Lilli

Lilliana Grace
at Mahaffie’s Historic Stagecoach Stop and Farm in Olathe 

When you love someone, really love someone, you want to know everything about them.  This used to apply mostly to Mario – the love of my life –as I tried to learn everything about him in order to love him better.

The older I get, the more this principle applies to my grandchildren.  It is especially true for Lilliana Grace, my enigmatic granddaughter who is happier to observe most conversations than participate in them.  Because I want so very much to know her, I spy on her.  

To be part of her world, I have researched Josh and Tyler, watched several Jack Septic-Eye videos and know who segue-way Steve is.  I know which emojis describe her.  I know that she has incredible relationships with colors because she is an artist (and how she prefers to wear certain hues while she paints her room dark)  

Because I love her, I want to know everything about her.  

Beautiful Lilliana

The last time we spent significant time together (this past August), I figured out something else beautiful and significant about Lilli: she remembers things.  She can store  details and facts that “normal” kids forget. Random things that we heard in passing, or trivial details about a destination and kept track 

We took a trip to Mahaffie’s Historic Stagecoach Stop and Farm in Olathe on perhaps the most beautiful day of summer.  I sighed as we walked down to the coach.

“This is so beautiful, isn’t it?”  I motioned to the rolling sorghum fields, the red barn in the distance and the Poplar trees, whose leaves were blowing in the warm breeze. 

“Did you know that Olathe means ‘beautiful’ in another language?” Lilli asked, looking up at me. 

“Does it?” I asked, smiling.  The air was so warm and the sky was so blue and that day will forever be etched into my heart because Lilli glowed with summer as she told me. 

It turns out that Olathe does literally translate to “beautiful” in the Shawnee tongue.  When Dr. John Barton arrived in the spring of 1857,  the prairie was covered with verbena and other wild flowers. Barton asked his Shawnee guide how to say “beautiful” in his native language. The interpreter responded, “Olathe.”

Last Christmas!! Lilli in striped shirt in front

Because Lilli lives with her siblings (Max and Lauren) in Kansas and Mario and I live in California, our relationship is not the traditional Grandparent-grandchild type.  My own Grandma lived in the same city as I did as we grew up – she wore only dresses, didn’t drive a car, and hung her wash on a clothesline.  She baked cookies and sang songs in Spanish.  I loved her deeply and still think of her as a driving force in my life, an inspiration.  I want to be that kind of my Grandma to my Grandchildren, but today things are more complicated.  Lilli has four sets of grandparents – and we are the furthest away. 

But love knows no boundaries.  Love has the power to skip over natural barriers as easily as stones skip over water.  Lilli is in my daily prayers and I carry her with me wherever I go.  Because she is so incredibly valuable to me, I will continue to learn about her and find new reasons to love her.

Today, our Lilli will blow out candles on a birthday cake and the glow of her candles will light up her face like she lights up the world.

Happy Birthday, Lilli.  I hope you know that I do see you, even when you think I can’t, I do.  You are amazing, creative, brilliant, and loving.  I am so proud of you, honey.

 Oh! And BTW – did you know that your name, Lilliana means “beauty” in another language?  True story.  

11:00 p.m.

At 11:00, in a small coffee house on the outskirts of Paris, France, Jean Sivoya waited patiently for his date, a woman named Louisa who was supposed to meet him two hours earlier. The stone walls and wooden floorboards of the Café seemed to breathe of deep history. The boundaries of the simple meeting place, situated so close to the Sorbonne, were alive with stories.

Jean considered the sidewalk terrace that looked out on to a tiny square, where a couple who had been here for hours danced romantically.  He had switched from coffee to wine twenty minutes ago and paid the eight Euro for the Chateau Morgan, throwing caution into the wind.

He had taken a taxi three hours earlier, not wanting to be late for his first date to the Café. Now Jean was getting ready to call another. He would have done so had he not been interrupted by the clacking of high heels running at an ill-advised speed, straight toward him.

He looked up and saw her, a vision of loveliness wearing a gold chiffon dress that billowed as she ran toward him.  Her face was an inverted triangle; her legs, two spindles in high heels and her arms steadied her like wings as she approached. 

“Are you Jean?” she yelled, trying to slow herself down. The romantic dancers released each other and turned toward them, gawking unapologetically at the young woman who disturbed the ambiance of their romantic evening.  Jean rose to his feet, arms positioned to catch her, lest she fall of trip. 

“I am Jean,” he said, nervously.  He bit his lip, embarrassed.  The entire café was staring at them now. 

She was breathless; Jean saw that the beautiful girl was flushed from her exercise; she must have been running for some time. She wore no makeup, but never had he seen such amazing eyelashes.  The color of her eyes was watery green; her skin, pearlescent. 

“You’re not going to believe what happened to me,” she said, trying to catch her breath.

