At my age (I’m a proud 57), I and many of my contemporaries are dealing with aging parents. With age comes hearing loss, and, although I haven’t practiced audiology (MA in audiology, University of Memphis, 1984) in 22 years*, I do still remember a thing or two about hearing impairment and its impact on individuals and their loved ones.
To that end, I offer these tips on how to help your hearing impaired friends and relatives continue to feel included in family and group activities.
Understand that hearing aids are not a panacea. Yes, they do amplify sounds, but they do not return hearing to normal. Even with a hearing aid, a hearing impaired person will not be able to understand speech in a situation that is full of background noise. Think of this when you’re cranking up the background music — you’re essentially excluding your hearing-impaired loved one from the conversation. It’s worth it to forego the music to make your friend or relative feel included.
Make the extra effort. It’s not easy for them to follow your conversation, but they are trying. You’ll have to try too. Show them how important they are to you by ensuring that you’re looking at them when you speak. Don’t raise your voice; that just distorts the sound and the movement of your lips and makes it more difficult for them to understand. Speak clearly and don’t mumble; make sure you’re facing them. Take the time to be sure they understand — they’re worth it.
Never tell them, “Oh, it’s nothing.” That signals that it’s just too much trouble to help them understand and further isolates them. Fill them in, in a way they can understand.
Don’t get impatient or irritated with them. They can no more help their hearing loss than you can change the color of your eyes. One day you’ll be old and maybe you won’t hear so well either. You owe them your patience.
Be empathetic. Try to walk a mile in their shoes. Imagine if you were in a room of people and could barely understand what was being said. How would you feel? Don’t berate them; help them as you would an elderly relative who can’t stand for a long time.
Understand. Sometimes they may get tired of trying to hear and zone out. Have you ever attended a lecture by a speaker with a heavy foreign accent? It’s mentally exhausting to listen and try to interpret the speaker’s words. Hearing-impaired folks sometimes feel the same way and need a break. Be understanding if they zone out for a bit because they need the mental rest.
Loving care and compassion go a long way to help an older relative feel vital and loved. Yes, our world moves quickly, but if you don’t slow down for your elders, you’ll miss a lot of love and wisdom. And that’s a damned shame.
*I did practice audiology for 11 years, and spent many of those years working with older hearing-impaired patients and their families.
He loved the lake, and he loved the Cardinals. And he loved me so well.
I miss him a lot in the summertime. Baseball season.
Busch Stadium II. The Bottlecap. Baseball Heaven.
The seats were red and they were so hot in July. Yes, St. Louis is north of Arkansas and Tennessee, they get more snow in the winter, but it gets darned scorching hot in the summer. We had excellent seats, which meant we were very close to the 120-degree turf and there was no chance of shade. I was nine, maybe 10. I didn’t really care how hot it was. I made sure to sit next to him because I wanted to hear him explain what was happening on the field. He told me about throwing around the horn, taught me to fill out a scorecard, and corrected me when I got confused and wrote five instead of six for the shortstop.
I remember the loud “whack” that made me jump when Bob Gibson’s fastball hit Ted Simmons’ mitt as they warmed up before the game. We got there early to watch batting practice and get autographs and I didn’t want to miss one moment.
I watched Gibson warm up from about 10 feet away. I’m not sure how long I stood there watching, but I can’t imagine myself leaving that scene voluntarily. In the 1960s, there wasn’t an MLB At Bat app, nor a smart phone, so I found out that Gibson, my favorite pitcher, was taking the mound when we got to the ballpark.
That’s Hank Aaron kneeling on deck at Busch II
Dal Maxvill played a pretty good shortshop, but he could not hit. Steve Carlton still pitched for the Cardinals, and Joe Torre played the infield. The outfield was Brock, Flood, and Maris. Pitchers often pitched complete games, and no one talked about pitch counts.
Brock batted leadoff. When he got on base, Daddy would point to him and tell me to watch while his lead off first base grew until he finally ran, blazingly fast, to second base, safe, while the crowd roared.
Yes, it’s baseball, but it’s so much more — I know what it meant to him, and I remember how thrilled I was to share it. I think of the passions of mine that I’ve shared with my girls — some of them silly, and some important. We laugh at inside jokes, share funny stories and memories that others can’t appreciate.
I’m so grateful my Daddy shared his love for baseball with me, and for the many hours we spent watching, whether in St. Louis, or at home on our TV on Sunday afternoons. We always listened to the Cardinals on AM radio on the way home from the lake on Sundays.
