Barbara Edema's Blog, page 4

Dear Mr. President - July 2019 - King Donald

Dear Mr. President – July 2019 – King Donald
It’s July and the outrage of what is happening on our border is boiling over. You and your abhorrent administration have gotten what you wanted: Families brutally separated, babies dying, children languishing, no toiletries or decent food for any of them. They are concentrated and overcrowded in small spaces. They are desolate. Their crime? Trying to escape abuse and death in their own countries. Desperate people who thought coming to America might be a safe place. A place where they could have a life with their children and be part of a great society. You have thrust them into hell.
Because you are a bully and a coward, you say it’s their fault for crossing the border. Their fault. That’s called victim shaming. I say this to you, DON’T EVER BLAME THE VICTIM. EVER.
It’s amazing how silent your evangelical pro-lifers are on this subject. They seem to have turned pro-choice. Brown babies can suffer and die along with their mothers and fathers. Second-class lives, apparently, or less than that.
I told a friend of mine that I was timid when I first became a pastor. I was easily cowed by people’s comments and criticisms of what I said from the pulpit. (FYI, a pulpit is in a church and the place where a pastor stands to preach the Word of God. It doesn't seem like you are in church much). I have gotten over my timidity. I have gotten over my use of safe words. You are the Emperor of Hatred and Hell. You feed on the suffering of innocent people. You delight in turning people against one another. You are a predator and you are in our White House.
Since you became President, you have done nothing but take from the American people. Your tax break for the middle class somehow made the richest white folks even richer. That’s some magic trick you pulled off!
Many people know what it is like to be on the receiving end of someone else’s greed or power. Whether it’s someone who stole our lunch money, our new bike, our hopes of a new job, our virginity, our childhood, our dreams.
As a predator, you know how to take without permission. You “grab women by the pussy.” I won’t bleep out that word as so many people do. It’s a raunchy word and it’s your word.
You can, “do anything you want to [women] because you’re famous.” Your words.
What words have you been saying in the White House about how you will continue to take from us, the American people? We pay for you to fly on Air Force One every weekend to play golf. You make money from your hotels by “encouraging foreign guests” to stay. You and your children are pickpocketing Americans through your businesses and business deals with MBS, Putin, and now maybe Kim Jong-un. Ahhh…Trump Condos on the North Korean shore. Awesome.
What other dirty deals do you have planned?
We know you don’t pay back the states where you throw campaign rallies for yourself every other second. If we, regular citizens, didn’t pay our bills, we would have our electricity or water shut off. We would have our homes put into foreclosure. But you continue to take and grift and rip off your own country. What a patriot.
On the Fourth of July you threw yourself a drippy little party in front of the Lincoln Memorial. We the people, and the national parks paid for that, too. You wanted a military parade. You wanted to be saluted by soldiers and have tanks drive past and planes in the sky above. But it rained on your parade. From your badly written, and poorly delivered speech, to the meager crowd, and a less than grand showing of tanks, your day of self-aggrandizement was a bit of a bust.
You want to be King? Emperor? Master of the Universe? No title is big enough for your massive narcissistic ego. No amount of riches can fill your empty soul or bank account.
Interestingly, I have found a King I think you can relate to:
“When [King] Herod saw that he had been tricked by the wise men, he was infuriated, and he sent and killed all the children in and around Bethlehem who were two years old and under….” Matthew 2:16
May wise men and women continue to “trick” you by doing what is right and good in this world. May you be stopped from the torture you inflict on so many innocent people. May you finally be toppled by those who will stand up for the truth.
As you continue to ruin the environment, people’s lives, and the greatness of America, the majority of us will continue to do all we can to fight against climate change, donate to organizations which help the children of God who are concentrated in camps at our border, feed the hungry in our communities, care for the homeless, and do every good thing possible within our power. We will do the work of Jesus and not just talk about him.

We will not blame the victims.
We are stronger than you are. Our superpower comes at the voting box. Russia won the  last election, but we won’t let that happen again.We the people have been happily kingless since 1776. We’re not going to start now.
With blazing righteous indignation,
Pastor Barb

For Better, For Worse

AMAZON www.amazon.com/dp/B07T26FT75 
or
Pen-L.Com

For Better, For Worse is the fourth book in The Pastor Maggie Series. Maggie has learned a lot about being a pastor, but nothing could prepare her for the world-changing events of 2016. 

