In the summer of 1965, I was a young, idealistic preservice teacher who jumped at the opportunity to work as a teacher aide during the first summer of Project Head Start, an educational project aligned with my then budding belief system about the value of education and economic opportunity.
Read More_______________________________
I hesitate to write anything about the that terrible event that took place where we had yet another school shooting. What can I add to what has already been said?
Does it matter that I want to tell you that my heart is broken over the loss of those beautiful children who died in an unspeakable way?
Does it matter that my heart is broken that members of my profession died caring for students entrusted to their care?
No, my words of shock, heartbreak, disbelief, and sorrow really do not need to be added to all the other words that have been written in the public forum about this tragedy. And yet, I must write because my voice needs to be raised so that all those who have suffered because of a senseless act of violence will know that they are not alone.
As a mother...
My heart is broken for those mothers who lost a child on a day that most likely seemed like any other day. I know those mothers never dreamed they would not see their children at the end of the day.
I know the shock that comes when you hear the words that mothers fear most in life, those words that announce that our child is dead. I know that shock. I know that heartbreak.
I have suffered hearing that news, but I did not have to hear that my child, an innocent child in elementary school, was brutally murdered. I did not have to suffer that.
That, I cannot imagine.
If I were to speak to these mothers, I would say...
Your heart will heal, but you will have a broken heart the rest of your life. This broken heart will ache because you will never again look into those eyes that brought you so much joy. You will never again hold that dear child again, and you will always ache to do so. I hope that despite this ache, this pain, this sorrow, and this feeling that life just can't go on, you will find the resilience and the hope and courage to heal.
To the mothers of all those who lost a child today, I would say...
You are now a member of a club none of us ever wanted to join.
All of us who have lost children hold you in our prayers. We know of your pain. We share your pain. You are truly not alone. You will heal best if you gather all the support around you that you can. Grieving is a solitary action in many ways, but it is also one that also requires much support from others.
It is much to soon to tell these devastating parents these words that I have written.
No one has words for such a time as this.
No one.
In time, I pray you know the comfort that comes from knowing your precious child lives on in your memory.
Your child will always be held safely there in your heart.
To all the parents who lost children in this unspeakable way,
I would say...
There are no words to convey my sorrow.
There are no words that can begin to convey the pain that I feel for you as I think of you walking down that path that is in front of you.
I know there will be so many legal details for you to deal with. That will be hard.
I know there are so many questions that will never be answered.
My prayer is that you will be strong, and that you will weep, but that in that weeping you will find healing.
_
Easter was a few days ago. Currently, the dining room table extended to its full 9’ length is covered with the vestiges of all that went into creating a memorable setting for our family Easter Sunday dinner:
a tablecloth with scenes of bunnies frolicking in green grass among colorful spring flowers and butterflies and dragonflies
a vase of cut tulips that are beginning to droop
40 year old Avon bunny candle holders, reminders of my days many years ago when I was an Avon lady. They too await to be gathered up with all of the other Easter decorations that need to be carefully placed in their designated storage containers and placed back on the shelf
my mother’s fine china, service for twelve, which has been hand washed, dried, and stacked at the end of the table where it too waits to be stored in the china cabinet.
The day before Easter, I ventured out for one last purchase as I prepared for hosting Easter dinner: paper plates and paper napkins.
Easter morning the girls arrived to help me prepare dinner. As I was chopping up eggs to go in the potato salad, I made an announcement to my daughters as Keicha was frosting the cake she made while Amy was making peeps on skateboards that would bring a bit of whimsy and fun to grandchildren. “We will be using paper plates and paper napkins this year, but we will use real cutlery rather plastic.” They responded loudly and in unison, “Mother, no! We will not! “ One then said and was quickly seconded by the other, “Aren’t you the one who hates paper plates for holiday celebrations? Aren’t you the one that says it just isn’t civilized if you don’t use the best dishes for family celebrations?”
“Yes, I know, but I’m old and tired and it’s so much work.”
I was voted down. We would use the very best dishes and cloth napkins. Actually, I was glad they insisted that we hold to tradition. After all, when they were all small children we got out the good china, the set I bought just prior to my marriage to their father 55 years ago in anticipation of all those family traditions being carried on in my own family, . They were babies, toddlers, or young children when I began making sure on special occasions dinner was served properly with the best dishes. Thankfully, they did not let me drop the tradition I started and sustained all these years when we had those rare occasions when we could be together as a family, even if some treasured family members could not be with us.