Not too long ago, Jim and I were in the car while the Cardinals were playing. He was searching for the XM station where they broadcast the games. I told him, no, we had to listen on AM — the sounds I remember from my childhood, when I knew Daddy was at the wheel, the Cardinals were on the radio, and all was right with the world.
I’ve always believed in miracles. I’ve known some really big ones in my family.
Big miracles are like the fireworks on the Fourth of July — they make an instant impression amid the ooohs, and ahhhs, and the jaws that drop. Small miracles are different; they give us joy when life is easy and good, and peace and comfort when things aren’t quite going our way.
Our small miracle this summer has been in these flowers. In April, I planted my usual three to four flats of impatiens, in red and white; caladiums, fuschias, New Guinea impatiens and some ferns. In May, we had to cut down a huge tree in the middle of our yard, the very tree that provided the shade for my flower bed. As my once-shady spot was now receiving several hours of full afternoon sun, I held out little hope that my plants would continue to flourish.
I’ve been proven wrong. Here’s Exhibit A. In these 99 – 100-degree temperatures here in South Hell Memphis in August, these babies have somehow survived. In fact, they’ve done better than my tomatoes, which are withering in the heat. This container is at the back corner of the bed, and gets the most direct heat. And now, in mid-August in Memphis, they still bloom. I’m going with miracle. These flowers are not supposed to be alive, let alone blooming.
These impatiens are the ones who have borne the brunt of the July and August afternoon sun. A little leggy, but I think they’re doing darn well considering.
This is the shadier side of the bed, but these plants still get more sun than they like. And still bloom.
It hasn’t been the best of summers for us, but this yard remains, as always, a sanctuary from stress and struggle. A quiet place where the birds sing so loudly you sometimes wish they would tone it down a bit. Where our dogs run and chase sticks and the other dogs they hear behind the fence. On our (at least) 10-year-old patio table I’ve set many a glass of wine, numerous books, and held too many outdoor work sessions on my laptop to count.
See the hanging ferns? They just do not do sun. At least not normally, but this year, in my garden …
It’s not perfect by any means; Southern Living won’t be scheduling the photo shoot any time soon. But it’s ours. And, really, impatiens in afternoon sun in August? Miracle.
The day winds down as Jim puts chicken on the grill.
Don’t believe in miracles? That’s your prerogative. As for us, we’ll just keep enjoying our garden.
I attended a Catholic school in first and second grade, a perfectly fine school. However, in Jonesboro, Arkansas at that time it was the only private school, and 99 percent of all of the children went to the public schools in town. They were creatively named North, South, East, and West, and I desperately wished I could attend one of them. I hated being different.
Our Lady of Jonesboro Catholic School* was small, with only one class in each grade, taught by nuns from the adjacent convent. I can only describe myself as possibly the worst Catholic school student in history.
Each morning we went to chapel. Girls were required to wear a veil on their heads, and I was fascinated with the many different designs and colors available. My parents probably spent a fortune on them, because no matter how hard I tried I couldn’t keep up with a chapel veil to save my poor scatterbrained soul. Thankfully, our teacher, Sister Ann*, kept a supply of extras for girls who had no veils, but I’m pretty sure I depleted her stock a couple of times that year, which did nothing to endear me to Sister Ann.
Sister Ann just didn’t like me, no matter what I did — I’m pretty sure I knew that, even at six. She didn’t like that I couldn’t keep up with my chapel veil, and she didn’t like that I didn’t like milk.
After my first day of school at Our Lady of Jonesboro, I knew I was in trouble and that first grade was going to be a long year. Apparently Sister Ann thought it was very important for little first graders to drink their milk. All of it. And lunch came with one of those small milk cartons that sat squarely in the very special milk-carton-shaped space in the lunch tray. I still hate those things.
Sister Ann would stand at the cafeteria’s exit, next to the trash can where all of the good children threw their empty milk cartons. The good children would crumple the top of their milk cartons into the bottom, signifying to Sister Ann that it was empty. She would look at them and smile and nod as they threw away their empty cartons and ran out to play. Good, nice, milk-drinking children.
I knew I’d be in trouble if she caught me with a full milk carton, so I would wait and watch for her to become distracted, then bolt to the door, pitch the milk and leave. But more often than not I was stuck at the door with Sister Ann. She would pick up my milk carton, shake it, and send me back to my seat to drink my milk. No smile. No nod. I tried to bash in the top to make it look empty, but they don’t bash all that well when they are mostly full. Once I tried just telling Sister Ann that I didn’t like milk. I was sent back to my seat to drink it anyway.
