my choice

"It's your choice."

The words clanged against the cold tile floor like a tin cup falling from unsuspecting hands.

My choice. Mine.

It has been difficult for me to make choices since I was a young child standing in the dime store with Mama who would be getting impatient as I wanted to maximize what little money I had been given. She would always give me the option of saving the money and going home which I would ignore as I weighed the pros and cons of each possible selection.

Once the purchase was made I would hesitate to eat it if it was candy, or play with it if it was a toy. I did not want the experience to end. I wanted to hold onto the choice as if it held more for me than the use for which it was intended. Subconsciously I must have been aware of how little control I had.

As I was growing up, my mother would often choose my clothes. She could only buy what was on sale. She managed a farm household according to the weather. If a hail storm hit the day before the cherries were shaken from the trees, that meant we would wear last year's coats and boots. If there was no hail storm, we could go shopping for coats at a mall forty miles away, stopping by our favorite shoe store along the way. I say our favorite because we were a family with long, flat feet and could not find shoes to fit us at most stores. As children we needed special inlays to compensate. The orthopedic shoes recommended were not in any way fashionable. They were never my choice.

We ate what we grew and raised on the farm. I did not know how expensive food was until I left college and was out on my own. I spent years as a vegetarian in part because I could not afford to buy meat. We never had to wonder if Mama would choose beef, chicken or pork for dinner. It would be beef, as that is what was mooing out in the barn. A large vegetable garden made up the rest of the meals. Our other crops: asparagus and cherries, were abundant in season. We drank milk that came from the dairy where our milk was sent to be pasteurized. We received Florida oranges and grapefruit in the winter from a truck driver who used the fruit to pay Daddy for plowing his driveway. Bartering with other farmers procured for us other fruit and vegetables we did not grow, and even a Christmas tree every year from a nearby tree farm.

The choice for higher education was a simple one. Though I was accepted by two other colleges, Michigan State University was the only place I ever wanted to go. Of course, I did not anticipate how difficult it would be to grow up six miles from a town of 2,000, and suddenly find myself sitting in the bay window of a dorm on a campus with a student body of 44,000. Years later I would wonder if it would have been wisdom to be a big fish in a small pond instead of a struggling student who always had to work and never slept. A farm girl, who often wanted to go sit in the woods somewhere or go to the Lake to sit in the bluffs by herself.

I would choose to study journalism because I figured if I majored in English the expectation would be for me to become a teacher. If I had wanted to become a teacher, I would have majored in education. I chose to go to Denver the day after I finished my studies because I did not want to go home. That choice had life-changing ramifications. I wanted out of the real world in just two years. The only school I could find that would give me a graduate assistantship was in West Virginia. I would choose to go there. I would then make all kinds of choices that would get me into interesting situations.

Choosing between a job offered to me at a newspaper in the mountains of Colorado or pursuing a relationship that could lead to marriage was one of the most difficult choices I have ever made. Would I ever work for a newspaper if I got married? Would I ever get married if I chose to work for that newspaper? I wanted both so much.

I chose motherhood long before we brought home our first child. The desire came over me in a surprising way since right before then I never really cared. I did not want to give up everything in order to care for a baby. And yet, time and again, I would choose what I thought was best for the child even if it meant staying home and then working part-time jobs I would have never chosen.

If it were up to me, I probably would not have chosen to have a fair complexion and red hair. Too much sunburn; too many nicknames (carrot-top, fire-head, rooster, red, ginger, freckle-face). I would not have chosen to be so near-sighted I can barely walk across the room without my glasses that I have worn since age 12, inheriting my vision from Daddy who has worn his glasses since age 4. I would not have chosen to have teeth like chalk that have all been filled, one crowned, and several root canals, inheriting teeth from Mama whose teeth are as bad off as mine. And I would never have chosen a chronic disease, hypothyroidism, inherited from both of my parents, which has been the bane of my existence over the past decade or so.

I would have chosen to be blonde and popular with my in-style clothing and flat tummy. I would have been able to be out in the sun at the beach tanning and with no glasses to worry about would dive into the water without a care and . . . a giant sea monster would swallow me whole! There is no perfect life! It is an illusion to think so. We cannot choose whatever we want. We are not in charge.

I gave up my so-called right to be in charge of my choices when I chose to follow a Supreme Being. Thank goodness! I recognize only too well that I do not always make good choices. I cannot predict the outcome of any of them. I am shortsighted every single time. I want to choose wisely so I choose to go to the One who has wisdom. I want to accept what I did not choose and turn to the One who has accepted me without qualification, loving me exactly as I have turned out to be.

