A Thing of Beauty 2020

Dear UD,

As November 2020 approached, I didn’t know what to do with it. The world ended in a lot of ways for many people this year; the world is in the middle of a pandemic, and in America, we’re seeing increased racial violence as well as civil unrest and nearing the end of an election year where there was a televised presidential debate that was anything but presidential. I was in debate in high school, and if I acted like the so-called president, I would have been escorted off stage immediately and likely banned from future debates. Personally, I’m approaching my second birthday without my mom in this world, and a birthday year where we were both supposed to turn big numbers together (first her in August and then me this month). Not to mention that I’m living alone for the first time in my life while also working only from home, spending day and night on an electronic device for work, connection, fun, trying not to go bat-shit crazy, but not trying not to cuss so much. Yes, I normally don't swear much in general; however, you know if you hear me dropping F-bombs like crazy, then I'm either extra super exhausted (check) or super extra pissed off (check check). In the past few weeks (or is it months), I've been both, and so I find myself cussing a lot as well as singing to songs where I can curse some more. So, that's where I am this semester of super extra grading and responding and working on the computer all the f-ing time and dealing with the f-ing pandemic on top of everything.

 

The thing is, Uncle David, for all of us still here on this earth right now, what we are dealing with is very personal. Too many personal things that we don’t know how to process, don’t know what to do with, but hope to survive. I know that. At the same time, because of the pandemic and all that comes with it, there’s also the collective part that we are all dealing with that makes the personal even more difficult right now. And what do we do with all of that?!

 

And without you, without mom, without family living in the same home with me, I feel so alone. Just a week ago, I discovered something disturbing about someone I know personally (not a close friend or family member, but still someone I hung out with once upon a time), and I just wanted to call my mom, to call you. I want to hear Mom’s voice, and I know she’d say something like, “People are crazy. Just goes to show you never really know someone. That’s why we need God.” And, I want to hear your deep chuckle, because as horrific as the story was, I know you would help me process it and then find a way to help me see the positive in the situation, the good in the world, and the hope in humanity; and you’d make me laugh before we hung up. I miss you and mom so much it hurts. And it feels so lonely without you both in this world with me.

But the other week, I read an article that helped me not feel so alone. In a nutshell, “The ancient term 'acedia' describes the paradoxical combination of jangling nerves and vague lack of purpose many of us are feeling now. Reviving the label might help.” In the article, “Acedia: thelost name for the emotion we’re all feeling right now,” Jonathan L. Zecher states:

 Reviving the language of acedia is important to our experience in two ways.

 

First, it distinguishes the complex of emotions brought on by enforced isolation, constant uncertainty and the barrage of bad news from clinical terms like “depression” or “anxiety”. Saying, “I’m feeling acedia” could legitimise feelings of listlessness and anxiety as valid emotions in our current context without inducing guilt that others have things worse.

 

Second, and more importantly, the feelings associated with physical isolation are exacerbated by emotional isolation – that terrible sense that this thing I feel is mine alone. When an experience can be named, it can be communicated and even shared.

UD, it’s true that every one of us still on this earth has both personal and collective issues to handle right now, so it’s more important than ever to think about, find, and share A Thing of Beauty every day this November. That means looking at the people and places around us and finding meaning and beauty in what is, reimagining difficult or painful things in ways that calm and soothe, reseeing ugly things in ways that simplify and beautify. You did this, UD, in many ways, and Mom did it in her own way too. “Bless someone else, and you’ll feel better,” she’d always remind us when things were challenging. “Look how far you’ve come and what all you’ve survived. I’m proud of you,” you’d tell us. I miss you both so much. But, for my own sanity and to honor the tradition as well as honor you, mom, and dad, I will find and share a thing of beauty every day this month. Thank you, Uncle David, for always believing in me. Thank you, Mom, for always loving me. Thank you, Dad, for always teaching me.

 

Love, Rach

 

PS: For those of you reading this blog entry, I encourage you to look for a thing of beauty as you go about your day this month. Whether you haven’t left your house for six months or you’ve had to go to work every single day despite everything going on around you or you are taking care of Covid-19 patients or you have or have had the virus. No matter what your circumstances, I encourage you to look for a thing of beauty right wherever you are. Maybe you’ll find it in the person next to you, or in the nature around you, or in the kindness of a stranger. But wherever you find it, I encourage you to share it. Tell someone else about it, pass it along, let it heal your heart. Because you never know whose heart you might bless or whose life you might save just from seeing beauty right where you are and passing it along.

 

Birthdays, 2020

 

Dear UD,

I find myself nostalgic for so many things lately. Birthday celebrations with you and mom and dad, parties with all of our extended families together, conversations on the phone with you and Mom, having my daughters living in my home, hosting exchange students, even life before smart phones or cell phones, and definitely life before the pandemic.