A national election has the country, the city of Cherish, and Maggie's church taking sides. Maggie watches as private opinions become very public and she witnesses the worst of what happens when people are driven by fear and hate.

She also sees the better angels in those who want to build bridges, care for the forsaken and love those who are lost. This book is fast-paced as the battle between loving as Jesus loved, and attacking "the other" play out. 

Maggie watches, works, and prays for her church to  come together and for her country to overturn hatred with fierce and gentle love. But what happens when hatred seems to win?

This book challenges people of faith to self-examination and, hopefully, self-awareness of our own prejudices and unfair judgments. It also reminds us of how we live with joy as we do the work of enthusiastically sharing acceptance and kindness toward all people. 

Maggie's passion for her flock, and for all God's children, continues even when she is confronted by pure hatred. A twist at the end harshly challenges Maggie's faith. 

Is healing possible?

Whether you are a person of faith or not, you will recognize the characters in the books of The Pastor Maggie Series. You live with them every day. They are your family, your co-workers, your schoolmates, and strangers you pass on the street. These books are about community and those things which separate us and also bind us together. 

Dear Mr. President June 2019

June 2019
Dear Mr. President,
You call yourself a Christian.
I’m a Christian, too. Actually, I’m a pastor. Being a Christian is kind of my job. It’s the only thing I know how to do. I am a Christian who loves my Muslim sisters and brothers, my Jewish sisters and brothers, my Hindu sisters and brothers, my Buddhist sisters and brothers, and all the other sisters and brothers who worship God in various ways and religions. We are all made in the image of God.While you and the kids were at Buckingham Palace, my husband and I went to our grandson’s Eighth Grade Graduation. His name is Mason. He attends a Christian School. Education is so important, isn’t it?
I believe in great education for all the children of our country and around the world. Public education is vital. Private education works for some. We need to take our children seriously and teach them well.
Interestingly enough, Betsy DeVos, your Secretary of Education wants to cut funds for public education, cut funds for disabled students around the country, and she tried to defund The Special Olympics. Did I mention, Mason has Down syndrome?
One of the highlights of the graduation evening was when Mason and 109 eighth graders all got on stage and did a liturgical dance. These incredible students, all living in fourteen-year-old bodies that seem to be turning against them (we all remember what it was like to be fourteen), danced and moved as one, and brought us all to tears.
Mr. President, you call yourself a Christian.
Some of the words from the song “Who You Say I Am” by Hillsong Worship went like this:
“In my Father’s house, there’s a place for meI’m a child of God, yes I am!I am chosen, not forsaken. I am who You say I am.You are for me, not against me. I am who You say I am.”
Mr. President, who do you say We the People are? We the People of America and We the People of the world?
Are you for us or against us? Do you choose the people of this nation or do you forsake us?
Mr. President, there are children and adults suffering on our border. It appears you do not choose them. You forsake them. You are not for them. You are against them.
But they are children of God too. Our children and their children belong to God.
You call yourself a Christian.
We reside in this land of the free and the home of the brave that invites all the huddled masses who are suffering, struggling, poor and displaced to come to our shores and be welcomed.I do not in the least equate you with God, but you are a leader.
Who do you say we are?
I say this: We are resilient and strong. We know how to dance and how to take the hands of those who are too weary to dance and carry them along the way. We are people who won’t allow our country to be embarrassed by your immaturity, insecurity, and overwhelming selfishness. We are stronger than the people you have in your cabinet who want to harm children at the border and cut funding for our own children in our own schools.
Mason graduated and joyfully jumped all the way across the stage to get his diploma. No one was happier that night than Mason. We cried with incredibly full hearts. God smiled.
You call yourself a Christian. What do you do that represents Jesus Christ in any way?
Until you know what being a Christian means, please do not wear that name so casually.
Until you choose the people of this country and other countries, instead of forsaking us and them, please don’t associate yourself with Jesus Christ.
Until you are for us, not against us and until you find ways to welcome the downtrodden, please don’t link yourself to the living Christ – LOVE incarnate.
The Bible says, “If God is for us, who can be against us?”
So, once again, are you for us or do you forsake us?
I’m asking for my grandson.
Be Best,
Pastor Barb

