2014

An (Extra) Ordinary Wednesday

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I thought today’hts Mass was going to be a typical, ordinary Wednesday Mass.

I was surprised and when it began it was clear that it was going to be anything but ordinary.

There is a routine to each daily Mass. Everything follows along its familiar path, although each day brings with it a new reading, a new Gospel, and a new chance to experience a reenactment of the Resurrection through the Eucharist. (Note: I don’t participate in this yet, but I will after my baptism.) It doesn’t exactly run by clockwork, but there is a sameness that is the ritual of the Mass. However, that sameness doesn’t diminish from the traditions and the priest’s interpretations. I will often find guidance and solace as many of my morning’s questions are answered through those readings and interpretations.

Usually my mind is full, but calm as I wait to see which readings are prepared in the Missal and how much they will relate to my life.

For anyone not familiar with Catholic Mass, it begins with the Sign of the Cross, penance for our sins, opening prayer and then the readings and Gospel followed by the Homily and the Eucharist and a closing prayer and dismissal blessing.

The words change daily, the sins change, it’s all different and yet it is that sameness that we find comfortable and comforting.

Most days after the sign of the cross, there is a kind of preview. We’re told who the dead are that we are remembering at this Mass, if there are any crosses to be returned to families (on the anniversary of a family member’s death), any special visitors or what I like to call housekeeping (if there are schedule changes, an occasional weather report, etc.)

I try to fill my mind with what I’m looking for in the Mass, what I need for that day, and about whom I’ll be praying for. We pray as a community. The priest lists who we’re praying for and we ask G-d to hear our prayer. For me, I add my own, not always silently, but quietly:  for the religious community, I add L, A, and F. For the sick, I think of who is ill in my life and whisper their names. For the dead, I’ve been adding my church friend, and I always add Brittany. I don’t know when I began to add Brittany, it’s been a long time, but I think of her every day when I pray. For the military, I add C and M. Sometimes, I’ll include C’s wife and family depending on if I think they need extra prayers. During the silence of our hearts, where we pray individually, I always include A and add anyone else who seems to be going through a rough time.

This morning before we thought on our own sins and ask for G-d’s forgiveness, Father J said that we had two special men in our midst and they would receive a special blessing today. They were Sal F and Tom S and they were two of the three local people who were Marines, members of the battalion that took Iwo Jima sixty-nine years ago today.

In looking around, we found them easily enough. They appeared older than anyone else at our Mass, and that’s saying something since at forty-seven, I’m one of the youngest people there. Both were bent over, unsteady on their feet, slow, even with the help of canes, and one of the men was wearing his red Marines baseball cap. From the back, he looked a bit like Winston Churchill.

When it was time for the special blessing, we all extended our hands to be part of the blessing over them. It was moving. And when it was over, as they walked back to their seats, we all stood up and applauded.

They were swamped by parishioners when Mass was over, everyone wanting to shake their hands and say hello. One person even took a photo.

I thought I’d want to say hello, but I felt funny approaching them. I went to my car, and when I saw that they were late in leaving, I decided to go over to where they were parked. This was a big deal for me; very much out of character. I never know what to say to people, but the more I thought about it, the more I steeled myself to ignore my anxiety and do it. If I hadn’t, I would have regretted it.

I waited and when they arrived at their cars, I got out of mine, and walked over to them. It had begun to snow a little harder and we were getting pelted with a wet hard rain-like snow.

I introduced myself and put out my hand to shake theirs. I said I wanted to say hello and thank them for everything they had done. Sal, who was closest to me, asked for a hug. We hugged tightly, and he thanked me and said G-d Bless you, and then I repeated it with Tom, who also wanted to hug me.

It was one of the most moving moments I think I’ve ever experienced. I would have continued to stand there even in the snow if that was what they wanted.

They both wanted to thank me. I remember Tom’s words: “Thank you so much, dear. It was a long time ago. Thank you.”

Thank me?!

I hadn’t done anything; certainly nothing to warrant a thank you from two Marines.

It’s amazing how things happen in our lives with people we meet and how they affect our lives. People we might not have ever met if not for those circumstances. A crazy, random circumstance often initiated by someone else and it seems insignificant to us; until it’s not.

I’ve since had the opportunity to read about them. As it turned out, they were both on the cover of Our Hometowne, a local penny-saver newspaper, which was sitting on my side table. I saw it when it came, but didn’t pay it much mind, and then remembered it this afternoon.

When they enlisted, Sal was 18 and Tom was 20. They were not lifelong friends. They were part of two separate battalions that were joined at Saipan. They served together, but I don’t know if they had ever met on the island. Sal was wounded and according to the accompanying story, he was rescued by a tank driving over him and opening a trap door to pull him in. The trap door was coincidentally repaired by Tom. They both survived, received Purple Hearts among other decorations, and eventually met in the local Walmart years and years later.

