A Memorial Day Remembrance–or should I say, in deference to the past, “A Decoration Day Remembrance”

Zmmm—Zmmm—Zmmm—Zmmm: The sound never stopped. The only way to get away from it was to go to the far corner inside the house. But I didn’t want to go in because Dad was outside and I wanted to be where he was. He was tinkering with the lawnmower, So I just hunkered down on my heels and watched.  “What’s that?” I asked, pointing to something square that was off to the side of the mower. “What are you doing with it?” He didn’t really answer me; he just pointed to it and kept on using the screwdriver.

Then Mother came out and called to me, so I followed her. She put a box with some glass Mason jars on the well platform and moved on with the scissors in her hand. “Come along; you can help me choose the flowers,” she said.  We headed to the bank of bright pink peonies. I pointed to this one and that one. Sometimes she cut the ones I pointed to, and sometimes she didn’t. When she handed them to me, I took them rather gingerly: they smelled heavenly, but usually ants were  buried in the blossoms. Then we headed to the bushes back by the fence where the white peonies were. She mixed those in with the pink ones and we headed back to the jars. She primed the pump and the water gushed into the jars—one, two, three, four, five. Then she placed the peonies equally in the jars.

Zmmm—Zmmm—Zmmm—Zmmm. The sounds continued in the background. I was tired of hearing it. Sometimes I could hear the crowd roaring; other times the Zmmm sound almost went silent and I could hear men yelling. Then the steady fast sound began again: Zmmm—Zmmm—Zmmm—Zmmm.

“What lap are they on?” Mother asked.

“I think it’s about 150. It’ll be about another hour,” said Dad.

“Okay,” Mother said, “then I’ll start dinner.”

I stayed outside with Dad. I knew Mother had already made potato salad, and I knew she’d be frying the meat now. I’d just be in the way if I went in. I’d go later—she’d let me put the napkins on the table.

Finally the Zmmm-Zmmm-Zmmm-Zmmm ended; Dad rolled the lawnmower around to the back of the house, and we went in, after washing our hands at the pump.

“Did an American win?” Mother asked.

“Yes, a young guy named Troy Ruttman. The foreigner’s car lost a wheel; he had to pull out.”

“That’s good. I’m glad there weren’t any wrecks today.”

“No, it was a pretty good race—about four hours. Each year the cars get faster.”

After the holiday dinner, we loaded into the car with all the jars full of peonies. The whole car was full of the almost overwhelming sweet scent of the peonies. My sister and I were in charge of making sure they didn’t tip over with all that water in them. We made two stops, first to the cemetery in town, and then to the one that was in the country on the other side of town—three jars for the first stop; two for the second. It didn’t take any time at all. Mother and Dad knew exactly where they were going. From one grave to another—right in a line—one, two, three.  I didn’t know the people—they were dead before I was born—a grandpa, a grandma, an aunt. At the other cemetery was the grave of a cousin and my dad’s favorite uncle, Uncle Bill—he had died when Dad was a boy.

When we went home, the holiday was over. Even though it was a Friday, the day was almost like a Sunday. With Dad home from work all day, we had our big meal at noon, and we would eat cold cuts for supper.  And it was too late to stay outside—it was still cool at night. I wanted to play with paper dolls, but my sister wanted to read, so I got my dolls and went to the corner behind the stove. Back there I could play as I wanted—none of my dolls made Zmmm noises, but they did go to the cemetery with flowers.

How long ago all of this happened. Now if I would go to the two cemeteries, there would be more graves to visit—My mother’s, my dad’s, my brother’s, my sister’s, my nephew’s, and my niece’s. So many losses through the years. But I still thrill a little when I hear the Indy 500, although it’s a faster race now, trimming off at least a half-hour from the old days. One thing that hasn’t changed is the danger of serious wrecks. Flowers on graves? Yes, some people do observe the tradition. Special barbeques seem to abound now, but not so much then. It was a simpler time, but special for the same reason it is now—a time with family, doing the things that families do when they are together.

Day 39: Wednesday, May 20, 2020

Pandemic. Plague. Pollution. Poverty. And many more words that don’t start with “p” that describe some of the worst problems in our society: Corruption. Racism. Greed. Lust. Dishonesty. Idolatry.

