My Thoughts on Food and Me So Far

Mindful Eating Wordie

Although this is the second time I've done a detox / cleanse, I've had more time to actually think about it this time around. I remember during last year's cleanse being acutely aware of how habitual it was for me to snack while I was prepping food. A nibble of raw carrots here, a bit of apple slices there. That wasn't a problem when I was only cooking for myself, but when I thought about it as a habit, and realized that in my "normal" life, the nibble of carrots was a spoonful of peanut butter, and the bit of apple was the last bit of mac and cheese from someone else's plate, I became more aware of the unhealthiness of that habit. I vowed to work on that, and have been much better about it in the past year.   

In line with that, a part of the process involves being very intentional about what, when, and how you eat. This is very similar to the Buddhist notion of mindfulness. I have to admit that I am still not very good at this. I have a hard time "just eating," especially when I am by myself. I want to read something, or catch up on Words with Friends, or check Facebook. When I sit down to eat a meal alone, it's not just the food and me. But I'm working on it.  I think it would be easier for me to be in relationship with my food when I sit down to eat if I had not been the one to spend the hour or so preparing it. By the time I sit down to a meal that I have cooked, I am well aware of my hunger, and have been savoring the aromas for some time. I feel very connected to the food, and am aware of its textures and colors. I do pay particular attention to the "presentation" of food, and took great care with tonight's meal to use a green plate (since there was little green in the meal), and to carefully arrange the fish and the vegetables to look most appealing, even placing a thinly sliced lemon atop the salmon (which the boys promptly threw away--definitely got some work to do there about mindful eating for sure...!) But in general, by the time I sit down to eat a meal that I have prepared, I'm sick of the food itself and just want to eat because I'm "starving."

But it's more than just meals. What I've realized quite resoundingly in the past five days is that much of what I enjoy doing includes, even revolves around, eating or drinking. Spending time with a friend is usually done over a meal or coffee. A night out with Joel usually includes a meal and / or dessert and wine or beer. Spending time with the boys typically means we'll go for frozen yogurt or go to a movie, which means popcorn and soda. And even driving in the car for a few hours means a stop for coffee or a latte. Just tonight, I found myself really wanting to have a glass of wine while I spent a few hours cleaning up my studio. And oddly enough, I couldn't really get jazzed about cleaning up with a warm glass of lemon water or even a nice cup of hot tea. It's just not the same for me. Yet. 

Food and / or beverages are like the seasoning for all that I do. They enhance my both my tasks and my relationships in the same way that seasonings enhance a meal. And just like the though of eating a plain baked potato is not very enticing, the thought of going about my life without my "seasoning" seems pretty ho-hum. These past few days, I've found myself unable to get motivated to do anything since the food / drink component is no longer there. When I sit down at my desk, I want a cup of coffee by my side. When I run a few errands that I've procrastinated, I want to reward myself with a trip to Jittery Joe's or a run through Zaxby's. When I am working in my studio, I want coffee by day, and beer or wine by night. When I sit down in the afternoon to tutor, I want a hot chai tea by my side, spiced up with brown sugar and a bit of cream. And when I want to really indulge myself, I'll make some of my friend Whitney's Snickerdoodles (recipe here) and enjoy them with a cup of tea or coffee.  The thought of doing any of these things MINUS the food or drink component just does not sound as appealing, and as a result, my motivation has plummeted.  

I'm so grateful that we were never allowed to watch TV
while we ate a meal when I was growing up.
It's bound to be a hard habit to break! 

One glimmer of hope in all of this is that I don't typically eat when I watch TV, although everyone else in my house does. While they nosh on chips and salsa, cereal, or orange slices, I will catch up on Words with Friends, knit, or sleep, depending on what we're watching. But (almost ;-) all the other pleasure of life involve eating or drinking. So what is the solution? Now that I have realized this, where do I go from here? How to I disentangle the things that I do from the things that I consume by eating or drinking? How do I re-learn how to find satisfaction in date nights, family time, creative time, and productivity for its own sake, without their being tied somehow to food and drink? Or is it okay to tie them to food and drink, and just work towards healthier, more nutritious options? Somehow, though, the thought of substituting a cup of coffee for a cup of herbal tea, or a nice glass of red wine with a glass of warm lemon water just doesn't cut it. 

Thankfully, I've never had a weight problem. I can only imagine how hard this would be if I were seriously in need of losing significant weight to regain my health. It certainly gives me a greater sense of understanding for those who struggle with weight issues. And thankfully, I've never suffered from an eating disorder either. I suspect that in may ways, it is the complete reverse of my food issue, with body image and control issues thrown in as well. But both bring to mind the complex relationship that we have with eating and living, and how the two intertwine. We have to eat to live, but we also need to learn how to live without eating. As I continue on this journey of intentional, mindful consumption, this is what I'll be working on. If you have any tidbits or advice to share, I would be happy to hear them!  

How The Detox Thing All Started

So I'm far from a regular blogger--more like a quarterly blogger, I guess. It's not that things don't happen that make me think, "I should write about that sometime." It's just that "sometime" never seems to happen. However, as many do at the year's beginning, I've been giving lots of thought to life, goals, habits, etc., and in light of the second annual "detox" that I'm doing, I wanted to write down some thoughts and feelings about it. One, I thought it would be helpful in the way of some type of explanation for those who have asked me, "WHY are you doing that? It sounds awful!" And two, I want to be able to remember the thoughts I'm having when I am NOT in detox mode so that it might help me maintain better eating habits. 

This all started last year with my intern Drew. He and his wife Ellen did the Whole Living Cleanse (aka Martha Stewart) in January, and every time Drew & I were in the car together, he would give me the update. And in the midst of it, I did notice that he looked healthier. He seemed "lighter," and said he definitely felt more energetic. And he was really enjoying the food he did get to eat in new ways. It seemed to me similar to a fast in many ways, but not nearly as difficult. This time last year, I was really in need of some centering--some internal focus and spiritual discipline. Unbeknownst to my friends at the time, Joel & I were just before making a big change. He would be resigning his call at Rehoboth and accepting a call to serve as pastor of Oconee Presbyterian Church in Watkinsville, and I would be resigning from my ministry positions at Oglethorpe Presbyterian and Emory University. I saw the cleanse partly as a distraction from the stress of secret-keeping, and partly as a healthy way to rise above the eating and drinking that sometimes accompanies stress and change for me. So I made the commitment to do it myself, carefully choosing a 3-week period before the birthday months set in, as Joel's is February 20th and mine is March 4th. 

Last year, after perusing the recipes from the website, I realized that I would not be able to manage two part-time jobs AND the rigid shopping and cooking requirements of the cleanse, so I told Joel and the boys that they were on their own for two weeks. I trekked to the Dekalb Farmers Market and stocked up, learning for the first time what parsnips were, what leeks looked like, and where to find white miso. I dove in with full commitment, and was completely ready for a rough few days at first. But they didn't really come. The first day, I noticed I was slightly lethargic, but there was no caffeine headache, which truly surprised me. I missed the taste / flavor of coffee so badly, though! After a brief encounter with something called Teecino (coffee flavored tea--and yes, it's as bad as it sounds at first...), I gave in and went back to decaf coffee in the mornings, with a smidge of sugar and a drop of milk. No worse for the wear. After about three days, I noticed I did actually feel much better. My energy had returned, and didn't wax and wane as it did when I was eating sugar and drinking real coffee and sodas. I made it through the 3-week regimen, even managing to eat out (at Wahoo) and stay on track for Valentine's Day. I did get comments on a few pounds lost, but the best part was the energy that I had and the sense of accomplishment that I felt.  I maintained a certain level of "food awareness" for a few months after that, but clearly by the fall, I had fallen out of health eating's grace. 

