. Using my discount at the furniture store, I sought the damaged goods that weren’t so damaged that they were unusable.

            I didn’t mind the scuffs and dents. What I loved was being alone.

            I ate what and when I wanted, watched whatever I wanted on my tiny TV, went to bed when I wanted. For the first time in my life, I was completely in charge of my life. Of my decisions.

            It drove my mother nuts.

            She thought she could come over without being invited, without permission. Sometimes I pretended to not be home when she rang the bell downstairs. I could feel my blood pressure rising every time this happened: if she discovered I was there and not letting her in, I would have been in big trouble.

            It wasn’t too long after gaining my independence that I got a new job at the IRS. And then only about two years before I transferred to the local IRS office where I met my soon-to-be husband.

            Granted, for the past 48 years I’ve never technically been alone. In our early years my husband did spend some time at other offices where he’d have to live in hotels, but once we had kids, he never went away again.

            My husband is not demanding, no clingy, not possessive. I’ve never had to ask permission to travel on my own, to attend conferences in far off cities, or to take off across the country to visit family and friends.

            Even when we’re both home, there’s no expectation that I be in the same room with him. I can be alone in the front room which serves as my office while he’s in the family room watching TV. We can see each other, talk to each other, yet still be apart.

            The most powerful company I’ve had with me throughout my entire life is God. With Him I am never truly alone.

            He’s walked with me in my darkest days, He’s been with me during my happiest times and He’s guided me when my mind was awash with turmoil.

            It wasn’t until recently, however, that I realized that I am never alone.

            At all times I carry the memories of family and friends, the places I’ve been and the things I’ve done. More than anything, I carry His love.

            Being alone is wonderful, but so is knowing that my shoulders are laden with the wonderful things I’ve done and the people I know.

A Religious Awakening

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Fifty years ago, my faith was in doubt.  Tired of hearing the hell and damnation homilies of the local parish priest, I tuned out every time he spoke.  I knew that I should have been listening, for I feared that I was one of the sinners that he condemned to everlasting fire, and that there was no hope for my salvation.

I did not “do” drugs, proffer myself to men, nor commit crimes against society.  I was, however, not a dutiful daughter who accepted her subservient status in a household that held women with little respect. My parents believed that my sole purpose in life was to work for them, as a household servant, and when those jobs were done to satisfaction, then and only then could I pursue an education.

I did not object to assisting with the care and operation of the house.  What angered me most was that my siblings were exempted from any and all responsibility, including cleaning up after themselves. 

A major part of the problem was that my parents were ultra-conservative and narrow in focus.  To them, the duty of an older daughter was to manage the house and to marry young.  By young, I mean by the age of fourteen.  I didn’t even date at that age, let alone have a serious boyfriend, and I hated housework, so I was a failure in their eyes.

It should be a surprise that I was so affected by what was said for the pulpit, for Sunday worship was not something that my parents faithfully practiced.  They went to church when they felt like it, when the weather was good, when there were no sporting events on television.  And when they did go to church, it was not at the nearest church, but rather one which held the shortest service.

When I left for college in the summer of 1969, I decided to act boldly: I would not go to church at all.  My resolve faded as soon as the first Sunday arrived.  Not wanting to anger God, fearful of blackening my soul any further, I found the Newman center on campus.  The atmosphere was one of welcome.  The music filled me with joy, literally erasing all my negative thoughts and feelings in one fell swoop.

As time passed, my attitude toward the church changed. I believed the good news that I heard over and over during those joy-filled services. I understood that God had not judged me and found me wonting.  Instead, I now knew, He was a loving God who cried when one of His souls lost the way.  He offered peace and salvation to all who believed.  He gave solace, when needed, in times of stress and anxiety.  He loved us, no matter what we might have done.

Several months into that first school year, the Neuman Club organized a retreat up in the nearby mountains.  I had never done anything this before, but it sounded exactly what I needed.

The camp was somewhere east of Los Angeles, a rustic setting nestled in a forest. From the time we arrived at the camp, I felt at peace. All of us hurried inside, anxious to claim a bunk in one of the dorm rooms.  There was no pushing, no domineering, no one person making others feel worthless.

