Rose

70 years ago, Rose Marie was born in a very poor Italian-American family in the ethnic ghetto of New York City. There is an interesting story about her that I heard many times in my growing up years. Rosie was a cheerful, talkative child who was your typical toddler. She had beautiful black hair and dark eyes, and a lovely olive complexion, just like her father. One day she fell off the stoop and broke her arm, only the family didn't realize that was what had happened. She favored her arm, but she used it. But after a week or so, she was obviously in pain. What to do with an injured child when there is no money for a doctor and no such thing as health insurance?
The parents did the only thing they knew to do. Medical interns from Bellevue Hospital had been allowed to set up clinics in underserved areas. And they were affordable and sometimes even free. So off they went with little Rosie to get her arm fixed. The intern examined her as she whimpered, held on her mother's lap. "I can fix this," he told them. "You folks just go on down the hall and I'll take care of this. She'll need a cast." He took the squalling child and sent the parents off. Before they walked around the corner, the father turned to look back at his child. What he saw enraged and horrified him: the intern had taken Rosie's arm and snapped it in his hands. "It needed to be rebroken before it could be set" was his explanation.
Rosie was never the same after that. She withdrew and hardly spoke. When she did, it was repetitious and irrelevant most of the time. Although her parents were heartbroken about her mental condition, anyone with mental illness in those years was considered an embarassment. She was often told to go in the other room when company came to visit. Hence, she was kept isolated and alone for much of her life.
Rosie is my aunt. I have often wondered how her life would have turned out had she received psychiatric services and had not been traumatized as she was. The image I have of her when she was an adult, is of a tall woman with dark circles under her eyes, wearing a loose house dress, and pacing the floor. "Oh well," was her refrain.

Neither my grandparents nor my parents taught us to respect or nurture Aunt Rosie. Nor were we ever encouraged to speak with her and give her the pleasure of a relationship with someone outside of her home. For many years I never thought about her. She was a non-person to me, I am ashamed to say. Then a couple years ago I awoke out of the family culture and realized that she is a real person who needs love, affection, tenderness, and relationships with her family. So I started writing her letters and sending her small gifts: stamps, pictures, cards, etc. As with many mentally ill people, she warmed to me immediately and began to write to me faithfully. Aunt Rosie lives in an Christian extended care facility in North Carolina. She seems to be happy there, getting the mail and distributing it every day to the other residents. Her sister and brother visit her several times weekly and she is very close to them.

Recently Aunt Rosie has had to be hospitalized several times for angina. She has heart disease, which runs in the family. I don't know how much longer I will have her. Rosie can't talk on the phone, so I can't hear her voice. And I haven't seen her in at least 35 years. But she has been a true gift. Why? Because there is something about her that is so innocent and trusting, like a child. Her love is guileless and pure. The tone of her every letter is positive and sweet, even though she writes in one-inch letters that have been sketched over several times. She has never met Sam but she asks about him in each letter. Rosie so much wants to be part of a family and be loved. And she is.

Dear Barbara,

I feel well today. How do you and Sam feel today?

I hope you and Sam feel well today.

I pray for you and him every day.

I love you and him.

Have a good day every day you and Sam and a Happy Thanksgiving and a Merry Christmas day and a Happy New Years Day when the days come.

You and him are nice persons.

Thank you for nice picture letter card.

From Rose.

Perhaps one reason that I especially enjoy my relationship with Aunt Rosie right now is that it feels to me to be a sign that I have reached a certain age. When we are growing up, through those troublesome teen years and the early adult struggles, we try to distance ourselves from anything or anybody whose presence we fear will define us. The nerdy people who are really quite nice but whom we dread being compared to, the boys who are clever or obnoxious who we secretly admire, the parent with the oddball behaviors. Indeed, I have had several men lose interest in me after they met my parents when I was younger. I have been compared to my siblings in ways that have made me cringe. A former boyfriend's arrogant opinions about my being a nurse made me deeply ashamed of my profession. But there comes a point in life where we realize that our family members contribute to the way we are: both positively and negatively. It's how we manage what we ended up with that matters, how we conduct ourselves in relation to others, and how we love. Then, the imperfections become only proof that we are cut from the cloth of humanity.