Once again, my visit to Mass has given me more than I could have expected when I set out this morning.

Info on the Memorial: http://wwiimemorial.com/

 

Friendship Appreciation

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“What can you do today to express the appreciation you have for those who are important to you and who you might take for granted in your life?”

This was today’s question from the priest during his homily this morning and it could not have been timed more perfectly. I’ve been doing a lot of thinking about this very thought.

I’ve spent much of the last year reading and working on the daily pages of a motivational book: Achieve Anything in Just One Year by Jason Harvey. I would read each day’s quotation and do the exercise, but sometimes the activity is just too hard mentally to do and I would put the book down for an extended period.

Most recently, I left off at Day 127. The quotation for Day 127 was: “True friendship is like sound health, the value of it is seldom known until it be lost” by Charles Caleb Colton. On this day they are asking about friends and friendships, their importance and how to keep them. One thing that I was very wary about was the phrasing of the first line after the quotation:

“How many friends do you have?”

I have never liked this kind of question. I think it comes mostly from the influx of social media being our barometer for modern friendship. For me personally, I don’t like counting friends. I also really dislike it when outernet friends and family differentiate between Facebook and ‘real’ friends or ‘internet friends’ and ‘real’ friends. These kinds of designations have continually made me feel awkward. It feels as if they’re saying that some of my friends are ‘lesser than’ and in my heart they’re not and have never been.

I think the expectation is that at my age (and boy do I hate that phrase), I’m expected to live in the past. Friends from high school and college are surprised at the level in which I’ve embraced modern social media meeting places and introductions to friends who will be lifelong friends. My friends range in age from 19 – 85, some closer than others, but that is always the way of friendships.

We connect on different levels with different people. People with kids, parents from school, church groups, book clubs, the cashier at the supermarket that we see weekly or sometimes daily; that friend of a friend who liked that thing on your Facebook or that reblogger on Tumblr who you discover is the same age, has kids like you and understands completely the joy and benefits that is fandom. I wish I had Tumblr twenty years ago, although I suppose that if Tumblr was around twenty years ago, there’d be a new one that we’d all have to learn anyway.

My friends give me great joy. Watching them do happy, watching them create, arguing about this fandom thing or that political thing, debates, discussions, philosophy, religion and whatever else; you name it, it is there and it is glorious to see and hear so many differing opinions and respectfully disagree.

I have high school and college friends, Scadians and Daydians and now the Posse, but those distinctions are a shorthand for the commonality of who we are to each other, how we met and how we played, and many of them overlap. There are friends and close friends and a best friend. There are friends who communicate every day, either by text or phone. There are friends who communicate once a month or less. There are call backs I should make more frequently and slack I should give more often, but in all of the mistakes I make, these are the people who are ceaselessly there when it truly counts. And knowing that, having that faith in the friendships I’ve found, being lucky enough to be a part of is one of the most special and important things in my life.

But that’s what makes these exercises so hard. “Write about your friendships.”

How am I supposed to do that?!

I can’t possibly put down on paper how much my friends mean in my life. There aren’t enough adjectives to describe the family of friends that I have.

I’ve never looked for more friends as this exercise suggests I should be doing. I’m happy with the friends I’ve found. We’ve passed by the millions of random chances that threw us onto each other’s paths and we wandered into the others’ lives precisely when they were supposed to and became the support for one another.  And over time, those friendships change. They deepen. The trust grows and the comfort of a text message or a voice on the other end of a phone call is a deep soul thing and to have the privilege of that with more than one person is truly a blessing. It is unbelievable to think of the randomness and the beauty in the finding of each of them.

There are ups and downs and misunderstandings and disagreements and laughter and hugs and forgiveness and I’ve found it all with the most eclectic group.

I often think that friendship is deeper than any other kind of relationship. We choose our friends and they choose us. Think about wedding vows and relate them to your closest friendships: honor and keep, sickness and health, richer and poorer. They are there through all of it, helping us in the big ones and all of the little ones. They are comfort and joy and support through the sadness and trouble that inevitably stop by in every life, but they are also the best of life. Without them, we truly are nothing.

Alone can be good for short spurts. Time to think and contemplate and find your inner places, your belonging places. But the best parts are the places with friends; when you fit. It fit in so few places that when I fit, I can feel it. It’s only happened two or three times in the last few years and the calm it’s brought me is palpable. The laughter over the stupidest things you’d never laugh about without these wonderful people. It’s the McDonald’s drive thru, sleeping on shoulders, long hugs, wiped tears, supportive whispers and autocorrected texts and so much more.

So, back to the priest’s question of the day:

“What can you do today to express the appreciation you have for those who are important to you and who you might take for granted in your life?”

