roommate hell

All of this talk I've recently been privy to having to do with high school graduation and future college students contemplating who they will be living with next year, has got me to thinking about my own college roommates.

With the level of technology now available, prospective students can get to know their future roomies online and even meet ahead of time to chat and perhaps determine compatibility. When I went to college, we still had to get extra long telephone cords to talk on our room phones and actually go to a library to do research. We had precious little ability to coordinate our roommates.

I happily filled out the forms and moved into room 124 Phillips Hall on the campus of Michigan State University in the fall of 1979. I didn't know it at the time but Phillips Hall was considered the Jewish dorm as well as the vegetarian dorm. It is one of the oldest dorms on campus featuring large bay windows one could sit in and contemplate life. I would live in that same room for all four of my years. My roommates, however, were more like a revolving door.

The first girl assigned to live with me seemed full of promise for about five minutes. Her name was Leslie and as soon as she discovered that the first floor of Phillips Hall was a designated quiet floor with a strict curfew and noise limitations, she put in for a transfer immediately. Studying was apparently not on her agenda. I do not think I ever saw her again.

Next came Kathy, a theatre major who was interested in children's productions. Her love for children's theatre perhaps had something to do with the very large emu puppet she would carry around on her arm, interacting suddenly with any unsuspecting resident of that dorm. A large beak attached to its long fleece neck did not have the same effect on college students it may have had on young children. Her physical limitations, in part responsible for her hygiene choices, meant that instead of washing her hair, she would often brush her hair using a powdery substance to make it look less like she had not washed it. We each had issues that were not made better by living together. When I would be in that stage between waking and sleeping and I could sense her watching me, I would open my eyes slowly to often find her staring intently at me, a few inches from my face. I may have preferred the emu by this point. I was relieved when she found a roommate who had more time for her.

Helen was the roommate who came from Detroit and would talk to her mother on the phone in Ukranian. As a big city girl she could handle almost anything except going home to the country with me and trying to survive with no convenience stores, no delivery pizza, no take-out Chinese, or streetlights. Out of all of my roommates, I got into the most amount of trouble with her. Suffice it to say that when your roommate leaves you at a fraternity house with a guy who is supposed to walk you home; or calls a taxi for you and a guy she barely knows from class to take you back to the dorm from the bar, it is not necessarily a good thing. Detroit girls may have the street smarts to handle themselves; naive girls fresh off the farm do not. Our roommate days were over when I went back to the room earlier than expected one night and walked in on Helen and her boyfriend getting to "know" one another. In the biblical sense.

Next in the roommate line-up was a girl named Trish who majored in elementary education and seemed to spend a lot of time in the room cutting out laminated pictures for her student teaching. She would be tucking herself into bed when I would be getting off work and begin my studying. Sleeping was optional for me and if I got to hit the bed four hours a night I was fortunate. I loved taking naps in the afternoon, but with a roommate showing up and wanting to listen to music or having friends over, this did not happen often. We shared some of the same friends which included guy friends. It was only a matter of time before her favorite guy friend from the brother floor downstairs would decide to date me instead of her. This was all my fault, she claimed. I would lose another roommate, shortly thereafter another boyfriend, and at last would live by myself . . . for awhile.

One of the two summer terms that I went to school, I moved off-campus to live in an apartment we affectionately referred to as Dive Number Three. It was furnished with broken furniture and a tiny kitchen. My roommate, Anne, made it clear from day one that I was living with HER and not the other way around. I knew she was high strung from living next door to her in our dorm for years and being forced to listen to Joan Armatrading's "Love & Affection" played on a continuous loop. By about the fifth time of hearing, "I could really dance, really dance, really dance, really dance," I would have to go hide myself in the stacks of the library, my second home, and let go of the idea of ever sleeping again. As long as I understood my place and her rules, life was pleasant.

