Trudy J. Morgan-Cole's Blog, page 65

Writing Wednesday 31: What You Hear

Getting back to talking about writing … this week’s vlog is about writing dialogue. As I said a few weeks ago, I have huge difficulty “seeing” what I write and struggle with descriptions. The flip side of that is I have a really easy time “hearing” my characters (or, as I put it in this video, the voices in my head). This translates into me finding it fairly easy to write dialogue, which I hope in turn makes for readable dialogue (though I tend to write too much dialogue and often end up cutting a  lot of it, going through a lengthy conversation on the page looking for the bit that’s really important to keep).

Proud Parent Moments

Time for some parental bragging, because it’s been a big week around here in terms of teen accomplishments. On Thursday night, Chris performed at a concert at his school with jazz band, guitar ensemble and choir. He sang lead on three songs, back-up on a couple of others, and then his own band, City Kings, played a few songs during intermission. Here’s one of my favourites that he sang with guitar ensemble: “This Year” by the Mountain Goats.

Then on Saturday night, Emma received an very prestigious award: she was a winner in the Junior Fictional Prose division of the provincial Arts and Letters competition. Her prize-winning story can be read here, and you can also see a not-very-good-quality (because I was sitting too far back) video of her reading a selection from her story here:

I am so proud of these kids! They are creative, original, and I never know quite what they are going to come up with. 

If Anyone’s Wondering…

…I will be getting back to doing my “Searching Sabbath” series of vlogs and blogs soon. Probably next week. Just not this week.

What I Read in April

Well, there’s no doubt this has been a superlatively awful April, but, as I say in the video, there’s never been a month so bad I didn’t take solace in a good book, and fortunately there were several good books in my life this month. You can watch my quickie recap of them here, read the more detailed reviews over at Compulsive Overreader, and share this video on Facebook, Twitter or wherever for a chance to win one of the books.

Writing Wednesday 30: At the Corner of Writing & Life

It’s hard to make the transition from talking about loss to talking about other stuff, like writing as I usually do in my Wednesday vlogs. This vlog is my effort to bridge that transition, since I do want to go on, not only writing, but talking about writing.

As Promised …

…here’s the text of the eulogy/life sketch thing I read at my mom’s funeral on Wednesday. I’m still in shock at the fact that she’s gone and in a lot of ways it doesn’t seem entirely real. In giving the eulogy I had to think what to say about her that capture the essence of who she was for a group of people, many of whom knew her in different contexts at different times in her life — some from church, some from work, some from family — and a few who didn’t know her at all but were there to support Dad or me. This is what I came up with:

*****

Eulogy for Joan “Sue” Morgan

August 11, 1934 – April 20, 2013

There are many things I could tell you about my mother, but as I was considering how to start this I thought of a Mother’s Day program at church many years ago, when they were giving out awards to different mothers in the congregation. There was recognition for the mother with the most children, the oldest mother, etc. Then they announced an award called “Mother with the Highest Ideals,” and the award went to Sue Morgan. I leaned over to my mom and whispered, “Also known as the Mrs. Zebedee award!”

I don’t recall how old I was then – perhaps 12 or 13, certainly old enough to know the story of the overly ambitious mother of James and John, the sons of Zebedee, who had the nerve to ask Jesus if her sons could sit on His right and left hands in the Kingdom. I couldn’t have explained at that age exactly what “high ideals” meant, but I knew that my mother, like Mrs. Zebedee, always wanted and expected the best for me and from me, even if it seemed out of reach. And from the fact that she was given that award, it was clear that other people recognized that quality in her too. 

That memory is tied to another one that gave us a lot of laughs over the years: the memory of Mom quizzing me on my spelling words back in Grade Two. Into the familiar list of second grade spelling words: “bag, bed, big, box, but,” she would toss in a word drawn from the newspaper headlines or just pulled out of her own head, so that her version of the spelling list would go, “bag, bed, big, box, organization.” 

The knowledge that my mother expected me to do my best and to strive for something a little more than I thought I could accomplish was one of the foundations upon which my life was built, and it may all have begun with those spelling words. 

