We're heading to the beach today, and my heart lifts at the thought.
You see, it's hot where I live. Pretty much six months of hot, we get (that's the Yoda influence). And right now it's blazingly hot. Hellishly (although nowhere nearly as horrendously as, well, aitch-e-double-toothpicks) hot. At 6:30 in the a.m., it's already well on the way to the 115 or so degrees predicted as a high. It's been day after day after day of that kind of external oppression that transforms one's car into an oven, the steering wheel just waiting to singe away fingerprints. Turn on the shower and you don't need the "H" part. "C" is tepid enough.
We live in a place where even plunging into the swimming pool isn't refreshing this time of year, potted plants shrivel and a mid-afternoon walk is at your own risk. And you can never get enough water. Or iced tea. With lemon. Over a full glass of Sonic ice.
So to the beach we go, where adventure awaits the day before our girl flies away for her junior year in college.
Sitting underneath the ceiling fan above our dining room table, I can close my eyes and already feel the breeze, the sun burning through 50-proof sunscreen, my toes sinking into damp sand, gripping as the surf tries to drag them outward.
The ocean is my healing place. That enormous ebbing and flowing body of water, a living, breathing organism, if you will, that soothes the soul. It teems with life, above and below. Pelicans are my favorite, skimming the surface in military formation and, spotting something delectable, putting on the brakes and plunging toward breakfast. Or lunch. Or dinner. Or a mid-afternoon snack.
Stand with your back to the beach and the surf that entices you to step deeper and deeper erases the chatter of thousands of people behind you.
Yes, I love the beach, because it frames that big, beautiful, blue ocean, the enormity of it an affirmation of a Love that is deeper and wider and more vast than any other.
Wednesday, August 8, 2012
Saturday, June 16, 2012
For My Father
This is being published in the Sunday edition of our local paper, where I've worked for nearly 25 years, and is my tribute to my Dad, who passed away on July 21, 2011.
“The summer’s gone, and all the flowers are dying; ‘Tis you, ‘tis you must go and I must bide,” sang the tenor who the year before was with the San Diego Opera and this day was singing “Danny Boy” at a home for people with dementia. This time, he too was a “resident,” called upon to entertain at a Father’s Day celebration last year, reaching notes effortlessly in a melodic, soothing timbre that needed no microphone.
Dad and I were at a table in the home’s courtyard, enjoying hot dogs and burgers with a decorated Marine colonel who had served in the Pacific Theater in World War II, and his wife. As we ate and talked, the wife prompted her husband to remember some of his war exploits, but time and disease had done their damage, and his voice faltered and stopped in its retelling. He had forgotten, for now.
The hustle and bustle of the day seemed to have worn on Dad, too, and as he went to his room he asked if I would be waiting when he came out. Then he forgot I was there. Visits to Dad often were followed by walks on the beach, letting the sounds of waves wash away the melancholy.
It’s the nature of advancing dementia to alter reality, blur memories, strip victims and their families of normalcy. But there are also moments, minutes, hours of clarity. A couple more visits later, we saw that clarity in what would be our last conversation before he left us within the next two weeks. It was a “gift,” an Alzheimer’s Association official told me, and one my husband and I treasure, especially today, the first Father’s Day my four brothers, two sisters and I will mark without Dad.
It’s the first time I won’t be standing in front of a wall of cards looking for just the right one, or shopping for a shirt for my impeccably groomed father. My teens, 20s, 30s had me sifting through ties. He liked the ties I picked out. Or so he said. Later it would have been a gift card to a home improvement store. Dad had taken up carpentry as retirement approached, and many finely crafted cutting boards, knife holders and benches were gifted at Christmastime, or just because.
Dad’s story is like many others of his generation. Born in Texas to farmers, his family moved to Oklahoma and then, when the Dust Bowl stripped away soil and dreams, came to California. They built a life, and later a welding business, in Imperial. Dad apprenticed for a butcher in his teens and excelled on the ball fields, if not the classrooms, of Imperial High.
World War II was in its waning years and, before Dad could graduate, Uncle Sam drafted him. He returned from training in San Diego to receive his diploma, but instead of cap and gown wore his Navy blues. The war would end as his ship reached Hawaii, where he spent the next year or so finishing his service.
