Healing Hands

This weekend I helped run a group for young boys who had lost a close relative in a traumatic accident. The boys were ages 9 - 11 and were brought to this therapy program as a way to help them talk about the event, find solace in knowing that others had experienced this also, and to learn ways to cope with the myriad of feelings that follows the death of a loved one.

After discussing our purpose for being in the group, we talked about group rules: "No talking while someone else talks. Respect what others say and how they express their feelings. Listen to the counselor. Don't hit anyone or break anything. Talk or don't talk--whichever is best for you." We listed these on a large Post-it sheet and stuck it on the wall where we could refer to it. We talked about ways to express ourselves and how to set limits on what we feel comfortable sharing in the group. Then it was time to hear from each boy about why they had come.

Suddenly, Nat, one of my students who was helping lead the group, suggested that we needed a way to express our support and appreciation for each other when information was shared that needed to be recognized. "Clapping is too loud," he explained. The boys soberly nodded their agreement. "Maybe what we can do then, is to just rub our hands together" he suggested. The air was immediately filled with the slithery sound of little hands rubbing together. Nine eager faces around the circle indicated that this gesture was a good thing.

We went around the circle and heard each boy share the circumstances that surrounded their loss. The first two boys were able to get through their stories with a quavering voice. They were rewarded by a round of hand rubbing and kindly looks from the other boys. The third boy completely broke down. As he sat in his chair sobbing, the boy next to him started to quietly rub his hands together. Everyone joined in for several moments until the crying stopped and the boy could continue.

Around the circle, everyone shared why they were there. As I heard each one, I groaned inside, absolutely horrified that any child should have to experience such losses.

I was unprepared for what Matt, the group leader said next. "Barbara, why don't you share what has happened to you recently." Turning to the group he added, "Barbara knows what it feels like to lose someone, too."

I had started the group without any conscious thought about the death of my father except that it had happened. My role was to facilitate healing for others, not myself. But nine little faces were all looking at me with big, sad eyes.

"Well," I started, "My father died in October." There were nods around the group. "He had a heart attack after he had lived a long time." I didn't want this group to be about me. These boys had much to process and recover from. "We used to sing together and make jokes together. I loved my father a lot. So it was very sad for me and I miss him very much." A tear ran down my cheek, most unexpectedly.

Across the room, Martin* looked at me solemnly and began rubbing his hands together. Everyone joined in. As the slithery, soft sound became louder, I looked around the room. There was Pete whose father had been gunned down in front of him. Pablo's uncle and sister had been killed by shots intended for someone else. Sal had lost mother and father in one horrible shooting. He tucked his chin down onto his chest and looked up at me through his long wet eyelashes. He needed a tissue. "We understand, Barbara."

Truly, they all did. And my loss was pale in comparison with theirs, yet they so readily took me in and recognized that loss is loss, pain is pain. It was such an unselfish, generous gesture--so typical of childlike goodness.

Life continues on. The shades of grief move from vivid colors to more muted, subtle tones. At times, I am consumed with the feeling of being lost and without an anchor in this world. At others, I have to stop and search for that silent grieving spot. And now, when I reach for that tender spot inside, the sounds of little hands rubbing together comfort me.

Bach Master

This morning I came across a recording that I haven't listened to in a very long time. It is of the famous Canadian pianist, Glenn Gould, playing Bach's Italian Concerto. It was absolutely amazing in perfection. Every note was crafted perfectly, and the phrasing of each voice was flawless. Listening to it while I was stuck in four lanes of bumper-to-bumper traffic, everything seemed peaceful and orderly in the world.

There was something soothing and predictable about the perfect meter and evenhandedness of Gould. I crept along the freeway listening to him.

I remember that when I was very small, my father told me about Glenn Gould. He said that this fine pianist is the standard for Bach. And yet he was eccentric. He sat on a low chair when he played the piano and almost had to reach up to the keyboard to play. Then he would hum along, emphasizing various syncopated elements with clucks and moans. It apparently was impossible to record him in his later years (so my father told me--which I can't verify or dispute) because of his singing. The recording studio created a plastic bubble type affair placed over him while he performed. That way, they could cut his voice out of the sound track. Interesting.

So I drove all the way out into the Southwest sands yesterday, listening to Gould cluck, whine and croon.

There is something enviable about a person who can so lose themselves in what they are doing. Particularly when that something is creative. Seeing or in this case, hearing, someone else become one with their craft restores peace to me. If you have a few moments, you may want to watch him perform.

Soup Explosion!!