Idolatry? Not a word we use to describe anything in the world today, except, perhaps, in a metaphorical sense when talking about the material goods, the people, the activities that we end up giving all of our attention to—in other words, worshipping. In Leviticus 26, the voice of God, through Moses, speaks to the children of Israel about what will happen to them if they “make idols” for themselves. “Making idols” spans a host of bad behaviors and attitudes in God’s eyes. It includes the complete spectrum of the sins of this world, all of which might come under the category of disrespecting God, not honoring or not giving God what is due to the Creator and Sustainer of the universe.

The chapter continues  beyond the “thou shalt not” to the consequences of the idolatry: The four “p”s above cover most of those consequences; however, the consequences are not simple—they are compounded in the biblical equivalent of perfect disaster: seven times the pandemic, the plaque, the pollution, the poverty, and finally, the exile, will be heaped upon the people for their idolatry and disobedience.

While reading the passage, I thought of those that I have heard speak or write the words that our world is being punished in this time of pandemic for our idolatry and disobedience, that God is trying to get our attention, that we have condemned ourselves to this current situation. Although I believe that God, in all the “omni-”s, is great enough to bring such a punishment upon the world, my belief is not that God works in our world in such ways. In general, our world, indeed, our universe, is orderly. Even when some natural chaotic event occurs, it is, within the purview of the whole of creation, an ordinary outcome of the interaction of the elements that God has created. Also, it is not my belief that God would choose to punish all people for the sins of some, especially since God, at least in our Christian understanding of God, is waiting till the end of time to bring creation to justice.

And, yet, I do believe that the attention of the world to the problems of this world has been heightened in this time of pandemic. Over 324,000 deaths to date is enough to gain our attention, regardless of the cause. Beyond the sheer magnitude of the number of deaths worldwide, we are turning our attention to other problems. We now understand that the Siamese twins racism and poverty work quite well together to bring about more cases and more deaths from the virus than would occur in wealthier, more developed populations. With the deathly devastation, perhaps at least some of us in the world will be willing to shine a light on the greed and corruption and prejudice that has allowed those twins to prosper. Perhaps we will dare vote out those who vote to their advantage rather than from their conscience. Perhaps we will dare to look at our own behaviors, attitudes, and indifferences that have allowed the twins to prosper in our world.

Our world has also been paying attention to pollution—or lack thereof—during this time of pandemic. “Before” and “during” images of sites around the world testify to the fact that our staying-at-home status has cleaned up the atmosphere and the waters. We can see such sites as the Taj Mahal, the statue of Christ the Redeemer, the canals of Venice, the skyscrapers of Beijing in all their glory because the skies are clearer than they have been in years. In Leviticus 26, God not only talks about what will happen to the people as a consequence of their idolatry, but what will happen to the land: the land will have its sabbath rest at long last. Earlier, God had outlined the planting and harvesting cycles, with the built-in seventh year of sabbath. In this chapter, Moses recounts God’s words that the punishment of the people will bring about the good to the land. I’m not equating our pandemic to the punishment of the children of Israel, but I am noting that our earth is being allowed a sabbath in which the air, the water, and all of nature are benefiting. Perhaps we will dare to turn from our greedy consumption of fossil fuels. Perhaps we will dare to shun plastic and other synthetics and turn to natural materials. Perhaps we will dare to cooperate globally to solve the global problem so that “after” pictures don’t look like the “before” pictures.

Buried in the middle of Arthur Miller’s award-winning play Death of a Salesman are the words “Attention must be paid.” Willy’s wife Linda is exhorting her two sons to understand and pay homage to their father, who, regardless of his failure as a salesman, is worthy of their respect, their admiration, their love because he is a human being fighting the daily fight of living that every human must fight. In the same vein, I exhort all of us in this time of pandemic: Attention must be paid. We are being given an opportunity to change the future for our world that has to fight its daily fight of surviving. We must join in the fight.

Work Cited

Miller, Arthur. Death of a Salesman. Available at http://www.wcusd15.org/kershaw/ENG%20302/DS%20Death%20of%20a%20Salesman%20Complete.pdf

Day 37: Monday, May 18, 2020o

60624. According to the Chicago Tribune Sunday, May 17, that zip code has been hardest hit by two viruses: COVID-19 and death by violence. The feature article contained the stark, lifeless statistics, but it highlighted the story of one woman, a woman who had lost three sons, two to gun violence, one to stabbing, and one fifteen-year-old grandson to gun violence, shot dead recently in her front yard. Because I have three sons and a fifteen-year-old grandson, I could not help making the comparison and being grateful that all three sons and grandson are alive and well. I cannot imagine the grief that the loss of one son would bring, but to lose all of your sons and a grandson would be grief unimaginable in its depth and weight.

