Tragedy, Surrender, Hope and Heaven

Kirsten Anderson

My cousin Kirsten died late Tuesday night, victim of a freak accident.  She was 29 years old.  I have been able to think of little else this week.
There is something about the death of a young person that stops us in our tracks, reminding us of both the fragility of life and the cruelty of death.  "Not fair" is a very natural reaction. "Why would God allow this?"  is another.
As I have been thinking all of the above and more, I have been very aware that I did not really know Kirsten.  She was just a year older than my little sister Jamie who is thirteen years younger than me.  I am one of the oldest of the 33 Schneider cousins--number four maybe--and when I was a tween and teen, I hung with the cousins my own age.  As we all grew older and lost first my grandfather (1985) and then my grandmother (2002), the large family reunions that had happened regularly while I was growing up, stopped.  Between that and our move to Texas, it has been over a decade since I have seen a lot of my extended family.  So, I did not know Kirsten well.  In some ways, I feel that I do not have the right to grieve.  I haven't been able to talk myself out of it though.

Margaret Grace Schneider

My grandmother, GG, had a special fondness for Kirsten and vice versa.  I remember the Sunday that everyone came to Camp Kreitzer to see GG.  She was dying and it would be the last time many of them saw her.  Kirsten was there.  Her presence brought levity to the house and to my grandmother.  I was being a Martha that day, fixing food and playing hostess.  Kirsten was more of a Mary, sitting with GG, holding her hand, hugging her.  I don't think I've seen Kirsten since grandma's funeral.  It turned out to be a kind of last, all-family gathering.
I don't know if this will make sense to anyone but me, but I can honestly say that my immense love and respect for my grandparents extends to everyone dear to them.  Instead of "Mi casa, tu casa", it's "Tu querido, mi querido".  That definitely applies to Kirsten.


Over the past few days, this is the picture that keeps popping into my mind:

You may recognize it as Guernica by Pablo Picasso.  He painted it to represent the tragic bombing of the small Spanish town of Guernica by German and Italian forces in 1937 at the behest of Spanish Nationalist forces.  I had the privilege of seeing the mural in Madrid.  It is massive, awe-inspiring and frameless.  It has its own room in the museum.  It must have made its way deeply into me because the image often pops into my head when life drops one of its bombs.  Mostly I see the woman to the left holding her poor baby and the woman to the right wailing, hands raised to heaven.  I don't really like the painting.  "Like" isn't even the right word for the feelings it inspires.  I do think Picasso expertly captured despair, helpless suffering, and the question--"WHY?"
I think it's only natural to try to come up with answers to that question.  I've heard a few this week, presumably to offer hope or healing.  It's important to remember though that there are things we cannot know.  Holding on to our own made-up answers may help for awhile but if we insist on them, we miss the opportunity for something better---the opportunity to embrace the things we do know.  Most importantly, we know that God loves us and our loved ones more than any human being could.  We know that He is in charge.  In trusting Him completely without demanding answers or reasons, by completely surrendering ourselves to Him, we gain everything.
The person who suffers a prolonged death is able to gradually surrender his or her own life and hand it over.  In a tragedy like this one, loved ones must do the surrendering or risk living in a perpetual state of despair.  At times like these, it becomes very clear that "Hope" must be lived as a verb.
I "hope" that my cousin is having tea with my grandma in heaven.  Perhaps GG is reciting one of the many poems she knew by heart.  Perhaps they're trading stories, catching up and laughing.  Both GG and Kirsten had amazing smiles.  As for those of us still on this side, well, it's not called a "vale of tears" for nothing.

Sophie Belle

 Since my last post, Ella has developed a bit of competition as Sophie's BFF.  The new kid on the block is Belle.  Her favorite color is pink and she is a diva, complete with furry boots and matching accessories.  The jury is out as to whether she is a good influence on Sophie who is already girly to the max.  Time will tell.