“Please,” Jean motioned to a black steel chair, hoping the girl would be seated. 

She sat quickly, placing both of her hands on her heart.  He saw her delicate white hands settle like doves against the plunge of gold chiffon; she suddenly leaned forward and took his hand.  With intimate speed, she placed it between her breasts.  “Feel my heart beating,” she whispered.  

“Honestly, you will not believe what just happened.”

Jean’s lips felt numb; his own heart raced at the feel of her skin.  He couldn’t think of anything to say, and when she released his hand it fell, limply to his side.  He was embarrassed.  Her mouth, a cupid’s bow, moistened with a gleam of gloss, asked him if he would mind if she told him her story.  “It is the story, after all,” she said.  “That led me here.  Poor darling, did you think I wasn’t coming?  I am two hours late!  Nevertheless, I am here now, am I not?”

Jean nodded in agreement and looked over his shoulder for a waiter.  A tall, aproned man  dove behind a curtain, trying to pretend he wasn’t staring.

 “I was in Los Angeles just yesterday, you know,” she began.  “The city is very difficult to understand.  It has quite a lot of people living there and none of them seem to care much for one another.  Nevertheless, I was there.  Might I have a sip of your wine?”

Jean forced himself to stop watching her mouth.  “Yes,” he said, sitting up straighter.  “I was just trying to summon a waiter…” He looked around again and saw the waiter at another table.  Jean cleared his throat in an attempt to call him over.  The waiter walked toward them, but turned back to the bar when Jean signaled for another glass of wine to be brought.

She put the wine glass down and exhaled.

“That is just what I needed,” she said.  “You must think I am mad, carrying on like this.  Did Philippe tell you I was mad?  I might guess he did!”   She covered her mouth with her white fingers and giggled into them.  Jean smiled.

“Anyway, Los Angeles.  I was there yesterday.  There are so many things happening there.  I actually saw a talking hot dog, but that’s a whole other story!”  Jean smiled, catching sight of himself in the mirror and seeing a ridiculous look of smitten foolery.  He tried to wipe the look off his face, picking up the glass she just put down and lifting it to his own lips.  He could see the faint imprint of lip gloss on the rim; it made him fantasize about kissing her.

The waiter returned with a tall glass of white wine and placed it in front of Jean, who was staring again.  “Oh, it is for the lady,” he said, motioning to his date.

“I’m sorry,” Jean said to her, as soon as the waiter disappeared.  “I don’t even think I introduced myself,” he said, leaning forward with an extended hand.  “I am Jean.”

“Yes, silly,” she said, smiling coyly.  She had two dimples; one was deep set in her right cheek.

“And you are Louisa?” he asked her, knowing the answer already.

“Yes,” she said, picking up her own glass of wine and drinking.  She never took her eyes off of him.  He could see her mouth take in the golden beverage through the clear crystal.   He could smell the roasting of coffee beans, but he knew it would be the wine they would remember.  They would tell their grandchildren about the wine- the crisp beautiful Chateau Morgan that would bring them together.  He would speak into the microphone on their wedding day and tell their guests that he knew the moment he saw her, flying over the tiles in high heels across the tiny square.

“What happened?” he asked her, almost as an afterthought.  In truth, it didn’t matter what happened; it was all over for him.  He had arrived at his life’s destination. 

“Well,” Louisa said, with a dimpled glow.  She extended her lovely white hand to him and he held it in his.  The action stunned her; confused her. 

“Look, darling!  Look at my hand!”

Jean took his eyes off the green pools of water and into her delicate white hand; it was there he saw the ring.  A brilliant white diamond on a gold band rested freshly on her fourth finger; he froze.

“Did you get engaged?”

Louisa erupted in giggles.  “Yes, darling!  I am engaged!  My former boyfriend picked me up at the airport.  What a surprise that was!” She told Jean the rest of the story with delighted abandon.  He watched her mouth, a proud and demonic weapon, spew forth the happy story.  Her ex-boyfriend met her at the airport repentant for his actions and got down on one knee.  She accepted him; she never fell out of love with him.  They were meant to be together.

At the end of the story, she picked up the glass of wine and drank, never taking her eyes off of Jean.  He wondered why she drank like that; it had to be the tool that Satan used to contract desperate humans into signing their life away.  She was indeed his messenger; he had no patience for her games.

“Why did you show up here?” he asked, finally.

“Well,” she said, sighing.  “I couldn’t imagine the thought of you sitting here, abandoned and feeling like I had no respect for you.” She looked at him, her eyelashes curling like the burning legs of a spider thrown into a cauldron.

“I see,” he said.  With that, both stood up and hugged.  He mumbled a congratulatory something and she thanked him profusely for waiting for her.  It showed his character, she said.  His character was a strong one, she said. 