This morning, as I started putting Easter away for another year, I noticed a book has been left on the table. Bumble bees in flight are on the cover. The title of the book is: Early Learning, Touch and Feel.” The book teaches the alphabet. Auntie Amy had been reading it after dinner with my youngest grandchild who turns five next Saturday.
He was the star of the day as the other grandchildren are now adults. He searched for Easter eggs, and picked out his favorite jellybeans. I asked which ones he liked best. “Red,” he said. “Well, red are my favorite too,” I said. “Red jelly beans are among my favorite things in this life.” We have that in common.
He wanted to know our favorite colors. Most of us love red. He does too. He loves to cuddle with Auntie Amy and tells Auntie Keicha she must come see his room. “He’s made some improvements.” His words.
I bask in the glow that comes from remembering how much life this house had within it for Easter Sunday. Chaos seemed to reign at times as I tried to remember how to get the ham cooked and ready at the same time the rolls were baking so I could air fry the asparagus at the last minute and get the potato salad transferred from my huge mixing bowl to a serving bowl.
As I did final preparations for our Easter meal, I found myself saying, “Think Sally. What do you need to do next?” Amy said, “Mom you seem to be talking to yourself about thinking instead of just doing what needs to be done next.” “Right Amy. Good observation. That’s what happens when you are old.” With a lot of help, the table was set, the food was prepared, the dinner was served. We all had a wonderful fellowship as we enjoyed fabulous meal. The cleanup took hours it seemed, but that too was worth it.
Easter almost always comes in April. My daughter Julie was born in April. She is linked with the season in ways that are so intertwined that the day of Easter itself is a bittersweet day for me. The last time I saw her alive was Easter Day 2010.
We’d had a huge celebration on the day before. Nearly all of the children were there with their children. I think we had twelve grandchildren and eleven adults in attendance. We celebrated three upcoming birthdays. Julie’s thirty-fourth was one of them. That night three of my grandchildren, two age twelve and one age eight had dyed Easter eggs at my kitchen with help their moms and Aunt Julie. Many photos were snapped. Many happy memories were made.
The next morning, Jim had to get out the battery cables to charge one of the cars before the girls could leave. I don’t remember which car’s battery had died, but I remember that with all the last minute packing of cars and charging of a dead battery, I didn’t actually hug Julie good-bye as she drove off with her car loaded with sisters and nieces and a nephew to head back to northern Colorado. I stood on the driveway waving and blowing kisses never imagining I’d never see her alive again in this life.
as we always do, but mostly we celebrated being together with so much laughter, tomfoolery, deep conversation, and conversation not so deep.
The Easter celebration this year was the first time I’d had most of my chicks around my table since the long season of separation imposed by the Pandemic began. I had wondered so often during those days when we would ever all be together again in my home.
This weekend that liminal space, the space between what once was that we believed was a given for family celebrations, and what became a long season of waiting with such longing to be seated around a table sharing a meal, was transversed. Such joy! Such gratitude. I hope I never take these precious times of family gathering for granted.
Such celebrations do require bringing out the best china and the cloth napkins. They are not throwaway times. Family time around the table are times to be treasured, remembered, tended and carefully nurtured as we look forward to the next time we hope to be reunited.
The book “Early Learning” left on the table by the five year old and his forty-eight year old aunt speaks volumes to me as I reflect on a devotion entitled “Good Enough” in Kate Bowler’s recent devotional called by the same title, “Good Enough.”
She writes of those of us who have more past behind us than future before us. She says we must allow ourselves “gentle honesty” and accept that the God who numbers the hairs on our head also numbers our days. I am very aware of my finitude in this season of my life.
Leon, my youngest grandchild keeps asking me how old I am as he seems to try to grasp how he at five could know a grandmother who is seventy-seven. He counts the decades. He can do that at his young age. I too count the decades and know I may not have many left unless I’m like my mother who lived to be nearly one hundred and four. No matter the number of days I have before me, I do not see as much future ahead as I have past behind me.
At the table we have our early learning about family and tradition and love and respect and all that goes into trying to create functional families despite our dysfunctions.
