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My Little Chameleon:  Reflections on Motherhood-   April 30, 2016

4/30/2016

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 "I have loved you with an everlasting love; therefore I have continued my faithfulness to you."   Jeremiah 31:3

This is the last in a series of April’s trials and joys. I wrote the first reflection on the suicide of my brother, which was posted on Facebook. The second was on the death and redemption of my relationship with my father.  This final piece is dedicated to my daughter Hannah, who recently celebrated her 21st birthday. It also prepares us for Mother’s Day, which will be celebrated this May 8.  I share this with Hannah’s consent.  
 
Listen to:  Celine Dion "Every Mother’s Prayer"
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=nYGnB28fdDo


The sting of that final push still reverberates in my bones, in a place of motherhood-forged memories.  Through the fog of eight hours of intense labor I hear a midwife’s voice proclaim:  “It’s a girl!”

A girl.

I am awe-struck, giddy, high on endorphins from this birthing marathon, yet the irony doesn’t leave me.  The sonogram technician had assured us four and ½ months ago that we were having a boy. I nestled with my newborn baby girl, named Hannah, a name which means “favor” or “grace.” As I held my little chameleon, I could not begin to imagine the ongoing changes she would bring to my life.  She would be a lesson in God’s fierce grace.

I had wanted a girl.  We had a precious son, Andrew, whom we loved, but my mother’s heart also wanted a little girl.  Not without trepidation however.   My relationship with my own mother had been tenuous and ambiguous.  There were occasional moments she touched me with a singular tenderness – warming my hands on a cold winter’s day - and demonstrated insight and acceptance— studying sociology in college and the activism that later entailed.  However most of the time it was a blanket of duty and distance.   The youngest child of a single mother, she was just too tired to play games, to go to the park, to engage my prattle, to bake cookies with me, or to indulge any explorations of what it means to be a girl finding her identity in a changing world and in a family surrounded by boys.

With Hannah I wanted a different relationship. Armed with very little practical knowledge, I wanted to buy frilly princess dresses.  Braid her hair with matching barrettes.  Buy all the Barbie’s and books her room could hold.  I wanted to read to her, take her to parks, museums and circuses, and sprinkle her with fairy dust and each ice cream cone with sprinkles.

Hannah from the beginning was an independent being, fighting for freedom and creative expression.  She engaged people on her terms. She determined how long she would be hugged or held. When she had enough of one thing she sought out something new.  She loved to sit in boxes and bowls, sometimes to spin, other times to snuggle. She loved to imitate horses galloping around on all fours. She ferociously fought taming her massively bushy red hair.  She howled in doctor’s offices and it often took two people to administer shots or draw blood.  She was captivated by the unusual to say the least; one day she had to have a fish head she saw in a market window. That fish head engaged her for hours.  Dolls bored her.  She surrounded herself with denizens of beanie babies and stuffed animals upon which she lavished great care.  She begged for a cat and we got her a stray, Bobbie, as she would later clamor for pugs and add Gracie and Betty to our fur-family.  Hannah was rewriting the manual on parenting and I was barely keeping up.

We tried all the usual things with Hannah:  sports, gymnastics dance.  Nothing seemed to stick.   As someone who found a path of survival through books, faith and education, I yearned to introduce my Free-Spirited One with the treasures I had discovered.  To my dismay, I learned that the path that freed me imprisoned her harshly.  

Over time, Hannah was diagnosed with learning disabilities, Attention Deficient Hyperactivity Disorder (ADHD) and a low-grade depression stemming from a struggling self-esteem.  At a caring but academically rigorous private school, Hannah found herself at the bottom.  She learned to think of herself as dumb and unattractive. She hated being singled out for “special classes.”  While she shined in art she became afraid to express herself.  I fought for services from the Board of Education.  How could I fight for her self-esteem?  I was in unknown territory.  I began to experience a profound loss of control.  I longed for some “fish-head days” where I could make her happy again for a few hours.