I began to develop strategies for disposing of the milk. By the second week of school, it dominated my entire lunch, as I searched out other kids who might drink my extra milk. As my welcome wore out with one group, they would finally tell me they were sick of drinking my milk, so I would move on in search of true milk lovers. No time for socializing, I had work to do. I had to get rid of that milk.
Soon I got the idea to mix the milk in with uneaten food. This meant I had to leave food uneaten, so there were a lot of hungry afternoons in school. Spaghetti was especially good for soaking up extra milk, and the rolls looked good, but I only used them for milk sponges.
I realize how obsessive this sounds; but the fact that I remember these thought processes means I had far too much anxiety as a six-year-old. I spent my entire first grade year in dread of lunchtime. All morning I’d be sick with worry over how I would deal with the milk and avoid Sister Ann’s reprisal. Then after lunch I could relax, only to do it again the next day.
I’m not sure why I never told my parents about the milk anxiety; I’m sure they would have done something to help. They weren’t milk drinkers either, and my dad really didn’t think it was that good for you. But I didn’t tell, and I spent my first year of school unnecessarily miserable about lunch. I made few friends because I spent lunchtime table hopping to find takers for my milk. I probably didn’t learn a thing in the classes before lunch, preoccupied as I was by lunch anxiety.
I also remember feeling that I didn’t fit in; everyone else liked milk, why didn’t I? What was wrong with me? Sister Ann sure thought something was wrong. I remember wishing I could just like milk and be like everyone else. And I wished I could go to public school like everyone else, where I was pretty sure there wouldn’t be a Sister Ann.
I was thankful when the year ended, and even more thankful when my second grade teacher turned out not to be a nun, but a lovely woman named Mrs. Garfunkel* whom I admired greatly. And Mrs. Garfunkel didn’t care about milk.
This dumb little story tells me a lot about myself; it at least partially explains why I still feel like I never fit in anywhere. We never know the full extent of the demands we make on children, and the impact it can have. I’m not blaming Sister Ann for all of my issues, but in her stubborn insistence on my drinking milk, she planted a seed in me: that I was a screwup who couldn’t remember her chapel veil, and a bad girl because I didn’t like milk.
We never know what the children in our lives are miserable about and don’t tell us. But I think the lesson is that we need to be very careful that the hills we choose to die on are worth it. Sister Ann chose milk and chapel veils. And, partly because of her choice, there’s a 56-year-old woman who still doesn’t fit in. I wonder if she would think it was worth it.
*All names have been changed. This is not a smear piece, just some thoughts and insights I wish I’d had when my girls were six. Also, I have nothing against nuns, but Sister Ann was really just not a very nice woman.
Epilogue: I got smarter in the ensuing years. I didn’t like tomatoes either, and remember telling one of the counselors at church camp I was allergic to them. Much to my relief, they kept me far away from tomatoes the entire week. If I’d only known the word allergic in the first grade, my entire life might have been different.
As a life-long churchgoer, mother of two adult daughters (22 and 26) who were raised in church, I share my perspective on young pastors and all pastors who work with young people.
Most of the pastors who have influenced my girls have been young. Student pastors are always young, because that’s who junior high and high school students relate to. Which is great, because these leaders understand the kids’ music, their tastes, likes and dislikes.
There’s a down side.
Here are a few things that I’ve experienced with young pastors that I imagine (hope?) they must someday look back on with embarrassment. I’ve wanted to write this for years, but felt that I needed to be farther removed from the experiences.
Be careful how you speak about childrearing. If your kids are under five, you’re not an expert yet. You can talk about “training up” your children, which is great. And easy when they are five and you have total control. But don’t assume that your training up ensures that their choices will always reflect that training. I’ve got news for y’all — they often don’t. I know scores of parents (some pastors) whose children who have strayed far from the values they were raised with. Yes, you can and should train up your children, but don’t fool yourself into thinking that’s a guarantee. It isn’t.
Don’t judge parents whose children make poor choices. This doesn’t mean they didn’t do everything you’re doing right now with your precious two-year-old who already knows 10 Bible verses from memory. Just wait ’til you hit the teenage years and then let’s chat, OK?
Don’t talk down to parents. I once sat down with a youth minister – not a parent – who acted as if I knew nothing about teenagers. The fact that I had two of them in my home 24/7 apparently taught me nothing. Yes, I know you see a different side of them, but don’t discount what the parents know. After all, we’ve lived a little longer than you.