I decided the week after Christmas that I was going to follow the regimen again because I knew I had developed some really bad habits post-move, and had also put on a few unwanted holiday pounds. My caffeine intake had definitely increased, as had my fast-food eating. And to be honest, this time around has been totally different, and a bit harder. I no longer have the distractions of two jobs to keep me up and moving, or to keep me from thinking about food or from eating when I'm not really hungry. And also, I don't have the "two-job" excuse not to cook for Joel & the boys. So I'm prepping my own foods as well as doing light cooking for the guys. I'm not tempted by the foods so much as I am tired of all the time in the kitchen. They don't expect me to cook, and would be fine on their own, but I know they eat healthier when I cook for them. It's just how we've rolled for all these years. Anyway, it's finally feeling more like a temporary way of life than sheer torture, so that's good. I thought the four-day headache and lethargy was totally caffeine withdrawal. I took four naps on Monday. Yes, four. I had plenty to do, but no hard deadlines or appointments, so I was easy on myself that first day. But on day four, I thought that perhaps the headache wasn't due to caffeine withdrawal, but dehydration. True enough, downing eight ounces of water before I eat anything has left me headache free.  Yay!  

I'm only on day 5 of supposedly 18 days, and I may not complete my original commitment of 18 days. But I do know that I have already benefitted from the hardest stage of the process, the "detox" week, and that was really what I was seeking. I will continue with week 2 eating (which adds fish and beans to the recipe options) for at least five days, then move into week 3 eating, which adds in some healthy carbs like brown rice and "hearty grains," for at least five days. These weeks are easier because I can include the guys in some of the recipes, definitely making meal prep easier for me. I know that as I move into the better-tasting foods, I'll have to focus on portion control, which has always been my nemesis. Some of the foods just taste so good after having so little variety for a few days! Also, I keep trail mix (a week 1 food) handy for when I get hungry in between meals. It's amazing what just 1/4 cup of almonds, walnuts, dried cranberries and raisins can do to hunger. 

Because I've not been as busy with life this time around as I was last year, I've had a lot more time to think about the emotional part of the process this week. In the next post, I'll write about some of the things I've learned about my eating habits and the role food and beverages play in my overall life. 

Once-a-Month Cooking

Ahhh, the irony. My last post was from early June when we were in Costa Rica--reflective and deep. Today's post is at August's end, and is about cooking--matter-of-fact and practical. And such is the pattern of my days...

A few years ago, I discovered the idea of "once a month cooking." I hit upon it after spotting this while perusing a friend's cookbook collection. Not all of the recipes would be to our family's liking, nor did I need 30 frozen meals, so I adapted a few of them, cut back on number, and gave it a whirl. That was probably in 2007. I am not a regular by any means, but I do tend to have a big cook-fest in late summer / early fall to help me through those busy months at the end of the year. It is great for our budget in two ways.  Obviously, it keeps me from being tempted to suggest going out on those days when I'm too tired to think, let alone cook. And it allows me to take advantage of buying meat in bulk, either at Costco or at bargain prices from Kroger. It also makes late afternoons much more pleasant because I can generally enjoy the afternoon AND have a good meal ready for dinner. And it makes it fairly simply to have dinner guests on short notice if the opportunity or need arises. I have also added this cookbook to my collection as well, although most of the recipes that I use now come from the first one.

The kitchen, about halfway through

So yesterday was The Day. I think this was my 5th or 6th time to do this, and I've finally got a set list of meals to build.  This makes it easy because I also have a set shopping list, so all I have to do is skim it to see what I have on hand and what I need to buy.

Typically, I prefer to shop one day and cook the next, but yesterday I did it all at once, making it a bit more taxing than usual. And I got a later start too, so the day was very long. But by 6:00, I had successfully prepared and frozen 19 entrees, which should last us for at least a couple of months since I typically use two of the frozen meals per week. The other nights are easy-prep things like burgers or tacos, or are planned nights out, like Wednesday dinner at church or our once-a week family night out at Zaxby's, Your Pie, or something like that.

Most entrees are frozen in gallon-sized freezer bags, but a few are in plastic Glad containers. Using a Sharpie, I write what is in each, as well as the preparation instructions, on the bag or lid, making it easier when prep time rolls around.

Here's what I ended up with in my deep freezer. And a small deep freezer is a necessity (the small ones aren't that expensive) if you want to do more than 5 or 6 meals at a time.

The finished product/s--21 frozen entrees, ready to go!

3 bags of herbed chicken *
1 chicken and rice pilaf *
1 Chinese chicken morsels
1 marinated flank steak *
1 savory beef tips
1 biscuit beef bake
1 Balkan / Swedish meatballs
1 taco pie
2 chicken tetrazzini
1 green chili enchiladas
1 oriental chicken
1 wild rice chicken (tip: go light on
        the onions and celery)
2 chicken packets
1 beef pot roast (crock pot meal) *
1 teriyaki chicken (crock pot meal) *
2 easy beef stew (crock pot meal) *

Since I've done this several times now, I have a pretty good system for what to do when, and how to make the most of every minute I'm in the kitchen. For instance, the first thing I did was to put the 16 boneless chicken breasts in a pot of water to cook. While they were cooking, I assembled most of the raw meat entrees since they mainly just involve combining a few ingredients for the sauce / marinade, placing the raw, rinsed meat in a freezer bag, and pouring the marinade over it. (If you are new to the whole process, or want an easy way to have just a few meals in the freezer, fixing just a few of these would be a great way to start. They are marked with a * in the list above.) When the chicken was done, I set it aside to cool while I browned 5 pounds of ground beef. While the beef was browning, I assembled the meatballs and rolled them out, then put them in the oven for a quick broil. I also cooked the pasta for the tetrazzini in the chicken pot / broth. Then I assembled the ground beef items, cut the chicken in bite-sized pieces, and sprinted for the finish line. By 5:30, I had everything finished and was in clean-up mode. We had the chicken packets for dinner (the boys love these), adding some fresh steamed broccoli and sliced pineapples (from a can) to finish the meal off. My preference is usually to go OUT on the night of my cooking day, but I wasn't really in the mood to go out, and neither were the guys, so that was good for all of us.

It's great to look in the freezer now and see all the meals that are ready to go with just a bit of forethought. You do have to remember to thaw them either the night before or the morning of, but then again, that's part of the ease for me because I totally don't have that 4pm "oh-no-what-are-we-having-for-dinner" feeling. And yes, there are some nights when I don't want anything that I have in the freezer, so I will cook from scratch, but that's always a choice, not a necessity, so it's much more pleasant.

I could probably make the whole process a bit less costly--by making and freezing my own chicken broth, or buy truly bargain shopping / store-hopping for the best deals, or by buying in bulk. (This time, NONE of the beef entrees were on sale, but I bought them anyway...). However, I consciously chose NOT to shop at the Wal-Mart SuperCenter because it stresses me out. I did opt for Kroger over Publix, which probably saved some $$. And I did not have many coupons to use because my clipping has suffered these past few months, so I don't have any good ones on hand. (Yes, I do need to use mobile coupons more than I do...). But all-in-all, I'd say 21 entrees for around $250 (I spent $300 at the store, but probably had close to $50 or so of other grocery items in my order.) isn't too bad. That's around $12 per entree. Add the necessary sides, and you're looking at a meal for 4 (usually with leftovers) for around $15, which isn't too bad.