It got worse before it got better.  Moving to Long Island to a new home but with a still academically focused and affluent school continued Hannah’s unraveling. She didn’t fit in.  I also didn’t feel like I fit in this new community, so I felt helpless as she spiraled downward.  She cut classes. Shoplifted.  Tried smoking. She pierced her own nose and ears. Around this same time Hannah was diagnosed with Hashimoto’s Disease, an autoimmune disorder that attacks the thyroid.  Near to failing some classes, she had suicidal thoughts. Her school and counselors recommended hospitalization. 

Having a child in the hospital is another one of those visceral experiences, like childbirth, that never leaves your body.  Time stops.  The world around proceeds in slow motion while every living second is focused on how your child is doing, the next time you will see them, the doctor’s consultations.  There is no way to turn the clock back ten years when you can hold them in your arms and everything is safe.  In this new world, they have power to make choices, and you push harder than ever, harder than in any delivery room, for choices that point to life, wholeness and healing.  Shattered at this hospital were any lingering illusions that the path I took to growth, wholeness and sanity would be similarly shared by Hannah.  I discovered she indeed had her own unique path.  God was with her and would give her grace, but she would have to embrace it. I came to accept this.  No matter what, we could still journey together, my chameleon and me.

This grace came when Hannah transferred to a different high school, an alternate learning program, where she truly flourished.   She did a dual program with Barry Career & Technical Educational Center and studied cosmetology.   She is now a licensed cosmetologist and employed full time at a salon.  Always a creative spirit, she loves the field of makeup and color. As someone who couldn’t tell a mascara wand from lip gloss, I was awestruck.   Where did this gene come from?  It is humbling and exhilarating at the same time to watch Hannah blossom and find her own path, which is very distinct from my own. I see God’s grace offered in different ways than I am used to. 

One way Hannah has continued to embrace art through tattooing.  While she has designed a beautiful “sleeve” for her left arm, and the back of her neck, I am drawn to one a simple tattoo she has. It is a straight arrow through a diamond.  Diamonds are the hardest elements on earth.  So the arrow represents the human spirit able to endure the toughest challenges life has to offer and to not only endure, but to emerge, straight and true.  That’s my Hannah girl, my chameleon.

Being Hannah’s mother has taught me something that Kahlil Gibran said:  that “children came through you but not from you.. You are the bows from which your children as living arrows are sent forth.”  Being a parent has taught be to be a bow.  To follow Gibran’s analogy, God is the archer, and I have been bent, sometimes gladly, sometimes in protest, in order to be shaped so that the arrow could be launched to its destiny. 

So on my daughter’s 21st birthday, I pray this:  fly, child, fly far and true and hit your mark.   And know you have a mother who loves you and watches with pride as you soar. 

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A New Start for Us    April 15, 2016

4/15/2016

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Hannah and Grandpa Joe, 1997
 “And be kind one to another, tenderhearted, forgiving one another, even as God for Christ's sake has forgiven you.”   Ephesians 4:32
 
 
This is the second in a series of April’s joy’s and trials. I wrote the first reflection last week on the suicide of my brother, which was posted on Facebook.  This talks about the April death of my father and our redemption at the end.  It is an abbreviation of the post found at  http://www.moirajo.com/post-25-put-your-dreams-away.html.    Next week I will talk about my daughter’s 21st birthday. Stay tuned!
 
Listen to: Barry Manilow “Put Your Dreams Away” 
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=k_phD4kSg04
 
Unfinished business.   It haunts us.   Whether its issues that are not discussed or feelings not expressed, unfinished business has a way of settling down into the recesses of our heart like a layer of tar. It binds us so we are never truly free.  Unspoken memories and emotions keep us stuck.
My unfinished business with dad was even more complicated because we were very close when I was young. I adored my stepmother. Yet life with dad had been severely strained as a casualty of the fighting between my parents.

