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Christmas 2023

Christmas 2023

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A few weeks after last Christmas, Kim and I got a letter from Mrs. Taylor.  Mrs. Taylor was Donny’s fifth grade teacher who is now retired and has moved away from Herndon.  Donny loved Mrs. Taylor, and every year since Donny’s accident we have sent her our Christmas card and letter.  In her letter she told us how much she appreciated that we still send her our card and Christmas letter, and how much she looked forward to it.  That gave me great joy and for many months that letter hung on the kitchen cabinet.  Then came the day Mrs. Taylor’s letter needed to be taken down and put in that special place where we would always have it.

And you know how that goes.

Shortly after Thanksgiving when I was looking for some motivation for this year’s Christmas letter, we went to find Mrs. Taylor’s letter in that special place, and let me tell you, that place is still very special.

Mrs. Taylor, I want you to know that I appreciated your letter very much, and I also want you to know that I will keep that letter safe as long as I live and I am sure that when I do discover it the next time, I will appreciate it even more.

 

It was December 14th, and as I was walking through the area in the church near the office where we display posters and announcements of what is going on in the life of the church, I noticed that we had an Advent Calendar on the wall “With daily prompts for practicing joy in a weary world.” I could use a little of that I thought, so I read the message for that day, and it said “Write a letter to a loved one who has passed on.  Tell them what you love and miss about them.”

Yeesh, I thought.  Six months ago, on June 14th my dad was preparing to meet Jesus in few hours, I suppose I could write my dad a letter, but I don’t think he would read it.  And besides, that would probably just make me sad, and I am already sad.

When I got home, I went through the Christmas cards we had received in the mail.  One was from my cousin Judy.  Judy is now the matriarch of my father’s side of the family. She included a nice note written in the card that closed with “I wish you a wonderful Christmas with your family and look forward to your letter at my new address.”

Oh yeah, there’s that letter again. The Christmas Letter.

Suddenly writing my dad a letter started to sound like an easier option.

 

Now it’s December 15th, a Friday, and the end of a long week, while I waited for Kim to come home, I sat on the deck enjoying all the blow-up decorations and lights in my backyard that I had put up this year since the kids were all going to be here for Christmas.  While I enjoyed the view, I listened to Glen Campbell’s That Christmas Feeling album on iTunes and my new waterproof Bluetooth speaker. That Christmas Feeling is one of my favorite albums, certainly my favorite Christmas album, one that my dad had from the late 60’s.

I was having a moment.

On the church Facebook page, I read the message of the day from that same Advent Calendar was “Write, text, or call someone who brings you joy. Tell them, ‘I appreciate you.’”

Coincidentally, I had spoken on the phone with all three of my daughters that day and that doesn’t happen very often and they always bring me joy. I am sure I told all three that I loved them, but I didn’t say “I appreciate you,” hopefully they know that.

But okay, with three writing prompts in two days, I decided to move into the house to try to write.

When Kim came home, she looked at me and said “It’s December 15th” … and waited for me to finish the sentence.

“Six months since my dad died?” I replied weakly as she continued to wait patiently.

“…the day we got engaged,” she finished her sentence.

Oops, I had forgotten it was twenty-five years ago on December 15th that we got engaged just before Christmas in 1998 while spending the evening at the Red Fox Inn in Middleburg, Virginia.  That was certainly a joyous day. And for many years after that we would return to The Red Fox Inn on December 15th.  That tradition, like some others unfortunately, got lost as our lives got more complicated.

But I suppose I should have remembered.

 

The daily prompt for December 18th for practicing Joy in a weary world was “Read about and reflect on the word, “Attunement.” What does it look like for you to practice attunement this season?”

Attunement, I had to look that one up.

“Attunement is the reactiveness we have to another person. It is the process by which we form relationships.”  “A person who is well attuned will respond with appropriate language and behaviors based on another person’s emotional state.”

I thought about December 15 and how much I had already failed attuning this season, but I could try to do better.

 

Now it’s December 24th and Christmas Eve.  The daily prompt for this day is “Reflect on 3 things you are deeply grateful for. Offer a prayer of gratitude to God.”