How could a woman be so unfortunate? Unfortunately, the answer is quite simple: zip code. No, not the number itself, but the area it represents. On the west side of Chicago, it is a deep pocket of African American poverty—systemic, racially motivated poverty that spans generations of families, so that it is not unusual for a family to have experienced the violent death of more than one of their relatives. When asked about the problem in this neighborhood, this zip code that is well-known for its violent deaths and now is also known as the hottest spot in Chicago for the COVID-19 virus, this woman was blunt and to the point: the poverty is so extreme that the violence is inevitable. Now, the virus is also inevitable because of all the medical conditions that attack poor people at an inordinate rate compared to the general population.

Although our society has known for decades that poverty spawns violence and disease, so, too, have we known, but refused to acknowledge, that poverty itself is spawned by the institutional racism that has flourished since the founding of the country. One might think that by the twenty-first century, the country could solve the problem. But, the dilemma to solve the problem of racism and the accompanying poverty is that solving the problem would cost money—money that is in the hands of wealthy corporate America. I can’t say that I have an answer to the problem; I don’t have a plan; I don’t know what it would take for our country to come to its knees in repentance for the centuries of inequities in this country where we proudly claim that “all men are creating equal.”

Today I was reading the chapter in Leviticus that gives God’s decree for the children of Israel to observe a jubilee every fifty years. The rules are quite exact: all Israelites are allowed to go back to the land of their patrimony, regardless of their wealth or poverty; all debts become null and void at that time; all servanthood is erased among the nation’s people. It’s a re-set button. It’s a fresh start. It’s a way to avoid institutionalized inequities and poverty.

Here’s one time that I wish our government were based on some Old Testament principles. How different our society would be if we realized that all people are, indeed, created equal—and remain equal. If inequality occurs, it is wiped out every fifty years. Such a standard might not wipe out poverty in one generation, but it would see the end of poverty within less than three generations.  No, I don’t have an answer; I don’t have a plan; I don’t know what it would take. But, perhaps, just perhaps, the pandemic may make us look more closely at our inequalities in this country of “equal” people and, perhaps, just perhaps, we will set about solving our problems of racism and the accompanying poverty.

Work Cited

Sweeney, Annie, Joe Mahr and Jeremy Gorner. “COVID-19 adds to crisis.” Chicago Tribune. Section 1.1, 16. May 17, 2020.

Day 36: Sunday, May 17, 2020

Life became rather busy the end of this past week. Since I’m retired and we’re still under a stay-at-home order here in Illinois, busy-ness seems rather impossible. I would admit, as many others my age have confessed to me during this time, that motivation to be productive is about as motionless as our economy and our social interactions—it is absolutely nil. Nevertheless, life got busy— I had to hustle to keep up with the pace of activity. Still, most of the activity was driven by the circumstances of the pandemic.

First, having three zoom meetings in three days gave my life structure between Wednesday and Friday. The first, a church board meeting, was long, but fast-paced. Our pastoral staff brought to us their concerns for the emotional welfare of our congregants in this time of social distancing and isolation. From suggestion that our weekly telephone visits with our assigned members need to be enhanced with some in-person front-yard visits to providing canopies on our property where groups under ten can meet to talk, have coffee or even lunch, their concerns stoked our own concerns for what we can do to help those who are lonely and discouraged. The second meeting, a small devotional group, chatted about the use of canopies, and one or two members emphasized how much they need to see other people “in the flesh.” The third meeting, my weekly memoir writing class, began with lots of chatter, as members caught up on their weeks, and ended with warm good-byes. One member commented on the fact that the class has been an avenue for all class members to become acquainted in more personal ways than they would have through their regular interactions in church services.

The discussions in all three zoom meetings made me more conscious of what I need to do to help diminish isolation among those that I care about. As a board member, I have been assigned a “community connection group” of seven couples and two singles to check up on every week. Although it is an assignment that I take seriously, it has become a part of my weekly schedule, not as an assignment, but as a privilege. I can’t keep up with all the people in our church—we have over 300 members and others who aren’t members but who are regular attenders; I can keep us with a group of under 20 people. Some of my telephone conversations are brief—just a quick check-in, but some become hour-long visits that I probably wouldn’t have had if we were out and about. Other activities would take up the time that I am spending on the phone with my group. This week, however, in light of the discussions on those zoom meetings, I decided that we should make home visits with our group—and take along a small “gift” of homemade cinnamon rolls with us.