I would finally end up living with a sweet girl named Nita who would take the saddle she sometimes had with her when she would ride her horse she had boarded nearby, place it on the bed headboard and "ride" it while listening to the William Tell Overture. Because it was my fourth year in that room she wanted me to understand it was no more my room than hers, though I did not share that opinion. When I was out one day she decided to invite some friends over to rearrange the furniture. At an opportune time I moved it all back the way I had it to begin with. Amazing how the adrenaline of anger can empower one to move furniture previously thought impossible to budge. We did become unlikely friends by the time of my graduation and I was able to experience a proper roommate send-off.

Determined to never have another college roommate again, I ended up with one my first year of graduate school at Marshall University where I sought out dorm life for the sake of convenience. I could forgive my roommate, Kim, for thinking Michigan was "a city Up North," but had to draw the line at smoking. I had signed up for a nonsmoking roommate, I pointed out. She couldn't admit that she was a smoker on the application while her mother was standing right there, could she. Most of the time she smoked at the biker bar where wild nursing students liked to party. After she admitted that her "boyfriend" was actually a girl and I had the awkward experience of walking in on them, she was convinced I would move out, but I never did. She said she felt that I was judging her even though she judged me for the guy I was dating at the time. I told her the only difference between she and I was that I knew where I was going when I died. She said she would make it right with God before the end of her life. I told her that the way she was living, the end could be that day. She eventually found peace.

In all fairness, I walk, talk, sometimes scream, and have attempted to carry out other activities in my sleep, making rooming with me an adventure. I came and went at all hours of the day and night and had no time to do trivial tasks like dusting, my friends would remind me as they wrote me notes in the dust on my desk. Living together requires a give-and-take attitude, communication of expectations, and a lot of forbearance. It is not for the faint of heart.

I would spend my final year of higher education in a designated one-person room in a co-ed dorm.     ALL . . . BY . . . MYSELF.

when I am loved

The funny thing about one feeling loved is that it can make all the difference.

When I am loved, I take a step away from the hyper-vigilant state I naturally find myself in as I encounter the world. I take a deep breath knowing I can do whatever I am called to because of love.

When I am loved, my creativity takes on new dimensions. I share in the joy of those who can receive what I have created and do not become paralyzed by the rejection of those who do not understand.

When I am loved, I take greater risks with my literary endeavors and move closer to revealing the truth of my heart. I become less concerned with offending and more intentional about telling my stories.

When I am loved, disappointments do not send me into deep depression and unexpected heartbreak does not plummet me into complete despair. Love becomes a cool drink that quenches my thirst.

When I am loved, I can be satisfied with a mere appetizer and not keep looking for fulfillment throughout an entire meal and then on to dessert. I savor what I have and do not need to look for more.

When I am loved, I sleep better knowing I am secure. Finding rest is no mean feat for someone who overthinks everything in the way that I do. I always have my dreams to work out my insecurities.

When I am loved, I find courage I did not previously have. I do things I did not see myself doing and then wonder why I had not done them before. Within love there is an allowance for failure.

When I am loved, I see a better reflection in the mirror and judge myself less. Wondering how I appear to others does not preoccupy my mind as much. I become free to be kinder to myself.

When I am loved, I do not stumble for words to speak nor does my face turn red as frequently because I am more confident. I remind myself that the assuredness others have may be because they feel loved.

When I am loved, I exercise more. I feel that I have more worth and need to take better care of myself. I put myself on the priority list reserved for important things. I become important because I am loved.

When I am loved, I do not need to make excuses about why I am experiencing deep emotion over things others cannot relate to. My expressions are not less real or valuable; they are uniquely mine.

When I am loved, I judge others less because I want them to feel loved. Not wanting to be excluded, I try not to exclude. Not wanting to ever feel unloved, I do not wish the same fate on others.

When I am loved, I am able to extend my hand to others calling out for help because my greatest need is already met. I do not have to be competitive or controlling. I only need to love.

When I am loved, I love others more. Love self-generates; it is renewed. It is expressed in an infinite variety of ways. It heals. It sets free. It causes one to laugh and another to cry. It is never the same. It never changes. It is life-giving and life-altering. It gives us a will to live and a reason to get up in the morning. It is what we all need. It is what we need more of. It is not too late to love. Ever.

Love never fails.  

community

I'm in the mood for a little church right now. Consider yourself warned.

