Joni B. Hannigan

The five things that have most impacted the first 50 years of my life

jonibh — Wed, 16 Nov 2011 12:56:12 +0000

1. The total transformation of my mother.
I was about 11 when my mother met a woman in a Laundromat who read a booklet to her called “The Four Spiritual Laws.” Written by Bill Bright, it contained Bible verses and words to a prayer showing her how to ask Jesus Christ to be part of her personal belief system. I remember her sitting in a plastic chair surrounded by chaos and children—but with a look of peace and contentment on her face. Our lives were on a different trajectory afterwards. Though our single-mom led home was far from “ideal,” that day changed all of our lives. Shortly afterwards, I also invited Jesus into my life.

2. God’s wonderful intervention in John’s life
Days after I turned 19, I was at a friend’s birthday party at Goodfellow Air Force Base in San Angelo, Texas, where I was in school for the Navy. It was there I met John, a soldier, five years my senior—a relentless suitor who won my heart in a few short weeks. The problem was that God did not yet have his heart. Finished with school, I left for Arizona to let my mother know I was going to marry John—only to hear my pastor preach on being “unequally yoked.” The sermon beat me to a pulp and I called John to tell him I wasn’t going to return to San Angelo to marry him after all. Instead, he had been trying to call me to let me know he had gone to a revival all week at the Baptist church in San Angelo—and I needed to hurry up and return to witness his baptism. It was one of the sweetest weeks of my life. We were married by the end of the week. That was nearly 31 years ago.

3. A different kind of Billy Graham Crusade
John was stationed at NSA at Fort Meade, Maryland, and I was at Naval Security Station in Washington, D.C., so we lived in Laurel, Maryland, when we were first married. We worked different shifts and had scant time together. So when we heard the Billy Graham Crusade was coming to the Greater Baltimore area—we were excited to be part of the co-labor corps and prepared ourselves to work the crusade—and took time off for it. Though the hours were long—I remember it as a time of really cementing our marriage. Being up close to Dr. Graham was a significant experience for both of us. More significant however, was that nine months later—our sweet, most adorable, blessing that would change our lives forever, Belinda June, was born. Perhaps God’s reminder of the priority of evangelism—and family!

4. An understanding of God’s grace
I remember cooking a meal in Augsburg, W. Germany, while my beautiful children were seated at the kitchen table coloring—and reflecting on God’s goodness and His grace in my life despite my failings. Years later as I sat in my son’s bedroom, brokenhearted and praying for him as he struggled through some major life issues—I asked God for a measure of that Grace for my son. That he would repent and be shown mercy. Years later it hurt when he told me it was the death of my mother, in part, that caused him to reflect on his actions and turn his life around. Last night, as my daughter-in-law soothed away a rare migraine with a neck massage—I told her she had gifted us with her hands, her heart and her mind—and how grateful I am that God brought her into my son’s life and ours. And God has blessed them with two beautiful children—my precious grandchildren Joey and Madelyn.

5. My desire to tell stories
In first or second grade I vividly recall the cover of a book about Harriett Tubman, a brave woman who was known for freeing about 300 slaves. The story captivated me for years—and I believe planted a storytelling seed nurtured sporadically throughout my life. My earliest writing ventures, though, took on the form of poems. In high school my only published story was a first person article about a backpacking trip through the Grand Canyon. In 1976 I finally got a break when I interviewed Josh McDowell for a youth conference newspaper. I was hooked. Although it took me more than another decade (and meeting up with mentors and encouragers James and Marti Hefley) to focus in on news and feature writing (and editing)—it became my passion. Telling stories about how God is working in people’s lives.

Perspective

jonibh — Fri, 16 Sep 2011 04:38:45 +0000

Occasionally I have the opportunity to cover a missionary appointment service for Southern Baptists. Typically held in large churches where hundreds of denominational workers and sister church members gather–the service is both celebratory and solemn. There is a parade of flags, hearty singing, and a challenging message.

And then there are the testimonies of the appointees themselves. Young and old, couples and single–and of every tribe nation and tongue–it seems, they come as they are going–to share the Good News of Christ’s love to the nations. It’s an emotional time for me as I listen to their brief stories, stare intently at their expressions, and note their devotion, piety, determination and calling.

This week was no exception and all that to which I am accustomed occurred. But there was more. On this special night, a youngster of about four caught my eye along with other children.

As the appointees walked in to the strains of an anthem–two young children seated close by shifted over their father’s knee to eyeball the missionaries as they took their seats. With rapt expressions that had me swinging my camera around, FAST, they were totally caught up in the moment and their dad was encouraging them. As I happily snapped the camera, further down the bench, where another group of children were sitting, one youngster, the four-year-old, abruptly stood on the seat frantically criss-crossing his arms atop an orange guitar-band t-shirt. His smile was eaten by the dimples below his twinkling brown eyes.