He sighed and called the waiter for the bill.  Again, he dove behind a curtain, pretending he hadn’t heard anything.   

beautiful

Today, in my hand –

I held something beautiful.

It melted into my flesh

And tasted sweet.

I felt the rush of thunder

Like sugar-frosted methadone

And unwavering rabbits

Blue against my temples.

Because.

Because…

The taste was more than beauty-

More than safety

More than honey

The words were a symphony

Of light.

origins

Twelve Days of Christmas Pictoral

There are a lot of teachings about Christmas Carols.  Some of them are so good that I want to believe them – but I can’t.  I am and I am a seeker of truth, which is a force as powerful as it is beautiful.   

My favorite mythical explanation is about “The Twelve Days of Christmas”.  Storytellers allege that it began as a code, a secret catechism of sorts, sung to teach children in the late middle ages by Catholics in England (after Parliament emancipated the Catholics).  Since they were prohibited to practice their faith, the ever-musical church invented the lyrics to teach children the foundations of their faith they were forbidden to discuss openly.

It’s a heartwarming story, but I have found no supporting history of this.  Instead, I found that this misnomer was begun (at the earliest) in the 1980’s – and in America.  I think the story of “The Twelve Days of Christmas” was mistaken for another carol, one called “A New Dial” taught to children around the same historical period, using a clock as a model (An almanac from 1625, in the Bagford Collection, contains the song "A New Dial"  already quite old when the almanac was printed).  Since TWELVE is a number that signifies Biblical completion -and speaks of perfect, balanced government-  it makes sense that the songs were mistaken for each other.  They were sung by the same people in the same country... Weren't they?

In truth, Christmas carols such as The Twelve Days of Christmas DO speak of Christ – and of God’s incredible heart to give to His people.  This particular song has been sung through years of drought, famine, plagues, and the crusades.  Their lyrics were designed to intrigue people when the majority of the population could not read (Christianity was not forbidden, but Bible reading was not the norm).   As much as they were celebratory, Christmas carols were evangelical in nature.

From my research, this is what I know about the carol that we have grown to love as a people – and still don’t know very well:

What we do know is that the Twelve Days of Christmas is that it signifies the TWELVE DAYS between the celebration of birth of Christ (December 25) and when the Catholic church celebrates the coming of the Magi (Epiphany, January 6). 

The song’s earliest printed version was in the 1780 children's book Mirth Without Mischief .  "The Twelve Days of Christmas" was originally printed in French (which makes sense since the partridge wasn’t brought into England until the late 1770’s).   

It is sung about a one-way love-affair.  The joyful caroler sings: “On the first Day of Christmas my TRUE LOVE gave to me…”  There is never a “and I gave to Him…”

We see from the very beginning that God’s love to us is what defines our holiday – our receiving was a surprise.  The benevolent giver was “my true love” – sung by both men and women.

Christians were taught to use this term carefully – because it was reserved for God.  The early church wouldn’t even say His name outside of prayer (it was considered reckless or even blasphemous) – but they confessed that their HEAVENLY FATHER was their true love.

Tomorrow, I’ll begin the song.  It will count-down to Christmas, rather than Epiphany.  It will hopefully be as delightful as it is evangelical. 

mythomania

photo credit

LeeAnne Sawyer was a beautiful girl with a tanned body to match the color of her face, detailed with a fine dusting of blush and freckles.   She was stretched out on a large beach towel, next to her best friend, Nicole, after an afternoon of swimming.  Together they were practicing the age-old beauty secret of lying in the sun and allowing it to toast their skin to a hue of golden perfection.  Being eleven-year-olds, they didn’t yet worry about skin cancer or premature aging.

Nicole was a skinnier, more scared version of her friend, with long legs and knobby knees.  She opened her eyes to see LeeAnne smiling, as if she knew something. 

“What are you thinking?” Nicole asked.

“I was just thinking of my damn stupid neighbor.”

Nicole smiled a little herself.  Nicole liked to say damn when her mother wasn’t around.  “What about him?”

“Well, my neighbor is a ‘her’, first of all.”

“Well, what about her?”

“She got a ticket on our street this morning,” Nicole said, sitting up a little and looking at her friend.  “She had just backed out of her driveway and  a cop was waiting  there for her.”

“What did she do?” Nicole lifted her hand to shield the sun from her eyes.  She could see LeeAnne’s face, glittering with blush sparkles and peppered with freckles.  Her earrings were turquoise ornaments, dangling stylishly from her lobes, trembling every time Nicole moved her head. 

“She took off down the road looking for the damn fire, like she does every day!  The cop was waiting there - in the shade of the Herman’s tree - to bust her.  He was tipped off by all of the other neighbors.”

“What do you mean, ‘tipped off’?” 