I keep a picture of Aunt Rosie on my desk. She is sitting on her bed, wearing a flowing house dress in a dark navy floral print. Her hair is dark and has fewer gray hairs than I have. She is smiling sweetly, even a bit impishly looking at the camera. Rosie is a dear, dear part of my family and I am happy to be her neice. I pray for her health and happiness. One day, we shall live in that great forever where we both shall be whole. I am grateful for that hope, and thankful for what I have learned by being her friend.

Selfness

Yesterday upon the stair

I saw a man who wasn't there

He wasn't there again today.

Oh how I wish he'd go away

There are many people who, when we look at them, appear to have no one home. No, these are not people who are sharing a joke with themselves and playing invisible drums on skid row. These are people who have not put down roots inside of themselves. Sound abstract and confusing? Read on.

One man I know comes from a family where he was not wanted. He couldn't create a strong sense of self since he felt he was defective. If he were not, his parents would have been kinder or more interested in him, he believed. So while he developed ways of thinking and doing things, he never really felt settled in how he did things because after all, his ways had never been valued or validated. He hoped that when he found the perfect woman, she would do that for him and he would then be a self. In fact, we teach couples this, don't we? "My other half" "One plus one equals one"?

He did marry a wonderful, beautiful woman. Being with her gave him a sense of purpose and strength. She believed in him and actually adored him. He became resolute and strong in his opinions and approach to life. Mostly. Unless she was not close at hand to run his ideas by or get approval for his thinking. Then he waffled helplessly and sank into despair. But as soon as she was available and gave her opinion (which she was wont to do quite readily), he was up and on his way again. It was a good deal for a few years. Then the children came. He was able to care for those children and receive their unbridled enthisiastic love. Those were wonderful years: a wife and children, all who made him feel strong in himself. When he left to go on trips for a long weekend, he often felt despondent and worthless. He was socially awkward, as he often tried to get the validation and approval he needed from strangers--something that called for him to be a buffoon or else an apologic attention-seeker. As soon as he got home and was surrounded by people who worked hard to affirm him, he perked right back up. It continued that way until his children became teenagers--the age all parents become "dorks"--and then he clung to his wife for validation once again. He eventually fell into despair when her needs prevented her from providing what he needed to feel worthwhile.

There are so many people in this world who have not started off in a positive home environment. They could not get the emotional or social beginning that could make them feel worthwhile and valid. They have gone through their lives trying to either prove their value by disconfirming the messages they received as children (which means grandstanding or killing themselves to achieve success), or challenging anyone whose message makes them think that in fact, the earlier messages about them were correct (beligerant and highly reactive. They become extremely high maintenance people because they are always trying to borrow "self-ness" from everyone else.

These unfortunate individuals see their children as possessions and are loathe to allow their children to form individual selves for fear they will be abandoned and without what they need to be a self. So the children become enmeshed with the parent, trying to provide for what becomes an emotional bottomless pit. When their children grow up, self-less parents do not celebrate their children's much awaited passage into adulthood. They grieve for a long time and feel that something unfair has happened to them. They become resentful for any achievement or advancement of their kids. The children in turn, feel guilty for any differentiation and sense of self they are able to form.
From somewhere far way on the inside, non-selfed people recognize that something isn't quite right. But there are no words for it, and to try to quantify it is too terrifying. They keep trying to stay attached to someone or something that provides them what they need. Sometimes that is God or religious adherence. Sometimes a spouse or child or sibling. But it is quite a painful situation, regardless of whether it can be voiced or not. Because if they lose their attachment object, they are back to being a nothing--a no-self.

So what does this all mean? Some people are like empty graves that we walk over. We tread lightly because it appears that someone is there. But only a few emotional parts are there. It is not their choice--the designation of a no-self person is almost as capricious as a throw of the dice. They are all around us: people who make scenes to get attention; who are always asking for affirmation; who may be self-deprecating or wildly narcissistic (they are attached to almost delusional notions about their value). But they are in pain, and often lash out in the most irrational, vitriolic manner. They may be diagnosed with a personality disorder, or just be someone who is just a bit socially off. And they fill the offices of therapists and social workers, who try to help them with attachment, skills, and meaning.

I imagine that while Jesus was on this earth, He had quite a following of no-self people. I wonder what He would have said to them. Probably something like, "Are not two sparrow sold for a farthing? And yet your heavenly Father loves you more than these." Or, "Blessed are the poor in spirit, for theirs is the Kingdom of Heaven." I wish I could have watched Him fill the unfillable and know what He did to help them feel more attached, valued, affirmed. Perhaps one glance could do it. I don't know. I only know that for us mortals, it's a process that occurs over a very long period of time: limitsetting, affirming, educating, attending. Whew.