The world is so different this year of 2020. It’s riddled with pandemics, viruses, quarantines, political circus acts, videos of racism and police brutality, black lives matter protests, online-only education, unemployment, foreclosures of both homes and businesses, superstorms, civil unrest, tweets of utter stupidity, and so much more. We moved from reading dystopian literature to living dystopian life, yet what overshadows this year for me is that Mom’s not here to celebrate our birthdays together this year. It’s not right, UD, and it’s not okay. But it is what is. 

Mom was 20 years old when I was born, and I remember the last time we celebrated our birthdays in person together. In 2016, she turned 66 in August, so of course I turned 46 that November. At the time, I had just moved back to Missouri for the fall semester and was renting a house in Houston, so I hosted a family birthday party for mom. She was so happy because everyone came, and that’s all that mattered to her—time with those she loved.

Per typical celebrations in our family, we had tons of homemade food, presents, a homemade cake, and even BYOC, also known as “bring your own candle” (thanks to Sonny) for the birthday cake. And tons of people and craziness, but I remember Mom being so happy, and we took lots of photos.

Sam and Serena hosted my birthday party that November. Again, Mom was so happy to be celebrating my birthday with me in person.

It’s unfathomable that we lost her just a couple of years after that and that we’ll never celebrate a birthday together again.

Uncle David, I don’t have a strong ending, a life lesson, or a conclusion. I just miss you, miss mom and wish you were both here. Today, I’m doing things to honor and celebrate her—breakfast and conversation with Alaina (Granny loved her grandkids and spending time with them and was so proud of them), homemade chicken-veggie soup for lunch (Mom loved making soup and sharing food with her family and friends), pool time this afternoon (she was a lifeguard as a teen and loved swimming her whole life), Chinese takeout for dinner (not only did she love eating Chinese food, but it was the last meal we shared at a restaurant with her—all ten of her children and almost 30 of her grandchildren were there, so the restaurant had to push together a long row of tables so that we could all eat at the same “table”), and movie night with a friend (watching one of Mom’s favorite movies).

Happy 70^th birthday, Mom. You are missed; you are loved.

UD, we wish you and Mom were here right now, but as you and mom taught us, we will honor and remember our ancestry, our loved ones, our lessons learned. And we will celebrate birthdays and loved ones, both keeping close old memories and continuing to make new ones.

Love,

Rach 

Black Lives Matter

Dear UD,

On May 25, George Floyd, a black man, was killed on the streets of Minneapolis by a white police officer who was kneeling on his neck during an arrest. In under nine minutes, Floyd died. During those nine horrific moments, captured on video, Floyd cried out for mercy, for justice, for his mama. “I can’t breathe.” I can’t breathe. I can’t breathe. He said this over and over again until all his breath was gone from this world. Gone forever.

Once the video was released and the nation and world witnessed this appalling and atrocious event, it responded with horror and action. Protests, riots, social media posts, news articles, the whole world is watching, but more importantly, the whole world is taking action.

It’s so unbelievable, Uncle David, that America needs civil rights action in 2020, but here we are. It has all gone on too long. There’s no justification for what happened. It doesn’t matter what he did, where he’s from, what he was doing, what race he is. NONE of that matters. George Floyd was a man, a human being who deserved the same treatment as ANY other human being. I’m not talking about some liberal agenda, political agenda, or negative stance against police officers. The police have a challenging job, one that I could never do. There are so many courageous, considerate, strong officers out there, and I have nothing but respect and admiration for them and how they serve their communities. However, there is no room for prejudice and racism in a vocation such as police work or education.

Police brutality, racial profiling, black men in prison, unjust treatment because of skin color…all of it has gone on for too long. White privilege has gone on too long. Systematic racism has gone on for too long in America. It is time for a better country, a better world.

UD, I thank God that I was raised to be accepting of other cultures and races, to embrace diversity, to stand up for what I believe in. Because that’s where it starts. It all begins with how we view the world and how we teach our children to view the world.  In my narrative titled, “Beauty in the Spice of Life: An International Playgroup,” first published in Good Works Review 2018, I wrote:

How do we teach our children diversity and acceptance? How can we help them see beyond color and language to people and their hearts? As recent headlines show, these are still important questions in the twenty-first century.

It all starts with what we pass down through the generations; I am grateful that I learned these vital qualities from my parents through conversations, books, movies, music and then passed them down to my own children, using love, exposure, and conversation.

[snip]

In this group, we were learning to pass it along, generation upon generation, through love, exposure, and conversation. Children have an innocence that automatically welcomes and that can be nurtured. When my children were toddlers, I started an international playgroup and exposed them to food and kids and clothes from around the world. I read books to them about other cultures, and we talked about the differences and similarities. Even when they were babies, I bought a board book that is simply the song, “Jesus loves the little children, all the children of the world,” and is illustrated with children from various cultures. I bought my daughters white American Girl dolls that looked just like them, but I also bought them Native American, African American, etc. dolls as well. I took them to local International Festivals every year and took photos for their albums. We watched movies about Dr. King, Rosa Parks, the Civil Rights Movement, women’s rights, Gandhi and so on. When my children became teenagers, we hosted foreign exchange students every summer, and my daughters now have French and Spanish sisters.