The story--one day about a month ago, a card arrived in the mail addressed to Sophie Ruth Doyle from her godparents.  She could not have been more excited.  Mail!  Yay!  Even better, the card contained a $20 bill and a $25 gift card to Barnes and Noble.  Thank you Miss Hope and Mr. Ralph!  So generous.

After many conversations about how to spend her gift, Sophie decided firmly on a trip to Build-a Bear.  I told her that I would buy her B & N gift card off of her which gave her a small fortune to spend.  The only problem was the morning of our outing, we could not find the gift card.  Grace and Sophie had been playing with it and, after some searching, it was MIA.  What to do?  $20 wouldn't buy Sophie much of anything.  In the end, I did not teach the hard lesson and agreed to give her the $25 anyway.  (I found the gift card today under some papers beside my bed.  St. Anthony must have approved of my decision :)

First stop, the food court and Chik Fil A for Sophie's favorite food and people watching

love this face

After lunch, we headed down the "alligator" to Build a Bear.  Sophie had chosen her new friend on a quick tour of the store before lunch so selection was speedy.

the most important part

I never really understood this part

Taking good care

official naming

Sophie and I discussed names before and after lunch.  The three possibilities were "Kitty", "Belle" and "Gisele", all from movies.  I was pulling for Gisele but think that Belle fits perfectly. (I have a feeling that this process will be oft-repeated in the future...)

Ready to go

Belle couldn't be happier with her new play set.....

Belle in all her glory

pink fur, pink vest, pink boots, pink headband, pink purse, pink hearts on her sweater

and PINK BED

Better view of her best accessory....I want a purse just like hers...in my size

I have to admit, I may have had more fun on our outing than Sophie.  It wasn't my first time at Build-a-Bear but as the girls get older, it has gotten more fun.  And going with the pink theme made things more interesting.  I also have to hand it to the company.  The employees are great and the selection, phenomenal.  It's shopping and entertainment in one.  I want to go back for my own.  I saw a very cool Star Wars outfit I'd like to try on a dog.....

On a more somber note, I confess to being very sad over the news about Whitney Houston today.  So sad in fact that I did something that may bring much pain and suffering to Chris....I bought her greatest hits album.  

Why is it that so many of the stars that provided the backdrop for us '80s kids have self-destructed?  In her song The Greatest Love of All, Ms Houston observes, "I never found anyone to fulfill my needs".  I suspect that's the key.  More than money, success or fame, we all need to find love within a community.  It's a reminder to me as a mom to give my all every day to loving those in my own life.  It's all I can do and hopefully enough.

Whether you liked Whitney Houston's music or not, say a prayer for her today.  What a way to exit this world.

Happy New Week Everyone!

Besties

I don't remember where we were recently, but someone commented on how "precious" the girls are and asked them if they ever fight.  They answered honestly, "yes" (I would have added an "h" double hockey sticks before that yes if they'd asked me).  Despite the tussles though, the girls really love each other.  Lately, Sophie and Ella have been especially good buddies, going so far as to use the words "best friends".  

It's hard to say who takes better care of whom.  Ella is an unusual youngest.  She is a huge helper and is able to age up in most situations.  Sophie, on the other hand, has been voted most likely to be carried around in a cart while doing the homecoming queen wave.  Ha Ha.  In any case, they are constant playmates.  It's truly awesome to see.

"my baby," said Ella

I swear I want to eat them :)

(if you're a mom, I think you may understand...)

It's Friday!!  Enjoy it--eat meat--it's almost lent!