I think we all do the best we can with what we have. That’s not always the best there is, but it’s all we can do. I try to appreciate my friends in a public way. I think they know in their hearts how much I appreciate their presence in my life and their friendship.  I’m extraordinarily grateful to my friends, having them, their friendship, their being always by my side; I just have a terrible time expressing that out loud. I can thank acts pretty well, but thanking people simply for being themselves seems funny to me.  Some people I can express it to, but my personality is to stay quiet, draw no attention, and if I’ve been quiet and unemotional with someone all my life (my siblings for example), I still have a hard time expressing what I feel. I find it easier with newer friends because we’ve started out in that candid, more emotionally honest place.

When my friends are hurting, I’m hurting and I want to help. I offer even though they know that I’m there to help with anything. And they have helped me, more than I ever could have expected from someone. With anything. And everything. From moral support to financial support and everything in between.

When parents die and couples divorce; when kids grow up and move away; when we retire and travel the world or just visit the library or get a part time job, our friends are always there; constantly with us and for us and we are there for them and that is the most brilliant thing I can think of in a friendship.

Tea

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Tea has been a part of my life since I was a child. My family used to go to a Chinese restaurant on Horace Harding Blvd. in Queens, NY. They always gave everyone a glass of water and in the middle of the table was a bowl of crunchy noodles, a metal tea pot, duck sauce and hot mustard. My parents mixed the hot mustard with the duck sauce, which we kids didn’t like. We always drank the tea in those little tea cups that had no handles. I poured in way more sugar than it probably needed. I don’t think I liked tea as much then as I do now, but tea was part of the Chinese restaurant ritual. The owner knew us by name; I think we must have gone there weekly.

That tea was always too hot, steam rising as it was poured out into the small white cups. It sat for a bit, steam rising, too hot to pick up, but when it was lukewarm it was perfect, at least to my elementary school self it was. Chinese tea had a very distinctive taste, and it wasn’t until last year that I discovered that taste again.

I know I’ve talked about the teas that I tried and wrote about in memory of a friend, a victim of domestic violence, and after those were completed, my friend had sent me a variety of loose teas that he enjoyed and wanted to share with me. My favorites were Lady Londonderry and Moroccan Mint. His Moroccan Mint was a black leaf variety; I had only been able to find a green tea, which I did not like as well.

I discovered a local tea shop and started trying new teas and sharing them with friends. The one that my friend really enjoyed is Mexican Chocolate. This is lovely with milk and a tiny bit of sugar if any, and I found it especially wonderful to drink during Christmas time.

It was during these experimentations and tastings that I found Pai Mu Tan. This was the one that when I tried and tasted it I was transported back to the end of the Chinese dinners of my childhood.

British comedies sent me on a path of no return of putting milk in my tea. It was usually Lipton’s or Tetley or very occasionally Red Rose. My regular go-to tea now is none of those; it is a black leaf tea with ginger. It was a chance visit to a Job Lots where I discovered Stash’s Ginger Black Breakfast Tea; the first ginger tea that I had found that was a black tea and not a tisane. This became my daily drink with milk and sugar. When that one box ran out, I ordered a case. Even sharing it still took quite awhile to run out.

While I visiting friends in Denver a few years ago, I was treated to proper British tea. PG Tips with milk and sugar made by an authentic Brit. There was nothing quite like waking up to a beautiful, hot, blissful cup of tea. It was perfect. Every time.

I also went through a Star Trek phase and only drank Earl Grey, hot.

I’m not a fan of green tea, but last Lent when I gave up Diet Coke, it was recommended that I drink green tea with jasmine. This tea tasted good and it would counter the negative effects of always drinking soda. This was my daily drink during Lent with sugar, no milk. It made me feel good. I don’t know if that was the tea itself or if it was its relation to the spirituality of my Lenten habit.

My current favorite is from Twining’s: Honeybush, Mandarin and Orange. I add a bit of sugar, although I think honey would work as well. There is the warm soothing taste and the citrusy kick as it slides across my tongue. Since I’ve been so sick, I also pretend that it has enough vitamin C to keep me healthy.

When I go to therapy, I am asked if I want coffee, tea or water. I don’t drink coffee, so I always say water, although most days I’d rather have the tea. Unfortunately, my personality won’t ask for tea because it’s too much bother and for an hour long session, it would be too hot to drink immediately and then once I started talking, it would be too cold to enjoy. My anxieties are a complicated lot.

Tea, however, is not complicated at all. Tea is comfort. It is that cozy friend who sits in your lap and holds your hand. It’s medicinal. Tea makes all things better. It listens to the beat of your soul. Tea understands even when you don’t.

Breakdown

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It’s been more than three months, and it still makes my heart beat faster and my pulse quicken; it is not an eventually-formed-fond memory like driving in Wales became and I’m not sure that it ever will be. It is anxiety driven, terror induced shakes.