He had become a committed follower of Jesus Christ during those years, and after the Navy went to the Bible Institute of Los Angeles, now Biola University, where he met Mom, daughter of Scottish immigrants.
Many years later, Dad would become a pastor, moving his family first to Oregon, then to Washington, returning with Mom to be pastor of Imperial Community for 22 years.
Today likely will not be tear-free for me, sitting in a pew of the church we attend, listening to our pastor at the same pulpit Dad stood behind those many years. But it will be filled with memories of a Dad who loved his children passionately, who encouraged us in the things at which we naturally excelled and in the ways we didn’t.
He would be the first to admit he wasn’t perfect, a sinner needing a Savior, a man who made his share of mistakes, but he was more than humble enough to admit it. That, for me, is the best example he could have set.
“The summer’s gone, and all the flowers are dying; ‘Tis you, ‘tis you must go and I must bide,” sang the tenor who the year before was with the San Diego Opera and this day was singing “Danny Boy” at a home for people with dementia. This time, he too was a “resident,” called upon to entertain at a Father’s Day celebration last year, reaching notes effortlessly in a melodic, soothing timbre that needed no microphone.
Dad and I were at a table in the home’s courtyard, enjoying hot dogs and burgers with a decorated Marine colonel who had served in the Pacific Theater in World War II, and his wife. As we ate and talked, the wife prompted her husband to remember some of his war exploits, but time and disease had done their damage, and his voice faltered and stopped in its retelling. He had forgotten, for now.
The hustle and bustle of the day seemed to have worn on Dad, too, and as he went to his room he asked if I would be waiting when he came out. Then he forgot I was there. Visits to Dad often were followed by walks on the beach, letting the sounds of waves wash away the melancholy.
It’s the nature of advancing dementia to alter reality, blur memories, strip victims and their families of normalcy. But there are also moments, minutes, hours of clarity. A couple more visits later, we saw that clarity in what would be our last conversation before he left us within the next two weeks. It was a “gift,” an Alzheimer’s Association official told me, and one my husband and I treasure, especially today, the first Father’s Day my four brothers, two sisters and I will mark without Dad.
It’s the first time I won’t be standing in front of a wall of cards looking for just the right one, or shopping for a shirt for my impeccably groomed father. My teens, 20s, 30s had me sifting through ties. He liked the ties I picked out. Or so he said. Later it would have been a gift card to a home improvement store. Dad had taken up carpentry as retirement approached, and many finely crafted cutting boards, knife holders and benches were gifted at Christmastime, or just because.
Dad’s story is like many others of his generation. Born in Texas to farmers, his family moved to Oklahoma and then, when the Dust Bowl stripped away soil and dreams, came to California. They built a life, and later a welding business, in Imperial. Dad apprenticed for a butcher in his teens and excelled on the ball fields, if not the classrooms, of Imperial High.
World War II was in its waning years and, before Dad could graduate, Uncle Sam drafted him. He returned from training in San Diego to receive his diploma, but instead of cap and gown wore his Navy blues. The war would end as his ship reached Hawaii, where he spent the next year or so finishing his service.
He had become a committed follower of Jesus Christ during those years, and after the Navy went to the Bible Institute of Los Angeles, now Biola University, where he met Mom, daughter of Scottish immigrants.
Many years later, Dad would become a pastor, moving his family first to Oregon, then to Washington, returning with Mom to be pastor of Imperial Community for 22 years.
Today likely will not be tear-free for me, sitting in a pew of the church we attend, listening to our pastor at the same pulpit Dad stood behind those many years. But it will be filled with memories of a Dad who loved his children passionately, who encouraged us in the things at which we naturally excelled and in the ways we didn’t.
He would be the first to admit he wasn’t perfect, a sinner needing a Savior, a man who made his share of mistakes, but he was more than humble enough to admit it. That, for me, is the best example he could have set.
Sunday, February 5, 2012
The month of l.o.v.e.
The month of November is all about giving thanks and in December, it’s giving, or receiving, depending on your priorities.
In February, it’s all about the l.o.v.e.