Having never been camping, I was unprepared for the chilly nights and the crisp morning air.  My clothing was not substantial enough to keep me warm, especially when it snowed in the night, leaving about six inches on the forest floor. Nevertheless, thanks to the generosity of those who shared warm mittens and thick sweaters, I stayed warm.

Throughout that weekend, my heart sang.  It was as if a giant anvil had been removed. Like a newly feathered chick, I flopped my wings, and took off.  Faith came at me from every direction.  From the treetops came God’s blessed light.  From the ferns sprang His offerings of love.  From my fellow participants came God’s unconditional love.  From our times of prayer and reflection, came discovery of my love for the God who loved me back.

I smiled until my face literally hurt.  I laughed at the crazy antics of my roommates, and joined in the singing in front of the fireplace at night.  During prayer times, tears poured down my face, yet I did not have the words to explain why.  It was as if someone had reached inside, pulled out all the pain, and filled me with a wholesome goodness.

I do believe that God touched me that weekend.  Not with His hands, for I did not feel the slightest brush against my body. What I did experience was the enveloping of His arms, holding me and making me feel safe. He gave the gift of feeling both loved and lovable.  He made me feel important, and inspired me to continue to follow His way.

When the weekend drew to a close, it was with deep regret that I packed my things.  I hoped to hold on to all that I had experienced.

I would love to report that my life was permanently changed, but it was not.  When at home, I continued to feel inadequate.  Not one day passed without hearing what a huge disappointment I was.  There was nothing that I did that ever pleased my parents, and not once did they give me a single word of encouragement.

When I graduated from college, I moved back to the still stifling environment of my parents’ home.  Pulled down by the never-ending criticism of my unmarried state, my unemployment, and by the wasted years at college, I quickly fell into a state of despondency.  The local Mass situation had not changed, even if the pastors had.  One pastor continued to preach the same old fire and brimstone message about the blackening of our souls.  In another, the Mass was so short you could be in and out in less than forty minutes.

It was not until my husband and I moved into the parish that he had known as a teenager, that the glow returned.  I rediscovered the God who loved me, who sheltered me from the storms of life, and who walked with me every step of every day. 

It was, and continues to be, a community of caring individuals who come together to worship and to pray for each other in times of need.  While priests have come and gone, the overall feeling has not.  We are the parish, the ones who define the atmosphere that envelopes all who step through the doors.

I know that there is a loving God who helps us walk through life’s challenges. He has blessed my life in ways that I am still discovering. 

That is the story of my faith.

My Love of Music

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            I bought my first radio when I was in Middle School. It had taken a long time to save up the money as my allowance was only twenty-five cents a week, ten of which had to go to the church.

            When my brother discovered Grit magazine, a weekly newspaper, I was able to earn more money. We went door-to-door trying to get subscribers. When the papers were dropped off at our house, we loaded them up in the baskets of our bicycles and road all over the rural town of Beavercreek, Ohio making deliveries.

            That simple job allowed me to finally buy that radio. I listened to popular music and fell in love with Ricky Nelson, Glen Campbell and the Shirelles. I memorized the lyrics and when no one was around, sang along.

            Music became my refuge. It took me away from my dysfunctional family’s woes. I felt the singers’ highs and lows. Their heartaches and joys.

            When my family went on picnics, that radio came with me. I didn’t have headphones, so I could only listen when I had permission.

            When my dad bought a record player, I used my earned money to purchase 45s and 78s. I didn’t have a lot of records, but those I did have brought me great joy.

            I attended a Catholic School until the end of seventh grade. A boy, whose name I don’t recall, invited me to a dance at a neighboring Catholic school. This was my first experience with a live band. While they were just a little older than me, and to me recall, not that good, I was enthralled. And I wanted to sing.

            That boy took me to dance after dance. Some were pretty miserable affairs with maybe ten people in attendance. Others had disco balls and flashing lights with great food. It made no difference to me: I had a wonderful time.