“All the other neighbors were complaining that our street was becoming unsafe with her driving so fast.”

“Oh.”  Nicole closed her eyes again and lay her head back down on her towel.  The sun was warm on her face, but she would have to lay out quite a bit to catch up with LeeAnne’s tan.   She wasn’t too interested in the story of the neighbor and her speeding ticket, if it even happened.  LeeAnne was well known in the fourth grade for lying and Nicole  knew better than to believe everything she said. 

“It wouldn’t be so bad if she were just by herself.  But she has those twins, you know.  She gets into her car and throws them in their car seats without even buckling them in.  Most of the time she’s drunk.”

“How do you know?”

“How do  I know what?”

“How do you know she doesn’t strap the twins into their car seats?  How do you know she’s drunk?”

“I just know, dummy.”

Nicole was embarrassed for asking, especially since LeeAnne reacted to her question by calling her dummy.  It meant that LeeAnne might not be her friend anymore and maybe tell vicious stories around the school about her.  She could make up some pretty wild stories.  She opened her eyes again and looked at LeeAnne, who was back to lying down and tanning. 

“Besides,” LeeAnne said.  “Cops don’t go around stalking normal sober people just to give them a traffic ticket on their own street.”

“Yeah, I guess not.”

“You guess not?  Who do you know that has gotten a traffic ticket on the street that they live on?  Have you ever heard of that happening before?”

Nicole was feeling attacked and grimaced in the sun, never once allowing her eyes to open.   “No.”

“Well, okay then.”

The sound of the sliding glass door opening made both girls sit up slightly and they saw Mrs. Sawyer, dressed in a short sundress with high heels coming out with a tray of drinks and snacks.  Nicole was thirsty and was about to get up when LeeAnne  spouted off to her mother.

“Mom!  We don’t want drinks now, we’re tanning!”

Mrs. Sawyer set the tray on the patio table next to the pool umbrella.  “Don’t be mouthy, young lady,”  she corrected her daughter.  “Maybe Nicole is hungry or thirsty.”  She laid out two napkins on top of the tray and turned back toward the house, her red, bouncy hair swinging behind her.  “It’s not all about you, LeeAnne.”

“Thank you, Mrs. Sawyer,” Nicole said, softly.  Mrs. Sawyer flashed her a smile about the same time LeeAnne let out a heavy sigh and rolled her eyes. 

“You’re such a damn kiss-up!”

“Why do you say that?” Nicole was starting to think about going home.  She liked LeeAnne, but her attitude was so destructive.  Sometimes she wondered why someone so fun could be so angry. 

“My mom comes out here to spy on us, see if we’re talking about boys or whatever and she brings a little lemonade and you’re like, ‘Thank you, Mrs. Sawyer…’”  LeeAnne mimicked Nicole’s voice as high and insincere. 

Nicole sat up and readied herself to leave.  “I have to go.”

LeeAnne didn’t even move from her spot.  “This is why you’re so white.  You don’t stay in the sun long enough.  If you lie here for fifteen minutes, you’ll be brown before you know it.”

Nicole looked down at her long, spindly legs.  They were, indeed, very pale.  LeeAnne’s looked brown and lovely next to hers.   She had a point, but she was being mean, so Nicole got up just to prove a point.

“Goodbye,” LeeAnne yawned.  “Don’t forget to sip on that lemonade before you leave out the side gate.”

“Don’t you want to walk me back to my house?”

“Nah.  I’m going to tan for at least another half-hour.”

“It will be dark soon.”

“No it won’t.”

“It will be twilight soon, then.”

“Whatever.”  LeeAnne lay still, as if she didn’t care if her friend stayed or left.

Okay.  Goodbye then.”

Nicole turned to leave, then saw Mrs. Sawyer’s snack tray.  It was set up so darling, with two hot dogs and marshmallows on sticks, dipped in a blue frosting and decorated with a goldfish.  Nicole could tell she had made them herself.

“Look at these,” Nicole said, in a tender voice that made LeeAnne sit up. 

“What?”

Nicole lifted a dipped marshmallow  on a stick and showed LeeAnne, who was scowling into the sun to see what Nicole was holding.  When she did, she made a groan and returned to her towel. 

Nicole set the marshmallow back down on the plate.  She turned back to LeeAnne and considered her.  She was a beautiful girl, looking at least a full two years older than Nicole.  Even so, Nicole took it upon herself to say something. 

“Why do you do that?” Nicole asked her friend.

“Why do I do what?”

“Why do you act like everything I say is nothing?  This is cool, you know.  Your Mom worked hard on these. “

“Ha!  Shows what you know.  We made those marshmallow treats together this morning.  In fact, I did all the work.  Mom just shopped for the ingredients.  Those were going to be a surprise for you before you went home but now you’re acting all offended and  weird.”