 Money was a tender topic with my dad, probably because of professional failures.  He couldn’t support us as he wanted to.  With the guidance of a therapist, I tried to talk to him about this, ask him for help that we needed. He declined to help and he declined to talk. I was devastated. 


After mom died, I explained to dad that he now had to fill out a financial aid form that Columbia required. He balked and wouldn’t explain why. The school held firm. I could believe the scenario that was unfolding. The Financial Aid Office called my dad and a compromise was achieved: he would provide the information to them directly, so long as I never saw it. While my head, my heart just felt jerked around. On the surface we remained cordial and pleasant, but deep down there was a chasm. Yet I always thought we would have a nice sit-down and clear the air. However we rarely saw each other; he was in Cleveland and we were in New York. The impasse ossified.

Then, at the same time my marriage started heading south, I got the news that dad was diagnosed with an aggressive, fast-moving form of Alzheimer’s Disease. His once brilliant mind was rapidly reduced to forgetfulness, then disjointed sentences, scrambled memories and then confused emotions. I bitterly regretted my stubbornness in not talking with him sooner. Before long he was soon moved to an assisted care facility.

It was 1998, the year Frank Sinatra died, the crooner of my father’s era. Like Sinatra, dad was a romantic, a drinker, a ladies’ man. So when Barry came out with a tribute album, Manilow Sings Sinatra, I was drawn to “Put Your Dreams Away,” a signature song of Sinatra’s career, because I soon realized that there would be no dream of reconciliation with my father.

So, as Mother Teresa always advised, I prayed. I prayed that in some way, God would heal our relationship, now that words no longer functioned.
 
That’s when the dreams started.


Around New Year's I had a restless dream about my dad. He was calling. Shouting. I couldn’t make out his words.

The next morning I telephoned my stepmother Margie and told her.
“The night nurse said he was calling out your name.”

So I prayed some more. Over a course of several months, Spirit connected us in prayer and dream. I had a frightening dream one night, of my father being surrounded by vicious animals. I prayed about it. “He is facing unfinished business, keep praying for him” was the answer. 

So I kept praying. I made a visit to Cleveland and visited him, now in a state of twilight. He was non-responsive. However I still talked to him because I believed his spirit was intact and he could understand. I thanked him for his love and for making my childhood bearable. For taking me to ballgames and teaching me how to fill out a scorecard. For all the candy bars, ice cream cones and comic books, and later the Mother Jones and other progressive magazines he read and later passed on to me. I also told him how hurt I was when he didn’t answer my letter and I regretted the gulf between us.  I said I was sorry for my pigheadedness.

I was sad that his bright mind had been cursed with growing oblivion. There was no response. I told him that I forgave him and that I was sorry too. I knew, somewhere, somehow, God would see to it that he got the message.

The inevitable came. My brother called me on a chilly April afternoon. 

“Hospice says you’d better come now if you want to see dad alive. He’s got about 24 hours.” 


I started to make plans. As I picked up the phone, some sly demon took told of me. It whispered in my ear: “If you go, you will have to just return later in the week for the funeral. The flights are so expensive. Why book two flights? Just wait until the end of the week.” 

Images of my dad surfaced with fury and indication. “Why didn’t he make more of an effort?” The demon gleefully probed. “He was willing to jeopardize your education.” The revelations of unpaid child support that made life hard. I put down the phone. I walked around the room, deep breathing. 

I whispered my 911 prayer:  "Jesus, help."  “What do I do?” 
Then I heard another old, familiar voice, the one that signaled peace and grace:   “If you do not go now you will regret this for the rest of your life.”

That was it. I made the reservation. As the plane lifted into the clouds so did my mood.  That night I gathered with Margie, my brothers, and a few other family members. I held my dad’s hand. Quietly I sang hymns and recited prayers. He passed in the middle of the night. Yes, I went back to New York. I returned to Cleveland a few days later with my son, Andrew. I gave a eulogy at my father’s funeral. 