One Small Part of His Collective Mind

I'm on a roll writing about the more serious side of life and today, I'd like to share another story about my godfather, my Uncle Larry, who "shed the surly bonds of earth" on Friday, January 27.
Growing up, I was very aware that the men on my mom's side of the family considered talent in the areas of math and science to be superior to any other.  This was problematic for me because I did not particularly like either.  For years, I was apologetic about my leanings toward literature and drama and the fact that I was majoring in--gasp--Spanish.  It took time for me to understand that genius comes in many disguises and Truth can be found across disciplines.  Still, I never would have imagined my science/ engineering-minded Uncle Larry's brain to have softer leanings as well.
When I visited him two weeks before his death, I noticed a little book with a leather cover that he had set out for my cousin Caryn.  Caryn was there and she talked about making copies because it was full of things her dad had written.  There were reflections on life and even poetry.  I felt chills run down my spine as I read.  My uncle was a poet!  How was it possible that I'd never known that?
How well do we ever know someone?  In this case, it had been a decade since I'd been in touch.  Living so far away, I don't see very much of my extended family.  Even if I'd seen him though, would I have known what questions to ask to get to the heart of things?  Probably not.  More to the point--would I have dared?  I  hope so but probably not.
Below is one of the things Uncle Larry wrote in his book.  My cousin printed it on the back of the program for his funeral Mass.  I think it shows that my uncle had not only intelligence but wisdom as well:

The greatest gift God has given to individual man is the power to rationalize and think.  Within the limited framework of earth, the power to think is that element which makes each individual unique.  Then, for each of us to better know God within the limitations of our environ, we should strive to use our individual gift in such a manner that we continuously grow in capability while maintaining the knowledge that until we merge with God, we are but one small part of His collective mind.
LMS

Sacred Objects

 These boots have a history.  When I see them, I see Mia running, in shorts or a skirt, wearing them for the millionth day in a row.  She wore them till they were much too small and were quite hole-y.  She wore them for Halloween when she was Blessed Kateri.  She wore them through the summer because she liked them so much.  Then, last weekend, she added them to a pile of things for Goodwill.  Like the Velveteen Rabbit, they are destined for the trash heap but for me, these boots are "real".  I wouldn't be surprised if they started running and dancing on their own!  They are sacred objects because they were one with some precious feet for a season or two.  Letting them go will be, in a sense,  to let go of the Mia who wore them as well.  In her place is a new, older Mia.  It is at once a joy and a sorrow to watch these changes and while I long to save every single sacred object from their childhood, I don't have enough room in the house to bottle up all of the wonderful artifacts that remind me of my girls.  Letting go is truly an art....

Mia's "peace" shoes.  I may have to hold on to these........(while I'm perfecting the art :)

The Patience of Job

So--if you went to Mass today, along with a lot of "And with your spirit"s (I'm starting to love hearing that), you heard this:

Job spoke, saying:  "Is not man's life on earth a drudgery?  Are not his days those of hirelings?  He is a slave who longs for the shade, a hireling who waits for his wages.  So I have been assigned months of misery, and troubled nights have been allotted to me.  If in bed I say, "when shall I arise?", then the night drags on; I am filled with restlessness until the dawn.  My days are swifter than a weaver's shuttle; they come to an end without hope.  Remember that my life is like the wind; I shall not see happiness again".

Can you imagine a friend sharing something like that over coffee?  How would you respond?  Would you wonder why she was making those depressing statements or perhaps write her off as a complainer? 

A couple of things about Job:  First, in a past life, Job had everything good in life and was God's good and faithful servant.  Then, God allowed the devil to strip Job of all he had, little by little, until he was covered with sores and sitting on a dung heap.  Still, Job refused to curse God as his friends urged him to do.  He was faithful.  

It must have been lonely to be Job.  Equal to the loss of his earthly goods and family, Job must have felt the loss of his connection to the rest of humanity.  Because really--who would want to join in his suffering by sitting with him on the dung heap?  In the passage above, he shares the hard truth that he has learned--namely, that life on earth lacks meaning, flies by and is full of suffering.  Does anyone living in the 21st century doubt that those things continue to be true?

Still, how many times have you shared your own thoughts on that subject--life and its meaning--with others?  How many times have you opened up about how hard life can be?  I am a firm believer in the power of words and communication to heal.  I believe in the possibility anyway.  In practice, there are few circles in which that kind of sharing is welcome.  We live in a world where suffering is banished or marginalized.  Everything has to be "okay" or "hunky dory" or "a bit rough but we have it all under control" (big smile).  If someone were to say something like, "My life is like the wind; I shall not see happiness again", well, let's just say, more invitations to dinner might not be forthcoming.  Which is too bad.  Because there is a lot to learn from the Jobs of the world (and we're all Job at one time or another).  There are also many ways that we could help each other if we were more brave, more willing to risk or more ready to share who we truly are or are trying to be before God.

