2024 Column
Things we covet
December 2024 - Moultrie News
Oh! That’s so pretty! Can I have it?” “No,” my mom replied. “It’s one of my favorites.” My mom was wearing a beautiful necklace and it caught my eye. It was a silver choker and had pretty pastel colors hanging from the center like large tear drops. It probably didn’t cost more than $30. But I loved it and wanted it for my own. What made this request unusual was I hardly ever changed my jewelry. I have worn the same gold earrings—the ones my Dad bought me for my 18th birthday—for over three decades. I still wear the same gold necklace, with a medallion of Jesus and Mary, ever since I was confirmed in my teens. Neither come off, not even for showers or swimming. I think I may have once, way back when, lost one of the earrings, but either my mom or sister had the same set and probably gave me theirs. That’s how much they knew I liked them. Just to further drive home the point, when my husband and I first married, I told him he was lucky—and off the hook—he’d never have to buy me jewelry! So you can see why this wasn’t just any request of my mom. And even though she had egg crate cartons filled with costume jewelry at home, she had made up her mind. I was not getting the necklace. All of this reminded me of something that happened about four decades ago. My maternal grandmother had seen a beautiful necklace in a store. It was gold, and had a braided look to it, with a gold heart right in the center. She asked my grandfather if he would buy it for her for Christmas. He said no. The price tag was $200, and he was just not willing to spend that much. As a Depression-era Italian, he was careful with the dollar. So it was a big deal when he gave each of his four grandchildren a check made out for how old we were each Christmas. The last one I received was for $14. But my grandmother was a spitfire. And when it came to that necklace, she would not take no for an answer. She had been like this all her life. For example, when she was younger, and my grandfather would not let her get a driver’s license, she took lessons behind his back, and one day came home proudly waving that new license in his face. Even when she continued driving well into her nineties, and my parents told her she could only drive to church and to the grocery store, they caught her giving rides to her friends who were no longer able to drive. My grandmother clearly did her own thing. So what did she do when my grandfather said that he would not buy her that necklace for Christmas? She went out and bought it for herself. Why not? She had her own job in a flower store and made her own money. So she treated herself for Christmas! And my grandfather, without ever bringing up the subject or saying a word, wrote her a check for $200 and left it on the kitchen table on Christmas morning. Shortly thereafter, at the age of 72, he died of a heart attack. My grandmother, who lived just a couple months shy of 103, never took off that necklace. Which brings me back to my story about the necklace I wanted from my mom. A few months after that unusual request from me, when I had completely forgotten all about it, a package arrived in the mail. I had no idea what it was when I tore through the carefully wrapped tissue paper. But there was my mother’s pretty necklace in all its colorful glory! So in the end, my grandmother and I both received the necklaces we coveted—and along with them witnessed something beautiful—a change of heart. Which one might just say is a little Christmas miracle.
Transience of our material world
November 2024 - Moultrie News
It was finished at last. The final drywall was added, the paint touched up, and the deep clean had happened. Even the nick in the tub—which happened when the 25-year-old exhaust fan fell down and crashed into it—had been repaired. The bathroom renovation was finally complete. But upon final inspection we realized the old ceiling vent, which had been taped over during the process, needed to be replaced. So my husband attempted to do this last task by himself. Not smart. When he took off the old register, dirt and dust flew everywhere. The new screws would not go back in, even though the old ones came out so easily. Worst of all, a new tear had been made in the ceiling, which would have to be replaced. Would this mean more drywall, more dust, more dreaded cleaning? All of this reminded me of when my parents downsized from their house and moved into an over-55-year-old condo community. It was a new build, and though the structure was already in place, my mom could pick out the final finishes. She picked out the countertops and the tiles. She even had a teal blue accent wall painted in one of the bedrooms. Fun stuff. When I stayed there for the first time, everything looked so nice and new. But when I went into the guest bedroom where I would be sleeping, I noticed a rug in an odd space over the carpet. Why would anyone need a rug on top of a carpet, I wondered? It was then I moved it and noticed a fairly large paint stain. I was shocked. What in the world had happened? “Oh, that,” my mom said. “The painter knocked over a can of paint. He was so apologetic and said he would replace the entire carpet. But I felt bad and told him not to worry about it. So I just put this rug over it and try not to think about it.” Sometimes I think things like this happen for a simple reason. So we don’t get too attached to our earthly dwellings. Because if everything is perfect in our home then how will we ever yearn for our Heavenly home? My mom and I both crave order and beauty, but in both our situations, perfection lasted a very, very short time. In my case, it was less than 24 hours. I was so excited when we renovated our bathroom. It was a long time coming and it was so nice to see the dilapidated, dysfunctional bathroom transformed. But I often had to pray during the renovation process that I would not become attached, or to put too much time into all the choices that had to be made. I had to remember that this bathroom, and the entire house, would be dust someday. Just like I would. Here today, gone tomorrow. Only our souls are eternal. Colossians 3:2 says Set your mind on the things that are above, not on earthly things. Sometimes I think about how much of our time goes into making sure our houses, our faces, our “pictures” are beautiful, but how much time do we spend making sure our souls are beautiful? Worthy of their eternal home? In the end, my husband was finally able to get that new vent into the ceiling—even if the screws had to go in at a 45-degree angle. There is still a crack in the ceiling, but he painted over it with a shade of white that is somewhat similar to the original color. So be it. Very much like the teal paint stain on my mom’s rug, it is a visual reminder that our earthly house will just not hold a candle to our Heavenly home one day, God willing.