I can do better than that, I thought.  There are at least ten “things” in my Christmas photo on my Christmas card that I am deeply grateful for.  I will reflect on them later.

 

I suppose you could say, particularly this Christmas season, our world may be a bit weary and the effort to find joy for some may be tough.

And sometimes writing, writing letters, calling those you love, reflecting, and prayers of gratitude help more than you know.

Kim and I would like to wish everyone a Merry Christmas and a Happy New Year.  We do appreciate you,  and we hope you find Joy in this Christmas season and in the coming New Year.

And I guess since the theme of this letter seems to be about letters and appreciation, maybe I will go back to that December 14th encouragement and write that letter to a loved one who has passed before me, but not to my Pop, to someone else who has passed on:

Dear Jesus,

Thanks.

Please take care of all those who surround us this season as well as those we can’t spend Christmas with this year.

And tell my Pop “Merry Christmas.”  By the way he likes ice cream, Manhattans, and Fiskoboller (cod fish balls) if you are celebrating.

Oh, and happy birthday.

And we do appreciate you too.

 

Merry Christmas, pray for peace.

Kim and Curt

 

Postscript:

In keeping with Alexa’s request last year that I write more about the family, allow me to reflect on them a little.  It’s been a year of lots of change for all of us.

Of course, you know my dad passed away on June 15th.  My mom is doing well but as you would expect she misses him as we all do.

Alexa got a promotion at GEICO which required the family to relocate.  So, they packed up and moved from south Florida to central Florida and a town named Oviedo which is near Orlando and Walt Disney World, their Happy Place.  The house is nice and is keeping Namaan busy; the neighbors are nice, the schools are good, and Christian and Ethan are happy playing baseball and going to Disney. They are currently in the third and first grades. Kim and I went down there for a few days in October.

Savannah and Leon both got new jobs.  Leon transitioned from teaching private school to working for Loudoun County Public Schools as a physical education teacher on the Elementary level.  Savannah transitioned into a Sales role at Poet’s Walk, a memory care facility and is following in Kim’s footsteps in healthcare sales and marketing.

Cameron has grown about a foot since last Christmas and is playing basketball and doing well in his eighth-grade year. He is a teenager now but still likes to hang with his Mimi and Pop Pop.

Over the summer we were lucky to have all three of the kids together for a little vacation and spent some time on the eastern shore fishing and crabbing and kayaking with great grandma Flo.

Hayley and Malcolm got engaged finally.  Malcolm also got a new job with T. Rowe Price and Hayley is in her 16th year teaching social sciences at Broad Run High School.  Sadley Malcolm also lost his dad this year right after Thanksgiving.

Kim and I are busy traveling the world, dining out a lot, basically living the dream. Well, none of that is true but we are still working towards being busy traveling, dining out a lot, and we do a lot of dreaming.   Kim is in her 30th year at Lincare, and I am still working at the church.  We continue to try to spend as much time as we can with our moms.  We had an early Christmas with my mom on a recent weekend and Kim went up and attended the Laurel View Village Christmas bash with her mom on the 12th.  So all is good and I suppose if hanging around with your best friend is part of that dream then we are in fact living it.

Merry Christmas,

Kim, Curt, Savannah, Leon, Cameron, Hayley, Malcolm, Alexa, Namaan, Christian, and Ethan

 

Therefore, as we face this season,

we ask that you would continue to walk with us. 

Stay by our side as we climb our way out. 

Just stay close.

For we cannot move from the weariness to joy without you.

Amen

(Rev. Sarah Speed)

 

That’s What You Get

That’s What You Get

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That’s what you get for lovin’ me
That’s what you get for lovin’ me
Everything you had is gone, as you can see
That’s what you get for lovin’ me

(from For Lovin’ Me written by Gordon Lightfoot)

 

My grandmother Eleanora worked at the Dan Electro factory in Neptune, New Jersey when I was young.  As a result, at very young ages, my brother Carl, my sister Pat, and I all received transistor radios for Christmas.  And maybe Gary did too and I just wasn’t paying attention by that time.   I think I got my first radio when I was five or six so maybe 1961 or 1962.