Since I started doing this, there are even more resources on the internet for recipes, etc. I added a couple this time (the teriyaki chicken and the easy beef stew) that I had seen on Pinterest. And there are now several once-a-month cooking blogs out there, too. But if you are interested / intrigued by this, I'd suggest giving it a try. It's really easy once you get the hang of it, and makes meal prep so much easier!

Something Larger

On Monday, my morning walk carried me not right towards the sands of Langosta Beach, but left, toward the dark, exposed rock that reached out for what seemed like miles towards the crashing low-tide waves.  The absence of open sand would make for a different kind of walk, requiring slower, more careful steps, so I opted for the playlist that I've named “Worship,” made up of songs by Coldplay, U2, David Bailey, Indigo Girls, The Kennedys, David LaMotte, Fourplay, Nickel Creek, & Katie Larue. 

As I sipped the last few drops of coffee from my mug, David Bailey’s words from “Almost Perfect” struck a chord with me.  “Learning to love the moment you are in is the only way time makes any sense.”  I did my best to resist the flood of thoughts that generally find their way into my head as my body awakens with its first cup of coffee. I took the singer’s advice, and tried to genuinely live IN the moment in which I found myself. 

Coffee gone, my body glistening with the first few drops of sweat, I was suddenly flooded with gratitude, and humbled by both the grace and generosity that allows our family the privilege to spend time in this place.  Allowing the flood to carry me, I wandered not down the shoreline, but out, across the black, pocked rocks, toward the morning horizon, to the place where waves meet rock.  The rock was dotted with tide pools here and there, teeming with the early-morning activity of fish and crabs and snails. Venturing farther out, I noticed again how the rock-surface resembles that of a dormant volcano—dark brown and craggy, with fossilized shells and layers upon layers of earth-turned-rock over time.  At the same time, it is also a mini ecosphere, teeming with tiny life forms whose click-clack noises can be heard even above the crashing of waves farther out. 

I became acutely aware of a growing feeling of somehow being at one with something larger than myself. It is a space that I can only describe as prayerful, and for me, if I am totally honest, it is rare. But when it does come, I try to live into it, to ride the wave of it, and to let that Larger Voice have space in my head.    As the music from my own songs of worship played, my mind wandered to various people in my life, and I found myself in prayer for them.

For the friends who have recently lost children to a darker world, I visualized peace, surrender, and acceptance. 

For the ones who have lost mothers or fathers in the past few months, I imagined comfort, strength, and smiles. 

For those traveling far and wide, I hoped for learning, growth, and reconciliation.

And for the one for whom life itself too often resembles the harshness of the time-worn surface of the rocks on which I stood, my only prayer was for real, tangible hope.

For the ones who fear and resist change, I hoped for fresh new promises and a heightened sense of trust.

For the ones who have written lyrics that have the power to carry me to that space, I offered my gratitude.

For the One who gives life, who sustains, and who guides us all…whether we are aware of it or not…I give thanks. 

“The water’s gonna win.  You can’t hold back the tide, you can’t hide from what’s within.  The water’s gonna win.  Feel it move beneath your skin. The water’s gonna win. It’ll keep flowing through, all we are and all we’ve been, the water’s gonna win. Forever and amen, the water’s gonna win.” (Thanks, David.)

May the Water of the One who marks us all find its way into each of our lives today. May we recognize it and give thanks for it.  And in it may we find peace. 

Amen.      

The Estuary

Today has been the first full day on our family's trip to Costa Rica. This is our second trip here as a family, having been fortunate enough to visit here in February of 2009 as well.  However, it's my third time to be here--my first was in the summer of 1978.  Each time I've been to the same place, and while not much has changed in the past 2 ½ years, it is very different than it was when I was here at the age of twelve. 

Our connection with this place, this land, is thanks to my brother Hunter (1955-1996) and the work he did to help acquire it for H.G. Pattillo in the late 70’s.  I don’t have many memories about exactly what he did, mainly since I had little interest in things like that when I was twelve, but I’ve been told that he was here both to gain the trust of the Costa Rican people, and to help recommend and negotiate the transactions that resulted in H.G. owning the hacienda that is Pinilla.  The memories I have about my time here all those years ago are more vivid.  My first experience with theft was here, when my purse was stolen from our Jeep in downtown San Jose.  One of my earliest small-world connections occurred here when we met a group of tourists from Macon, Georgia atop Volcan Irazu, one of Costa Rica’s still-active volcanos.  My first puka bead necklace was purchased for $2.00 from a young tico selling them to tourists on the beach at Tamarindo.  And my first time to ride horses on the beach was with my brother Hunter when we visited The Ranch on that trip, back when Hacienda Pinilla was visible only in the mind and heart of H.G. Pattillo. 

The love between my brother Hunter and me ran deep.  He was eleven or twelve when I was born, and Mom said he thought of me as his own child more than he did a sibling.  I adored him, in part because of the childish silliness that he never seemed to outgrow, and in part because of his intelligence—there was nothing that he didn’t know as far as I was concerned.  So I was eager to spend a few hours horseback riding with him, and even more excited to ride on the beach.  Also, Mom and Dad seemed quite apprehensive about our trek, which made it all the more enticing to me at the time. 

It was the rainy season then, so we had to stop at every flora and fauna spot we passed, particularly the known orchid locales.  While I would love this now, then it was less than exciting to me.  I was eager to ride on the beach, and didn’t really enjoy the winding route we took from the barn to the water.  But as was typically the case when Hunter was involved, we did it his way, and I was thrilled to be along for the ride.   

We finally made it to the beach, and had to cross what seemed like a smallish creek at one point to continue down the shoreline.  I learned then from Hunter that what we were crossing was an estuary, which is a partially enclosed body of water along the coast where freshwater from rivers and streams meets and mixes with salt water from the ocean.  At low tide, estuaries are generally knee-deep with gentle currents, but at high tide, they can become deep rivers with dangerous currents.  We crossed the estuary easily at low tide, with the horses barely kicking up enough water to wet the hems of our jeans.  However, at my pleading, we rode farther than we should have before turning around, so when we reached the same estuary on our return trip, the gentle stream had become a bit of a river, at least three feet deep with swirling currents of significant strength.

Oops.

Hunter seemed mildly concerned, which was enough to cause me great concern since he was generally unflappable.  “Looks like we rode a bit too far, Jill.  We’ve got to cross now, though.  It’s only going to get worse since the tide is coming in.  It will be fine—the horses are strong, and they can swim.”  

Into the currents we went.  I took comfort in two things:  One, while Hunter was concerned, he didn’t seem overly anxious, and two, neither horse seemed to balk at entering the fast-flowing water.  It was probably 25 to 30 feet across, and my apprehension grew with each step as the water got deeper and deeper towards the halfway mark.  The water was at my feet, then at my shins.  At one point, I seem to recall that the horses were no longer walking, but swimming.  Finally they stumbled a bit as they regained their footing, then just like that, we’d made it past the deepest part and my feet were no longer under water.  The horses’ gaits quickened as we reached the other side and their strong legs were no longer fighting the harsh current.  Their gait was, I might add, in negative correlation to my heart rate, which had begun to slow down once it seemed the danger was past.   