“You made these together?”

“Yes!” LeeAnne looked up at her friend, scowling again.  For a moment Nicole believed her, but then she knew better.

“How did you get the blue frosting to coat the marshmallow?”

“With a knife, retard.”

“Why are there no knife marks?”

LeeAnne screamed to herself and sat up quickly, then got to her feet.  Nicole stood her ground, thinking her friend was going to charge toward her.  Instead, LeeAnne picked up her towel hastily and walked toward her house.  As she passed Nicole, she said with tears in her eyes, “If you’re going to leave, just leave.”

She opened the screen door with a violent jerk,  marched in and then slammed it behind her.  Nicole looked at the tray and wondered if LeeAnne would come back out for it.  It would be a shame to leave the treats outside to spoil overnight.  For a moment, she considered taking hers with her, but then walked toward the gate, wondering if she and LeeAnne were still friends. 

The walk home was long and warm, the sky filled with the twilight she was expecting, erupting in purple and rose hues that were breathtaking.  Even so, all Nicole could think about was her beautiful, angry friend who was so oddly incapable of telling the truth.  She dreaded the thought of seeing her in school the next day.

re-entry

Alicia, Alannah and I at lunch in Sacramento.
 A beautiful part of re-entry.

There is no true way to entirely prevent culture shock, even when you are re-entering your familiar home environment.  In any society people are affected by cultural contrasts differently. 

Today was our first day back at our church’s main service.  Mario and I have been back for 48 days and after visiting the satellites decided to try the main.  It is where all of our old friends attend.  We jumped back into their lives – seeing them not much different.  If it weren’t for their KIDS who have grown like weeds on MiracleGro, we would hardly notice the difference in the people.

For the last six years we gave ourselves over to a calling of God that was beautiful, rewarding and definitely His will for our lives.  The first two years we did a lot of international travelling – we saw nineteen different African countries and two Asian ones.  The last four years were focused on the local church life in Johannesburg. 

Johannesburg is as diverse as Africa itself.  It is the melting pot of different cultures more than any other place in South Africa.  No city in South Africa can match the diversity of Johannesburg; there are 11 official languages. 

Sacramento is the capital of California, whose economy is the twelfth largest in the world.  The Spanish language is everywhere, but most people speak English. 

I stood in conversation with a friend this morning as he asked us how we were doing.

“We’re good, thank God,” I said.  “We just need to find a home of our own.” 

My thoughts flashed back to the last 48 days here.  We have shopped for (and found) a home.  We began the process of buying it, only to find that its title was not clear.  We shopped for (and found) another home that was in our price range and began the process of buying it.  This is the house we are now praying for.  The problem is, the loan company here needs bank statements from our South African bank – something that they will not provide.  Because of FICA laws, the statements have to be picked up in person by Mario – who is back at his old desk most days of the week, working full time.

“So, you don’t have a place to stay?” my friend asks, genuinely concerned. 

“We do,” I smile. “We have been staying with Nicole.”

“Oh, and how is that going?”  he asks.  

I think of the warm reception that Nicole and Summer have given us.  Their ease and acceptance during this time has been crucial.  We are staying in Nicole's one room garage apartment that has a half bathroom.  It has kept us from staying in a hotel and living out of suitcases.  Even with all of this, we still feel like we are "just visiting" the States again. 

“It’s going very well, thank God,” I say.

“So Mario’s back at work,” he says.  “What are you doing?”

I smile.  I am writing all of the time.  When I am not working out or visiting my daughter and her daughters I am writing.  I have started a new novel and will hopefully see the first one published soon.  I am grateful for the opportunity to write.  I still have not seen Vince, Joe or David (or their kids) since we have been back.  I have had little chance to see my parents and sisters, too.  Until we get a house we can’t spend much money.

“I write,” I answer.  I blog, I write fiction, I edit.  I even tutor a girl who is in Kansas City via SKYPE.  She has our dogs, Zuzu and Peaches.  They can’t come here until we have a house of our own.

We’ve got to get this house, I think. 

“You write?” my friend lifts his eyebrows and I expect no more questions.  

None come.  

Not “Have you talked to Portia and the boys since you have been back?” – not “Don’t you miss your church?” – not “What about the Ladies Prayer Group that saved your life several times...how are they?”

He just smiles, good naturedly.

“Must be nice to be a woman of leisure,” he says, winking.  I smile.

Yeah....

writing

“To write is to write is to write is to write is to write is to write is to write is to write”   

~ Gertrude Stein

Public Domain Image Details

The greatest gift of writing is being able to communicate truth from the depths of your heart.  It’s why cavemen chiseled on walls; why the spiritual songs were written.  The Bible had to be written by a man’s hand to communicate the greatest truths and the heart of God.  Soldiers took up pens and precious paper  in trenches to declare the deepest love for their families back home - love that survived even the most horrific events of war.