My wife hates music from the 1960s.  She says it causes her great anxiety.  Sometimes I will turn on the Sirius XM 60’s station in the car, it makes her crazy.

Me, on the other hand, I love it, it puts me in my happy place.

If I ever wanted to make my wife crazier than I have already made her, I could lock her in a room and play Surfin’ Bird by the Trashmen over and over.

That would surely trigger some anxiety.

But I wouldn’t do that.

That would be mean.

That would be abusive.

 

The lyrics from the song above are from the 60’s.  They are from the 1965 song “For Lovin’ Me” sung by Peter, Paul, and Mary and written by Gordon Lightfoot.

I heard this song a couple of weeks ago while listening to the 60’s channel on Sirius XM.

It has been haunting me ever since, causing me anxiety, causing me to lose sleep even.

I listened to it a few more times, then I read the lyrics.

I interpreted it as narcissistic.

I researched the meaning of the lyrics, toxic masculinity was proposed.

I researched toxic masculinity.

It brought me back to narcissism.

 

I know of a father who once had to endure listening to an audio recording of his daughter being beaten by her husband:

“Don’t hit me in the face,” he heard his daughter pleading desperately.

She was not pleading to not be beaten, she knew that was going to happen, that wasn’t an option.

She, having no doubt been through this before, was specifically pleading not to be hit in the face.

And this was real stuff, not television, not Law and Order,  not Chicago PD.

 

If you are a father of daughters like I am, can you imagine?

Can you imagine hearing your daughter getting beat up by some jerk?

Probably not, and we definitely couldn’t imagine what this young woman had to endure.

But as a father what would you do?

Would you cry?

Would you want to treat violence with violence?

Would you want to put your Christian values to the test?

Would you feel helpless?

 

I have read that it is hard to intervene in these situations, intervening can often make things worse.

You just have to love them, and be there when the time comes, to be ready to help when the decision to escape is finally made.

And be supportive.

I guess sometimes, what you get for loving someone,  is not always what you expect to get.

Sometimes relationships come with mental abuse, and sometimes physical abuse, sometimes worse.

And sometimes even though everything you had was gone; money, credit, self-esteem, confidence, and dreams maybe,  you were lucky enough to still have your life.

Lucky enough to escape.

Lucky enough to be able to build a new life once again.

Make some new dreams.

October is Domestic Violence Awareness Month.

A good reminder for us dads and moms too, to pay attention to our daughters, and our sons, because sons can be victims too.

 

I guess I am learning that not all songs from the 60’s put me in my happy place.

Now if you want to experience some of Kim’s anxiety, watch this video of Surfin’ Bird.  And you have to watch it until the end.

So don’t you shed a tear for me
I ain’t the love you thought I’d be
I’ve got a hundred more like you…
I’ll have a thousand ‘fore I’m through

(from For Lovin’ Me by Gordon Lightfoot)

And that, is a scary reality.

Ophelia Anxiety

Ophelia Anxiety

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Boards on the window, mail by the door
What would anybody leave so quickly for?
Ophelia
Where have you gone?

(from “Ophelia”)

 

“Ophelia” is a song written by Robbie Robertson, a member of The Band.  “Ophelia” was first released by the band called The Band on their 1975 album Northern Lights-Southern Cross.

If you are a fan of The Band, you know that Robbie Robertson passed away this past August 9, another sad loss.    If you grew into your teens in the late sixties and early 70’s, then music performed by The Band no doubt made up a part of the musical score of your growing up.  Whether it was the iconic Music From Big Pink in 1968 or the self-titled brown album, Stage Fright, or Cahoots or whichever, music by The Band was no doubt playing somewhere in your background.

 

But of course, this week we weren’t focused on an old tune by The Band named “Ophelia,” it was tropical storm Ophelia that got our attention in the Delmarva area, though the verse above seemed somewhat fitting for an impending storm.

 

I was still in bed Friday morning when Kim and I got the message via Messenger, a warning from my grandson Christian.