“Let’s not mention this part of our ride to Mom & Dad, okay?  I don’t want them to worry after the fact, y’know?”  I nodded in full agreement. One of my favorite things about spending time with any of my three older siblings when I was younger was that, as the adult in charge, they could make decisions about what I could / should and could / should not do that were generally must less stringent than what my parents would typically allow.  They were cool like that. 

My memories of that estuary-crossing all those years ago reminded me that Hunter had both a confidence about him and a way of believing in me that was unique only to him.  Those that knew him well can attest to that.  As I wandered around the Langosta Estuary this morning on my walk and reminisced about that dangerous crossing, which was admittedly probably not as dangerous then as it is in my memory, I reveled in the inner confidence that memory brought forth in me.  I vowed to call up that confidence in the days and weeks ahead as we continue this crossing upon which we have embarked—from the place we’ve loved and called home for almost ten years now to a new and different place, with new faces and new challenges. 

Later this afternoon, Daniel and I walked from the Beach Club to the estuary at Avellanas, which was most likely the estuary that I crossed with Hunter all those years ago.  The tide was receding, and we thought we might be able to cross it, but after only a few steps in, I realized how strong the current was and insisted that we play it safe and turn back. 

My general tendency is often to play it safe and turn back. And so today in particular, I thank God for the memory of the estuary, for the bold confidence of my beloved brother, and for the faith that I know he still has in me, despite the fact that he left this life almost sixteen years ago.  As our family approaches the halfway point of THIS crossing, my prayer is that all five of us will find solid footing along the way, and that our confidence both in ourselves and in each other will remain strong as we venture through the strongest currents of change, looking forward to the new adventures that lie ahead! 

A Not So Hospitable House...

Just a few days ago, the administration of Columbia Theological Seminary, the seminary from which my husband Joel and I graduated, voted to continue discriminating against its LGBTQ students with regard to its housing policy.  Despite the repeated requests of students over the course of many years, and most recently after two years of "careful research of various alternatives, and conversation with numerous people in our diverse constituency," same-sex students in committed relationships are still not allowed to live together on campus.  This is inconsistent with housing policies on other PCUSA-affiliated seminaries, and I believe it is both unjust and inconsistent  with the mission of the seminary itself.  As the current policy stands, single students who wish to live on campus are required to live in single rooms.  Apartments / suites are reserved for married couples or traditional one- or two-parent families only.  If a same-sex couple in a committed relationship wants to live together, they must do so off campus.  If these couples have children, this means they will likely not be able to afford to live in the immediate vicinity of the seminary, which would mean their children could not attend the excellent City of Decatur schools where most "seminary kids" go. They would have to live outside the City of Decatur limits, or would have to live in communities that are far removed from the seminary itself, making the entire seminary experience less than ideal for the whole family.  

The Tolbert in 2005:  Michael, Joel, Adam, Jill, & Daniel

On Friday, Seminary President Steve Hayner addressed this decision in a letter to the student body.  In order to voice our disappointment with this decision, many CTS alums will be writing to President Hayner in the next day or two.  I have posted my response here, and welcome your respectful comments, feedback, questions, etc.  (Note:  Since originally posting this on Sunday, I have edited it slightly, both for typographical errors as well as to better represent my intent.)

April 22, 2012

Dear Steve,

I write as a concerned alumna of Columbia Theological Seminary to express my deep disappointment with the recent decision not to change in the seminary’s housing policy.  While I have the utmost respect for the leadership which each one of you provides for the seminary, and while I honor you and each member of your cabinet individually as brothers and sisters in Christ, I am deeply troubled that you have chosen to continue to allow the seminary to practice such a grave injustice with regard to housing.  To invite or encourage anyone to become a part of the CTS community, then to treat them as less than equal to their colleagues is, I believe, inconsistent with the Gospel of Jesus Christ. 

It is equally disappointing that this unfair decision has been defended as if living in a same-sex relationship is an unacceptable “behavior” choice, as if intimacy between two people of the same gender in a committed, loving relationship is somehow inconsistent with life at CTS or the Gospel.   That you refer to a covenantal same-sex relationship as an issue of “behavior”  suggests that perhaps you believe identifying as LGBTQ is a matter of choice—much like a decision to smoke, avoid carbs, use drugs, exercise regularly, have an affair, or use excessive profanity.  Identifying as LGBTQ is not a choice, but is rather a part of how each of us is made—fearfully and wonderfully, in God’s own image.  The decision to continue to discriminate against LGBTQ students and their families reflects poorly on the seminary’s claim to “witness to God’s creative power, redemptive action, transforming justice, and reconciling love.” 

Over the years, many of us have tried to affect changes, large and small, within the CTS community during our time as students, and have often been met with significant resistance.  Some of us are beginning to fear that the administrative approach regarding student-led changes is to simply stall, to “wait us out,” masking the passing of time as time for discussion, discernment, due diligence, and the like.   Let’s be honest:  The reality is that most of us—the star students and the trouble makers--eventually graduate and move on.  We are called to ministries and lives that demand more time than we even have, thereby leaving little time or energy to be voices for change on the seminary campus.  And so we become complacent about what happens on that space between Kirk Road and Inman Drive.  We ignore the issues that were often core to our identities when we were a part of the day-to-day life on the campus of CTS, often leaving the burden of justice-seeking at 701 S. Columbia Drive or 604 Kirk Road to those who come after us.  However, God is at work among us in new ways with this recent refusal to change, and we have been called to action.  We have vowed to the current students as well as to each other that this time, the issue will not simply go away as the original initiators graduate.  Rather, our efforts will be strengthened with each passing year as more alumni voices are added to our chorus.  We are no longer willing to be passive or silent regarding the issue of fair housing on campus.  Our growing insistence for equality and justice with regard to seminary housing will be seen, heard, and felt in ways we will discern both individually and corporately.

As for me, in my continued work with college students and young adults, as long as this unjust policy is in place, I will be hesitant to encourage those who feel called to ministry to consider Columbia.  This policy clearly suggests that CTS does not, in fact, honor ALL of God’s children as full and valued members of its community.  Additionally, I will be prayerfully considering and suggesting ways that financial contributions—my own as well as those of my friends and family--can continue to support ALL of the students in the CTS community, without regard to sexual orientation, family structure, or gender identity.  The honest truth is that the current housing policy does not live up to the values that are professed on its website:  “Because we are a confessional community of the Church, we live under the authority of Jesus Christ as witnessed to in the scriptures of the Old and New Testaments;  (We) commit ourselves to diversity and inclusivity, …seek to be faithful to the gospel, and to become a living expression of the Body of Christ to the world.”      

It is with both respect and deep sadness that I write this letter.  I continue to stand in solidarity with many of my colleagues and brothers and sisters in the faith who have a deep love for the Triune God whom we worship and serve, a love for each other in spite of our differences, and a love for the community of faith that nurtured us so wonderfully during our formative years in her daily embrace. 

In Christ,

Jill

Rev. Jill Patterson Tolbert, M.Div.

CTS Class of 2007

cc:  Deborah Mullen, Marty Sadler, Doug Taylor, John White

A Haiku

Dad is declining.

Is there more I should have done?

I can't repair it.

Dad is declining.

Liminal space is awful.