The five year old and the grandmother have this in common according to Kate Bowler as she relates a study by Dr. Adults Gawande: we are both at “that beautiful, precious core,” the place where the young and the old most want to be, “spending time with the closest friends and family.”*
In early learnings, my grandson seems to have learned “to love what already is. Our nearest and dearest. The people we couldn’t get rid of if we tried.” *
And who would want to. They are the “nearest and dearest to my heart.” We are far from perfect. I’m not sure any of us ever had reaching perfection as our life ambition. We just try to live the best we can day by day. We clean up well. We have good manners. We know which fork to pick up etc. We complain and say “I’m not ironing the tablecloth. Mother, why don’t you have the tablecloths ironed already?” It wouldn’t be a holiday if that conversation didn’t take place. It’s been one we’ve had for years.
I gave up ironing tablecloths during the pandemic, and Leon asks me why we always have one on the table, not noticing it isn’t even ironed if they stop by for an informal dinner. He thinks it’s all rather silly to put a cloth on a perfectly good table.
In the year 2020, I mused on Easter Sunday that I had learned that we could have a wonderful Easter without bunnies, bouquets, and bonnets, but oh how I missed having family around me.
This Easter we put on our finest, and we tease, and we hope to capture some good photos. My “kids” now in their forties and fifties won’t sit still and smile properly for the family photo just like they did when they were little, so we did not get a proper photo. Some things never change no matter how old they are. They remember pranks and know exactly how to cause a sibling to cringe. “Don’t touch my collarbone!”
For me, the times I am blessed to have with family are more than enough. Yes, I wish we all could be together, but sometimes time and distance and schedules do allow such visits. My heart is full of the love we shared as we celebrated this Easter together.
I am in the season of being grateful for what is, no matter what that “is” may be. Who could ever want more? If I have days surrounded by those I love best that is more than “good enough” for me.
P. S. Good enough whether we use the good china and cloth napkins or not.
quote from “Good Enough - 40ish Devotionals For A Life of Imperfection” by Kate Bowler and Jessica Richie
Today, if she were still with us, my daughter Julie would turn 46.
Recently, my therapist asked me how I handle anniversary dates such as my daughter’s birthdate and the date of her death. “Carefully, and mindfully.” I responded. “I don’t make plans, and I have learned, the hard way, not to schedule major, or even minor, medical procedures on or near those dates. I honor the days as ones that may or may not brings difficult emotions, and so I give myself space and time to just be on those days.”
Each anniversary date brings the possibility of difficult emotions. On her birthdate, that day belongs just to her. I remember the gift that I was given on this day, a beautiful April day in 1976, when the daffodils and her birth marked the end of long and difficult winter. My springtime pixie arrived bringing sunshine and laughter with her from her earliest days.
My fourth child and third daughter, when placed in my arms for the very first time locked her blue eyes on mine and smiled a Julie smile. I’ll never forget that moment. I’d never experienced a newborn bonding in such a powerful way with me as a mother like Julie did just after her birth. It was a knowing look, knowing what I did not know, but she seemed to be an old soul and the bond I felt was not like any other in my life.
Julie being admired by her sisters when she first arrived at home
On her birthdate, I sometimes wonder how she would be in her 40’s, but in truth, I can’t picture her graying or approaching mid-life.
In my mind, she remains a vibrant 34 year old woman.
Julie and her dog Phoenix in April 2010 - the last photo I ever took of her
I once had a dream about Julie.
In my dream, someone asked how old Julie was.
I said,
"She has no age.
She is ageless.
She now belongs to the ages."
Julie is no longer bound by time.
She is timeless.
We mark time since she left us because we in this earthly realm are bound by time. We say, “It’s hard to imagine Julie at 46, or we’ll say, I can’t believe she’s been gone for twelve years. Yes, we link our memory of her in time frames, time frames that never get new pictures of her, never allow new memories to be made. The memories we have of her took place in 34 short years, and then she was gone, and the loss of her remains as new and fresh as the moment she left us. The shock of it all is tempered only by remembering the joy that she was while she was here in our midst.
A free-spirit, a deeply reflective and kind soul, Julie had a textured and complex personality. That impish quality that was so evident in her early life was a quality she always had. This made her a fun friend to have and the very best auntie to her beloved nieces and nephews. She lit up every room she entered and her moves on the dance floor were amazing. If her favorite song “Footloose” from her favorite movie was playing she would dance with abandon. That is why so many never knew of the tortured moments she had when bi-polar disorder would rob her of happiness when she sank into deep depression. She would become opaque and unknowable during these times. She wanted it way. She didn’t want others to know how she suffered.
