My top 10 for 2009

1. Baby Madelyn’s dedication on May 22 in Kansas City, Kansas. In May, John Belinda and I traveled to Kansas City for Madelyn’s dedication at Nall Avenue Baptist Church. It was a moving moment to hear my son, Jonathon, sing a special in honor of the day. Photos and video: http://www.facebook.com/album.php?aid=22945&id=1022619344&op=84#/photo.php?pid=437035&id=1022619344

http://www.facebook.com/album.php?aid=22945&id=1022619344&op=84#/video/video.php?v=1146284130273

2. July “Staycation” in Jacksonville with Belinda and Jonathon and his family who came from Kansas. Had a great time celebrating Madelyn’s first birthday and playing with Joey and Madelyn and attending the wedding of Anna Sander, Melissa’s best friend, where I took dozens of photos. It gave me a chance to brush up on wedding photos using the new camera John gave me last year for Christmas! It’s always a joy to take pictures of and for family and friends. http://www.facebook.com/jonihannigan?ref=profile#/album.php?aid=28006&id=1022619344&op=60

3. Macy’s Thanksgiving Day Parade in New York City and lunch in Central Park at Loeb’s Boathouse. Both were never expected, never anticipated. Our entire trip was a last minute plan concocted when John realized we could use reward points for our hotel stay and found a great price on airline tickets. So we packed Belinda along—and off we went. A dream come true!

http://www.facebook.com/photos.php?&id=1022619344&s=6&hash=148072669d2f8a24fd3837ce131f3188#/photo.php?pid=818490&id=1022619344

4. Seeing the neighborhood where my mother grew up in New York City, even if it was from the window of a subway car. Windows at Macy’s. Carriage Ride in Central Park. More highlights of our trip to New York which made my top ten list a dream come true this year. In fact, we saw so many things and did so much in New York, it could have eclipsed the rest, but in all fairness, my year was so full, I decided to give just two points to New York.

http://www.facebook.com/photos.php?&id=1022619344&s=18&hash=7f5a7153c489514aac2a5ceeb51f4ec2#/photo.php?pid=827296&id=1022619344 http://www.facebook.com/photos.php?&id=1022619344&s=18&hash=7f5a7153c489514aac2a5ceeb51f4ec2#/photo.php?pid=833707&id=1022619344

5. My trip to California for my 30^th class reunion. Taking my aunts to lunch in Pasadena. http://www.facebook.com/photos.php?id=1022619344#/photo.php?pid=719658&id=1022619344 Going to a football game at Arcadia High School. http://www.facebook.com/photos.php?id=1022619344#/photo.php?pid=721773&id=1022619344&fbid=1230601318150 Attending my class reunion with John who flew out for a couple of days. http://www.facebook.com/photos.php?&id=1022619344&s=18&hash=7f5a7153c489514aac2a5ceeb51f4ec2#/photo.php?pid=724333&id=1022619344. With a little planning, I was able to accomplish quite a bit in my 8 day trip to California, where I grew up. I had not been back in 10 years. One of my first priorities was to take all of my aunts, my mother’s sisters to lunch. In two batches, all but one was able to attend. I was so thankful. I had a great time of sharing and learning about what was going on in their lives. I was grateful to stay with my Aunt Agnes with whom I’ve shared many memories. The last few days were wonderful, just driving around Southern California with her and my Aunt Phyllis, catching up.

6. Peru, Indiana in October for Brian Hannigan’s wedding to Kerry. Catching up with John’s brother’s family always means a good time. Jonathon and Melissa, Joey and Madelyn joined us from Kansas and so all our family was together. http://www.facebook.com/album.php?aid=33718&id=1022619344&op=42#/photo.php?pid=669166&id=1022619344

7. In September, I participated in a 5K Run for their Lives in Jacksonville with Belinda. There is no way I would have made it without her. I walked over two bridges and it took me a long while and I was HOT, but I made it. Belinda was just released in September to begin running again after nearly nine months of not being able to run after she was rear-ended and her car totaled in an accident in which she had spinal injuries. I am so entirely grateful for her health and for her company and her encouragement. She is a blessing to me, over and again, as is each and every precious member of my family. http://www.facebook.com/photos.php?&id=1022619344&s=18&hash=7f5a7153c489514aac2a5ceeb51f4ec2#/album.php?aid=35550&id=1022619344&op=36

8. Miami in August for a relative’s first birthday. Saw Aunt Lily and Aunt Nancy and the rest of the gang and had a great time catching up. It’s so important to connect with family. http://www.facebook.com/album.php?aid=33718&id=1022619344&op=42#/photo.php?pid=603764&id=1022619344