Before I write a prayer, I have this process that I go through. Sometimes I do not know that the phrases forming themselves in my head are meant to become prayers. Sometimes I do. There is usually one line that will persist until I agree to write it down. Persistent thoughts can be pretty stubborn that way.

Then, depending on whether the pastor is using the scripture passages the lectionary has assigned for that particular Sunday, or if he is going to use other scriptures, I will look them up and see what gets my attention. While looking around I will often find passages I have underlined that are important to me. I may end up taking my own journey and wind up with something totally different. When scripture is speaking to me, in whatever way it chooses, I try to listen.

Yesterday I found myself wandering around in the book of Romans. If I ever need encouragement, I can always go to chapter 8, verses 38 and 39:

For I am persuaded that neither death nor life, nor angels nor principalities nor powers, nor things present nor things to come, nor height nor depth, nor any other created thing, shall be able to separate us from the love of God which is in Christ Jesus our Lord.

If I could have only one scripture, that would be the one.

Chapter 12 of the same book is recommended reading for this upcoming Sunday, so I read it as well. It is there that I came upon a scripture that has held me in its grip for a very long time. Verse 15 reads, "Rejoice with those who rejoice, and weep with those who weep." After over 30 years of reading this verse, it still speaks to me, often causing me to find a tissue. Sometimes my hope of rejoicing with others is dashed, breaking my heart in the process. And finding those willing to weep with me is not as easy as one may think. We cannot always rise to the occasion and give to each other exactly what each one needs, and yet if there exists a scriptural definition for "community," this is it.

What this scripture tells me is that to be in a community is not only to be of service to others but to share in the joys and sorrows. Whether the community is a church, a school, a workplace, a neighborhood, or a family, we are told to go ahead and celebrate the fun days, but also to be there for the hardest ones.

I thought about how much easier it is to rejoice with people than it can be to weep with them. It does not require much intimacy to celebrate with people at a party. The reason for the celebration carries with it enough joy in itself that it does not depend so much on others to magnify it. Most people do not have a hard time putting on party clothes and showing up to have fun. It is not a high risk decision.

Sharing grief is different. When a close friend asked me to travel with her to her mother's memorial service, she was asking me to do something sacred. She said she could not think of anyone she wanted to grieve with her more than me. I cannot think of a higher compliment. Mourning with someone is personal. Real emotions are expressed. Words are not enough to convey the depth of feeling. Saying we are sorry for a loss doesn't make the burden any lighter to bear. The tunnel the grieving person must walk through is going to be dark and painful.When we agree to weep with someone we are saying we are willing to walk alongside, no matter how awkward it feels. There are some experiences in life we do not ever get over. We merely get used to them. We exist in an alternate space until we can handle coming back and reengaging with life as we know it. Except that life as we know it no longer exists.

Fresh from reading the Romans 12:15 scripture, I was on Facebook when I saw a post from a woman I work with and used to go to church with. Her post was a news article of a shooting in a nearby state in which a police officer, who intervened when a man went on a shooting rampage, and a high school boy driving his car home from his school's graduation ceremony, were both shot and killed. Her status indicated that the boy was her nephew.

I do not know this woman extremely well though I find working with her to be a delight, and I certainly have never met her nephew. I posted that I was sorry for her loss. Maybe it is because I've been in an emotional place lately as I'm getting ready for my second son to graduate from high school, or maybe it was getting to me because of the senseless, random nature of this event, emphasized by the posted letter from the head of the boy's Christian school in which he wrote he could not know what God was asking of that family, but I have been weeping with those who weep.

Slow to admit that online communities are truly meaningful communities, this event has changed my opinion somewhat. No sooner had I posted my condolences, did I see other women I work with and people I used to go to church with posting their words of comfort for this grieving family. And though I have read plenty of posts having to do with the deaths of loved ones, I just happened to be online when so many of these posts were being made that it felt like we were coming together as a community in a way I have never associated with social media before. Immediately words of healing and prayers were sent in ways previously never possible. Facebook was answering a higher call.