UD, I ended that essay with this, “…the importance of unity, difference, community, and the innocence and acceptance of children. Our lives are enriched when we reach beyond the common white bread of our culture into the difference, diversity, yet oneness of others.”

My whole life I have lived this way, taught my own children these values, and passed along these values to my students in the classroom. I teach that silence can be a form of violence and the importance of living our beliefs. I post articles and memes on social media designed to inspire and encourage acceptance and justice and critical thinking. But this week, all of that doesn’t feel like enough. I feel so enraged and powerless, impuissant, that things like George Floyd’s death are still happening in our country.

I am distressed and horrified. So much so that I have felt compelled to action. Called to take action that publicly and visibly shows my beliefs and that stands on the side of justice and mercy and truth and compassion and acceptance.

So last night I attended a Peaceful Protest at Canova Beach Park with a friend of mine. In some ways, it was nerve-racking while in other ways it felt right and emotional and effective. Laina helped me make a sign which read “Equal justice for all. #icantbreath #blacklivesmatter.” I picked up Rebekah and drove to the protest. Before stopping, we drove by, honking our support to those already gathered together, to scope out the situation since we’d heard rumors of plans to attack or mace the peaceful protesters. There were police cars nearby for protection, but everything looked okay. After doing a u-turn, we drove back to the area, and we were appalled to see a counter-protest across A1A near Keywest Bar. While there weren’t a lot of people gathered on that side, it was jarring and simply terrible to see the Confederate flag flying next to the American flag flying next to Trump 2020 Keep America Great flag right here in Brevard County.

We found a parking spot at Canova Beach, donned our masks, and walked over to stand proudly with the 300 Black Lives Matter protesters. For thirty minutes or more, we stood on the side of the road, holding our sign, waving at friendly people who drove by and honked their support, joining chants like “I can’t breathe” or “Black lives matter” or “No justice, no peace” or “Say his name. George Floyd,” and being part of something important and necessary.

At the same time, across the road, the counter-protesters continued waving their flags. I don’t understand how you can protest justice and equality?! I found it ironic that they held the American flag “‘Cause the flag still stands for freedom,” and okay, the freedom/right to protest is covered under that; however, what about the freedom/right to equality and justice and purity and valor that our flag stands for?! One lady was so drunk that she kept yelling obscenities and demanding that we “go home.” Then, one man arrived across the street with a full-sized portrait (as in the picture was taller than him) of white Jesus, and he started walking up and down the road, waving white Jesus around. UD, you know that it angers me when people use God to justify evil, but to show up at a peaceful Black Lives Matter protest with a misrepresentation of Jesus?! I have no words.

Thankfully, everyone in our group remained peaceful yet purposeful. At one point, we all “took a knee” for the eight minutes and 46 seconds that the police office knelt on George Floyd’s neck and in honor and respect and silence for those who have lost their lives because of racism and police brutality.

Ultimately, I felt empowered to participate in civil action, to join thousands around the nation and world in demanding justice, equality, and accountability. It cannot stop here. It cannot stop now. It started with George Floyd’s last breath and will not stop until we can all breathe as free and as just as one another.

George Floyd leaves behind family, loved ones, children. Although his death is a horrific tragedy, he leaves behind a legacy of change as the world has joined together to stand for justice. Together, we stand. Together, we protest. Together, we say ENOUGH.     

UD, I know that you and Mom and Dad would all stand with me. Missing you all.

Love, Rach

PS: Photography by Rebekah Raddon

Memorial Day 2020

Dear UD,

It’s Memorial Day weekend in 2020, a global pandemic still ravages, many states in America are in the middle of a phase to reopen, and all across the United States, people are preparing to gather together for the holiday weekend. Some Americans plan to stay home, others plan to go out while practicing caution and social distancing, yet there are those who don’t see a risk and simply want to have fun and/or exercise their freedom. Simultaneously, the New York Times major headline for this weekend reads, “U. S. Deaths Near 100,000, an Incalculable Loss.” It is a historic front page—simply a list of names of those Americans who have died from Covid-19 so far this year. The article then reveals memories, snippets from obituaries across the nation, of those lost to the virus during this pandemic; their positions, their hobbies, their accomplishments, their gifts and talents, their loved ones left to mourn their loss. The article honors them yet serves as a sober warning and reminder.

Uncle David, during the last several years of your life, you wrote a series of full-length plays titled Memorial Day Picnic (Morning 1919, Afternoon 1945, Evening 1976, Night 2007). I remember being one of your readers during that time and how much I loved the plays and your brilliance. The plays, always set on Memorial Day, range over the course of a century and include family drama, American history from World War I to World War II to the Vietnam War to the Iraq War and all the way to 9-11, and honor for the military personnel who have died while serving in the U. S. military.

