Ellie and Me

When I was 5 years old my dad was stationed in Africa and when he returned from his tour of duty he came home with a present for my sister, brother and myself. Three handcarved elephants. The only problem was that mine was tiny and Cindy’s and Paul’s were big. My hands went immediately to my hips as I demanded to know why my elephant was so tiny compared to the other two. My dad looked at me and said, “You’re the baby of the family.” All I could do was watch as that term slid down my boiling hot mind like thick slimy okra and it puddled in my head. Yes, there were advantages to being the baby of the family but for some reason all families deem it necessary to remind the youngest constantly of his or her birth, order, defect. With my wounded heart in my hand; I starred at this pithy runt that slanderously had my name printed on its underside. The creature was handed limp and rejected back to my dad as stormed out of the room facing what I clearly already knew to be true at the time; I was less loved and less equal to him than my bigger siblings.

Year after year that elephant had the nerve to stare down at me from inside my mom’s china cabinet while I was eating. Its puny body laboring under loose anorexic wood skin had me dreaming of sneaking into the dining room late one night and casting it into the trash where all the other less loved things belonged.  It was spared only by my voiced complaints made loud and too often while sitting at the table under its wooden stare. There was no doubt that I would be the only one hauled in for lineup for such a heist as no one in the house loathed that animal as much as me. The other two giant mammoths with their bloated well-fed tummies so fat and so loved didn’t even bother looking down at my runt replica. Perfectly capturing my feelings at the time as the one who couldn’t stay up as late as the others, couldn’t have as much cake as the others, couldn’t watch certain movies like the others could, couldn’t talk on the phone, couldn’t walk to the store alone and the list of couldn’t-s piled up so wobbly high that I was sure I would die before making it into CAN-land.


When we grew up and moved out of the house my mom gave each of us our elephant. When the time came for me to leave I refused to take mine. Even as an adult that tiny runt crawled underneath my skin as a reminder of my repression and first brush with discrimination over something I could no more help than I could move the sun, my birth order!

Fast forward a few years and four children later, except for the oldest; my children at one time or another were imprisoned in Couldn’t-land far removed from their older sibling(s) privileged spot and I was growing a greater understanding of family dynamics . One day when I was visiting mom’s, I opened the china cabinet door, and, for the second time in my life; I picked up Ellie, a name she was bestowed with later. Turning her over and looking at my name, I thought about how much protection goes into taking care of the baby of the family (and how we tend to belong to our siblings in a very different way in childhood). The many times my sister or brother sat next to me when I was afraid during a thunderstorm, brought me candy from a birthday party I was too little to go to or comforted me when the adults in the house weren’t acting like adults came to the forefront of my heart. This began the shift in me about what Ellie represented. Ellie went home with me that day and now sits on a shelf that overlooks my dining room table. She has finally gained her rightful place in my life and we are both happier. Occasionally, I glance up to see her staring at me. Gone are those old childhood memories filled with hurt that she was so little, and in their place, a knowing smile. I'm still watched over.

Elephants have been showing up in my life ever since. Like the time I was cleaning out a dear friend’s home after she died. It was one of those hard days when grief had its cold hands around my throat so tight my heart couldn't breathe. I bumped into a wall unit and a tiny ivory elephant that I had never seen before fell into my hands (she's next to Ellie on the shelf now but she is not the only story about this beautiful animal unexpectedly showing up when I needed to be reminded that I'll be okay). The elephant is my totem animal so clearly understood by Native Americans. It represents my personal and spiritual identity and I continue to study its  meaning to better understand myself. Ellie is my constant reminder that there will never come a time when I am afraid, hurting, lonely or lost that I will not have a loving spirit gathering circumstances around me for my guidance, care and protection.

Mona McPherson

Karen

Every Holiday season I’m reminded of Karen, a beautiful soft spoken woman who was addicted to everything involving cats. I was working for the state’s Environmental Services department as a Systems Analyst and had been assigned to replace all our old computers with new ones before the end of the year. My second attempt at catching Karen, an Environmental Scientist, in her office was a success. My eyes darted around the room in full understanding as to why the IT department called her the cat lady; there was not an inch of her office walls that were not covered with funny pictures of cats and kittens. Karen was in a heated personal conversation when she motioned me into her office. It was an uncomfortable moment as I realized the nature of the conversation but Karen covered the phone long enough to say that her boss told her to stop everything when I showed up and let me replace her computer. With apprehension, I pulled the cart in and began unpacking the new Dell. Karen got up from her desk and tucked herself into the corner next to a large window. The sound of the blinds being opened mingled within her painful questions to the voice on the other end of the phone.

The rain that day magnified as Karen began pleading with her husband to not leave her and my heart began to freeze to the floor beneath her desk as I was trying to remove her pc tower. All that came into view was her profile at the window crumbling under his reply. The look on her face answered that question before she said another word. Her husband had been having an affair for months while she cared for her sick mother. He decided to drain all their accounts without paying the utilities or mortgage letting her know that he realized she’d be getting some inheritance; Karen had lost her mom just a couple of weeks before; I knew because I remember the card that went around the office for all of us to sign. Her husband decided that she could catch up on all her bills with that meager amount and any late fees as well, and, find another place to live as he knew she couldn’t afford their home on only her income. Her response was hard and fast explaining some of their shared poor financial decisions along with some very choice words about the way he was leaving her; it was clear she did not agree. The phone slammed down so hard on the receiver that even though I could anticipate it, I still jumped.

Karen sat on the couch across from her desk and quietly fell apart. The old computer was placed on the cart and I sat down at her desk hooking up the new Dell. My pager went off and I needed to call my boss to give an update on my progress. The IT department had dinner plans before we were to go on our two week Holiday break. The phone was still warm from Karen’s hot conversation as I punched in the numbers. When my supervisor answered I stated that I’d not be able to make it due to software loading issues; there were no issues with the software but I couldn’t leave with Karen being so upset. She needed someone, and from her previous conversation, her soft place to fall had just knocked her to her knees as hard as he could. I told Karen that the software would take a while to load and banked on the fact that she didn’t have a clue that I was already done. There was a roll of soft thunder lasting longer than normal as I quietly began my conversation with her. She spoke deeply and without reservation as we discussed her life. Karen knew her most pressing need was to pay the mortgage and utilities to make to the next month and then she’d begin putting her life back together. She asked me at the end of our conversation if I’d let her keep the kitten screen saver that was no longer allowed, I agreed as long as she was discreet. Before leaving for break our office collected more than enough to take care of her mortgage and utility payments and I had put it on my calendar to go visit her the Monday that we all came back.