When we returned home, it all seemed unreal: the dreams, the angelic messages, the inner healing that transcended the miles and years.  After a few weeks I finally couldn’t stand it any longer. “God,” I implored, “please give me a sign that dad is okay, that he is safe with you, and this all wasn’t a crazy, desperate delusion on my part.” 

I immediately felt foolish for uttering such a sophomoric prayer. 

I walked to my children’s room to check up on three-year-old Hannah who was playing blissfully with her stuffed animals. Hannah had not been to the funeral. She had met her grandpa Joe only once, the year before. She certainly had not heard the silent request I uttered in the next room. As I walked in the room, Hannah looked up. She seemed to look beyond me. 

“Hello Grandpa Joe!” she exclaimed. Then she went back to her toys.

That day, that Grandpa Joe day, I knew it was true, as it says in the song, "Put Your Dreams Away," “and so it’s time for a new start.” It truly was.

Through God's grace, it was a new start for us.  

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Rising from the Ashes   April 8, 2016

4/8/2016

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"The Spirit of God, the Master, is on me because God anointed me. He sent me to preach good news to the poor,  heal the heartbroken, Announce freedom to all captives, pardon all prisoners. God sent me to announce the year of his grace--  a celebration of God’s destruction of our enemies-- and to comfort all who mourn, to care for the needs of all who mourn in Zion,   give them bouquets of roses instead of ashes, Messages of joy instead of news of doom, a praising heart instead of a languid spirit. Rename them “Oaks of Righteousness”  planted by God to display his glory.
They’ll rebuild the old ruins, raise a new city out of the wreckage.They’ll start over on the ruined cities,  take the rubble left behind and make it new. (Isa. 61: 1-3)"

Listen to:  For King and Country  “It’s Not Over Yet”
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=XmTmTMcdxOs
 
Six days before Easter, the historic 146-year-old sanctuary of First Presbyterian Church of Englewood was engulfed in flames and burnt to the ground.  Ruled an accident, the fire destroyed a sacred space that held 700, Tiffany windows and a 4,114 pipe organ,  intricate architecture and craftsmanship of a bygone era, including a 50-foot-high ceiling that curved into steeple like domes.

 Stunned and grieving congregants recalled a spiritual home with over a century of blessed memories: where hundreds have been married, baptized, confirmed, and eulogized.  Yet in the midst of the shock and tears, calls of support and help have poured in from rabbis, imams, and other religious bodies, as well as civic entities and concerned citizens across the county.   Couples who planned to be married have told the church to keep their deposits toward rebuilding. 

On Easter Sunday, held at the Bergen Performing Arts Center, the Pastor, Rev. Richard Hong, held up a discolored chancel cross that firefighters found in the ashes of the ruined sanctuary.  Pastor Hong proclaimed:

“Under some circumstances you would look at it and call it tarnished,” Under these circumstances we call it beautiful. And that’s what faith does. And we remember that through it all, no matter what life throws at us, the cross continues to stand and we continue to look to it for our strength.”  
 
The minister added: 
 
 “Along this journey we will encounter God in fresh new ways, many new places along the way will acquire meaning they did not have for us before, and on this journey our hearts will fill with wonder — we will experience resurrection.....We know that our future is out there.”
 
Sometimes our lives are touched by the fires of life.   Stress or conflicts can raze family relationships or friendships.  Financial or employment troubles or a health crisis can level us to our foundation.  We stand in the rubble and wonder where to begin. We question if we can begin over and experience resurrection in the process.
 