When the Fairy Tale Ends- For those who have endured sexual abuse

What is a fairy tale? A dream? An adventure?
A princess, a predator, a savior.
Singing animals and mice that sew.
Have you lived a fairy tale? Who were you?
Did you dance and sing? Did you wear a princess dress? Were you a little boy searching for treasure?
Did you walk in the woods? Did it get dark?
Did you trip and fall and rip your dress? Did you walk into a cave and get lost?
Did someone come along and grab you in the dark?
Fairy tales are make-believe, unless you have lived one.
The wolves are there. The wicked witch, evil queen, and forest monsters are there.
They lie in wait or loom in plain sight. They attack.
But there is a promise of a savior! A shining knight, a handsome prince, a genie, a fairy-godmother or a good sister. Surely, you will be rescued.
Or you won’t.
Fairy tales are tales. They are fiction. They are false narratives.
You are living in real life.
There may be parallels to fairy tales, but real life is rarely so tidy. Real life doesn’t wrap up so neatly.
No more fairy tales.
When the fairy tale ends and is put aside, the beauty and ugliness of reality becomes our truth.Your truth. My truth. The truth.
Have you been relieved of your darkness? Have you seen a promising ray of sunlight? Have you healed a bit? Do you remember how to dance?
You don’t have to be your own hero. We’re in this together. We share stories, ideas, hope, and our wounded bodies and souls.
We don’t expect someone to save us. Rather, we link arms and hold one another as we go forward together.
For all those caring people who believe our stories, give us encouragement, and a cup of tea, we say thank you.
We heal step by step. We have brand, new dreams and they are the reality we live into each day.
No more fairy tales.
However, the possibilities of “happily-ever-after” are endless. Really.
And happily-ever-after belongs to you and me. It will not elude us. It is hard won, and worth our anticipation and expectation of living in health and happiness. It’s certainly a process.
It’s not a fairy tale.

When the Fairy Tale Ends

What is a fairy tale? A dream? An adventure?
A princess, a predator, a savior.
Singing animals and mice that sew.
Have you lived a fairy tale? Who were you?
Did you dance and sing? Did you wear a princess dress? Were you a little boy searching for treasure?
Did you walk in the woods? Did it get dark?
Did you trip and fall and rip your dress? Did you walk into a cave and get lost?
Did someone come along and grab you in the dark?
Fairy tales are make-believe, unless you have lived one.
The wolves are there. The wicked witch, evil queen, and forest monsters are there.
They lie in wait or loom in plain sight. They attack.
But there is a promise of a savior! A shining knight, a handsome prince, a genie, a fairy-godmother or a good sister. Surely, you will be rescued.
Or you won’t.
Fairy tales are tales. They are fiction. They are false narratives.
You are living in real life.
There may be parallels to fairy tales, but real life is rarely so tidy. Real life doesn’t wrap up so neatly.
No more fairy tales.
When the fairy tale ends and is put aside, the beauty and ugliness of reality becomes our truth.Your truth. My truth. The truth.
Have you been relieved of your darkness? Have you seen a promising ray of sunlight? Have you healed a bit? Do you remember how to dance?
You don’t have to be your own hero. We’re in this together. We share stories, ideas, hope, and our wounded bodies and souls.
We don’t expect someone to save us. Rather, we link arms and hold one another as we go forward together.
For all those caring people who believe our stories, give us encouragement, and a cup of tea, we say thank you.
We heal step by step. We have brand, new dreams and they are the reality we live into each day.
No more fairy tales.
However, the possibilities of “happily-ever-after” are endless. Really.
And happily-ever-after belongs to you and me. It will not elude us. It is hard won, and worth our anticipation and expectation of living in health and happiness. It’s certainly a process.
It’s not a fairy tale.