That Monday morning I was called into my supervisor’s office; I can still smell the burnt coffee leaping out of his cup as he told me that Karen committed suicide and that I would need to go reset her computer. A co-worker unlocked her door choking back tears and telling me the whole department was in shock. The first thing I noticed were the three boxes containing all of Karen's personal items setting on the couch. The only thing not packed was the picture of her and her husband on their last vacation; I turned it face down as I passed it. Turning on Karen's computer, the silly cat pops up and it made me smile, sadly. My mind racing through every inch of our conversation just two weeks before to see what I missed. How could I not know she was suicidal?! Nothing made sense as I logged on and wiped her settings out. Walking over to the window, I grabbed the line and drew the blinds shut that she’d opened for the last time. I’m not sure how long I stood there in her dark office but I remember my confusion and how badly I wanted to know what I had missed.

Karen crossed my life for a brief 3 hours, yet, each Holiday she comes back to remind me to take note of those in my life who are facing challenges this Holiday. There was nothing about Karen that would have led me to believe she was so close to suicide. She was upset, rightly so, and did mentioned that the Holidays would make this harder with it being the first without her mom and now the loss of her husband, but, we truly never know how deeply another person is hurting unless we open ourselves up and dare to ask probing questions. Nor should we assume that a person has a support system of friends and family to lean on. A very simple question about who she has in place to help her through her time of need might have been all it took. Had I known she didn't have anyone, I would have insisted on getting her number and staying in touch those two weeks.

Holiday depression is a very common occurrence! If you know someone who has endured major life changes this year, or, who are simply not acting in their normal way, please, start a conversation--you may be their only lifeline.

National Suicide Prevention Lifeline Phone Number

• 1-800-273-8255

Mona McPherson 

Humble Works

Archived in my mind is a thought about our frantic race into the high-tech world of healing. The instantaneous use of powerful drugs experimenting their way into depleted veins feels blindly offensive. Where is the documentation that proves collateral damage is not being done while we delay departure of a body laboring to stop living?! With privileged witness I understand the world of the dying more than most and feel a kinship in the words of Bishop Spong when he writes, “No one should die alone. No one should seek high tech solutions to medical problems without a community to provide high-touch environment of love.” This statement burrows in my mind as I recall moments before a friend’s death I acquired an impossible feeling that I needed to let down the bed railing and crawl into bed with her. My hesitation to hold her outlasted her life as I debated about “if” that attempt might cause her pain. In hindsight, it revealed itself as a silent conversation between her soul and mine about the care she needed in her last moments. Human reason emptied me of being able to meet that sacred comforting need. As a mother, I recall those tender moments when nothing else would suffice than for me to lay with my feverish child and tuck him or her close to me. It is pure instinct when holding another to stroke the hair or rub the back with meaningful solidarity which, for my sick child, often led to complete relaxation of the body and then into sleep. Would that we could shrink ourselves in needful moments into that kind of maternal love and compassion; the world and its problems would streak across the night and disappear like star. 

The energy generated in purposeful human touch, I believe, houses an elixir for the transition of the body out of this life much like it aids in our instinctive care of a sick child. We can even take it further when dissecting what Mother Teresa said, “Let us touch the dying, the poor, the lonely and the unwanted according to the graces we have received and let us not be ashamed or slow to do the humble work.” The art of humble work weaves its thread into our environment one person at a time. Let us wear our responses with eager hands barred not by discrimination, but, instead; obedient in allowing the soul to guide us through the needs of others. Hold more, hug longer, touch often and bring your heart to life under the theater of the soul. 

Mona McPherson

 

 

 

From Me to You!

                                                                   

If I were sitting across from you today, just us in a quiet room with few distractions perhaps watching the steam from a beverage lifting between us, I would begin like this. I’m not one to tell you how to live your life or what you should believe in, nor are there any places to sign on the terms of my love for you. It is with this in mind that I speak boldly because my intent is pure. There is a matter looming but still so out of view that it can’t be seen with eyes dilated on todays cares. Some have figured it out, but have not been ones to shout it on the street corners wasting it on the roads of hurried minds. Most cannot hear above the whisper of  their cell phones, tablets or laptop computers. The call is light but strong, like a hitchhiker thistle that grabs the jeans without permission in the middle of field and won't let go. The minds that have heard this quiet tap  know of how mighty it clings once its heard.

Your opinion of me matters, but, not to the extent that my silence is required; that would abort my purpose and lay my truth in the dust where NO truth survives for long. This is a certain singular risk for me because the idea hugs the curves of eternity's autobahn and just might make or break this nation. There is a storm that has landed on the shores of humanity, it's deadly. This storm is not in the waters of the sea, it’s in the ocean of our people and encompasses the entire world and its population. It has come as lava inching down the mountain to Pompeii with no force of man or nature able to stop it. Anyone with eyes to see and ears to hear can feel the breath of its heat crawling down the skin of their mind and their souls each day. It wants to evaporate us in our place!

Today we’re just sitting here having a conversation. For a very brief time you're picking up my thoughts to look them over in consideration. No, I’ve not reached my point. You may be tempted to move onto something more entertaining since I haven't, and that's okay, move on if you must. The point I am going to make is not for everyone. It is not for the hurried minds bent on worldly gratifications. We’re always searching for that more important thing to come along. More interesting person, book, movie, youtube clip and idea when the true value of life is in the moment, right now. If you've stayed with me this far you're not thinking about the million things you need to do and all the stress in your life. Your mind is quietly resting, yet, keeping cadence with my words. This moment, void of entertainment, with only words weaving their meaning one strand at a time and holding their breath in the hope that your beautiful soul  will ask them to dance in the auditorium of your heart.