Sometimes  I pick up a book and I hear the words of someone like they are a friend crying out to me.  “Here I am!  Connect with me!  Understand!” 

Writers write to connect with people.  Connect their heart with another persons.  Inspire them, motivate them, love them.  Writers write for the same reason painters write.  We write to deliver beauty to a world that needs it.  We write to translate the unjust pain of a people, left without a voice and too weak to cry out for themselves.

We write to be understood, to cry out primordially from the depths of our soul.

Today as you write, dear writer, let the heart of the God who created you come out, voicing the pain and anguish; the joy and the exhilaration; the sorrow and the pity of all that is in the world.  Focus on one thing and write. 

People mistake writing a story for giving birth to a child very often.  I’ve done both – and writing is easier.

Not much... but easier.

• Yesterday I wrote three chapters of a Young adult novel I think I’m going to call “euphobia” (no capitalization of the title).  euphobia is the fear of good news. 

"Beauty is truth, truth beauty," – that is allYe know on earth, and all ye need to know.

-John Keats

Dad

My favorite pictures of my Dad and me are decoupaged to a canoe oar that is in my parent’s entryway.  The pics were chosen by sister, Colleen from the wealth of camping pictures we took every summer on the Ryan family vacations.

It was our time. 

One year, we decided to buy and inflatable raft and we had to have an oar, so we bought a wooded one that didn’t even fit through the loops of the raft, purposefully put there by engineers that realized that kids drop the oar while they are rowing – often.  The raft didn’t last, and the oar became a tattered artefact in the storage shed, until my artistic sister decided to make it a memorial of our many camping trips together as a family.  I look at it every time I am there. 

My father was born in Boston, an only child, in the first baby boom.  The only child of a mother over forty, he was destined to become the focus of all of her attention.   My grandfather (whom I never met) was a Boston fireman, and died when my father was entering his teen years.  This made his mother even more attached to him.

There are memories of growing up that obstruct a good view of him.  My Nana (his mom) lived with us; he had five children; he was busy with work; he loved sports and watched them often.  My dad wasn’t the active, engaged parent that my mom was.  Mom’s role was all about relationship, connecting and dealing with the day to day nonsense of all of us: five kids seven years apart. 

Dad came home from work, every day at 4:45 (he stopped working at 4:30).  He would come in, kiss my mother, greet all of us, turn on his stereo and get a beer and peanuts.  He’d sit for a half an hour and read the paper in the living room and my mother would come in and debrief with him.  If any of us had anything to ask him, this was the time to do it. 

We would have dinner at 6, and afterward my dad would maybe watch TV with us for an hour and we would be sent off to bed.  Years of this routine...years. 

When I was fifteen, I began a season of rebellion that lasted for about eight years.  Those words, “season of rebellion” are the ones I use to speak about how I systematically broke my parents hearts with one decision after another.  I acted as if I were insulated from all pain, while I shot it out of myself like lightning bolts to lesser beings.   My father’s reaction was to make sure I knew it would not be tolerated, and that lasted for years. 

This made me see my father as a regimented, stern fellow (which he probably was, to some extent).  At work, he was a supervisor, in a management position that demanded strength and strong decisions.  At home it was not much different, but he softened a lot around my mother, who became kind of a translator for him. 

My Uncle Jim, a larger-than-life mayor of the city was easier for me to relate to.  Even Uncle Jim was a little unnerved that I had a skewed view of my dad. 

“He has a bigger heart than I do,” he once said, candidly.

I looked at him and raised my eyebrows (imagine an eighteen-year-old with an attitude).  The everyday routines and disciplinary experiences blocked my vision to see my father  truthfully for who he really was inside.

 Who I’ve grown to know him to be.

Thank God, my  father has unfolded into a better picture of himself before me.  There has been a lot of health and forgiveness and genuine desire to understand each other between us.  I have grown to see him as a sacrificial, kind, and genuinely compassionate man who can relate to most people.  Instead of the stern prison warden, he has become an approachable man who has known the pain of loving and releasing those around him, as they are called elsewhere.  Even me.

Yesterday, at the Pick and Pay, I was conversing with my Aunt and Uncle who are here, visiting us.  Hearing us speak, in our heavy American accents, she turned to me and said  “Have you ever watched ‘Extreme Couponing’?” 

I laughed, thinking of my father, who cuts coupons and lives (proudly) knowing that he has beaten the stores at their own game.  “Know it?” I said loudly.  “My dad LIVES it!”  My Aunt and Uncle laughed with me.

It reminded me, walking away from her, that today is my father’s birthday, and my heart sank.  I will not be with my dad for his birthday for the sixth year in a row.  I miss him, and wish I could be there to hug him. 