Making cinnamon rolls is a multi-step process—mixing the dough, letting it sit overnight; rolling out the dough,  adding the “goodies” of butter, brown sugar, and cinnamon, and shaping the rolls the next morning; letting the rolls rise for two hours; baking them; mixing a glaze to add the finishing sweet touch. The reason I recount the steps is two-fold: to indicate that the process is time consuming and to complain that each step (except for the “rising” part) creates all kinds of dirty pans, measuring cups and spoons,  and utensils. I really don’t want to count up the hours, although they are considerable; instead I want to balance my complaints and the amount of time expended with the sense of accomplishment of creating something that can be shred with others. In other words, the work is worth the outcome.

So, Saturday afternoon, Jim and I set off to deliver our cinnamon rolls to all of those in our “community connection” group. Wearing our masks and staying in front yards, we were able to visit with our group members. And everyone wanted to visit a bit. Seeing people face-to-face is, indeed, quite different from an email, a telephone call, or even a zoom meeting. We pick up on all kinds of cues from seeing the whole person—whether they are already outside working or they are coming to the door in the middle of inside work or doing nothing at all but waiting for a visit. Four hours later, we headed home, having accomplished much more than the delivery of a few cinnamon rolls.

Oh, but we weren’t done with cinnamon rolls. We had found out that Jim’s younger daughter and her husband were going to be in our area today on business, and we would get to see them for a few minutes. His other daughter would also come by at the same time so that we were all going to be in the same space for the first time in a very long time. Why not make cinnamon rolls to send home with both daughters? Also, we had cleaned out our game cabinet and had several games that the girls had chosen to take to their own homes. Finally, we had purchased a second picture to match an heirloom picture that they had had in their house growing up so that both girls could have a copy. We had planned to give these gifts on Mother’s Day, but with the stay-at-home order, we hadn’t been able to do so. This visit, then, was a perfect time to do all these things. But the real “perfect time” was just having them in the same space for a few minutes—everyone talking at once and not really caring what was being said—it was just being in one another’s company.

Busy-ness, yes. All of it driven by our circumstances, but all of it giving us real joy—joy in the midst of a pandemic—just by finding ways to break through the isolation and be in each other’s presence. We will, indeed, mostly “stay apart,” but we will “get through this together.”

[Jesus] stepped down to become a human being, one moment the omnipresent Son, the next moment in the womb of a young woman. Jesus could have chosen to be born to any woman in any situation in any century, but he did not come as the son of a wealthy or important woman. He was born to a peasant girl betrothed to a simple carpenter belonging to a people under cruel Roman rule and occupation. And he did not live a rags-to-riches life. Even as a man, Paul says, he took the form of a slave. He lived as a servant to all, not ashamed to serve the lowest, touch the foulest, associated with the crudest. –Chris Branstetter in Make Us One: Christian Unity in Beijing.

I was reading along rather breezily through Chris’s book when the passage I’ve copied above just stopped me. My thoughts were these:

Jesus would have been working in a homeless shelter.

He would have showed up at the soup kitchen.

He would have gone into a bar to be with the lonely ones.

He would have been comfortable with those inner-city kids I used to teach.

He would have been just as comfortable with the upper middle-class college students I used to teach.

He would not have been found as a young executive who had fought his way to the top in one of the top-ranking corporations. But he might have been in that office to help that young executive find a better meaning to life than the getting of money.

He would not have been found as a wealthy young man whiling away his time on a cruise ship. But he might have been traveling with that young man to show him how better to spend his time.

He would not have cared what his hair or nails looked like in the time of a pandemic, but he would have showed up at the salons to keep the workers company.

He might not have liked either the loud concert-venue churches or the quiet, dark sanctuaries, but he would have showed up in the services to help all of his brothers and sisters to know the depth of real worship.

My imagination ran with all the kinds of things that Jesus would encounter in our twenty-first century world. Ah, but then reality hit me. He is in our twenty-first century world, not in the flesh, showing up at all the various places I imagined, but in the spirit, showing up in all of us believers—if we are truly following him as the way, the truth, and the life.