9. Super Bowl in Tampa. One of the highlights of my job this year was to interview and photograph athletes and coaches during media day and at other events prior to the Super Bowl and then to interview Tony Dungy the night before the Super Bowl. Though there are many stories that were my “favorites” to work on throughout the year, the experience of working with a gifted photojournalist like Bob Carey, who is president of the National Press Photographer’s Association and a dedicated Baptist Press colleague and friend, was an unexpected bonus. http://www.bobcareyphoto.com

10. Covering the Fireproof Conference in Daytona Beach in March. A marriage conference, when one is married, is an interesting thing to cover. I learned a lot and wrote a lot. Also relaxed just a bit on the beach with my husband of 28, now 29, years! http://www.facebook.com/album.php?page=2&aid=19727&op=96&id=1022619344#/photo.php?pid=373202&id=1022619344&fbid=1115435479076

11. Oops, I can’t believe I didn’t add this. I would be remiss to not say I have enjoyed all of the golf outings. TPC Sawgrass for the Player’s. TPC Summerlin and TPC Las Vegas and Eastlake Country Club and all of those snazzy places Belinda takes us. It has been fun to see men hitting around little balls. … No really, it has been a GREAT time walking those courses and hanging out with my daughter and husband and watching them enjoy and getting some exercise! And the FOOD, well, the food is excellent at those clubhouses! Thanks to Belinda and the great work she does.

A movie worth watching-again!

Just before “The Blind Side” with Sandra Bullock came out, I wrote a review of it, “‘Blind Side’ movie reminder of Good Samaritan.”

“It’s not a football movie. It’s not a chick flick. It preaches without being preachy. It’s PG-13, but a movie families should consider watching together,” I wrote (http://www.gofbw.com/Blog.asp?ID=11070).

I had no way of knowing it would become the number one movie of the season. I’m glad people watch it and get it. If you haven’t seen it yet and you want to learn more, read my review. Then go. There’s a reason it has universal appeal.

If you’ve seen it, but you know someone who hasn’t, take them, and go see it again. Or just go and see it again yourself. I’m planning on it.

New York City — looking back, and forward

New York City was not good to my mother. I never knew that until recently though. Growing up I heard of the beauty of Central Park, the elaborate window displays at Macy’s at Christmas time, and the “fun” times my mother and aunts had operating dumb waiters in their tenement building and stringing clothes lines—and kids—between buildings.

Some stories were exaggerated, for sure, but what didn’t emerge, or what were just snippets of a darker side, I later recalled from stories my grandmother and aunts told or picked up from reading through packets of letters and papers my mother begin sending me as an adult.

There was the story of my mother getting lost and not being found for hours after suffering from amnesia in the Big Apple. Then the one about her being hit on the head with an iron pipe by neighborhood hoodlums. One very vivid one of her being shoved down the stairs by a racist middle school teacher who said she was lippy.

Put into the context of learning that my mother at six had, like many of her generation, suffered polio and spent time in an “iron lung” and been nursed back to health was enough cause me to pause with sympathy – but then there was more.

Indeed, I learned that as my mother was on the verge of being a teenager, a younger sister succumbed to one of the other illnesses that claimed many in those days. Little Betty, 7, died of diptheria.

And that wasn’t all. The final act that drove my Cuban-born grandfather and large family to drive across the country with  a car full of children headed west to California – was the shooting death of my mother’s older half-brother, Sergio.

At 12, I heard it was mother who had stood alone at the doorway of her family’s home to hear the news from a New York City detective that her beloved 21-year-old brother was “accidentally” shot dead (in the back) by a plain clothes detective who “thought” he was stealing a television. She went into shock and didn’t speak for days. As it turned out, the city of New York after a trial settled with my grandparents and the detective lost his job. Sergio was helping a family move.

Years later, it seems, New York City was not much kinder.

Indeed, though I’ve seen a picture of my mother and father (who was also originally from New York City) posing in front of Central Park’s Tavern on the Green, the memory is eclipsed by what I know must have been the horror of being in one of the largest cities in the world with a child.

I can imagine my mother just wanted to go home by that time—to where her family fled when New York was cruel the first time around.

Abandoned in an apartment with an eviction notice on the door with a one-year-old and no food to fend for herself while her husband lived it up on the other side of town with a wealthy woman—my mother had little choice but to finally leave—again.

My mother had good reason to not want ever to be in New York City (though she never really expressed this) and yet I’ve always wanted to go there. Now more than ever, perhaps to somehow make it right again.

I had the opportunity at Thanksgiving and it seemed that nearly every memory I made, I also thought a quick: “This is for you, mother.”