Christian is our family Hurricane Tracker.

I hadn’t planned on going anywhere this past weekend, and I hadn’t heard of any impending weather event.

But thanks to Christian I was made aware of a tropical storm named Ophelia heading towards the Chesapeake Bay.

I immediately went to the Woolford, Maryland weather forecast on the internet and read Woolford was smack in the middle of the Tropical Storm Warning.

Kim and I began to discuss our options as I pondered what to do.

Was there some unwritten rule that said you couldn’t let your almost 90-year-old mother fend for herself in a Tropical Storm?

I thought about the time I helped my dad put plywood over the windows on the river side of the house before a threatening hurricane came up the bay some years ago.

Then I remembered my dad paddling around the neighborhood when the water came up after Hurricane Isabel.

I envisioned the tide up over the bulkhead, the aluminum rowboat floating and banging up against the tree in the 70 mile an hour winds, and my 89-year-old mother out in knee deep water, her ninety-five-pound body getting knocked around in the white caps as she tried to secure the boat before it floated away…

Yeah, okay, so needless to say,  I got to packing.

 

So, after dinner on Friday evening after traffic died down but before the worst of storm arrived in our area, I headed out to the eastern shore to batten down the hatches and erase the image from my mind of my mother fending for herself in the floods, the wind, and the rain.

 

I have been in kind of a funk lately.

Summer is winding down, impending darkness in the coming weeks.

I wasn’t exactly sure what was going on, but it is not uncommon for me as the summer ends to get like this.  But then I heard of a theory worth serious consideration.

The Vice President of the United States introduced the threat of Climate Anxiety.

Yes, Climate Anxiety.

And according to the VP, it’s causing people to not want to have children and not want to buy houses.

Oh, my goodness, I thought.

That’s me!

That must be what I am suffering from.

I too don’t want to have any more children, but I actually attributed that to Daughter Anxiety but, maybe that is not so.

And I don’t want to buy any new houses either.

Yes, Climate Anxiety, I am sure that is the cause of my recent funk.

 

But, I digress.

So early Saturday morning I secured the four kayaks, the deck furniture, and the aluminum boat.  I took down the Steelers flag flying on the flagpole on the dock because the rope was fraying, and it was taking a serious beating. I didn’t want to lose it.

 

And then my mother and I settled in for whatever Ophelia was to deliver.

We watched the river.

We watched the wind intensity and direction in the trees and the flag.

We watched the weather on CNN.

We watched the Hallmark Channel.

We watched Fox News.

(That’s how I learned I had climate anxiety.)

And in the end, compared to other storms that visited in the past,

Ophelia was a yawner.

 

Ashes of laughter, the ghost is clear
Why do the best things always disappear
Like Ophelia
Please darken my door

(from “Ophelia”)

 

And I should say thankfully Ophelia was a yawner, because no one wants what could have been.

So, Sunday morning, three hours before high tide, with the water already over the dock, but comfortable that it wouldn’t get much worse, I dipped out and went back home.

I got to spend some time with my mother and was now able to substitute my daughter anxiety with the real culprit, climate anxiety.

Life was good again.

 

And speaking of daughter anxiety, I read this morning that yesterday was National Daughters Day.

Sorry guys, I missed another one.

But you know, I love you more than meatballs.

 

Postscript:

The happy photo of me and my little chickens above was taken many years ago, before they got together and traumatized me.

 

This is Christian’s Atlantic Ocean Hurricane tracking map (he has the Pacific too)
Sunday morning, three hours until high tide
Daughter anxiety

 

Ethan’s Guernica

Ethan’s Guernica

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On this day in 1981 Picasso’s Guernica, his anti-war mural, was returned to Spain after forty years of hanging in New York’s Museum of Modern Art.  Picasso had requested the painting not be returned to Spain until Spain restored democratic liberties in the country.

The subject of the mural was the brutal bombing of the town of Guernica in 1937, by the Nazi Luftwaffe, who were allies of Fransisco Franco’s right-wing Nationalist forces during the Spanish Civil War. Picasso was commissioned to paint the mural showing the horrors of war to be exhibited in the Spanish Pavilion at the Paris International Exposition in 1939.