But do we truly follow him? Do we follow him as the way? Do my feet go where his feet would go? Do I accept his truth about the things of this world the way he says they are? Do I know that I am to bring life to others?

How far short I fall of Christ’s model. I haven’t worked in a shelter; I’ve not served in a soup kitchen; I don’t go to bars to talk to lonely people. Obviously, I have taught students at both inner-city high schools and a private university. In the first two instances, I salve my conscience by saying that I give money to those things. Oh, Jim and I have helped do laundry for our homeless shelter—not much, but, perhaps, better than nothing. I would have to say that I would be uncomfortable in the bar, as well as in the executive’s office, and would probably be in the salon or on the cruise ship for my own vanity, not for the benefit of others.

Even the very last example, that of church, is one where, if I am truthful, I fall short. I do love my church (the quiet, dark sanctuary kind) and I am often truly blessed when I sit in worship with others. The sacrament of communion speaks to me of the unity of the church in Christ—and I believe that wholeheartedly. Yet, I am not always comfortable with all the believers about me. Sometimes their political views seem to me to be contrary to the way, the truth, and the life, even though I see them happy in their worship and reverent in their communion. And who am I to specify for them how they see the way, the truth, and the life?

How do I reconcile our differences? How do I find a way to “be Jesus” to any and all that I meet on life’s journey? That is still a mystery to me. One thing I do know: it starts with the acknowledgement that I do not know the way, but that I must keep following the one who is the way, being open to love as Christ loves, not as I would in my meager human way. Loving sacrificially, accepting all that I meet as my equals who, too, are on a journey and may just need that acceptance and that love to find their way.

Work Cited

Branstetter, Chris. Make Us One: Christian Unity in Beijing. Dustjacket. 2019.

Day 31: Tuesday, May 12, 2020

I’ve spent the greater share of the last hour crying—about death. Whose death, you might ask? No one’s, at present. Mine, at some point in the future—in the very dim, distant future, I hope. The occasion of crying about death, generally, and mine, particularly, was my reading of the penultimate chapter of James K. A. Smith’s book On the Road with Saint Augustine. Appropriately titled “Death: How to Hope. . .What do I want when I want to live?”, the chapter follows Smith’s theme that along life’s road, what we all really want is God: all else is a poor (and failing) substitute.

I have known for some time that my attitude about death is not the typical evangelical’s hope of heaven nor even the more typical mainstream Christian’s hope of eternal life in some re-formed body. I’ve just allowed it to be a mystery, one beyond my comprehension, one that I am not particularly looking forward to. When I think of death, I think of loss—not the loss of others who are losing me, but my loss of them and my loss of the world. How can I lose the beauty of this world in all its complexity, in all its diversity, in all its variety. To not see a mountain shrouded in fog, a beach pounded by surf, a peony bursting into delicate pink blossom, a maple tree flaming red in its last hurrah before winter. To not smell the sweet, strong fragrance of a lily of the valley, the pungent, stinging  aroma of a red curry sauce, the moist green-ness of grass crushed by the lawnmower’s blade, the fresh-brewed richness of the first cup of coffee of a morning. To not hear the chirrup of a cardinal, the harsh scolding of the squirrel, the soft cooing of the infant, the fitful snoring of an old faithful dog.

How can I want to give up these things? But, of course, the list goes on: How can I not wish to continue to see my grandchildren as they grow from year to year—to miss all their individuality—tousled hair, golden brown or deep blue eyes, funny faces, excited voices, shy smiles, outrageous emotions. How can I not wish to continue to know the progress of my children’s lives—jobs, houses, hopes, dreams, successes, loves. How can I not wish to continue visiting all kinds of places in this wide world— to see my friends in Burkina, in England, in various scattered states; to see another work of art in a museum—especially a Van Gogh; to hear music—thunderingly loud or seductively soft—sung or played by those whose hands and voices and lungs create stories for our ears.

So, you see, death is not something I have looked forward to—because I have seen nothing but loss—the loss of all that is good about the creation of God. Smith quotes Augustine who confesses to God his misplaced love—and grief—for a friend: “I loved what I loved as a substitute for you” (Confessions 4.8.13 qtd in Smith 214). I don’t know that I made any of the “myriad of things” that I have listed above a substitute for God, but just listing them and contemplating the loss of them has made me re-think their loss. If I believe in a transcendent, omnipotent, omnipresent, omniscient God—and I do—then somehow that God keeps all things, redeems all things, and restores all things. Nothing is lost. If I believe in a crucifixion and a resurrection—and I do—then death is transformed into life through sacrificial love. If I believe that the Church is the body of Christ—and I do—then I, as one member of that body, must live my life in sacrificial love for others. That is crucifixion and resurrection. My life can become part of the keeping, redeeming, and restoring that God brings about.