We stayed on the 42^nd floor of a hotel on Times Square overlooking 7^th Avenue all the way up to Central Park. We could literally see and hear the entire Macy’s Parade coming all the way down the street. It was surreal.

My 27-year-old daughter, Belinda, the explorer and navigator, was a joy to watch and follow. As we boarded subways, traversed streets, and checked out dozens (!) of Starbucks for hot chocolate – I marveled at how much my mother would have enjoyed her at this age. I am proud of Belinda for the both of us.

My husband, John, comfortably stashed away at the New York City Public Library for some of our time, was busy studying our roots. Since both of our families are from there and they have great records—he was busy gathering information.

For a week we enjoyed the city where my mother was born and grew up.

We had Thankgiving lunch in Central Park at the Boathouse. It was glorious to see rowboats out on the lake and walk through the park.

Thanksgiving Dinner at Loab's Boathouse in Central Park

Belinda and I took in the Metropolitan Art Museum and the Frick Collection the following day. She urged me to walk the 42 blocks from our hotel. I complained the entire way—but the reward of walking up Madison Avenue was rich. We saw Mama Mia.

We took in more sights the next few days—Grant’s Tomb, Columbia University, and Central Park, again. Macy’s and FAO Schwarz. We watched the Gators play on the large screens at the ESPN Zone and visited the USS Intrepid, walking through Hell’s Kitchen. We enjoyed the Rockettes’ Christmas show. We ate authentic New York cheesecake and pizza and shopped briefly in China Town. We met up with an old friend and browsed the shops in Greenwich Village and dined at an Italian restaurant, an Irish pub and Cuban cafe. We ate at Carnegie Deli. We saw the majestic St. John the Divine Cathedral, the Empire State Building, the Statue of Liberty and the Flatiron Building.

The soles of my feet hurt so bad I asked Belinda to rub them one night. But my heart felt good when we passed the neighborhood my mother grew up in when riding the subway on Sunday morning. Looking out at the tenement buildings just off the George Washington Bridge, I thought about what it must have been like growing up there.

She had happy memories, for sure. They were mostly centered around playing with her sisters and enjoying the community of living among people she loved.

And of the city there were memories, too. Else I would never have heard of the elaborate window displays or the majesty of Central Park—the wooden escalator at Macy’s. I remember her talking of those places with a shining in her eyes—a wonder.

And my eyes were filling as I slowly trod past those same windows and rode up the very escalator – trying to snap off a few pictures, navigating the crowds – thinking about mother.

She would have enjoyed our trip. Dios te bendiga Madre. Descanse en paz.

Aunt Lori remembers her mom, the original Nana, my grandmother

On the 15th anniversary of the death of my grandmother, my Aunt Lori sent out an email to family and friends. My aunt, whose name is Gloria, we actually called “Aunt Lori, when we were younger. I thought of this when reading the email she sent and wondered why we started called her “Aunt Gloria.” Aunt Lori is the youngest of my grandmother’s children–one of seven surviving (Agnes, Phylis, Mary, Margie, Nancy, Ray). My mother, June, died in 2002 and my Aunt Lucy died in 2005.

My grandmother, Consuelo (Connie) was born in Tampa, moved to New York with my grandfather Raymond and then to California–where my Aunt Lori was born. My grandfather died in 1960.

It is a beautiful and moving tribute that Aunt Lori wrote.  As I read it at my desk, I wondered at how it seemed so long ago, but then again, just like it was yesterday that, I, too, was standing in my Nana’s kitchen …

OCTOBER 23RD…..A SPECIAL DAY TO REMEMBER.  IT WAS 15 YEARS AGO MY MOTHER LEFT TO SEE OUR FATHER AND JOIN OUR FAMILY IN HEAVEN….NO DOUBT SHE IS THERE PLAYING CARDS WITH DELORES; THERESA AND EVERYONE ELSE SHE MET…..IT’S NOT  HER DEATH I CELEBRATE…..BUT THROUGH HER AMAZING LIFE, LESSONS AND UNCONDITIONAL LOVE SHE GAVE TO ALL OF US….

