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

Gifts from the Sea

 Today, a month later, I walked outside again. When I drive over to the beach, I enjoy walking outside. Overall, anywhere, anytime I love walking outside in nature, but more than any other place, the wilderness of the Missouri Ozarks speaks to me, feels like home. When I’m there in Missouri, I tend to take walks outside more often, but I finally made it to Melbourne Beach this morning. I took a walk along the beach, hunting for seashells, snapping photos, and listening to the sounds of the seagulls and waves.

So far, this year has been rough. January was filled with too many anniversaries, and not the good kind. And too many conflicting emotions and too many new hurdles to handle. Not to mention too much work and too much time alone. It’s strange because I am an introvert who loves having time alone and loves several passive activities (reading books, writing, etc.); however, since losing Mom and becoming an “orphan,” I find it difficult to be alone for too long.

But today, I took a beach walk alone and found much to be grateful for. Even though it’s an overcast, gray day, it was gorgeous outside. The fresh breeze invigorated while the crash of the rolling waves refreshed. As I walked barefoot in the wet sand, I realized that everything is okay in this present moment. I left the beach feeling energized and even happy, and I am thankful for the gifts from the sea.  

Big Piney River

            Today, I hiked along the Big Piney River and up the hill at Simmons Baptist Camp in Houston, Missouri with my Italian exchange student, two nephews, and a niece. We explored the river, forests, and cliffs during our forty-five-minute walk, and I skipped rocks and even found one rock with a hole all the way through it like Mom always looked for when at the river.

The 2019 Christmas holiday season was our first one without Mom, which was difficult to say the least; however, it helped to celebrate it with family. Furthermore, I was dreading entering the New Year because it is the first one we are starting without Mom in it. But here it is. For reasons that I will write about in a future post, I am choosing to focus on Gratitude this year.

Today, I am grateful for time with my family in Missouri during the holiday season and especially for everyone who opened their home to me during my stay. In the past, I always set up camp at Mom’s house, so it was different this time. And, I am thankful for the fifty-degree weather and sunshine this afternoon as well as the beauty of nature in the Missouri Ozarks. I love taking walks here year-round, and when near a river, I always end up wading, no matter the weather. Finally, I am so grateful for finding the rock with a hole because it reminds me of Mom and how she lives on in all of us.

Happy New Year!

Mom, A Thing of Beauty

Dear UD,

I’ve been dreading this November because last year’s November was the beginning of the end. A

year ago, Mom was healthy and alive, and everything was just fine. A year ago, we were oblivious and happy. Yes, Mom hadn’t been feeling well for a while, but she’d been working with a doctor, and we had no idea that cancer had taken root deep inside. It was late November, a year ago, when, a day after my birthday, we got the news that she had cancer. Six weeks later, she was gone. We lost her. And now we face the first November without her.

So, even trying to think of thinking of thankfulness and gratitude, of finding a thing of beauty every day this November, is painful. Difficult. Unthinkable.

But, UD, during my time of trying not to think of thanking, something occurred to me.

Mom was beautiful.

She was beautiful on the outside, and she was beautiful on the inside. She had a beautiful smile, her spirit was beautiful, everything about her was absolutely beautiful. Did she know it? Did she know and feel her beauty? Did she know that I, her oldest daughter, found her beautiful?

I thought about skipping "a thing of beauty" this year, but now I realize that I have to do it in honor of her. I want to find a thing of beauty every day this month, and I want that thing of beauty to be something for or from my mom. From what she looked like to what she did for people to what she believed to memories I have of her to shared experiences and adventures. This month, I want to explore and honor mom and everything beautiful in and of her.

Did Mom know how beautiful she was? Did you know? Do I? Do any of us really know how beautiful and precious we are?

I hope so.

UD, one of the things that I find beautiful about Mom was her connection with her siblings. You, Mom, and Uncle Bob were the three musketeers, the three stooges, the amigos. When the three of you were together, you were hilarious, fun, unstoppable. Uncle Bob is always the class clown, while Mom was the athletic showoff, and you were the smart goody-two shoes. But, you bound together and loved each other well and loved us well, and you all showed us the importance of family, of

frivolity, of faith.

Mom and her connection with you and Bob, her siblings—what a thing of beauty.