Looking up to offer a smile
October 2024 - Moultrie News
While walking on the beach this summer, I noticed a similar scenario play out: young women striking a pose as either their friends or boyfriends took pictures of them. Sometimes they would go over and look at the pictures and if they were not satisfied the whole process would be repeated. Some of these photos might be later uploaded to social media where they will be seen and validated. We all have this inherent need—to be seen, to be heard, to be valued and esteemed. But how well do we meet this need—both for ourselves and in others—especially outside the virtual world? If you walk into any waiting room today, whether it be a doctor’s office or a DMV line, 90% of people are head down, engrossed in their phones. It was interesting to recently watch an old Monk rerun where the backdrop was a hospital emergency room. If you have ever watched Monk you know that he has a phobia of germs. Being in a hospital setting was enough to drive him over the edge. But what was especially noticeable was not one person in the large waiting room was on their smart phones, because they hadn’t been invented yet. They were mostly talking to others, observing what was going on around them, or simply staring off into space. Different times, for sure. Now we have something to help entertain us as we wait. But while some in the Monk emergency waiting room were reading newspapers or listening to music—which we can do on our phones—what seemed most striking was how people were using the idle moments to have some downtime. To just “be.” To think, daydream, and observe others. Which makes me wonder: in spending all of our waiting time in virtual worlds, are we missing countless interactions in the real world? A couple of years ago a loved one of mine had to have a procedure for a brain aneurysm. As I sat alone in the hospital waiting room, I was forever grateful to the woman who sat down beside me. She looked me in the eye and said hello. We struck up a conversation, telling each other why we were there. She shared with me that she was waiting for her husband who was having some tests run. He had stage four lung cancer—but he had been beating the odds, living much longer than expected. She helped pass the time. She inspired me with her positive attitude and grateful spirit. She gave me hope and encouragement. But most of all she showed me –a stranger—that she cared. It has been said over and over that though we are spending more time with people and friends online, our connectivity is leaving us far more disconnected. But our phones don’t just let us communicate with others, they sometimes allow us to focus on ourselves at the expense of others. For how often do we scroll websites for way longer than we need to, practically ignoring our family sitting right beside us? How often do we use our phones for good instead of mere convenience? Are they helping us be more loving, more compassionate, more fruitful? Or are they an endless distraction allowing us to feed our own wants, desires, passions and fears—numbing us to the very real needs of others? Whether someone is a pretty young woman, an elderly person alone in a nursing home, or a loved one right in our own family room, we all need to know that we are not invisible, and that we matter. The woman who greeted me at the hospital showed me this in a concrete way. With that encounter she gave me a gift beyond measure.
Launching and letting go again
September 2024 - Moultrie News
In early August the gear began piling up in the dining room. It was official. My son was getting ready to leave for his sophomore year of college. He was excited, but I was beginning to feel that sense of dread creep into my stomach. The disequilibrium of him leaving for his first year, the transition of finally getting used to a new normal, and then reacclimating to having him home again for summer break has made for one emotional rollercoaster of a year. I’m not sure if I am ready for another go around. Last year the grief snuck up hard and fast. One day I was completely fine and the next day I was sobbing like a baby in the rocking chair that used to occupy his nursery. As I stared across the hallway into his room, it hit me like a ton of bricks: My son—my only child—will no longer be occupying that space. This will no longer be his address. “It feels like a death,” is how a friend of mine summed up the experience of launching her child off to college. Looking back I can say she wasn’t that far off base. It was the ending of a chapter of life—even with all its ups and downs—that I had always looked forward to and enjoyed so much. And just like the book I used to read my son when he was little—We’re Going on a Bear Hunt—says, “We can’t go over it. We can’t go under it. Oh no! We’ve got to go through it.” But now that his freshman year is in the rearview mirror, I know a little more of what to expect—which hopefully will make this year’s relaunch a whole lot easier. So before he left, I made myself a list of reminders… This year, before he leaves, I will plan a special lunch together at one of his favorite spots, or an afternoon swim in the ocean—before every last second gets booked up with friends like it did last year. This year I will remember that though I may cry again at drop off day—both coming and going—that no tears were shed just a month later when we visited for parents’ weekend. This year I will remember that aside from a few short texts (what temperature do I wash my clothes in again, Mom?) that I will not be getting the detail-filled phone calls I long for until (hopefully) a couple of weeks later once he becomes settled. This year I will remember to reach out to parents I know whose kids are going off to college for the first time—especially if it’s their only child or the baby of the family. Because when the steady stream of emails from high school, sports, scouts, youth group, etc. completely evaporate, their absence can feel deafening. Stalking empty nest boards for a couple of weeks helped me, and soon new opportunities and put-aside hobbies quickly emerged. This year I will try to remember that college will go by just as fast as high school did—in the blink of an eye. So I will strive to make the most of it, hopefully making it to two football games this year, instead of one! This year I will remember that though there were small waves of grief all fall semester (especially after fall break), once Thanksgiving arrived things became much easier. Spring semester simply flew by. Then there will be another transition of getting used to seeing gear all over the house again—though not just in the dining room. Or maybe not. Maybe my son will be getting an apartment of his own next year. Then I will probably miss the stuff around the house—the shoes everywhere, the piles of laundry, the not-fully-empty protein shake containers beginning to grow a life of their own. Finally, I will remember that launching and letting go doesn’t just happen once—it happens across a lifetime. Looking back I can see how we slowly become prepared for our children’s eventual launching all along. Passing through their many milestones—kindergarten graduation, the tween years, the driver’s license—makes our hearts grow stronger and more flexible. Allowing us to say goodbye to our children when they leave the nest, and to say goodbye to the beautiful, fleeting season that makes up such a big part of our lives, and say hello to the new adventures waiting right around the corner.