I’m not going to line your mind with sketchy ideas and senseless concepts, what I’m about to say has teeth that can shred complacency with one mighty swipe of the paw. We are designed to know truth! It can be felt as sure as bare feet softly rubbing against our understanding. We have got to make a change, each of us. Not as preppers building an arsenal of food, tools and weapons, but, instead, as people who see the poison of division rise in the waters of this country. What is the message you constantly feed your mind with in your: news, music, movies, words, books, friends and idols? Do these messages uplift, challenge and encourage you--others , or, do they lower your potential to that of being the victim of your circumstances. The world needs more from you to turn this next page!

Those choices won’t always be easy. They will require that you strip from your lives people you care about but who do not support this need for change. There is at this time in our country a great effort to divide us along the lines of race, religion, gender and ANYTHING considered "other"—it’s in our face daily. Please don't let it drag you back from a place you have long been liberated from. I’m not falling for it. And I’m not taking the fall for any crime I cannot own. A house divided cannot stand so how much more a nation of people divided cannot stand? We have not been listening as our apathy has let wisdom be extracted from our schools, our businesses, our communities and our country.


What is the message of Jesus? LOVE! What does this love look like when the covers are pulled back? It is a love that refuses to see the us against them mentality, or, to look upon others as unworthy in ANY way. It's the love that fastens itself to the wheelhouse and stays the course with purpose and commitment to bring kindness and compassion into every corner it possess. It is a love that liberates others from their past crimes and seeks their happiness as desperately as it seeks its own and breeds a better version of the world. Don’t listen to your accusers! Listen to truth and win back your discernment. If we allow the politics of our love to degrade anyone then it must be tossed overboard and reconstructed. We need to build within us a new road to our divine, shared, purpose. One that lifts our families, communities, cities, states, countries and world into a cloud of healing and sweet reconciliation. We must become more other oriented as you would have to be blind not to notice that something is not right in the world today and that we are ripe for an evolutionary or revolutionary change. So. Instead! Store provisions of hope, thirst for wisdom and compassion for your neighbors. Be preppers of virtue! The nation cries out for great men and women to rise out of this nonsense with fresh direction and immoveable character. We need the uncommon leaders to step out of the shadows and lift humanity to its highest self. If we do not do this, NOW, we may have forfeited this GREAT NATION!

My hope is that you fan the virtue within yourself and it fill the voids in your busy life in quiet ways. Allow every person to walk upon the carpets of your compassion and gain the reins of tongue back so that you will be the voice of wisdom in all your interactions. Lay aside idol conversations and bring light in by daring to talk about the significant topics that drape your tables. Within your words speak of HOPE. We are not a nation of fearful people needing to board up our minds. We are  Dream builders with the providential winds of grace. Roll up the sleeves of your will and return to the plow. The time has come to unearth new fields of thought where every tribe of people honor their heritage and allow each tribe to honor their own. Living within the walls of love and acceptance, starting first with our own person; we can expand our desires through the minds of others and create a better version of humanity.


Mona McPherson

"I Am the Bread of Life!"

Deepening my thirst for truth, I climbed atop an idea to revisit my understanding of Jesus and his message to the world, please, do not stop reading just because I mentioned Jesus; this will not be an exegesis of ancient text nor a sermon on the mount. Inspiration has not died with the Bible! Inspiration is an ever evolving animal in the species of the mankind, if, mankind does not abort its need to hunt and gather it freely. God is still inspiring us to grow and find meaning.

Have you made it this far without questioning the life you have, without whittling it down to expose its sweet tender wood and fine mangled threads, or, without breathing in the rich oak of who you really are and why you are here?! No one leaves the world without wandering in the Amazon of their purpose and securing the meaning. If you don’t’ believe me just ask someone in end of life care. I’m sure they will say that they are struggling with their life’s meaning when there is no longer a job to go to, no way to leave the bed, when dignity must take a backseat in personal hygiene and there’s no place to run from the sickle cloaked minutes hanging on the wall. Meaning’s forest is where their feet are planted in each day.

Jesus said, “I am the bread of life,” he was calling us to understand that he was representing the most basic of human needs, meaning. Bread has been the staple in diets throughout history in all the world. The bread we consume today is not the bread whose aroma and simplicity roamed aimlessly through the streets and fields of the past (its mass produced by machines not hands). There’s something about that bread that makes me feel a thin piece of sacredness on the crust of my thoughts. That bread provided strong nutritional value, but, too, the breaking of it provided community (love of others). To make bread is time consuming but the ingredients are bare. This is such a sweet reflection on what Jesus represents to me when he identifies with bread—with being our meaning. Gone is my need for organized religions that murky the waters of his simple message; those religions make Jesus’ bread out of tares and not wheat (they use machines and not human hands). Jesus was expressing that he came to give our lives meaning, and, in our understanding the meaning of our lives; he kneaded into us the ideas that loving others is the true path to meaning. It was made clear that we’re not just loving the loveable. Jesus said that in our growth we would learn to love those that are intolerant, hurtful, pot-stirrers, abusers and the list could go on. If loving others, all others...including homosexuals for those with a more fundamental faith that I once had ... is what brings meaning to us; and lessons that infuse our lives with purpose thus providing a sense meaning, then it would be a worthy endeavor to reflect on if we are practicing this love. It would also behoove us to seek relationships that embody the simplicity of Jesus' message and are not marred with overly crowded divisional language, or, us against them mentalities.

 My new look at Jesus, away from my fundamental past, is inspiring. He becomes who I believe he was always meant to be, an example of love and inclusion. I recall sitting in a church pew, being a Deacon’s wife, and being called for a special vote; it was a vote to vote a member out of the church. That moment has stayed with me. It was the moment that I realized that if there are no conditions to unconditional love, why would we be excluding a member out of our church?! I went home heartsick knowing that I was no better or worse than that member who was voted out, but, I was not brave enough to make a stand. This new Jesus allows me to boldly say that I will no longer pick up the rock of judgement and intolerance toward ANY human no matter what the church or others think the Bible is saying. Meaning for me revolves around the need to stay in my truth. The Bible is an allegorical wonderland that holds a rich history, but, to stop there and say nothing has been inspired since; I think would be foolish especially since everything God created is ever expanding into something new.