I would tell him that, despite my rebellion and my attitude, I have good memories of growing up.  I would tell him that he was a strong example of discipline and self-control.  He provided a safe place to call home, and has made me wish I could have done the same thing.  I would tell him that his influence in Spiritual, musical and intellectual matters have been the greatest influence that any man could have given a daughter.

Even then, it would not be enough to encapsulate the love I feel for him... the deep and profound respect that can only be gained from years of seeing a man of noble character, trying to live as a woman of noble character.  I think God has played a big part of this, and the gift of seeing my father as someone greater than my Dad, and someone as tender as a Daddy  is priceless. 

Happy Birthday, Dad.  I love you.  

Dad and Alicia 1994

language

South Africa has so many National Holidays!!  Some are so closely cropped together that most citizens are annoyed  by their interruptions of the work week, rather than blessed for their days off. Today , June 16 is called “Youth Day” – perhaps a little ambiguously named.

 It's really not about youth, and it's not a day of celebration.  In reality, Youth Day is named after an uprising that took place in Soweto (SOuth WEst TOwnship) Johannesburg. It's memory is emblazened into most of our heads because of one picture: a little boy, a crying sister and a young man carrying him away, limp in his arms.  

It  began on this day in 1976 with a peaceful protest by high school students, objecting to a recent government edict that all instruction in black schools would be held in Afrikaans.  Most black languages in South Africa that are readily spoken belong to a Bantu stream (Zulu, Xhosa,  Sotho, Tswana)  Afrikaans was not just a language: it was the langiage of the Apartheid Government, who (by their own admission) saw it as a higher, preferred tongue.  Because the Apartheid era had made the separation of schools (white schools were much better funded than black schools) and the separation of classes (Blacks had to be in the township by nightfall) and the oppression of the black people in general (marriages, friendships and freedoms were all subject to the Apartheid government's permission), the few benefits of the black schools were that the lessons given to the students could be instructed in their own language.  The protest, the students decided, was to remain peaceful, and show the government that their language was a cherished right that would not be surrendered for an obscure ruling in Pretoria, made by people who had most likely never set foot in a township.  

The protest attracted a large crowd of non-students who agreed (and were equally angered by the ruling).  The crowd of approximately 10,000 soon became loud and aggressive when the police arrived.   A riot  started, with angry Sowetans killing two school board members, killing, then burning dogs, vehicles and buildings associated with the police and the governing school board.  

A group of 30 black members of the police force gathered outside the Phefeni Junior Secondary, and began singing the traditional Sotho anthem 'Morena Boloka Sechaba Sa Heso' ("Lord, Bless Our Nation" in Sotho), quickly sending the message that in the township, the Police were here for black people as well.  This led to   the crowd became violent, throwing rocks at the white police, there to keep peace for the people. As a result, the next step in police trainging kicked in: a rioting crowd gets teargas fired into it.  It is unsure what happened next, or what sparked the next level of force.  The official explanation was this: "Before the crowd could be dispersed, we opened fire on the demonstrators".

There are conflicting accounts of who gave the first command to shoot, but it resulted in the same thing: people turning and running in all directions, leaving some children, who had originally started the protest, lying wounded on the road.

The boy's name was Hector.  An Hispanic name in a Bantu Township.  Hector Pieterson.  His last name was Afrikaans.  He was hit by a stray bullet, and mortally wounded.  He fell on the corner of Moema and Vilakazi Streets, was picked up by Mbuyisa Makhubo (an 18-year-old schoolboy) who together with Hector's sister, Antoinette (then 17 years old), ran towards Sam Nzima's car. They put him in, most likely already dead, and a journalist by the name of Sophie Tema drove him to a nearby clinic where he was pronounced dead.  

Hector is the image of Youth Day.  He even was given his own museum, as a memorial to the "struggle" and the fall of Apartheid.  He was widely revered as the first child to die that fateful day, but it was another boy, Hastings Ndlovu, who was actually the first child to be shot. In the case of Hastings, however, there were no photographs, no dramatic rescues, no clinic pronouncement.   His name was not immediately known, and when they located his family, they confirmed that their son, Hastings, was the body that lay before them.

More than 500 hundred people died in the uprising. Among them was Dr. Melville Edelstein, who had devoted his life to social welfare among blacks. He was either beaten or stoned to death by the mob and left with a sign around his neck  'Beware Afrikaaners'.  Edelstein (not Afrikaans) loved Soweto and its people...but on the day he was a man with white skin inside of an angry mob.

It is the picture of Hector Pieterson, the one black schoolchild shot by the police, that brought home to many people within and outside South Africa the brutalities of the Apartheid regime. The event sparked the curiosity of a world that couldn't imagine the riot, the edict, the outcome of the day.  With this picture, the words "Apartheid" and "Amandla" became known where I was growing up...and made the UN cause sanctions to be imposed later, after a National decision not to heed warning to remove an oppressive government.  