It's my choice? No. It is the path I am following. A path on which I cannot see much beyond the next turn. I have no idea where it leads. I do not know what condition I will be in when I get there. I do not know where "there" is. I choose to trust that I am being guided. I choose to let the words that sounded like clanging become the background music for my next journey. That is my choice.

twinkle twinkle little star

Nothing ever prepares me for the breathtaking beauty of a sky right before dawn.

Even as the January wind causes me to pull my robe more tightly as I wait for my dog, I love to look at the stars. It is not because I know their scientific names or correct placement in the sky at different times of the year--I do not, but because they are always there. They steadfastly shine and decorate the sky with their beauty.

We can feel closer to each other knowing we are looking up at the sky at the same stars. Our gaze can connect over miles as we enjoy the beauty together.

Stars are God's nightlight when one leaves the comfort of the tent in the middle of the night in need of a tree. When camping in places without much light, stars shine all the more brilliantly.

As a child I would love to be the one who saw the first star come out, even before it was completely dark, so I could recite, "Star light, star bright, first star I see tonight. I wish I may, I wish I might, have this wish I wish tonight." Wishing on a star was as problematic as making a wish when it was time to blow out my birthday candles. Do I wish for something just for me? Or should I have the needs of others in mind? I knew I would not be able to enjoy something without sharing it so I was always trying to imagine how my wishes could benefit those around me, even though I did not truly know what others would wish for. More money? Newer stuff? More? All I ever wanted was to be happy and feel loved. Whatever that meant.

As I grew up, I was told happiness should not be pursued; joy is the gift from God we are seeking. Recently I was told it was just the opposite with happiness being the constant and joy the fleeting intense emotion. Then I read that joy and happiness are interchangeable. Even their definitions are similar. Joy is a feeling of great happiness. Happiness is the state of being happy. Happy is to feel pleasure. They all sound like a good day to me.

Perhaps where things went wrong is that pleasure is associated with sin by well-meaning Christian people who would rather err on the side of having no fun at all than to ever be accused of enjoying something too much, thus averting their eyes from their duty in life . . . which as far as I can tell has something to do with giving God glory. And how are we to do that without feelings of happiness?

I like to think of God as a joyful Creator quietly watching us, His creations, with the kind of joy a parent feels for his or her child. Of course that puts us at the toddler level as His ways are so much above ours. We are constantly at the learning stage, finding new ways to hold our sippy cups and climb onto small, padded structures without toppling over and landing on our noggins.

We are selfish but do not mind sharing if we can be convinced there are enough goldfish crackers for all of us. We love to explore nature, quickly discovering that sand does not taste as good as it looks. We get angry when someone takes our toys away and may even use our newly formed teeth as weapons. Our understanding is limited. We feel better when we take a nap.

No matter how fierce we may think we are as we raise our chubby fists to protest something we do not even understand, thinking momentarily we are in charge, at the end of the day we can rest in the arms of the One who loves us more than all of the stars in the sky.

unexpected

Having expectations is a normal part of life. It is impossible not to look forward to something happening, unless one is deeply depressed. Nevertheless, expectations can hurt.

I have stopped expecting people to know my name. Even at a recent meeting at my church, I was greeted with, "Hello, Mary Beth." To my credit, I stopped and immediately corrected the person, something I have been loathe to do in the past. But when I am mistaken for someone else's wife and told my pottery is lovely, I begin to wonder if it is because I am in line right behind the man in question, or if I truly blend into the fabric of life in such a way as to morph into whomever anyone needs me to be at the moment. Do I even exist? Maybe I'm a figment of my own imagination. Or an apparition of someone's long lost relative floating around looking for something to do.

When it is my turn to speak, I face a crowd who looks at me as though we have never met. I am at a loss for what to say. Those who kidded around with me several years ago are not present or life has changed them to the point in which making a joke is too much of an effort. I wonder why more people who know me are not in attendance. I hope for the best in the midst of a sinking feeling.

When the vote comes back, my name is at the bottom of the list.

It suddenly feels like being picked last for a sports team in elementary school--pick a sport, any sport. I remember standing on the playground, head bowed, fingers crossed, voice in my head quietly chanting, "Pick me, pick me" and by some miracle I would often be chosen before the fat kid who cannot run or some kid the group decides they dislike more that day than they dislike me.