Mona McPherson

Love

With its jaws unhinged

It came up from underneath

Seized me away into its deep waters

And  drowned me, blissfully, in thoughts of you

                                                                                                                                   Mona McPherson

"THIS MAN HAS A UTERUS!"

The above statement was actually uttered during the last volunteer orientation class I was teaching but popped into my brain today while I was reading a rather thought provoking book about Christianity. My knee jerk reaction was to laugh, but, instead, I became perplexed. Why on earth is such a statement at the same table with a delicious morsel of thought challenging me to revisit my ideas about Jesus?! And then I remembered the pain meds I took a little bit ago! Yes! I’m sedated! Now it makes sense! It only took three hours at the dentist to unhinge my TMJ issues securing me a spot in bed for the day. The dentist also did a smashing job of evacuating my savings account of a substantial amount of loot (I actually wrote evacuwaiting by accident…LOL!). I suppose if it were a word it would mean a person who does not leave when told to do so. But I digress, I find the uterus statement to be horrifically funny so decided to slice through this rather dense medically induced high and self-imposed isolation to share it with you.

Please understand in this sharing that my mind feels like a Slip and Slide slathered with jello; I thought a healthy rant, or tangent, or squirrel chasing authoric cleansing might just be enough to keep it off the ledge the rest of the day. YUP! I said AUTHORIC! Making up words is coming to me rather easily right now. The official definition of Authoric = A person who has an overwhelming compulsion to slip and slide through the mental jello of their words and invite friends, family and countrymen to come along for the ride. In my world today, because the world is revolving, rather wobbly, around me; you ALL care about this man with a uterus. How do I know? Cause you’re still reading. I shan't leave thou hanging from the Shakespearian branches of wonder over this statement any longer. WARNING! This is not as exciting as a man with gender identification issues whose dealing with phantom body part delusions. DANG IT! That would be much more interesting!!!!! We could make him John Wayne and dress him in hot pink mini skirt, oopps, hold that thought—I gotta go shave his legs. The Duke, with shaved legs, is wearing a hot pink mini skirt with a plaid (white, pink and black) flannel shirt. The shirt is tied in a knot at the waist and nicely matches his shiny black Dingo boots. He’s untying Beau (his horse not his partner) and then does a prissy walk—bum leg and all-- to the barn. No one knows of his obsession over uteruses except Beau (his partner not his horse). You didn't see that coming?! It makes it more interesting to know that John Wayne named his horse Beau when he first fell in love with Beau, but, wasn’t out of the closet yet. John and Beau met at the feed store where Beau works (the horse not the partner—John rents him out to give little kids rides). Beau (the partner not the horse) was driving by one day in his delivery truck…he works for Lovely Loo delivering portable restrooms all over the state. When Beau saw Beau he had to stop because his grandfather used to have a horse with the exact same markings on his legs. John’s heart fell out of his mini skirt (it’s complicated; no, he wasn’t out yet, but, people around the dusty town of Ambiguous, TX suspected due to John's affinity for mini skirts).  It all started when Beau’s hand (I think you know which one) brushed against John’s as he reached for Beau's (again) reins and that’s when John Wayne realized that he had waited his whole life to fall in love with Beau.  

Sorry, I got twisted around in my saddle. The REAL story of the man with the uterus. He was a simple fictitious John Doe who lived a quiet fake-life with a made-up family in a coal-mining town of Bratty Hollow Kentucky (there is no such a place). John (Doe not Wayne) was out shoot'n at some food when he started feeling bloated. His fictitious daughter, Ellie Mae, suggested he see a doctor, and, regrettably, that was when he was diagnosed with end stage uterine cancer, AND, found out he actually had a uterus. Yes my friends, a diagnostic errr may or may not have occurred in this story (not error—I’m in my Ozark dialect to pay homage to John which is harder than it looks when using words like Shakespearian, shan't and thou together in the previous paragraph). Shan't feels a bit bigender to me, like it could just as easily slip into a smoking jacket in the halls of Stratford or wrestle around in daisy dukes deep in the belly of any black lung mine in Kentucky. Hmmm, I didn’t realize bigender wasn’t a word until just now (let me add that to my Monictionary). Back to my real story. We were using John (Doe not Wayne) as an example of the kind of paperwork our volunteers would be receiving about our patients and what they were to look for. It was at this time that one of our brighter students (the politically correct way to say she has OCD) raced ahead of the class-- true to her condition-- and ran aground at John’s unfortunate uterine cancer diagnosis which prompted her to bellow out, “THIS MAN HAS A UTERUS!” The class erupted. I’m sure fictitious John (Doe not Wayne) would have had a belly laugh over that had he not succumbed to his disease last August, may John (Doe and Wayne) rest in peace.

By now you’re probably wondering WHAT drug is this woman on!! I don’t know! But if it gives me words like: Monictionary, Authoric, Evacuwaiting, Bigender and lets me shave The Duke’s legs all in the same story … IT’S SOME REALLY HIGH END STUFF!

Mona McPherson

The Gift

The church sits at a skinny beach town corner resting nicely against its unassuming frame; I’ve passed by it before never realizing it was there amid the moss covered trees and leaning neighborhood. The United Church of Christ in New Smyrna Beach was my destination this morning for no other reason than a clear desire to hear a friend preach. Vonshelle and I have worked together for over a year and have recently discovered another level to our friendship which involves thoughtful conversations and an affinity to personal growth. There are so many joys in new and old relationships but what I most appreciate in the beginning is the layers of the story that bring the personality to life one page at a time. My appreciation for resonance with others matters, deeply; below the day in and day out of our lives is where the excavation of meaning begins. People who share their being-ness as completely as Vonshelle are as treasures to collect for sacred places that relax the soul with depth and intentional thought.

