My Beloved Monarch

Ken and I went to see Guys and Dolls at the 5th Avenue Theater 2 weeks ago. While walking from the light rail station to the theater, we saw a formal dress that looked like a monarch butterfly. Then this week I found myself in Grocery Outlet and came across a "motion sensitive" monarch butterfly in a canning jar. The butterfly would respond in different ways based on how you tapped the side of the jar. Both experiences jump started a memory from my childhood archives.

In the 1970's Rogue Valley, monarch butterflies were plentiful. There was a pear orchard across from my elementary school with overgrown ditches full of milkweed, a main food source for the immature yellow and black striped caterpillar. I remembered spending hours hunting the caterpillars and putting them in canning jars with an ample supply of milkweed. The caterpillars would feast on the milkweed until induced into what we experience as an 'after-Thanksgiving' coma and then spin their green camouflaged cocoon attached at one end to one of the branches.

Just how long it took for the monarch caterpillar to begin its metamorphosis and unfold its wings eludes my adult mind, but in kid years, I am sure it was an eternity. My friends and I would take the lids off of our jars daily to get a better look at the process and fill our nostrils with the strange, earthy odor of beauty in the making. Watching nature in its wonder never got old.

In all the years since, I have not seen a real monarch except at the butterfly house in Seattle's science museum. I have heard that this gorgeous insect is endangered, but am unsure of this information. If it is not, I have not crossed paths, having lived in many places in the United States over the last 30 years. The sight of the dress and the fake butterfly in a jar made me nostalgic for the innate curiosity I had about the natural world. I wonder if my children have gathered any first hand experiences like these or have they merely gathered experience through manipulating plush and motion sensitive replicas of wiped out or soon to be wiped out species? God knows I tried, I really tried.

I would eat salad just for the croutons and other confessions...

Okay, I am fighting the croutons again. My husband and I had to prepare a very large salad for an event and I sent him shopping for the ingredients. He brought home so many varieties of lettuce that in addition to providing grande greens for the get together, we are faced with taco salad, chicken Caesar salad and other methodologies for eliminating lettuce and uh well other things. But being the carbohydrate connoisseur I am, I also found in the groceries a monster Costco bag of focaccia croutons. Herein lies the problem. They are little bites of crunchy breaded butter and oh so good. At first I resisted temptation and put the remainder into the snack cabinet out of sight; well at least I wasn't fooling myself, I did identify them as a snack. I took them out only to use on salad for the first couple of green servings, but now they remain on my counter. Every time I go into the kitchen, my fingers seem to grab those beauties by the handful. No longer do I need to justify what my digits seem to feel is an imperative action by the consumption of the fabulous five. I know I am not alone in this endeavor to resist this particular type of temptation, but the normal work day activities usually distract or delay carbohydrate consumption. Ah, unemployment! Nothing but the four walls, Mt. St. laundry and other cleaning, two dogs and a frustrating continual date with a computer and the black hole of electronic job applications. My heart goes out to all those intelligent and skilled individuals finding the job market unyielding. Here's to you! My advice: Don't shop Costco while you are hungry and above all, don't send your spouse to shop Costco while he or she is hungry. Not good, really not good!

A New Hero

Many of you have heard about a new friend in my life. His name is Jamal Kadir Bokolo. He and his family are from the country of Ethiopia and immigrated on August 31st after spending 13 years in a refugee camp in Djibouti, a neighboring country. He is an amazing person as is his wife, Amina.

I met Jamal coincidentally when walking my two small dogs with my daughter. He jumped out of the way of my tiny canines, unsure whether they would bite. When he asked about them in his characteristic accent, it gave me opportunity to ask about his origins and learn that his country only kept dogs to guard against hyenas and were evidently large breeds. In later conversations, he referred to these dogs as German--evidently, German Shepherds! Quite a different view than what stood before him on that serendipitous walk. To this day, he seems confused my dogs are not puppies, but full grown adults. One day, I have determined, we will visit the local dog park, so he can see just how many canine breeds exist in our world!

Thanks to the generous support of my church, Jamal was provided with lots of clothing, kitchen supplies, a dresser, laptop computer and printer. In addition, his children had a wild, wrapper tearing holiday season in honor of our Christmas. A first for a Muslim family with no orientation toward our great giveaway. For children without access to books, toys and movies, it was a grand time to watch! I felt honored to be our church's ambassador. The movies did and continue to be a source of unending amusement and imagination for these three youngsters; they always make comments about how it is the animals are talking. Animals never talked in Djibouti, Africa!