FOR THOSE WHO HAVE LOST A MOTHER, YOU KNOW WHAT HOW DEEPLY IT HURTS, AND I TRULY SHARE YOUR LOSS.    NOT A DAY GOES BY; THAT I DON’T THINK OF HER, AND WISH TO OUR GOD, I HAD ONE MORE DAY., NOT SELFISHLY, NOT SO SHE WOULD EVER SUFFER ANOTHER DAY…..JUST MAYBE SO I COULD HAVE ONE MORE DAY…….. A DAY TO DIAL HER NUMBER AT 6AM JUST BECAUSE SHE KNEW IT WAS ME; CALL HER JUST TO HEAR HER TELL ME SHE GAVE ME THE BLACK BEAN RECIPE A HUNDRED TIMES; A DAY TO HEAR HER YELL I WASN’T KNEADING THE DOUGH PROPERLY; A DAY TO WATCH HER BEND TO PRUNE THE ROSES AND PICK BLACKBERRIES FOR THE AMAZING JAM SHE MADE; A DAY TO WATCH HER STAND AT THE STOVE, STIRRING THE FAMILIAR POT OF YELLOW RICE AND CHICKEN, OR HER INCREDIBLE WHITE BEAN SPINACH SOUP; A DAY TO WATCH HER HANDS SEW MY DRESSES OR CROCHET A PERFECT AFGHAN AGAIN; A DAY TO RUB HER SWOLLEN FEET WITH LOTION, NOT TOO HARD SO THEY DIDN’T HURT; A DAY TO SEE HER HOLD MY CHILDREN AND GRANDCHILDREN, TELLING ME HOW TO DO IT RIGHT; A DAY TO SEE HER FACE LIGHT UP WHEN WE WALKED IN THE ROOM; A DAY TO HEAR HER SING LULLABIES; LET ME CALL YOU SWEETHEART; THE WOODPECKER SONG, AND TWILIGHT ON THE FERRY; TO ALL OUR NEW BABIES; ……A DAY FOR HER TO PLAY HARRY BELAFONTE RECORDS; A DAY TO WATCH HER ROLL COOKIE DOUGH AND DECORATE THEM FOR HOURS;  A DAY TO SEE HER CREATE HALLOWEEN COSTUMES FOR ALL OUR CHILDREN; A DAY TO SEE HER CREAT MAGIC FOR ALL OF US AT CHRISTMAS………..A DAY TO WATCH HER SWEEP THE STREET IN FRONT OF THE HOUSE; A DAY TO STAND AT THE RINGER WASHER AS SHE GOT HER FINGERS CAUGHT; A DAY TO OPEN THE REFRIGERATOR TO FIND A BOWL OF FRESHLY STARCHED CLOTHES FOR ME TO IRON; A DAY TO WATCH HER IN THE GARAGE AS SHE PUT TOGETHER RESIN GRAPES; A DAY TO SMELL HER FACE OF ESTEE LAUDER AS I KISSED HER; A DAY TO SEE HER PERFECT SALT AND PEPPER HAIR TURN SILVER; A DAY TO JUST SAY I LOVE YOU TO HER…..AGAIN.

IF YOU STILL HAVE A MOTHER; MOTHER IN LAW, OR ANY ONE PERSON WHO LOVES YOU DEARLY, (I DO) AND MEANS SOMETHING TO YOU….WHETHER THEY’RE CRABBY; CRANKY; NAGGING; OR A BIT UNREASONABLE AT TIMES…..(WE WILL ALL BE THERE ONE DAY)……..REACH OUT; EMAIL; CALL THEM; TELL THEM SO; AND GIVE THEM A HUG TODAY FOR ME…..I WISH I COULD!  IAM BLESSED; TRULY BLESSED TO HAVE KNOWN HER AND THANK GOD FOR ALL SHE TAUGHT ME……

IN CASE I HAVEN’T TOLD YOU ALL…..I LOVE YOU DEARLY; MISS YOU, AND THINK OF YOU OFTEN..  PLEASE DON’T PASS THIS ON……..

LOVE,
GLORIA; MOM; AUNT GLORIA……

Happy Birthday, Mother, and thank you for the letter

Actually, it’s my letter to you, written nearly 30 years ago, but thank you for saving it.

I must have used one of those old electric typewriters at the J.C. Penney store where I worked when I was 18 to write my mother the two-page letter I found a few years after she died. She stored it in a large tin in her hallway with dozens of other letters and cards.

Honestly, I have no recollection of writing the letter. When I read it, I realized I had poured my heart into explaining my reasons for joining the Navy and asked my mother to understand me and trust me in spite of what might have seemed a rash decision.

Looking back, I was shocked to realize that just a month before her death, indeed, I had achieved what I had so clearly indicated I had set out to do.

This morning, not thinking about it being mother’s birthday, I thought about the letter I wrote as I lingered a moment outside the building where I work. It’s been seven years since mother died now, and I thought about the long day I would spend putting a newspaper to bed, and how, in spite of the day-to-day challenges, my life is richer knowing my mother died seeing me fulfill that part of God’s plan for my life.

In the letter, postmarked “Feb. 7, 1980,” I wrote, in part:

“God has a purpose and plan for everyone’s life. It is not necessarily meant that every woman must live at home, get married and go to church. Eventually, if it’s in God will, I may do that, but for now, that doesn’t seem to be what He wants for me.