            The next year I transferred to the public school and never saw that boy again. For some reason I was enrolled in choir. I had never sung in public except for the Gregorian chant at church. Imagine my terror when the teacher demanded that we stand up, one-by-one, and sing the National Anthem.

            I knew I couldn’t do it, but I practiced in my bedroom. I was convinced that I was off-key and my voice cracked whenever I came to a high note.

            When my turn came, I froze. My butt refused to come off my chair. I trembled so badly that I don’t think my legs would have held up my weight. (I had a lot of weight!) The teacher called on me. My eyes filled with tears and my body refused to stand.

            The teacher smiled, encouraged me to try, then moved on to the next student. She never did make me sing in front of the class. She did figure out that I was an alto, however, by standing near me during class.

            By now I had fallen in love with a variety of popular singers, including the Everly Brothers, Roger Miller, and The Temptations. I bought the teen magazines that featured stories about the artists and included the lyrics to all the top hits.

To my joy, I discovered fan clubs! With a simple letter I could request autographed photos! I sent off letter after letter and when the photos arrived, I taped them to my bedroom wall. All my favorites were there, and since I had the lyrics, I could sing with them, never missing a word.

I never took a music class in high school. I thought about it, but my focus was on getting into a university with a full scholarship. My courses were tough: lots of math and science. Spanish and Social Studies. No fun electives.

Another problem was that my younger sister had grown older and controlled what happened in our shared bedroom. It seemed as if every time I turned on my radio, she appeared and demanded that I turn it off. If I didn’t, she whined to my mother who’d then threaten to smash the radio if I didn’t comply.

My developing love of music stalled.

When I enrolled at USC sophomore year, I took my radio and a record player I’d bought with me. By then I had a fairly extensive collection of records which I played whenever my roommate wasn’t around.

My parents thought that having music on distracted me from my studies, but it was the opposite. Music calmed me. It soothed my fears. Playing favorite songs quietly in the background gave me the energy to put in long hours.

Although I thought about taking a Music Class, once again, just like in high school, it didn’t fit into my major’s requirements.

I dated a guy for a short time who loved music as much as I did. He took me to concerts at UCLA. We rode in his VW Bug with the radio blaring, screaming out the lyrics. He took me to used record shops where, with very little money, I bought tons of records. Thanks to him my collection grew.

He never took me to a school dance, though. When posters advertised a dance in my residence hall, I decided to go. Alone. It was hard for me to do this. I was still overweight and saw myself as ugly. I figured that even if no one asked me to dance, I could enjoy the music.

The cafeteria was transformed into a disco ball. Someone had hung up decorations all along the walls and streamers hung from the ceiling. I was amazed but also thrilled. The one thing I hadn’t planned on was the huge number of students who would come. The place was packed.

I grabbed some snacks. Listened to the music. Wanted to dance. But I was ignored. When OJ Simpson and his gang of football players came, I snuck out. I knew that this was not my crowd.

On campus was a Neumann Center that held Mass on Sundays. I had never heard guitars and drums at church before. There was something about the folk-style that called to me and before I knew it, I was singing. In public.

It wasn’t until many years later, when I my kids were away at college that I bolstered myself up and joined the church choir. I didn’t know how to read music, but one of the singers, Patty deRidder, who was also the First-Grade teacher at the Catholic school, taught me. She told me I had a beautiful singing voice and encouraged me to solo.

I never would have taken that leap on my own. However, one Sunday no other singers came to mass. That meant I had no choice. Oh, was I terrified! But I did it.

Next thing, I was a regular soloist. Sunday after Sunday I stood at the ambo and lead the congregation in the psalm.

I remember one time when I’d rehearsed the psalm at home, over and over until I knew it quite well. When it’s time, I climb the steps to the ambo. The pianist begins playing and I freeze. She played something different! I know that my eyes got huge as I stood there in shock.

I shook it off, then sang the psalm I’d rehearsed, forcing the pianist to adapt.