Don’t reinforce the idea that parents aren’t cool. Kids don’t always think their parents are as uncool as they let on. When you roll your eyes or make cracks about “uncool Mom & Dad,” you encourage disrespect. And I can guarantee that attitude will not facilitate a good relationship with your kids’ parents.
Don’t be unrealistic about spiritual fads. When my girls were in junior high and high school, the anti-dating movement was in full swing (Remember I Kissed Dating Goodbye?). While the young pastors ate this crap up with a spoon, most of us parents understood how ridiculous and unworkable it was. My girls’ dating lives began under this roof, under our watchful eyes, and with our approval and respect for the young men they brought home. I shudder to think of them going off to college never having dated. Also, one of them is happily married to her high school sweetheart now. So you never know.
Don’t be cliquish. I’ve watched kids who really needed mentors and leaders in faith be disenfranchised because they aren’t into basketball, football, or whatever the leader’s favorite sport is. Sure, it’s a great way to connect, but there are other ways than sports. Mathletes are just as important as quarterbacks.
Don’t belittle their interests. Both my daughters were cheerleaders and competed on the national stage. They enjoyed it, and we had some great family times traveling for cheer. One of my girls had a leader who told her that “Cheerleading is stupid, and you should quit.” Seriously.
Male pastors, stop talking about your “smoking hot wife.“ Seriously, is this how you’d want your daughter’s husband to refer to her? You know the message you’re sending when you say that? Pretty is important, girls, and boys, be sure your wife is pretty and value her for that more than anything. Why not talk about how capable and intelligent your wife is, and teach young boys to respect a woman for more than her looks?
I know this sounds negative, but, we’ve had — and been witness to — some pretty negative experiences with church and young people. Much of it comes from the arrogance of a young pastor fresh out of seminary who believes there really are new things under the sun.
Like a stupid urban legend or bell-bottom jeans, by the time a parent arrives at their kids’ teenage years, we’ve seen and heard a lot of this trendy nonsense come and go at least a couple of times. Let parents be a resource. Listen to them. Respect their wisdom and experience and be willing to learn from those who have been around the bends you haven’t yet arrived at.
This isn’t addressed to any particular young pastor; it’s a composite of the ones we’ve known over the years.
When you become a parent, you sign up for a life of mixed emotions.
You want them to sit up, but you know you’ll miss holding them.
You want them to walk, but you fear they’ll fall and hit their head.
You want them to go to school, but it means they will leave you. It means they’ll have 180 days away from you. And they might fall on the playground and skin their knees.
You want them to make friends, but it means someone else will influence them in ways you won’t anymore.
You want them to know what it’s like for a boy to make their heart beat faster, but you don’t want them to get their hearts broken.
You want them to enjoy their first kiss, but you don’t want it to go any further.
You want them to pursue their dreams, but your heart breaks at the thought of them leaving.
You want them to grow up, find their passion, but it’s so hard to let go.
Until you do.
Until you watch them fall in love. And the child that you held on your knee is in someone else’s arms and that’s their home now.
Or maybe they don’t fall in love, but they make a life for themselves far away and you watch them become who they were meant to be.
It’s strange when you realize you don’t know their wardrobe, you don’t know their friends, or what music they listen to in the car.
And even though somewhere that isn’t your house is home for them now, you can hardly contain your joy as you watch one make a home with their love — the same way you did all those years ago — and the other build the life she dreamed of and a promising career.
It’s a paradox that our greatest joy is both in holding them close and in letting them fly on their own. Yes, it’s ridiculously hard to let go. But it is so worth it.
I’m not a big movie person. There are not many movies I’ve seen in a theater in the past 10 years, and only a few that I’ve seen on DVD.
Occasionally a film will come along that I think is worth seeing, and 42 is one of my favorites ever. No, not just because it’s a baseball movie. There is so much more to it than that.
Parts of the movie are hard to watch. I cannot tolerate the N-word. The scene in which the Philadelphia Phillies manager is screaming the word repeatedly as Robinson is at bat is difficult. As I watched that scene, I saw in my mind the faces of the African-American friends and colleagues that I love and respect. If it’s so tough for me to tolerate, what must it be like for them?
There is one scene that I find particularly poignant. A father and son are in the stands watching the game — much like I did with my dad at the old Busch Stadium. The son is clearly in awe of the experience and watches the game without prejudice. When Robinson comes up to bat his father and the other men around him begin to scream racist slurs. The little boy, following the example of the grownups, joins in, though I’d like to think he scarcely understands what he is saying.