Of those who served in those wars, there were a little over 100,000 deaths during World War I, over 400,000 deaths during World War II, over 50,000 deaths during Vietnam, and close to 5,000 deaths during the Iraq War.

UD, can you imagine an America where 100,000 people die from a virus in three months?

According to the NYTarticle, one of those was a 91-year old who “saved 56 Jewish families from the Gestapo.” It is all mindboggling, UD, and lugubrious. Just like in a war, there are now so many holes in so many families. Empty chairs, empty hearts, empty places that were once full. Once whole. So much knowledge wiped out. Gone. Forever disappeared.

Your plays span generations, showing connections, collective mourning, and emotional trauma passed down from one generation to the next. Likewise, this pandemic will span generations, pass down emotional trauma, and spur collective mourning. That’s already happening this weekend as we sit in our homes, reading the names of those recently lost to the virus and as we contemplate all of those lost in military service for our country and as we remember those loved ones we lost too soon.

UD, I miss you. I miss Mom. I miss Dad. I miss Grandpa and so many others. But I thank God for your time on this earth and in my life, and I vow to keep your memories alive, to pass your names down to the next generations, and to continue your values and traditions even in the middle of a world-wide pandemic.

Love,

Rach     

Shelter in Place

Dear UD,

Five years from last weekend I was sitting at a local theater production in Willow Springs, Missouri to watch Laina perform in The Little Mermaid musical. Mom attended with me as did some siblings and nieces and nephews. Mom treated us to dinner afterwards as we celebrated the success of the play and performance. We were so happy that night. Together and secure in one of those moments of

sanctuary in the midst of the storms our family faced.

Alaina and I were in Missouri then because that semester, I was sheltering on the family farm, living in the upstairs section of my childhood home. I had returned home in time to have a couple of weeks of quality time with Dad after he went on hospice, and I had stayed to help Mom with all the small details that come when someone leaves this earth. I remember phone arguments with cable companies refusing to close his account, boxes and boxes of Dad’s extensive collections of CDs and DVDs that I shipped off, a red cattle trailer filled with Dad’s eclectic collection of books, a thorough cleaning and painting of Dad’s room, and a shopping trip for furniture to remake the space into a bedroom for me. A mere eight months before we lost Dad, Grandpa died. Born in April of 1918 (during the first year of the Spanish Flu), he lived for 96 years. A three-time war veteran, he was a Naval officer for 30 years before retiring to work the century family beef farm for the next thirty plus years. Grandpa was a constant and comfort all of our lives, and suddenly he was gone. And not even a year later, Dad was gone too.  

Those two deaths heralded the beginning of a new normal for me and my family.

Uncle David, I remember you and I talking about how the death of a parent would bring new roles and expectations within the family system. After losing your mom, Grandma Bonnie, when you were in your twenties, you understood all the dynamics. We discussed how the death of a parent not only changes the family dynamics, roles, and standings, but also changes the way we see ourselves and the way we experience the world. The way our shelters become unhinged. The way our moorings begin to loosen.  A new normal. My God, how I hated the idea of that. Unfortunately, it was only the cusp of “new normals” one after another after another that we would soon face.

Earlier that April, I remember celebrating spring with Mom, Laina, Jill, Sarah, and various nieces and nephews as we went on a mushroom hunt one stormy April day. We walked down the gravel road to Possum Creek before hiking into the woods. We spied a turtle just out of hibernation, still covered in mud, and spring buds and wildflowers. A garter snake slithered by, scaring us for a moment. Not finding any morels, we walked back home and past mom’s gardens (both the vegetable garden we’d helped plant and the flower garden full of spring flowers from seeds and bulbs you sent her) and into a field on the family farm, then down to the river behind the house. For hours, we hunted and laughed and searched and teased. For hours, we spied signs of spring but no mushrooms. The storm hit, and the rain drenched us as thunder boomed and lightning struck. In the end, we found morel mushrooms growing right by Grandpa’s old house, now Sonny’s place, and next door to Mom’s. How you loved that story. I can still hear echoes of your infectious and hearty chuckle. But that afternoon was another moment of sanctuary where we were safe and together.

On a Tuesday, a few weeks after the mushroom hunt and a couple of days after the performance, I called to talk to you, UD. I remember sitting in the new La-Z-Boy chair in Dad’s old room, my new abode, and chatting about my lesson plans and your dogs and asparagus shoots. The family was still getting used to the new normal after losing Dad and Grandpa, but I found shelter in my conversation with you and in our connection. You weren’t feeling your best, so we didn’t talk long. I told you to get some rest, and as per usual, we both said, “I love you.” Those were the last words I would ever hear from you, say to you. I love you.