The parking lot was filling up with faithful members and I wondered about the last time I had even attended a church service; flashbacks to how deeply rooted I was in the Southern Baptist church took notice of my fleeting apprehension but my companion, Kathy, another friend of Vonshelle’s, and, another one of the treasures in my life, pulled me into soft introductions. The smiling faces of this church family all emoted a sincere welcome and I found myself letting go of the initial tenseness that shadows me when I step into new experiences. The analyst in me can get overwhelmed when all the information breaking through is new. Everything and everyone commanded the space we were in as we walked between the Chapel and its counterpart building that was reserved for socialization. But my eyes raced ahead of our gait once they saw the images lifting from the etched glass doors and they traced each line carefully. Being a visual person my tendency is to seek out the beauty in  everything surrounding me and these doors that led into the Chapel were certainly framed in beauty. They opened deeply and poured themselves over my soul with a warm awareness of the creativity that is lacking in my life. As we stepped through them into the foyer, the walls and the wood breathed the sounds of worship so sacred that I was tempted to take off my shoes as the Native Americans do when needing to connect fully from sole to soul. My attempts to ignore the embrace of this space as I wrote my name on the visitor label,  were in vain; so I welcomed the surge of gratitude that was building inside me and managed to keep my shoes on.

Kathy and I were settling into our place when a child appeared with a post-it note pad and tearing two pieces off instructed us to write down what the word peace meant to us. She went on to explain that we’re going to affix these post-it notes on a cross sometime during the service. Kathy secured a pen from her purse and then paused in mid air unsure and debating between using one word or a litany. The seriousness of her gaze caught my attention so I poked fun of her over-thinking until she stated that my note contained as much thought as hers. Peace? What does peace mean to me?! I now found myself couched on Kathy’s dilemma and struggling just the same with a perplexed gaze. It suddenly became harder than I realized to think of what peace meant to me but I managed something mildly profound and set the post-it down next to me as I began to bring my heart into stillness. Vonshelle’s significant other, Lissette, joined us as the service began. She is the newest person on the scene in my life and has quickly gained an honored spot due to her unique ability to bridge the gap between many theologies, and along with her affinity to study a broad stroke of topics; she is a dynamic conversationalist.

“Just Peace.” Vonshelle quickly made the point that the “JUST” was to signify “JUSTICE.” She went into her sermon with a degree of sincerity that is truly refreshing. She spoke about the injustices facing the world with violence against, and the targeting of, specific communities of people with so many police shootings of African American males, and, too, by civilians like what happened at The Pulse Nightclub. Her words were not collecting in a stagnate pool of separateness, but flowed unencumbered by such an idea into the greater understanding of our oneness. She was cherishing the fact that ALL LIVES MATTER! Injustice, however, cannot be tolerated if we are to have true peace in our communities and our lives. The silence of justice is condoning the very acts that are costing lives. Vonshelle challenged us to be the voice of justice—to be the peacemakers but thoughtfully so. We can create change but not with our silence. We must bring the voice of justice into each dark corner of our life no matter how small the encounter we face.

At the closing of the service the members of this church line the walls holding hands and sing, “Let There Be Peace on Earth.” Although I didn’t know the words to the song; I joined hands with my friends and watched a whole congregation do the same. The moment brought in old feelings of hope that the world is still housing those quiet souls who desire unity, peace and love. After the song, Kathy and I made our way into the line to greet Vonshelle on our way out. A small group of three was before us speaking with her about how welcomed they felt as I silently nodded in agreement. My eyes wondered aimlessly around the Chapel as we were waiting and began taking in its cozy warmth and friendly faces. It was then that I realized the degree of my own gratitude for coming and how blessed I was for the new friends in my life.


It was a simple wish, to hear a friend preach, but, I didn't realize; I was actually giving myself a gift. A moment in the Kindom. Kathy would enlighten me today about this new word I learned. She said that it was about family (kin) connections. We often use terms like the Kingdom of Christ but this word feels more appropriate, the Kindom of Christ. I LOVE the word! We all need avenues of connection and fellowship with others to grow in our service and love. It is my belief that the greatest growth of the soul occurs in relationships and that making time for fellowship, friends and community is paramount to your spiritual well-being and personal growth.


The whole day was my gift to me.


Mona McPherson

 

 

Why

They are stacked 5 bins deep in my front room, my mother’s clothes and shoes. Cindy and I were summoned by dad a few weeks ago to help clear out what she can no longer use and make room for other necessities that end of life care requires. I’ve tried twice to go through them and separate the ones in the best condition to donate. My mom, however, was meticulous about what she wore so much so that she made all her clothes until just a few years ago. It was no surprise that I’ve only found a shirt and a pair of pants with bleach stains that have my dad’s name written all over them; his struggle with the technology and my mother's care has made for several hilarious moments between me and my siblings. 

I can’t seem to let them go. It’s as though I’m being watched by eyes that reach across my memories and pull from their closets the visions of mom in each item. I’m becoming a professional at refolding and replacing them right back where they had rested. My thoughts have wrestled me to the ground again this early morning and sit across the width of my reason wanting to know why. Why can’t I let go? She will not return to my world and reclaim them. Each day brings evidence that barring a miracle this woman who now wears adult diapers and cannot do anything for herself is not going to hop out of bed one day and throw open her closet door and yell, "WHERE THE HELL ARE MY CLOTHES!" Still, I stare at them with wishful eyes-eyes that no longer remember how she was unless a weathered photo pulls its windows open and blows her through my mind.

There have been justifiable moments when I wished she had gone quickly and unannounced. Instead, the invitation to her decline came stamped with my RSVP and even though I didn’t want to attend this event, I'm here. This new role of caregiver is the hardest role I've played in the relationship with my mom. End stage dementia has cleared the roads of her memories out of her mind and left her with broken words and sporadic thoughts. There actually was a recent day that made me severely question my desire that she left sooner. The day she threw me a curve ball when she laughed and called me Charlie Brown. It was the nickname she bestowed on me at such a tender age that I was thoroughly concerned when starting First Grade how long my name might be on the page (Ramona Ann Charlie Brown Willis). It’s funny to me now but it was very serious business at the time. One day I marched up to my mom to share my angst at possibly being laughed at for such a long name, not to mention the extra time I had to carve out to write it correctly. My mom laughed and then explained that it was a nickname and not my real name. As relieved as a 6 year old with a normal size name could be, I went outside to enlighten my playmates about how nicknames aren't real.