On the other side of the aisle, a tall, young, bearded man wearing a suit gave the boy an unembarrassed wave and sat down next to a dark haired beauty. My heart swelled. I had just witnessed a precious family moment. But there was more.

Later in the service, after the missionaries had given their testimonies, they were readying for another procession. I felt rather than saw an orange ball fly by before I realized it was the child, again, traversing the long pew, darting into the aisle, and finding the loving arms of his father. I had to hold my hand over my mouth this time–and judging from the gasp that went up around me and in pews across from us where I saw some initial reaction–others felt the same way.

When Tom Elliff, president of the International Mission Board reminded us to pray for the 4,911 missionaries worldwide AND their 4,000 children, you had better believe I will.

Recognizing shoddy journalism

jonibh — Tue, 13 Sep 2011 12:30:51 +0000

Even the Wall Street Journal errs. At least Arianna Huffington says so. And though I’m not a dyed-in-the wool fan, her brief dissection of a recent front page story is a refreshing reminder to journalists and readers alike that there is a lot more to telling the story than slapping some information on the page—and making sure it’s proofed.

Huffington accuses WSJ writers of an “egregious case of mislabeling” for calling an editorial dispute a “culture clash” based on “personalities” driven by a “war of words.”

She contends the real issue was about the “conflicts of interest” every journalistic enterprise experiences—and that it took eight paragraphs for the two reporters to move away from what Huffington called their “gossip girl caricature ‘clash of personalities’ narrative” to move into the story.

In developing, or crafting a story, the lead, the opening lines or paragraphs, are critical in setting up the rest of the story.

The insertion of key information—and where it comes from continues to add to the legitimacy of the story. If information is missing, for instance, readers might pause and ask why it’s not there. Are anonymous sources used, and if so, why?

Writers can shape stories in a variety of ways, but the question always remains—are they shaping the story in a way that delivers the information objectively and fairly and without their opinion.

In today’s microwave news environment, with a rush to get the news out, I believe shoddy journalism will be on the rise unless we come to grips—as journalists and readers—and call it like we see it. Thanks for the reminder Arianna Huffington.

Muslim prayer call in Jordan on 9/11 in 2003 was reminder to pray

jonibh — Sun, 11 Sep 2011 21:12:16 +0000

September 11, 2003, the second anniversary of 9/11 was a day I won’t ever forget. Delivering food boxes in Wadi Hadada, Jordan, I awoke that morning to the sound of the Muslim prayer call—and prayed for wisdom as I worked with a team of Southern Baptists to share a message of hope and reconciliation.

I was in Amman as part of a humanitarian effort to deliver food and other supplies to refugees living there—many who had fled Iraq after the first gulf war when they faced increased oppression under Saddam Hussein, others who left after the 2003 Iraq war began in March.

The team of workers initially was headed for Baghdad, but interrupted when security concerns arose over the bombing of the United Nations headquarters in Iraq. Still our team aimed to deliver some of the 46,000 food boxes packed by Southern Baptists around the country for the families who desperately needed supplies.

Working with local charities in Amman, our efforts were well received by refugees there instead. The trip for me was evidence of America’s love for peoples of all tribes, nations, tongues—and yes, even religions. Our war in the Middle East in my mind was with terrorists who attacked us, and our way of life, not with the people. Our care and concern for the people was and is an extension of Christ’s love for us.

Later that day I glanced at a newspaper rack and was shocked to see a paper in Arabic with a clear picture of the twin towers of the World Trade Center in New York engulfed in flames. The paper is dated September 11, 2003.

I didn’t know whether to be insulted or afraid. I wasn’t sure if the placement of the photo on the front page was meant to mock or intimidate—to inform or to inspire. In the end, however, I kept it, knowing it would stand to me as a reminder that we are to fear God, and God alone. We are not to be intimidated by what might seem to be an impossible task of reconciliation. We are not to be overcome by hatred or to sell ourselves short on understanding.

Still, I wondered at boarding an airplane for New York the next day—and it was tough to not envision a hijacker in every other seat.

Reaching past the great hurt—America has shown itself to be capable of great love. This love should not mean that we put on blinders when we are in danger—but it does mean that we reconcile everything with what we know to be true: “For God so loved the world, that he gave his only begotten Son, that whosoever believeth in him should not perish, but have everlasting life” (John 3:16 KJV).