 

Two days later, on April 28, 2015, I was grading papers at home when Mom called to tell me you died. I will never forget that gut-wrenching moment when I found out that we all lost another anchor in our lives, another shelter, another piece of our hearts. You loved us and guided us and taught us, and I didn’t know how we would move on without you. Another new normal already, only four months later, and I honestly just wanted to punch anyone who talked about getting used to that. Nothing can replace someone special in our lives. Nothing can replace the love, the connection, all the parts of the relationship that help make us who we are. There are no words to describe the deep loss and hole that blossomed into our lives that April day.

Within the next two years, so much changed as we adjusted to the losses and the grief. In the end, I had a full-time job and was back in Florida while Mom moved into a smaller place on the family farm and gave Ben our childhood home. At her new location, Mom worked to create another flower garden with bulbs from you and planted asparagus which takes two years to start producing. As much as we could, we had adjusted to this new normal, but our hearts would never be the same. Our lives would never be the same. We would never be the same.

Then, in November of 2018, Mom was diagnosed, suddenly and horrifically, of stage-four cancer. Within six weeks, we lost her. Again, our hearts shattered, our lives changed, and we had to start a new normal as orphans. Again, but even more severely, I went through it all—shock, horror, denial, fear, anger (lots of anger), anxiety with sleeplessness and panic attacks. I couldn’t sleep. I couldn’t breathe. I couldn’t settle. I wasn’t okay at all, but I was going through the motions day by day. I didn’t settle into a “new normal,” but I threw myself into my work and sought out adventures with siblings and friends.

“Really it was her mother she’d wanted to call right after the bad news, or in the middle of it... First thing in the morning, last thing at night, whenever a fight with [her daughter] left her in pieces, it had been her mother who put Willa back together. When someone mattered like that, you didn’t lose her at death. You lost her as you kept living.” Barbara Kingsolver, Unsheltered

Four months after losing Mom, my youngest daughter moved out unexpectedly, leaving me dealing with the empty nest on top of the still-raw grief of losing Mom. Another new normal in such a short time. I couldn’t sleep. I couldn’t breathe. I couldn’t settle. I couldn’t even see the point of living anymore. I don’t mean that I was suicidal because I wanted to live, but I couldn’t see hope or purpose or meaning in any of it. All I could see was deep pain. A pain that didn’t stop, never healed, and continued with loss and loneliness.  

UD, I don’t even have a new normal from all of that yet. I have tried some different things like hosting an Italian student for the school year and visiting my family in Missouri more, but now, I don’t even know what to think.

It’s a hundred years since the birth of Grandpa during the Spanish Flu Pandemic, and now we are in the middle of the Covid-19 Flu Pandemic. The world is shut down, and we are under a shelter in place mandate.

Now everyone has a new normal. Everyone is dealing with a public and collective grief and new normal, and it is bizarre and surreal.

I fluctuate between these—1. missing you and Mom even more, wishing I could talk to you both about this and feel that sense of security that came from having you both in my life. 2. not even thinking about my personal grief as much. Not because it is gone or because I have healed but because I am in survival mode and just trying to cope with too much uncertainty and loss.

Collectively as a nation, as a world, we’re sheltering in place, but we have no mooring, no guarantees, no sanctuary. We are, in a sense, “unsheltered.” Everything is changing for everyone all around the globe, and we don’t know when or how things will settle. We don’t know who will survive or what the world will look like when this pandemic is over. We don’t know exactly how it is impacting countries and people individually or what the end of it will bring for each country and person.  As one character living during contemporary times reveals in Barbara Kingsolver’s new novel, Unsheltered, “…taking all the right turns had led her family to the wrong place, moneyless and a few storms away from homelessness.” With too many Americans living paycheck to paycheck like this, what is going to happen to them in the next few months, in the next couple of years?

As another character from Unsheltered says, this one living during the 1870s, “We are given to live in a remarkable time. When the nuisance of old mythologies falls away from us, we may see with new eyes. … Without shelter, we stand in daylight.”

UD, sheltering in place is hard. Living without shelter is also difficult. Doing either without the sanctuary from you, from Mom is agonizing and challenging. As I pondered on everything that I wanted to tell you, two Bible verses came to mind, thanks to the strong example and foundation from Mom during my childhood, and these verses brought some comfort. Psalm 28:7 states, “The Lord is my strength and my shield; my heart trusts in him, and he helps me. My heart leaps for joy, and with my song I praise him.” The other is one of Mom’s favorite chapters in the Bible: Psalms 91.

Psalm 91: Safety of Abiding in the Presence of God

91 He who dwells in the secret place of the Most High

Shall abide under the shadow of the Almighty.

² I will say of the Lord, “He is my refuge and my fortress;

My God, in Him I will trust.”

³ Surely He shall deliver you from the snare of the fowler

And from the perilous pestilence.

⁴ He shall cover you with His feathers,

And under His wings you shall take refuge;

His truth shall be your shield and buckler.