Moving through the seasons of life
August 2024 - Moultrie News
Sometimes, if I am watching TV and it’s five minutes to the hour, I turn on HGTV to watch the final home reveal. Recently when I did this, and the next episode came on, I immediately hit the record button. Because Dave and Jenny Marrs, of the popular show Fixer to Fabulous, were renovating their very own farmhouse, and this was something I wanted to watch with my husband. Surely, he wouldn’t object to watching later that evening because we were knee deep in our own bathroom renovation. We would be able to empathize when Jenny talked about all the dust, and the feeling of being displaced when she couldn’t find any of her stuff. We would probably nod our heads in agreement when we heard about the day it had been raining and mud had been dragged into their home. (In our case it wasn’t a day of mud, but weeks of yellow pollen). Needless to say, after settling in together to watch the show, I felt very much in tune with Jenny Marrs. Especially when she began crying when she saw her youngest son’s nursery being demolished. She was caught off guard, not quite emotionally prepared for how fast time had gone by. As I frantically shook my head up and down in agreement, my husband didn’t seem fazed. Instead he said, “First world problems.” I turned my eyes away from the TV. “What?” “My friend and I were just talking about this,” he said. “First world problems. They’re not starving; they just are dealing with a house renovation.” He wasn’t saying this with judgement. He was simply making an observation. But quickly I came to Jenny’s defense. “You don’t understand,” I said. “This is very hard for Jenny. It’s a lot for her at once. It’s not just the house renovation, but the fact that her babies are growing up.” As I turned back and continued watching Jenny struggle with the physical and emotional upheaval, her husband said this: “No more tears, Babe. Turn that frown upside down and get a sledgehammer.” (!) It was right at this moment that I liked to imagine Dave yelling “CUT!” then going over to Jenny and wrapping his strong arms around her, and tenderly wiping the tears that fell from her eyes. Acknowledging her very real (and natural grief) over the passage of time. It makes me think how often we have opportunities to do this with others—validate their pain. But maybe sometimes we measure other people’s pain and deem it not worthy enough. Or compare it to our own. “You think THAT’S bad…well, get a load of THIS...” (insert some horror story about your mother here). Even I found myself doing this at one point in the show: At least you have five kids, Jenny! Imagine how much harder it would be if you only had one! But the person who doesn’t have any children might be thinking: What are YOU griping about? Be grateful you even HAVE a child. Counting all our blessings always helps put things in perspective. The old adage about the man who complained about not having any shoes until he saw the man who didn’t have any feet is a great reminder. But what happens when we minimize our pain—whether that of ourselves or others? Where does that pain go if not let out in a healthy way and processed? Validation can help us heal and feel heard. As I continued watching the show, I loved how Jenny expressed her feelings, saying how renovating the house to meet their current needs made sense, that it was a “changing of the season.” It was “good,” but it was still “sad.” Yes and Yes. There is no shame in that. Jenny was a great example of how we can experience both grief AND gratitude at the same time. We don’t have to judge feelings, declaring them right or wrong. Or too trivial for our attention. And Dave Marrs wrapped it up beautifully at the end of the show when he summed up Jenny’s feelings and added a little encouragement as well. “It goes really, really fast,” he said, speaking about the passage of time. “You have to treasure every single moment. Now we get to create new memories in these new spaces.” In the end, they both agreed the process was hard, but well worth the pay off. Not only did they have a beautiful renovated space, but Jenny was able to express her feelings, process them, and move on. To say goodbye to the old and to pick up those sledgehammers again—moving forward with grace and gratitude into the next chapter of their lives.