Several months after our initial meeting and hours spent listening to Jamal, I continue to be amazed at his process of adjustment and thrill at the ability to see things through his eyes. During one of our '3 cups of tea' meetings, (there is no such thing as casually dropping anything off at his house) actually consisting of a full Ethiopian spread of food and coffee, I was greatly amused at hearing his experience at getting the good, old-fashioned, American bureaucratic run around. The recounting of this amused me and hence, his elevation to the status of hero, particularly to his family.

Jamal was always anxious to get to the time when he could 'stand on his own 2 feet' as he put it. World Relief, his sponsor, was able to enroll him at Highline Community College for extended English and cultural studies. They were only able to provide this for one member of the family. I encouraged him not to rush through or quit school for a minimum wage job in his quest for independence. The opportunity to improve his spoken English and understand this culture was a gift that could lead to better pay in the long-term. In my mind, Jamal was capable of doing translation with a little further training; he speaks Orromo, Somolian, Arabic, Russian and English. I didn't want to see him be stuck doing janitorial work with such potential. I took him to Worksource, hoping they could give him some guidance.

Worksource evidently referred him to the Track Association, from how I understand it. It was supposed to provide him with some vocational training and job leads. When he went to Track Association, they told him that World Relief must sponsor his enrollment in the program. He went to the World Relief office and they told him that he must be sponsored by DSHS. He went to DSHS and they told him that World Relief must sponsor him--mind you he does not have a car and it is the rainy season! He went back to the Track Association and the contact there was extremely rude to him.

Jamal spelled out his problem with the upcoming gap between rent due and DSHS support to the rude attendee. He said, 'You people come to Africa ALL THE TIME to help us, but I am here NOW and in front of you' and cannot get help! Knowing him, I am sure this was said calmly and with assurance. Now here is the funny part. He was accepted into the Track Association's program and will be interviewing on Thursday for a possible position at the airport 1 day a week that within 6 months will turn into a full time job assisting non-English speaking people filling out applications in Human Resources. In addition, his wife now has sponsorship to learn English and a vocation at Highline Community College. Because of his persistence in knocking down doors, Amina will now have opportunity previously closed to her. I have not been able to speak to Amina except through hand signals, but her smile could light up a room. I am thrilled she will be able to move ahead along we her husband as a team.

He is a hero indeed...

Pentracing

Dates that leave a mark: Sunday, March 6th

There have probably been a handful of times the 6th day of March has fallen on a Sunday in the last 23 years, but today, I happened to notice. I just told a church member, who lost a parent recently, the ebb and flow of grief lasts for a lifetime, but the first 3 years are the worst. You alternate between gut wrenching sob sessions and hysterical laughter as you remember the personality quirks and antics of your mom or dad. Somehow or another, you just get used to their absence although you never stop missing them. This was wisdom shared with me by a neighbor in the spring of 1988 and wisdom I pass on with all sincerity. Today, however, I feel a twist in my heart. How do you describe an event deeply embedded in years past forever affecting your notion of life and God?

I was 26 years old. Ken and I had moved from Forest Grove, Oregon, where we met at Pacific University, to the other side of the country. I didn't question Ken's wanderlust in my youthfulness and followed him to his eventual destination after a few "layovers" to Andover Newton Theological School. Shortly after our arrival, we discovered I was expecting our first child, Micaela. After her delivery, my mom and dad came to visit once when she was 6 months old and I went to visit them when she was 10 months old. This was the last time my dad, Raymond White, was to see her and he would never meet my son, much less witness the beautiful people into which they would develop.

In February, 1988, I was planning another trip out west to see my folks and a special hike in late March with my Dad. My dad loved the outdoors and was an avid camper and hiker. He loved photography and took pictures of wildflowers, memorizing their scientific names. He had been an ordained minister, but nature was his church. Our hike together never happened. On Sunday, March 6th, he went hiking with the Sierra club in the Columbia Gorge. A mile or so into the hike, he had a massive coronary, which killed him almost instantly. I received a phone call from my brother at 11:00 pm that night informing me of the news. I was so young and so unprepared to handle his death.