Over the years my taste in music has expanded. I love country, but I also love Christian and some contemporary pop. I am not a fan of classical unless one of my grandkids is playing it. And I definitely never thought I’d like rap until I saw the musical Hamilton.

Looking back, I can see the important role that music had played in my life. It calmed me when times were tough. It brought solace when I was down. It lifted me up when my spirits were sagging. Most importantly, it showed me that I could sing. That my voice was strong enough, sure enough that I could stand before my congregation and lead them in song.

I don’t listen to as much music now as I did in my younger years, but it’s always there in my mind, in my heart.

The journey to get here was long and at times challenging. I am grateful to the boy who took me to dances. To the teacher who saw how terrified I was. To the choir member who encouraged me. To all the various choir directors I worked with over the years who saw in me what I still struggle to see: that I could bring joy to others through my voice.

Blood Red Days

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            Children aren’t supposed to get sick.  Romanticized images picture little darlings running, jumping, climbing, laughing, living life as freely as a butterfly flitting from flower to flower.  Even in prayer, when most solemn, those cherubic faces glow with rosebud color.  So it should be, forever and ever.

            Unfortunately strange diseases invade, causing any possible varieties of illness.  Most we understand.  Tonsillitis, ear infections, colds, cuts, bruises, and even the occasional broken bone fall into that realm.  Kids are susceptible to germs, primarily because they play with “germy” things, and so we expect them to fall ill. But we pray that those times are few and far between.

            When your four-year-old child’s urine turns the color of burgundy wine, however, the only normal reaction is fear.  So it was for my husband and I when it happened for the first time to our six year old daughter. 

            When it occurred, we tried not to panic so as to not alarm our daughter. What we did do was make phone calls followed by tons of doctors’ visits.   We began with our regular pediatrician who thought the bleeding was caused by a bladder infection. The prescribed dose of antibiotics seemed to work.

But then it happened again. More antibiotics were given. And then the same thing, over and over.

 We were referred to a urologist who was used to treating senior citizens who would willingly allow tubes and prodding. He had no experience with a five-year-old.

Our daughter fought him with the strength of an army, clenching shut her legs and refusing to budge. I didn’t blame her. I thought the doctor a little too interested in seeing what was between my child’s legs.

At my insistence, our pediatrician referred us to a pediatric urologist/oncologist.  Imagine the fears those words triggered. Oncology. Cancer. Curable or not? We didn’t know or understand what was happening or what the doctor would do. How he was going to make the determination as to the diagnosis? The person setting up the appointment offered no reassurance, but because the bleeding continued, we went to his office.

By the time we finally got to see him, months had passed. The color of her urine had deepened to a deep, dark red. It was frightening, not only to us, but to our daughter. Even a small child understands that urine is not supposed to be that color.

            For my daughter’s sake, we put on happy faces, attempting to disguise our deep-seated fears.  When she was out of visual range, we allowed ourselves to cry.  Of course, we prayed.

            There were days when her urine was a healthy golden color and so we tried to convince ourselves that she was cured. That the newest round of antibiotics had worked. We wept with joy and gave thanks to the Lord.  But the space between those times slowly shrunk until it was pretty much guaranteed that we would see red, and only red.

            Even the strongest antibiotics had proved to be ineffective, and so the pediatric urologist ordered x-rays to search for the still unknown cause.

            We went to Alta Bates Hospital in Berkeley, California, one of the finest hospitals in the Bay Area.  For the exam, our daughter was placed on a cold, metal table.  She was given huge quantities of liquid to drink.  The x-ray machine was lowered until it hovered above her lower abdomen.  She was told to urinate, right there on the table, in front of five total strangers.  She couldn’t do it and I didn’t blame her.

            They inserted a tube to allow the urine to flow.  Pictures were taken.  We went home and waited, impatiently, to hear the results.  When they came, we were terrified and confused. Because of the way her bladder was constructed, it was unable to fully close.  Surgery was recommended to insert a tube to narrow the urethra.