 

Today is also Grandparent’s Day.

We didn’t have a Grandparent’s Day when I was a kid.  According to the internet, Grandparent’s Day was made official in 1978 as the first Sunday after Labor Day by then President Jimmy Carter.

I think relationships with my grandparents when I was young were a bit more formal than today. In fact, in my family, when we referred to them we always used their last name as in Grandma Rosch or Grandpa Christiansen.

All of my four grandparents lived in Oceanport, the town I grew up in.

I have written about my father’s parents, my Norwegian grandparents Sophie and Carl before.

My grandparents on my mother’s side (Rosch) lived right across the street.  Technically their address was Main Street but the back lots of their property were on Willow Court, the street I grew up on, and right across from my house.  My grandfather William H. Rosch however died in August of 1960 at the age of 75 when I was just four years old.

But I have nice memories growing up to adulthood with my three grandparents.

 

Kim and I are grandparents too now.

We have three grandsons, Cameron, Christian, and Ethan.  I have written about them many times as well. But maybe not so much about Ethan.

 

Ethan is six.

He is very headstrong and determined but gets a little frustrated at times.

Recently at school, he and his classmates were assigned the task of drawing a self-portrait.

Ethan also happens to be very good at drawing, a talent that seems to run in my family, my grandfather Carl was an oil painter, my father worked with pastels, and my siblings are talented artistically as well.

However, Ethan apparently didn’t approve of being assigned the task of drawing a self-portrait.

As a result, he took on the brutality and the horror of being asked to do such a thing in a very Picassoesque way.

So, as all the other kids in the class drew their images as you might expect them to, Ethan created his Guernica, expressing his raw feelings on the matter.

And as his proud grandfather, I thought it was brilliant.

Happy Grandparents Day!

The class self portraits, Ethan’s is top right
Isn’t he cute? He had his first baseball game this weekend.
Ethan’s Guernica
Picasso’s Guernica
Ethan, Cameron, and Christian
This is the End

This is the End

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“This the end, my only friend, the end…”

“The End.”

Jim Morrison wrote that song by The Doors.

I often find myself singing that line when I feel I am nearing the end of something.  A good vacation, a good bottle of wine maybe, or as it was this week, the end of another summer.

A post popped up on my Facebook feed on Labor Day that was the top thirty songs of the week of September 4, 1970.  The week of September 4, 1970, was significant to me because it was the week that I started high school.  My first days at Shore Regional High School in West Long Branch, New Jersey.

Labor Day in 1970 was September 7.  My first day of high school would have been September 8 since schools at that time always remained closed until after Labor Day.

Hard to believe that was fifty-three years ago.

Back then we only got new clothes twice a year, at the start of school and at Christmas.  And it didn’t matter how silly those bell bottoms looked as you went through your growth spurt, you had to wait it out.

I was fortunate (I guess) to have finished most of my growing early.  I weighed 110 pounds when I started high school and 120 pounds when I graduated.

I also got a haircut to go along with those new school clothes and a new beaded necklace.

And that would be another end for me, the end of haircuts, well at least for the next four years. I didn’t get another haircut until sometime after I graduated high school.

The number one song that week of my first day of high school was “Spill the Wine” by Eric Burdon & War.

 

The photo above was taken by a neighbor on the last Sunday evening of the last unofficial weekend of summer, Labor Day weekend.

The end.

The unofficial end of summer.

I was fighting it a bit, trying to squeeze in some last-minute fishing as the sun went down. Kim and I were leaving early the next day to beat the holiday traffic so this was it for me.  And just before the bait ran out, in the darkness, I snagged a keeper.

It was a good weekend, we ate crabs with friends, did some kayaking, rode our bikes to Taylor’s Island, and found a new place called Palm Beach Willies to take a break from cycling.

And I got to fish a little.

 

So, with the end of some things, there are often new beginnings.  In September of 1970 the anticipation of high school, meeting new friends, learning new things, and experiencing growing up outside of my familiar boundaries was high.  And I guess, since it was the early 1970’s, so was I at times.