I don’t write much any more, but not because I don‘t want to. Rather, it is an all-consuming passion that consumes passion. An emotional experience that depletes emotion. It wipes me out, but in the process it wipes out those thoughts hiding in the corners of my mind. You know, the ones that gnaw on you in the wee hours of the night or surface when you’re in the middle of something else and make you FORGET WHAT YOU WERE DOING. But it also helps me remember all that is good and perfect.
Cathartic. Cleansing. Uplifting. Inevitably, up come the tears and the computer screen gets fuzzy.
It’s a hard thing to do and try to do well, for me anyway. And it’s been a couple of years of hard things, so everything -- happy as well as sad -- gets shoved to the corners of the mind.
I try to explain that to Mickey. His biggest wish is that I write something to him, besides those few words that cover a card. That would be the biggest emotional upheaval and emotion-depleter of all.
But, because this is the month of l.o.v.e. And because he’ll be bowling on that special night of l.o.v.e. (i.e. Valentine’s Day) and I’ll be working, I’m going to give this a shot and hope one of us survives.
To my Mickey Charles, here are some things I l.o.v.e. about you:
First of all, that face. Or those eyes. Those dark eyes that light up when you’re pleased with something. Or think of something funny. Or something slightly naughty. Or of joy that brings you to the brink of tears.
Like when you see your granddaughter and your grandsons coming toward you. Or when talking to your sons. Or when your daughter texts you something … charming.
I l.o.v.e. sitting across from you in the silence of our home, silence broken by the tap-tap-tapping of your keyboard, and mine. Like now.
I l.o.v.e. listening to you tell stories, about what happened at work. Or on the track or ballfield decades or a few minutes ago.
I l.o.v.e. pulling weeds while you perch on the ladder, snipping away at the sleeping limbs of the fruitless mulberry, and both of us stopping everything to watch our favorite jets slice through the sky above us.
I l.o.v.e. bowling with you on our days off, turning around to see you watching me. With that l.o.o.k. in your dark brown eyes, that erases the almost-31 years we’ve been husband and wife. The same l.o.o.k. that greeted me when I walked down the aisle on Dad’s arm. That l.o.o.k. that looks past everything wrong I see in myself, and every wrong thing I’ve ever said or done in all those years.
I l.o.v.e. the way you play with the kids. When our sons and daughter were little … and our nieces and nephews … and the neighborhood children … you were their jungle gym. And now, when you sit down on the lawn or the floor, our grandchildren take over. That’s their signal that it’s time to p.l.a.y.
I l.o.v.e. the way you love your parents, those tender-teasing-boisterous conversations about O.U. football. Or how ‘bout those Chargers.
And I l.o.v.e. the son-in-law you are to my Mom, and the patience you had with my Dad. You were at nearly every doctor’s appointment with us in the first six months. You could make him laugh, and convinced him to stick with it when the waiting got tough. “Mary, let‘s get out of here,” he‘d say as we waited for his name to be called. And somehow you’d get him to stay.
I l.o.v.e. the friend you are to people of all walks and thoughts of life. That before the sun peeks through our east windows you are sitting in your chair, head bowed, praying for every person in your life.
You are patient. And kind. And long-suffering.
I wouldn’t be who I am without you.
Happy early V-Day, Mickey Charles!
In February, it’s all about the l.o.v.e.
I don’t write much any more, but not because I don‘t want to. Rather, it is an all-consuming passion that consumes passion. An emotional experience that depletes emotion. It wipes me out, but in the process it wipes out those thoughts hiding in the corners of my mind. You know, the ones that gnaw on you in the wee hours of the night or surface when you’re in the middle of something else and make you FORGET WHAT YOU WERE DOING. But it also helps me remember all that is good and perfect.
Cathartic. Cleansing. Uplifting. Inevitably, up come the tears and the computer screen gets fuzzy.
It’s a hard thing to do and try to do well, for me anyway. And it’s been a couple of years of hard things, so everything -- happy as well as sad -- gets shoved to the corners of the mind.
I try to explain that to Mickey. His biggest wish is that I write something to him, besides those few words that cover a card. That would be the biggest emotional upheaval and emotion-depleter of all.
But, because this is the month of l.o.v.e. And because he’ll be bowling on that special night of l.o.v.e. (i.e. Valentine’s Day) and I’ll be working, I’m going to give this a shot and hope one of us survives.