I can't escape it.

Sabbath Rest

It's not every day that one's sabbath rest can be done aboard a 60' catamaran, floating and sailing around the British Virgin Islands. However, thanks to my childhood friendg Renee, that is exactly what I've been doing this week, just prior to my turning 45 on March 4th. It feels excessive, indulgent, glorious, and deserved--all at once. I'm finding it difficult to even think too hard, which means blogs posts will likely give a run-down of each day, but writing anything of depth has yet to happen. I'm sure it will, though. Right now, I'm just enjoying having my brain turned off from anything deep or theological, and am reading a good novel rather than a non-fiction, ministry-related book.

Feel free to read what our days have been like. Just don't expect theological reflecting or musing. And because the internet access is very slow, pictures will be added later. W ith that in mind, enjoy experiencing this wonderful gift of sabbath as I prepare to celebrate my 45th birthday. :-)

Travel Day

After a long but easy day of travel on Thursday, Mike and Lori (the Sabore’ crew) met us at the RoadTown ferry landing and we boarded the beautiful Sabore’ about 5pm-- just before dinnertime. After unpacking and settling in, Lori had appetizers all ready for us. They were very welcomed--we had not eaten much on the plane, and that had been around noon, so we were all pretty hungry. Then we headed back into town for dinner at The Dove restaurant. http://www.tortola-beaches.com/Tortola-The-Dove-Restaurant.html It was elegant simplicity—the service was good and the food delicious. Tamara and I were both quite exhausted, partly from the long day and partly because our motion sickness patches were doing their thing. We enjoyed the meal and the company nonetheless, but were quite ready to tuck ourselves in when we got back to the boat. Our first night was spent docked at RoadTown, and we went to be tired, but eager to get underway the next morning.

Day 1

I slept a bit late the first day, and awoke to coffee set up on the outdoor dining table, followed by French toast, fruit, and sausage for breakfast. As soon as our leisurely breakfast was over and cleaned up, we set sail to our first stop, Norman Island. http://www.normanisland.com/ After 30 to 45 minutes of sailing, we anchored, in a quiet little cove, ate lunch, then took our first dip in the water for snorkeling, floating, or just general relaxing. The only other time I’ve been snorkeling was when Joel & I chaperoned a group of high school seniors on a cruise. I was less-than-impressed then, simply because we were so deep that we really couldn’t see much as we floated across the water’s surface. This time, though, we were in waters that were barely 6 feet deep, so we could see lots of brightly-colored fish, interesting coral formations, and hearty plants. After snorkeling, we sunned a bit, got dressed, and boarded the dingy for a ride to the island. We started off with a short hike, then enjoyed a drink at the beach bar, Pirate’s Bight, before heading back to the boat. http://www.piratesbight.com/ A delicious dinner followed our first sunset “at sea,” and we entertained ourselves with laughter-inducing after-dinner conversation and singing before we tucked in for the night.

Day 2

For some reason, I’ve not been sleeping well at all, so on Saturday morning I gave in and got up early—around 6:15, which is 5:15 by my body clock. I poured a cup of coffee, then crept out on deck to see the sunrise. While the sun itself was obscured by a large island land mass, the colors produced as it began to peek up from the horizon were gorgeous. After a breakfast of English muffins, turkey bacon, and fruit, we set sail again, heading to Peter Island for the day and night. http://www.peterisland.com/ Peter is a privately owned island, and is home to a high-end resort and spa. Formerly closed to anyone but paying guests, they have recently opened up for travelers to hike, visit the spa, or enjoy a meal. We dingy’d to the island for a pre-lunch hike and some beach time, then ate at the resort restaurant before heading back to the boat. Afternoon snorkeling was better today because, in addition to many more brightly-colored fish, we saw a huge sea turtle swimming along—a gorgeous and elegant creature, probably slightly larger than your average car tire. Snorkeling was followed by some sunning and reading time, then margaritas and chips served in anticipation of our fajita dinner. This was not your average fajita, though. Delicious beef tenderloin, sautéed with onions and pepper, and served with fresh homemade guacamole and, yes, another margarita. After dinner entertainment was a movie-- The Social Network—on a white “screen” stretched across the stern of the boat, with the image projected from a DVD project. Clever and ingenuous! I didn’t really enjoy the movie as much as I thought I would, and will be disappointed if it earns any awards tonight, Oscar night. It was entertaining for sure, but not deserving of any special awards in my opinion. After the movie, we tucked in for reading and another night of sleep.

That's all for now. Check back for Days 3 and 4 on Tuesday!

Marking Time

Today I finally went to Batteries Plus with an old watch that belonged to Mom to get the battery replaced. (I've decided to try to start wearing a watch again because I don't want to be further tied to my cell phone just to see what time it is...). I commented to the young woman who helped me that my mom died a year or so ago and it was her watch. Then I smiled and added, "If only I could bring my mom in here for a new battery and everything would run just fine again, yeah?" She commented that she had lost her mom this past year, and it was hard for her too. We talked about how the "missing" just never seems to go away. I said a prayer for my friend Elizabeth who just lost her mom last week...far too soon. I wish I could tell her that it will feel normal once again, but at this point I can't. It is simply not normal, even yet, for me to not have Mom's physical presence here with me. The tears are few and far between, and the aching is gone, but I think I will always long for a hug from her. Always.

Loved and Chosen

You can read or listen to my recent sermon at Oglethorpe Presbyterian Church here:

http://networkedblogs.com/d6Z4n

Ever-present Absence

Yesterday afternoon, I spent a few minutes lying in the hammock while Adam jumped on the trampoline. It soothed me to look up into the crystal-clear blue skies through the colorful leaves hanging precariously on the trees above me. I was practicing the art of emptying my mind so that I could hear God’s message to me more clearly. I’m not sure it worked, but it did lead to an interesting conversation with Adam.

“How would you feel if I died, Adam? I mean, other than sad, how would you feel?”

He thought for a bit, then said, “Well, how did you die?”

“I don’t know. Let’s just say…cancer.”

“I’d probably be mad, but then I’d eventually be okay. Why?”

What I was trying to figure out was that if this “missing a mother” thing that I still feel every single day is universal, in general, or if it depends on the age and stage a person is when a mother dies. In other words, all other factors being as equal as possible, does the heart-hole or life-hole that is left when one’s mother dies vary in size, shape, closure (?) time depending on how old a person is when her mother dies? Or is it consistent despite the contributing factors of age and stage in life? Why do I think about things like this? I don’t know, really. But I do know that even now, some 415 days or so past Mom’s death, not a single day goes by that I don’t think about her. Not a single day goes by that I don’t miss her. Most days, I miss her in that bittersweet way that leaves me smiling and warm inside. Some days, I miss her in the heart-wrenching, damn you cancer kind of way that leaves me feeling too vulnerable and too raw.

It’s not that I didn’t expect to outlive Mom. Of course I knew that I would very likely outlive her. But I did not expect to be totally blindsided by her death either. Yes, we had four months to prepare for her death. We were able to walk slowly toward her death, knowing that it was looming. But we were all totally blindsided by her diagnosis. We were all totally blindsided by the reality that she would not live to the ripe old age of 90, as her mother did, or even to the age of 88 as her less healthy sister did. I think we all fully expected to have Mom by our sides when Dad died, and I guess I always thought that somehow, that would make her ultimate death easier. But it was not to be.