Lessons in trust from a Siamese cat
July 2024 - Moultrie News
When I need to be reminded of how to have a simple, childlike trust in God, I like to remember my beloved soul kitty, “Sweets.” As Sweets grew older, she required more trips to the vet. She never made a peep during those ten-minute car rides—unlike her littermate brother who used to howl the entire way there. She was very brave and on one particular visit, where she had a full-blown urinary tract infection, she stoically dealt with having a thermometer stuck in her behind and urine samples “collected.” I could only imagine how uncomfortable she was, but she never complained. Whenever the vet returned her to me, Sweets would always snuggle in close. Her attitude: I don’t know why I am having to go through all this, but I know my mommy loves me and would never do anything to hurt me. Sometimes I wonder if that is exactly how God would have me think about him, if only I had a strong enough faith. What’s even more remarkable is once we got home, Sweets still wanted to be close by my side, even gazing at me lovingly. I want to have the same childlike faith in God that Sweets had in me. To be childlike is to be dependent, vulnerable, and trusting. I wonder how much more energy I would have—and how much less fear—if only I could trust that no matter what I am going through that God loves me more than I ever could fathom. He is holding me. He wants the best for me. And though he does allow for bad things to happen, painful things that may hurt me deeply, he will ultimately bring good from them someday. But so often I turn my gaze away from God and focus on the problem at hand. For instance, whenever my loved ones and I have physical ailments or health scares, I often look to Google for peace instead of God. But God clearly tells us that the world cannot give us the same peace that he can. Peace I leave you, my peace I give to you. Not as the world gives, do I give it to you. Do not let your hearts be troubled or afraid. (John 14:27). But that is such a hard concept for me to put into practice. Sometimes seeking reassurance from Google feels more concrete, like I am the one “in control.” Like I am doing something. But I know that whenever I want to do a deep dive internet search is when I most need to pause and look back. To recall how God has worked in my life, all the storms he has brought me safely through, all the good that has come from situations that felt so dark as I was going through them. Years of journals have documented his goodness over the years. If I can just take the focus off the problem, and focus on God—then I know whatever I am dealing with will not feel so magnified and scary. Sweets demonstrated this concept perfectly. When I would take her to the vet, she always kept her eyes on me. Literally. Her little cat carrier had quarter sized holes all around and often, from the passenger seat, Sweets would position herself so that one of her eyes was pressed against one of the holes, staring directly at me. One may think she was giving me the stink eye. But I don’t think so. I like to think she was focusing her gaze on me, as if to say, I have no idea where we are going, but my mommy does. So if I just fix my gaze on her everything will be okay. Isaiah 26:3 says: You will keep in perfect peace, whose mind is stayed on thee, because he trusts in thee. Not only was Sweets a perfect example of God’s unconditional love for me, she was a perfect example of how to trust in the one that loves us best—in the one who loves us infinitely more than I could have ever loved my soul kitty, Sweets.
Loving those placed in our path
June 2024 - Moultrie News
It was to be a once-in-a-lifetime experience. An opportunity to volunteer at the Missionaries of Charity, the home that St. Teresa of Calcutta (Mother Teresa) founded in 1950. My friend always wanted to be a doctor and this opportunity to serve the “poorest of the poor” resonated with every cell in her body. What made it even better was she was going with her college aged son who had never been to India. The dates were set, the flights were booked, and the malaria pills were purchased. Then came Covid, and with it the lockdowns, forcing the trip to be cancelled. It seemed like all the excitement, all the arrangements and preparation had been in vain. She surrendered it all to God. For some reason the timing wasn’t right. But while that particular trip had been canceled, her heart was still being prepared to take care of the dying. So, when another opportunity came up, she didn’t hesitate. She wouldn’t even have to leave the country. No, this would be much closer to “home.” Her brother in Texas was dying of cancer and could use the help. She left her state and went to his where she stayed for six weeks, right through the Christmas holidays. That was the biggest sacrifice; being away from her family and her home over Christmas. When she got there, they fell into a routine. Her brother wasn’t bedridden so she did not need to wash him or spoon feed him. Her support was more on an emotional level. She offered him companionship during his long, lonely days, only leaving to go to the grocery store or to church. She cooked him healthy, healing foods. They especially enjoyed listening to music together, having deep conversations, and laughing as they recalled memories from their childhood. Sometimes they talked about Heaven. Her brother was ready to die because he was in physical and emotional pain, but he was scared to die. She comforted him by reminding him that their mother was in Heaven, as well as their older brother—who died when he was only five years old. He often didn’t think he was worthy, but she reminded him that God’s love and mercy were endless, inexhaustible. When I asked her what the hardest part of taking care of her brother was, she said it was being away from her husband and children. They sorely missed her presence. And even though her children were older and could fend for themselves, she still realized that it is one thing to help family when they are living close by, but it is another thing entirely when they are far away. She grappled with the question: Who is my primary responsibility? Over a year later, her brother is still alive and doing quite well. She was grateful for the opportunity to care for him. And especially loved when he told her that she had brought love back into his home. But after six weeks she had been ready to go back to her own home. To tend to the people that were placed directly in her path. Sometimes I think it is those people—the ones that are placed directly in our path—that are often the hardest to love. We may fall short in honoring, respecting, and cherishing them. Maybe it’s because we can “let our hair down” with those who are closest to us, since we feel the safest with them. But sometimes I feel convicted in my heart that there are certain days I treat my friends—and even strangers—better than my very own husband. It is then I need to ask God to help me to love as he loves—with patience, with perseverance, and with mercy. I also need to ask for the grace of humility, because there have been many times that pride has gotten in the way. So, in the end, she may not have been able to love the poor and dying of Calcutta, but she was able to help her very own kin. And by doing this she was reminded, from the very words of St. Teresa herself, “If you want to bring healing and happiness to the whole world, go home and love your family. It is easy to love the people far away. It is not always easy to love those close to us. Bring your love into your home, for this is where our love for each other must start.”