Yesterday I served lunch to my entire clinic staff. It is the week before final exams and the student therapists are all exhausted, stressed out, and worked up about all their demands. So I made them a lunch of comfort foods: cream of potato soup, tomato basil bisque, cornmeal-cheddar-scallion-red bell pepper muffins, herb braid bread, and chocolate chip cookies: all things that make a person relax and think that there just may be some goodness to be had in the present moment.

Lunch was to be at 11:00 a.m. Although I had made a number of things the night before, I still had the tomato bisque to cook in the morning. So I was up at 5:30 standing over the stove. It is truly a lovely time to cook. It's quiet, the house is cool, there is no street noise, and I am partially mentally benumbed.

All went well with the soup. It was so delicious that I had a bowl for breakfast and another two bowls for lunch in the clinic. My students raved about it (I shall upload the recipe here one day). It was gratifying to see them fuss and argue about which of them could take the leftovers home with them---poor college students who have neither money for this kind of food, nor time to cook it themselves. I left so pleased that I could do this for them.

The challenge for me is that I can't get the soup out of my white lace curtains in the kitchen. I made the mistake of putting hot soup in the blender with the lid on it. When I turned it on, it was a tomato bath for me, the walls, the ceiling, the window, and worst of all, my blue and white creamer collection on the window sill. All of them had to be taken down and washed. I was a walking illustration of splash burns that I've been teaching my students about in the family violence course. But what to do with those curtains?

Here's the recipe (use a food processor, not a blender with a lid!):

Tomato-Basil Bisque

1 cup chopped celery
3/4 cup chopped carrots
1/4 cup chopped yellow onion
1 tablespoon minced fresh garlic
1 tablespoon butter
3 cups tomato juice
1 cup chicken broth
1 7 1/2-0unce can tomatoes, cut up
1/2 of a 6-ounce can tomato paste
1 teaspoon dried basil, crushed
1/2 teaspoon dried oregano, crushed
1/2 tgeaspoon pepper
1 cup whipping cream (I used non-fat half and half)
4 teaspoons sugar
1/4 cup snipped fresh basil
2 tablespoons prepared basil pesto

In a large saucepan, cook celery, carrots, onion and garlic in butter till vegetables are tender, but not brown. Add tomato juice, chicken broth, undrained tomatoes, tomato paste, basil, oregano and pepper. Bring to boiling; reduce heat. Simmer, uncovered, about 30 minutes or until slightly thickened.
Place half of the soup in a blender container or food processor bowl. Cover (maybe...) blend or process till smooth. Repeat with remaining mixture.
Return all of the mixture to the saucepan. Stir in whipping cream and sugar; heat through. Stir in fresh basil. Ladle into warm soup bowls. Top each serving with some of the pesto and garnish with fresh basil leaves, if you like. Makes 8 side-dish servings.
(199 calories per bowl)

Source unknown--this is from a clipping in my recipe box.

God's Flowers

One of my special interests in therapist education is preparation for work with victims of family violence. This week we've been talking about elder abuse--a particularly troublesome issue. Here is a poem that I came across and to which my students are required to write a response:

The Shoebox

by Vanillafire (2005)

On her lap is a shoebox
she holds every day,
while she watches out the window
the world she is no longer in.

Once a day she lifts the lid,
lets aged fingers
sift through memories,
pick up pieces of the past.

pictures of her husband, flower dried
from their first date, drawings done by
children, poem from a friend, old-
fashioned photo of her parents, piece
of silken wedding dress, gift pin from
retirement dinner, tiny confirmation
bible, seashells from both oceans

Nurses pass and check in often.
Sometimes they stay awhile,
to listen, to learn of her box,
of her.

Back at the nurses station
some wonder why she wants
to keep on living. “Sad how she
hangs on to that box.”

Others smile, the ones who stop,
to fix her hair and chat.
They know it is not simply a box
that she cherishes, a container
for her reason to live.

It is her life she relives daily,
the happiness she’s known.
her present is that shoebox,
and what a gift
she has to give.

How Do I Look to You Now?