Perhaps at the Second Coming, when Jesus comes in the clouds of glory and the dead of earth shall rise to go home forever, everyone will get a strong self along with their new body. An unshakable, attachment to God, a visceral knowledge that they belong to the One who will never leave them. There are so many people I know who struggle with selfhood. I don't think it will be long before all shall know as they are known, and have nothing to cause regret, fear, or pain.

Full of Thankfulness

It is 5:00 on the night before Thanksgiving. We are waiting for the girls to arrive from work and boarding school. Sam has tidied up the kitchen and I have two persimmon puddings steaming away on the stove. Otis is springing around the house, challenging us to a game of chase. It is crisp outside and the mountains were beautifully purple against a coral sky tonight. I had a wonderful walk around the neighborhood before coming in to the warm, good-smelling house. It is so much happier this year than last and I am truly grateful.

Daddy died a little over a year ago. It was our first Thanksgiving and Mother was alone in New York, not doing well at all. The neighbor in the house behind our property had a house fire and lost just about everything. We were still grousing about having to live in this little rental. I was not as happy in my work as I am now. I was waking up at 4:30, tossing and turning until time to get up. So much has changed.

We are much closer to buying a home. I am teaching full time now, not directing a clinic. I am sleeping through the night and waking up with enough time to spend time with God before dashing off to work. An 11-day trip to Peru is coming up in a few weeks. And I just found out that I have the entire summer off teaching so I can get caught up on my writing. Maybe part of spring quarter, too. What relief that will be.

Mother is living here and is doing well at adjusting to life in her new setting. She is not shoveling snow or struggling with wood in her kitchen stove. It was wonderful to see her smiling and chatting away last evening. Her retirement center hosted a Harvest Celebration meal for residents and their guests. Sam and I were delighted to go and be seated across from Mother and her friend, Dottie. Those two chatted happily along, as did Sam and Dottie's son--the mayor of our town. On the other side of Mother sat a teen-aged girl who was dying of boredom. Next to me sat the little man who accidentally climbed into my car one afternoon. A few seats down from him was Marge, the 103-year-old woman who Chris Hanson featured on Dateline a couple years ago. She was weighing in on the political conversation at that end of the table. Mother glowed, so happy to have us come so she could introduce us to all her friends. After dinner we went up to her apartment where Sam oohed and ahhhed about it and helped her with her VCR.

I am grateful that life is so good for us, and that we are happy in our marriage. For one who has worried most of her life about how things will work out, how I would be able to get through the next degree, pay the next bill, find a husband, or know enough to teach anything, life is in a good place. God has been generous and gracious to us. Heaven is cheap enough, and life here has been good.

I am convinced that nothing can ever separate us from God’s love. Neither death nor life, neither angels nor demons, neither our fears for today nor our worries about tomorrow—not even the powers of hell can separate us from God’s love. No power in the sky above or in the earth below—indeed, nothing in all creation will ever be able to separate us from the love of God that is revealed in Christ Jesus our Lord.

Romans 8: 38, 39

Good book

Two weeks ago while I was at Grief Camp, I read most of a book that has been a mind-stretching experience. The Faith Club is written by a Muslim, Jew, and Christian. It is the chronicle of their conversations as the result of their original goal to write a children's book about their religions. Instead, they formed a spiritual support group that they maintained for several years. They recorded many of their conversations, and recreated moments of ideological and cultural exchanges.

I was fascinated to read of the way they asked the hard and awkward questions of each other. Reflecting on their responses to one another, I wondered how I might represent all of Christendom, as one of the women did. The comments of the Jewish and Muslim women still ring in my head. I shall probably not think of these religions in the same way ever again. This book is a must-read.

The Faith Club. Idliby, Oliver & Warner (2007).

You are probably wondering how I am doing on my new health plan. I am thrilled to report that I have felt very sustained and convinced that the timing of this was perfect (even though I would have been happier to have lost 45 lbs a year or two ago!) I was able to wear an outfit to church that I couldn't fit into three weeks earlier, and my students have asked if my hair is different. Then they said sort of off-the-cuff, "Or maybe you've lost some weight." They were embarassed to ask and wondered if I'd mind their questions.