Memories that take up space in our lives
May 2024 - Moultrie News
Recently, I have been sorting through the closet in the room that was once my son’s nursery. I have been wanting to tackle this closet for a while, but it would have been too emotional to do back in August when he left for college. This past week, I marched into the room and started the project. It was time. The only problem was I realized that I wanted to “look” at the stuff more than I wanted to “let go” of the stuff. Of course there are some things I will always keep, cherish, and hopefully pass down: my son’s baptismal outfit, some of his very favorite toys and games, and pieces of his artwork from preschool to high school. But what was taking up the most space, and what I am most reluctant to let go of, are the books. Because some of my fondest memories are reading him all those books. There are the classics—books like Corduroy, Mike Mulligan and His Steam Shovel, and The Very Hungry Caterpillar. But there are also the lesser known books that pull on my heart strings. Little Lamb, which my husband bought for me as a gift when I was newly pregnant. Small Pig, which always made my son burst into fits of laughter no matter how many times I read it to him. And I’ll never forget a book titled Buddy we devoured together when he was in elementary school. It was a beautiful, touching story about a boy who had to leave behind a dog to escape from Hurricane Katrina. As a former reading teacher, I know the many benefits of reading out loud with children. And I always wanted to cultivate the same love of reading and books in my son that my parents had always fostered in me. I just never thought the time would go by so fast. It seems like only yesterday I was taking my son to the library to get his very first library card when he was five years old. How proudly he signed his name, which he had just learned to master in pre-school. So I’ve been making three piles of the books: KEEP, GIVE AWAY, and MAYBE. My mom also kept some of my favorite books, which I now have. The pages of Mr. Gumpy’s Outing, and What Mary Jo Shared, are faded and worn. Their copyright numbers are from 1970 and 1966, respectively. Dates that seem both like ages ago and like yesterday. The pictures look so familiar, even after all these years. The little price at the top righthand corner of one of the paperback books reads 25 cents. I am seeing that there are some books that overlap in the pile my mom kept for me, and the pile I am keeping for my son. Books that we both adored while growing up: Where the Wild Things Are, The Runaway Bunny, and of course Goodnight Moon. I have no doubt these books will still be in print in decades to come. Maybe one day he’ll be reading those same books to his children and grandchildren, should he be so fortunate. The GIVE AWAY pile is pretty easy to sort as well. I don’t need to have every Curious George, Clifford the Big Red Dog, or Thomas the Tank Engine book. Though it is fun to linger over the names of the trains—Percy, James, Emily—which I have long since forgotten. “Still not done?” my husband asks when he sees book bins placed here and there. “Not quite yet.” I answer. Because the truth is, I am hesitating with the MAYBE pile. One part of me daydreams about reading all these books to any grandchildren I might be blessed with. And another part of me knows these books could be benefiting children right now. But in praying, the answer came to me: If you feel a deep heart connection to a book then keep it, if not give it away for the benefit of others. So in the end, even though I spent more time looking at the books then sorting through them, I did manage to get a box ready to GIVE AWAY. And I realized that books or no books, I have the memories. And very much like the cherished books in the KEEP pile, they will be with me as I move forward, waiting to be remembered, or at least, reread.
The weird, wild, whacky world of texting
March 2024 - Moultrie News
An odd thing happened to me recently. I was waiting to get my haircut when I began replying to a text from my mom. I had just started to voice dictate a response when my hairdresser finished up with the client ahead of me. When she came out to greet me, I stopped mid-sentence. Then I shoved my phone in my purse, forgetting about the text. For the next thirty minutes my hairdresser and I talked a mile a minute, catching up from the last time we saw each other. She rents a single booth in one of those places that are filled with hairdressers and nail salons. So there is no one around to hear us as we ramble on about anything and everything. After she cut and dried my hair, we hugged and I went on my merry way. Next, I got in the car and checked my phone. The text that I had been writing popped up. And then I got quite the shock. Unbeknownst to me, my phone had basically recorded our entire conversation. The text went on forever. I couldn’t believe it. And while it minced some words, as it usually does, the gist of the conversation was right there in front of me. I quickly thought back to what we talked about. Did I say anything I shouldn’t have? Did I gossip? Was I negative or judgmental? Then I thought to myself: what if the text had accidentally sent? What if I had said something about my mother? Something like….oh I don’t know….something along the lines of, “If it’s not one thing, it’s your mother.” It could have been bad. Later that day, I reflected on the incident. Believing there are no such things as coincidences, I tried to figure out what I was meant to learn by this random happening. As I prayed, the words SLOW DOWN reverberated through my head. SLOW DOWN… With your words With your actions With your work With your driving With your phone Slowing down with my phone can be difficult. One thing about our phones is they can create a sense of urgency in our lives—especially when it comes to texting. Sometimes I leave my phone in my purse and forget about it for hours, but if it's right there in front of me, I feel compelled to answer a text almost as soon as it pops up. Having this feeling of being “on call” creates an almost constant state of underlying tension. I especially think about this with young people. I wonder if this need to quickly respond to both family and friends only adds to their stress. Their generation has to multi-task in a way we never had to; often reading and/or replying to texts while at work, in class, or even, God Forbid, when driving. I can only imagine the amount of anxiety this must add to their lives. Or maybe it is just their normal, because it is all they’ve ever known. One thing I’d like to do is pause more often before I text someone by asking myself: Do I really need to send this text? Is it really that important? Or am I just adding more noise to someone else’s life? Putting pressure on them to respond to me when they could be focusing on whatever they are doing at the moment. I remember when I would send my son text reminders when he was in high school. Things like: don’t forget you have a dentist appointment right after school. I just assumed he would read it at the end of the school day. Not the case. Often, he would reply back immediately and then I felt guilty for distracting him. That’s when I quit sending him text reminders during the school day. I also want to quit skimming so much, which I usually do when I am out and about. Because sometimes I read a text or email and then forget all about it and don’t reply. Or sometimes I send off a hasty response, not thinking it through. And this mode of always skimming is leaving me with a “rushed” mentality that is seeping out into other areas of my life and contributing to a scattered focus. I am striving to get to a point where I just check emails and texts at a couple of designated times during the day. So I am focused and deliberate and not apt to make mistakes. I need God’s help to change these ingrained habits. Maybe I’ll start by ditching voice texting. Because hammering out texts with my fingers will take me a heck of a lot longer, naturally forcing me to slow down. But at least it might keep me from getting in trouble with my mom.