I experienced a different version of this* last weekend at a Cardinals game. There was an adorable eight-year-old boy behind us. He was thrilled to be at Busch Stadium and in awe of his baseball heroes. He reminded me of my eight-year-old self and my dad.
The boy was with his mom and grandmother and some others who came later to the game, including a young man who was obviously a knowledgeable fan. I heard the boy comment on numerous players, both Cardinals and Milwaukee players — he clearly knew who was good and who was not.
At one point Ryan Braun came up to bat. Now, I have to say that there are very few baseball players I truly dislike, and Ryan Braun is at the top of that list. I cannot stand players who use performance-enhancing drugs, and Braun is back this year after spending much of 2013 on suspension for PED use.
So the boy is clearly in awe of Braun, “Oh, it’s Ryan Braun — he’s really good.” The man with them quickly corrected him — “No! Braun is a cheater! We don’t like him!”
A couple of innings later, Braun came up to bat again. This time the boy said, “Ryan Braun! We hate him!”
Both the movie and my experience at Busch Stadium brought home to me the power of suggestion, and the responsibility we have to model love and acceptance to those who look up to us.
Children aren’t born hating; they are taught. By us, the ones who lead them, to whom they look for direction and leadership. Our responsibility is to model love and equality for all, not pride and prejudice.
How are we doing? What do we teach those we lead about others who believe differently, are of another race, or have different abilities? Or, dare I say, disagree with us politically?
They’re watching. They see how we treat our brothers and sisters. They hear what we say, and they pick up on our attitudes, however subtle we think we are.
God does, too. Think about it.
Is He pleased with how you treat his other kids?
*I’m not unaware that there is a huge difference here — Braun clearly chose to use PEDs, and Robinson was hated only for the color of his skin. And in no way does Ryan Braun begin to compare to Robinson. But my point was merely how contagious hate can be, whatever the reason.
Photo Credit: “Jrobinson” by Photo by Bob Sandberg Look photographer – This image is available from the United States Library of Congress‘s Prints and Photographs division under the digital ID ppmsc.00047.This tag does not indicate the copyright status of the attached work. A normal copyright tag is still required. See Commons:Licensing for more information. Licensed under Public domain via Wikimedia Commons.
I’m taking a deep breath now. The way you would inhale right before you jump out of an airplane (which I’ll never do). While I won’t take a physical leap at 10,000 feet, I’m taking a bit of a psychological one here, because I’m about to express an opinion on a highly-emotionally-charged subject, and I’m pretty sure I’ll alienate some folk.
I’m going to tell you why, as a Christian, I cannot support the death penalty.
I used to. Right after Jim and I were married, we were held up at gunpoint in a parking lot late at night. In a nice part of town, in case you wondered. The robbers took all my jewelry and made Jim lie spread-eagle on the very cold asphalt before speeding away with our brand-new wedding rings.
To say I was traumatized is to grossly understate the terror I felt nearly all the time. Around the same time as our robbery, several brutal, seemingly random home invasion robbery-homicides occurred. One poor woman went out to get her mail and the robber accosted her in her driveway, forced her into the house, and shot her in her own bedroom. These things became connected in my mind in the midst of my post-traumatic stress, and for several years I lived in fear. I was afraid to walk out to get my mail. Afraid to be alone, even during the day. Terrified of parking lots. I was afraid to take a shower when I was alone in the house.
My life was ruled by fear. And so were some of my opinions and beliefs.
They caught the person responsible for the robbery-homicides, and I wanted him tried and fried. I wanted to be sure, beyond a shadow of a doubt, that he wouldn’t kill me or anyone else I cared about.
Enter the senior pastor of my church, sometimes in the late 90s. He was a man whose theology and life I admired then and still do. Until one day he talked about capital punishment. And he was against it.
When someone I respect presents an alternate point of view, I think it’s worth it to consider their argument. Maybe I’ll end up agreeing, maybe not, but I always consider it. This time I changed my mind. A 180.
I realized that other than escaping immediate physical danger, no wise decision is ever made from fear. I wanted the man to die out of my own fear. Fear stokes the flames of racism, bigotry, and a refusal to respect anything different than what we believe. The time had come for me to stop being ruled by fear.
I became ashamed of my arrogance. How is it my right to judge whether another human being, made in the image of God, should live or die? And how on earth do I reconcile my sense of vengeance with anything Jesus taught?
For me, there was simply no way to square the death penalty with my faith. It is God’s place to say who will live and who will die. His, and His alone.