Julie was courageous.
She was once described to me as a valiant warrior against the mental illness that did not define her life, but did impact her is devastating ways.
When she was eighteen she had her first bout with severe depression. She fought a battle with depression her entire adult life. Her mood disorder sometimes caused her to be moody, distant, troubled, detached, insecure. Her moods were overwhelming to her and to others.
Still, she showed up.
She was independent, and wise, and trustworthy.
She was smart, imaginative, logical.
She was a very hard worker and was a valued employee.
She earned a B.A. in English.
She loved to read.
Her favorite author was Virginia Woolf.
She kept journals.
She liked to write and was an excellent writer.
On this day, the day of her birth, I celebrate the gift this beautiful soul was to my life. I celebrate and honor the life she lived in the face of so much pain and yet was also marked by so much joy. I give thanks for the bond we shared, one that began the first time I held her in my arms. She was the one who so often was there with an arm protectively draped on my shoulder. I hear her voice now calling me “mamacita,” her little mama. I think of the long talks we had about her school work, the books she was reading, her thoughts on equity and social justice, or maybe they were painful talks about guys who were breaking her heart.
I remember the last time I went on a long walk with her and Amy. They were training for some race, so I walked along as they slowly jogged beside me until we came to the place where they were going to speed up. Julie said, “Mom, when you get tired, just turn around and go back to the car. We’ll probably catch up with you before you get there, but we’ll be back for you, Mom.” I see her running on ahead with her long athletic legs and remember her words. She was always so protective and loving towards me.
Amy and Julie running in a half marathon
After her death, I was grateful she never knew how her death shattered my heart. Comfort came from knowing that as much as I loved her, I knew that my God loved her more and that she was in a place where there are no more tears.
Sometimes, I have times when I’ve wondered how the hope and the promise that a mother has when she first cuddles new life placed in her arms after birth of a child can withstand the the loss of of hope and promise that comes with the death of that child. There are no human answers for such loss.
Lament of this magnitude yields to a new kind of hope, a supernatural hope, the kind that comes from not from within and is not bound by dreams to be fulfilled in this lifetime. It is a deep and abiding peace filled hope that has come as a grace as I have mourned for loss of this beautiful life. Jesus said, “Blessed are those who mourn, for they will be comforted.” Comfort is supernaturally given by the Shepherd of my soul.
Life, faith, and hope all shift and take on new meaning after great loss. They are no longer theological concepts, nor are they words on the page of the Bible. I did not hold on to my faith when Julie died, it held me. My hope shifted from all the hope I had for her life to a new and living hope, one that assures me “my hope comes from him. He is my rock…he is is my fortress.”
The birth of Julie and her life is celebrated on this day.
Loving her, celebrating her, is something I still get to keep doing.
I don’t think birthdays are celebrated in heaven because remember, heaven is not time bound.
On this day when I celebrate your birth and life Julie, I think of you as now truly being ageless, timeless. I am grateful that you are free from pain and all that kept you bound while you were on this earth. I celebrate the miracle of you and all the joy and love and that you brought to those that continue to love you with an everlasting love.
Teaching in a Toxic Environment. Twenty-six years ago today, I became very ill while teaching in a classroom with air full of toxic chemicals. On that day, I finally had enough documentation to show that the classroom was not a safe one for my students or for me. Many of the details of the initial exposure are fresh in my mind. It took me years to get over the emotional effects of learning I was teaching in a very unsafe environment. I believe I carry the physical effects of the chemical exposure in my body today. I’ve never again been healthy like I was twenty-six years ago. The doctor’s notes, the legal papers, tell the tale. If they weren’t in my possession, sometime I wonder if even I would believe this story of my first year of teaching.
Read MoreQuite frankly, much of January has been a slog this year. Forgive me while I indulge in a word study as I attempt to find language to describe how I have managed to get through all the many aspects of the month.
When I first began the journey towards healing from the effects of being under a surgeons knife,
I thought I might create a bit of poetry each day.
Instead, I found myself
floundering,
bogged down,
and
dragging myself through each day
without even picking up a pen
to write the simplest of sentences
to describe how hard it has been to live in an aging body
that is trying to heal from surgery,
and an infection developed at the incision site.