“Mother, I wish you’d understand that I am only 18. I am not planning for the rest of my life, but only a few years. Like that saying, ‘The Navy is not only a job, but an adventure.’ In just a few months, (basic training), I’ll have had my body in shape, my teeth fixed, some training and order in my life, and education in the field of my choice. Also a chance to witness to others, go to church regularly, and to travel.

“Travel and education are among my choices for joining.

“How can I ever get enough money to go to a good 4 year college and receive my master’s degree in journalism so that I may have a good career. Even at Bible colleges, and the Southern Baptist Convention Center, in order to teach and write, you must have a degree. Then traveling. I would like to see first hand the countries we discuss in church and Bible study, and the people therein.

“Mother, my idea is to make myself a better instrument for God so that I can serve Him better. … Don’t worry about me. I have and will always have the high morals you taught me, and will take care of myself.”

“I love you.”

Fourteen hours after I first thought of my letter to mother this morning, I walked out of that same building, realizing it was mother’s birthday, if only for a few minutes more. Bent on processing, editing, proofing, designing – I barely had time for food – let alone to dwell on the date. When it hit me with force, I felt as Emily Dickinson once described an individual at a funeral, with “eyes wrung dry.” Though I barely cried, my heart was full and I ached.

Of course I miss mother, but I thank her, too. Because of the need to explain the clear call of God on my life those many years ago – I have a precious reminder that some dreams and goals we may not even remember are instilled in us by the One who created us for this life.

I can tell you for sure I never remember thinking I needed a master’s degree in journalism for much of anything. Not sure where at the “Southern Baptist Convention Center” I hoped to work, but my office at the Witness is located on the fifth floor of the Florida Baptist Convention building in Jacksonville. I did earn a bachelor’s of science in education and a master’s in education degree – and I love to travel and tell stories of missions and missionaries and have been to Brazil and Jordan on work-related trips. I couldn’t imagine painting a more accurate portrayal of what I do—30 years ago.

When I am challenged to forget my calling, to grow weary or faint of heart – the letter is there to remind me I did not choose, God did. “God is the author of things unseen, the substance of things hoped for.” He knew the desires of my heart, even when I did not.

Thinking about Mother today

Glancing around the guest bedroom in my aunt’s wonderfully appointed home, I think this morning of how my mother would have adored this room.

A doll-sized round wicker table holding a gleaming silver serving tray with crystal-footed goblets is dwarfed by lightly-striped curtains, which cascade to the floor. A playful, childlike porcelain doll with a pouty face occupies a velvet rocker and ottoman—drawing a spotlight—next to which a wooden vintage stroller sits.

It’s both a child’s and woman’s haven.

Just inside the spacious room with its dark wooden floors and light sunrise walls, an elegant 5-drawer ladies dressing table with a gracious beveled mirror beckons. A comfortable damask covered stool awaits a ladies attention where she can pick up either of the hand-held silver mirrors there.

A wonderful carved antique dresser on the other side of the room holds a heavy bronze sculpture of cupid holding high a lighted torch and a Westminister mantel clock.

A four-poster bed, covered in rose and pale sienna with touches of sage and maroon promises a good night’s sleep—but that’s after a soak in my aunt’s jacuzzi tub in the attached guest bathroom.

Mother would have been in her element. You see, she adored dolls, she loved antiques, and like most women—including me—she craved a little pampering.

This morning as I flipped on the switch in my aunt’s room and my eyes lit on an oil painting someone did of her—the long dark hair nestled at her shoulders, her big, dark eyes, and even the serious look on her face, couldn’t but remind me of her sister—my mom.

My mother died seven years ago today. It’s the first time since then I’ve had the privilege of spending the day with one of her six surviving sisters.

Nothing will ever replace the hole in my heart that was left when she went. Knowing she is in Heaven gives me peace and a certainty that God is sovereign and He is in control and that there is order in the universe.

Nothing, however, will take away “missing.” I miss my mother’s smile, her laugh, her touch. I even miss her annoying ways. I miss her unconditional love. I miss her memories, her peculiarities, her stories. I miss her very being, her fiber, her vibrancy, her love.

And, on occasion, I am blessed with others who knew her even longer than I did. Like my Aunt Agnes, Aunt Nancy, Aunt Phyllis, Aunt Gloria, Aunt Margie, and Aunt Mary. And seeing them brings comfort.

So today, in Southern California, I’m going to think about my mother and how it was here, in California, that she met a woman in a laundromat, who shared with her Bill Bright’s “Four Spiritual Laws” and how the Holy Spirit used that little book to usher her into the Kingdom. I’m going to think about the fact that no matter how much I miss her—I will see her again.