            Shortly after the recommendation we drove to Children’s Hospital in Oakland, arriving just as the sun was beginning to peak over the hills.  It was a peaceful scene which helped to somewhat ease our nervousness. It was short-lived, however, for immediately after completing the required paperwork, our daughter was whisked away by an efficient, yet friendly nurse. 

            My husband paced the floor of the waiting room, talking to himself.  I prayed, placing my daughter’s life in God’s capable hands. 

            This operation was a success. Her bladder would now allow her to control the flow of urine. However, during the surgery, the doctor discovered that her ureters did not enter the bladder at the correct angle.  Not only that, but the flaps that prevented urine from moving into the kidneys were missing.  Another operation was planned.

            Despite the negative news, my husband and I eagerly took our little girl home, hoping that at least there might be some reprieve from the tinged urine.  It was not to be.

            Within hours after getting her settled, her urine had turned from a healthy golden hue to a blood red, bone-chilling liquid.  Several phone calls later, another trip to the doctor’s was scheduled.  She was again put on a regimen of antibiotics, hoping to stem off any invasion of germs that might interfere with the next operation.

            Good Friday found us, once again, in the waiting room of Children’s Hospital.   My husband paced while I pretended to read.  Both of us turned our hearts over to the Lord, begging Him to watch over our daughter. 

            In the midst of one of many recitations of the Our Father, I felt a gentle touch on my right cheek.  A calm washed over me, settling in my heart.  I nodded, and whispered, “Thanks.”  My eyes filled with tears of joy, and a smile burst through.  I knew, then and there, that everything would be fine.

            When the doctor came to us still dressed in his surgical greens, he was smiling. While he was looking inside our daughter’s bladder, he discovered a blood vessel that was weeping, something it was not supposed to do. He cauterized it, forever stopping the flow of blood into her bladder.

            Because of the severity of the operation, however, she had to spend a week in the hospital.  It was scary for us. Imagine how frightening it was for her, spending nights without her parents nearby. Our sons stayed with a relative so that my husband could go to work and I could go to the hospital.

Every day she got stronger and her urine became clearer.  I gave thanks to the Lord for giving my daughter another day of life.

            Those were trying times, for sure.  I had no choice but to rely on my faith, as even the most highly trained, respected pediatric urologist had had no idea what was wrong.

Even years later, I still believe that the Lord stood by, watching, whispering advice in the doctor’s ear.  How else did he find the exposed vessel, the incorrectly seated ureters, the missing flaps, and the enlarged end of the bladder?

            While the likelihood of her bleeding to death had been slim, she could easily have died of kidney failure.  If we had known about this earlier, we could have acted sooner.  For some reason, the Lord kept her alive long enough for medical science to rise to the occasion.

Faith kept me sane.  Faith allowed me to put aside my fears.  Faith was my constant companion. That operation solved the problem which allowed our daughter to grow up into a college graduate, wife and mother.

Thoughts About Life Before Death

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            This morning an author was sharing her work on the radio. She’d thought a lot about death and dying, but especially about the steps between independence and reliance on others.

            She said that the idea of moving on to an afterlife didn’t scare her: it was what came before.

            Her words hit home.

            I am a person of faith. I believe in a heaven in which God is waiting for me. He will welcome me with open arms, bring me into His fold where I will live with all kinds of angels. It will be a place of intense colors, smells, and sites. It will be warm day and night and while walking the paths I will encounter family, friends and others that have been waiting for my arrival.

            Heavenly, right?

            The author being interviewed had treated her body well over the years. She’d watched what she ate, consumed very little alcohol, and early on incorporated exercise into her daily routine. She’d run marathons and belonged to a gym for many years.

            She hoped, believed, that treating her body well gave her the opportunity to live long without being a burden to loved ones.

            Her comments made me think about my past. I did not exercise regularly until well into my forties. I learned the game of soccer by watching my own kids play. My daughter’s coach was so horrible that the parents “fired” her, then made me coach. I knew nothing about the game, but I loved research. I read book after book on rules, conditioning and game play.

            I did not sit on the sidelines and shout: I ran, dribbled, passed and thought up new and different “games” to keep my players interested.