This is no big deal, I tell myself. I served on three boards; now I serve on one. I did what I was called to do. I just didn't get asked back for a second term. It really is ok.

Why does it always feel like this?

I have friends who will tell me when God closes a door, He opens a window, or something to that effect. I do not need to be distracted with the endless analogies I can think up. It is what it is. I am no longer the rejected red-haired girl who is probably crying by now, on the playground wishing she had friends. I have friends who love me, an identity given to me by God, and my name is Mary Ellen. I have nothing to prove to those who do not care to know me. I have nothing to prove to those who do.

Through the open window I will breathe in the fresh air of a new day.

all we have left to do

Death and dying seem to constitute most of the prayer requests I hear these days, causing me to wonder exactly what it is I am supposed to pray for, or for whom.

I remember an 86-year-old woman I was interviewing, in my brief life as a features reporter for a small newspaper, who said something to the effect of, "If we believe what we've been taught, shouldn't we, in the end, welcome death?" After living as a widow for decades and burying all of her friends, she told me she was ready for her life to be over. It was not until I attended her memorial service and heard the many stories of how this woman of faith had used her home to reach out to an inner city neighborhood in Denver that I knew she was indeed ready. She died peacefully in her sleep a few days after I spoke with her, just like she had hoped she would.

Suicide is different. No one wants to talk about it. And if they do, it is in hushed tones with a lot of self-imposed guilt thrown in, as if that helps.

My mind somehow always wanders back to the movie, Crimes of the Heart that came out in 1986 featuring Diane Keaton, Jessica Lange, and Sissy Spacek as three sisters who try to come to terms with their mother's demise. As one of the sisters considers doing herself in, following her mother's lead, she realizes it is not that life is so terrible or everything so wrong. It is because she had a really bad day. This, they come to understand, is the reason for killing oneself. In the darkness of the humor, the light of truth shines forth.

The scenario I heard about recently had a mother home with young children setting her house on fire. Her husband, an older child, and one of the two children who survived the fire remain. Questions abound. Friends and family are devastated. Who is to blame? Where was God?

I asked myself these questions when my aunt was found face down on her kitchen floor with a note she had written to one of her young children saying if he found mommy in the car to call grandma. The drugs and alcohol in her system had stopped her in her path; she never made it to the car.

This horrible event happened the day after I graduated from college--a day I spent on the beach gathering my thoughts in preparation for having lunch with my aunt the next day. Instead, the next day I would be put in charge of her 5-year-old adopted daughter who would share my meals and sleep in my bed with me. I had no idea what to do with a 5-year-old. She kept asking me when mommy was going to wake up. E. T.--the Extra-Terrestrial movie had come out a year earlier with its messianic twist on death. "But ET woke up!" she insisted as I tried not to let her see me crying.

In my dream, a few weeks after the funeral, it was as though I were back at the funeral home, leading a small child up to the casket to say good-bye to her mother. I do not think the children were taken there, but remember the dream better than I remember what really happened. In the dream my aunt sits up in the casket which would normally be more like a horror movie but in this case it was beautiful. The caked on make-up two shades too dark to disguise her broken nose peeled away, revealing her fair complexion. She got out of the casket wearing an emerald green cape that was incredibly dazzling as she twirled around. I looked at her and simply asked why. She said she just could not do it anymore. Life was too hard, but she was ok now and I need not worry about her. I slept soundly for the first time since the tragedy and when I woke up, I was at peace.

Like those close to people who end their lives, I felt somewhat responsible. I knew my aunt was not doing well. She had been diagnosed with mental illness and had spent time in psych wards. Her behavior seemed odd when we had gone out to lunch after my graduation. It was unusual that she was even with my family at all--begging to be included, I would be told later. She had renewed her faith as a Christian, wanting to leave her Catholic past behind. Having done the same thing, I wanted to share with her my story so we could support each other. Maybe it would be enough.

In retrospect, it helped me to know that the last bit of unfinished business she had wanted to accomplish on this earth was attending my graduation and celebrating my success. But we never had a chance to have that lunch which meant I would never get to try to encourage her to keep going. Though it was not up to me, I wondered for awhile if I could have done something more.

I think about my government/economics high school teacher who went down to his basement and put a gun to his head while his wife was vacuuming the living room upstairs. He had been a teacher so long at the high school my dad may have had him. He was well-respected as a teacher for generations in our small hometown. But on that day, he would end it. When his widow wanted to recognize his teaching excellence and maybe even offer a scholarship in his name, her proposal was rejected. He was no longer a good role model for children. He would instead be forgotten.