The thin veil between Heaven and Earth
March 2024 - Moultrie News
Three months after my best friend in Charleston passed away, my birthday rolled around. I felt her loss in a particularly strong way that day, because she always spent our birthdays with us. She was single for most of those celebrations and we didn’t have family nearby, so we always enjoyed each other’s company. But even though she was no longer on this earth, I felt I received a gift from her. Although it came through my mom, who happened to be in town visiting. But before I share what that gift was, let me back up so you will understand its significance. When my friend and I were in our twenties, we often attended Mass together. At the end, the priest would always sing the Irish Blessing. My friend absolutely loved this and would always look at me and smile, attempting to sing along with him. So when I unwrapped my mom’s birthday gift, I couldn’t believe my eyes. It was a handmade plaque on which the Irish Blessing was inscribed! “Isn’t it beautiful?” my mom gushed. “When I saw it, I just knew it was perfect for you!” Little did she know how perfect it was. I was speechless as I looked down at the handmade plaque. Behind the words of the Irish Blessing was a tree with many branches. There were two birds, one on a higher branch and one on a lower branch, but they were looking at each other. It felt like my friend and I represented those two birds. She was the one on the higher branch—in Heaven, and I was the one on the lower branch. But yet we were still connected and always would be. I just knew this special gift was from her. Because my best friend’s love language was hands down giving gifts. Things she has bought my family through the years are all over the inside and outside of our house. The sports blanket she purchased for my son’s birthday is strewn over the couch. The azalea bush she gave us one Easter—that actually bloomed at the end of January the year she passed away—is planted outside. And even a picture frame that ironically says: I thank God every time I remember you (Philippians 1:3), sits right on my bedside table. But it has been the gifts I have received since she has passed away that have meant even more to me. On one birthday I happened to be at an event where the stage was filled with hydrangea plants. My friend absolutely LOVED hydrangeas! At the end of the event, the coordinator said to those in attendance that we were welcome to take one of them home. I did, and have since kept it in my back yard. On another birthday I happened to be walking the streets of downtown Charleston and saw a flowerbox that was overflowing with hydrangeas. It occurred to me that I hardly ever saw hydrangeas in flower boxes. Yet another gift from her. It is said that St Theresa, also referred to as “the little flower,” sends down roses from Heaven. I think my friend sends down hydrangeas. It gives me comfort to think that maybe our friends and family that have passed come to visit us when we need them most. Especially during those first few years when, still so raw, we need to feel their presence more than ever. I especially love when they come to us during a good dream—where our interactions feel so very real. But as for the Irish Blessing, I now have it plastered in various forms all over my house. A sweet reminder of my friend who left this earth all too soon. Little did I know back at Mass, when we would sing the Irish Blessing at the end of the service, that it would be a prayer that would forever connect us. May the road rise to meet you May the wind be at your back May the sun shine warmly on your face May the rain fall softly on your fields And until we meet again May God hold you in the palm of his Hand
The precious gift of listening
February 2024 - Moultrie News
Recently, I attended an event where the music was loud. Really loud. So much so that my ears hurt for a couple of days afterward. I was especially worried about this since my dad suffers from tinnitus. Years of working around machinery have given him this ailment, which is a cross to bear. It made me realize that I had never given my ears much thought. It is one of those body parts that, when working properly, I often take for granted. But our ears are so precious. Because not only do they allow us to hear, they allow us to listen. And what better gift can we give someone than listening? We are lucky if we can say we have one person in our life who truly listens to us. There came a time, right before Christmas, where I cooked up a batch of three-bean-chili. I had an agenda. First, I was going to bring some to a friend who recently had a second baby, and then I was going to drop off a second portion to a friend who just had surgery and was housebound. I had everything timed out perfectly so I could do this before I had an appointment at noon. I was cutting it close, but was already in the frenzied Christmas mode. And I liked the idea of crossing these things off my to do list before I left town. But there was one thing I hadn’t planned for. Both friends wanted—probably even needed—to talk. Yes, the food was a nice concrete way to show love, but what was needed even more was a listening ear and heart. My friend’s baby was having all sorts of digestive issues, which in turn was keeping them both up at all hours of the night. She was tired and at her wits end. Similar situation for my friend who was recovering from surgery. She lived alone. She was weighed down with pain and physical constraints. And she really thought she’d be married by now to have a husband to share this all with. Both friends needed to vent. And in scheduling my time I had forgotten how lonely it can feel to be a stay-at-home mom with young children. Or how people who live alone don’t have the built-in companionship that those living in families do. But here is the thing about listening: it takes time and focus. And everyone is so darn busy. Good listening is an art in itself. It can be hard to hold back from offering advice when not asked for. Or knowing when to ask a probing question to go deeper. Sometimes my mouth works faster than my brain and I find myself interrupting, instead of letting a person move at one’s own pace and come up with their own “ah ha” moments. On the flip side, sometimes I don’t know what to say at all. But maybe it is in these times that I need to remember that just being there—without saying a word—is often enough. Because sometimes friends and family just need us to be present. There is nothing like a face-to-face visit. Being together and sharing eye contact is so beneficial and helps people to bond. So I plan to call these two friends and schedule another visit, at a time where I won’t be rushed or distracted. I had been trying to cram too much into the day I dropped off the chili, and in doing so I had missed an opportunity to give an even better gift. Because whether someone we love is dealing with tinnitus, an illness, or a fussy new baby (whose stomach hopefully won’t get worse from her mom eating three-bean chili), everyone is carrying a cross of some sort. And by giving the gift of listening, maybe we can help our loved ones carry theirs. Just as they in turn, help us carry our own.