Trudging along in a broken down body
in
a month filled with endless dark and dreary days,
truly did seem to be like a slog across frozen tundra.
That rhyme we learned as children goes like this:
“Thirty days hath September, April, June, and November. All the rest have thirty-one, except February...”
I say to you, if January only has thirty-one days, it sure has fooled me! This January seems like it has been going on for years now.
As I have spent time sitting in my chair in my study resting, reading, and recouping, I’ve also been doing a bit of reflecting.
I knew I needed to have a change in my perspective.
So, I went looking for beauty outside of my four walls.
January is not all dreariness and darkness. Thankfully, like all of life, January also has days of both sunshine and shadows.
In life we experience joy mingled with grief. We find hope in the midst of desperation.
Thankfully, in all of the hours that could have been experienced as isolation, I have instead found times of sacred solitude that have allowed me to heal internally, spiritually, and emotionally.
I’ve learned that:
Thankfully, those January days experienced as one long journey of attempting to plough along across frozen earth were often followed by days of glorious beauty.
One day, I awakened to a brilliant blue sky providing the perfect background for trees covered with hoarfrost. Looking heavenward, grateful to drink in the wonder of the artistry of a God who gives glimpses of the mystery and majesty that He brings to all creation, I realized anew that his mercies truly are new every morning.
Rime on Trees Against a January Blue sky in Colorado. Photo by Sally Wessely
The sky is blue.
The snow is melting.
The paper whites are fading.
Winter.
Is is over?
January,
you confuse me at times.
The view from my window says come outside and play in the sun.
Are brumal days and nights over?
Is Mama Bear being tempted on this fine Saturday morning to emerge from her hibernaculum?
Her secret winter home,
dug within the hillside
covered with majestic Ponderosa pines
that I see outside my window,
may also be heating up in this weather.
A winter landscape in Colorado. Photo by Sally Wessely
Will she be out today?
Or will she,
like I,
prefer to stay tucked inside a cozy den
where one does not have to deal with the vicissitudes of weather and life?*
It has been a blessing to have been protected from the many vicissitudes of life during this time of hibernation and healing.
*This poem was first written by me on January 17, 2015 after I was inspired by a FaceBook post by the author Patricia Polocco where she said, "Make today count...not in a "get more work done" way....but use this day to heal your mind from all the garbage you have dealt with all week, that can't be helped.”
Today is December 23, and I have never been so totally unprepared for Christmas! There are no presents under the tree because in order to have presents under a tree, I would have had to purchase some gifts, which I have not done. I’ve not done one bit of Christmas shopping. I’ve not made one cookie, one loaf of fruit cake, nor have I made any Christmas candy. In fact, I’ve not even made a meal for nearly three weeks.
I’m not Scrooge, nor have I done what I’ve threatened to do for years - skipped Christmas. I am so unprepared for the very fast approaching Christmas Day because I had major surgery on December 6. Then two weeks later, just when I decided to get my Christmas groove on, get out the credit card, and start ordering from Amazon, I developed an infection that manifested itself in the surgical incision.
That meant that I was hospitalized for a few days and then discharged earlier this week to be cared for by home health care nurses and family members. Thank goodness, my step-daughter is a nurse, and she graciously stepped up to fill the gap and has been managing my care when home health has not been able to. So far, I’ve dodged going to a rehabilitation site for round the clock care, and I hope that trend continues.
Prior to having surgery, I had one Christmas goal: get the tree up and get it decorated. In part, I did this for selfish reasons. I wanted some Christmas cheer to greet me when I got home from the hospital.
Christmas 2021
Advent, a time of longing, of anticipation, of hope, was going to look different for me this year. I knew that. I also wondered what I would learn about this season that would be lived out in an entirely new way in 2021. I knew that old traditions would not be carried on; I just hoped to heal uneventfully in the quiet peace and comfort of my own home.
I was not looking for any special miracles, but soon I realized that each new day since my surgery contained at least one miracle of healing, provision, and/or protection. I was, and still am, very vulnerable, as I have been healing from all that has been involved in having surgery this time of year.
“The celebration of Advent is possible only to those who are troubled in soul, who know themselves to be poor and imperfect, and who look forward to something greater to come. ”
As I ponder, this quote by Dietrich Bonhoeffer, I am reminded of another Christmas Season when I was so “troubled in soul” and very poor.