One day in Heaven. And what a day that will be.

Does the Holy Spirit ‘ooze’ from you?

In federal court in Pensacola covering the trial of Frank Lay and Robert Freeman http://bit.ly/SS4ob, I was surprised to hear the judge express concern over an expression Mr. Lay was said to have made.

The judge said something to the effect that Mr. Lay, in speaking to youth at a rally at an Assembly of God church, referred to himself and Christian teachers as not being able to help having the Holy Spirit “oozing” out from them.

Though the comments might have been meant to infer that Mr. Lay somehow promoted breaking rules against prayer by school employees—and repeated references by the prosecutor appeared overused and bordered on ridicule—I began to think  of what the judge had said in her opening remarks.

In defending the Constitution and the rule of law, the judge took the time to point out America is a democracy and not a theocracy. She also said the court was not a synagogue, mosque or a church.

Contrarily, how could a an officer of the court watching a video of a Baptist deacon speaking to a group of Charismatic Assembly of God youths put into correct context what is clearly meant as a theological description?

Unless you are of a Charismatic Christian persuasion, perhaps you are not as familiar with the term “ooze” or “oozing” in relation to the Holy Spirit as you might be with “indwelt.” An understanding of the Holy Spirit varies greatly even between Christian traditions.

Personally, I believe that if Mr. Lay did say Christian teachers cannot help but to have the Holy Spirit “ooze” from them—I would have to heartily agree.

I would also say that teachers cannot stop praying when they enter their school property either. That is, if believers are to take 1 Thess. 5:17 seriously, to “pray without ceasing.”

As believers who are indwelt by the Holy Spirit, everything we do and say should be a reflection of who we are in Jesus Christ. When we became a believer, we became a new creature in Christ—our minds, our attitudes, our expressions, our tongues, our hearts.

Does this mean, however, that prayer – or any result of being indwelt by the Holy Spirit – an attitude, a mindset, an expression – need be a direct utterance, an overt gesture? Does it mean one wears a head covering, an identifiable uniform or seek to draw particular attention to one’s faith.

When I was a public classroom teacher, I policed myself from actively presenting Christ to students. I prayed God use me in some way despite the fact I could not verbalize my faith aloud to students.

Whatever the situation Mr. Lay and his district face, one thing is clear—the “oozing” of the Holy Spirit will not cease.

But, like the judge said, the court is NOT a synagogue, mosque or church, and theological discourse, like that presented above, must be considered within its context if it’s to be understood.

Empty shoes and full hearts

Hundreds of  empty baby shoes joined together with safety pins lined a banner on Hemming Plaza in Jacksonville this past weekend following a 5K Run For Their Lives benefiting area Crisis Pregnancy centers. The shoes are a reminder of the men and women, the moms and dads who have memories of aborted children.

Affixed to the shoes are notecards with messages signed by the sometimes grieving person who has found forgiveness in a loving father in Heaven. “Catherine, I’m sorry! I’ll see you in Heaven, Mom,” one pink card reads. It is affixed to a pair of polished white baby shoes. A spokesperson from A Cry Without A Voice said individuals are encouraged to pray and ask for a vision of what their little one would have looked like; give them a name, and finally, write out a message.

Especially wrenching are the multiples. Some are for those who believe they aborted twins. Most are by women who have had multiple abortions. One set of four shows an abortion each year from 2000 to 2003 in cities including Charleston, S.C., St. Petersburg, Fla., and Manhattan, N.Y.

One tiny pair of white sandals with bright pink and yellow flowers stands out with a neatly written notecard: “Suzanne, when I look at your brothers and sisters, I can only imagine how beautiful, smart, kind and loving a piece of our family the world is missing. Forgive me for letting fear rob me of that and you. Love you, Mom.”

It’s in those moments, I remember what it was like to go to high school in the 1970’s and sit through what was called, “Freshman Communications.” It was a class where we had guest speakers come in from the community and speak on issues of health.

One day, I remember distinctly a man drawing a tubular shaped image on the chalkboard and telling the young teens in my class that an unborn child, a “fetus,” was nothing more than a blob of tissue and since Roe V. Wade had just made abortion legal, there was nothing essentially wrong with it. That thought was echoed by speakers who came frequently in the guise of “health professionals” to distribute condoms on campus as well.

I’m thankful my church didn’t sit on the sidelines. At that time our family attended a Grace Brethren Church and they were very clear on morality and on abortion. I credit that teaching (and early parochial school teaching) and my mother’s resolve on those issues with my very firm conviction, even when faced with constant indoctrination, on being vocal about where I stood.