Ask me if I've lost weight!!!

I am very, very grateful and looking forward to continued improvement in my health.

Regrets

Tonight I spoke at length with a woman who feels that her words killed her husband. The day before he died she unleashed a vitriolic attack on him for his actions that she found offensive. She was apparently given to "spouting off" when she was disturbed about anything at all, actually. Her husband had heard many a tirade in the past. But this time he was very hurt by her words. She knew that because that night he rolled away from her in their bed before he fell asleep. That night he died before she could apologize for the words that broke his heart. Now she feels that she is the reason he died and that if she had been more loving, or even held back her frustrations, he would have lived longer. He went to the grave sick at heart because of the words from one who should have been the most supportive, warm, understanding and forgiving.

Guilt is a terrible burden.

Here is what went through my mind as I listened to this woman pour out her heart to me. You wonder what we therapists think about when we sit there nodding? Here it is. My mind was momentarily nibbling around the edges of a story I knew only too well.

I was invited by a congregation in Ireland to give a series of talks about family matters. In order to have some credibility (I was very new in the field at the time), I took along an established therapist to give some of the presentations. She was happy for the opportunity to travel abroad and she is an excellent clinician. What I didn't know however, was that when she is anxious she becomes controlling and she digs her heels in. Whatever the agenda may be, if she is anxious, she becomes very difficult.
We arrived the day before Thanksgiving. We'd planned our trip for that time because it was our vacation and it wasn't a holiday in Ireland. My colleague was exhausted that second day and was also perturbed about the advertising the church had done about us. As she thought about her talk the following evening, in went the heels.

The pastor's wife had invited us over for supper the night after we arrived. My colleague didn't want to go. I didn't know how to navigate the public transportation system there and was embarassed to ask how to use it. About an hour before we were to be at supper, I called and begged out of dinner. I claimed jet lag and every other thing that was within the realm of reality--partial truths. She pleaded with me to just come for an hour. It would be fine if I came alone, even if I were to eat and run. I felt in a real bind, between dealing with my growing anxiety about my colleague and my fear of traveling across the city on my own. So I thanked her repeatedly and bowed out.

We were received quite well by the church and those who came to the presentations. I enjoyed being there immensely and it was a good trip overall. On the last evening we were in town we had supper at the pastor's house along with a number of other folks from the church. Spirits were high and people were singing and laughing in the other room. I wandered into the kitchen to see if I could help with food preparation or serving and fell into conversation with the pastor's wife. In the midst of our conversation she stopped short and said, "Oh, if yeh could only've come Friday night" and she dissolved into tears. She went on to tell me that she had invited all the women in the church and a number of pastor's wives from other congregations in the area, and she had prepared a traditional American Thanksgiving dinner in honor of me. Turkey, stuffing, cranberry sauce, onions and brussel sprouts, sweet potatoes, pumpkin pie. It had been a surprise. Only I wasn't there.

Yes, I can hear you gasp. I feel sick at heart whenever I think of this and wish I could shut my eyes and disappear. It is a guilt that will always be palpable and sickening, apologies notwithstanding.

My client's eyes are full of tears. I feel sick in the pit of my stomach. It is impossible to take back words or actions that have hurt someone else. Humbling evidence that we are dreadfully human sometimes, that our actions make us sick sometimes. That cringe or no, we have to live with what we've done. Reminders that we need to look well to our ways. That there is a high value in being gracious to others. That we can't live without a good dose of mercy. That we hurt people without meaning to. It is one more thing that all of us know, only too well.

The Fool's Prayer
The royal feast was done; the King
Sought some new sport to banish care,
And to his jester cried: “Sir Fool,
Kneel now, and make for us a prayer!”

The jester doffed his cap and bells,
And stood the mocking court before;
They could not see the bitter smile
Behind the painted grin he wore.

He bowed his head, and bent his knee
Upon the monarch’s silken stool;

His pleading voice arose: “O Lord,
Be merciful to me, a fool!

“No pity, Lord, could change the heart
From red with wrong to white as wool:
The rod must heal the sin; but, Lord,
Be merciful to me, a fool!

“ ’T is not by guilt the onward sweep
Of truth and right, O Lord, we stay;
’T is by our follies that so long
We hold the earth from heaven away.