Ms. Mary and the mysterious man
February 2024 - Moultrie News
I went to a funeral recently for someone I had never met. It was a small, graveside ceremony for a very well-loved lady who was a mother, a grandmother, and a great-grandmother. Her grandson gave the eulogy. He said there was nothing like a “southern grandmother.” “Her heart was so full,” he began. “She epitomized Thessalonians 3:12—May the Lord make you increase and abound in love for one another and for all.” I soon learned that Ms. Mary was known to cover people in prayer, cook and crochet with love, and always stay in touch with family members, wanting to know how they were doing. When they asked her how she was doing, her response was always: “I’m doing alright because the Lord is with me.” Then he told a story about how Ms. Mary and her husband owned a hardware store in a rural part of Georgia. The husband would work in the back and Ms. Mary would mind the front of the store by herself. One day a man—who was wearing sandals and a long brown tunic—came inside. Appearing hot and tired, he asked her if she could get him a glass of water. She did. Afterwards they sat outside and spoke together on a bench in front of the store. When the phone rang, Ms. Mary went inside to answer it. After she began talking, she glanced outside and noticed that the man wasn’t there anymore. She went back outside and looked to her right and to her left, down the long, desolate road from where he must have come, but he was nowhere in sight. He had simply vanished. Years later, when she would tell that story to her children and grandchildren, they would always ask Ms. Mary what she and the man spoke about during their time together. But Ms. Mary never told them. She would only smile. They sensed that whatever they had conversed about was very special, and she wanted to keep it to herself. The most important part of the story was that the man had asked her for water and she had given it to him. “For I was thirsty and you gave me a drink…whatever you did for the least of my brothers and sisters, you did unto me.” (Matthew 25:35-40). I later spoke with Ms. Mary’s daughter and told her what a beautiful eulogy her son gave. She went on to tell me more about her mother, all the wonderful things she did for others. One thing that struck me was what she did for the prison ministry at her church. Every year she was part of a team that would buy and organize Christmas gifts for children of the imprisoned. How wonderful, I thought. To not forget about the children of those who are incarcerated. Without volunteers such as Ms. Mary, how can ministries such as this stay afloat? Thank God she had answered the call to serve. All of her love had a ripple effect. She set a wonderful example for her family and friends. Because when I heard of how Ms. Mary’s daughter welcomed her mother into her home during the final years of her life, tenderly taking care of her until her passing, I witnessed how that love had been passed down from one generation to the next. And isn’t that what it’s all about? In the end, I am glad I was able to attend Ms. Mary’s service and hear about a woman who spent a lifetime doing good for others. And as for that mysterious man she met at the hardware store, well, I like to imagine her meeting him again in Heaven and hearing him say, “Well done my good and faithful servant…what you did for the least of my brothers you did unto to me.”