My mom, Joan Morgan — or “Sue” as she was known to many thanks to a childhood nickname — was born in Brooklyn, New York in 1934 but had the good sense to come back home to Newfoundland, her mother’s home, when she was only 10 months old. She and her cousin Joe, a few years older, were brought back to St. John’s by parents who, for various reasons, were unable to care for them in New York, and raised by their grandparents and their Aunt Gertie.

One of the central pillars of my mom’s life was her relationship with my dad, her husband of 50 years. Their relationship went back long before their 1962 wedding day, as they grew up together as members of the St. John’s Seventh-day Adventist Church and students at the Adventist school. My dad remembers waiting at the corner on the walk to school so that he could catch her on her way and walk to school with her, and giving her a ride on the crossbar or the handlebars of his bike – until they were stopped by a policeman and told it was unsafe. However as she was a mature young lady of 13 at the time and he just a boy of 11, she may only have liked him because of his bike. All her life she had a fascination with wheeled vehicles, getting a driver’s license and a car as soon as she was able and always enjoying the freedom of being behind the wheel of her own vehicle, as well as the fun of bargaining with the car salesman to make sure she got the best possible deal.

As for her relationship with my dad, it took several years before that pre-teen crush blossomed into adult romance in their twenties – after they had both been away for a few years. Dad was in the air force, while my mom attended Oshawa Missionary College, now Kingsway College, after finishing high school here in St. John’s. Next month would have been her 60 year reunion, and she had her plane ticket booked to attend. Ten years ago, at her 50th reunion, she swore she wouldn’t return for the 60th because all those old folks back for the 60th reunion looked so feeble! But she changed her mind earlier this year and was looking forward to making that trip along with my dad and other family members, Aunt Ruth and Uncle Jerry, some local church friends who are also attending, and some of her old friends from college days. Mom had wonderful memories of her two years at Oshawa and enjoyed the chance to connect with friends from those days whenever possible.

After she had attended school at Oshawa and worked in New York City for awhile, she moved back to Newfoundland. That’s when she and my dad began dating, got married, and moved into a tiny apartment in the upstairs of my Aunt Gertie’s house. They enjoyed 50 years of marriage and celebrated that milestone anniversary last July. Although my mom was a very social person, she disliked parties, especially ones where she was the centre of attention. Her wedding to my dad had been a famously small and quiet affair with only a handful of people in attendance, and when Jason and I got married she was one of the few mothers of the bride in history to suggest that instead of helping pay for a reception, she and Dad would be happy to give the same amount of money so we could go on a nice trip and quietly elope! When hers and dad’s 50th anniversary drew near she began talking about having an anniversary party – not because she wanted one, but because she thought people might expect it. We could see that she was getting stressed out about the idea and she was relieved when we convinced her we should all take a family trip to New York City instead – because unlike parties, travelling was one of the things she always loved throughout her life.

If I had to describe my parents’ marriage I would say without hesitation that they were the best of friends. They taught me by example that a strong and long-lasting marriage is not one where the partners never disagree – because they often did! – but one where disagreements can be worked out. Not one where an unkind word is never exchanged, but one where unkind words are quickly forgiven. Most important, I learned from my parents that they key to a strong marriage is being able to laugh together and genuinely enjoying each other’s company – which my parents did, right up to the last day of Mom’s life.

I’ve said that though she disliked parties, she was a very sociable person. Everyone who knew her remembers her as warm, outgoing and friendly. If you went to church with her you had to expect to wait for her to have half a dozen long conversations with people afterwards, because she was genuinely interested in people’s lives and wanted to know what was going on with them. Going anywhere in public with her took longer than expected, since she was bound to run into several people she knew. This was true all over St. John’s but often when she visited other parts of North America too. Anywhere where there were lots of Adventists and/or lots of Newfoundlanders, my mom was bound to find someone with whom she had a connection. She had a wonderful memory both for names and for faces, which mystified both my dad and me – in fact over the last few days we’ve often wished she could be beside us whispering in our ears at her own wake, reminding us of who people are and where we know them from.