“These clumsy feet, still in the mire,
Go crushing blossoms without end;
These hard, well-meaning hands we thrust
Among the heart-strings of a friend.

“The ill-timed truth we might have kept—
Who knows how sharp it pierced and stung!
The word we had not sense to say—
Who knows how grandly it had rung!

“Our faults no tenderness should ask,
The chastening stripes must cleanse them all;
But for our blunders—oh, in shame
Before the eyes of heaven we fall.

“Earth bears no balsam for mistakes;
Men crown the knave, and scourge the tool
That did his will; but Thou, O Lord,
Be merciful to me, a fool!”

The room was hushed; in silence rose
The King, and sought his gardens cool,
And walked apart, and murmured low,
“Be merciful to me, a fool!”

Edward Rowland Sill

Not just for the birds

There is an intersection that I love to see that is near the hospital where I drop off Sam every morning. The wires that transect high over the traffic are full of some sort of birds--a whole flock of them. But it's not just one wire in one direction, it's all four wires across north, south, east, and west-moving traffic. It is as though there is a ring of birds sitting above, watching the cars whizzing down under their feet. What amazes me is not that there are birds there, even though it is a rather busy intersection. It is that all the birds sit at fairly equal distances from one another. There they all are, lined up about a wingspan away from one another.

I wonder how they know, or how they learn what that desirable distance is.

I have thought about these birds many times as I've sat in my car, waiting for the light to turn green. How is it that these creatures know what is appropriate and humans, who are supposed to be capable of higher thought, can't seem to tell this? All those creepy types of men who stand too close in the checkout line at the grocery store, and who, right at your elbow, stare into your purse or almost lean against you. Or women who are not known to you, but they know who you are--feel they have a right to clasp you to their hearts in a fond embrace. Or to speak in a too-familiar style about things that make it hard to know how to respond. Nature knows what is acceptable.

These ideas sometimes swirl through my head as I sit at those stoplights. I have given the birds considerable thought recently. For some inexplicable reason, I think about some of the upcoming challenges I anticipate when I teach an intensive course in Peru in January. Some of my concerns are these: How will I know how to talk in culturally sensitive language about sensitive issues? Will I offend someone unwittingly? (Probably). How can I discuss issues like whether or not spanking is acceptable when I do not know the culture or common ideas? How do I talk about intimate violence when Peru has one of the highest rates in the Americas? What will they think of me when I offer my ideas about what I think is appropriate behavior for married couples in terms of conflict and conflict resolution? Or appropriate sexual expression? Or my ideas about childrearing?

But you know, every group knows, too. Each group has norms about what is appropriate: too much, too little, just about right. About where the line is that none should cross. I mustn't have all the answers, because the Peruvians have norms about what is acceptable. They have an old civilization and they can determine how to take in my words. One only has to look at the birds on the wires to realize that the good Lord has put some notion of normalcy and acceptability into every collection of creatures on this earth, from avian to homo sapien. What an interesting God.

Inspiring

Here is something I was emailed that has really touched me. I think you will also be moved by it.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=flRvsO8m_KI

Eternal Rest

It was a memorial service for the mother of an agnostic Jewish woman. I'd never been to a Jewish service and was eager to see what this would be like. Only about 20 people were seated in a Jewish mortuary waiting for everything to begin. An officiant wearing a black silk yarmulke rushed in and hurriedly drew a gold brocade curtain across the room to partition off a pine casket that appeared to be open. A moment later he burst through the curtains into the seated crowd.

"We're about to close the casket. Before we do, does anyone want to view?" His voice was raspy and monotone, yet full of urgency.

"Anyone?" His eyes darted across the crowd. "No one?"

No one moved. I personally, was shocked by his demeanor, which had the same amount of emotion one would have if asking for directions to the DMV.

"All right," he continued. "We will proceed momentarily." And he disappeared back behind the curtain.

Meanwhile, those sitting around me chatted away about various community news items. There was no meditative music, no hushed whispering or reverence. The family members stepped back through the curtain and seated themselves on the front row facing the officiant.

"Okay," he stated. "Let's begin then. I never had the pleasure of knowing Idilah Steinmetz in life and it is unfortunate to make the family's acquaintance at this difficult time. So I can't speak about her from personal experience. Who better can talk about her life than her family? We will hear from them in a couple minutes." He intoned flatly, "Let us proceed by reading together the selection in the middle section of the program" (which I was not given when I came in).