I don’t know what led to my being so upset. It was probably a perfect storm of events that lined up in a row just so, and I was too busy putting off my anxiety to notice that it was creeping back up on me. It took more than three weeks after to finally reach a semblance of normal anxiety, and then it crept back up into a bad place again. It did slowly come back down, but it was not easy, and it is especially never easy when I’m hyperaware of what is going on inside my head and my emotions and my emotional state, and my best friend is busy, and I can’t afford therapy sooner than every three to four weeks. This could easily turn into an essay on the health care system and money, but I will stick with the breakdown; my collapse; my I-really-don’t-know-what-to-call-it other than badbadbadbad.

There was the misunderstanding between my best friend and myself that we didn’t even realize until a week later. We were answering questions not asked and it was a complete disaster on both our ends.

There was the misunderstanding about my travel plans and a delay that wasn’t a delay that set off a series of hysterical tears.

There were people making plans around me for me and I couldn’t express my disagreement without sounding like a bratty child until finally I broke.

And boy did I break.

I always listen.

I never argue.

My mantra is usually, “Okay, what do you need?” or something similar.

I accept. I do what I should. I do what’s expected. I’m reasonable.

I talk myself out of things constantly to do what works for everyone else.

It wasn’t until I began shouting at the phone, “YOU’RE NOT LISTENING TO ME! THIS HAS NOTHING TO DO WITH YOU! I CAN’T! I CAN’T DO IT TONIGHT! I will do it tomorrow. I can do it tomorrow,” and it was clear there was something more than me being difficult. I was crying and doing that hiccupping thing that you do when you’re five and can’t stop crying, and there was a kind of stunned silence on the other end as the scope of what I was feeling was expressed so overwhelmingly.

Another arrangement was made.

I didn’t like the new arrangement. It put too many people out, but I would accept it. What else could I do? It was a sensible solution and I could handle it I told myself.

Anyway, it didn’t matter; I would handle it. I would be as reasonable as the solution.

I thought.

By the time I arrived I was alternating between being numb and being upset, and nearly always on the verge of tears. There was another new plan, but I didn’t care. I was too numb to care at this point. I knew I would be taken care of and I didn’t care about anything else.

I was on edge and every look, every whisper, every motion out of eyeshot made me startle. I was afraid to speak. I didn’t know whether to apologize or hide in the bathroom or shout at the world. I stayed quiet, fearful that so many of my friends were angry with me. It was so hard; I felt as though I were being watched and judged, and for the most part that probably wasn’t true, but it was not an easy feeling trying to deal with my own emotional breakdown – and what else could this be? – and worrying about what others were thinking and knowing how I’d failed at getting along and just doing what I was supposed to.

I had held it together all week, and on this last day, I couldn’t hold it together, not even for just a few more hours. I wished I could just suck it up and do the one thing I was asked to do.

And I truly couldn’t do it. It was such a simple thing. I’d been doing it for twenty-five years, and I couldn’t make myself do it now. This was the one thing, the final straw, and it was too much, and even I didn’t know that until something inside took over my voice earlier in the evening. I didn’t think I’d ever fallen apart like this, certainly not with so many hearing and knowing and assuming things, and I was embarrassed as much as anything else.

The one person I was afraid to see smiled at me. It was the kind, tired look of it’s-going-to-be-alright-I-promise, and for a second I thought they were mad at me, but it didn’t matter. We’d be okay; if not today then another day, but that look was the first quasi-hug of comfort until they crossed the room and hugged me tightly with that comforting feeling of never letting go. How I didn’t begin to cry, I honestly don’t know. I was hugged tightly and I buried my face in their shoulder and neck and I held on as if my life depended on it, and in that moment it did.

There were more hugs and hand holds, and shoulders squeezed and smiles to keep me going until the next time which would be who knows when, but it was okay.

I would be okay.

There was a solution, and people were taking care of me and that was what I needed.

I love my friends. Without them, I am nothing. We are all a reflection of one another. We reflect and complement and we fit like puzzle pieces on an enormous board and when they’re not around or available, it takes a toll. I get more paranoid, I get more sensitive, I feel like no one likes me anymore, that I can’t ask for what I need, and the more I stretch out, the further away they are, and I can’t touch them and then I’m falling.

I’ve always likened depression and anxiety to alcoholism. It never truly goes away, no matter how many drugs, how many therapy sessions – it is always there somewhere, and we cope. And sometimes, we have relapses, and we need a reminder of why it’s important to be aware of our mental state, our mental health, and we check in with our sponsor, the one person who’s been there and who we trust to guide us out of the darkness, who always has what we need.