            I signed up for coaching classes and learned to be a referee. Once I was licensed, I “reffed” an average of four games a weekend while still coaching a girls’ team and rushing to see my sons play as often as possible.

            To understand more, I joined two adult teams: one co-ed, the other women only. I practiced with both and played one game a weekend on each team.

            As time passed, I felt my overall conditioning improve. I had never been a runner and still wasn’t, but I never stopped moving whether on or off the field.

            My kids swam in a competitive summer league. I took them to morning practices and stayed for their lessons. Watching them taught me how to swim. From barely being able to swim freestyle, I learned backstroke and breaststroke. From not being to complete a lap without stopping, I became a lap swimmer.

            At one point we sold our membership to the pool. For years I had no place to swim while at the same time injuries had kept me off the soccer field. The lack of exercise, combined with a series of surgeries, prevented me from taking up new forms of exercise, and so the weight piled on.

            Well into my fifties I heard of a community indoor pool near my place of work. I could get up early, drive the thirty minutes to get there, get a little exercise, shower and arrive at work on time. At first I only walked, back and forth, back and forth, while in the other lanes swimmers swam in “circles”. I so wanted to join them, but it had been years since I’d done anything like lap swimming.

            Bored with walking, one morning I slipped under the lane lines and joined the moving crowd. I was not the fastest, but not the slowest either. My asthma kicked up, meaning that I’d have to pause after every two laps to rest. I’d go on, each week pushing myself to do more and more.

            Then something happened and the pool had to close for repairs. I had no place to go.

            During this same time I had joined a neighborhood gym. I dropped in almost every afternoon and most weekends. I fell in love with the elliptical and stationary bike. Many of the machines didn’t work for me, but I used those that did. Wanting more, I hired a physical trainer. Big mistake. I don’t believe he’d ever worked with an old lady with double knee replacements. No matter how many times I told him I couldn’t jump or run upstairs, he didn’t believe me. He browbeat me into doing things I didn’t think I could do. He brought me to tears. But I kept paying him for three months before I finally walked away.

            About three years ago a new gym was built not far from my home. It had an indoor three-lane pool and tons of machines. After touring a nearby affiliate of the same company, I signed up. Why? The clientele looked like me: old, out-of-shape women and men. None of the burly, sweaty jocks of my old gym. This looked like a place where I’d fit in.

            When the gym opened I began working with a new trainer. He was gentle and kind. He understood senior citizens and listened to me when I said I couldn’t do something. He gave me exercises and routines that I could do on my own.

            My confidence grew. I lost a little weight, just enough to get brave enough to swim. It felt great to be back in the water, but I was moving much more weight than before. I was slow, slow, slow. But persistent. Each few days I added two more laps. In time I was able to swim a full mile!

            I still go to the gym, still swim, still use the machines.

            About two years ago I ran into a friend from my soccer days. We began hiking two days a week. It was hard at first. Some hills nearly killed me. I’d have to give up and turn around, embarrassed that I couldn’t keep up with my friend.

            Now we are equal partners, routinely hiking 8-10 miles tow to three days a week.

            What all this is about is that right now, I am in the best shape of my life. Like the author mentioned earlier, I take care of my body. I eat healthy, exercise regularly and keep my mind sharp.

            I hope, I believe, that all this will pay off as I add on more years. In three months I will turn seventy-two, but I don’t feel that old.

            At that age my mom looked and acted old. She was the epitome of the wizened old lady. Her face was pitted with wrinkles and her back and legs were weak. She couldn’t walk through her flat neighborhood or meander through a store without frequent stops. Her mind was failing, a precursor to the dementia that eventually took her life.

            I’ve read, just as the author has, that mental and physical exercise keeps us vibrant longer. I hope that she’s right. I want to be alert and independent as long as possible. I don’t want to be a burden to my family. I want to die with grace and dignity intact.

            There are things I don’t know the answer to. For example, will my years of inactivity impact how long I can function independently? I’ve heard that smokers lose years of life, but can gain some time back by quitting.

            Does this work for exercise? Because I’ve been working out seven days a week for years now make up for thirty years of no exercise?