We flew through Psalm 23, the Shepherd's Psalm. Never have I recited that Psalm so quickly. Two family members stood and spoke at length about their mother and grandmother who had died the day before. One remembered the deceased fondly. The daughter gave a rambling monologue about how one family member with psychic powers, had chosen to cut off from the family and was not there. "But I'm sure he's lurking around the cemetery somewhere. He's probably looking in the windows now." We all instinctively glanced at the windows. She continued by telling us that when her father had died a year earlier, someone told her that her mother would die soon thereafter because their relationship had been so enduring. "Ironically enough," she continued, "Two months after he died Mother started insisting that he was gay! And that he has been gay for years. She hated him and she reminded us of that every visit."

"--She did not!" a woman in the middle of the group said aloud. "She never said that. Don't say that about her! She wouldn't say that."

The daughter forged ahead. "We had a very complicated relationship, and there's a lot I could say, but today I'll only say good things."

Her remarks sort of trailed off. She ended her comments by shrugging her shoulders and sitting down next to her husband. He stepped up to the front of the assembly and read to us something that his father-in-law had read to him at his wedding. It was an obscure passage from an Eastern guru's writing from the middle 16th century. I couldn't follow it because it seemed somewhat circuitous or something.

The son-in-law sat down and the officiant stepped back out from the curtains at the side. He announced that there would be a private burial service later in the day, but that we were all invited to eat over at the Odyssey restaurant. "Take Rinuchio down two blocks. Turn left at the stoplight. You will turn on to SeaBreeze and go for two blocks. Take the next right and half-way down the street, you will see the restaurant." It was all said without any feeling or enthusiasm.

"And now we will tie on the k'riah ribbon." He uttered a monotone description of the symbolism of these ribbons, pinned them on the family members, then shredded them in his hands. "Wear these for 30 days. But on the 30th day do not wear it for more than one hour because our fathers told us not to mourne for longer than 30 days." Without taking more than a catch breath, he continued, "Now we will read together the Kadish found on the last page of the program."

I didn't have the program and couldn't join in the Hebrew reading, although as I listened, I wished I had the opportunity to see if I could keep up with everyone else. I didn't have long to wait til it was over. The officiant tore through the reading, doubletime.

"Now we're finished. May the name of Idilah Steinmetz be a blessing in your mouth every time you say it." The family nodded. "We now commend you to eternal rest. You will live on forever in our hearts." And he turned and walked out.

Everyone just got up and walked out.

I don't know how much of that funeral was typical for Jewish services and how much was due to the unique family situation. But it left me very disturbed, on many accounts. I've described some of the quirkiness. However, what troubled me the most was the lack of anything about the life hereafter. There lay a dead woman in a casket and no one had the belief that they would ever see her again, or that she would ever be alive again. According to the prevailing ideas, Idilah was dead and that was the end of her life--ever. Eternally.

Most of Christendom believes that at death a person's spirit leaves the body and goes up to God. For many, that means that the essence of the individual lives on, though their body remains in the ground. Because of Augustine's ideas of the separation of matter and spirit, it is assumed that a person can exist aside from her physical body. So that the loved one is up above in heaven, watching and sometimes helping those on earth. My beliefs are different than that. I believe in soul sleep and a body-soul connection. If one dies, the other does, too. At the resurrection, the body and soul become immortal and live forever in heaven, in the presence of God.

But whatever the details of the "hereafter belief," Christians have something to look forward to. We know that death is not forever for many people. God, in His mercy, has prepared much greater things for us than we can even dream of. The attendees of the memorial service seemed to take everything in stride. Death, funeral, family. That is how it is. They all went out together and had a meal, sharing their humanity by grieving and sharing stories of the deceased together. I drove home thanking God for the immeasurable Gift we have been given: Eternal life, not eternal rest.

Camp Good Grief

This weekend I served as a volunteer resource therapist at Camp Good Grief up in the Angeles Oaks mountain area. This is a weekend experience for kids ages 9 - 14 who have lost a family member due to illness. There were many very sad children, recounting their stories of watching family members die, or paramedics try to revive their fallen loved ones. It was a heartwarming experience, as it always is. We had about 30 kids and at least 30 staff, giving the kids one-to-one experiences with many of us. The weather could not have been more perfect, and thankfully, the incoming Santa Ana winds didn't start any fires or create problems for us.