This morning, I reached into the coat closet and pulled out a jacket that was Mom's. As I stuck my hands in the pockets and pulled out a glove and a wadded up tissue from each one, I felt that lump rise up in my throat. "Damn--it's one of those days again," I thought. On my way to work, I called Calli and we talked a bit about Thanksgiving and Christmas plans. Towards the end of the conversation, as we both realized that our holiday plans just don’t seem to matter that much to Dad, we both entered a space of missing the presence of Mom’s opinions and excitement about having us all together. Truthfully, they probably don’t matter too much to him because they mattered so much to Mom that he learned to just ride the waves of her twirling and her excitement. Honestly, no one will ever be as excited as she was to have us all in one place—because the hum of family resonance that is almost always present at any family gathering since the beginning of time often overshadows any excitement that any of us might feel for very long. Don’t get me wrong--we all love each other. And we get along better than many families that I know. But we’re all opinionated. We’re all strong-willed. And we all have our own way of doing things. So it can get a bit dicey at times.

But I digress. Calli & I entered that space of the mutual ever-present absence of Mom and we both teared up.

“I love you , Sister.” I said.

“Love you too. Bye.”

As I settled myself in the church space for the morning, I wandered past the two-year-old room. It was just past drop-off time, and the hustle and bustle of activity was beginning to wane as the children settled into their school morning. But there was one little boy who was still quietly sobbing.

“Would you like to play with the truck, Noah?” his teacher asked.

“No, I want my mama,” he cried quietly.

“Would you like to read a book?” she asked.

“No, I want my mama,” he cried quietly.

“We’re going to feather paint today. Do you want to feather paint with us?”

“No, I want my mama,” he cried quietly.

I stood at the door and watched, his tear-filled eyes meeting mine every few seconds until he finally inserted his right thumb in his mouth and started twirling a bit of hair with his left hand. I was taken back to the days when I would drop two-year-old Adam off at Little Folks of Fourth in Greenville. After a few tear-filled drop-off days, his own little soothing routine was to remind both of us that “mommies all call back,” Adam-speak for “Mommies always come back.”

And I always did.

Odds are pretty good that Noah is now happily playing with his friends, and that his mom will come back time and time again, too.

What is it about this thing called mother-love? When we are tiny and vulnerable, it is a mom’s presence that anchors us and helps us feel secure, so when she's not physically present, we are sad. We feel vulnerable and alone. And as we grow, it’s as if we want to resist with everything we have being dependent on that one person who wouldn’t dream of abandoning us. The ever-present presence of a mother can often feel stifling, even controlling or oppressive at times. One of my Emory students even laughed and said, “Well, you can’t have ‘smother’ without ‘mother’!” But when it’s only there in your memory, never again to be felt in the warmth of a hug, the taste of a favorite meal, or the excitement of a request to “tell me all about your (fill in the blank…day, trip, dinner, etc.)!” knowing that she really and truly does want to know all about it, it is the most pervasive, ever-present absence that I have ever felt. And why did I not realize how much I would miss it?

This is life today. If only I could suck my thumb and twirl my hair while I remind myself that mommies always come back, perhaps I would feel better. But alas...

Musings on a Calling

So this is what I worked for over the span of four years during my graduate studies at Columbia Theological Seminary? This is why I slaved and fretted over ordination exams and MCA’s and CPM paperwork? This is why I juggle two jobs, three sons, and an exponential number of schedules from mid-August to mid-May? To dress up as a witch and go Trick-or-Treating at age 44? To spend a weekend away from my family with 50+ folks (most of whom I don’t know) who hover unpredictably & precariously between adolescence and adulthood? To schlep dinner for twelve up two flights of stairs in the Glenn Education Building and listen to the highs and lows of a very high and low bunch of folks…every week? To plan activities and opportunities for worship, study, or service never knowing who, if anyone, will show up? To work to drum up enough financial support to get us through each year, and to never be sure from one year to the next if the funds will be granted for my own salary? To pay through the nose for parking at Emory, only to walk another “fer piece” to my on-campus office (which is up the aforementioned two flights of stairs, I might add…)? To pick up the tab for anywhere from two to twelve people at Yogurt Tap, Willy’s, Panera, or ChocoLate at any given moment?

You bet it’s what I worked for. It’s why I sat not once (for polity and worship and sacraments), not twice (for polity, theology, and exegesis), but three (for polity alone) times. (Notice a pattern here? Damn you, polity ord!) It’s why I juggle the many aspects of my life so that I can be pastor (and yes, sometimes mother, sometimes sister, sometimes friend) to a group of the greatest young people that I know. To walk with these students on this journey we call life for these precious four years is a gift and a blessing. They challenge me. They support me. They laugh with me…and at me. They are wonderful and amazing. They are inquisitive, they are faithful, and they are committed to finding and following God’s call on their lives. They are respectful of each other, yet hold each other accountable when needed. They are the future. And I promise you, despite all the things that point to the contrary, they will be ready and capable when it’s time to step up to the proverbial plate. Yes they’re still being formed—and there are days when I am grateful that God’s not done with ‘em yet, for sure--but then again, aren’t we all a beautiful, wonderful, work in progress?

Thank you God for calling me to this work of Christian formation. And thank you for the daily reminders that it is all of us—not just our children, youth, and young adults—whom you are forming, shaping, molding to be/come the people you have called us to be.

More Wisdom from Attee

I have so many blog topics on my list, but in the craziness that is my life, I simply can't find the right combination of time AND creative energy to write them down. Theological musings like "If we believe God is always present, why do we ask God to comfort people and / or be with people in our prayers?" and "Sins of Omission and Sins of Comission--which do you tend to focus on and why?" And another one came to me yesterday, but I have already forgotten it. Perhaps it will return.

But alas, today is not the day when creativity and time have met, so instead, I give you more snippets from Mom's life, this time from her Bible, where I found this little gem tucked. It's from an old "These Days" devotional, dated Sunday, April 30. The referenced scripture is Luke's version of The Good Samaritan, Luke 10:29-37.

Be A Jumper Cable

On one of those frantic, tightly scheduled days, when others were depending on my punctuality all day, the battery in my car barely sparked the engine to start. In haste, I risked continuing. Later, far from home, as I turned the ignition key again, one last, weak, grunt sounded. The battery was dead. I felt like a dead battery, too!

Almost immediately a young "Good Samaritan" stopped to offer help--he even had a jumper cable! As soon as the jumper cable brought power, my car started: the energy transferred enabled my car to go.

I thought of all those people in the world who act as jumper cables--conveying energy, bringing help, carrying services, transferring love, making connections. Try it now; stop a moment and remember kindness people have done for you, those who have served as links between you and a need. Then, think of the times you have been a jumper cable for others, a Good Samaritan--the example immortalized by Jesus of one forever nameless but forever named, a symbol of a person who responde to human need. Good Samaritans are jumper cables, bridging human need!

Prayer: All powerful (God), without you we are as dead batteries. Help us to stay connected with you and to transfer to others your love and energy. In Jesus' name, Amen.

Granted, the metaphor is a bit cheesy, but it does so personify our mother. So my prayer for you this day and always, with a nod to our dear, sweet Attee is this: May each of you BE jumper cables when you are given the chance to be, and may you FIND someone who is jumper cables when you need a bit of energy.

Amen. :-)

For Michael Thomas

In going through my files on my computer, I came upon this poem that I wrote for our youngest son Michael when he was three. It was just a few months before we moved to Decatur for seminary...