At the same time that we are being led out of the darkness, sometimes we are called upon to be someone else’s sponsor and lead someone else to their light. It doesn’t mean that we’re perfect or that we’re ‘cured’, but it means that we are all on our journeys and when we intersect, we need to look both ways and help each other cross the road.

We have that hand in the dark to hold, the whisper in our ear, and ultimately it will be all right.

Space Challenges and Challenger

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Earlier this week, I began reading Moon Shot. It is the story of the space program leading up to the Moon landings, written by Astronauts Alan Shepard and Deke Slayton with NBC Journalist Jay Barbree. It is an insightful memoir that blends their personal feelings and how it all looked from their perspective. They also include prominent moments from the Soviet’s side of the space race. One of the things I love about these kinds of history books is the feeling of right now. I know what happened in most of these missions – the fire that killed three astronauts aboard the Apollo 1 launch pad, the Apollo 11 Moon Landing, the Apollo 13 almost disaster that showed the mettle of NASA and its team, but I still feel that edge of my seat, suspense, will they or won’t they and that is probably the finest thing  history book can do. And it’s my own history; my timeline as it were.

I was born in 1966, right in the heart of America’s space exploration. There is a family story, in fact that describes my watching the first Moon landing of July 20, 1969. I was 2 1/2 and a very confused toddler. My father’s brothers are Uncle Neil and Uncle Buzzy and I wondered how they had gotten to the Moon when I heard that Neil and Buzz were the astronauts’ names. We just saw them!

I have long been a fan of space. From Star Trek and Lost in Space to Babylon 5 and Doctor Who. AS a child we visited Cape Canaveral, although I think y then it was the Kennedy Space Center. I remember wandering in the sunshine and pressing many simulator buttons. Somewhere in my house today is a moldy Astronaut shaped pillow that I refuse to part with. Any hints on getting rid of mold from fabric, feel free to message me.

As a teacher, we would walk our toddlers over to the Cradle of Aviation – a tiny museum that was housed in a hangar that had lunar capsules and cockpits.at the neighboring community college. Mitchel Field and Roosevelt Field used to be real fields and that is where Charles Lindbergh took off from in his Spirit of St. Louis. There is still a museum there, relatively new, bright with an IMAX theatre but there is also a shopping mall, showing the duality of history and “progress.”

I can always find Orion in the night sky and I’ve braved frigid temperatures to witness Lunar Eclipses and Perseid meteor showers.

Today is the twenty-eighth anniversary of the Space Shuttle Challenger disaster, which exploded 73 seconds into their flight, killing all seven crew members on board including the first teacher in space.

I was in college. 8am class, which I hated. Earth Science, I think it was. I recall people talking but I couldn’t quite piece the news together, only that there was news. This was before a cell phone in every pocket and a laptop in every lecture hall. I rushed back to my dorm where I had a black and white television set. We only got one station – ABC and there on the screen was tried and true Peter Jennings showing video from earlier and describing what happened in the opening seconds of the Challenger mission while I was falling asleep in class. It was quite a jolt. I had been following their mission, which included Christa McAuliffe, a New Hampshire teacher.

The liftoff was being shown live in countless schools across America, if not the world, for that very reason. I was studying to be a teacher as was my roommate. It was like we had a colleague on board.

We’ve slowed down a bit on our manned flights. A mistake in my opinion. We’ve landed rovers on Mars and seen farther than we’ve ever been able to before. It’s amazing to think about what’s still out there.

 

Our Most Recent Story

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My Go Fund Page

Before I got derailed by plague, I was talking about posting a discussion about my financial situation. Right up front I will say that many of our early problems that we are still paying for are of our own making. Borrowing thinking we would be able to pay back and then not getting the amount of money we were expecting. Getting laid off with a child is an enormous financial situation and we handled it badly, especially before our landlord decided he wanted to live in our apartment and we needed to rent something for half the space and more than twice the rent. And then we had two more children, one of whom was completely unexpected. We have certainly changed our spending habits even though we are not perfect. We want our kids to have what they need, and yes, what they want when we are able.

The current problem and most pressing that we’re trying to stabilize is with our home equity loan.

When we bought our house, there were many problems. Many problems. I’m not going to get into those here because that is literally a book in the making. We bought the house and immediately replaced the furnace. The next year we replaced the windows, both of which lowered our utility bill drastically. We are still paying for the windows seven years later (although at an excellent rate.)

But there were other things that needed to be done that were above normal home maintenance, and so we borrowed money from a bank for a home equity. At the time we took out the loan, we had one income.

For the first five years, we were to pay the interest only, and then the rate would change to include the principal. We anticipated that in five years I would have a job and my husband would have gotten raises, and we’d be able to do this. But if we didn’t, it was okay.

The bank had said that we could extend the interest only payment for another five years for a $50 (but the amount might change) fee. We were not worried having that assurance from the bank when we signed the contract.