Today I read this high school boy's final blog entry. It was about how excited he became when he contemplated heaven. As of last night I counted over 40 posts to this family and 11 shares of the original article. People who work with them, go to church with them, are related to them in a variety of ways are all part of this community that once could rejoice with them as they were filled with the joy of raising a boy who by everything I have read was becoming a wonderful man. We now grieve. An entire community. All of us.

one last look

Sometimes I try to force myself to consider how I would spend a day if I knew it was my very last day on earth.

I remember walking in a hospital gown down a hallway with my husband about three weeks after our first son was born. I was on my way to surgery, wondering if my life as a mother would end before it really began. I could not imagine my husband raising our son alone and assured myself that he would remarry someone who would love them both. The time it takes to walk down a hospital corridor is not long enough to express any meaningful last wishes to one's spouse. All I could manage to ask him was to not be angry at God if I didn't wake up. I knew my life was in God's hands. I also knew that our prayers are not always answered in the ways in which we think they should be.

I'm not sure I would have been able to spend that day so many years ago in any more significant way than any other day. The pain I was in at the time did not allow for a tender "Goodnight Moon" departure, but more like "Let's get this over with already, Goodnight!" The surgeon would later tell me that the last thing I said before going under was, "This is going to be the first good sleep I've had in weeks." Our first son would not sleep through the night until he was two years old.

Yesterday, when I called my dentist to admit that the second root canal had failed, I was surprised to be scheduled for root canal--the sequel, today. It isn't a simple thing--me going to the dentist. It is more like surgery. I can't eat or drink for many hours prior to the visit and then need to be driven home so I can sleep off the anesthetic for the rest of the day. I pause while signing the waiver, agreeing to not hold anyone responsible for brain damage or death. Dentistry is not an exact science, the document states. And there are no guarantees in life, it should say.

Before I would have to face my worst fear, I had a lot of work I was trying to accomplish. I thought I should consider the possibility of this being it--my last day--and wanted to have a moment to do something significant: listen to a song I'm particularly fond of, watch a favorite movie, have a good cry, and spend time in quiet meditation and prayer. Perhaps I could make time for this once I finished balancing the checkbook, answering emails, registering for our second son's college orientation, updating financial aid forms, and getting him to transfer the invitation for his graduation party from his phone to my computer so I can continue with the party preparation plans. I wanted to at least get the sewing order started for one of my customers, and then work on one of my writing projects. I even made the cookie dough for cookies I will take to the church picnic.

My mind wandered back to thoughts about having a significant moment while I was shopping at one of my favorite thrift stores with my now college-aged firstborn son. I hummed along to the background tunes in the shop, while he made disparaging remarks about the kind of people who would enjoy such music. On the way home we debated the existence of a word I knew he would use regardless.

I would then bake a tray of chicken to take to a school banquet in which my two younger sons would be recognized for being part of the track team. My youngest son would arrive after his soccer tryouts. My graduating son would be recognized for signing with a college track team. Both would sit with us and as many friends as there was room for at the table. We would sit in a cafeteria that was too hot because of the school system's cost-cutting measures, and we would stand in line half an hour as a continuous stream of kids cut in line in front of us. With a throbbing head caused by this rogue tooth accentuating my already natural anti-social ways, I had an epiphany: I was just glad to be there.

If my life was reduced to nothing more than sitting on an uncomfortable high school cafeteria stool, eating questionable side dishes after snagging a piece of my own chicken, watching my sons becoming men before my eyes, waiting for my teacher husband to finish correcting the stack of papers he brought with him, and seeing the coaches and teachers who have helped raise my children standing there smiling, it was all good. Not the moment I thought I needed, but the moment I was given. And I was grateful.

food versus non-food

The sugar free, maple flavor, low calorie syrup on my kitchen table is not food.

I do not know if anyone ever intended for it to be food or if the plan was merely to come up with something that resembles food, leaving it up to those who market syrup to make sure it gets onto the beautiful stack of pancakes adorned with a pat of no-one-will-ever-believe-this-is-butter, as pictured on the label. It is the idea of syrup that is being sold; not syrup itself.