Now fifty-three years later, the unofficial end of summer doesn’t have that same level of anticipation of something new and never experienced.  Those familiar boundaries are back, but this time they don’t feel so confining,  more comforting really. And who knows what new and unanticipated life change might be waiting in the next season.

I haven’t written anything to share since the end of June when my dad died.

This is the first time I have felt motivated to write.

So hopefully maybe that is the end of that.

 

The week of September 4, 1970, the number three song on the list was kind of a silly song in my opinion, a song by Mungo Jerry called “In the Summertime:”

When the weather’s fine we go fishing or go swimming in the sea

We’re always happy, life’s for living

Yeah that’s our philosophy

 

Life’s for living, we go fishing, we’re always happy?

Maybe it wasn’t so silly after all.

 

And, this, is the end.

 

Postscript:

After all those years of singing that line from The End, I decided to visit the lyrics for the entire song and Lord have mercy, I wouldn’t recommend doing that.

 

Kayaking on Fishing Creek
The Carpenter

The Carpenter

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I am a carpenter, hear my hammer ring,

I am a man who can do almost anything.

I am a craftsman, I work with tools to refine,

And the pleasure and satisfaction derived, only I can define.

I built my family to last with the hope it would never end,

I built my home with the love and help of my family and friends.

Along the way with a hammer and a nail I did mend,

And those things that fell apart I tried to put back together again.

And though I am aging, I am still not afraid,

I can look back on what I crafted knowing they will stay.

I built my sons and my daughter with the love of my wife,

I helped build my children’s children with stories from my life.

And my life will go on every time you look at them,

Because when you see something of mine you will remember me when.

And still, I am aging but you can’t make me afraid,

I am proud of what I built and those I have made.

I am a carpenter, and someday they will say,

He was a carpenter, and we loved him that way.

 

Carl Edwin “Moe” Christiansen

The Strongest Kid in Oceanport

April 11, 1929 – June 15, 2023

Saturday June 10

Saturday June 10

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Saturday June 10 was my good friend Matt’s birthday.  We exchanged some text messages.  I wished him a happy birthday, he lamented about how old he was “68…years old, what the hell?”  I concurred, turning 67 years old in a couple of weeks. “We just have to go with,” I replied.

Heck when we first became friends, we had grandparents younger than we are now.  Where did the time go?  Seems like only yesterday we were watching the ’69 Mets win the World Series.  Now I am sitting here fifty some years later, trying to write about memories as hazy as the skies this past week, the pain in my fingers and knuckles particularly bad this morning as I push on the keys and  learn to “just go with it.”

Saturday June 10, I received some news about another old friend.  This being the season of thoroughbred horse racing’s Triple Crown, I reached out to Marilyne Kilchriss to find out about how Sid (Sir Sidney) was doing.  I got an email back on Saturday:

“Hey there!!  He’s doing amazing!  I adore that horse and hope to have him for the rest of his life.  The racetrack did a cool video on his career and trainer this spring and I’ll send you the link to it!  In the meantime, enjoy some pics of the dramatic, handsome boy.  My goal is to show at the WEC sometime this fall!  We will see how we progress in our dressage training.  Marilyne.”

The sport of horseracing has suffered in recent years. In 2020 the Horseracing Integrity and Safety Act was passed to help protect thoroughbred racehorses.  After twelve horses died over a relatively short period of time at Churchill Downs, the home of the Kentucky Derby, Churchill made the decision last week to shut down racing and move the rest of the meet to Ellis Park to give them the opportunity to review operations.

A great decision by Churchill Downs to protect horses and the sport of thoroughbred horse racing.

Saturday June 10 was also The Belmont, the last leg of the Triple Crown.  Though we didn’t have any contenders this year for a single horse to win all three races, the Kentucky Derby, the Preakness, and the Belmont; it was still a big day.  It was the fiftieth anniversary of Secretariat becoming the 1973 Triple Crown champion,  winning the Belmont by 31 lengths, a feat I have referred to in my writing a few time before.