In the meantime, I became ill and did not get a job. The economy tanked. My husband’s raises were eaten up in taxes, house repairs, health insurance, gas for the car and groceries which had increased practically exponentially.

In the year before the bill was to come due, we were told that they would not extend the interest only payment, our payment would indeed TRIPLE (from $95 to $404/month), and I should look for a job. (Yes, they actually told me this despite the fact that they gave us the loan on our one income and I was ill with problems walking.)

When the economy crashed and burned, our house went down in value, almost $25.000 less than what we paid for it, $35000 less than it was appraised at when we took the loan.

I tried to get the bank to honor their verbal agreement that we could extend the interest only payments. They said it wasn’t in the written contract, no one at that bank would have told me that (I took notes, but it’s seven years ago and I don’t know where that folder is). I asked if continuing to pay the lower amount would benefit us; I was told no, only the full amount, so I used that $95 for my medication as my insurance had ceased paying for the year until my deductible was met (it never was that year.)

As it stands now, we’ve been sued (and lost with a summary judgment and possible wage garnishment* of 10% our gross income, which is more than the triple amount that we couldn’t afford before.)

We were refused the opportunity to appear in court. We would like to pay; we can’t afford to.

Now, we’ve found out that our net income has been reduced by $124.10 each month due to higher health insurance costs.

We are once again in our deductible period, and our co-payments, co-insurance and prescriptions will cost more this year when we couldn’t afford it last year. We were barely making ends meet as it were and I still owe medical bills for my children and me from as far back as 2012.

*As of this writing we were served with an income execution for 10% of our gross salary. What this means is that every two weeks, we need to turn over $194** to the sheriff’s department or they will garnish my husband’s wages through his employer (this is never a good idea – many people get laid off when these kinds of financial crises occur.)

** This was my estimate of 10% after taking out the pre-tax amount the company gives us for health insurance. It is semantics, I know, but the company calls it income, but we never actually see it. We give it all back in premiums and then some.

So, this is the gist of our story.

We know many people are in our position, and that there are many worthier causes.

I’m posting in this much detail and asking for the internet’s help once again. We’ve modified our first mortgage and hope that will keep our head above water, but with this judgment and garnishment, I’m not sure how we will survive.

We’ve also requested a reduction and/or a stay of income execution in the garnishment, but we’ve been denied everything else thus far, so I have no real hope for these options and have so far, gone unanswered.

We have a Go Fund Page, and if anyone is able to help, we would greatly appreciate it and so we are blogging our page and praying for the best. Good wishes and prayers are always welcome.

Thank you for reading and we appreciate any reblogs and donations that can be offered.

Karen/kb

I Heard it in the Homily

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*This essay is about me and my dealing with things. Except in rare circumstances, my coping falls to me until and unless I ask for help. And sometimes I can’t ask.*

When I’m having a particularly difficult time, I pray for patience, courage and strength. Never one without the others. In my early days with the church, there were times when the priest said, “Let us pray.” I had no idea what to do. Make my shopping list? Think about breakfast? Write fan fic in my head for the next three minutes? But one day the words just came to me: patience, courage and strength, and just the thought of them during prayer was very calming and gives me a moment to re-focus. When I have nothing or no one specific to pray for, I can always use more patience, courage and strength.

Today was one of those days. Actually, it’s been one of those fortnights. I’ve been falling into a deeper depression and heart palpitating anxiety and sudden bursts of tears. There are several factors causing this, some that shouldn’t be reaching the level of anxiety that they are and others that are obviously out of my control.

Sometimes my coping works and sometimes it builds to a crescendo until some kind of an outburst happens. I’ve had one outburst in the last three weeks, and considering that I’ve been sick that long, the kids have taken turns being sick, my friend died, a student at my son’s high school committed suicide, my friend has had a crisis of their own and can’t help me, and payday and therapy can’t come soon enough, I think one outburst is a reasonable ratio to three weeks of time.

For example, my coping this morning when my car went sideways in the snow was very good.

My coping last October in Virginia with the idea of driving forty-five miles on a straightaway in near perfect weather was very bad and if you ask anyone present, that would be an understatement.

It’s unpredictable, this coping thing.

Some of my successful coping isn’t available (more than one thing and for varied reasons) and in addition to the coping not being accessible, the idea of the coping being unavailable increases my stress levels.

It’s hard not to blame the people around me (whether in person or by phone/text, whether by actual acts or acts of omission), even though in my mind, my logical places, I know that no one can read my mind and by the time I can, by the time I’m able to, ask for what I need, it’s often too late.

At this morning’s homily, one line blared above the others, and stood out to me:

“We are called on to be strong.”

The exact message I needed to hear today. Maybe I can get through another day if I can hold onto that.