The year was 1982.
The place was Ogden, Utah.
After sixteen years of marriage, earlier in that fateful year, unemployed, and a stay at home mom to five children under the age of fifteen, I suddenly was left with no means of financial or physical support when my husband left the family home. By the time Christmas rolled around that year, our situation was dire. I had no money at all. I was also under protective orders because of the physical abuse that I suffered at the hands of this man.
In November of that year, I had made a very major change in my religious and social life. I had left the Mormon Church, publicly declaring that I was renouncing my belief in it and my affiliation with it as I went forward to rededicate my life to Jesus Christ in a tiny Baptist church in my neighborhood.
To say that my life was upended with that decision is an understatement. Despite the upheaval of my circumstances, my faith was strong, and my life felt more anchored than it ever had been before.
A few weeks before Christmas, I was asked to share my story of redeeming grace at a shelter for the homeless that was sponsored by Christian churches in the area. When I returned home that day, I wondered how much longer I could survive before I too might be among the homeless, and yet that possibility did not really seem to be a probability as I knew that in time the legalities of a divorce would provide for the basic needs for my children and for myself as we would move into the future. I had returned to college and was working towards a teaching certificate, so I had hope for a future career.
The worry looming the largest in my mind was about how I would give my children some sort of Christmas. I went out for a run/walk and cried out to the Lord about my circumstances as my feet beat against the pavement. “Lord,” I prayed, “I just want my kids to have a Christmas Day that does not make them feel impoverished. Please provide us with what I will need for a Christmas meal, a gift for each child, and some simple pleasures like cookies and peanut brittle.” Making homemade peanut brittle was tradition that went back to memories of Christmas I had as a child.
The next day, my door bell rang. The chaplain from the homeless shelter was at my door. He said that they had decided that my family needed a Christmas gift box after hearing my story. I felt a bit awkward as I graciously thanked him for bringing us the gift. I’d never had to receive such gifts before. Usually, we were the ones having the kids buy a gift for those less fortunate as we gathered canned goods from our stock to share with others.
After the chaplain left, I gratefully began to take the contents from the box: a turkey, ten pounds of potatoes, canned goods including cranberry sauce, gifts for the children, sugar, flour, one pound of real butter, and, (can you believe it?) corn syrup and Spanish peanuts! Who puts Spanish peanuts in a Christmas box for the less fortunate? The short answer is: God does. I had every ingredient to make peanut brittle!
Whenever I begin to doubt God’s Providence and how He has always been faithful to provide for me, I remember those Spanish peanuts. There is not doubt that God heard my prayer that day when I wondered how I would provide for my children. He answered with this: I will provide. I will always provide. I will provide to uttermost. I will put Spanish peanuts in a box to help you remember that I am faithful.
Christmas miracles come in unexpected ways.
This year, nearly 40 years after that Christmas miracle of the Spanish peanuts, I have been reminded over and over again, that I can’t and shouldn’t get so caught up in providing perfect gifts and experiences for my loved ones; instead, I am to remember that in weakness and in dependence we most come to know the exceedingly miraculous good news that Jesus Himself is the only true and lasting gift that we can either give or receive.
As Bonhoeffer said, He is the reason we “look forward to something greater to come.”
This year, as 2021, comes to an end, so many are weary, and needy, and sad, and in deep grief. We long for better things to come as we move towards the new year.
We may feel very alone.
We long for a Christmas miracle.
Take heart.
The Christmas Miracle is best found when we are feeling most troubled and vulnerable. He seeks the poor in spirit.
“It is an exceedingly strange and seemingly ridiculous plan. In a world drunk with a desire for power and filled with those who take what they want by force, the miracle of Christmas is one of weakness not strength. It is a suggestion that divine love is more powerful than we think.”
My prayer for each of you is that you will find comfort and strength from this beautiful passage in Isaiah.
“Fear thou not; For I am with thee: be not dismayed; for I am thy God: I will strengthen thee; yea, I will help thee; yea, I will uphold thee with the right hand my righteousness. ”
( I quoted the King James Version of this verse because sometimes I just need to remember the beauty of the language of the King James Version, and I love the punctuation too! )
We are not alone, my dear friends. God Himself knows of our every need. May you experience your very own Christmas miracle this year. Let me know if it includes Spanish peanuts.
