The spirit speaks

It's Pentecost, and the sermon has the usual spin...the Christian Church is born under the influence of the Holy Spirit. Those early folk were accused of drinking new wine when they started spewing words in everyone's language. But, as God raised those bones to life in Ezekial, the Spirit brings to life a new language, a new people.

My first experience with the Spirit was when I was 15 or so. I had been naughty, actually quite vicious, to a girl my age named Marjie. She was cute, little and quite sweet, but for some reason or another I didn't like her and sort of plotted nastiness. (One of those mean girls, I think, but I was not a movie star!) Now I was pretty popular, involved in most everything, and had a lot of influence on my friends and others. But I was obsessed with doing evil to Marjie, until one day in the girl's restroom and Cora Lee. She was sort on the fringe of my circle of friends so had little influence on me before that day. But Cora Lee talked to me in language I could understand, "You better quit treating Marjie so mean or people won't like you anymore." My heart was opened to guilt and shame, and I changed. I later understood that day to be an encounter with the Holy Spirit. The Triune God tries to reach into our hearts each day, in every way. The Holy Spirit is the most insidious part of the three and it found the language of my heart. Now, I am embarrassed to say, Marjie doesn't even remember that I was a meanie. But I am glad I changed.

The Holy Spirit has been there at every crossroad in my life, such as sending a friend to ask me to become a correspondent for the newspaper. That led to the best job in the world, writing for a living! The Holy Spirit was there through the nudging by Marvin that we go to the Presbyterian Church a couple of miles from our new home in rural Sherrard. That life-changing moment has led to an amazing joy in serving God through the church.

There's lots more examples, but my point is that the Holy Spirit is there every day, guiding us in every way. So don't be stubborn! Just be willing to take a risk to find your way to serving God!

Motherhood

Tomorrow is Mother's Day, a time when many mothers reflect on their past as mothers. Some  of us have regrets, but those feelings are more often pushed aside by pride. As I look at my mother life, I sometimes think I shoulda, coulda, done it differently. Then I see bad mothers, and I realize that my regrets are silly. I tried to teach my children to be responsible for their decisions, and that I expected them to be good to themselves, which meant to also be thoughtful and kind to others. Whether they remember it that way or not is irrelevant to the point – I tried to teach my values, and they had the responsibility to accept that or create their own values. And they did.

I guess all of us are influenced as parents by the parents we have. I've already written that my mother totally believed in me and that helped build a self-confidence that brought me success in life. Her faith helped build my own, in a God that has given me strength in adversity and pain. Not to mention Dad whom we all adored for being so perfect that Mother could never quite match him. My kids have seen that in their parents as well, although both of us are far from perfect. We are, like our parents, human and therefore bound to make mistakes.

So what makes a perfect Mother? It's not cookies, although they are nice. It's not meeting your every need, although she will likely try. All mothers are perfect if they practice unconditional love; if they let you experiment with life; if they remember what is was like to be young and support you when your life choices are painful. Mothers' hearts weep when their toddler goes missing in the super store until the loudspeaker describes her kid at the customer service desk. Mothers weep more during junior high, when kids' hormones cause the emotional chaos of great joy and deep depression. When she has young adults, she weeps over their troubled marriages and careers. And God forbid, but if her adult child becomes ill ... the weeping must give way to great strength. Because anything else is unacceptable.

Most mothers do all this and much more, balancing careers and marriage or other relationships with aplomb. I'm proud to be a mother, and I am in awe of my daughter Sheila and my daughters-in-laws Susan and Debra as they shine the Motherhood light in their homes. I am proud they are in my life, and proud of the model they've provided my grandchildren. For the new generation, tomorrow and every day is Mother's Day, filled with unconditional love!