A notable reminder from 'The Golden Bachelor'
January 2024 - Moultrie News
A couple of months ago, a flurry of texts started appearing on my phone about The Golden Bachelor. It was a thread that included my mother, cousin and aunt. They really had a lot to say about this popular reality show. Having never watched The Bachelor, I only skimmed the texts, but I have to admit, they did have me intrigued. So when I was sick a few weeks later and trying to distract myself, I came across the show. And even though I was feverish, I did make some immediate observations. Gerry, 72 years old, was handsome. He had aged well as they say. He was also kind, empathetic and appeared genuine. The three attractive women still left at this point also seemed nice…and energetic…and head over heels in love with Gerry! The next day I called my friend—a devoted watcher—and my mother, who although is not a member of “Bachelor Nation” had decided to tune into this version. I barraged them with questions. “You don’t understand,” my friend began, “this is how it works. You have to watch from the beginning…” So since I was still sick, I enjoyed a couple of more episodes. Then a week or so later, when my husband was out late for a work event, I binge watched three episodes in a row. By now I considered myself somewhat caught up. “It’s so obvious who he is going to choose,” I said to my mom and friend when the finale was about to air. “It’s Leslie.” Ah yes, Leslie was earthy and sensual and laid back, and Gerry appeared really smitten. Leslie seemed like an “old soul” and had openly shared throughout the season how she had a rough go of it when it came to love. I think many people were rooting for her. So I was completely shocked when Gerry did a complete turn around and chose Theresa. But as the live audience watched Gerry and Leslie talk—when Leslie knew he wasn’t going to choose her—you could literally hear a pin drop. And in a raw and poignant moment, Leslie cried from the depths of her soul, “Nobody ever chooses me,” she sobbed. “You didn’t choose me.” And right then, as I swallowed and watched someone in so much pain bare their very soul, I could only envision Jesus wrapping his arms around her and saying: I choose you, Leslie. I choose you. Because wasn’t it he who had known her since the beginning of time? Knew every pain she had ever endured, every tear she has ever shed? And even if she was the only person left on earth, wouldn’t he still have died for her, because he loved her, fully, completely, unconditionally? I think it took great courage for Leslie to share her heart. In fact, many women on the show bravely expressed what so many of us have felt or experienced: the vulnerability that comes with aging, the fear of being alone, the deep pain and sadness of having lost a spouse—or never having had one at all. So many people could relate and empathize. I felt for Gerry, too. It was obvious how hard it was for him to make decisions that he knew would hurt people, break their hearts, even. It was hard to watch sometimes. But Gerry could only choose one and as I thought of the women left behind, going forward with their lives, a song came to mind, a beautiful hymn, “Like a Shepard,” based on Isaiah 40. Like a shepherd he feeds his flock and carries the lambs in his arms, holding them carefully close to his heart, leading them home. So as the live wedding between Gerry and Theresa gets set to air, I am sure another flurry of texts will appear on my phone. In the end, I am glad I tuned in. Because the show was a reminder for me that we all need love in our lives, no matter what our age. Because through love—whether from a spouse, family member, friend, or even a pet, sometimes especially through a pet—we are shown just a glimpse of that deep, all-encompassing love that God has for each and every one of us. And that is the happiest ending of all.
Recalling an unexpected pilgrimage
January 2024 - Moultrie News
The sign appeared out of nowhere. It simply said SHRINE, with a large arrow pointing down a side street. “Oh! Can we check that out?” I asked my husband. Weary from driving, he made the turn. It had been about five hours since we left Halifax and were driving to our next destination: Cape Breton Island—at the top of Nova Scotia. This was the summer vacation we had planned: a visit to the Canadian Maritimes. We were excited about the prospect of cooler weather, good seafood, and the chance for seeing moose or whales. But visiting a shrine wasn’t on this trip’s itinerary as it had been the few summers prior. In 2014 we had made the trip across the Atlantic to Portugal where we visited Fatima, praying for the same thing we’d been asking for eight years: that we might be blessed with a second child. Prior to that we had traveled to Quebec City where we visited the shrine of St Anne de Bupre. Apparently, St Anne had struggled with infertility for 20 years before conceiving the Virgin Mary. I found comfort in her massive shrine, and in the paintings at a nearby museum depicting her story. So I was excited as my husband turned down the side street, just outside of the sparsely populated seaside village of Mabou, situated along the scenic Ceilidh Trail. In a few minutes we came across a picturesque, white steeple church, set back on a small hill. I doubted it would be open at 7 p.m., but I took my chances and got out of the car to see if the doors were unlocked. They were. What looked like a typical country church on the outside looked like a cathedral on the inside, condensed into about 800 square feet. Instead of pews, kneelers and chairs were placed about. The interior was crafted with fir planks, joined tongue and groove style. A big fluffy sheepdog bounded from around the corner as if expecting us and led the way to the large statue of Mary holding the crucified Jesus in her arms. The dog lay right in front of the Pieta as if to say Come close…this is the best seat in the house. My husband, son and I were all mesmerized by the stained-glass windows, the beautiful chant music that was playing from tiny speakers placed about, and the many multi-colored candles that glowed on each of the walls. It was a wonderful treasure, completely off the beaten path, and I couldn’t help but feel as though Mary had called us there. The church had been dedicated to her, under one of her many titles, Mary Mother of Sorrows, and to the brave Pioneers of Mabou. So after signing the guest book and looking at some old photos, taking pictures, and ringing the large bell in the upstairs vestibule, we lit candles. Then, before I left, I placed my special intention in a petition box that stood at the back of the church: that a healthy second child might be added to our family. Mary knew my heart. I hadn’t planned a pilgrimage that year; she had planned one for me. I only had to follow her cues—the sign on the road, the doors being open, and the waiting sheepdog. She knew the best place to lay my long-held desire would be both in her arms and at her Son’s feet. I knew my desire was safe with Jesus and Mary. For Mary had seven sorrows in her life. I could trust her with one of my own. When we left, I felt a renewed sense of peace and gratitude. We had received an unexpected gift that evening. And though I would eventually come to accept that the answer to this prayer was no—and that I might not ever know why on this side of Heaven—I still look back fondly on Our Lady of Sorrows Shrine as the highlight of our trip.