This is me, circa 1981, the era of big hair. Fresh after the breakup of my first boyfriend, I thought I was the ugliest thing that walked the earth, and as big as a barn. Isn't that amazing? I would love to be this big and ugly now!
This weekend is the annual homecoming weekend at the university where I teach. It has been so interesting to watch people recognize someone walking across the campus, call out to them, and then freeze as they wonder if they made a mistake. "Can that really be Herman? He doesn't have much hair left now." "Wow-- Rachel has come through her chemo pretty well." And the inevitable, "Oh my word! I didn't even recognize him, he's changed so much!"
I sat back in church this morning watching so many members of the honored classes greeting one another. There was a lot of backslapping and hugs. Talk was a little louder, what with hearing loss creeping in on the older ones. I recognized a fair number of people there, since I've lived in this community for about 19 years. Some of the returning alums were men I had once had crushes on. They didn't look particularly awe inspiring--not a one of them. A couple of them looked rather hagard and showed up without their wives. Maybe they're not together any more.
Have you noticed that some formerly homely ones actually look much better with maturity, and some of the beautiful people don't look very good with time? I noticed one man this morning, who not only looks better, but bears himself with the kindliest bearing and the warmest reserve. He was clearly admired by many who observed him.
I sat back and took it all in. I'm not the same as I was in 1981 either. The speaker asked us a good question: "What have circumstances done to you and what has God done in you?"
In response to this question, I have few concrete answers, but several unshakable thoughts:
1. God is absolutely trustworthy. That doesn't mean that things always turn out how you want, or that God exercises that Deus et machina (God in a box), sugar-daddy giving prerogative of His. It just means that He is a sure thing. That He can be leaned on in every single circumstance that life brings. That He will never abandon anyone.
2. God will love me no matter what I do. As my former pastor used to say, "God can love me no less for what I've done or who I am. He will love me no more when I'm not doing the right things than when I am making the effort to do what is right."
3. God has the power to create something out of nothing and do the most miraculous things on our behalf. Of this, I have no doubt. I do not always understand why He permits some things to come to me that are painful, or why at other times He brings incredible, unexpected miracles to me. But He is able, and that is a wonderful, wonderful truth to know.
4. I have nothing to be afraid of in life. The Bible says, "In this world you will have trouble. But be of good cheer--I have overcome the world." That is mighty comforting, even when everything feels as though it is falling in, or that aspects of life create more pain than pleasure in every day life. I still have nothing to be afraid of.

So what have circumstances done to you? And what has God done in your life? It is not a bad idea to reflect on this often.

As far as I can step

Hesitation

I've been wanting to start writing again and yet I hesitate because I'm not ready to be consistent with it. It has been a very long two months since I decided to stop writing. I am in a long, uncertain wait, while my bereaved mother drops to a dangerous weight, grows stronger in her desire to die, and more determined that she doesn't want to leave her home. There are no easy answers, and sleep is fugitive on many nights as I toss and turn and pray. So it is not yet time to come back.
But I am still alive, still hopeful, cheerful about what God has for me, in love with Sam, fulfilling my social obligations, and finding delight in my work. I am just too tired and preoccupied to create anything very inspiring.
Tonight I came across something that a friend gave me once when I was completely done in years ago after a breakup. Written by Virginia Law, a missionary in Africa, it seems applicable to my life just now:

In Congo, we had older men who served as sentries at night. They swept the yard, heated bath water, guarded the house, and were most useful in carrying notes at night.
Going about your business in an evening, you would often hear a cough at the door. You never knew how long one of these messengers had stood there before he announced his presence. One missionary commented that a good book title would be, "What I Saw While I Waited to Cough"! No doubt many secrets were learned by these men.
One night, I heard a familiar cough. When I went to the door, I could just make out the figure of Papa Jean, the sentry from the single ladies' house, holding out a note. It was a dark, dark tropical night. No moon or stars were shining. There were no street lights on this isolated situation. A small six-inch kerosene lantern with a smokey chimney in Papa Jean's hand gave the only smattering of light.
"Such a pitiful little light in such a dark night," I thought. "That lamp doesn't give much light, does itk, Papa?" I said to him.
"No, it doesn't," he answered. "But it shines as far as I can step."
That little incident has become a symbol for my future. Looking back I can see a pattern--God did have a plan for me. Looking ahead I still can't be sure where I am going, but the years have taught me to walk with confidence. God's love always lights my path as far as I can step.
(From As Far As I Can Step--Virginia Law)

Tag, I'm "It"

Mata, who keeps an interesting and well-written blog, has challenged her readers to respond to some questions she has posted yesterday. I'd like to do that here.


1. Do you pray/meditate? Which? How often?
Yes. Every morning as I lay awake in bed (while Sam is still asleep), I invite God into my life for that day. I have trouble staying on topic because my mind quickly revs up and my thoughts jump from responsibility to responsibility. So I don't meditate then. As I'm thinking about all that I have to do, I ask God to help me know what to do and what to let go.