Do I understand yet that loss is not final and that life is beyond death? Not at all. But the hope of the resurrection is strong—and it dries my tears.

Smith, James K. A. On the Road with Saint Augustine: A Real-World Spirituality for Restless Hearts. BrazosPress 2019.

Day 29: Sunday, May 10, 2020

I decided to have children when I was 23. I was not married. I was not in a serious relationship with anyone at the time. I had said goodbye to my first serious boyfriend at the end of my junior year of college. He, as a senior, thought it was the perfect time for wedding bells. I didn’t even know who I was yet. The next year, I had a foreign fling in Guyana, but that had more to do with the romance of the unknown than it did with a person. Then I started to teach in Dayton, Ohio, and I had not met any eligible men. Men at work liked to flirt, but they were not marriage material for all kinds of reasons.

But, somewhere during that first year or two of teaching, I decided I wanted children—biological children. It was, after all, the 70s, following the revolutionary 60s, and, even though I was not aware of the influence of the culture upon me, the idea that I must experience everything that it meant to be a woman was strong within me. I began to think of ways that I could make motherhood possible—without a man in my life. These thoughts didn’t go too far—either I could not figure out the logistics or I just put the thought aside for a future time.

By the time I was 25, I had moved to Kansas City, I had begun a master’s degree, and I had married. My husband was in seminary and had several years of school ahead of him. We were poor; we worked fulltime jobs; we had no time to think about starting a family. And I was fine with that. Apparently my biological clock stopped like a stop watch that had had the button punched. And then it happened without warning—I was pregnant. And not at a good time.

We had moved to Atlanta for Paul to attend Emory University to receive a doctoral degree in theology. Again, we were poor; again, we had fulltime jobs; and we were fighting. I was going to say we were fighting to keep our marriage together, but the honest truth was we were just fighting. When the nurse in the doctor’s office told me the test was positive, I started to sob. “We can do something about this if you don’t want to have it,” she said. I’m not sure what I said to her. I don’t know whether I was horrified at the suggestion or whether I was just numbed by the news. “No, no,” I said through my sobs, “I just need time to get accustomed to this idea.” Internally I was trying to figure out how to tell an unhappy husband who wasn’t sure he liked being married that he was going to be a father.

“You know those odd skin problems I was having at your parent’s house? I got the answer to those today. I’m pregnant,” I said with a shaky voice and a face that was swollen and blotchy from the tears I had shed all the way home from the doctor’s office. A broad smile, a tight bear hug, and excited words gave me the answer I needed. Paul was happy with the news and now I could be, too. I could finally experience something that only women can experience—whatever it would mean for me.

Motherhood. I achieved that status that is so exalted universally. But I must say, I’ve never really considered my motherhood a status or an achievement. Instead, it’s a wonderful and terrible privilege, one that a woman has to learn “on the job,” making mistakes, fumbling for the best ways to respond in all kinds of situations that have no precedents, wearing down with exhaustion when what is needed is strength and perseverance. But despite having absolutely no training, a small wriggling bundle is put into the arms of a new mother and she is, somehow, automatically supposed to know how to take care of the most fragile treasure she will ever be given.

From a vantage point of thirty-eight years following my last pregnancy and subsequent birth of my third son, I look back and cringe. How many mistakes I made! How many times I should have done something that I didn’t do or not done something that I did! How many times I didn’t react kindly when one of my sons needed not discipline but sympathy! How many times did I react out of my internal fears rather than out of a generosity of trusting the little human being entrusted to me.

I can only hope that the love I have for my sons and the times that I have acted on that love has balanced all those cringe-worthy moments.  I think that is probably the hope of all mothers. Actually, my reflections are thoughts that could apply to any of us in our relationships with all other people. I’ve seen many women who aren’t mothers who have acted in kindness, in sympathy, in generosity with those entrusted to their care—stepchildren, nieces and nephews, grandchildren, or even children in our churches and schools.