To my Mickey Charles, here are some things I l.o.v.e. about you:
First of all, that face. Or those eyes. Those dark eyes that light up when you’re pleased with something. Or think of something funny. Or something slightly naughty. Or of joy that brings you to the brink of tears.
Like when you see your granddaughter and your grandsons coming toward you. Or when talking to your sons. Or when your daughter texts you something … charming.
I l.o.v.e. sitting across from you in the silence of our home, silence broken by the tap-tap-tapping of your keyboard, and mine. Like now.
I l.o.v.e. listening to you tell stories, about what happened at work. Or on the track or ballfield decades or a few minutes ago.
I l.o.v.e. pulling weeds while you perch on the ladder, snipping away at the sleeping limbs of the fruitless mulberry, and both of us stopping everything to watch our favorite jets slice through the sky above us.
I l.o.v.e. bowling with you on our days off, turning around to see you watching me. With that l.o.o.k. in your dark brown eyes, that erases the almost-31 years we’ve been husband and wife. The same l.o.o.k. that greeted me when I walked down the aisle on Dad’s arm. That l.o.o.k. that looks past everything wrong I see in myself, and every wrong thing I’ve ever said or done in all those years.
I l.o.v.e. the way you play with the kids. When our sons and daughter were little … and our nieces and nephews … and the neighborhood children … you were their jungle gym. And now, when you sit down on the lawn or the floor, our grandchildren take over. That’s their signal that it’s time to p.l.a.y.
I l.o.v.e. the way you love your parents, those tender-teasing-boisterous conversations about O.U. football. Or how ‘bout those Chargers.
And I l.o.v.e. the son-in-law you are to my Mom, and the patience you had with my Dad. You were at nearly every doctor’s appointment with us in the first six months. You could make him laugh, and convinced him to stick with it when the waiting got tough. “Mary, let‘s get out of here,” he‘d say as we waited for his name to be called. And somehow you’d get him to stay.
I l.o.v.e. the friend you are to people of all walks and thoughts of life. That before the sun peeks through our east windows you are sitting in your chair, head bowed, praying for every person in your life.
You are patient. And kind. And long-suffering.
I wouldn’t be who I am without you.
Happy early V-Day, Mickey Charles!
Monday, January 9, 2012
Sometimes, it is all about me
“Crucified
Laid behind a stone
You lived to die
Rejected and alone
Like a rose
Trampled on the ground
You took the fall
And thought of me
Above all”
Those words always bring me to my knees, whether mentally or literally, whether sung in church or through tears with just me and the earbuds.
The months after Dad’s first hospitalization meant many appointments. His GP. Mom’s GP. His urologist. His visits by the home health worker. His kidney specialist. My OBGYN. His procedure. My surgeries. Aly’s senior year events.
On my birthday that fall, the wrapping paper fell away to reveal an iPod Touch. It became the date book Mickey meant it to be, and we put it to use right away as we sat throughout that morning and into early afternoon in Dad’s urologist’s office. Waiting. If I were truly a patient person, that day would have put an end to it. But there would be many more days just like that one, and patience never became mine. Mindless endurance, well, that’s another matter.
But eventually that iPod Touch became my electronic spiritual savior. On the days when it was just me and an empty house, that little chrome device was my best friend. It sat in my left pocket, white strands linking it to my ears while I worked at the computer or scrubbed toilets or pulled weeds or read my Bible or prayed for friends like Leslie or mentally sorted through the hard things at work. And into my ears flowed melodies and lyrics that delivered perspective.
During weeks, months, of seemingly one hardship after another, it helped keep me sane.
Some months ago that little friend went missing. I rifled through the messes in the desk drawers at work, sifted through piles of clutter in our bedroom and in Aly's, poked and prodded between and under the car seats, looked behind and inside furniture -- all to no avail. I missed it terribly, not only because it helped keep me organized but because it helped tune my brain to the things that matter most.
Finally I gave up. It’ll turn up … someday ... I thought.
Well, months later it did. Aly discovered it somewhere I’d never thought of looking and presented her mom with it, all charged up and ready to go. Yet there it sat for the next couple of weeks, beside my laptop, unused.