There were a number of my students there, so I merely circulated around the various group meeting sites to be sure everything was going smoothly. Camp Cedar Falls is up about 8,000 feet high or so. All the adults got winded just walking up to the lodge after eating in the cafeteria. It was almost enough to make me want to skip meals! Kids were roiling around, up and down the hills, halls, trees--you name it. No fatigue there, unfortunately.

One very precious moment is still clear in my mind. I went to the young boys' group to help lead an activity. We had little white plastic flowerpots that snapped down into a larger clear pot. The inner and outer surfaces could be decorated with colored tissue paper and decoupaged on. It's a real dorky activity for teenage boys, but the 9 - 10 year-olds were immediately interested. There was tissue paper being pulled in all directions as they looked for just the right color and pattern to put on their pots. We told the boys that they could take a Sharpie pen and on the outside of the inner pot, write a message in honor of their loved one who had died. They fell to, busily writing in newly learned cursive writing: "In loving memory of ________" and "I love you, ________."

One chubby little guy with glasses was busy working on his flower pot. I could tell, just by looking at him, that he was taking this endeavor very, very seriously. He carefully wrote in bright blue, "In loving memory of Yadira" (not her real name) with big loopy, cursive letters. Then he sat quietly looking at the pot, his hands almost caressing it. A moment later, he sat studying the various tissue papers. Sorting through the stack of zebra print, butterflies, hearts, and miscellaneous patterns, he finally settled on a large floral print. The other boys were by this time talking together and trying to best one another in how they cut out their pieces of tissue. This little boy didn't talk to the others, but very slowly and methodically cut out several large pink lillies and put them on the outside of his pot. I couldn't help myself.

"Wow. Your pot has some beautiful colors on it."

He smiled without looking at me.

I watched several minutes and asked him, "Who are you making your pot for?"

"My sister," he said very softly.

"Oh. When did she die?" I asked.

"A couple years ago."

There was no need to say the polite, "I'm sorry." All our groups had been through that already, and everyone up there had lost someone recently.

"How old was she?"

"Nine. I was only seven." He said it so matter of factly, but in a soft little voice.

"Oh."

"Did Yadira like flowers?" I asked.

He nodded. "Pink ones."

He wanted to get more color on the inside and outside of his pot and didn't know how to put the decoupage glue over it. The activity took only about 15 minutes, but the whole time I sat with him, we hardly spoke. I'd just point to something and say, "How about that?" and he's nod and keep on working. It was a grave expression on his face, and I could see that his little heart was very hurt.

He worked at it some more and when the group leader called the boys back to their seats, he held his decorated pot up for me to see. He had left a little window where the words, "In loving memory of Yadira" could be seen on the inner pot. Big pink lillies were backlighted with bright blue paper underneath. One purple butterfly flitted across one side of the pot.

He looked at me questioningly.

"That is beautiful!"

He smiled faintly but continued to look at it as though he wasn't sure.

He turned it in his hand one way and then the other, checking to see that his message to his sister was visible. He looked around at the other boys' pots and then back to his own. He seemed uncertain.
"Honey, if Yadira liked flowers, she would love this pot. It's very, very pretty and just right for a girl."

The rigidness of his stance relaxed a bit and he nodded, putting it down on the vinyl papercloth to finish drying.

"Thank you," he said. And he walked over to join the other boys who were waiting to start a moment of silence. He sat down in his seat and shut his eyes. Then they flew open and he looked back at his pot, as it to reassure himself that it was still there. His eyes searched my face then and I smiled and nodded at him as if to say, "It's lovely and you did well."

He smiled a huge smile at me and put his head down for silent reflection.

Events like this don't come every day. What a tragedy that all of these children had been left without sibling, mother, or father. Their teary eyes and tense bodies said volumes about what they had gone through. They didn't choose to have these things happen to them. They were just trying to manage the best they could.

When they left today, their steps were a bit lighter and they looked more peaceful than when they came two days ago.

As I was packing up the van with boxes of supplies, my little friend, who was walking past, paused to catch my eye. Although he stood only three feet away, he waved at me, holding his flowerpot carefully in one arm.

"Bye," he said softly with a sweet smile on his face.

"Bye. See you next year."

And God bless you, precious one.