To Take For Granted
An Idiom
1. fail to properly appreciate (someone or something), especially as a result of overfamiliarity.
2. assume that something is true without questioning it.* This blog post is not about hair loss. Well, to be honest, and to give full disclosure, it is somewhat about hair loss; however, if you haven’t lost your hair, and if you hope you never lose your hair, don’t stop reading.
Like I said, I took my hair on my head for granted until I lost it.
Then, when I lost most of my hair, I suddenly realized that there was more to this outcropping of protein filament called keratin that sprouted from follicles found in my dermis than just something to wash, dry, and style.
In my case, my hair was my style.
It was also my identity.
I was known by my curls since hair first began to grow on my head as an infant. Everyone commented on my hair from my earliest of days. “Look at her beautiful curls.” My hair became an important factor in how I presented myself to the world.
On rainy days, or in climates with a lot of humidity, I dreaded the lack of control I had over those curly locks that I took for granted. Once, after I had lost my hair, I came across a photo taken in front of a waterfall. I remember being unhappy that day prior to the photo being snapped because my of my unruly hair. On that day, I had no idea that when I would see that photo a few years later I would cry, not over the unruly curls, or even over the loss of hair. I actually cried over the lack of gratitude I had for something I thought was a given in life.
My Strands of Silver - My bio hair and me at Buttermilk Falls in Ithaca, New York, September 2011
I also spent a whole lot of time complaining about my hair until I lost it. In fact, I used to say, “I hate my hair.” more often than I ever expressed gratitude for it. Gratitude for hair was not even on my radar.
In essence, in the process of losing my hair, I learned that my sense of gratitude was largely based on a belief that I was blessed because of all the abundance I had in my life.
It took the stripping away of a basic “given” in life, something I had always had and could not imagine losing, for me to learn a basic truth about gratitude:
One of the earliest hymn I remember learning in Sunday school as a child had theses words in it.
“ Count your blessings, name them one by one. Count your many blessings, see what God has done.”
There is great benefit in counting blessings. I’m not discounting the counting of blessings, the naming of all for which one should give thanks. Giving thanks does involve naming and counting, but
I am asserting that:
Just as we can’t count the hairs on our head, those things for which we could count as blessings are often easily overlooked. They are taken for granted. They are taken for granted to such a degree that we wouldn’t even think to count them, to name them, to give thanks for them.
A few Sundays ago, in our Sunday school class, we sat with our Bibles open to Habakkuk considering the lessons of that book in the Bible. Imagine if Habakkuk had been taught that the only way to recognize a blessing was by naming it, counting it, speaking words of gratitude for each large and small blessing in life.
Would he have said, “Counting all these blossoms on this fig tree makes me want to give gratitude for the blessing of knowing that soon we will have an abundant crop of figs?”
Do you remember what he said? He said,
“Though the fig tree should not blossom, nor fruit be on the vines...yet I will rejoice in the God of my salvation.”
Habakkuk was not taking that fig crop for granted. In fact, we was considering the day when the fig crop might not produce any figs at all. Instead of a crop of figs, he was counting on, rejoicing in, and giving gratitude for the One from whom the figs would either be given or withheld.
Grace teaches us to not live expecting those exterior things in our lives that we take for granted.
Grace teaches us to look on the interior of our lives to a deeper source provision, for identity and sense of well being.
Grace teaches us to find transcendence and beauty beyond that which is temporal in nature.
Grace gives generative gratitude, gratitude capable of being reproductive.
True generative gratitude enables us to grow, but it not only enables us to grow; it helps us help others grow because grace given gratitude comes from a source outside of ourselves.
I believe there is a mystical transformation when we begin to see life altering loss as a work of grace . This transformation helps us experience gratitude in ways we never would have known before.
I’ve never known how to describe this transformation. I sometimes have said it results in an expansion of the soul. I had nothing to do with the transformation I’ve experienced in how I experience gratitude, it was something that happened within me over time. It was truly a work of grace.
Henry David Thoreau gave us language for what I think is the essence of gratitude - the expansion of the soul which comes from being grateful for more than just the material things of life.
“The soul grows by subtraction, not addition.”
Gratitude comes from trusting in the Hand of Providence rather than in all that Providence has provided.
September has long been one of my favorites months.
There was a time, when I was raising my five children when the trees were heavy with fruit waiting to be harvested and to be preserved.