Many of her connections came from her working life. In the 1950s and early 60s, when many women still assumed that a job was something you got until you found a husband, my mother always planned to have a career of her own. Although she enjoyed working in the medical field, she never aspired to be a nurse – one of the few acceptable professions for girls to go into at the time. “She always wanted to be a secretary,” my dad said when we were talking about her career. Nowadays secretaries are more often referred to as “office administrators” and that term better captures what my mom did throughout her working years, as she managed the offices, first of the Adventist doctor in St. John’s, Dr. Eugene Hildebrand, later of Doctor Cosmos Ho, and then went to work for the newly-formed Faculty of Medicine at Memorial University. For most of her later working years she managed the Family Practice Clinic there, where her duties included organizing the rotation schedules of the medical residents – a job so complex that apparently even after computers were brought into the workplace the job was still given to her to do by hand, because she was better at it than any computer program.

My dad has said a couple of times over the last few days that Mom always loved her church without ever being a typical “church lady” and that was certainly true. I remember her telling me that when she was a teenager she used to enjoy taking part in church in terms of doing readings and recitations at services and church functions, but that somewhere along the way she developed a fear of public speaking and could no longer stand up front and speak. She found many quieter ways to serve though, functioning for many years as church clerk and later as editor of the church bulletin. But her greatest love in church life was the connections she made with people and many of those who attended the St. John’s church over the years have fond memories of her warm smile, encouraging words, and her ability to meet and greet people. Someone once told me they believed my mother’s spiritual gift was the gift of encouragement, and she used it well both in the church and in the community. Though she suffered over the years from a number of health problems and worried a great deal – far more than she needed to – about her family, most of the people she interacted with never saw her own troubles or worries, only her warmth and her genuine interest in them.

In her retirement years, my mom’s life revolved around her family. She spent much of her time and energy taking care of Aunt Gertie, who had taken care of her so many years ago, making it possible for Aunt Gertie to stay in her own home until she was 96 years old, and then visiting her faithfully when she had to go to a nursing home. Mom took great joy in her grandchildren, Chris and Emma, and spent as much time as she could with them. And, of course, her greatest joy in retirement was the time she and Dad spent together, which was pretty much all the time. They enjoyed the things they had always enjoyed, like taking trips and going to eat out at nice restaurants, but they also made a fun adventure out of the everyday things of life – even if one of them had to go to the supermarket or the drugstore they would rarely go alone, but go together just for the sake of enjoying each other’s company. She loved to go for a drive even with no particular purpose in mind, and if she and Dad had someplace to go she would often suggest leaving early so they could go for a little drive on the way, just to see what was going on.

As her family we are inconsolable at her loss and the sudden way in which she was taken from us, but it’s a comfort to remember that on the last day of her life she went to church and chatted and visited with friends there in the morning, spent the afternoon visiting Aunt Gertie at the nursing home, and in the evening was on her way out to attend a concert with me and my dad. I think we would all feel blessed if our last day on earth could be spent doing the things we loved with people we loved, and that knowledge will console us as we wait to see her again on the resurrection morning. I like to imagine that when that morning comes she will be reunited with my dad and say to him, “Don, it’s wonderful that the Lord has come to take us to heaven — do you think we can get Him to go for a little drive around first?”

Unprepared

I can’t quite wrap my mind around the fact that earlier this week I posted about the death of an old friend and how we never know how much time we have with people — and then on Saturday night, entirely unexpectedly, my mom died.

When I say “entirely unexpected”: she was 78. She had some underlying chronic conditions: diabetes, high blood pressure, a long history of heart disease and generally poor health. She had had two small strokes a couple of years ago and while she recovered well, we were concerned that something might happen again. So on the one hand I guess you could say, not that shocking.

On the other hand: that Sabbath morning she was in church, sitting in the pew with us, talking to everyone after the service as she always did, laughing and joking with friends. That afternoon she and my dad spent an hour and a half at the nursing home visiting Aunt Gertie, something my mom did every second day. That evening, she and my dad decided on the spur of the moment to join me at a concert — I had extra tickets and no-one else was free to go with me, and my dad liked the band. As she and my dad walked into the church where the concert was being held, she stumbled and fell. The back of her head was bleeding but she was sitting up, talking to me and Dad. She walked with us to the ambulance so she could get a couple of stitches, we thought.

