Category Archives: memoir

A short good-bye

everyday theology, memoir, Uncategorized

13137_10151300548633803_1002071737_n                                                     My mother died December 20, 2014.

The picture above is from her 90th birthday party. A hundred and twenty of her closest friends – including many folks from out of state – joined in the celebration. At one point we had open mike for people to share stories.  There was a repetition of themes: she loved life, she loved without borders, she served without acknowledgement,  and she accepted unconditionally without theological contortions.

She woke up every morning attuned to Jesus’ command to love Godde and neighbor. And she did. Every day in a myriad of ways.  After the party was over (an indoor picnic- it was February after all – BBQ,  potato salad, slaw, deviled eggs, 12 homemade cakes and gallons of homemade ice cream) I asked her what she thought about what people stood up to share.

“I kept wondering who they were talking about.” she said.

This is how I will remember her: laughing, joyful, loving, quietly serving, humble, and deeply in love with Godde.

She always told me she wanted to die in her sleep. (Don’t we all?) And she came about as close to that as possible. December 17th she went to a Christmas luncheon, ate dinner with me of homemade tomato-basil soup and fresh bread, played bridge until 10 that night and shortly after our guests left, suffered a major hemorrhagic stroke. At the emergency room I refused to have her intubated and the next day we moved her to hospice.

For three days I served her.  She passed quietly with myself and my daughter in the room and a crowd of loved ones keeping vigil outside. I opened  the window so she could feel the fresh air on her skin. And I sang her over. I sang her favorite song, In the Garden and the song, unbidden, that came out of me as I stroked her hair, Jesus, We are Here. 

When her spirit rose from her body I washed the vessel that had gestated me, held me, accepted me, honored me and loved me.  I have thanks for each part of her as I blessed her hands, feet, womb, and heart. I brushed her hair, dressed her in red with matching red lipstick and a spritz of perfume as I loved her from life into death into life.

This short good-bye is what she would have wanted. For me, the good-bye will last until I greet her at the hour of my own death.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

What makes me an American

A Gracious Heresy, memoir, musings, Uncategorized

 

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Writing memoir raises a slew of questions that clamor to be explored, always returning to the central question: who are you?

As an army brat, when people ask me where I am from I answer, “All over”. Growing up, I lived most of my formative years abroad.  As a child I was clear and sure that I was American even though most of my young life had been lived on ‘foreign’ soil. In places that are often more home to me than anywhere in the United States.

I do not identify as American because I was raised in a common culture with my fellow citizens,  not because I share common experiences and not because we speak a common language.  It means I don’t look like my fellow citizens who come from all over the world. It means we often disagree about faith and politics. And on our better days our differences are good and give us the richness of our ideas.

What makes me an American are the ideas and the ideals my family taught me about what it means to be an American. My Dad  instilled in me that  I am a part of a grand experiment in equality, freedom and justice. My duty as a citizen is to always stand on the side of equality, freedom and justice.

It also means that I have the freedom to explore, to try new things, to expand my understandings and experiences… and to fail.  As an American I was taught that failure, though painful, is not terminal. I can rise and try again. Try things that are born in my imagination. Fail spectacularly at reaching for the stars and make it to the moon.

Those are the things that make me an American. Freedom, equality and justice don’t stop at my borders. Having a responsibility to those ideals gives me a world vision. Knowing I can fail and not be defeated makes me ever hopeful.

And along the way I discovered that understanding myself as an American encourages me  to claim myself as a citizen of the world.