Until yesterday morning. As I struggled with some oppressingly negative feelings and thoughts, I didn’t even want to go to church -- felt I didn’t belong there with the thoughts overwhelming my mind, that I didn’t deserve even an ounce of what my Saviour has to offer. So I skipped Sunday school, loaded the sink full of dishes and started scrubbing.
But first, that little device started “calling” my name -- a gentle nudge grew increasingly sharper until, before I knew it, the earbuds were in, Pandora was tuned in and the music began to flow.
“Crucified
Laid behind a stone
You lived to die
Rejected and alone
Like a rose
Trampled on the ground
You took the fall
And thought of me
Above all”
And behind the music came the tears. And the prayers. And the gratitude.
It’s not about me, I have to remind myself over and over, when discouragement gets the upper hand.
But in this case, it is. And I’m eternally grateful.
To top it off, on this Sunday, especially, I'm glad I made it to church.
Laid behind a stone
You lived to die
Rejected and alone
Like a rose
Trampled on the ground
You took the fall
And thought of me
Above all”
Those words always bring me to my knees, whether mentally or literally, whether sung in church or through tears with just me and the earbuds.
The months after Dad’s first hospitalization meant many appointments. His GP. Mom’s GP. His urologist. His visits by the home health worker. His kidney specialist. My OBGYN. His procedure. My surgeries. Aly’s senior year events.
On my birthday that fall, the wrapping paper fell away to reveal an iPod Touch. It became the date book Mickey meant it to be, and we put it to use right away as we sat throughout that morning and into early afternoon in Dad’s urologist’s office. Waiting. If I were truly a patient person, that day would have put an end to it. But there would be many more days just like that one, and patience never became mine. Mindless endurance, well, that’s another matter.
But eventually that iPod Touch became my electronic spiritual savior. On the days when it was just me and an empty house, that little chrome device was my best friend. It sat in my left pocket, white strands linking it to my ears while I worked at the computer or scrubbed toilets or pulled weeds or read my Bible or prayed for friends like Leslie or mentally sorted through the hard things at work. And into my ears flowed melodies and lyrics that delivered perspective.
During weeks, months, of seemingly one hardship after another, it helped keep me sane.
Some months ago that little friend went missing. I rifled through the messes in the desk drawers at work, sifted through piles of clutter in our bedroom and in Aly's, poked and prodded between and under the car seats, looked behind and inside furniture -- all to no avail. I missed it terribly, not only because it helped keep me organized but because it helped tune my brain to the things that matter most.
Finally I gave up. It’ll turn up … someday ... I thought.
Well, months later it did. Aly discovered it somewhere I’d never thought of looking and presented her mom with it, all charged up and ready to go. Yet there it sat for the next couple of weeks, beside my laptop, unused.
Until yesterday morning. As I struggled with some oppressingly negative feelings and thoughts, I didn’t even want to go to church -- felt I didn’t belong there with the thoughts overwhelming my mind, that I didn’t deserve even an ounce of what my Saviour has to offer. So I skipped Sunday school, loaded the sink full of dishes and started scrubbing.
But first, that little device started “calling” my name -- a gentle nudge grew increasingly sharper until, before I knew it, the earbuds were in, Pandora was tuned in and the music began to flow.
“Crucified
Laid behind a stone
You lived to die
Rejected and alone
Like a rose
Trampled on the ground
You took the fall
And thought of me
Above all”
And behind the music came the tears. And the prayers. And the gratitude.
It’s not about me, I have to remind myself over and over, when discouragement gets the upper hand.
But in this case, it is. And I’m eternally grateful.
To top it off, on this Sunday, especially, I'm glad I made it to church.
Tuesday, December 20, 2011
Christmas -- it's a tradition
Christmas in the Jackson household was never about Santa.
Sure, the jolly old elf made an appearance now and again. When that red-velvety figure strolled out of Grandma’s back bedroom on Christmas Eve, a sack full of toys slung over his shoulder, his “ho, ho, ho, Merry Christmas” ringing through that homestead, one look at those twinkling eyes and even the littlest ones knew it was really Uncle Stan and, to the next generation, Uncle Mickey.