When I am uncomfortable and let the images of planes flying into buildings; leering men with Jihadist smiles; and broken bodies overwhelm me—I close my eyes and listen for the haunting chant of the Muslim prayer call—to transport me to the land of where Christianity began—to where Jesus was born. To where Moses handed down the 10 Commandments and divided the Red Sea before that time—and to where America’s presence has been forced but is there nonetheless. There remains a remnant there, and God can and will use a broken vessel to deliver His promise. That, I believe.

9/11 in a high school classroom

jonibh — Sun, 11 Sep 2011 04:53:00 +0000

Interrupted by the repeated vibrations of my cell phone while teaching a high school journalism class just south of Atlanta, I excused myself to take a call—and learned from my husband that a plane crashed into one of the twin towers in NYC. I stepped outside the school building to hide the look of disbelief on my face and learn what I could on the phone. I tried to prepare myself to face the curious teens inside, but inside I was falling apart. I wanted to go home—to find out what was going on. I wanted to call my children at their colleges and make sure they were OK. But I had a classroom full of students and so I did what I must—quickly saying a prayer and telling my husband to PLEASE check on everyone while I headed back to the classroom.

Noting almost no action in the strangely quiet hallways—I calmly told the students what I had learned. In this particular school I had already noted a “no news” policy was considered appropriate in order to keep people from panicking. Somehow it never worked as information spread like wildfire with or without the aid of the intercom system. As I calmly finished telling the students what I knew, one young woman was called to the office. Her dad was supposed to be in New York for the day and her mom was trying to reach her to tell her he was OK; that he changed plans and didn’t go. Within minutes it seems, doors flew open throughout the large school, and students, mine included, crammed into classrooms with televisions.

For the rest of that period I talked to my students about how we, as journalists, would likely begin coverage of such magnitude. Even as I was speaking to them—my own fingers itched for a camera and my heart yearned to be in New York. It’s hard to explain, the wanting to be there—but that’s how it was for me for days and then months. For the students in my class at that specific time, the irony wasn’t lost on me that some would follow careers in journalism–and they would have a chance to see and evaluate coverage of a major attack on American soil.

But my main concern that day was to make sure my journalism and English students were OK. I could not deny them their need to see what was happening. So with each class change we took roll and then went to the science classroom of a colleague and stayed glued to the television. By the time the second plane had hit, the towers had fallen, the Pentagon had taken a hit and a plane had crashed in Pennsylvania–our eyes were wrung dry.

Many of my students’ parents worked for airlines—or traveled. I prayed and swept aside my own feelings and let them talk. They expressed fear, outrage, grief and sadness. They tried to make sense of senseless acts. I told them that the enemy would win if we hated like those who attacked. It was one of the longest days of my life—and I’ll remember those students forever. It was my last year in the classroom. It was their first real lesson in how to tell a story that hurts and keeps on hurting.

During a break, I called my daughter at school and remember her sweet voice on the phone from college. She told me she had heard and then gone to class and discovered no one was there. That morning she joined students and faculty on their knees in her university’s chapel praying for the nation and praying for the families of those lost and missing. That afternoon she told me she remembered Air Force One flying over middle Tennessee.

Later that week my son, a freshman at a tiny college in south Georgia, was still nervous and devastated—having been in New York just months before 9/11. When the school didn’t fly the flag at half mast following the tragedy, he was angry.

My husband and I, both military veterans, followed President Bush’s every move. I also watched our climate at school closely—grieved by acts against a young Arab teacher who finally quit a few weeks after 9/11 when she said some thugs left a harassing note on her car and she said school administrators failed to take it seriously.

President Bush’s National Day of Prayer and Remembrance Friday, Sept. 14, 2001, was especially meaningful. I took the day off school to drive to Atlanta with my husband and pray at Centennial Park.

See You at The Pole, just eight days after 9/11 was a rallying point for believers on our campus to come together and pray for our country—as well as our school. And we needed the prayer. Into the midst of the turmoil, a longtime teacher committed suicide.

Sept. 11 is a day I will never forget and 2001 a year I will never forget. I won’t ever easily forget the people who were there with me that day.

NOTE: In 2001, as a national correspondent for Baptist Press, I wrote the related columns: “A day of trauma & tough questions topped by a vital history lesson,” and “Teacher yearns for, finds hope on the day of prayer.“

My top 10 for 2009

jonibh — Thu, 31 Dec 2009 20:21:57 +0000

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!

jonibh — Thu, 31 Dec 2009 17:19:34 +0000

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

jonibh — Wed, 23 Dec 2009 16:47:46 +0000

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

jonibh — Sun, 25 Oct 2009 01:38:48 +0000

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

jonibh — Tue, 20 Oct 2009 05:29:28 +0000

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’s 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.