When my brother-in-law's body was found in his apartment, the autopsy revealed he had a lethal dose of his many prescribed medications in his system. There was no note saying good-bye, but lots of evidence to prove that he was not abiding by the restrictions against alcohol in his group home. He may have known he would soon be homeless. We had walked with him through treatment programs, group homes, psych wards, and even an intervention in which he said he had always been a happy-go-lucky sort of guy with no problems. What does one say to that?!

I do not believe people really want to die. I believe they really, really want to LIVE. They want to live so badly that when they are met with disappointment and heartbreak everywhere they look, it simply becomes too much for them. I also believe that if someone can just make it through a disaster of a day and through a lonely night, God's mercies are made new in the morning. If only . . . .

I know someone who is wondering if she should have said more or done more. Maybe she had a gut feeling that her friend was not ok. She respected her friend's privacy and in turn had to attend her funeral. She can blame herself, but it will be for nothing. I do not know what is in another's heart; I can barely figure out what is in my own. When she is ready to hear it I will tell her that after all is said and done, all we have left to do is to love.

Love when new life is found and love when despair seems the victor. Love the person for who he or she is or was. Love with questions that may never be answered. Love those grieving the loss. Love those celebrating life. Love.

another dream

Just as something important was about to happen in my dream, my alarm went off leaving me with unanswered questions.

Was I riding in a large hay wagon because when I was cooking the organic edamame spaghetti for dinner last night it reminded me of hay? While on the wagon I saw an entire house being moved one lot over. I kept waiting for the sound of creaking wood, breaking glass, a sound to indicate that something major had just occurred, but there was only silence.

Then I thought I would give someone a gift of shoes and tried to remember if I ever knew the size. Was this because I had read an article about a woman who felt so moved at the sight of a homeless woman that she traded boots with her? I then realized the person had moved and I would not be riding by her house in the hay wagon--as if that had become my new mode of transportation!

The wagon lurched to a halt at some unfamiliar destination and I was suddenly barefoot and walking on mossy rocks, careful to not fall into the water on every side. I had no idea where I was or where I was going--only that the moss was soft and bright green. Looking up I saw a beautiful stone house overflowing with people. Inside was a long wooden table covered with an amazing feast. I did not hesitate to join in the festivities.

Later as I went exploring, I found a large room filled with household supplies next to a shower room. Some of the other people were excited by that but I was much more taken with an antique box that I somehow found a key for and opened to discover old sewing items--a needle and thread kit, a package of old snaps and buttons and other stuff underneath I did not have time to examine as I suddenly realized the others had gone and I was in need of a way back to wherever it was I had travelled. By the time I returned to the main room and looked out the doorway, I saw horses and wagons leaving. I looked for familiar faces and found none. I was alone, yet not afraid.

As for the rest of the dream, I do not know if I found a ride or decided to stay. Had I gone back in time or was I visiting Mackinac Island?

Expectations--maybe that was what my dream was about. Maybe the contents of the old box were calling out for me to get back to sewing. Or maybe this dream is the result of eating organic edamame spaghetti.

words for a new year

I could sit here all day, looking out this window at the lichen-covered branches casting shadows on the lawn. The glitter of frost colors the grass a lighter shade of green and adds texture to some of the brown leaves still clinging to the trees, while the rest are scattered on the ground.

It is safer for me to sit alone with my thoughts, warming my hands on a big mug of coffee, than to share them with others. It is, however, a risk I foolishly take.

Often I awake with a feeling of gratitude. I look to the sky for the pink and lavender hues before orange/yellow light bursts forth. Birds, at the ready, sing in another day.

Words then need to be found to guide my thinking, my prayers, my preparation to engage with the world. In the beginning was the Word. It has always been that way for me.

When I was young, sitting alone with my journal, looking for the words to interpret the world, I would dream of traveling to distant lands and writing about my adventures so that anyone interested could share in the excitement life had to offer me. I could help them in this way overcome their sadness and boredom as they would instead become my vicarious traveling companions.

I remember being asked where I would want to go and my answer always was: London, England and Paris, France. To me those two places sounded like the most amazing places on the face of the earth. Someone once told me that there were spiders the size of dinner plates in Hawaii so I never wanted to go there. Other island destinations would only threaten my fair-skinned existence since adequate sunscreen had yet to be invented. I needed to go to climates that could accommodate someone used to Michigan weather. It would not be until decades later that I would finally adjust to the constant perspiration of living in the South, making travel to warmer lands more possible.