Though there are only 30 calories in a one-fourth cup serving, the ingredients that comprise this delicacy are mostly non-edible.

Ingredients: water, sorbitol, cellulose gum, natural and artificial maple flavor, salt, sucralose, sodium benzoate (to preserve freshness), caramel color, phosphoric acid, acesulfame potassium, potassium sorbate (to preserve freshness), sorbic acid, citric acid.

Sorbitol has unpleasant side effects; cellulose gum is derived from wood pulp; sucralose (Splenda) can make you crave sugar; and acesulfame potassium contains methylene chloride--a known carcinogen which causes cancer. Sodium benzoate and potassium sorbate are added to preserve freshness. The freshness of exactly WHAT?

It is gluten free for all who are finding gluten avoidance to be the answer to whatever it is that ails them. Refrigeration is not required. It is best if purchased by September 18, 2016, but if not consumed until 2026, it would probably be just as good.

In case someone reading this is tempted to think that I should be grateful for this gift, I would like to point out that it was among the "treats" my parents were pawning off on us after cleaning out their cupboards and heading back to their home Up North after a winter in Florida. The syrup took the place of the jello this year. (Refer to my post entitled "I hate jello," for further explanation.) It was in a grocery bag right next to unsalted Saltine crackers and unsalted pretzels, more items on my "foods I hate" list.

Though it truly is not fair for me to judge the syrup without tasting it first, the syrup remains unopened. I wanted to protest when I received it but decided instead to be compassionate toward my parents by not giving it back, thus prohibiting them from the ingestion of this chemical compound. Though I may sometimes take items we do not prefer to a food bank or pass them along to friends, I could not in good conscience do that with this item. For fear of harming wildlife, I cannot even pour it on the ground.

Perhaps the saddest part about this wanna-be syrup is that real maple syrup is one of my favorite things. I still remember with fondness the school field trip in which my class went to a cider mill and a place in which maple syrup was made. I remember learning about the process of the sap running out of the spickets into pails that would be emptied into a large vat which boiled out impurities. We were given small, Dixie cups filled with warm, maple syrup to taste. It was 100 percent natural, straight from a maple tree. It was some of the truest goodness I would ever experience.

Natural maple syrup can be purchased in most grocery stores. The kind I get has one ingredient: pure, organic maple syrup. There are 220 calories in a one-fourth cup serving, and it is worth every single one of them. It costs more than the sugar free, maple flavor, low calorie syrup. Because it is food.

edited

Sometimes, in a well-meaning effort to get me to say and do the right things, people will attempt to edit my life.

Someone will ask me how I'm doing, for example. You and I both know that the only acceptable answer to that question is: FINE. I get to decide whether to fill in the blank with the correct answer or perhaps give a response that can take small talk toward the larger space required to consider further possibilities. For me, small talk is akin to taking out the garbage and just about as exciting. For others, it counts as something real. If a verbal exchange never progresses beyond this point, I tend to think we remain strangers. Somehow this ends up meaning that I have a bad attitude. Of course I cannot admit this because I am supposed to be fine.

For those of us who grew up with the saying, "If you can't say anything nice, don't say anything at all," the idea of speaking the truth does not bring with it heartwarming sentiment. No one wants to hear "the truth" if it is not happy. Of course those of us who possess a somewhat twisted, dark sense of humor can find happiness in all sorts of disturbing realities. Our challenge is in finding the right audience. We do not think we are being "negative." We pride ourselves in being "truthful." It is just that we often find ourselves alone since the person with the "nicer" response gets to be invited to the party while our invitation gets lost in the mail, so to speak. Act right and be accepted is the predominant theme here.

I remember as a child of about ten standing next to my mother in the grocery store in our small town while she was casually talking to a woman she knew. The woman asks, "So, how is Mary?" and my mother says, "Mary is fine." I am standing right there. I am NOT fine! But I am made aware that though the question is directed at me, it is not for me to answer. Perhaps my mother knew, due to my precocious nature, that I would give what may be considered an inappropriate answer. It is what writers do--even as children.