Love, Rach

PS: I hope that everyone who reads this will go and tell people you love how beautiful they are and how grateful you are for them in this world and how thankful you are to be sharing space with them right now.

Facing It (Without Mom)

Dear UD,

It’s August, Mom’s birthday month, and I can’t believe she’s not here. I am almost exactly 20 years younger than her, and I counted on her turning older a few months before me. Mom would have been, should have been, 69 this year. How do I face turning 49 without her to show me the way?

Everything, everything, everything reminds me of her.

I walk to the pool and find mushrooms, sprung up overnight, and I think of Mom. I spy wildflowers growing near the fence, and I think of Mom. I see rippling rivers, and I think of Mom. A fog rolls in, and I think of Mom. The sunset or sunrise splashes against the sky, and I think of Mom. The moon rises, and I think of Mom. I reach for the phone to send her a text or call her to tell her about something, and I think of Mom.

Everything, everything, everything, all day, every day, reminds me of her.

There have been too many changes in the past five years and way too many changes this year alone. How do we face all of these changes? How do we face it when life changes everything and everything changes? How do we face it when we no longer have you or Dad or Mom to talk to?

I went back to Missouri this summer for Crawford Camp, our family reunion, and it was bittersweet. Precious because all ten of us kids and most of the grandkids were there. Special because there were strong connections yet little drama. Good because we played hard and had fun. Nourishing because we had delicious and healthy homecooked meals, like Mom taught us. Difficult because it was our first time there without Mom. Challenging and sad without her, without you, without dad. Her spirit, her lessons, her voice permeated everything we did that weekend. We congregated in the kitchen or outside, cooking, talking, laughing, but every second we were one hundred percent aware that Mom wasn’t there, that we missed her. On Saturday morning, I woke up to fog and sunrise over the river, and tears rolled down my face as I thought how much Mom would have loved that. Will we ever have Crawford Camp again? How do we face family reunions without Mom?

The next week, I stayed with Jill and spent time with various family members during the week and helped with VBS at Bado Church. The past two summers, I’d helped Mom prepare for VBS and taken photos of the kids during it. This summer, it was surreal, distressing, devastating that she wasn’t there teaching one of the classes. And three of her grandkids were baptized that Sunday. I snapped photos of this joyous occasion, but I almost didn’t make it through. Mom would have loved that night so much, and it’s heartbreaking without her there. How do we face it? Sherry helped when she said she knew Mom was rejoicing in heaven that night. But will I ever be part of VBS at Bado Church again? Will the next generation still go there?

I went to Union Cemetery to visit Mom and Dad. First, I picked wildflowers and took them to the grave. I cried and talked to Mom. It’s still so unbelievable. Words can’t convey the pain and difficulty of facing a mother’s gravesite.

As I drove away from the family farm and the town where I grew up, I wondered if I’d ever stay there again? If I’d ever attend a holiday celebration there again? How do we face it when our childhood memories are being obliterated so that we can’t even recreate them for the next generation and the only thing left is memory?

Summer 2019—the first summer in my memory where I didn’t eat anything fresh out of my mom’s garden when visiting that area. How do we face the lack of bounty? I found some jars of canned beets and tomato juice, and this year, I shared the beets with my sisters. The tomato juice sits in my fridge unopened. Once that is gone, I will never again have anything to eat or drink that my Mom made. How do I face that?

Too many changes. Too much loss. How do we face it?

UD, the Amazon, the lungs of the earth, is burning. Every day, it seems, there’s a new nightmarish headline, and those unbelievable stories combined with such personal loss is staggering. Cataclysmic. How do we face it all?

It’s August and Mom’s birthday. Three years ago, I hosted a birthday party for her, and all the family came. I hold precious memories of that day, the last birthday I celebrated with Mom in person. I want her to have more birthday celebrations for me to attend. Today, I want to call her up and wish her a Happy Birthday and tell her how much I love her. But I can’t. How do we face the day without her?

I don’t want to face it…

In “the Journey Through Grief: The Mourner’s Six ‘Reconciliation Needs’,” Alan Wolfelt states, “Grief is what you think and feel on the inside after someone you love dies. Mourning is the outward expression of those thoughts and feelings. To mourn is to be an active participant in our grief journeys. We all grieve when someone we love dies, but if we are to heal, we must also mourn.”