We’re not called on for more than we are able; I truly believe that despite my much often heard whining. I’ve been strong before. I can do this until tomorrow and then see where I stand. Maybe tomorrow is the day I can reach out and my hand is grasped or maybe someone will reach for me. I don’t know. I just have to hope that I’m strong enough to endure until the depression passes or the coping returns, whether that’s through people, writing, planning, carrots, or whatever. I won’t know until it happens, but until then I am called on to be strong and the best thing I can do is believe in myself and have faith that things are going the way they should be and this moment is just that: a moment soon forgotten.

The Anniversary of Roe v. Wade

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Today is the forty-first anniversary of Roe v. Wade.

Whatever side in the political abortion debate you’re on, we should all be of the same mind to equally protect the already-living and giving women the equality and the respect of autonomy over their own bodies.

I find it hypocritical that many of the same people who are anti-abortion are also pro-death penalty, anti-food stamps, anti-unemployment insurance, anti-birth control and anti- anything that will benefit women who choose to have their children and single mothers, some of whom are in crisis. Many lack health insurance and pre-natal care, which is the difference between a healthy pregnancy and a death sentence for the mother.

In all the conversations I’ve had with pro-choice people, not one of them has ever been pro-abortion. It is one of the most difficult decisions that a person ever has to make. The choices available should also be available to all women and not only the women in abusive situations. There are many reasons to have an abortion, and they are as individual as there are pregnancies.

For me personally, I had the right and the opportunity to make the choice. I don’t know what I would have done, given my mental state at that time without that choice. My choice was the right one for my family and me, and that should be all that matters to anyone facing that decision.

Everyone wants to eradicate abortion, but instead of shaming women (and some of these women are victims of assault, incest, domestic violence, economic disadvantage), we should be helping them. We should be making legitimate health, gender and sex education available, which includes how the body works and all those uncomfortable but anatomically accurate words, contraception, reproductive choices and rights for everyone instead of the constant barrage of misinformation about our bodies and suggesting that abstinence is the only answer when many of these pregnant girls and women didn’t have any choice or say in the matter of getting pregnant in the first place and would have chosen abstinence if their rapist had offered it.

We should put more value on girls and women as individuals, not as baby carriers and then maybe they would understand how their bodies work and have more respect for themselves.

Don’t misread that last statement. Having respect for yourself doesn’t mean not having sex; it means that you like yourself and can make informed choices without Puritanical shaming on every decision you make.

In fact, we give more bodily autonomy to cadavers than we do women. We need written consent to donate organs or to participate in ongoing scientific research. How is it even possible in this day and age that we are against reducing pregnancies and for abolishing abortions? It’s oxymoronic.

At least give out the correct information and the condoms. Continue to promote abstinence, but just like touching the stove for a toddler, we wouldn’t say no we’re not treating that burn – you should have abstained from touching the stove.

Whether you are for or against abortion, keep it safe and legal or many more than unborn will die. And please stop putting more value on unborn than on the already living.

My First Church Friend

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Last Wednesday was a beautiful day. There was a bright blue sky with just enough fluffy white clouds, the sun shining like spring and very warm for January. I walked into the church and for that one second, it was a typical Wednesday Mass at Nine AM.

Except it wasn’t.

The usher said, ‘good morning,’ and handed me the program: Celebration of Christian Burial. I’d been to many of these in the last year or so from attending the regular morning masses, but this one was different. On this one, I saw my friend’s name and with a long breath I took one step from the hum of the gathering space into the solemnity of the church itself and stopped short.

There, in Shirley’s seat was her red scarf and red wool hat. I’d seen her wear it at least a dozen times in the time I’ve known her and it took a moment to realize that it wasn’t her sitting in her usual seat. Someone had set up the display on a table and with the scarf and hat they included a rose and a rosary and adjacent to it was a floor candle just in front of ‘her’ pew.

I was quickly admonished for not doing so immediately, but I was expected to sit in my usual seat, which happened to be directly behind hers. The last thing I wanted was the first thing I felt at the start of my church visits: people watching me. I wasn’t family, but at the daily 9am Mass, Shirley and I always sat together and walked out together with two other women and I uncomfortably felt as though we were being watched.

‘My’ seat had been there since Easter 2012 when I began to attend the daily Mass. I either sat immediately behind Shirley or two seats behind her, depending on who got there first. Eventually, the other two ladies who alternated with me for that seat joined me in the one pew.

It was kind of funny. No one in the Mass really knew me, but they all knew that I was part of this foursome, an odd group if ever there was one.

I picked my seat originally because of Shirley.

The first time I entered the church, I did it almost the same way I did last Wednesday: haltingly, unsure, would anyone look at me? Gee, I hoped not. But after so many steps, there is that point of no going back, even for the anxious.