Nicknames

In some circles I'm known as the "Goddess" with minor variations such as Goddess of the North (no one has ever attached Goddess of housework or something derogatory!). The nickname started 20+ years ago when I was acting city editor for the Dispatch/Argus. I remember a summer of 12 hour days at the office, smoking too much, eating too little, and losing at least 25 pounds (no tragedy ... for the second time in my life I was down to a size 10, yeh!) My job was to oversee all the reporters and assign/edit their stories. Some were rookies, others were veterans. My favorite rookie was from Kansas and her twang easily identified her when she called to say her story was in my queue. So I'd call it up, ask her questions, make some changes and forward it to the copy editors for another review before placement on a page. The Kansan (whose name escapes me) would always respond to my suggestions with "Kaareen, you are such a Godeeesss (think long and twangy)."

The name kinda stuck around, but I didn't use it a lot during a 10-year sometimes miserable stint as a marketing professional at Trinity. It surfaced occasionally, but not often.

Goddess became more prominent in my friendship with my pastor, who, younger than my kids, needs to be teased now and then. He came up with the name Bishop of all that is good and faithful (or something like that) as his moniker in response to a proposed change to the Presbyterian constitution. So I always tell him that Goddess trumps bishop on the theological pyramid. So he tried to change it to Goddess of the North, which still trumps bishop but is not as high as the original. 

JD, the pastor, and I have done some good things together for the church and community. When we discuss things, he says, "Well, that's right (or do these people quake) because after all, you are the Goddess (no twang, he's from Moline.). You get the idea, I have fun with it.

I don't think I ever shared this moniker with my family before (well, maybe Sheila)! Oh, well, now I am. Most people call me Karen, a few like my brother George say Kay. Another few go with KayBee. No great shakes with those affectations. I think Goddess is much more definitive!

I'm sure God is not offended by such frivolity! 

Thinking about childhood

I was born after my oldest brother, Arthur Paul, died. He was 17 when he came down with some kind of "blood poisoning" and was buried in 1938. My sister Imy always said I saved Mother's life. Apparently Mom rocked and grieved for much of that period until Sept. 5, 1940 when I was born, the sixth child, and unplanned, but the first born in a hospital. I don't have memory of the early years when we lived in Oakwood, then north of Danville. My memories start with the big old farmhouse south of Bismarck where Dad and Mom bought their first, and only, farm of their own. That 120-acres was meticulously cared for ... Dad was always weeding, even picking up twigs from the yard. Occasionally he would trust me to hoe the corn rows when I was older. I usually found a place to lay down and contemplate the sky. I loved to think about all the places I would go someday. An avid reader, I envisioned similar adventures filled with dashing, handsome men. My parents felt that what I did is what I kid should be doing ... playing and dreaming.

Raised alone since my brothers and sisters were grown, I was deliciously spoiled, but they didn't have a lot of money, so the spoiling was more in the permissions I enjoyed. I only remember being reprimanded by my Dad once. I was forbidden to ride my bike to visit the neighbor kids after supper, and sneaked away while they were playing cards with the parents of those kids. I don't think Dad raised his voice when he sent me to my room upon return. But I knew I'd done something wrong. 

Going to a two-room schoolhouse provided a sound basic education. If you didn't get it the first time around, you heard it again for three more years. My 8th grade class had 8 or 10 kids and we knew one another better than kids do in bigger schools. After WWII and the atomic bomb, people were afraid of the possibility of nuclear war. So many people built bomb shelters, or stored things in their cellars, hoping to survive attack. At school we were taught not only about tornados - go to the hallway, sit with your knees to your chin and cover your head – but in case of bombs, to take the first place to hide, under your desk. Now really, was that going to help? I think not. Of course we are still at risk of nuclear attack and terrorism, but I don't think people pay much attention anymore. I certainly never knew what alert we were under during the Bush years since 9/11. 

Our preacher was also my teacher, so I couldn't get by with too much mischief! Church was a big thing for us, and I tried to stay awake, even during revivals. Some of it stuck with me, because I was much more religiously inclined as a teenager ... but that's later. Little did I know that I was receiving more education than Mom and Dad had obtained growing up in Kentucky. But both were life-long learners, teaching themselves about the world and its people.