Like the ancient myth of the phoenix, the long-living bird that is reborn from the ashes, so we too can rise again, as Jesus did on the resurrection.  No matter what life throws as us, the images of the cross and empty tomb remind us from death and destruction life finds a way to continue. Jesus is the anchor in our heart that assures us of a new life.  To be sure, one that is different from the past, but a new life all the same.  Jesus calls us to embrace the change, the challenge, the new hopes and visions that emerges from ashes. From burial wrappings.    From dramatically altered circumstances.   The Holy Spirit says to us:  you are not over yet.  I have plans for you that you can’t yet imagine.  So even sitting in ashes we are called to trust that something greater is about to happen.   Cry and lament all we need to.  But then, when God calls, arise, and start anew.
 
Where do we need to start over?   From what ashes is God calling us to arise?

Prayer:   God who brings life from the ashes:   stir among the cinders of my life and transform me into something brave and beautiful so that I will stand once more and give you glory, Amen.


http://www.northjersey.com/news/congregants-of-englewood-church-gutted-by-fire-gather-to-celebrate-easter-1.1534055
http://abc7ny.com/religion/fire-burned-down-historic-church-in-englewood-but-parishioners-continue-to-worship-together/1263797/

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"April Fool & Lightening Up"   April 1, 2016

4/1/2016

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Listen to:  Matt Maher "Because He Lives"
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=PBvU7arNhQs
 
 

Have you been pranked yet today?  It is April Fool’s Day, a day for centuries that practical jokes, tall tales and jester’s antics reign.   Many cultures have similar celebrations clustered around spring time: after all it is a time of renewal, throwing off the oppressive burden of winter and hard times with a bit of frivolity and laughter.   I still remember my children telling me about failed tests or the dog taking a dump on the carpet, only to shout “April Fool!!” at my aghast face.  
 
This year, April Fool’s Day falls in the same week as “Bright Sunday,” or in some circles called “Holy Humor” Sunday.  This is the week after Easter, and for ages the church has seen this a time of joy, where God tricked the devil by raising Jesus from the dead.   Scholars note: “Easter Monday was traditionally a holiday in Orthodox, Catholic, and Protestant countries. It was a day of special festivities: games, Emmaus walks in the country, picnics, pranks, practical jokes, and “drenching customs.” On Easter Monday, for instance, boys drenched girls with water, and the girls retaliated by drenching the boys.”   
 
Many churches are bringing back, on the Sunday after Easter, the laughter, joking and joy as a part of the ongoing Easter celebration.   It seems this would be a good practice for us all.   After the somber season of Lent and the anguish of Holy Week, we respond with joy.  This includes laughter and fun.  It reminds us that our God is a God of laughter, and that we are created to know joy.  Life doesn’t always have to be serious.  Certainly life brings its worries and pains.   However we are created for more than that.   Jesus came so that our joy would be complete (or whole, John 15:11; 1 John 1:3).  Joy is a fruit of the Spirit growing and shaping our lives (Gal. 5:22).   Ecclesiastes 3:13 reminds us that “ever one should eat and drink, and enjoy the good of all his labor; it is the gift of God.”
 
April Fool’s Day and “Bright Sunday” remind us to lighten up where we can, for God loves us and is in charge.   They further remind us that happiness is often a choice.  We must choose to let go when the burden is too heavy.  We must choose to see the positive when there are challenges around us. This is not easy to do.  We need to help each other and frequently recall Jesus' words to us to "Come to me, all you who are weary and burdened, and I will give you rest” (Matt. 11:28). 1 Peter 5:7 also exhorts us to  “give all your worries and cares to God, for he cares about you.”    
 
Let us make the effort, for the life of faith should not be dreary.  We will face our challenges and place our burdens in God’s hands, knowing the one that raised Jesus from the dead can raise us back to life as well.  So rejoice!
 
Prayer:  “God of Joy:  Teach me to let go and trust in your life-giving spirit.  Fill my spirit with joy, and help me choose happiness whenever I can.”

 
https://www.joyfulnoiseletter.com/hhsunday.asp


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    Moirajo is a minister, social worker, wife, mother, writer and animal lover. That's just for starters. Join the story, there's so much we can share together! 

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