Call Buttons, Garlic, and a Mom - thoughts on air travel

Call Buttons, Garlic, and a Mom – thoughts on air travel
When I was little, flying was a true adventure. We wore nice clothes, we didn’t weigh our luggage, and we could keep our shoes on while we did not go through security.
Once on board, supermodel flight attendants greeted us like long lost relatives. They were so happy to have us in their care for the next four hours and twenty-six minutes.
We were served gourmet food along with baskets of snacks. The lavatories were spacious and comfortable (remember, I was little).
The best part, of course, was when our personal supermodel/flight attendant gave my brother his golden pilot wings pin and gave me my golden stewardess wings pin. Because boys were pilots and girls were stewardess/supermodels. Ahhh…the grand old days of air travel.
My husband and I recently returned from vacation. We were on several planes going to and from our destination. We wore casual clothes. We weighed our luggage ahead of time and readjusted golf balls from one suitcase to the other to get the weight of each under fifty pounds.
As we entered security, shoes, belts, computers, Kindles, Fitbit, sweaters, and watches went into bins and we went into the big X-Ray machine. Then we redressed, bought snacks, and hunted down our gate.
Once on the plane, our flight attendants were pleasant but busy trying to get people seated and not jam oversized luggage into the overhead bins. I wanted to give one of them my seat and make the coffee for her. There were also plenty of “hims” in service. All were friendly.
As the plane made its way to the runway, a gentleman got up from his seat, walked several rows back and opened the overhead bin. We all heard a harried voice over the intercom, “Everyone must be in their seats with their seat belts fastened while the plane is taxiing. Sir, please take your seat.” The man continued to rummage through his suitcase which had been wedged into a bin-too-small for a full-size case. Then came the process of jamming his should-have-been-checked bag back into the bin. Finally, he took his seat. He didn’t even look embarrassed.
Upon take-off, a call button rang out for all to hear. Then again. Then again. The disembodied voice of the flight attendant came back over the intercom. “Please don’t allow your child to continue ringing the call button. When we hear a call button, we think ‘emergency.’” The ringing stopped.Just then, I got a whiff of something. The person in THE SEAT BEHIND ME had stealthily lifted the lid of a pizza box he had brought on board. Sadly, it was a double onion-triple garlic kind of pie. He ate his aromatic lunch with much licking of fingers and smacking of lips. He topped it all off with a nice belch.
I tried to figure out how I was going to hold my breath for the next four and half hours. There are some foods that make good, friendly snacks on airplanes. Things such as, a yogurt, an apple, a plain cheese sandwich, water. But for the person in THE SEAT BEHIND ME, sharing garlic breath and belches was his clueless way of spreading the love.
The small child who had pushed the call button earlier, decided to take up this exciting little game once again. A harried, but smiling, flight attendant explained for a second time that the call button meant “emergency,” not, “fun toddler toy.”  
Back on the ground awaiting our next flight, we sat in the airport and people-watched while we ate benign smelling foods. We saw a young couple. The dad had a three-year-old daughter in a stroller and the mom had twin girls (sixteen months old) strapped to her body, one on the front and one on the back. So much glorious pink! The twins were identical and each seemed quite content to be glued to mommy.
Both mom and dad were dressed casually. Dad was in jeans.  Mom had on yoga pants and short-sleeved T-shirt. She had those strong, toned arms that young moms have from all the heavy lifting they do all day and all night. Especially, those with a bulk delivery in tow.
As it happened, after we boarded our plane and fastened our seat belts, the adorable family of five came down the aisle. Dad and one of the twins, Pink #1, sat in THE ROW ACROSS FROM US. Mom, three-year-old Cherub and Pink #2 sat in front of dad and Pink #1.
Mom immediately readied sippy cups and snacks. She pulled books out of her Mary Poppins’ carry-on bag and handed supplies back to dad. He began reading to Pink #1. Mom began reading to Cherub and Pink #2. Happy slurping and crunching commenced. It was beautiful to behold.
A little elderly woman boarded the plane and sat in THE SEAT IN FRONT OF ME. Thankfully, she didn’t have a pizza box.
The plane took off. We were winging our way home – last flight.
Then, “Whahhh!”
Pink #1 noticed the rest of the family in THE SEAT IN FRONT OF HER. She wriggled her little body up and over the seat, using mommy’s hair for a handy rope ladder.
Mom took Pink #1 and gave daddy the Cherub.
This kind of “musical airplane seats” went on for a good long time.
Then, the fun ended. Although the twins were physically identical, temperamentally, they were not.Pink #2 had had enough. With bottom lip out and eyes brimming, a torrent of tiredness was unleashed. She began with a steady but controlled cry. She seemed to be waiting for whatever mom would produce next to please her. But nothing worked.
Cherub and daddy were reading books and even Pink #1 was sitting in her own seat turning pages and giggling.
Pink #2 was on the runway ready for takeoff.
And she did.   
For just over thirty minutes this tired little girl cried her heart out.
And it was beautiful. Not the crying, but watching her mother hold, kiss, caress, and whisper to her baby. Nothing soothed the little one. She screamed and arched her back and kicked. Mom never stopped her gentle ministrations of love.
Mom looked tired.
But she didn’t look weary.
Finally, she stood in the aisle and began to sway with her baby. She never broke eye contact with her little one. She didn’t look around to see who might be staring at her. She didn’t make excuses.
She didn’t make her baby a punchline.
“Look at poor me trapped on a plane with this crying baby!”
She finally sat back down as we began our descent. She fastened her seat belt while holding her exhausted baby. That’s when Pink #1 decided she was tired too. She wanted mommy to hold her. The final minutes of our flight were filled with a wild duet in every major and minor key.
When the plane bumped down on the runway, the twins quieted.
That’s when the elderly woman in THE SEAT IN FRONT OF ME said sweetly, “Well, now! That was just like the finale to the Fourth of July fireworks!”
It was perfect. The elderly woman knew just what to say. Maybe she had her own set of twins. Maybe she was in awe of such difficult and lovely mothering.
I wanted to rise and give a standing ovation to the whole show. But I was in my seat with my seatbelt fastened. We weren’t parked safely at the gate. I tend to follow rules.
Pink #1 and Pink #2 were put back in their harnesses, one on the front of mom, and one on the back. Their eyes were red and their cheeks were flushed. Poor darlings.
If anyone deserved a pair of golden wings, it was little Cherub who was a sweet, helpful, big sister. But golden wings aren’t given out anymore. What a shame.
Golden wings wouldn’t be enough for Mom. Maybe a golden crown. No…that would be ridiculous. Just something else for her babies to grab.
Maybe a good night of sleep. One of those heavy, deep, dreamless nights.
Then she could wake up, pack fresh belongings for her family, and continue on her travels. She has years of journeying to go. Many bags to pack and unpack. So much love and care to give. I hope she never has to press the call button. I hope she only experiences the mildest of turbulence. Her children are in good hands.
God bless her.  