Your Passion
For Michael Thomas, with love from Mom
April 18. 2002

You're the hardest part of my day, yet the joy of my life.
The delicate balance between ecstasy and utter frustration.
From the first stirrings of you in my body...even your conception.
I've felt it from the start, your eagerness, need, to live with passion.

They said that you couldn't be...it was too soon.
But I knew better, as all mothers do. You were there, sure & strong.
Even at eight weeks, your beating heart was screaming for life.
A Soul that you had already claimed, passionately staked for your own.

It was as if you'd picked up the remaining pieces of the one before you,
The one who had not been, whose body was no longer there.
Perhaps there were bits of soul still present, begging for a life.
And like a good brother, you gathered them in, sharing yourself.

You were the hardest to carry, for both body & mind were weary.
And I had little time to rest, as there were other young demands.
Needs to be met, incessant and necessary.
But you were there always, reminding me of your presence.

So eager you were to join our lives that you couldn't wait 'til your time.
Your brothers were late, but you...you were three days ahead of yourself.
Always ahead of yourself, or so you thought. So you think.
You're only three, a mere speck in the hourglass of life.

I wrestle with you, with who you are and the roller coaster you ride.
Up one minute, then plummeting down the next, with no warning, none.
I hurt for you, for the emotions you feel so strongly yet cannot name.
But we're both trying...it's just that there are so many, and it's so hard!

You're only three, too little for reasoning, for big words, or big feelings.
But your feelings ARE big, and they resonate loud & long.
Even when you are back up and the world is good again,
Your frustration, your hurtful actions, linger in my mind, heart, and memory.

Time will help, I tell myself. You'll grow out of it.
But do I want you to? That passion you have, good or bad
Is passion nonetheless. It's a depth of feeling that not everyone has.
But I know you have it because I see myself in your depths.

We'll get through this, you & me, and be better for it.
Your feelings WILL always resonate loud & long for me.
As mine will for you, one of these days. And I will remind you.
Of the days, not so very long ago, when you were my hardest part.

More musings from Mom

I remember...

...not long after my Grandpa died, I remember an Indian suit I got for Christmas--feathered headdress and all! And it was very special, I thought!

...waking up on cold winter mornings and seeing Daddy light the heaters before the family got up.

...having "tickling fights" with Daddy on Sunday mornings in bed! I LOVED that! And one Sunday morning by the bed there was a new pocket watch somebody had given my daddy and it had writing on the back.

...the stairway in the big old house with a landing where it turned directions. One day I fell from the top step to the landing and I remember being GLAD that stairway turned directions! Just like times when I've been glad when life "turned directions," you know!

I'm grateful for her memories, her voice in my head, even still. But there are still times when all I really want is to feel her arms around my neck and hear her tell me that she loves me.

Sigh.

I Remember...

More from Mom's "Recollections"

"I remember when Grandpa died and I smiled at people as they went in to pay respects to someone in the downstairs bedroom--was it Nana? I'm not sure, but I know it seemed important for me to smile and be happy because everyone looked so sad!"

May we all be beacons of happiness today for those in our midst who are sad!

Memories from Attee

I've not had the creative urge to blog much these past few months, but I don't want to just let it go unattended either. Therefore, I've decided to resurrect some of Mom's writings that I have found as we've gone through her things this past year and put them out there for whatever readers I may still have left to enjoy.

I'm not exactly sure the nature of these writings. I suppose she wanted to write things down "for posterity," so that he stories and memories would live on even when she had moved on. There is a yellow legal pad with memories jotted down and dated in the mid- to late-70's, then another notebook that is entitled "My Journal about Hunter" begun in June of 1992, right about the time we found out he was HIV+. That one is a treasure, and I hope to share it in its full form at some point.

I should have posted this one on Tuesday of this week, which would have been Mom & Dad's 60th wedding anniversary, but I had forgotten about this particular entry. The entry is dated 9/6/79, just a few weeks before my sister Calli married her first husband Steve. Since Mom did not title it, I'll do that for her.

How Well I Remember

"How well I remember the day I married Tommy. As usual at 628, there was lots of confusion and much coming and going. That morning a friend brought a box filled with freshly cut gardenias from her garden and said, with a smile, "Happy the bride the sun shines on!" and it was indeed a glorious summer day! I remember th eneed to get away from all the confusion, so I went across the Janye's to rest, but instead of resting, I had a good cry and a heart-to-heart talk with Janye. Only then did she tell me Med had always hoped I'd marry Mem! But then she reassured me and said it was natural to get nervous at the last minute.

"Then as I was dressing to go to the church, I got sick at my stomach just before putting on my wedding gown. But I finally got myself together and with my daddy's help I made it down the aisle. Everyone said the way that Tommy looked at me as I came down the aisle was all the decoration that we needed for the wedding! I've always wished someone had snapped a picture because that would have been so special to keep."

It always troubled me that Mom and Dad's wedding day was so stressful for her. Since her death, I've read some of the letters that she and Dad exchanged in the months leading up to the wedding (which she, by the way, intentionally kept, but also intentionally kept FROM me until "the day she died," as she used to say), and there's no doubt that the love and certainty were there, but I guess as was often the case with Mom, her nervousness outweighed any other emotions that might have been present as well. I know their life together, while filled with ups and downs, was good, and that she had little, if any, regrets about the path their life together took for those fifty-nine years.

As Joel and I approach our 20th anniversary in less than two weeks (June 23rd), I wonder what our lives will look like when the year 2050 rolls around. If we are still on this earth, I will be 84 and he will be 81, very close to Mom's age when she died, and Dad's age now. What hardships will we have endured by then? What celebrations will we have shared together? Will our boys rest in the knowledge that I had little, if any, regrets about the path our life together took?

On these summer days that seem so very full for me, I hope to keep my wits about me and remember that it's no so much about the destination, but about the journey along the way. I'm a pretty good trip planner, but I'm not so sure how good I am as a traveling companion. I think perhaps I'll work on that a bit in the days and weeks ahead...

Full Circle

For over a year now, I’ve blogged mostly about Mom—her diagnosis and journey to death, and the after effects with which that all left me. But here, on this side of the reality of life without my mother’s hugs, I have been blessed these past few months to be reminded of just what a gift I have in dad. Calli & I have both commented in these recent months that it’s been a joy to re-define our relationship with Dad. Surely those of you that knew our mom have some idea what we mean when we say that. It’s not that Mom hoarded or controlled either of us or our relationship with Dad, but she was so very present in their marriage. She was the personality of their partnership. It’s not that Dad doesn’t HAVE personality, but Mom just had so much, so Dad eventually just let her be the relationship manager. She managed their social life, their family life, and their day-to-day life—just as any good “housewife” of her generation did. And it was all well and good with them. That was their dance for many years, and they had learned to dance it beautifully. But now Dad is without his dancing partner, and so he’s having to learn his own steps. And doing quite well, I have to say.

But I’m chasing a rabbit here. Let me back up. So my musings have been mostly about Mom—the things she taught me, the things she did for me, the ways she mothered me. I know how very blessed the four of us were to have had her as our mother. But we’re fortunate too, to have the father that we have as well. No, neither of them were perfect by any means, but both did the best they knew how to do, and that was pretty darn good.