September days were filled with making breakfast, lunch, and dinner,
picking fruit and canning it,
picking tomatoes and canning them, and
caring for five children born in a span of ten years.
September was a happy, busy time.
There was a time in September, when I would walk out onto the back deck of our home and I could smell the fall air rich with the smell of grapes ready to harvested.
The air had cooled, and the first light frost would have set the flavors in the grapes.
Now it was time to make grape juice and grape jelly.
Julie & Sally harvesting grapes.
Once heated, the grapes were crushed, and soon I would make sweet tasting grape juice and grape jelly.
Now, September bring reminders of crushing grief.September reminds this mom that she now has an awareness that she never could have imagined all those Septembers ago when days were filled with so much happy activity.
If September were a song ,
a verse has been added to my September song that I didn't see coming.
At the beginning of summer, on Memorial Day Weekend, eleven years ago, my beautiful Julie died by suicide.
The first night I returned home after my daughter's suicide, I wondered how I would make it.
I no longer understood anything about my life.
My past made no sense.
My future...well, I couldn't even foresee a future because I was trying to make sense of the present.
““Catastrophic loss is like undergoing a loss of our identity.” ”
Nothing about my life,
nor any understanding of who I was,
made any sense to me in the days just after my daughter’s death.
The words in the song of my life had been altered.
The happy tune I’d always sung was now a dirge.
A new verse to my song of life had been written.
It was a lament.
The song, this verse I kept singing over and over was
discordant
and out of
rhythm
with all the rest of the songs of my past.
For nearly the full first week after my daughter’s death, I was surrounded by family. My children and grandchildren all cloistered together at the home of one of my daughters. Here, sheltered from the outside world, shell-shocked, stunned by the shock of losing our dearly loved sister, aunt, daughter, friend, in such an unexpected and devastating way, we somehow simultaneously held on to each other and held each other together. There were arrangements to be made, decisions to make, breakfast, lunch, and dinner to make for our large group. It was a time of togetherness when family love and devotion became the glue that truly kept us as individuals and as a group from shattering into a million little pieces. As mom, I found myself both being protected by my large tribe and acting as the protector for the tribe and for each member of it.
Then I had to go home and face the rest of my life.Climbing into my bed that first night after I returned home,
I was too numb to fathom how
I would get up and live the next morning.
A friend had given me a book at the service we held for my daughter. It was more a picture book than a story book. Pictures I could look at. Words I could not read. I picked up the book and began to glance at the back cover. On it I read these words:
“Thank you, Lord, for all that I learn from my brokenness, for the courage it takes to live with my pain, and for the strength it takes to remain on the shore.”
The story, the pictures, spoke to me. I had never felt so broken, and I did not know how one could find beauty in brokenness. Yet, somehow, my shattered soul, was comforted by this book, and this scripture from the Psalms.
“The Lord is close to the brokenhearted;
and those who are crushed in spirit He saves.”
Since those days when I first lost my daughter to suicide,
a new verse has been added to of my September song.
It has been added to the verses that speak of loss, remembrance, and broken hearts.
This verse in my song is sung every September when I am reminded that it is once again
Suicide Prevention and Awareness Month.
I am a suicide survivor.
In the beginning of my journey as the mother of one who has completed suicide, I did not know that I would have a new title: suicide survivor. This term is applied to family members or close friends of a person who has died by suicide.
Now, by sharing my story, I hope to bring hope to other survivors of suicide.
In time, the pain of brokenness became less devastating.
I began to hold both brokenness and beauty together.
Integration of loss and newness began to take place.
For me, this verse of my September song, does not end in hopelessness.
It ends in hope and healing.
Despite the verse in my song that I did not want included,
there is a refrain that is repeated throughout the song of my life.
This refrain speaks of
joy,
hope,
healing,
and of the faithfulness of God,
who now holds my sweet Julie in His arms
and comforts me with His presence.
He sends me
people,
so many wonderful people,
who have loved and supported me and my family.
This is my September song.
It is a beautiful song because it speaks of love.
Julie & Mom celebrating Julie’s college graduation.
A Photo of Sally Wessely teaching High School English
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I am a retired English teacher turned blogger. This is a place where stories are written by a woman who writes to find meaning in all of the vicissitudes of life. I hope you will join me as I write about and explore a life filled with love, laughter, family, friendship, loss, grief, joy, growth, and so much grace.
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