Dear Mr. President - April 2019

Dear Mr. President,
It’s April 5, 2019 and you are still spinning out of control. But enough about you.
Have you heard of the Peace Corps? It’s a government program established by Executive Order 10924 by the great President John F. Kennedy on March 1, 1961. It was ratified by congress on September 21, 1961. The program’s purpose is:
“To promote world peace and friendship through a Peace Corps, which shall make available to interested countries and areas men and women of the United States qualified for service abroad and willing to serve, under conditions of hardship if necessary, to help the peoples of such countries and areas in meeting their needs for trained manpower.” (also, womanpower – my addition)
I’m asking if you’ve heard of this program because my son was sworn in as a Peace Corps Volunteer this past Monday. He’s in South Africa. Like my three daughters, he’s pretty awesome. They all have a knack for finding ways to help those in need. They take care of others because others are worth taking care of.
Before my son was sworn in as a volunteer, he went through three months of training. He had to learn the Zulu language in that time. He also had to learn about the history, culture, and people of South Africa. He lived with a local family. He worked hard to pass his Zulu test. It was hard. He wasn’t sure if he would pass. But he did. And now he’s off to a new village to serve the sick, the elderly, the very young, and anyone else who has a need. He’ll do this for the next two years.
Just to make a point, I have a daughter in Morocco who teaches English as a Second Language, another daughter in Ghana who works for an NGO in a small village, and my youngest daughter is in Phoenix teaching emotionally impaired high school students. Three of my children are in the “shithole” countries you degrade. The thing is, they get so much more from they people they live and work with than they give. It’s because they are willing to learn from others. They know they don’t have all the answers.
If my son had not passed his Zulu test, he would have had to stay back for extra training. He did not want to do that. So, he passed his test and moved on to his new good work.
That got me thinking about you. If I had to say that you passed your presidential test thus far, I’d be forced to say, NO, YOU HAVE NOT. The list of your calamities is long and nefarious. You have put our country at risk from foreign hostile adversaries. Your policies to terrify children, women and men who seek asylum are wretchedly cruel. You lock babies in cages. You have dismantled as many policies as possible that protect those members of society most in need. You and your party passed a fake tax reform that did not help the middle class. You and your party are destroying creation. You are trying to take away the healthcare of millions.  This is just the tip of the iceberg. You are basically turning the USA into a shithole country. Most of us aren’t impressed with your lack of skill, intelligence, vocabulary, propriety, honesty, or human decency. You are an international disaster.
So, I thought I could help brainstorm possible ways for you to get more training on how to be a basically decent human being. I know, it’s a long shot. You will never be presidential, but maybe you could consider one or two of the following:


Go to the southern border, not to stare at your wall but to find the children who are locked up. Feed them a meal. Then find their parents and reunite these families. Ask some of the parents why they left their own countries. Listen to their stories.
Visit West Virginia. The Opioid Crisis is ravaging this poor state (along with so many others). Ask questions of addicts, medical professionals, and social workers. Then do something legislatively to stop the big pharmaceutical companies and get money released for treatment.
Visit a Native American reservation. Ask questions. Listen to their stories. Then make a difference in their lives. They are the only people in this country who aren’t immigrants.
Stop lying. It doesn’t work.
I read recently that you cheat at golf. Don’t do that.
Instead of your unnecessary wall, how about using the budgeted money to pay teachers in the poorest school districts of our country. We are raising illiterate children who don’t benefit from a sub-par education. These children will be doomed to poverty and want. Our country could have the best public education in the world. But we don’t come close. Do something powerful for our children.
Our country is divided, it’s been your MO all along: turn us against one another. If you can’t end the hate, xenophobia, misogyny, racism, anti-LGBTQ stance, and bigotry, then you are (surprise) in the wrong job. Stop the darkness.
Climate change is real. You know it. We all know it, except for the greedy and unintelligent. Make the changes necessary to save our planet.
We know you are a crook and have done a lot of dirty deals throughout your entire adult life. You have taught this to your children. They will teach it to your grandchildren. This is nothing to be proud of. It is time to pay the piper. The truth is coming for you. Stop running.
Go to church. Just a thought. It might be a reminder that you are not God, but even you are loved by God. Not because of who you are, but because of who God is. I would guess you break God’s heart all day long. I wonder what happens to people who don’t want to be redeemed? I’m glad that’s God’s work and not mine.

You definitely need more training. You were sworn in too soon without being prepared. ·       For me, I will be thankful today for all the people around the world who:
“Do all the good you can, by all the means you can, in all the ways you can, in all the places you can, at all the times you can, to all the people you can, as long as ever you can.” John Wesley
I will be thankful for everyone who chooses to make someone else’s life or day or a moment just a little bit brighter. I’ll be thankful for everyone who is willing to clean up your messes. Your shit. We will clean, we will wipe away tears, we will clothe and feed and care. We will love.
What are you going to do?
Sincerely,
Pastor Barb

My Voice

If you put your hand over my mouth. I am silenced.
My words cannot get out and about.
I breathe them in, or swallow them down, and they roam inside my body and give me a stomach ache.
For years I was told to keep secrets. Secrets made me sick. Secrets might make you sick, too.
If I open my mouth to share an opinion and I see your eyebrow raise ever so slightly, I am silenced. My mouth closes like the door of a jail cell.
For years I have been told when to speak by a society of those who thought they knew how my words should be strung together. In sermons or blog posts or conversation.
I let others tell me my words. Don’t challenge. Don’t disagree. Don’t speak your own intelligence. Don’t speak your heart. Don’t insult someone else’s “truth.”
Aaron Burr tells Alexander Hamilton, “Talk less, smile more.”
Has anyone told you this (in so many words)?
Play dumb. Giggle more.
If you put your hand over my mouth. I am silenced.
If your eyebrow raises. I am silenced.
If you tell me to be quiet. I am silenced. Or, I used to be.
Alexander Hamilton says to Aaron Burr, “If you stand for nothing, what will you fall for?
If you think you need to correct my belief system or my intellect or my gut reaction you are wrong. You are trying to silence the wrong woman. Stop trying to silence strong women. Our voices ooze out of our skin. Our lives are placards worn every day as we live and move and have our being.
I have spent years acquiescing to the opinions of controlling women, unintelligent men, and those who traverse in the slime of condescension.
Late in the game, I’ve decided not to play anymore.
So, here’s a tip for you dear ones who may have felt, or do feel, silenced. When you hear these words, run:
“You should…!”
“You ought…!”
“You must…!”
“I highly recommend you….”
These are words of condescension. The people saying these things are often insecure, so they must tell others what to do, just to feel superior (which is exhausting). If you didn’t ask for their advice, there's no need to take it.
My voice matters. Your voice matters. Words count.
But please don’t try t change my words. If I don’t dialogue with you, it’s because I know it will be a waste of my time. And I’ve lost a lot of time.
If you put your hand over my mouth,
I’ll bite you.
And then I will speak my truth.