Some of you would say, “Well, they took a life, they chose the sin, they were cruel, brutal, tortured and terrorized a person.” Yeah, many of them have. But I’ve sinned, too, and, no offense, so have you. I’ve been unkind, selfish, prideful, and I’m guessing you have, too. None of us are without wrongdoing.
It’s ironic to me that some use the Bible to justify capital punishment. The story of the Bible is God’s redemption of our souls, not His condemnation. Don’t we realize that we are just as culpable as the murderer? And yet, God chose to send His Son to atone for our sins, and for those of the ones we would put to death. To put another person to death is to say that they are less deserving of His atonement and redemption than we are. And friends, that’s prideful.
The only One who is perfect and fit to judge shows us infinite mercy. We who are imperfect, rather than choose to imitate Jesus, prefer death over mercy for a brother or sister. I’m thankful that my Heavenly Father’s mercy is greater than my sin, even if it means His mercy is also greater than the sin of the murderer.
One last thing. Nothing that is devised and mediated by humans is perfect, and that includes our justice system. I started to look up the statistics on how many prisoners have been executed and later found not to have been guilty of the crime. I started to, but I didn’t. Because, for the purposes of this post, it doesn’t matter.
Just yesterday, I marveled at the fact that I didn’t feel a bit blue this week.
The first two weeks in June are always difficult, as the anniversaries of two loved ones lost occur within days of one another; my sister-in-law (killed in a car accident June 9, 1999) and my dad (died of a sudden cerebral hemorrhage June 13, 1993). And this year, they fall in the same week, which culminates in the celebration of Fathers’ Day.
Yesterday I realized I hadn’t really felt the familiar sense of loss and heaviness that is usual for this time of year. I decided that maybe this year it had been long enough, and I was over it.
But it hit me between the eyes. Today. It’s not long enough.
Not long enough to lose the ache of loss, to stop thinking about the experiences we haven’t shared.
Not long enough to forget his nickname for me, his lovely white hair, or the wisdom with which he’d have helped us through difficult times.
Not long enough to forget her laugh, and the way she played with my young daughters, or to wonder how many selfies they’d have taken together.
Not long enough to forget how much he loved to watch the Cardinals play this time of year, and how thrilled he’d have been to know his two daughters saw them play a World Series game at Busch.
Not long enough to forget about the mother she would have been, the friend she was, and the sweet times she treasured with my mother.
Not long enough to forget what he taught me about love, that it isn’t dependent on how well we behave, what we wear, our grades, our jobs, or anything else … it just is. And when it is, it envelops us, holds us, cherishes us, sacrifices for us, and comforts us as nothing else can. It’s enough.
No, it hasn’t yet been long enough. And today I realized it won’t ever be long enough.
I’d rather feel the familiar ache and shed the tears than forget one moment. Because the memories are precious enough.
My mother is an incredible woman (This is not her arm). She’s a registered nurse, and was one of the first nursing instructors at Arkansas State University when the program was new. After she left nursing, she was a stay-at-home mother for many years, though active in the community. When the nest was empty, she enjoyed a second career as a real estate agent. She is smart and accomplished.
Mom despises tattoos, and she isn’t shy about sharing her opinion. Which is a bit inconvenient, as she has two daughters, a son-in-law, one granddaughter, and one future grandson-in-law who are People of the Ink.
Sometimes we get ideas stuck in our heads and can’t grasp that things change; or maybe we just can’t accept the changes. Maybe the perceptions are too ingrained. Or perhaps it’s just a personal preference. Of the (extremely) opinionated variety.
My mom isn’t alone; there are a lot of people who think ink is icky. I used to be one, until my daughter, Sara Ann, changed my mind. What I’ve realized is that most tattoos are deeply meaningful. I can’t imagine a person permanently putting something on their body unless it’s profoundly important. So the art that a person endures hundreds of painful needle sticks to etch upon their body forever says a lot about what they value and who they are.
Several months ago, we ate at a popular suburban restaurant and our waitress was a 20-something young woman with a large tattoo on her arm. It was colorful and the art was quite lovely, so as we were settling the bill I asked her about it. She explained that she had lost her mother a couple of years ago, and the design incorporated elements that her mother loved, and a butterfly that reminded her of her mother’s life and their relationship. Hearing her explain its meaning moved me, and I was struck by how much it comforted her after the loss of her mother.