My first major story ever published in a secular paper, the Hannibal Courier Post, in Hannibal, Mo., was a front page, above the fold story (and photo) covering a widely attended pro-life rally in St. Louis, Mo. If I recall, my particular victory was that they did not change my terms, “pro-life” and “pro-abortion,” to describe those attending the rally.

It was a story I stayed up all night writing and dropped it off the next morning (the Courier Post was an afternoon paper) on the managing editor’s desk. I was thrilled to death when Marti Hefley, one of my mentors in writing called me to tell me they published it.

With a heavy heart already then this past week, after the passing of dear Bob Schindler, Terri’s Schiavo’s father–gazing out at this sea of shoes, I recalled what I learned in research nearly 20 years ago in my college classroom. It was a study done in advance of Roe V. Wade and it said that women in China were known to grieve over the children they had either aborted or abandoned and left to die.

It’s about time in America, we finally realize that women, and men, suffer–there are no “blobs of tissue,” but instead there are tiny voices waiting to be heard; hopes and dreams waiting to be realized; and little feet, waiting for a pair of shoes.

A father I’d want on my side

I envied Terri Schiavo her father, Bob. There were times I thought: What a waste, she doesn’t know how good she has it. Not like it was her fault, but if only she knew.

But of course she knew.

From all the firsthand accounts and the vivid description of my friend David Gibbs, the attorney who fought for the right of Bob Schindler’s daughter to live, Terri herself knew what it was like to feel the whiskered face of her father rough up against her cheek and tickle her until she smiled.

She knew when he walked into the room and gently took her hand in his big one and squeezed it to ask her how her day was. Her eyes had followed his bright ones, though his were tinged by the pain of having to defend his position that she deserved to be cared for until God decided her life should end.

A father’s duty.

Some argued that it was her husband’s duty. At first it seemed that way.
Michael Schiavo seemed tolerant of her family’s visits, and even lived in their home for a while planning for her care after she suffered a neurological injury in 1990 caused by lack of oxygen to the brain. Her family visited her in various facilities. They brought her clothes. Her mom fixed her hair, put her makeup on, and took her on outings.

Then her husband seemed to grow weary. His heart was pulled to another. He had been married to Terri less than half a dozen years before Terri’s collapse. Finally, there was a judge who was willing to believe him when said he thought Terri would not want to live in her condition. He asked the judge for permission to remove her nutrition and hydration, knowing it would cause her to die.

And still Terri’s father and mother and sister and brother were there for her.
They appeared in court. They hired attorneys. They fought for the right to visit her, bring her comforting items, spend time in her room. The fight lasted nearly a decade.
The trips outside had stopped. No more makeup. Her window shades were pulled down and she was not allowed activities which were stimulating. She was sent to a hospice to die.

Right until the end, Bob refused to give up on his daughter.

“She’s still fighting and we are going to fight to do whatever we can to save her,” Bob said after the U.S. Supreme Court turned down a final appeal to hear her case on March 30, 2005. “I’m asking that nobody throw in the towel, she’s fighting — keep fighting with her.”

It was 9:05 a.m., the day after her father made that statement in front of the hospice, that Terri died. Thirteen days after her nutrition and hydration had been pulled, for the third time in 15 years.

I was there for many of those 13 days. And I had been there two years before, the second time the Schindlers had fought her husband and the court when they threatened to remove her sustenance. What few people understand is that Terri wasn’t hooked up to machines or anything, she simply needed food and water to live; because there was a fear she would choke, at some point she was put on a feeding tube.
In 2003 in front of the hospice in a trailer was the very first time I met the Schindlers and reported on their case. That extensive and very personal story is here: http://bit.ly/lo8Lx.

From the beginning Bob was warm and friendly, if worn. Mary was passionately sad. At one point in our interview she actually grabbed my hand and said, “Joni, I don’t know if I can go through this again,” referring to the court ordering Terri’s nutrition and hydration to cease.

My heart broke for all of them.

I’m two years older than Terri. I was raised Catholic, but after that, most of the similarities end. I never did know the love of a father, growing up. When Bob spoke of his firstborn and both their eyes filled with tears, I could only think of how I would feel if my firstborn, my daughter, would be in such a state.

I actually called my daughter on the way to the interview. I asked her what she thought. She told me, “Mama, I would want you to do whatever you wanted because, honestly, I wouldn’t know anything anyway. I would be just like a baby and you would be protecting me. So I understand.”

In meeting Bob and Mary and then covering the case for two years, I realized just how deep was their love — indeed how deep the family’s love is for each other. They were protective, caring, careful and steadfast.

Bobby Schindler, Terri’s brother, was always courteous and kind, though I am a member of the media. Suzanne Vitadamo, Terri’s sister, was steady but painfully conscious of our constant intrusion. All of them were involved in a balancing act of giving the press what we needed, knowing they could be crucified or vindicated, depending on who was doing the reporting.