Two hours later, she was dead. She lost consciousness just as she got into the emergency room. A massive brain bleed, the doctor said. I got out of the ambulance, registered her at the desk, talked to my dad for five minutes before he went into check on her. Then, when the nurse told me I could come in a couple of minutes later, I walked into her cubicle in the emergency room expecting to see her chatting with a nurse as her cut was examined. I thought she’d probably be figuring out who the nurse’s mother was and where they’d met before, which was what usually happened anytime you put my mom in a room with other humans. Instead I walked in to find her unconscious, with a doctor asking my dad whether they’d made any end-of-life plans and whether she wanted to be kept on life support (she didn’t).

I could, and will, blog more about my mom, who was an amazing woman in so many ways. I could, and won’t, say more trite things about the uncertainty of life. Needless to say I’m still in shock. It’s almost impossible to grasp how someone can be here one moment and gone the next. As we plan her funeral, apart from the surreality of the whole thing – How can we be planning her funeral? She was just here!! — I’m overwhelmed by the sense that she, the person in the family who always knew how all the priorities and rituals should be properly observed, ought to be here to tell me how to do this. How can we figure out what clothes she wants to be wearing in the coffin, or how to word her obituary? Those were the things she would have known and taken care of for us. How can she not be here to do them?

Searching Sabbath 13: Unity

In today’s vlog I try to wrestle with what should be a no-brainer — unity in the church — but really, really isn’t. Jesus prayed “that they all may be one,” probably the most striking Scriptural example of the fact that not even Jesus got His prayers answered all the time, since it took no time after His death and resurrection for His followers to start splintering into sub-groups, each convinced of their own rightness. And while the solution may look obvious — stop fighting and love one another! — a simplistic view of unity ignores the fact that the issues that divide us are often real and important issues, not to be glossed over by holding hands and singing “Blest Be the Tie That Binds.” Should Martin Luther have stopped whining about those stupid indulgences and just pursued unity with the Pope? (Catholic friends may answer this question differently than Protestant friends do).

I’ve noticed over years of involvement in my own church that people are most likely to highlight the importance of unity when they are on the side of those in power. During a time when the Adventist leadership (at least here in North America) was just slightly more liberal, liberals in the church were often heard calling for “greater unity” and asking reform-minded, hyper-critical ultraconservative groups to put aside their divisive spirit in the name of Christian unity. Under the current, rather more conservative administration, it’s conservatives we often hear calling for “greater unity” and chiding liberal churches and conferences for going ahead of the world church on issues such as the ordination of women. All of which suggests to me that our perception of “unity” may have less to do with genuinely loving each other (as Jesus presumably wanted us to) and more to do with conformity to existing power structures.

After I filmed this video, I read a thought-provoking statements about unity in Jeff Chu’s book Does Jesus Really Love Me? A Gay Christian’s Pilgrimage in Search of God in America. It’s from Susan Strouse, pastor of an affirming Lutheran church, talking about divisions within the church over issues like our attitude towards LGBT people.

“If people feel they cannot accept this interpretation of Scripture, this interpretation of theology, then you have say, ‘You go with our blessing! You need to be where you’re comfortable.’ We have to accept we’re not going to change people’s minds. There was a time back in the days of the Evangelical Lutheran Church when they were always talking about unity, unity, unity. We were worshipping at the altar of unity — it became an idol. But sometimes divorce on good terms is the right thing to do if you can’t live together. It would be great if we could be together, but sometimes, at some point, it’s not happening and it’s not the right thing.”

“Worshipping at the altar of unity” … that struck a chord with me. How far do we pursue the goal of unity with those with whom we disagree? And what happens when we go beyond the point where compromise is possible? Is there a way to disagree and be united? 

I don’t know the answers to any of these questions, but am, as always, interested in what people have to say.

Out of Time

My college friend Linda passed away this week. She was 50, had thyroid cancer, and leaves behind her husband and a nine-year-old son.

Linda was one of the many wonderful friends I made when I went to Andrews University. All through high school, where I only had a couple of close friends, I cherished the belief that when I went away to college I would meet a larger circle of people who shared my interests, values and quirky sense of humour, and this turned out to be so richly true. I made wonderful friends during those three years and Linda was one of the dearest. Her sense of humour, her passionate love of music (she was the one who introduced me to Springsteen and used to drive around for hours with me listening to his tapes and analyzing his lyrics), her creativity (she was a visual artist and photographer) and her genuine sweetness, made those years delightful.