From earliest memory Christmas in the Jackson home has been about the account of Christ’s birth in chapter 2 of the gospel of the physician Luke. Grandma’s living room would overflow with her grandchildren, and then great- and great-great-grandchildren, and plenty of presents. The noise must have been deafening, but before eager fingers could tear into those gifts, a hush would overtake the room as Grandpa sat in the recliner and reached for his Bible. At his feet, little ones planted elbows on crossed legs, eyes glued to the man in the chair.
“And the angel said unto them, Fear not: for, behold, I bring you good tidings of great joy,” came the much-anticipated and oh-so-familiar refrain.
It’s a cherished tradition that stayed pretty much the same for decades as the adults edged into frailty and the children grew, marrying and producing little ones of their own.
Somewhere along the line a piňata was introduced. And then duct tape. As the clan grew in size and stature, Dad and oldest son Alan decided that, to make sure everyone got a swing -- or two -- the thing had to be duct-taped. Indestructible duct tape wrapped seemingly endlessly around cardboard and bits of brightly colored tissue and battered repeatedly by great-grandsons and great-granddaughters adept with a bat. By the end of the night that piňata bore little resemblance to its original shape, as did the candy inside.
When Grandpa passed away, Grandma set aside her grief, hosting grown grandchildren and their own broods in her home every Christmas Eve. Her table was covered with sandwich fixings, tamales, casseroles and sweets. Eucalyptus logs in the fireplace that Santa never stepped foot in would glow and flare, embers popping against the screen.
Then it was Grandma’s turn to leave and our tradition underwent a major overhaul: It came to our house. When it was time, Dad would sit in the recliner and read Luke 2. As the years passed it became clear that each one might be the last. Then that day came.
Last year our tradition underwent another major overhaul. We all packed up children, food and presents and headed to San Diego, where caregivers at Dad’s last residence turned over the library to Dad’s family. There we hugged, ate and chatted, cameras capturing every bittersweet moment. The piňata hung from the ceiling, forgotten and unscathed.
Brother Ken handed Dad a Bible and sat on the arm of the sofa, helping hold it as Dad’s voice came loud and clear, “And the angel said unto them, Fear not: for, behold, I bring you good tidings of great joy…”
This year our own little clan will celebrate Christmas Eve at our house. There will be a piňata for the little ones -- our grandchildren -- and plenty of food and laughter. And, before tiny fingers will tear into that brightly colored wrapping paper, their grandpa will sit in the recliner and turn his Bible to Luke chapter 2.
Because, after all, that’s what Christmas is all about in the Dale household.
Sure, the jolly old elf made an appearance now and again. When that red-velvety figure strolled out of Grandma’s back bedroom on Christmas Eve, a sack full of toys slung over his shoulder, his “ho, ho, ho, Merry Christmas” ringing through that homestead, one look at those twinkling eyes and even the littlest ones knew it was really Uncle Stan and, to the next generation, Uncle Mickey.
From earliest memory Christmas in the Jackson home has been about the account of Christ’s birth in chapter 2 of the gospel of the physician Luke. Grandma’s living room would overflow with her grandchildren, and then great- and great-great-grandchildren, and plenty of presents. The noise must have been deafening, but before eager fingers could tear into those gifts, a hush would overtake the room as Grandpa sat in the recliner and reached for his Bible. At his feet, little ones planted elbows on crossed legs, eyes glued to the man in the chair.
“And the angel said unto them, Fear not: for, behold, I bring you good tidings of great joy,” came the much-anticipated and oh-so-familiar refrain.
It’s a cherished tradition that stayed pretty much the same for decades as the adults edged into frailty and the children grew, marrying and producing little ones of their own.
Somewhere along the line a piňata was introduced. And then duct tape. As the clan grew in size and stature, Dad and oldest son Alan decided that, to make sure everyone got a swing -- or two -- the thing had to be duct-taped. Indestructible duct tape wrapped seemingly endlessly around cardboard and bits of brightly colored tissue and battered repeatedly by great-grandsons and great-granddaughters adept with a bat. By the end of the night that piňata bore little resemblance to its original shape, as did the candy inside.