⁵ You shall not be afraid of the terror by night,

Nor of the arrow that flies by day,

⁶ Nor of the pestilence that walks in darkness,

Nor of the destruction that lays waste at noonday.

⁷ A thousand may fall at your side,

And ten thousand at your right hand;

But it shall not come near you.

⁸ Only with your eyes shall you look,

And see the reward of the wicked.

⁹ Because you have made the Lord, who is my refuge,

Even the Most High, your dwelling place,

¹⁰ No evil shall befall you,

Nor shall any plague come near your dwelling;

¹¹ For He shall give His angels charge over you,

To keep you in all your ways.

¹² In their hands they shall bear you up,

Lest you dash your foot against a stone.

¹³ You shall tread upon the lion and the cobra,

The young lion and the serpent you shall trample underfoot.

¹⁴ “Because he has set his love upon Me, therefore I will deliver him;

I will set him on high, because he has known My name.

¹⁵ He shall call upon Me, and I will answer him;

I will be with him in trouble;

I will deliver him and honor him.

¹⁶ With long life I will satisfy him,

And show him My salvation.”

UD, I don’t know what will happen, but I realized that, as distressing and difficult as this all is, I can stand strong in the foundation that you and Mom provided. The love and conversations and guidance from you still sustain me. The love and time together and everything Mom taught me still nurture me. And all of it shelters me.

Love, Rach

Easter Saturday at Melbourne Beach

After an entire week at home, I went for a walk at the beach today. A friend allowed me to park on her property so that I could safely, following social distancing rules, spend some time in nature, take a walk on the beach. Words cannot express how much I needed the time outside. Time to feel the sun on my skin, breathe in the salty air, hear the waves crashing against the shore. Time to take in nature.  

In the past few weeks, we’ve seen headlines about a global pandemic, about requirements to shelter at home throughout the United States, about quarantines and lockdowns throughout the world. And at the beginning of this month, Florida’s governor enacted a stay at home law, and last week, the White House Covid-19 Coordinator advised the nation to even avoid the grocery stores if possible. Such a strange world we've stumbled upon. Between the headlines and posts on social media, like many others, I am feeling scared. I spent the past week at home alone where I only left the house for a quick walk around the lake. A week at home where I had groceries delivered. A week at home with only my cats and an occasional visit from Alaina.

The only thing that has kept me sane during this whole ordeal and this past week of even stricter seclusion is the kindness of others, and I am so grateful for it.

I am grateful for my friend who invited me to park on her property so that I could take a walk on the beach today and who dropped off a surprise gift a week ago. I am grateful for conversations with my sisters, cousin, daughters, and friends on the phone, Messenger video chat, and Zoom. I am grateful for collaboration with a friend during this pandemic where we are helping each other with our writing. I am thankful to the friend who invited me to use her private pool so that I could swim. I appreciate my sister sending me one of my favorite meals via UberEATS when I was having a difficult time. I am grateful for my students who are continuing to learn and complete their work even through the move to online classes. I am so thankful that I am privileged to be able to work from home and continue earning a living during this pandemic. I appreciate that I can pay my bills and order food when needed. I am thankful for the peace and solace of nature, for sunshine, for the ocean. This Easter, I am grateful for the love of Jesus who sacrificed and gave His life for us and for what this holiday celebrates: that He is risen.

I wish that Mom were still here on this earth, but I am thankful that I know Mom is with Him now. Today at the beach, I found a rock with a hole in it (one thing that Mom collected during her life), and I am grateful for the reminder of Mom and the reminder that she lives on in those who come from her and in the memory of those who love her.

Ultimately, I am grateful that, even during these troubled times, I have so much to be grateful for. Thank you to all of you whose kindness lifted my spirits during the past month. Happy Easter! 

Spring Break 2020

This spring break is like none other in my lifetime. The weekend before spring break officially began, the college where I work decided to suspend face-to-face classes in light of the coronavirus (COVID-19) pandemic sweeping the globe. Even though I knew it was coming, it is a devastating development. I teach both online and face-to-face, and not only do I prefer face-to-face, but it is also better for those students who choose it. On top of that, we had to cancel all college events, including graduation. Moreover, Americans have been advised to remain home as much as possible, to practice “social distancing,” and to wash our hands often. So, schools have closed, social events have been postponed or cancelled, bars and nightclubs have closed, many restaurants have closed, even some dental offices have closed, our community pool has closed, and now beach parking and/or some beaches have been closed. This has all happened in China first, then Europe, and now here. The world shut down.