We have MANY Afrikaans friends who hated the idea of Apartheid.  We have MANY black friends who confess that not all of Apartheid was so bad.  The truth of it remains that the system was destined to fail, as all systems that hijack rights away from citizens do. It is so like our own civil rights struggle in the 1950's that we understand the idea of a Nation moving on and remembering not to repeat the mistakes of the past.  

In the end, the revolt was about a final straw: language.  When South Africans remember Youth Day most likely they remember the boy in the picture: the revolt against the police.  The civil tension and mutual racism is lost in the history that is now taught: it was all about a corrupt government shooting at students.  The truth?  A township refused to be given one more rule; have one more piece of their identity stolen away.  The riot led to police and a show of force that was brutal and the undoing of them.

The issue of language is a deep one - it makes us who we are and gives us a freedom to express who we will want to be.  Nelson Mandela once said "When you speak someone's language, you speak to their heart."

It is true.

Dit is waar. 

Yquiniso.

truth

Today truth is not defined in certain terms. It is more of an opinion than a concrete concept. Some things can be true but not truth...as in "The world is round". The truth of the world's shape is that it is globular, and orbiting a larger globe, and rotating on an axis that is tilted.

A flat circle on a paper is round.

Facts are undisputed pieces of information that altogether can come in conflict with truth. There are memorizable facts that are given to us to memorize. A good example is that even numbers are divisible by 2. Truth is that all numbers are divisible by two, but when you divide three by two you get a whole number and a fraction one.

Don Quixote says in Man of LaMancha that "Facts are the enemies of truth." Spoken like a man going out of his mind. Truth, and the pursuit of it can drive anyone crazy, unless you know where to look.

Truth is that no one is perfect. Everyone messes up. People are flawed and we all have so many flaws that we can't judge one another without seeing ourselves. Still, if I hear that a friend has hurt another one of my friends I grit my teeth and swear to tell her off. She should be a little more careful, a little more tactful. I can obsess about it for a few days to come, and then when I see her I can scowl and self-righteously condescend her so that if she doesn't see things my way, I still leave feeling superior. Better. More enlightened.

I am a mother to most of my friends, and most of my friends love me enough to love that part of me. But I wonder, as I protect my friends, and silently allow them into the ring of honour that is my friendship, if I am enabling them to gossip or become bitter. Today I became mother-friend-queen high and mighty, advocating for one friend while letting another know how powerful I am...as if I am embracing truth. My own lenses are foggy and blurry with self-righteous reasoning that I usually call discernment. I am as flawed as the one who has hurt my friend. My friend is as flawed as I am...and all of us are piggies in a mud pool. But we all see another one as the dirty one, don't we?

So...I am looking at truth tonight. Truth is not easy. It splits things up into messy fractions and messes up our understanding of the world as we see it.

Then again, why am I saying "we"? Maybe you never struggle with this stuff...

In that case, nevermind.

beauty

In "Ode to a Grecian Urn" John Keats wrote a classic poem that that has transformed the modern world. We, as University Freshmen, were meant to read and understand when we were 18. In English Literature, our professors read it with a faraway look in their eyes, procaliming it sublime and making us agree, out of an insecure desire to be as smart and enlightened as they were. The final lines of the poem ring still in my ears: "Beauty is truth, truth beauty,—that is all Ye know on earth, and all ye need to know."

Beauty is truth...
Truth is beauty...
That is all you know on earth, and all you need to know

Funny thought, Keats had, when he wrote it in the 18th century when all he had as a figure of beauty was a Grecian Urn with perfect figures of men and women frolicing about on it. Now there's TV. Porn. Movies. Dr. 90210. Today beauty is anything but truth. Beauty for a woman is a size zero and fake boobs -saline inside of impact-resistant teflon bags- that are surgically inserted into a woman's breast flesh while she sleeps under anesthesia. Or it is a young, taut stomach that has shown no signs of childbirth or white flour consumption. Beauty is not truth...no one even knows what truth is anymore.

But... here it is.

Truth is the thing that endures. It is a work of kindness in a world gone mad. Beauty is a man with little money buying food for a starving granny who no longer cares if she eats, but rather would ask for food for the four kids in her house. It is people who would rather do a good thing than attend a baseball game, a rugby match, a basketball game where divas called players throw punches at eachother.

Beauty is a truth that endures...a truth that proclaims there is a love so great it can transform any life, anywhere. It is a truth that says no matter how messed up we are, we have a Father that loves us and wants us back home with Him. It is a truth that sent a loving son to save me...to tenderly affirm me. To boast about His transforming love that would later define me... and that is all I know here.

That is all I know here on earth.
That is all I need to know.