So this is Mother’s Day, and we celebrate the goodness of mothers as they have nurtured us to adulthood. Perhaps, we should expand the title and the celebration to include all those—male or female—who have nurtured others. We should celebrate the goodness of any and all of us who react in kindness, sympathy, and generosity—and may we all strive to achieve that status.

Note: This evening I share an essay I wrote in response to the prompt that I shared with my memoir class this week. Graduation, as strange as it will be this year, will be important and memorable to all graduates. The following are my memories.

Middle Tennessee State University: December 2000

I stepped forward with my hood folded over my arm. My advisor Will Brantley stepped behind me, took the hood, shook it out, and placed it over my head, smoothing out the large bottom of the hood so that the satin stripes of white and blue showed. The dean shook my hand and took the time to congratulate me on the quality of my dissertation that compared the work of three white trash authors. What a moment that was! I imagine the crowd clapped, but I wasn’t aware of the applause; I was just thrilled that the dean spoke to me personally during the ceremony, affirming my achievement.

I “graduated” from a doctoral level program in English. Of course, usually we don’t call this a graduation; instead, it is a conferral of a degree. In my case, it was a doctor of arts degree, a degree that has since disappeared to be replaced by the more common degree at the doctoral level—the PhD. I graduated with just six other doctoral candidates in the English department. I knew none of them. MTSU is known for working with their students to provide classes that allow the fulltime worker to complete a degree; therefore, some of the graduates had begun their programs well before I did and others somewhat after I did. None of that was important to me. Completing my doctorate was all that mattered.

University of Kansas: August 1975

The flat cardboard mailer arrived at my townhouse in Decatur, Georgia, one sunny afternoon in September. I had just finished my teaching day at Columbia High School and was thinking of my work and my students. I glanced at the address and immediately recognized what I was holding—the diploma associated with my master of science degree.

I “graduated” from the program in English Education by completing a thesis in which I argued that thematic units of study were better for students than the stand-alone units of grammar, literature, and composition. I had completed the thesis in time for the August graduation, but my husband and I had moved from the Kansas City area early in August so that he could start his doctoral program at Emory University in Atlanta. I could not attend my graduation and really did not mind. The degree was a practical achievement: I needed a master’s degree to advance across the pay scale in the public education system.

Olivet Nazarene College: May 1969

The day was cool and cloudy, a rather typical early May graduation day. We graduates lined up by the kinds of bachelor’s degrees that we would be receiving and made our way into Chalfant Hall where the graduation ceremony was held. Standing on the side of the stage till I heard my name, I stepped quickly across to the where President Reed waited with the diploma in one hand and the other hand outstretched to shake my hand in congratulation.

I graduated with a bachelor of arts degree in English with minors in education and psychology. I graduated summa cum laude with a 3.92 GPA, but was disappointed because I wasn’t at the very top of the class. There were two others who had perfect 4.0 averages. And I was more than ready to be gone from the college. It had been a rough ending to a good college career. Political unrest, externally because of the Vietnam War, and internally because of the tension between liberal and conservative professors, had robbed me of any sense of belonging.

Union City Community High School: May 1965

A sunny, mild morning greeted us 96 graduates as we arrived at the school gymnasium. Strangely enough, we lined up by height and in male-female formation. I was between Ronnie M and Rick Z who were not too tall. But once we took our seats, I went up to the stage because I was to give one of the two speeches.

I graduated as valedictorian, a goal I had had for as long as I could remember. My brother had graduated long before me, either as valedictorian or salutatorian. One of my sisters had graduated as salutatorian. I was determined that I would reach the top spot. I had always been competitive; I studied as hard as I possibly could all the time. I could not imagine not getting straight As. Getting a B on a grade card was enough to send me into a tail spin.

I have recounted the four stories of my four graduations to show one thing: I grew up! When I look back at that first graduation, I am almost ashamed that my competitiveness ruled my life. I could not see myself as worthwhile unless I had achieved at a higher level than everyone else. But, at the time, that achievement afforded me a kind of joy.

By the second graduation, I was still competitive enough to be disappointed that I wasn’t at the “top of the heap,” but that disappointment was dwarfed by my disillusionment in the culture within which I lived. Still, I was pleased that I had achieved with the highest academic honors.

My third graduation, my non-ceremony graduation, was neither competitive nor disillusioned, but it did not give me a sense of joy. I had a 4.0 GPA this time, but by then I realized that those grades came to me fairly easily. I did not have to compete; I just had to do my work.