Thoughts on the Opioid Crisis - For Zach

When my son was born his name had already been chosen. A favorite movie at the time was The Princess Bride. His name would be Westley – without the “t” – the good guy, the hero, the handsome blond. Wesley was named, and I must say, he was absolutely adorable. As he grew, he was told where his name came from, and he watched The Princess Bride with his three sisters over and over and over.
In elementary school Wesley found his friend group, many of whom are still friends today. They called themselves the Unstoppable Seven. The Unstoppables all knew where Wesley got his name. They all watched The Princess Bride. The Unstoppables provided years of fun and entertainment for us as we enjoyed their company on many trips to the lake. Our house has a large third floor where bunkbeds, futons and a wide, open space make the perfect place to put seven rambunctious boys. They ate mountains of food at every meal. In between feedings they fished, swam, tubed, and built a secret fort in the Michigan woods. They were hilarious, intelligent and polite.
As elementary school led them to middle school, which led them to high school, the Unstoppables stuck together. Until one of them seemed to take a step out of the circle. Zach began to walk down a different path. And one day Zach wasn’t in the car when we were all heading north to the lake.
We saw him at graduation and gave him hugs and congratulations. A few years later, when visiting our old hometown, we went to our favorite restaurant and saw Zach behind the back counter making specialty rolls and helping guests. When he saw us, he literally ran from behind the counter, flour and dough on his hands, and engulfed us with huge bearhugs. He surprised us by shouting to one of his coworkers, “These people are like parents to me. I have so many happy memories because of them.” We felt a warm, happy, embarrassment at his praise. We had missed him since he stepped away from the pack. He was tall, blond, with a huge smile and naughty, twinkling eyes. Zach was full of life.
In late December 2017, Wesley called me from Bellingham, Washington. “Hey mom, I just found out that Zach is dead.” He sounded unsteady. The shock of his words took a few seconds for me to comprehend. Zach. Dead. He was only twenty-two. Fun, silly, loving Zach. Dead.
“How did he die?”
“It was an overdose. He got into heroin and other drugs.”
“How did you find out?”
“Facebook.”
It’s always a tragedy when a young person dies. In our country young people are caught in a catastrophic epidemic. The CDC estimates 130 Americans die every day from drug overdoses. This is a national crisis. A real one.
Zach was dead from an addiction to drugs.
I checked the two funeral home websites from our old hometown and found Zach’s obituary. His face smiled at me from the webpage.
Seven days after he died, I put on my black funeral dress and drove south. I pulled into the funeral home on an icy, windy day. A terrible day to put a child in the ground. But that would be any day of any year, wouldn’t it?
I saw a group of young men huddled together feverishly smoking cigarettes outside the funeral home entrance. I wondered to myself, Are you Zach’s friends? Did he leave the Unstoppables to run with you? Smoking is bad for you. Please don’t. You’re too young. Stay alive.
I smiled at the young men and made my way through the double doors and into the funeral chapel. I walked toward the flowers. Zach was there. Lying in his casket with a bandana around his head. I touched his hand and felt overwhelmed by the loss of this young life. Wesley’s age. Wesley’s friend. A friend who had become a stranger.
The funeral lasted less than fifteen minutes. The officiant didn’t know Zach, so he had nothing to say except saccharine platitudes. I saw Zach’s family sitting in the front row. Prime seats when you’re burying your child.
I watched the family and I also watched the big screen television with a rotation of slides showing Zach’s life in pictures. Zach as a little boy. Zach in elementary school. Zach in middle school. Zach in high school. There was a girl. Zach had his arm around her. She was pretty. She was in more and more slides. They kissed. There was a baby.
Zach held his newborn baby. Zach looked so sweetly at his little boy. The baby became a toddler with white-blond hair and laughing eyes. He was adorable and Zach held him in his strong arms.
When the unbelievably brief and insufficient funeral was at an end, the pastor asked if anyone would like to share a story about Zach. Not one person stood up to say anything about Zach. Not one person.
I wish I would have.
This is for you Zach:
“I remember the first time you came to the lake. I was cleaning things up as you all packed the cars to head home. I ran upstairs to make sure you each had your possessions (which were scattered everywhere!). You surprised me by poking your face out from under one of the bunkbeds.
“Zach, what are you doing?” I laughed at your prank.
“I want to stay here. Can I stay here? I don’t want to go home.”
“But we’ll come up next weekend,” I said.
“Zach, you were playful and naughty and fun. You found a fawn one day while the boys were jumping off the dock. You brought me to her and she stared at us from her deep brown eyes. No fear. You told me not to touch her or her mother would reject her. The next morning when we checked, she was safely gone with her mother.
I remember watching you eat a Bear Burger at the Brown Bear restaurant. You thought you were going to throw-up. I did too. You didn’t.
Zach, you were kind and appreciative. You had a softness beneath your humor. You were smart. You seemed to like being cared for. We cared. We enjoyed having you in our lives. We are so sorry that drugs got a hold of you and took your young life.”
As the piped-in music played, I stood to leave the funeral home. I saw one more slide on the television. And that was the one that made me cry. It was another picture of Zach with his son. It said, “Zach and Westley.” Westley. With a “t.” The good guy. The blond handsome hero.
In the parking lot, I sat in my car and I called Wes. “Hi buddy, I’m just about to leave Zach’s funeral.”
“You went, mom?”
“Yes. I’ve got to tell you something. There was a slide. Zach had a baby boy. Do you know what his name is?”
“No…what is it?”
Good bye, Zach. You are missed. I’m sorry you didn’t get the help you needed for your addiction. I hope heaven is treating you well and that you are flying with the angels. You are unstoppable.