As humans, we are programmed with fight or flight, and I have been “fighting” in terms of preparing for survival with trips to Publix and Target as well as online ordering. I haven’t taken an ungodly amount of food or necessities like cold medication and toilet paper (like some have fought to do); however, I have prepared for a two-month shut down. I pray that it doesn’t come, but because I have been listening to primary sources from China, Italy, Spain, and France, I want to be prepared for the worst. Because of being hyper aware right now, every day feels like a week. And, I am dealing with additional grief because, with all of this “fighting,” I want so much to be able to call my mom and talk to her about it, to hear her say that I’ll be okay. Or, I want to have the option to go to her house and shelter in place where she would be well stocked from living on the family farm. As it is, I cannot imagine being home alone for weeks, let alone months. To not see others in person, to not be blessed with hugs and smiles. If it comes to that, how will I manage it?!

While Americans are focused on the pandemic on all social media rather than politics and other typical topics, people are still on opposing sides: those who believe it’s all just a hype or hoax or conspiracy versus those who are preparing for Armageddon and obeying the new regulations that come every day, every hour. And those two sides are still butting heads: those who mock the other side for preparing versus those who rail at anyone not following the new guidelines.

This is all unprecedented and such a historic time in our country and world. All of this—the headlines about what is happening in the rest of the world, now in the United States, as well as preparing for the pandemic and seeing our country still so divided—has been stressful and traumatic and exhausting. 

The exchange students are being sent back home, and in fact, all over the world, people are being recalled to their country of origin. Everything is at a standstill as everyone is going home. Because my Italian student had not yet visited Sebastian Inlet, we went there yesterday, taking a short time in the midst of this chaos for some spring break fun and fresh air, though we made sure to obey the mandates to maintain distance from others and wash our hands after touching something. Per normal, I took photos and documented the occasion, sharing it on Facebook, and I sensed some judgment or chastisement from some FB friends. Perhaps the comments were not meant that way, but this is an added stressor after an attempt to decompress, unwind, relax. And the comments were perhaps not even meant for me, but instead for those spring break party goers who congregated at the beach like sardines in a tin can, ruining it for all of us. After three days of crowded beaches in Brevard County, our beach parking is being shut down. According to the news, by tomorrow morning, we will not be able to park at the beaches.

Therefore, today, I went back to the beach. While there were too many people there, at least they were all staying in small groups away from each other. I stayed far away from others, but I was able to take a long walk on the beach. It could be my last walk at the beach for the foreseeable future. As I breathed in the salty air and heard the call of the seagulls, I felt the weight of the past few weeks fall away. I turned my mind to gratitude. Deprivation is something that brings focus and clarity, and right now, I still have much to be grateful for. I’m grateful for the sunshine that touches my face and skin. I’m grateful for the roar of the ocean waves as they kiss the shore. I’m grateful for my health and the security of being able to work online and still have money to pay bills. I’m grateful for my daughters and their health. I’m grateful for my family and friends and their health and thankful that we will be able to stay in touch through smartphones and social media. I appreciate the humorous pandemic posts and memes that have helped me find laughter this week, and I appreciate that social media can be a source of connection and comfort during this time. I am blessed and privileged to be able to prepare and stock up, and I’m thankful for my cats who are in this with me. I’m grateful for the acts of kindness that I have witnessed and read about this week. I’m grateful for nature and its calming effect. And, I’m grateful for God and my faith in Him.   

Pandemic

Dear UD,

The world is closed. Shut down. And all I want to do is talk to Mom about it. Talk to you.

Mom would scoff at the way everyone is panicking and at the mass hysteria of hording toilet paper for Coronavirus, a respiratory illness. Like others, she would decry the world-wide pandemic, saying, “It’s just a flu” and thinking that the world has gone mad. That, plus she would preach that it’s proof that Jesus is returning soon. Whether I agreed with her or not, I would give anything to hear her voice and her laugh right now, to be able to talk to my mom about this global epidemic, to share news articles and concerns, and at the end of the call, have her say, “Everything’s going to be okay. Love you, honey.” How I miss my mom and conversations with her. All day, every day. I miss her.

And you, Uncle David, you would sigh and point out connections between this scare and ones from the past. You’d retell the story about when you were kids and had to hide under your desks after the Second Red Scare to prepare for a possible nuclear attack during the Atomic Age. We’d have a discussion that touched on history, literature, theater, psychology, and current events. Whether we agreed or not, I would give anything to hear your voice and your laugh, to debate this important topic with you, and at the end of the call, have you say, “Everything’s going to be okay. Love you, Rach.” How I miss you and our conversations. All day, every day. I miss you.

No matter what side of the debate one is on (people are freaking out for no reason versus the pandemic is real and serious), the images seen around the world are surreal. From Chinese in full hazmat gear to empty Italian streets to local stores with empty shelves…the images are eerie and disturbing. I’ve been listening to information from primary sources from the beginning (Uncle Bob sharing stories of Tim and his family quarantined in China as well as the Italian student I’m hosting providing news from her family in Italy). So I started stocking up before everyone went crazy. Uncle David, you would stock up, just in case (and Uncle Bob even stocked up after telling me all about the timeline of the Spanish Flu), but Mom, she wouldn’t need to prepare, living on a farm with well water, freezers always stocked with fresh farm meat, chickens roosting in the chicken house providing eggs, a pantry full of canned goods from last year’s garden, and the spring asparagus that just came up. Knowing that always made me feel safe. The family farm was my backup plan, and now, like you and Mom, my backup plan is gone.