“Why mom?” I caught myself asking and asking again. “Why did you choose that nickname for me?” She mumbled something about green sheets and cucumbers that some man had lost indicating that my answer would not be coming around the corner to meet me that day. Cindy thinks it might be because of my brown eyes but I’m not satisfied with the simplicity of that reason. I’m a person fixated on the complicated and hidden meaning in everything. There must be some great life-altering reason she was so compelled to call me that. If I could only crack the code. It can’t be because I lacked the ability to punt a football. Paul and I played with the neighbor kids for hours and I was always his first pick … except for the time he picked Alan first, but, we were all tired of Alan being dead last, especially when it made him teary. It can’t be because I had a beagle dog, I had a silver tabby cat. It can’t be because I was a boy with a big head who didn’t like to change shirts, I obviously wasn’t. But that nickname stuck with me my whole childhood. When I reached Middle School, thanks to my brother’s coaching methods in football, I began to excel at other sports. Mom told me once that she felt like a celebrity after my games because kids and parents would come up to her and ask if she were Charlie’s mom.  By then the nickname wrestled itself free from needing two names and tied itself to the back pocket of my life. It stayed there until my first crush. At that point the need to untie the boyish nickname became paramount and I regained my given name.

I’ve not thought about that nickname in decades. When my mom said it, I fell straight through a trapdoor and splashed into the pool of my inner child. It took me back to that one short season in my childhood when my mom and I were close. It was her father’s suicide that took her away from me the first time, and, now, it's the strokes that are killing off her brain one inning at a time. The reason behind this nickname has become yet another item I should have secured from her memories before she left the game. 


I'm left to sort through her clothes and it just dawned on me that maybe it's really the memories contained in their fabric that still smell like her that will not allow me to let them go.

Mona McPherson

 

 

On Being a Writer

Writers live in the wilderness of their own minds, a world where the thickets of words becomes the most delightful entanglement of all existence. They walk for hours past streams and brooks turning over ideas that others hurriedly pass. The world out here stands as Pompeii with its shadows and ashes, but, the world within a writer peels away a delicate warm truth; writers were born to brush the soul’s heart with the quills of thought. Some go on to leave a legacy for the world to read and reread while others get stuck in this silent forest and its purposeful steps.

It's not that they desire to write volumes of thoughts to store up in bottles that need dusting or casting out to sea. It's more that their blood would atrophy and break off in their veins if they didn't. Writers write to live, thus, live to write. The non-writers in their lives do not understand this dichotomy. They thoughtlessly throw stones at their solitude and rush to haul them back into the real world. The balance isn't easy. Most days are spent on a tightrope grasping to the pole of reason barely keeping their feet in one world or the other. It would be a more harmonious existence if writers chose writers in relationships. Gone would be the need to explain why writing a couple of pages took half the day or that eating was optional. It would be common knowledge that it's not polite to poke a writer when he or she stares off into space to make sure they’re still breathing. Writers would be free to climb the inner trees and leisurely watch their ideas break off and float down onto the page. Yes, they also might forget to go to work or pay the mortgage but that kind of reason would be lost in a relationship between writers.

Writers do not waste their words in conversations; they fold and tuck them into safer corners but do not take their scarcity for lack of love for you or an unwillingness to share. You would be overwhelmed at the David their words would sculpt of you from the white stones of this inner world. It's out of compassion that they hold back and not risk your believing that they’ve stepped over sanity's ledge into hyperbole. Be kind to them. Give them ample moments to wander into these woods for their pens are dipped in the ethereal and they scribe a braille wind blowing through a blind world. They desire to share what they have heard when they can capture your full attention.

Mona McPherson

Jenga Ninja

Another dinner out with Cindy proves informative and conversationally stimulating. We had been discussing how in the past she would know a roommate was a match for her and it centered on the scientific calculations of spacial adherence. Cindy was compatible only with a person that allowed her the freedom to move about the planet unencumbered by expectations, and, that said person, must agree to abide by the division of space never once to encroach upon hers without permission. This prompted her to suggest there should be a specific word for the kind of anger that is elicited by space invaders so we kicked around a few generic ideas before landing on space-gry. As Cindy spoke of her conditions, I imagined those negotiations with potential roommates lasting months because, like Moses, her commandments were carved in stone and just finding a mountain in Florida for her do any needed rewrites would be problematic. As her first roommate this took me back. 

Inclinations of her condition were unearthed in my formative years when we shared a room; I’m using the term “shared” loosely because, to share, would imply equal agreement on the utilization of space availability. This was not my experience as the youngest. Our room looked like a drunken bamboo quartered off a spec of land east of the north window on a single tile and stuck a flag in the ground with my name on it. Like a Jenga Ninja; I was expected to stack and pack my belongings within that tiny space while hers sprawled out leisurely across the vastness of the rest of the room daring to throw snarky looks at me. So complicated was her construction of this your zone vs my zone division that my dad had to install a pulley system to the ceiling so that not even a foot of mine would touch the sacred ground of her real-estate. Anything belonging to me that dare cast a shadow onto the Queen’s abode would be tossed into the River Styx never to return from purgatory. Space-gry indeed, just ask my Jane West doll whose left boot spur eked unintended over the imaginary perimeter. She was snagged, bagged and tagged and on her way to level one as the rest of the carefully stacked items looked on in terror and admiration. Cindy’s strategic excavation of Jane, whose position was middle left center on the tower, was most impressive.  Without even a wobble Jane was gone. My only solace to her greedy takeover of “our” room was to scale my tiny tile tower and perch myself atop dreaming of the day when I were free from my tile cell.

 The things that jar the memory into the shuttle back in time are often the most unexpected; a simple conversation at the Chicken Pantry and my childhood bubbles to the surface.  Although I can look back on this time now understanding that firstborns have all the power in childhood, and, can appreciate the lesson of hierarchy; I’m sure this first brush with privileged society lodged in my psyche and made me unconsciously strive for better conditions in life; it makes the study of birth placement and personality a very interesting topic. My roommate now has no such requirements of me and I enjoy my spoil of our room. Rest assured, however, I shan’t retire my Jenga Ninja outfit hastily. In secret I still feel the need to practice the unique skill sets I learned from childhood. God just might have the last laugh by sticking Cindy and I in the same room at an Assisted Living Facility and I insist on being prepared this time.