The Waiting Room - Some Thoughts on Cell Phones

The Waiting Room – Some thoughts on cell phones
I sat in the waiting room this afternoon. I switched on my cell phone. I checked my sites and read some CNN. I’m a political junkie.
After being summoned to check-in at the main desk, I was moved to the next waiting room. I looked at my phone.
When I finally looked up, a mom and her son were sitting across from me. I wondered why she was there. She was the youngest person in the large waiting room. Except for her son. Everyone else was very old, like me (maybe even older).
The mom was on her phone. She did what I do on my phone. She swiped and liked and scrolled on down.  
Her son, who looked to be about six-years-old, gently bumped his head against her shoulder. Then he pulled his knit cap over his eyes. Then he sat still. I watched as he held his hands. He was wringing his hands. His slender fingers rolled and coiled around each other. His eyes were covered by his cap as he wrung his hands.
His mother stared at her phone.
I didn’t have a cell phone when I was a young mom. Who knows? Maybe if I would have had one, I would have stared at it in the waiting room, at the grocery store, at the bank, and anywhere my kids were. Cell phones can be addictive. I love my phone.
These days, moms and dads of little ones live in a wild world. So many distractions. So many friends and strangers to keep up with. Family, work and a smaller and smaller world to manage. I don’t know how they do it. I don’t know if I could be a young mom today.
But back to the waiting room… I looked back down at my phone. Then one of the big doors opened and I heard a woman’s voice, “Daniel?”
The little boy who was holding his own hands, pushed his hat back from his eyes and looked up.
His mom slowly stood and walked him to the voice. The voice talked again, “How are you today, Daniel? My name is Mary and I will be taking your pictures this afternoon.” She was standing at the door of the X-ray wing.
The door closed and Mary, Daniel and Daniel’s mom disappeared.
I thought about cell phones. I thought about how many times a day I bend my neck forward and glue my eyes to anything. Even if it’s the weather channel.
I. Waste. Time.
I turned off my phone.
I bent my neck forward and I prayed.
Here was my prayer:
“I don’t know why Daniel is here, God. You do.
I hope it isn’t serious.
Thank you for Mary’s kind voice.
I hope he isn’t afraid when Mary “takes pictures” with something much bigger than a cell phone.
I hope her machine isn’t looking for something scary.
I hope Mary looks Daniel in the eyes when she explains the procedure.
Be with Daniels’ mom. She must feel scared, too.
I’m sorry for stepping away from life, and for wasting time.
When Daniel and his mom leave, I hope she is holding his hand as they walk out to the parking lot.
I hope she is holding his hand so he doesn’t have to.”