As I pushed the lawn mower down the street yesterday to mow Dad’s overgrown yard--for some reason, the lawn service had been delayed and it was looking scruffy--I spent some time really thinking about the kind of father that he has been. And I realized that there are things that I know how to do that I am quite sure that Mom did not teach me. Things like how to change a tire or how to check my oil. Things like how to turn a screwdriver or hammer a nail. Things like how to balance a chemical equation or solve for x in a linear one. Things like how to make hummingbird food, or where to put a bluebird house. Things like how to start a lawnmower and how to mow a straight path. As I walked back and forth, back and forth in Dad’s front yard, making sure the tire of the mower was just inside the most recently-mowed strip so I wouldn’t leave any unmowed stalks of grass, I remembered him standing on the curb at 1409 watching me mow the lawn for the first time. He would turn me around after each pass and let me see my weaving path, encouraging me until I could mow a strip as straight as an arrow.

Mom always found it very odd that I love mowing the lawn. It was certainly not a “ladylike” thing to do, and most definitely not anything she had taught me to love. And yet I’ve always enjoyed doing it. True, there is a part of me that likes to do it because, well…because unlike laundry, it stays “done” for a few days. But I think there is also a part of me that has always like it because it makes me feel connected to Dad in some way.

Yesterday, when I had finished mowing, I went inside to get a glass of ice cold water. I sat down on the sofa next to Dad in his chair and together, we watched a few golf holes. I smiled as I remembered the times not too long ago when he would come in after working in the yard and sit down next to me to sip his glass of ice cold water while we watched a golf hole or two together as Mom cooked dinner.

Dad & I never really talked much prior to Mom’s death, and we don’t talk that much now, really. Sure, I see him almost every day, and we talk some, but when we do, it’s usually about when I’m picking him up for a Publix run or a visit to the doctor. He’s never been one for small talk, and that has only been compounded by his difficulty hearing. But no longer do I let the lack of words passing between the two of us disturb me or make me feel like we don’t “have much of a relationship.” We have the kind of relationship that many fathers of his generation had with their children…one formed around shared tasks, understood feelings that need not be spoken, and mutual satisfaction with a job well done.

It’s hard to watch your parents age and die. But as hard as it is, there is a rightness about going full circle that reminds me that it’s the way life was meant to be. My prayer is that I am blessed with many more “full circle” opportunities with my daddy before he, too, leaves this world for the next.

It was a dark and stormy night...

So every year, almost without exception, on the eve of my birthday, Mom would retell the story of my birth. It went something like this:

"Well, you were supposed to be delivered by C-section a week or so later, but as you know, you came into this world saying 'I'd rather do it myself, Mama!' It became pretty clear that you were about to make your appearance earlier than we'd planned, and on the night of March 3rd, 1966, it was storming and flooding all over middle Georgia! But we knew we had to get to Macon where my doctor was, so we called Mrs. Kay to come stay with the "big kids," and Barbara and George Spicer got in the car with us and we headed up the road. There was no I-16 then, so the typical route to Macon was up Hwy 80, but it was UNDER WATER in places, so we had to go a roundabout way to get there, and Barbara was just sure she was going to have to deliver you in the back seat of the car! But we finally made it there, and you made your appearance at 7:12 the next morning, 'all by yourself.' What a gift you have been, my precious Jill!"

Also, every year, literally without fail, I would receive a birthday greeting similar to the one I got from her this time last year. This is what she wrote:

"HAPPY BIRTHDAY, my precious Jill!!!!! March 4th, 1966 was most likely the happiesst day if my life, & little did I know just how much I would come to LOVE & depend on you!!! THANK YOU FOR ALL OF THE MANY HAPPY DAYS YOU HAVE GIVEN ME...& for all the happy days we have to look forward to!! I am planning on lots of those!!! Don't ever forget that I LOVE YOU MORE!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!"

But as hopeful as I was this time last year, I knew it would likely be my last birthday with her here on earth with me. So I've saved that email from March 4, 2009, and will read it every year on my birthday, because, well...because my birthday just wouldn't be the same without my Mama's birthday wishes for me.

Thank you, Mom, for having me. For loving me. For teaching me. And for making me feel so very important, on my birthday and always. I miss you lots tonight.

At the Counter

Not a day goes by that I don't think of Mom. I guess that's "improvement" from where I was a while ago, at "not an hour goes by that I don't think of Mom." I have discovered that when I was in the "not an hour" phase, the missing was an ache, a pain that usually brought me close to tears. Now that I have "graduated" to the "not a day" phase, my thought of Mom give me more comfort than sadness, more smiles than grief.

How blessed I was to have her for my mother.

This afternoon as Michael sat at the counter doing his homework, I was in the kitchen baking cookies. And just like that, I was back...back at the counter at 1409--the 1970's aqua-colored formica counter with the ceramic square superglued to it to hide the absence-of-formica where I had let the iron warm up face down (oops!) when I was trying to be bigger than I really was. I was back on the dark wood stool that I still sit on whenever I am at my potter's wheel--because I cut the legs down to make it a just-right height since your Decatur house doesn't have a counter. I was back with you there, in the kitchen, asking me about my day and making a snack for me.

If I could sit down at the counter now, with you baking cookies all around me, I would tell you about my day, Mom.

I would tell you that yesterday was hard, but today was better.

I would tell you that Michael has been chosen to be a Board Scholar, just like Daniel was in 5th grade, and that he's also Student of the Month for January.

I would tell you that Daniel is having a harder time than I would like for him to in 7th grade, and that we are considering other options for him next year because we refuse to let Shamrock suck the excitement for school out of him.

I would tell you about how he got in the car yesterday saying he saw one of the greatest things he'd seen in a long time after school at Dad's house. "What was that?" I asked. "Well, Grandad was sitting in his chair and Boyd came up to him and put his paw on Grandad's knee. Grandad smiled the biggest smile I'd seen him smile in a long time and then let Boyd jump up in the chair with him."

I would tell you about how much better Adam is doing in school this semester, and how much better he has gotten with his driving. I would tell you what a good kid he is, and how even though his heart is wrestling with his hormones, his heart usually wins.

I would tell you that I am still madly and deeply in love with Joel, and that I would go to the ends of the earth to support him.

I would tell you how proud we all are of Dad--how he's "getting along just fine," as he so often tells folks. He is cooking for himself, cleaning for himself, and even doing his own laundry. He misses you terribly, but he is doing just fine.

I would tell you that I got an email from Sarah Alice today, and that she sounds happy.

I would tell you about my morning, and how it renewed my faith in God a tiny bit.

I would invite you to come with me to church this Sunday--Church of the New Covenant--where I will be helping with worship by presiding at the Communion Table.

I would ask you if you've talked to Tom about his trip to New York, and we could share how happy we are for him that he's getting to go.

I would talk to you about all of those things if I could sit at the counter while you bake cookies.

But I can't. And I guess that's okay. It's okay because, well...because it has to be. It has to be because today is a big-girl-britches, no-whining kind of day.

But even big girls who have outgrown whining can miss their mamas....can't they?

Can you bake cookies where you are? Are there counters where you are? I'll bet you can even eat cookie dough where you are without having to worry about salmonella, huh?

Well, say hello to folks there, and don't forget that the 4th is Mamur's 110th birthday. I hope you will enjoy being with your own mama on that day, after so many years "without her." Maybe you should bake her a cake. And maybe Hunter can sit at the counter and visit with you while you work.

I kinda like that image.