Horses were the best part of childhood for me. I'd always spent a lot of time pampering whatever animals we had, kittens with sore eyes, chickens, calves ... always knowing that the chickens and cattle were someday going to be supper. Ember was the name of my Tennessee Walker, and she loved me. We spent hours wandering around the countryside. Whenever my sisters and brothers would come with their kids, they begged for a ride. Ember was an angel with the kids, but she apparently thought adults were a nuisance and if the adult was inexperienced, all the better. One time my brother's wife rode her at an unplanned gallop around the pasture. I stood in the horse's path to prevent Ember from ramming the rider's leg into the door frame to her stall. I became interested in training horses, so Dad had Ember bred and a gorgeous filly, Flicka, was the result. Training her was not easy ... I had the bruises to prove it. One kick landed on my thigh leaving it black and blue from groin to knee for the summer. Bummer! 

Eventually, of course, I became more interested in boys than horses, and Dad sold the two mares. They ended up at a Kentucky horse farm.

The point is, my childhood was wonderful ... filled with the love of good parents and siblings who teased and taught me. Sure, I had the same uncertainties every child has. But love triumphed and their absolute belief in me made me who I am. 

I wish every child had that kind of home. 

The soul in despair

Everyone has, or will, at some point in their lives experience the pits of despair. While the dictionary defines despair as the loss of all hope, I think one must feel terribly alone as well. My most vivid memory of despair was more than 35 years ago. We were building our house near Sherrard, and because the home we sold in Moline closed before we were ready, we were living in a small motel out in the country. It's still there as apartments. 

I fed the kids instant oatmeal and took them to catch the bus at our new property where I spent much of the day varnishing, staining, or whatever task was needed that I could do. We're talking subfloors and no toilet yet, so it wasn't easy. I also tried to keep up with my volunteer duties without benefit of cell phones or email. I remember quite a bit of phone booth calling. As I recall, I was organizing a walk to raise money for a charity among other things. Marvin went to work, then came to the new house to work on it, along with the kids. We cooked supper  over an open fire, then back to the motel for homework and bed. We all remember that work with pleasure, building our home on a hill, clearing brush, future plans for horses and cattle and pigs (even chickens just one year - too messy), and of course dogs and cats. The red fox that followed us on our first walk across our 160 acres was a symbol of all that could be good in that place.

One night Marvin and I decided to leave Frank in charge of his younger siblings and go out for dinner. We argued about one thing or another ... while we share the same values for the most part, sometimes my choices just are beyond his capacity to tolerate or understand. The walk was probably one of them. Can't remember and it's not important. The argument was terrible, and we had to quit when we got back to the motel. So with unresolved anger and pain, I sat on the bathroom floor and wept. Now weeping is different than crying, and sometimes noisier ... certainly with more depth in feeling and need for smothering sobs in a towel. There I am, alone, in despair, praying for relief. And trying to do it quietly so I would not wake up the children who were sharing one of the two beds in the room. I still remember the pain of it. 

Despair has come again for me, and certainly for him, but that's his story to tell. Do I continue to challenge Marvin's patience and understanding? Certainly as much as he challenges mine. Yet we still hang on to our separate truths, as well as find common ground on the most important ones. Neither of us are quitters, so we stayed married, and have found great peace and companionship spiced with a bit of dissonance. Sort of like a good book, fine food, or time with nature.

Even in the pits I always feel a connection with something beyond. Is that God? I like to think so. I know that alone in that bathroom that night, I felt a presence. God finds us no matter where we hide. We all need to step into that light and reflect it on others. The three most important words are "I love you". Or are they "I forgive you." We need to say both of them freely. 

Hope in a meow!