My fourth graduation, however, really was a kind of “crowning glory” for me, not because of another 4.0 GPA, but because I had learned so much and had gained so many experiences that I knew the joy of achieving for the sheer pleasure of learning. I wish it had not taken me so many years and four graduations to get to that point in my life, but I’m glad that the fourth graduation set me on the path to an extremely successful professorship—not because I was competitive, but because I loved what I was doing. Every day I got to share my love for everything English.

Day 24: Tuesday, May 5, 2020

Rose and Monty apparently made a date to arrive at Montrose Beach, Chicago on May 1 this year. They allowed themselves a bit of leeway—they might arrive separately any time between April 30 and May 2. And so they did. Coming from different directions, with no help from texting or email, they arrived on the beach within 24 hours of one another and immediately began their date, dancing on the beach, falling in love all over again.

Their love will result, they hope, in offspring, just as it did last year when they met on this beach. And not only do they hope so, but so do all the state biologists, tracking these two examples of the endangered species of the piping plovers, according to the Chicago Tribune and the Chicago Sun Times, two local newspapers that covered the couple’s arrivals. The two papers gave some interesting details about these two birds, each of whose weight is about two ounces. Scientists spotted Rose wintering in Florida, while Monty was in Texas. Each made the journeys from winter homes to the beach, arriving right on time. Last year, the couple produced four eggs, of which two became little plovers. Scientists are hoping that they will be able to do the same this year. Protections for their nest have already been planned so that they can raise their chicks till the fall when they would be large enough to fly to their winter homes.

In the world we are living in, where a virus has disrupted our very lives, keeping us prisoners in our own spaces, the story of the piping plovers is encouraging. These birds, living their lives with no thought of the future, instinctively return to the spot of their previous pairing. As small as they are and as far as they have to fly to and from their winter homes, the fact that they survive to meet once again is quite remarkable. It reminds me of the wise words of Jesus who called attention to the birds of the air and the flowers of the field who take no thought for the morrow, for the Lord feeds the birds and clothes the flowers. Then Jesus admonishes his listeners not to worry, for their heavenly Father knows that they need all these things.

But we humans do love to complain. We get bored with the sameness of our existence. The children of Israel, who had just fled their lives of slavery in Egypt, first complained that they would starve in the desert. God gave them manna. Then they complained that they needed fresh water to drink, and God provided water. Finally, they complained that they had to eat manna every day. And God provided quail to supplement their more than adequate meal of manna.

We are not different from the children of Israel. During this stay-at-home order, I’ve complained about having to cook so much, forgetting that I should be grateful to have food to cook. I have complained that I am tired of the sameness of food, failing to remember that most of the world is happy to have anything to eat, whether it be a bowl of starchy fufu or rice or roti bread. I have been so fortunate to have an abundance of food. I do not even have to worry about needing these things that are necessary for keeping body and soul together. What I must remember is that I must find ways to help those who don’t always have these necessities, who do worry about where the next meal will come from.

The story of the piping plovers came to my attention yesterday morning when I read the Chicago Tribune. Then my husband was going to go to the grocery, and I was complaining about wanting something different to eat, just because I was bored with our meals. His answer, strangely enough, was to bring home some hot dogs, not something we usually eat. Perhaps a humorous choice, but he was thinking beyond my boredom. Finally, I was reading the daily lectionary reading, including Psalms 41, that begins with the following words: “Blessed are those who have regard for the weak; the Lord delivers them in times of trouble. The Lord protects and preserves them— they are counted among the blessed in the land— he does not give them over to the desire of their foes. The Lord sustains them on their sickbed and restores them from their bed of illness.” (NIV).

Perhaps these three incidents in my Monday don’t seem to go together—endangered birds, hot dogs, and a psalm. But the three together made me thoughtful. The scripture declares that the Lord protects and preserves the weak (including the birds? Including those who are hungry?) and that he sustains and restores those who are ill (including those who are suffering from COVID-19 or other dangerous diseases?). If we worry about the future, we can think of these tiny birds who can make long journeys to fulfill their mission to bring about the next generation.  If we get bored with our abundant food, we can remember that we have what we need. If we get tired of our houses, we can remember that we aren’t in a hospital bed, fighting a horrible disease. How blessed I am. May I never forget the plovers, the hot dogs, and the psalm.