I find Job's statement, "I shall not see happiness again" to be very promising.  Just as we must lose life to gain it, we must let go of any expectation or claim to happiness in order to find it.  At the pinnacle of suffering, Job may in fact be closer to experiencing true fulfillment than he's ever been.  Of course, this is one of many paradoxes that must be learned over and again by each of us on our own individual journeys.  Like Dorothy's yellow brick road, it is a way we must travel for ourselves.  But we do not have to do it alone.  God gave us fellow travelers.  The price is simply humility--being our true selves, without masks or pretense, willing to serve our neighbor and be served by Him.  It's a hard call and the temptation to run away--in the form of a shallow life, complete with addictions--is strong.  Still, each day offers a new opportunity to choose courage and authenticity over superficiality and lies.  I think it's what Robert Frost meant by the "road less traveled".  And I struggle, with the patience of Job, to make it my road too.

Why I Love Teaching College

A few posts back, I mentioned that I was born to be a teacher and that I have taught almost every age group.  In fact, I was a full-time teacher of both middle and high school in the Fairfax County Public School System for three years, long enough to realize a few of things.  First--there are a lot of burnt out, uninspiring and just plain lazy teachers out there, not fun people to have as colleagues.  Second--teaching is so exhausting that it is not a good career for a mom, at least, not for this mom.  My patience ran out at the dismissal bell most days.  And third--I was working twice as hard as my students were which seemed a bit silly since I already knew Spanish.
Because I was teaching on a provisional certification, I was required to fulfill my educational requirements within three years.  I needed about four classes in the ed school in order to be certified.  I did not meet the requirements, taught my three years and left for greener pastures.  I confess that the main reason I did that was stubborn pride.  I had worked hard to become an expert in my subject area.  Not many high school Spanish teachers have Master's degrees.  I do.  I also spent quite a bit of time at KU learning how to teach.  I took classes through the Spanish department and worked on committees with other TAs.  Truthfully, I was indignant that the state wanted me to waste time and money on something I had already proven I knew how to do.  So, I took a break from teaching and went to work at Mary Washington Hospice until Mia was born.

When we moved to Houston, I saw an ad for the local community college.  I met the chair of the modern languages department who originally hired me to teach ESL.  While I truly enjoyed my ESL students and their phenomenal work ethic, I opted to take only Spanish classes after that.  I have taught almost every semester since.  

I ask myself sometimes why it gives me such satisfaction to be employed as an adjunct professor.  It's not the money though Chris and I tend to spend my elastic paycheck ten times over in our conversations about nice-to-haves.  It may be the status, the fact of having a job and "not just being a stay-at-home mom" (sorry if that sounds horrible).  I think it's definitely the excitement of leading a kind of double life--laundry goddess by day, brilliant and charming Spanish professor by night.  Whatever compels me to sign on semester after semester despite our busy schedule, one thing is certain--I love teaching college.

College students are incredibly diverse.  I teach 19 year olds, 45 year olds and 70 year olds.  I teach anyone who wants to learn Spanish for a job, for a degree or just for fun.  My students are responsible for themselves.  Their presence is voluntary.  This is huge.  I do not hold their hands or call them to remind them to please do their homework.  I do my job and I expect them to do theirs.  If they don't, I don't sweat it.  While that may sound harsh, in practice, it means that we can have a lot of fun.  We sing, we have "café time", we play games and everyone can go right back on task with no problem.  Though we have a syllabus and rules of the college, I treat my students like the adults they are and assume the best until something happens to change that.  It usually doesn't.  Instead, each class grows into a community of learning.  We help each other, support each other and laugh a lot.  A beautiful thing.

And I suppose that's why I love teaching college.