When Grandpa passed away, Grandma set aside her grief, hosting grown grandchildren and their own broods in her home every Christmas Eve. Her table was covered with sandwich fixings, tamales, casseroles and sweets. Eucalyptus logs in the fireplace that Santa never stepped foot in would glow and flare, embers popping against the screen.
Then it was Grandma’s turn to leave and our tradition underwent a major overhaul: It came to our house. When it was time, Dad would sit in the recliner and read Luke 2. As the years passed it became clear that each one might be the last. Then that day came.
Last year our tradition underwent another major overhaul. We all packed up children, food and presents and headed to San Diego, where caregivers at Dad’s last residence turned over the library to Dad’s family. There we hugged, ate and chatted, cameras capturing every bittersweet moment. The piňata hung from the ceiling, forgotten and unscathed.
Brother Ken handed Dad a Bible and sat on the arm of the sofa, helping hold it as Dad’s voice came loud and clear, “And the angel said unto them, Fear not: for, behold, I bring you good tidings of great joy…”
This year our own little clan will celebrate Christmas Eve at our house. There will be a piňata for the little ones -- our grandchildren -- and plenty of food and laughter. And, before tiny fingers will tear into that brightly colored wrapping paper, their grandpa will sit in the recliner and turn his Bible to Luke chapter 2.
Because, after all, that’s what Christmas is all about in the Dale household.
Friday, September 30, 2011
Still mourning.
I miss him, my Daddy, who shared my sense of humor. Who seemed to know what I was thinking. Who definitely "got" me.
And I miss her. My champion. My hero. My prayer warrior. My encourager.
Heaven got the better part of this deal.
Saturday, September 10, 2011
September sunrise
Septembers in the Colorado Desert deliver the most spectacular sunrises. Moisture from Arizona’s monsoon season hangs over the eastern horizon, the perfect canvas for the rising sun. Fingers of light stretch across the skyline, reintroducing the star around which our world revolves. Purples and pinks give way to hues of orange so vibrant they are almost painful in their beauty.
It is such a sunrise that greets me Sept. 11, 2001. The paper was an afternoon delivery then, and for several months out of the year sunrises were part of the seven-minute (if the stoplights cooperate) commute to work. Turning the corner east onto Adams Avenue, I marvel at the brilliance filling the windshield. What a great way to start the workday, I remember thinking.
That was the last positive thought of the day.
It took a few seconds for the images, at first televised and then delivered by satellite to our newsfeed, to sink in. A plane had flown into the North Tower of the World Trade Center, where workers were settling into their workday. The explosion sends shockwaves through the tower and throughout the nation. Twelve minutes later a second plane hits the South Tower.
We watch in horror as the TV in our publisher’s office delivers non-stop coverage and speculation. Stories trickle in on the AP wire, tersely worded at first, becoming more elaborate and detailed as the minutes pass.
I call my husband at home as our second son, then a high school sophomore, and his sister, a 9-year-old fourth-grader, get ready for school.
“Turn on the TV,” I tell him. “What channel?” he asks. “Doesn’t matter. Any of them,” is my reply. I remember this 10-year-old conversation as if it were this morning.
A third jet plows into the Pentagon. Twelve minutes pass and the South Tower collapses; 25 minutes later, so does the North Tower. And then the news comes, an hour to the minute after the attack on the South Tower, that a plane has slammed into a Pennsylvania field.
As the morning unfolds and the rest of the staff arrive, decisions are made on how to cover these attacks. The day’s paper is too small, and we bump up its size and buckle down to do our jobs, stuffing horror and fear and their accompanying bile into corners to be dealt with later.
The publisher decides to do a special section after the daily is printed so we can justly chronicle this morning that mirrors that other “day which will live in infamy” nearly 60 years before.
The rest of the day is a blur of text and images. Revision after revision of AP stories, updated, tweaked, resent. We scour them for fresh news as any inkling of hope in finding survivors dwindles.
With the click of a mouse the now-iconic images of terror fill the computer screen: of fireballs and smoke and people plunging past office windows; of first responders pouring into buildings, climbing stairwells to their deaths as terrified office workers descend, some to safety. Ash is everywhere in these images now so familiar to us all. Images of men and women in office attire, peering with haunting, shocked eyes through soot-covered faces, of fire trucks crushed by falling debris, of the cavernous crater where two enormous skyscrapers stood mere hours before; of emergency workers waiting at hospitals for the rescued victims who will never come, of family members and horrified New Yorkers filling parks with makeshift memorials and pictures of the missing.