Spook is a hopeful cat, and persistent. Each day, several times per day actually, she stands by the door, looks at me and says "meow", becoming a bit more persistent each time I ignore her until I finally let her out. A few minutes later she's back, looking disgusted that the white stuff is still on the ground freezing her toes. On a warmer day, say 30 degrees Farenheit, she and her mom Oscar (that name is another cat tale) will stay out for an hour or more near the house. They don't wander the ravines in the wintertime. So the small creatures holed up there are safe for now!

Spook has reason for her hopeful attitude as the survivor of a wild animal attack that broke her leg and killed two litter mates when she was tiny. Just her sister Birdy managed to escape unscathed. Spook stayed wild as a kitten while Birdy (yeah, another cat tale) decided she liked us. About half-grown, leg healed but unbending, Spook climbed trees and did other cat things. One day Marvin heard that meow and found her about 15 feet up a tree, stuck on a thorn. Hmmmm, what to do... the tree was in a ravine, and a ladder would not be a safe idea. So he nabbed the dip net and nudged her off the thorn. She fell, of course, expending another of her nine lives, and snarling all the way, went to hide and lick her wounds. 

Meanwhile, Oscar had another 5 kittens that same year, meaning we had 8 unspayed female cats and I shuddered to do the litter math over the coming years. So Marvin got the dip net again, trapped the two snarling wild ones into a cat carrier and we took all three to the vet for spaying. And the litter to find homes for them. Thank God for the Quad City Animal Welfare Center.

Well, the winter of 2007-2008 was cold, so we started letting everyone inside with Sam and Boxy, our so-called indoor cats. Spook and Oscar now think they are housecats too and Spook, lanky and awkward, loves to sit in laps. But she still hopes for the outdoors, and lets me know about it daily. I join her in that hope that warm weather will return in a few weeks (49 days until spring, yeh! but whose counting!).

Spook's courage as a kitten, never daunted by the crippled leg or humans trying to catch her, as well as her hopeful sorties for the Sun are a great example for us to encourage ourselves and others. Whether advising our children, grandchildren, friends, or strangers, even ourselves, we should always pursue dreams, and be not afraid to take risks. Hope is definitely found in Spook's meow and in our dreams. Be courageous! Go for hope! 

Sea shells by the sea shore ...

Two years ago we decided the whole family should take a vacation in celebration of Marvin and my 50th wedding anniversary. So the 12 of us traveled by plane to Florida on Dec. 26, 2008, and for four nights and days vegetated on the beach and by the pools of the beautiful South Sea Island Resort which encompasses most of Captiva Island near Fort Myers. Great food was a bonus and great company with one another a blessing.

Our condos faced the Gulf of Mexico and the well-cared-for beaches were a constant source of joy. Yeah, I know there's something elemental about the ocean, frightening for its immensity and amoral power, yet awesome in its color and the amazing gifts it bestows on those who seek it. Having fished the Bering Sea, I am well aware of the fear factor and seasickness! Yet I yearned to feel the sand and salt water and to find the sea shells raved about on the resort website. So every morning we walked the shoreline, trying to hit low tide so we could attempt to pick the best from behind a beach shelf, which is covered with water during the day. Everyone found shells, of course, with concentration and a bit of reaching! I even fell into the water fully clothed because I was determined to get a conch shell! Did I quit? Nope! Those waves that kept giving and taking back couldn't keep me down! 

The shells and striving for them could be considered a metaphor for life. When one reaches for a goal, sometimes one acquires it. Sometimes one may become so immersed in the striving that one is soaked in the work and oblivious to the rest of life. And sometimes the goal is taken back by the waves of perdition. Perhaps then our goal should be continuing to strive. To reach yet again for the beautiful shell was our purpose on the beach. To reach for our life's goals again and again is our purpose here on earth. We just need to not let the waves take our attention away from those we love, or discourage us from striving. 

During this New Year, I plan to remember the sea shells by the sea shore ... and my family's striving!