 

A Change of Heart

Last night was my first World AIDS Day celebration. I was invited by my co-worker who has fast become a wonderful new friend. Her name is Kathy and her brother’s coming out many years ago changed the landscape and direction of her life. She is now a leader in the community co-founding a group dedicated to the education of friends and family of the LGBT community. Her story is just as inspirational as she is; the more I get to know her, the more depth she brings to my own understanding of the meaning of compassion for alternative lifestyles.

The celebration was stationed at Our Lady of Lourdes Catholic Church in Daytona Beach. It was there that we joined a tide of people in front of the image of Mary standing in cave like structure, a child at her feet praying to her. The night was lit by candles which became part of the theme of one of the speakers who equated the light of each candle to represent the light of God on the canvas of ignorance. This speaker was a woman who has been living with AIDS for 25 years. Her courage to give an audience to her struggle was more than admirable; “the stigma still remains,” she said! Although it is not as raw as it was in the 80’s when just the word could have people in a fear frenzy. Kathy shared with me her own concerns about her brother during this time and how she could understand those concerns. Her words made the night more personal for me.

After the speakers were finished the priest walked us to the Halifax river, the waves of moving candles flickering down the sidewalk as we walked were impressive and had me thinking about the many people around me. So many lives touched by this disease, still. We ended up at a large gazebo out on the water with everyone packed around each other. Kathy’s name was called out several times as she knew many people there who wanted to say hello. One man walked up to her and gave her a big hug and when she introduced me to him, he scooped me up in his arms as if we were long lost friends. His name was Jeff Allen. At that point there was an invitation for anyone there to speak about a loved one who passed from this disease. Many tossed their loved ones names gently out into the crowd with stories that made it easy for me to imagine that they floated out to sea as each family shared. Other names remained close to the vest; the loss too new or too powerful for them to untie to be let go of just yet. The Rabbi then gathered us up again for the walk back to the church.

Once there we found a seat and waited for the panel of interfaith speakers and a gay man to begin. The gay man was Jeff Allen who turned out to be instrumental in the church's outreach program to the LGBT community. The most touching moment was when Jeff spoke about his parents and how he knew so many families that disowned their children when they came out; his voice cracked with emotion as he spoke of receiving nothing but love from his mom and dad. My heart found itself weeping for those so harshly cast aside, and, thankful that Jeff had such a supportive family.

The night brought my life full circle. Being raised a Southern Baptist steeped in extreme conservatism; I was front row to many services throughout my life that spate out just how this wickedness was ruining our country; the sermons were always laced with the caveat, “love the sinner but hate the sin,” yet, the words were tight with hypocrisy. Love cannot contain judgement ... it is inclusive and compassionate.

Kathy would tell me later that the gentleman who hugged me, Jeff, had Aids. I’m thinking this morning that Jeff has more love and compassion in his pinky finger than most Christians I know today.

It was a beautiful night with a beautiful friend and I received a beautiful hug from an HIV positive gay man named Jeff Allen. This is a memory I won't soon forget.

Mona McPherson

What Love Does

I was observing a class that my upstairs assistant was conducting and making mental notes on the group when a rather large man in a nice business suit just outside the door caught my eye. He was pressed against the wall of the TV room fidgeting with the change in his pocket unable to hide his discomfort with being on the lockdown ward. By the looks of his clothing and disposition he could have been a lawyer returning from closing arguments or businessman buying up a trillion dollar parcel of land. His soft eyes were fixed on our new resident who was seated in a wheelchair picking at his shirt and roaming in and out of his emotions with a heightened agitation. This resident had erupted twice with a violent attack on two nurses and a maintenance man who were now consumed with trying to restrain him. The last nurse was punched so hard that I thought he knocked her out so I exited the room to take her place in the struggle to get him under control. It took 5 of us secure him the wheelchair and almost an hour to wear down his resolve.


The large man in the nice suit walked up to our patient once he calmed down and tried to engage him in conversation, "Do you know who I am?" His voice swimming deep in uncertainty lined up that question again and again but each attempt was with a vacant drug induced stare falling limp with lethargy and exhaustion. The new resident pushed away from the man in annoyance. Unable to process what he should do the large man eased off the wall and walked closer. "It's me… Jim!" The man in the wheelchair was following his own thoughts and did not reply. "We've been best friends for twenty years, remember?" I drew a deep breath in empathy as I didn't mean to be riffling through a conversation that didn't belong to me but the safety of the patient and our staff kept me perched close enough to hear every word. My own thoughts wondered what must it feel like to share your life, love, secrets, beliefs and dreams with your best friend for twenty years and then to be wiped from their hearts in less than a second in a head on collision that killed his wife and left him brain damaged. To look into the same eyes that used to reach into your soul and drag out the very best of you buried under all your own doubts and wash you clean with the declaration "THIS is who I see in you!" And now those eyes fall blind in a mind that no longer lives.

The man in the nice suit stayed and we both watched that afternoon stretch into a hard 2 years. He left quite the impressions on me as I watched his love hoist his best friend up onto the shoulders of their new one-sided relationship. His care continue uninterrupted and without reciprocity until his friend passed away.


How often are our relationships hinged on what we are receiving from others and not in what we have to offer them. This man redirected my life into one that selects friends very thoughtfully knowing that he has set the bar in my life for what I'm willing to do once I call you friend.  


Mona McPherson

Reminders

The morning was slow and muffled by the sound of rain as I pulled the covers over my head thinking I might sleep in, but no. There was an instant call to get up and go for a walk on the beach which is only 15 minutes from my home. The last time I had been to walk the beach early in the morning, I found the body of a 24 year old man who just the day before decided with his brother to brave the rough seas of a tropical storm for a quick swim. He lost his life. The site of him facedown, his shirtless tan back and long black hair waving in the waves tossed an anchor in my mind to the exact spot he was found. I had not been back to that spot or for a morning walk since. Still, this call would not let me go. I thought about how this has stood in my way for so long since I used to love walking the beach at dawn. The odds of me finding another body are slim to none and my depriving myself of this joy is only handing me out limits on myself. I released the control and got dressed.