Hundreds, thousands of images, springing to life one click at a time. Numbness sinks in. Afternoon gives way to evening. The sun has long set before this day’s tasks are completed.
Home, finally, and tears dammed throughout the day flow freely. No more images, please, especially of people freefalling those scores of stories to their deaths. Of the hopelessness and terror that surely filled their souls before they leapt. No TV. No Internet. Just silence. Audio, visual, mental silence. Please.
“What do you remember about 9/11?”
“How has 9/11 impacted your life?”
We’ve asked those questions dozens of times over the years, several times this week.
The terror attacks of Sept. 11, 2001, are etched indelibly into our collective national psyche, having changed forever so many things about the way we live.
And I’ve never looked at another September sunrise without remembering this one.
It is such a sunrise that greets me Sept. 11, 2001. The paper was an afternoon delivery then, and for several months out of the year sunrises were part of the seven-minute (if the stoplights cooperate) commute to work. Turning the corner east onto Adams Avenue, I marvel at the brilliance filling the windshield. What a great way to start the workday, I remember thinking.
That was the last positive thought of the day.
It took a few seconds for the images, at first televised and then delivered by satellite to our newsfeed, to sink in. A plane had flown into the North Tower of the World Trade Center, where workers were settling into their workday. The explosion sends shockwaves through the tower and throughout the nation. Twelve minutes later a second plane hits the South Tower.
We watch in horror as the TV in our publisher’s office delivers non-stop coverage and speculation. Stories trickle in on the AP wire, tersely worded at first, becoming more elaborate and detailed as the minutes pass.
I call my husband at home as our second son, then a high school sophomore, and his sister, a 9-year-old fourth-grader, get ready for school.
“Turn on the TV,” I tell him. “What channel?” he asks. “Doesn’t matter. Any of them,” is my reply. I remember this 10-year-old conversation as if it were this morning.
A third jet plows into the Pentagon. Twelve minutes pass and the South Tower collapses; 25 minutes later, so does the North Tower. And then the news comes, an hour to the minute after the attack on the South Tower, that a plane has slammed into a Pennsylvania field.
As the morning unfolds and the rest of the staff arrive, decisions are made on how to cover these attacks. The day’s paper is too small, and we bump up its size and buckle down to do our jobs, stuffing horror and fear and their accompanying bile into corners to be dealt with later.
The publisher decides to do a special section after the daily is printed so we can justly chronicle this morning that mirrors that other “day which will live in infamy” nearly 60 years before.
The rest of the day is a blur of text and images. Revision after revision of AP stories, updated, tweaked, resent. We scour them for fresh news as any inkling of hope in finding survivors dwindles.
With the click of a mouse the now-iconic images of terror fill the computer screen: of fireballs and smoke and people plunging past office windows; of first responders pouring into buildings, climbing stairwells to their deaths as terrified office workers descend, some to safety. Ash is everywhere in these images now so familiar to us all. Images of men and women in office attire, peering with haunting, shocked eyes through soot-covered faces, of fire trucks crushed by falling debris, of the cavernous crater where two enormous skyscrapers stood mere hours before; of emergency workers waiting at hospitals for the rescued victims who will never come, of family members and horrified New Yorkers filling parks with makeshift memorials and pictures of the missing.
Hundreds, thousands of images, springing to life one click at a time. Numbness sinks in. Afternoon gives way to evening. The sun has long set before this day’s tasks are completed.
Home, finally, and tears dammed throughout the day flow freely. No more images, please, especially of people freefalling those scores of stories to their deaths. Of the hopelessness and terror that surely filled their souls before they leapt. No TV. No Internet. Just silence. Audio, visual, mental silence. Please.
“What do you remember about 9/11?”
“How has 9/11 impacted your life?”
We’ve asked those questions dozens of times over the years, several times this week.
The terror attacks of Sept. 11, 2001, are etched indelibly into our collective national psyche, having changed forever so many things about the way we live.
And I’ve never looked at another September sunrise without remembering this one.
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