Not wanting to offend the person inquiring about me, provoke anger or judgment, I weigh my answers carefully. But sometimes my guard is down due to fatigue or even the hope that the truth would be a welcome change, and I say something I should not have said. Too much honesty seeps through the expected correctness and I can sense the person mentally backing up, averting the eyes and praying I do not notice the hesitation to engage me. I tell myself that I should have said, "Fine," but it is too late. I have already given an answer that is deemed unacceptable. And it is precisely at this moment when the editing occurs.

"That person did not mean to hurt your feelings." "It must have been an accident." "Surely no one would intentionally do that to you." "That situation could not have possibly been that bad." These are the types of comments that are part of the re-write. Self-doubt comes next. I try to convince myself that maybe the person is right. Maybe I have overreacted. I must be making this stuff up. My proclivity for exaggeration is getting the best of me. A cup of coffee, yes, that will make me feel better. Some chocolate is needed to help me regain my proper foothold. Low blood sugar must be the culprit. I need to work out. I will take the dog for a walk through the woods. That will turn me back into the person I need to be. Pray--of course, I need to pray more. Valid reasons must exist as to why I am coming up with any other answer than the acceptable one.

Try as I may to suppress it, the truth will not let me rest until I say it out loud. Or I write it.

The truth is that there are people who would rather die than live. And there is nothing we can do or say to save them. There are people who say hurtful things. On purpose. Sometimes acts of kindness are lost on those who cannot receive them. Expectations ruin relationships. Forgiveness needs to be repeated--often. On the same people. Loving someone guarantees nothing. We love because we want to. We withhold love because we want to. We say what we think others want to hear. We decide how much we want to reveal. We edit our stories. We let others edit our stories. We try. We fail. We either give up or keep on trying.

What happens to me is what shapes me into who I am. My responses are mine. Mine alone. Being appropriate is overrated. I seek truth. Whatever that means. Edited or not, it is what it is.

by your hands

For all of the mothers and daughters who struggle with each other--this is a tribute to my mother. It represents my willingness--in spite of all else--to love her with whatever love I have to give.

(The following letter was my entry in a writing contest that was chosen to be included in a book entitled, Dear Mom, I've Always Wanted You to Know, Daughters Share Letters From the Heart by Lisa R. Delman, 2005, published by the Penguin Group. She held this contest after nearly losing her mother and desiring to give women the chance to share with their mothers what remained unsaid.)

Dear Mama,
It may have happened while I was washing dishes, folding clothes, or writing a letter, but suddenly, without me even noticing it, my hands had been transformed into yours.

The closely cut fingernails, slightly enlarged knuckles, and even the same dryness crying out for a therapeutic lotion were now mine along with the fair complexion and freckles. I stopped what I was doing at the time to stare at my hands in disbelief as though something supernatural had just occurred. Whether I liked the resemblance was not an issue for I could not change reality. I began to think about all the ways your hands have molded me to be the woman I now am.

With your hands, you held me and cared for me when I was a baby.
As your first child, I know I was special to you, though I don't know if it was more disappointing to realize that you would not be naming me Jeffrey James, or that I was bald and had a deformed lip--a far cry from the Gerber baby you had imagined. Not only that, but when my hair came in a year later, it would be red, an unimaginable color in an all-brunette family. Several years ago when you admitted I looked more like you than my sisters did. I wondered if the resemblance made you smile.

In your hands, you held up books that would open my imagination.
Though you never considered yourself a scholar, your decision to read to me caused me to fall in love with books and has helped to set the course of my life. I don't remember what you read other than nursery rhymes, but reading has always been something I have loved and I can credit you for that.

By putting your hands together, you showed me how to pray.
My earliest memory is kneeling by my bed with hands folded, eyes shut, reciting prayers. As I grew in my knowledge of God and was compelled to follow a path different from yours, I knew my decision would create a problem for us. And yet if I did not walk the path shown to me, I would be doing something far worse. It's important for a mother to teach her child about that which is most dear to her. It's because I have strong convictions, like yours, that we have never been able to settle this matter.