Like most girls, I was Daddy's little princess. He was far from perfect and, in my adult wisdom, I came to believe my dad's heart issues had a lot to do with attitude as well as diet. He constantly created his own stress, driving adrenaline through his system. Nevertheless, he was the glue to our family unit. It never seemed after his loss, my mother, brother and myself had the same connection. No matter how good or not good at being a father he was, he always communicated our importance-family's importance. He wanted us to have a better experience and relationship with him than he had with his folks. He took reels and reels of slides with my mother, brother and myself front and center. The continuity in pictures even went by the wayside.

I missed my dad the most when raising my children. As my mother was not oriented toward children, I craved his validation of them and myself as a parent. I have a picture of him holding Micaela at 9 months old and it brings me comfort. I wish I had a picture of him with Jesse Raymond, his namesake. There was a huge hole. This was a mark, a scar on my soul always. It was both a huge loss and a point of enormous grace. I felt God's salve applied there often, usually after I took the time to feel all the feelings. It was like being orphaned. Who was I to rely on except the Spirit?

Do I wish this never happened to me? Of course. Nevertheless, it did and, when my children were older and I had time and was more open, I believe my father let me know he was "alive and well" on the other side and oh so active in my life. The day I realized this, big crocodile tears ran down my face. As Jesus said, "Bless those that grieve, for they shall be comforted".

Today was a mark in my personal spiritual history. The picture of my dad's shoes left behind at a Sierra Club member's house prior to the hike haunts me. They are shoes that cannot be filled by anyone but God. The picture of myself on my last hike a year prior with my dad haunts me. We were ignorant of what was to come and totally took for granted each other's company. Life is a never ceasing wonder and we never know when we will take our last breath. Love each other like it is your last breath everyday!

Pentracing

Having an 'Abby Normal' Brain...

This past week, I went to Costco on my lunch hour to have my computer glasses repaired. I sat down at the optical service counter. The optician assisting me was new and didn’t know how to repair rimless glasses, so my case was turned over to a more experienced technician. Two to three hours later, I “woke up” in Auburn Regional Hospital, having lost a chunk of time. I have no recollection of paramedic examination, being strapped in a gurney or an ambulance ride. Even the short emergency room visit is sketchy in review. Evidently, I had had a Grand Mal seizure for the second time this year. When I came back to full awareness, it was as if I never left. I hadn’t felt bad beforehand and felt nothing in the wake of this brainstorm, save a dull headache. In my embarrassment over my lack of control, much like the shame you would experience if others were to tell you how horribly you behaved while drunk, I returned to work the next day acting as if it were business as usual. Staff members not on board when I had my seizure at work last February approached me to check in and make sure that I was feeling better. I shut them down by changing the subject at hand. I was uninterested in further humiliation, however well intended. In a purely physical sense, Grand Mal seizures are much harder on witnesses and loved ones that they are on the person. While the patient just “goes away” for time, others must seek what could be life or death medical attention, witness the terrifying common denominator of life’s physicality and worry about the outcome. Immediately after the convulsions, a patient can be briefly psychotic or at the very least extremely confused. Will my loved one come back to me fully and consciously functioning? The emotional fallout on the family is immeasurable. The patient just awakens slowly as if from a very deep dream state. Like Lazarus, the patient walks out of their tomb of non-awareness unscathed to find others weeping over them. You can’t help but think of death after having had this experience.

Book Review: Lizzie Bright and the Buckminster Boy, Gary D. Schmidt, copyright 2004, 217 pages. *****

If I could give a book 10 out of 5 stars, it would be Lizzie Bright and the Buckminster Boy by Gary D. Schmidt. The central character is a young teenage boy that moves to a small community in Maine from Boston around 1912. Turner Buckminster is the son of the new minister of a local Congregational church. Unbeknownst to his father and mother, Turner is targeted by local bullies almost immediately. This harrassment drives him away from potential male friends his age and into the company of a young African-American girl that lives on an island just off the coast and clams daily for her family's subsistence. Turner's forbidden friendship with Lizzie Bright has a profound influence on his moral and spiritual development as town politics work to destroy the village of shacks where Lizzie and her grandfather live. The story is near and dear to my heart having been raised in a clergy family and having raised my own children in that context. Whether or not you affiliate with the Christian faith or any faith, you will both be kept on the edge of your seat and inspired to stand up for what is right by the redemptive qualities of this novel.

The Purpose of my Blog...

This blog has been created as part of a personal journey that I decided to undertake. I am currently reading several award winning books written for younger teens in an effort to identify styles and genres that are appealing to me. It is my hope to eventually find time to write books for this age group. I will be writing reviews of the books I read as well as everyday observations of the world around me as I gather images to use in my writing. Happy reading!