After college, she was one of the friends I kept in touch with. In those days we both loved to write letters, and I went to visit her several times during the years when I lived in Ontario and she lived in Michigan and then in Illinois (eventually moving back to her home state of Wisconsin). When I too moved home, to Newfoundland, Linda made the long journey to see me and be a bridesmaid at my wedding. We wrote letters less often, though we occasionally emailed after email came along, and in 2001 we arranged to meet up at a women’s retreat in the Washington, DC area. It was great to spend a weekend together, go sightseeing in Baltimore, stay up late talking in our shared room, and realize we had one of those friendships that you could pick up right where you left off.

Still, as often happens with old friends, we kept in touch less as years went by. Linda got married, had a baby; I already was raising two kids so we were both pretty busy. She didn’t join Facebook when the rest of the world did — she preferred face-to-face interaction, or handwritten letters. She liked to see the pictures you’d taken printed off rather than posted on a blog or Facebook wall. She used email only as a last resort. The fact that she didn’t like social media doesn’t excuse the fact that we kept in touch less as years went by; it just made it easier to procrastinate writing that email or letter.

We last visited in 2009, when my family went to the Oshkosh Pathfinder Camporee. After five days living in an RV on a campground with 34,000 other campers, we were more than thrilled to spend an evening at Linda’s place, meet her family, have a lovely dinner and DO OUR LAUNDRY. Once again it was great to get together after so many years. I never suspected it would be our last visit.

Just over a year ago my cousin Jennifer, who was also good friends with Linda, got a letter from her saying that she had been diagnosed with thyroid cancer. It was supposed to be very treatable, so we were concerned but not filled with dread or anything. I sent an email and didn’t hear back, but just assumed she had a lot on her mind and hadn’t got around to replying. However, as the time for the annual Christmas card and letter drew near I realized I hadn’t heard anything at all from Linda since last Christmas, so, remembering her preference for “real” communication I wrote a long handwritten letter at Christmas.

Still I didn’t hear anything till early March when I received a letter — also by mail, and handwritten — from Linda. It was funny and sweet like all her letters but also very sad, because it told me that her cancer had turned out to be a rare form that didn’t respond to any of the many treatments she’d been through. She knew her condition was terminal but not how much time she had left — she said she didn’t want to know, only wanted to take one day at a time and trust God. She was still feeling well and not in any pain, though she’d lost her beautiful voice due to surgery. And she said it was OK to email her.

I did, but didn’t get a reply. Earlier this week her husband phone to tell me that her condition had gone downhill very quickly in the last few weeks — after she wrote me that letter, I guess — and that she had died on Sunday.

The worst part is the regret that we didn’t get to keep in touch more, and spend more time with each other. I thought we’d get to visit again. I thought if my family went to Wisconsin again for the 2014 camporee I could visit Linda again. I thought someday we’d go to an Andrews reunion weekend and meet up with a bunch of old friends. I thought, in other words, that there’d always be more time.

We always do. But as I get older I realize how little time there really is. I’ve now had four friends about my age, all people I’d have considered close friends at some point in my life, get cancer. Two of them are doing well after treatment; two are gone already. Apparently nearing 50 is too old to cherish the illusion that “there’ll always be time” to get in touch, to connect, to see each other again.

Maybe it always was too late. There’s never really been enough time, has there? Only enough time to enjoy each moment we can, like I enjoyed all the moments I spent with Linda in our college days, and the too-rare moments we were able to spend together since then.

Writing Wednesday 29: God and Books and Stuff

This week’s Writing Wednesday is a bit different from my usual vlog; it’s made up of excerpts from a talk I gave last week at a local church on “Finding God in Literature.” Even though it’s just excerpts, it’s still a bit long by Writing Wednesday standards — eight minutes. That’s because I included part of a reading. If you have the time and interest to watch the whole thing, you’ll hear a couple more readings from my own books, as well as hearing me talk about authors whose writing on religion and spirituality I love — everyone from Victor Hugo to Chaim Potok to Joshilyn Jackson to John Green. And you’ll hear me say “um” a lot. Sorry about that.