Although I don’t want to face her birthday without her here, it has come regardless, so I will surround myself with some of Mom’s favorites. I brought home sunflowers for the dining room table, and I’ll listen to the Beach Boys sing “Barbara Ann.” I’ll make an egg sandwich for breakfast, and for dinner, I’ll eat the hamburger, potato, carrot dish that I made from Grandma Bonnie’s recipe in the family cookbook. Then, we’ll watch Prince of Persia, one of the last few movies I watched with Mom and one that she loved. And, I’ll drink herb tea and light a candle that smells like honeysuckle. Every moment of this day will be in honor and love and memory of Mom.

UD, I’ll end with a Bible verse that she loved and lived: Finally, brothers and sisters, whatever is true, whatever is noble, whatever is right, whatever is pure, whatever is lovely, whatever is admirable—if anything is excellent or praiseworthy—think about such things. Philippians 4:8. I thank Mom for the gift of her example, and today and every day, I aspire to be like her and live this verse.

Love, Rach

Mothers Carry Love

Dear UD,

It’s May, the month of mothers, May flowers, and graduation celebrations.

“I remember all the flowers you picked for me for Mother’s Day,” Mom said when I stayed with her last December. I remember too. I see me at 14, walking the family farm, hiking the rivers, climbing the bluffs, clutching a fistful of Missouri wildflowers. Purples, yellows, whites galore, but on I walked, searching for the rare red ones to round out the bouquet. Every year until I married and moved away, I brought Mom a handful of colorful wildflowers.

The past two summers I stayed with Mom in July, and even then, I hunted for wildflowers to bring her. Wildflowers and rocks with holes in them. I just realized that I don’t know why rocks with holes were so special to her, but she collected them so we searched for them anytime we walked or swam the rivers.

And now there’s a hole in my life because she’s gone.

I never even contemplated a Mother’s Day without Mom. Incomprehensible. Inexplicable. Inconceivable. Completely and utterly unfathomable. Unimaginable. Unbelievable.

At least not this soon. Not this quickly. Not when she was only in her sixties.

Aidan is graduating this month, and his Granny won’t be there. An empty seat that should be filled. An empty place that once was filled. That only months ago would have been filled. A generation of grandkids who will miss her, some who may not remember her. Unthinkable. Unacceptable. Unbearable.

This week is rough, UD. I’m heartbroken. All the time. Everything reminds me. Makes me sad. Everything, everything, everything.

Mom is irreplaceable. Rare. Exceptional. She is loved and missed more than words can convey.

Moms are life; they give birth to new beings. Moms are selfless; they sacrifice for their offspring. Moms are home; they offer grounding, place,

and foundation.

It’s Mother’s Day, UD, and we’re motherless. Motherless, without a mom here on this earth. Motherless—no synonyms, substitutes, replacements for mothers. Motherless for the rest of our lives. How do we go on from here? You lost your mom, Grandma Bonnie, in your thirties. How did you do it? How did Mom?

But you had each other, and we had you both. It’s so lonely without you, without Mom. I miss her voice, her fresh garden vegetables, her smile, her cooking, her advice, her adventurous spirit, her welcoming and giving service to everyone. I miss her presence here on earth, knowing I could reach out and she would be there. Knowing I had someone on my side, always. Knowing I had a place to go, no matter what.

One of the most precious lessons I learned from Mom is this—to include and welcome everyone.
Mom never met a stranger, and her home was always open for those in need. Like a mother hen collecting chicks, Mom surrounded herself with those who needed. Always, she gave, fed, welcomed. Her love carried on her hands as she gave to others. Her love carried on her heart as she shared with others. Her love carried on her prayers as she remembered everyone.

And now, UD, even though we are motherless, heartbroken, devastated, and inconsolable, we must survive, remember, and band together. Through the tears and grief, remember Dad, you, Mom. Through the pain and sorrow, remember the moments we treasure. Through the anguish and loss, remember the lessons and love from you all. Together we stand stronger. Together we welcome others. Together we carry love on our hands, hearts, and prayers.

Love, Rach

PS: Thanks to my sister Jill Adams for some of these nature photos.