Your hands kneaded the dough, and cut out cookies.
How fortunate I have been to have a mother who knew how to cook! All those pies and cookies we made represent a lot of what was good about my childhood. Though we won awards for our baked goods, the memory is better than any blue ribbon.

With your hands you could take whatever you had to create anything.
I learned resourcefulness from you, even though I know you wished you hadn't lived that lesson the way you always have. But you became good at turning one piece of clothing into another, a sheet into a costume or curtains, scraps of cloth into decorations.

The hands that made crafts to become gifts for others were yours.
Not only did you make do with anything with which you had to work, but also you never allowed your lack of money to keep you from giving gifts. You simply created gifts out of whatever you could find.

With your hands you made clothes for yourself and your children.
Your sewing skills won you awards and gave you the ability to create outfits for your daughters that would match yours. Wearing the green jacket you made for yourself allows me to wonder what you may have looked like when you were young and free.

By your hands, you prepared meal after meal.
We depended on you for your cherry dessert, the perfect pie crusts, and the many salads and desserts you came up with to take to school events and picnics. It never occurred to me how much work you did, just that you would be there to do it.

Holding your hands, we could safely cross any street.
You must have been praying when we tried to cross those busy streets in Chicago during our first family vacation. You wanted to give us the chance to see the world, though, so you helped us across the street.

Your hands clapped at my performances and accomplishments.
Piano recitals, band concerts, 4-H fashion shows, and even a cherry queen pageant. There you were, my biggest fan. Graduations were more difficult because I was closer to leaving the nest with each step. Maybe that was why my wedding was most difficult of all.

Your hands waved good-bye.
It must have bothered you to leave me at Michigan State University, as big as it is. There was a time after I declared what I believed in and how I was going to live my life that I wondered if you had waved good-bye to me for the last time. But your mother's love would not allow it.

Your hands were open, ready for hello.
Even after everything I have put you through--running off to Denver with twenty-five dollars and a backpack, turning a two-week vacation into a two-year stay; taking a job in Maryland and ending up in California still seeking my path; not taking the journalist position I was finally offered in the Colorado mountains because I didn't have money to get there and was too afraid to ask for more; having a wedding so foreign that you couldn't accept it--yet you still wanted me back. I'm finally old enough to realize that you will always want me back because that's the way mothers are.

Your hands have always reached out to those in your community.
The example you gave me when you made endless plates of cookies and sent cards to people for every occasion, but especially get-well cards, has served as a standard by which I can hope to live.

In your hands is a mother's love for your children and grandchildren.
A mother's love is that constant affection that goes beyond changing a sick child's bed or cleaning up messes when she has no energy left, especially in the middle of the night. You probably dreamed of a more glamorous existence, and I know you have wanted that for me. But fame and fortune don't equal love, especially the kind that covers a multitude of sins. And well-manicured, painted fingernails just aren't our style. Your example of caring for others has helped me to serve my family in a way that formal education could never accomplish. I'm sorry it has taken me so long to realize that.

By your hands, another generation goes forward.
Getting married and having my own family has been possible because I watched you do it and knew I wanted it, too. I just didn't want it as badly as you did or as soon. I judged you for making that your primary goal, when there were so many other possibilities. I hope you can forgive me for that, but I didn't understand motherhood at the time. When all is said and done, I know I will value my family as much as you have because that's what a mother does.

Your hands are more familiar to me now, for they resemble my own.
I've now held my own babies, shared my love for reading, and continued to teach them about God's love. I still bake the bread, make the cookies, and become resourceful creating gifts, clothing, and meals out of whatever I can find. I walk hand in hand with my little boys and cheer them on during soccer games and music performances. I haven't had to wave good-bye to them yet, but that day will come. Then I hope and pray that what you taught me and what I've taught them will help them make good decisions.

I'm still learning to be aware of the community and care for another's need more than my own. Someday, if I live long enough, I may have a grandchild who will want to know her great-grandmother. Then I will stretch out my worn, bony fingers with crackling dry skin and say, "I want to tell you all about her. Look, child, at my hands."

Love,
Mary Ellen