Saturday’s  Belmont was also historical because this year’s winner Arcangelo was able to hold on to beat the favorite Forte, making Arcangelo’s trainer Jena Antonucci the first female trainer to win a Triple Crown race.

Very exciting.

Goosebumps.

 

And speaking of goosebumps, I would encourage you to watch the video about Sid.  There are some good horse racing stories too.

And it just goes to show you that old guys like Matt, and me, and Sid can still enjoy life after working hard for many years.  In spite of some aches and pains, we have great memories, and we are lucky enough to each have those who want to have us for the rest of our lives.

Sometimes in life, there are those things that make all the difference.

Just go with it.

 

Postscript:

The photo above is brat pack circa 1974.  My friend Butch on the left, Matt to his right, me next, and my friend Joe on the right.

 

Marilyne and Sid
Sir Sidney (aka Jonas as Marilyne calls him) enjoying retirement
A Conversation in Never Land

A Conversation in Never Land

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Never mind.

Never mind?

Yeah, never mind.

Never mind what?

Never mind what it is that you think I never said.

I never said there was something that I thought you never said.

You know I would never not tell you that.

I don’t know that you would never not tell me that, because I don’t know what it is that you never said.

You know, you never say that to me either.

Okay, well I am truly sorry that I never say that to you, but I promise I will never do it again.

Aha.  What did you do now? It’s probably something I could never imagine.

I don’t know what it is  you could never imagine, and I don’t know what it is you never said, because you never told me.

Well I just can’t believe that we are even having this conversation and I never want to speak about it again.

Well, that goes double for me too because I never want to speak about again either, never, ever, ever.

Well, I never!

Well, I never what?  Never what?

Oh, never mind.

Never mind?

Yeah, never mind.

Okay then, never mind.

 

I love you.

I love you too.

Removed…For Now

Removed…For Now

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Who knows what the next six months will bring?

Until then I will keep warm and wait for the day when the first martin returns.

And I will pray that in those six months, time doesn’t change me too much.

And I will be allowed to write about another beautiful day, in another season, in another year, in time.

 

I wrote that while experiencing a beautiful day last October, yet realizing all the signs indicated that the season would soon be gone.  The purple martins, now removed from their houses, were on their long journey back to South America.  On that weekend I had lowered the martin houses for the winter.  In the coming months just as the martins do, I also would be retreating to places that would keep me warm as I waited for a new season to return.

 

Removed

Vanished

Gone

They’re just gone.

He’s just gone.

One day there, the next day gone.

 

Have you ever experienced that?

Someone or something you had one day but were removed from your life the next.

Sometimes, like the purple martins or the seasons, it’s temporary and they return.

Sometimes however, as with death, it is not temporary.

But is it not?

Jesus suffered death on the cross.

He was laid in the tomb only to be found removed a few days later.

But he wasn’t removed as Mary had thought.

“Woman, why are you crying?”  asked the angels.

“They have taken my Lord away,” she said, “and I don’t know where they have put him.”

 

No one took Jesus away.

As was promised, as was the purpose of his crucifixion, he was risen.

Now as Easter approaches, it is April and another beautiful day, in a different season, and in a different year. It has been almost six months, and as I prayed for, time hasn’t changed me too much.  On a recent weekend I cleaned out the tiny rooms where the birds would live and raised the three purple martin houses back to their high perch on top of the poles.  It was warming up, and like the new season, the martins should be back soon too.  In fact, three or four days later, I spoke with my mother, the martins had returned.  The older ones go ahead first, returning to the places they are familiar with, places where they had nested before.  They would soon be followed by the younger birds breeding for the first time.

 

In the coming days we will celebrate the resurrection of Jesus and we will return once again to a place we are familiar with.

The story of the tomb.

Jesus was gone, but he was not removed.

In this single event we are given hope.  Hope of life eternal as was promised, hope of being reunited with those who went ahead first. Hope that maybe he’s not just gone forever.

And as we are reminded in Philippians Jesus is not a dead martyr to be pitied, but a living, reigning, returning Lord to be loved and emulated, both in present suffering and in future reward.