 

As soon as I pulled up to the stairs leading down to the sand, the rain gave up leaving a completely deserted beach for me and one crusty fisherman. Taking the last step on the stairs I looked both ways making sure nothing was floating in the water. With the all’s clear sign waving I hopped off the step and breathed in the sea air embracing my long lost friend. Feelings of thankfulness soon lined the walls of my cranium like dusty wallflowers. 2015 was my comeback year after losing my voice in 2014—Facebook had sent me a reminder of that memory asking if I’d like to repost it on my wall, no thank you, but how soon I forgot about being locked within my own asylum. There is no way to be in the world without speaking, I thought, so I wasn’t as much as possible. I wasn’t until a long awaited surgery gave me back my voice. Gratitude began to pipeline into a warm wave picking my thoughts up off the sand and I can’t be sure I’ve touched down yet but the ride is what I needed. I lived through it and thankfulness danced within me that morning as I thought about how it would be nearly impossible for me to care for my mom the way I need to with me not being able to communicate with her.

 

A chilled wind blew through me casting up the white foam and sprays of water, the jacket I forgot to bring laughed at me from the dinning room chair; I bid my walk goodbye and headed for my SUV. Swinging by a drive threw I grabbed a warm to drink and was headed to my favorite spot in The Loop. The Loop is one of the most incredible motorcycle rides in our area and I have such fond memories of taking those turns on my bike and being ambushed by something new in Florida’s beauty with every ride I made. My sweet spot is nestled in curve with a pull off spot favored by fisherman and artist for its beauty. On my way to this glorious place my plans were arrested by a whisper reminding me of the Labyrinth a friend took me. It wasn’t too far away and although I’ve been there three times, I’ve not been able to walk it. The religion of my past stands as a Centurion in my way crossing its massive arms and lodging its big foot in the crevasses of my ideology. The weight reminding me to be careful but something was different. I stood at the arrows edge demanding that those things leave my life; I’m too powerful to be stopped by a ghost no matter how ginormous he seems to be. He’s the Centurion of ideology past. I took a deep breath and walked right through him. My thoughts quickly surrendering to my heart’s opening and there the lesson of faith bloomed.

 

Louise

He is taking me away for the weekend so that I can catch my breath; this big hearted man with his 20 year old work boots tells me as prepares to go outside and build me that shelf I’ve been wanting in the laundry room. I’ve barely looked into his sweet blue eyes for weeks now but this morning we both took off to handle some unexpected business.  So much has happened this week and continues to happen that it seems it’s never a good time to get away but he made a plan and I’m so thankful that he did.

 

As he gets up to leave the room I say, “What about Louise?” he stops letting go of the door knob to return to the end of the bed and begins to tell me his progress with the 1966 Chevelle project; if there is one thing this man loves to do---it’s talk about Louise. The guy who is redoing the body should come at the end of the month and take it off the frame and then he tells me that he will begin to work on the frame itself; he then stops in mid-thought to look at me. “I know”, I say; and we both laugh as I tell him I understand the frame will remain in the garage and that I can’t park my car in there, still. This has been an ongoing discussion between us as I remind him often that he promised me when we bought this house that I would be able to park in the garage—something that eludes me still due to our decision to go get Louise who had been parked at his mom’s house for years. But I wouldn’t give anything for the memories of that long cold trip to Arkansas to go get her. I think that’s the most we’ve ever laughed together and it still brings a smile to my face.

 

Our conversation continued and I asked him how he will feel when she’s done. There was a long pause causing me to watch him thinking and then he said, “The first time I turn the engine over when she’s completely done is going to be a HUGE deal and very emotional for me.” His words begin to build with meaning and his eyes tear as he stopped before continuing, “I’ve thought about this car for 20 years, imagined bringing her back to her original self and dreamed of the day when she’d be exactly what I remember when I was five years old and riding it her with my grandparents.” The whole room paused as he thought and then added, “The boys have each made suggestions to me that I would have never thought about on my own but that will add something new so their input will be in the car as well making it even more special to me.” We talked a bit more about how long it might take and some interior ideas the shop had given him about going with leather and adding creative stitching to make the seats standout. As I half listened to the specifics of it all my eyes kept admiring those beautiful eyes of his and my heart sat down to ponder how much this car means to him.

 

I’ve barely looked into his sweet blue eyes for weeks now as life has pulled us in a million directions. We’ve not had a casual conversation all year---most of what we’ve had to discuss has been so hard and heavy. But not today! One quick question about his favorite subject and I was pulled into a real moment with the man I’ve been in love with for decades. His idea of going away this weekend is becoming more and more exciting. We need this break! Today he has made me realize that life needs to go on even when the journey gets hard. I’m glad he’s still a part of my journey and his grandparents would be so proud of him and his project.

 

Tag, you’re it! I challenge you to ask a meaningful question to at least one person in your life today.

 

The Last Conversation with Mom

I stopped by mom’s yesterday to see how her new anxiety medication and found myself in the interesting topic below.

 

Mom: Were we discussing Holidays?

Me: I think they mentioned something about Mother’s Day on TV.

Mom: Father’s Day should be on the Devil’s birthday.

Me: WHAT?

Mom: Don’t we celebrate the Devil’s birthday?

Me: I’m not aware of the Devil having a holiday.

Mom: We have Christmas and Easter for Jesus but when is the Devil’s Day?

Me: Hmmmmm…. don’t know that the Devil gets a day.

Mom: We could combine Father’s Day with Devils Day

Me: Why would we want to do that?

Mom: DEVILS ARE FATHER’S TOO—YA KNOW!

Me: Okay.

Mom: Do Devils have children?

Me: I’m not sure what do you think?

Mom: Why on earth did you bring up such a ridiculous topic?

Me: I don’t know.

Mom: I swear sometimes I think you are all losing your minds.

Me: Yes, mom, I agree.

Mine and Thine

Mine, love, flowed lifeless

barely beating 

Ebbing existence’s shores

Thirsty to be known

 

Thine, love, life's breath

Breathing

Waving from the sea

Eternal meaning

--Mona McPherson