            I certainly hope so.

            While I am not afraid of death, I am doing everything I can to stave off the effects of mental and physical decline. I pray, attend church, read, write, meet with various groups of friends, follow a weight-loss path, watch television, go out for meals and attend movies and plays. I talk to my adult children and my grandchildren. I do things. All kinds of things. And love my life, live my life, to the fullest.

            Perhaps this will make the difference. I certainly hope so.

Favorite Holidays

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            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.

Faith: a Personal Definition

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One aspect of faith is the belief in the inherent goodness of humanity.  It may be a naïve way of thinking, especially considering these troubled times.  It may be a bit misplaced in terms of focus considering the quantity of murders, robberies, beatings, and home invasions that take place every day.  However, if we cannot believe that the bulk of those traveling through life with us do so with goodness as a driving force, then we cannot live as faith-filled people. 

Back when I was still teaching something occurred at my high school that challenged my faith in humanity.  An article appeared in the school newspaper referring to a group of students as “Tard Kart.”  In itself, the label does not seem offensive.  However, the members of this group described themselves as crazy misfits who were not accepted by the school population at large.  Hence, to them, “Tard” was a derivative of the word retard.  Kart referred to the food carts which were staffed by Special Education students, the connection, to me, was quite obvious.

Believing that it was a simple mistake, I contacted the teacher who oversaw the Journalism students.  The teacher found nothing offensive about the inclusion of the name in the article.  When I asked her what she would do if a group called themselves “Spics” or “Wops.” Would she print that?  Of course not, she said, as those are ethnic slurs.

The teacher herself had been subjected to ethnic slurs over her entire teaching career.  She had been found crying, many times, over the cruelty of students who mimicked her accent and who left insults on the white board in her classroom.  One would think that if anyone would be sensitive to negative stereotypes, it would be she.

Earlier in the same week a student was attacked outside my classroom.  He was a relatively small freshman compared to others in his class. When I heard loud thumps outside my room, I went outside to see what was happening. My student was on the floor curled up in a fetal position, holding his groin area.  Large tears coursed down his cheeks.  He was unable to speak or move for more than thirty minutes. When I found out what has happened, I was horrified that two very large seniors had slammed the smaller boy against the wall and kicked him when he was down.

I believe that it was a prank that got out of control.  Yes, the students involved tended to be aggressive, defiant, and general malcontents.  Yes, they were not on track to graduate in June.  Even so, my faith tells me that this “beating” was not a planned act of violence, but rather an opportunistic reaction.

In my seventy-one years of life, I have not only witnessed, but also been a victim of comparable events.  As an abused child, I grew up in an environment that was not conducive to the development of faith.  It’s hard to believe in a God that allows physical beatings, verbal harassment, and emotional debasement.  I prayed, every day, for salvation.  My prayers went unanswered, or so I thought.

It was not until I went on a trip to the mountains of southern California with a Catholic youth group from my university that I understood faith.  Looking at the towering mountains and walking amid the amazingly tall trees, I realized that there is a God who loves the world so much that He gave us places of solitude and introspection. 

God does not always our wishes for He knows that we need to be forged by our experiences.  We may not want to walk our given path, but we have to believe that the journey somehow leads us to a clearer understanding of who we are meant to be.

When I stood in that forest I knew that I was not the horrible child that my parents saw.  Faith allowed me to witness the goodness inside myself, the goodness inside my parents, and the goodness in those sharing the moment with me.  It sounds like a cliché, but I truly felt a golden glow spreading through my body.  That glow was faith.

Since that day, my faith has been my rock.  It gives me the strength to transcend the travails of daily life.  It opens my eyes to the good intentions of others and allows me to feel generosity of spirit.  When disheartening or disturbing events rise forth, it is through faith that I am able to process what is happening.

I do believe that all humans are capable of living lives ruled by basic tenets of kindness and generosity of spirit.  Even when the news is filled with stories of turbulence, I do not let my belief waver.  That is my belief in the goodness of humanity. That is my faith.