But Bob, walking the crowds at night outside the hospice, eternally hopeful, ever vigilant, wore his heart in his eyes. Every bright tear spoke of the love he had for his daughter. It was apparent his only motivation was the love of a father. He was a man protecting his family in the noblest way.

I could hardly meet his eyes outside the hospice on the day she died as he stood with Bobby and Suzanne, chin slightly quivering. His tears were palpable. The horde of media were amazingly silent and respectful as Bobby read a statement. Red eyes all around me, in our ranks of media professionals, gave me the knowledge that I was not alone in thinking many witnesses to this day would walk away with the knowledge that this was not a “happy ending.”

Each time I thought about Terri’s death thereafter and tried to reconcile it with God’s sovereignty, I had a hard time. Especially when I considered her parents’ pain.
A year later when I went to St. Petersburg to interview Bob and Mary at the office of the foundation they had established to help people in similar circumstances, I finally gained some perspective.

Walking with me to my car after showing me around the office, Bob grabbed me in a hug to say goodbye. I felt those whiskers that were said to make Terri smile despite their irritation. It made me smile in spite of the lump in my throat.
He had lost so much, and I asked him, really, how he was doing.

“You are such a Baptocatholic,” he said, using the nickname he’d given me after finding out I was raised Catholic before becoming an evangelical Christian as a young teen.
He essentially told me he’d be fine, that God does have a plan and it’s hard but it’s was going to be OK.

“We just learn to forgive. We just have to,” he said, referring to a statement he had made in the office a few minutes before in which he said the timing of Terri’s death was “God’s will.”

God has a plan. He believed that, and so do I. Goodbye, my friend. Thanks for standing up for Terri until the very end. You were, indeed, a father I’d want on my side.

Even before I knew Bob Schindler died, watching the funeral mass for Edward Kennedy the same day Bob Schindler died, the irony got the best of me. The columns in the Boston church mocked me as I thought of the last time I attended a Catholic mass. It was Terri’s funeral mass in Jacksonville.

I sent out a Tweet using the social network Twitter at 11:15 a.m.  It said: “Kennedy funeral also reminds me of last Catholic mass I attended. In Jacksonville in 2005; it was one of Terri Schiavo’s funeral masses.”

A friend responded on Facebook, telling me they had a photo of Terri in their hallway, given to them by her parents.

Several hours later, I received a Tweet by my friend’s husband, telling me Bob Schindler had died.

Timing.

Considering both men were Catholics, it struck me at once that Ted Kennedy was well-known as to have led to the opposition to a bill in Congress to save Terri Schiavo. During the mass he was eulogized and words from the pope were read at the burial; while I was thinking of the last time I saw Bob when he proudly showed me a framed photograph of him and Mary outside of the Vatican with the new pope.

The previous pope, I know, had carefully issued a declaration affirming the sanctity of human life and clarified the church’s position on the dignity of all human life in relation to food and water.

Timing.

But like Bob said, God has a plan. He believed that and so do I. Good-bye my friend. Thanks for standing up for Terri until the very end. You were indeed, a father I’d want on my side.

A book you won’t be able to put down

Todd Starnes at a LifeWay store in Orlando.

I wrote this review months ago, before Todd’s book made it big and before he was famously sitting on the front row of a Presidential News Conference for FOX NEWS. I stand by this review. If you haven’t read the book yet, you are really missing out. It’s good. It’s short. It’s funny. It’s TRUE! And now, it’s on MY blog.

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“They Popped My Hood and Found Gravy on the Dipstick” by Todd Starnes

Readers will experience a roller-coaster of emotions while Todd Starnes delivers truisms that take them from the family dinner table to the streets of New York. Avoiding slap-stick humor in exchange for truth, which can be stranger than fiction, Starnes takes those who won’t be able to put down the book — with him on a vivid journey where he reaches to the bottom of his soul for answers. And when he comes up chuckling through it all, readers, both through smiles and tears, will have connected in a profound way with a storyteller who has found his voice.

I laughed, I cried, but mostly, I could relate though I’m not a man, not a runner, haven’t ever lived in New York, don’t eat pork rinds, and haven’t had heart surgery. On the other hand, I have lost a parent, I do care about interfaith relations, I struggle with weight issues and I love Jesus Christ and daily experience His grace and mercy in my life. Readers will find something with which they can relate whatever their experience.

Todd Starnes is a news anchor and reporter for Fox News Radio. Order his book at: http://www.amazon.com/They-Popped-Found-Gravy-Dipstick/dp/1596844361