2. Why is it that you pray and/or meditate?
If I don't pray, I am utterly unprepared for the day. Things happen spontaneously that I can't cope well with; I'm not at peace and feel easily frustrated with the mountain of things that need to be done. I also feel spiritually starved--a horrible feeling. More importantly, my hope is that at the end of the day I will have grown spiritually and know something more of God. I work in a faith-affiliated university and do not want to lose any opportunity to serve God by being out of tune with Him. It would defeat the purpose of me being here.

3. Is there a place/setting/time in which you are more likely to pray and/or meditate?
I often pray on the couch in the living room in the mornings or late at night. The back patio is also a wonderful secluded spot for prayer where there is no worry about being observed or overheard. Perhaps the most common place for me to pray is in the car while driving. I begin a conversation with God almost the minute I sit down in the car--about what I've just done, or am on my way to do, or for family members, etc.
Meditation occurs when I'm out in the woods or in the park. Some days I meditate on the patio, but if I really have to struggle with something and need to give time to thought and prayer, I go up to the mountains nearby and find a hidden place to sit and look at the sky and trees.

4. Do you use any physical objects to assist your prayer/meditation? No. I get distracted by objects like prayer journals or a Bible.

5. Are you most likely to use established prayers/meditations, or to create your own style?
Prayer is a conversation with God. Sometimes I use phrases in prayer that come from scripture or religious writings. Most often, it's pretty spontaneous and freestyle.

6. Are you more likely to pray/meditate alone or in a group?
I have prayed with people before. Sam and I pray together every night in bed before we go to sleep. That is the "review and supplicate" prayer: bless the family, help us to sleep well, bless our marriage, help us to know what to do about X, Y, and Z, prayers for each other and thanks for our marriage. I pray with my students when they visit my office (if A, it is wanted and B, it fits into the conversation), and sometimes when I begin class. Most often however, I pray alone.

7. Have you ever asked anyone to pray/meditate on your behalf? If yes, and you are comfortable sharing that experience, please do.
Yes. I have a wonderful prayer partner who prays for me and I for her. In fact, I have two friends whom I pray for every morning and sometimes during the day. It is wonderful to know that they are praying for me, also. One prays for me about my family concerns and for us to locate an affordable home to purchase. Another prays for my spiritual and professional success (and probably both pray for many things about me that I don't know about).
Last week, when I was very ill, I had to give an all-day workshop in a city about 90 minutes away from here. When I left the house, I was congested, had a headache, and was very congested. As the day went on, I felt better and better. When I drove home that night, I felt over my illness. That night, an elderly shut-in from church called me to say that she and her husband had been praying for me that day, and how did I feel? I told her that I had suspected that someone prayed for me and she said that indeed, they had been praying.


8. If asked to describe your religious affiliation/practice/ belief, how would you do that?
I'm a Christian, affiliated with the Seventh-day Adventist church.

9. What would you like to say about prayer/meditation that has not been asked here?
I've been really blessed by two authors who have written about meditation and prayer: Brennan Manning and Philip Yancey. From Brennan Manning I have learned how to meditate and to have silent retreats to focus on the voice and will of God. His Catholic languaging of prayer has pointed out to me that prayer and meditation are spiritual disciplines--things that I as a Christian need to do, whether or not I feel like it.
Philip Yancey's work has given voice to many unasked and unanswered questions about faith and prayer--what does it do and why do it? His writings have encouraged me to pray and ask regardless of outcome, because contact with the Divine God is something to be craved, whether or not my requests are answered.

Rough Christmas.

No words.

Come back in a few weeks.

Just Like You

By now, most readers of this blog realize that I am a childfree adult. That was not by choice, but it is what it is. Every so often I wonder what it would be to have a child of my own. I wondered this yesterday as I cleaned up the guest room after Briana (Stepdaughter #2). I could have throttled her--stuff everywhere, dirty bed sheets, bits of paper and wrappers on the floor, bags of whatnot on the table and goodness knows what under the bed. I aired my feelings in the silence of the house, muttering threats and accusations aloud as I vacuumed. Yet the thought of hearing her voice on the phone saying the predictable, "Barbara, did you miss me?" makes me laugh and melt all at once.

Most of what I said in anger yesterday is what I heard my own mother say to me about being a mother. So I guess stepmothers have some small idea of what motherhood is about. But there is still something missing. I can't look into the face of a child and see myself. I can't hear my daughter muttering just like I do. I will not have the opportunity to see how my children might mirror me. There is no miniature Barbara who will remember me singing "Beyond the Blue Horizon" over the sink, or singing "La Dona Mobile" in the shower, a la Pavarotti. What I do will die with me most likely.