 

So as this beautiful day comes to an end, in this Holy season, this Easter season, I pray once again that time doesn’t change me too much, and for the hope and faith everlasting that this new season brings.

 

Postscript:

On the six Tuesdays during the period of Lent I was participating in a daily writing that we are doing at my church, Sterling United Methodist Church.  The daily themes based on one word each day and some associated scripture.  Today’s word is Removed . This post concludes my participation. Thank you for reading.  If you would like to keep up with the posts from others click on this link here in this postscript.

 

Pork Roll

Pork Roll

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I kissed him on his forehead to say goodbye as I typically do, but this time, in his wheelchair, he raised his left arm and tried to reach around my back like he was attempting to hug me. I was surprised. I got closer to allow his arm to rest on my back and I put my face against his as he pulled me in. We stayed in that position for a while. It was comforting, it had been a long time.

Thanks, Dad, I really needed that.

 

Needs.

We all have them.

We all need them fulfilled.

Jesus once said, “It is written: ‘Man shall not live on bread alone…”

My mother would probably finish that statement by saying, “yeah how about I make a pork roll, egg, and cheese to put on that bread.”

That’s one way I suppose.

 

We might think our needs are all different, but they are probably surprisingly similar, never the less, they are ours.

And they change from year to year, month to month, and even day to day.

 

The truth is we are born into this world needy.

As infants and children, unable to take care of ourselves, we rely on others for even our most basic needs.

Feeding, housing, safety, learning, emotional support, and development, are provided to us by our mother, our father, or sometimes another family member or other loving person. They are our lifelines.

Let’s face it, even Jesus needed his Eema and his earthly Abba.

 

Then the day comes when we have children of our own and we become their lifeline.

And we begin to better understand what our parents did for us.

How much effort it took, how much time, and how much money.

How much joy it provided.

And as our kids grew and got more independent, we saw their needs change, but our needs changed too.

We still had those basic requirements needed in order to live, but as we aged life got more complicated.

And sometimes, as it might be with an aging parent, unable to care for him or herself, the parent becomes like the child again.

As a result of my father’s inability to care for himself, as his age advanced and his disease progressed, the decision had to be made to place him in a facility where he could be taken care of safely. My mom, not able to physically manage him at home, now spends each day with him at the nursing home providing those things the staff may not be able to. Things like conversation, memories, games for stimulation and thought, and of course, love. The rest of us, challenged by geography and the continued need to provide for ourselves, do the best we can.

The last few visits I had had with my father, I left feeling greatly depressed. My visits were met with silence, eyes that wouldn’t open, the inability to make any connection. On one visit in fact he was even trying to hit me with his fists, which I attributed to him acting out a dream, something not uncommon with my dad’s condition. Though I didn’t take it personally, it was another missed opportunity, and yeah, I guess I did take it a little personally.

Last weekend, however, he was different. His eyes were wide open though his sight is still limited. He was participating in conversation, smiling and laughing at things I said, and laughing at himself at times for things he said.

And he initiated that hug.

It was awesome.

I needed a weekend like that with him and, I am guessing, he felt like he had a similar need.

However fleeting the event or the moment may have been, or prove to be in the future, I was grateful.

We all have the need to feel loved, no matter how old we get.

 

Jesus said, “It is written: ‘Man shall not live on bread alone…”

But there is more, the scripture goes on to say “… but on every word that comes from the mouth of God.”

 

You see Ma? Not everything can be fixed by pork roll, even when you are from New Jersey.

It’s the word of God that fulfills our needs.

That’s what keeps us living and loving.

 

But sometimes a little hug doesn’t hurt either.

 

On Saturday I was trying to get him to look at old photos on my laptop. The next thing I knew he had his face planted in the side of my face. I asked him what he was doing and he said, ” I looking at your face.” Fair enough.

 

Postscript:

On the six Tuesdays during the period of Lent, I am participating in a daily writing that we are doing at my church, Sterling United Methodist Church.  The daily themes are based on one word each day and some associated scripture.  Today’s word is Needs .  If you would like to keep up with the posts from others click on this link in the postscript.