 

I am adrift on a sea of uncertainty, feeling unmoored, isolated, and alone. 

My school has moved online for the rest of the semester, which means working from home. The U. S. hasn’t quarantined the whole country like China, Italy, and now France and Spain have. Perhaps it won’t happen here, but there are rumors that it might. Either way, we’ve been cautioned to practice social distancing as much as possible.  

I’ve prepared for hurricanes here in Florida, but that usually only means a few days or a week at home. The last time I remember even just two weeks stuck at home was when I was living in the upstairs rooms in Mom’s house on the family farm in 2015 right after Dad died and right before we lost you. That winter there was an ice storm and then a snowstorm that kept us mostly indoors for two weeks, but it was okay because even with forced “social distancing,” we had plenty of family members to hang out with. We played Bridge, Spades, and Scrabble, watched movies like Cool Hand Luke, The Blues Brothers, and Moonstruck, ate huge homemade meals together, watched the Blue Jays, Cardinals, and chickadees at the birdfeeder, and hiked outside down the road and along the rivers to see the glorious ice-covered woods and structures. And the younger generation also went ice-skating on the frozen pond and sledding. I even remember Sonny and Ben attaching a gate to the

big red truck to take the kids sledding. Yes, we still got a bit stir-crazy, and there were fights and annoying moments; however, we were in it together, got through it together, and survived together. And now I have those memories that I cherish.

But staying home now, here in Florida, for weeks or months with only a few rooms and only one other person to share it with feels very different. I keep thinking of Anne Frank and her family. They were in hiding for years. How did they do it? How could they stand it? I know they didn’t have a choice, but it is still unimaginable.

It’s not that I haven’t gone without before. Mom and Dad scraped by, and sometimes we ate whatever Dad could hunt. Mom birthed ten babies and only ever used cloth diapers. I grew up sharing one bathroom with ten other people and grew up rarely eating out. But I’ve gotten used to my comforts, including being able to go out and about whenever I want and going to the store and buying what I need and want. But, now the stores are out of some necessities.

And now, no one wants to talk anymore. They don’t want deep conversations, or phone calls. Just text me, they say. Just message me. Send a video, a photo, an emoji. But no phone calls, that human connection when not in the same physical space, that voice of a loved one, the sharing of words, ideas, questions to one other person who is really listening, who cares, who is taking time to share space together.

I’ve had a rough week, and not just because this one week held a time change where we lost an hour, a full wolf moon, a Friday the thirteenth, and a national emergency, but also because of communication struggles with loved ones. One morning, I ended up in the bathroom at work, sobbing before my classes started. Sobbing because I desire that human connection of really talking to others, really sharing everything with them (both positive and negative), and because I wish so much that I could talk to you and Mom about it all. Sobbing because I want to be seen and accepted for all of who I am. That day, I wiped away my tears, freshened up my makeup, and then went to teach stories like Kurt Vonnegut’s “Harrison Bergeron,” and Ray Bradbury’s “The Pedestrian.” Stories that have predicted so many things in our current society, stories that are coming truer every day. Is the Coronavirus the ultimate pandemic or is it the polarizing discord on social media or even the loss of human connection as we give more and more of our lives over to media and machines?

Plus, it’s March, which means spring and your birthday. I remember six years ago when we were all gathered together at your place to celebrate your birthday with you. The night before, we stayed up with Sonny, Mom, and Uncle Bob, playing bridge until midnight to ring in your birthday. Just before midnight, you jumped the bid to three no-trump and made it! And when the clock struck midnight, we sang Happy Birthday to you before heading to bed. The next morning, you made customized omelets for everyone even though you were the birthday boy, and we spent the day together playing games, talking, laughing, eating delicious food that you prepared, and sharing your birthday cake. Obi, Harley, and Lucky galloped in the backyard while you walked us around your property to witness the signs of spring: crocuses and daffodils, asparagus shoots, buds on the trees, martins and swallows around the birdfeeder, a lone red-headed woodpecker continuously striking a tall evergreen, and the filled rain gauge from recent spring showers. You and Mom both loved spring, and I love spring, though now it is bittersweet. I, too, still search for signs of spring, but there’s an ache knowing that we’ll never witness it together again.

Happy 66^th birthday, Uncle David. I am blessed to have had you in my life, and I will pass along the many treasures and lessons from you. And those from Mom. You would both tell me to remember that God is with me through even this. While that offers comfort, I still wish…  

I wish we could rewind to back when you and Mom were still with us. I wish you had both had more time on this earth. I wish we were together again, celebrating your birthday or riding out the pandemic or even just talking on the phone.

Love, Rach