I walked in on that first spring morning, and tried to look around without looking around, and immediately took notice of Shirley’s jacket. It was a black jacket and so the muted multi-colored embroidery of leaves and flowers and stems stood out against the dark wooden pew. She was wearing a pale straw cap, not quite a pill box but not quite a cabby’s cap either. I would find that she always wore a hat, and when she didn’t, she felt that she should have been. If not a hat, then a scarf for over her head. The blue paisley one went with her pale blue raincoat. She was always put together and I envied her scarves and necklaces, gifts from her daughter.

But more than that, she was lovely. Warm and welcoming and really joyful with so much faith that it seemed easy to share and as much faith that I gained on my own, I accepted the faith offered to me by my friends,  Lorraine, Arlene and especially Shirley, my first church friend.

I sat behind her that first time, and said nothing.

When she stood, I stood.

When she bowed her head, I bowed my head.

When the priest said, “Peace be with you,” and she reached her hand out to me, I clasped her hand and repeated the words rotely. Her hands were warm and it was that touch, the memory of that light handshake in the morning that got me through the rest of the day.

Every morning she would already be there. I began to recognize her car, parked in the same space in front of the church. I’d walk in, expecting to see her, and was never disappointed. I’d walk slowly down the center aisle, hoping no one would notice me, and slide in behind her, slowly moving more and more to the left so that when she turned her head she might see me.

I watched her lips move quietly, near silent as her fingers worked one bead and then the next as she said the rosary. When she finished, she dropped them gently into a little change purse-shaped pouch, snapped it closed and slipped it into her handbag, almost immediately taking out her glasses to read the Missalette, which would come later in the Mass.

After a time, when she turned to put the rosary away, she would look at me and smile, and say ‘good morning’ to me. I would respond in kind. I never said good morning before that, but church brought out the good morning in me, and each Mass was a good morning. It kept me going when I needed to keep going.

I began to ask Shirley questions about things around the church. Why were some lights in the large cross certain colors while others were not? Why is that cloth red today when it was green yesterday? I don’t remember most of the questions; there were several, and Shirley always answered them. We chatted every day. We walked out together, often all the way to her car and I’d wait until her door was closed and the engine started.

She talked about her family often – her daughter in California, her son in Florida. My family is from Long Island, and she mentioned that her brother also lived there, not far from where I had grown up. I found out that her other daughter was murdered – a victim of domestic violence. When she told me about her, I told her about my friend Brittany who had just been murdered in 2011. The first anniversary was coming up, and was actually part of the reasons I had begun visiting the church in the first place.

She was always happy to see me, and when I missed a day, she hugged me and told me that she missed seeing me. She made a point of turning around, smiling and saying hello. More often than anything else, we talked about the weather and Father Jerry’s humor in the morning, the four of us often laughing quietly and quite possibly rolling our eyes at times.

I’ve always sat behind her. How will I know where to sit now?

Derailed, not Destroyed

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Today was the first day in more than a week that I had a normal breakfast and I am still enjoying my tea.

I will be adding people to my tags so they see things (as requested) so don’t think that because someone is tagged that it is some kind of passive aggressive message. It’s not. There’s a lot going on and sometimes I need friends to see things in a sea of dashboard posts. Especially after two very important posts were missed last week by someone I needed to hear from. I will still be cryptic, but cryptic doesn’t equal p-a. If you’re wondering, ask me. I’m the only one who knows why I did something, and that’s not even true all of the time. 😉

We had a really lovely time on Saturday with our family. My uncle turned 70 and it was more than a little wonderful to see him, my aunt and another uncle and of course all of the cousins that we haven’t seen in forever.

The house is quiet, so once this is posted, I’m going to work on tomorrow’s memoir homework before my daughter gets home and begins to badger me to use my computer.

For the most part, I’m in a good place right now. I can feel things poking me in the back of the neck, but if I take a deep breath, glance over at a picture of my friends, pray a little, I’m mostly okay. There is a small group of specific people I pray for at every daily Mass, and sometimes, I wonder if that’s more for me or for them. Of course, I want beautiful things for them, but it gives me such a warm feeling that it is good for me also – to think about those people, to know in my heart who they are and how wonderful they are and how much good they deserve and that I want for them, and sometimes, I even wonder where I’d be without them in my life.

In the church, this is Ordinary Time, but I think this is actually an extraordinary time for me to reflect on how far I’ve come, how far my loved ones have come, and how much I want to do in the next few months. The sick and the friend crisis (both of which are still happening) derailed my resolutions and goals for 2014, but part of the things I’ve learned in the last few years is derail doesn’t mean permanent damage. I don’t need to give up; I need to start again; to continue because life happens and sometimes, we just have to roll with the punches, pick ourselves up, and take that next step.

I love you guys, and I’m here.