I don’t imagine many people in this neighborhood love that tattoo, and I would bet there are a fair number of conclusions drawn about the woman, but I wonder if perceptions would differ if the meaning were understood. I felt differently about Sara Ann getting a dove on the inside of her wrist when she explained to me the significance of the dove with regard to her faith, and asked me to join her in the experience.
People of my generation (55 and up), ask before you judge. Young people express themselves differently than we do, and what you perceive as “gross” (I’m talking to you, Mom) is precious to another. When you turn up your nose at the art, you make a value judgement on something that’s just as meaningful to another person as your most prized family heirloom is to you.
It’s OK not to like tattoos, but try to appreciate the art and the meaning. Most tattoo artists are highly skilled, and worthy of respect for their enviable talent.
A friend once shared with me a quote from a former (well inked) pastor of mine, who said,
“Jesus has a tat … see Revelation 19:16: ‘On his robe and on his thigh he has this name written: King of Kings and Lord of Lords.'”
I’m thinking if it’s good enough for Jesus, it’s good enough for me.
My next bit of ink: A Cardinals bird on the bat, not just because I’m a fan, but in memory of my daddy, who taught me everything I know about the game, and with whom I shared many, many innings of baseball.
I dare you to judge that.
P.S. I’m not mad at my mom; there’s no family drama. No one is upset with anyone, and this isn’t anything I haven’t said or wouldn’t say to her face.
Throughout our girls’ college years, we moved each of them at least three times. From home to dorm, dorm to apartment, and from apartment back home.
Today our oldest, Elizabeth, 25, moved again. This one is for real.
In fact, as I write this, she’s driving a U-Haul, towing her car, somewhere between Birmingham and Atlanta, on the way to Charleston, South Carolina. Which in and of itself is a major Mommy Freakout Moment.
But amid the anxiety is a swell of pride and a sense of excitement for her. She left our nest years ago, but today she flies far away.
Her move reminds me that our primary job as parents is to equip our children to live independently, and to prepare ourselves to loosen our grip as they pursue their dreams.
The hardest lesson for parents to learn is to hold our children more loosely with each passing year. The times we most wish to wrap them tightly in our arms to protect them from harm and struggle are the times it’s most essential to let go. It’s not easy. But I choose to be thankful — and a little proud — that we’ve raised a strong woman who can handle this challenge.
Elizabeth, a three-time marathon runner, ran the last 10 miles of her first marathon after badly spraining an ankle. Rather than quit, she kept running through the pain, and completed the race with a more-than-respectable time. She knows how to gather her strength, but rely on her faith to see her through adversity.
Not far from Aniston, Alabama, the U-Haul truck blew a tire. Every woman’s nightmare is to be stranded alone at night on a highway with car trouble, but Elizabeth kept her head, called for help, and is now on her way again, frustrated at the loss of travel time. She is strong and determined — she is not patient.
As difficult as it is to watch our children take risks, the rewards of watching them face uncertainty with courage as they run toward their dreams are manifold.
I’m letting go for real this time, and I can’t wait to see what happens next. Look out, Charleston!
Hold everything in your hands lightly, otherwise it hurts when God pries your fingers open. — Corrie ten Boom
I was sitting at the hair salon with foils in my hair when I picked up my phone and saw the text message from my cousin letting me know that my uncle had passed away early that morning. After I caught my breath, I texted my girls to let them know that the great uncle they called “Gangy” had died.
I hadn’t seen him much lately, as he had been in ill health, and, for the past several years had been primarily focused on caring for his wife of 63 years, my “Auntie.”
Auntie, who is now in a nursing home and requires around-the-clock care, spent much of her time tending to Uncle Larry. Their homes in Paragould and at Greers Ferry Lake were impeccably decorated and maintained — and my aunt could throw a party that would make Martha Stewart feel like a failure. He recognized and appreciated all she did for him and adored her.
When Auntie became ill, Uncle Larry drove 30 minutes to Jonesboro from Paragould, Arkansas each day to visit her. When we expressed concern that he was doing too much, all he said was, “She took care of me all these years; it’s my turn to take care of her.”
He and my dad were more like brothers than brothers-in-law. They shared many a story on the deck of their lake house as they cooked the best fish and hushpuppies I’ve ever eaten. After my dad died, I never saw Uncle Larry use the fish cooker again.
When I was young, I tried to get him to let me drive his boat by telling him, “If you’ll let me drive your boat, I’ll let you drive my airplane.” He never forgot that and the last time I saw him, he told that story again and we relished the memory.
He was a generous, loving, and humble man and I miss him terribly. This is his obituary, which taught me a few things even I didn’t know about him.