Oh well, it's all been said before, and there's no use in grousing about it. Maybe I've thrown myself into teaching, loving, and mentoring my students because they do stand in for children in some sense. At least, I can leave something of myself behind for the world in the students I train--at least, so I've thought.

Tonight, I checked my email before going to bed. There was a note from Jocelyn, one of my students:

Dear Barbara,
Thank you for your patience in guiding my work with clients as well as myself in the past 6 months. I feel so blessed to be working in the same site with such an amazing person like you are. I look up to you as a model and I truly hope that one day I can become as incredible as you are.
Hugs,
Jocelyn

I have a fan.

It warms my heart to get an email like this, particularly after my previous blog entry--that some of my university students are hopelessly juvenile. But Jocelyn is an excellent student and has lots of natural talent. She will go far beyond me in skills and achievement. When I watch her talk with clients, I see myself 20 years ago. When she gets excited and regales me with stories of "...what the family did when I said that!" I hear my own once-youthful voice. When Amanda tells me, "The whole time I was sitting there [in therapy] thinking, what would Barbara do here? I tried to be just like you right there" --I am initially shocked but complimented and cheered. I am relevant to the younger generation in some way. I could not be more deeply moved.

So, close to Christmas, I can say that I am forever grateful for the students whom God has placed in my path. I am thankful for their confidence, their receptive faces, for the way they challenge me with "the hard questions," their tears of defeat and fear, and the hugs and kindness they have shown me this last year. They shall never read this, as none of my students know of this site. But my heart thanks them, and my mouth says the words: "I am blessed by you, indeed."

Thank you, Jocelyn. God bless you again and again.

Grades

found here

This time of year always gives me fits. I'm an educator of university students. One would think that they would be mature, responsible, accountable, timely--all the things that their younger high school counterparts are not known for.
But at this time of year there seems to be no difference between the two.

I recall the first paper I read in my university teaching career. There was an odd, lurching quality to it. The writer was not articulate in class, nor was she particularly astute. And yet her paper contained both brilliant observations and ponderous, inane remarks. Bells went off in my head. I wondered if she had plagiarized.
After a trip to the library to find the one cited work in her paper, I opened the book to a page from which she had copied several paragraphs, verbatim. I was stunned. Now I had the most unpleasant task of confronting her about engaging in behavior that is defined as academic dishonesty.
When I called her in, I first asked her if she would please define plagiarism. She did that correctly. Then I handed her a copy of her paper in which I had highlighted every remark I could find that had been plagiarized from the library book. I asked her to explain what I was seeing.
This was the point at which my lofty notions about being a university professor took on a more realistic perspective.
After a few moments of thinking about her paper, she volunteered, "I don't think that the woman who wrote this for me understood what plagiarism is."
This was an intriguing twist.
"And why did someone else write your paper?"
"Because I have cancer and had too much going on to write it."
"What kind of cancer do you have?"
"It's a kind you don't know anything about."
Do tell.

Suddenly, in my mind I was back in third grade, standing in the cloak room of our two-room schoolhouse. Miss Lawrence was standing over me menacingly with one hand on my shoulder.
"Why did you put grass down Bernice's pants?"
"Because...well..."
"Don't you know that's not a nice thing to do and it made her cry?"
"Well...I thought she wouldn't mind it." Lie! I was teasing a defenseless, slow girl and could offer no other lame excuse than that.
"How would you like it if someone did that to you?" Miss Lawrence's mouth was very tight around the edges.
"I don't think I'd mind too much."
And around we went. I was fighting for all I was worth to go toe-to-toe with Miss Lawrence and she was trying to get me to admit my wrongdoing and repent. Neither of us got what we wanted at that moment. I know that Bernice surely didn't. She picked grass out of the back of her pants for several hours that afternoon, sitting right up there in the second row of desks at the front of the room.

And my plagiarizing student wasn't about to give in, either. Even when I sent her to the dean's office for a formal reprimand, she told me that she didn't appreciate having her reputation tarnished with allegations of misconduct. I could have wrung her neck.

I'm sitting her at my desk with two class rosters in front of me. Students have been told from the beginning of the term that they MUST turn in four types of paperwork by December 8th in order to get credit for their practicum course. This instruction was given before class and in two subsequent mass emails from my office. These are master's and doctoral level students. Sixteen (16) out of 53 students did not get their paperwork in to me on time. So I'm assigning 16 (count them) incompletes for this class. When I spoke with two students today, whose paths I crossed, one looked blankly at me as though I was addressing her in Swahili, and the other girl blanched and begged mercy. But 16 of these mature, adult students, will get an incomplete and a written reprimand.

Hhrmph. @%#*$!.

It will all be over tomorrow.