What I always wanted more than anything was to become a writer. It is only now I am realizing that what I wanted even more was to be understood, and therein lies the rub. Words find their way to me so I can redirect them back out, but sometimes they return unrecognizable. My intended message gets caught up in thorny vines and only fragments of it make it back to tell the tale.

I get asked a lot if I am ok. When was I ever ok?! What does that even mean?!!

If I say yes, I am ok, does that assure someone I am not on the ledge ready to jump? Does ok mean I will suppress my emotions and pretend not to feel like I already do? Maybe ok means I will disguise my personality to mimic that of a cheerleader. Funny thing is, I already fill that role in many ways.

For the deeply hurting, I am a catalyst. I give others the permission to embrace their sorrow deeply, permission not always granted to me. For those who will never really heal, never really get over their losses, I walk quietly beside. I no longer see life as something to be achieved, as having any kind of definite, final outcome this side of heaven. I see it as it is, each day, filled with good intentions and flawed people who try and fail, over and over. This does not remove any power from the supernatural or miraculous. But it does leave room at the end of the day, if prayers lay like unopened envelopes containing our deepest needs spelled out with our recommendations to be taken into consideration. Even when that happens I can still sense Jesus walking with me, holding my hand, requiring me to say nothing because he already knows my heart.

I cry a lot. This does not mean I am not ok. In many ways, it means that I am. Jesus wept. I am in good company.

If there is one thing I know for sure, it is I am not the Author of these words that find their way to me; I am the translator.

My prayer is that I will be given words of hope, truth and love to translate for anyone who cares to travel with me through another year. Au revoir mes amis.

a gray day, with all the Christmas worn off

The stillness of the fog wraps itself around me; a gray day, with all the Christmas worn off.

Looking up at the cottony white sky through the stark reality of leafless trees, I feel comforted as though wrapped in a blanket. No more this season will the harsh glare of the neighbors' decorative lights dispel the quiet darkness on our side of the decoration-less street. The lower boughs from the too-large-tree I brought home, the last one for sale at the Market that day, remain on the picnic table, never formed into a wreath for the front door. Our tree, still taking up too much space in our small front room, shows itself off with the bare minimum of lights, ornaments and garlands. The irony of my art business primarily concerning itself with decorating the homes of others is not lost.

The buche de noel was never prepared, nor was a gingerbread house or sugar cookies. Eight tiny bundt cakes, sweet potato Guinness gingerbread with cream cheese frosting, came forth as gifts, miraculously, as the cakes stuck to the pan forcing me to put their pieces back together and the frosting starting out quite lumpy threatened to stay that way. Chocolate fudge emerged after a tiny bit of water spilled into the chocolate I was melting for the turtle candies, forming itself into an uncreative shape with undesired texture. In my younger years I would have never dreamed of remaking fudge, as finicky as it is, but my curiosity often gets the better of me these days. I can barely get myself to follow recipes anymore as random ingredients find themselves joining in the fun.

I have been told that my Christmas letter is often read after the holiday when those who think I have something to say savor it with a cup of hot chocolate on a winter's day. To come forth with my truth year after year is a responsibility I do not take lightly. I realized, however, after the fact, that my original idea of pointing out how outrageous it was for my now former doctor to say I was "good enough," causing me to wonder how that would go over if, for example, an airplane pilot said he did not fully inspect the instruments but it was "good enough," or an anesthesiologist said the patient may not be administered enough medicine to be put under for surgery, but it was "good enough," was lost.

We took back the gift I ordered at the last possible minute that did not show up until two days after Christmas and then was not the one desired. Ordering online, then printing out a return address label and getting reimbursed electronically, minus shipping, makes life exceedingly easier than it used to be. UPS has a customer service center about a mile from our house with two employees eager to talk and willing to tape up the package themselves. Gifts are problematic. Whatever is given is not really the point; it is the representation of the sentiment. We try, we fail, we love. We will do it all again.

This is day six, the six geese-a-laying day, of the twelve days of Christmas. More homemade food will come forth to be enjoyed. There is yet time. Reading and drinking hot chocolate come next. Pondering what is or what is not "good enough" requires more thought. And since our Christmas tree lights have only been up for about a week, I have plugged them in so they can yet shine forth as a beacon to penetrate the foggy darkness up and down our street, as this year soon comes to its end.

O come let us adore Him.