Larry Brewer was born Feb. 4, 1927, to Maude Williams Brewer and William Elbert Brewer in Cardwell, Mo. He was preceded in death by his parents and brother-in-law, Dr. James F. Gramling.
He is survived by his wife of 63 years Bette Brewer; son and daughter-in-law, Bill and Diane Brewer; grandson, Will (Meredith) Brewer; granddaughters, Shaw Brewer, Neely (Britt) Camp, Ali (Casey) Bean; sister-in-law, Martha Gramling; nephew, Jim (Lacey) Gramling; and nieces, Beth (Jim) Sanders and Sara (Robbie) Van Scoy.
He graduated from Cardwell High School at the age of 17 and enlisted in the U.S. Army. He was assigned to the Officers Training Corps and was enrolled into the Army’s engineering program located at the University of Wyoming in Laramie. As the World War escalated on the Japanese front these young soldiers who were enrolled in the programs were called to active combat duty.
He was deployed as a part of the invasionary forces bound to the island of Japan. He always joked, although tongue and cheek, that President Harry Truman saved his life by his decision to drop the atomic bomb. He was in the early forces to occupy Japan after the surrender. He was discharged as a staff sergeant.
Upon his return home to Cardwell his father had suffered a severe stroke that left him bedridden. He was immediately thrust into the family’s oil business while continuing his education.
He graduated from Arkansas State College in 1951. While enrolled at Arkansas State he was active in the Student Government Association and served as president of his junior class. He was also elected president of the Pi Kappa Alpha fraternity and was a member of the national search committee to build its national headquarters in Memphis.
After graduation he returned full time to the family business, Brewer Brothers, which at that time consisted of three service stations located on various sites of the Arkansas/Missouri state line, and a bulk gasoline and oil business serving area farmers and those that burned kerosene for their heating needs.
He soon began to expand the operation and by the early 1970s, he, along with partners Shell Blakely and Bill Ferrin, built one of the largest independent gasoline marketing operations in Arkansas and southeast Missouri.
During this same period he also developed a large propane business, which was primarily used for home-heating purposes. He realized that this business needed to be less seasonal, so he was a pioneer in the use of propane for what was known as flame cultivation for weed control in cotton. This was before chemicals were widely available for weed control. When farm chemicals began to be used, Brewer Brothers became a distributor for many of them such as Treflan.
He was appointed to the Arkansas State University Board of Trustees. During his time on the board the university constructed its new stadium and replaced the long term president, Carl R. Reng. One of the accomplishments that he was most proud of was the policy that allows southeast Missouri students to pay in-state tuition. He realized how important it was for students to have a university that was within driving distance to their homes.
By the late 70s he decided that he would slow down and sell his portion of the gasoline business to his partners. He rediscovered his love of fishing and he and Bette began to spend at great deal of time at Heber Springs enjoying Greer’s Ferry Lake.
His retirement was short lived when he was asked to become chairman of the board First Paragould Bankshares. During his tenure the bank purchased the Corning Bank and experienced healthy growth.
He was named as a distinguished alumni of Arkansas State University, and was inducted into the Dunklin County Hall of Fame.
Mr. Brewer was a member of the Paragould and Cardwell Rotary Club, served as a director of both the Missouri and Arkansas Oil Marketers Associations. He was a member of both the Cardwell and Honersville Masonic Lodge and also was a member of the First United Methodist Church of Paragould.
Visitation will be noon until 2 p.m. Monday with a memorial service beginning at 2 p.m. at First United Methodist Church in Paragould. The Rev. John Fleming will officiate the service with personal remarks delivered by Kelly Wright.
Pallbearers will be Jeff Block, Donald Guinn, Mike Ford, Brian Clem, Jason Tritch and Matt Rankin.
Honorary pallbearers will be employees and retirees of First National Bank and Brewer Brothers, members of 21 club, the Tuesday coffee group and the morning McDonald’s coffee crew.
The family wishes to express their profound gratitude to the staff of St. Elizabeth’s of Jonesboro and of his personal caregivers, Lessie Shepard and Brenda Reed both of Paragould. They would also like to thank Dr. Asa Crow, Dr. Dwight Williams, Dr. David Phillips, Dr. Matt Haustein, Dr. Brannon Treece and Dr. Adam Woodruff who all went above and beyond caring for him.
The family asks that First United Methodist be considered for memorials.
Rest in peace Uncle Larry. You’ve lived well, loved deeply, given much, and I’m comforted to know you & Daddy are frying fish and telling stories in Heaven.
