LONG SLEEVES

                                                    

My mother always said to me, "Who are you? Where are you going? And how will you get there?"

I'd answer, "I'm Robin Jansen. I'm going to the movies to meet my friends. And you're driving us."

In middle school, the most popular boy in the 8th grade called me up. I was elated until I realized (quite quickly) I didn't have a clue what to say. It ended up that he did 100% of the talking, which was actually more than okay with me. I remained perfectly silent. Finally, he started reading the newspaper to me over the phone. He only called that once. I was relieved. Too much pressure.

In high school, I had no idea how to get a guy to be interested in me. So, I picked out a guy that I thought was kinda cute then watched to see what female he was drawn to and studied her.  Of course, I couldn't maintain acting like her. It was too tiring, so I moved on to someone new.

Time for college. I met with a  counselor at University at Eau Claire, Wisconsin, who asked what I wanted to be (there's that pesky question again). I started to shrug when my mother butted in to answer. "She wants to be a teacher." Okay, I thought, I'll be that. And that is what I was for about forty years. Luckily I enjoyed being a teacher.

During our lifetime, we also can take on various roles to be the kind of person we think we want to be. It might be a career, a persona, a friend, someone we admire, or perhaps, hang desparately onto a certain religion or belief no matter if it brings fulfillment or unhappiness. Why do we put up with spending so much time with unhappiness? 

As for me, religion was a big stumbling factor. In my late twenties, I suddenly thought it would be fun to become Pentecostal. No makeup, long hair, no pants-only dresses- and spend every waking minute in church. I was taught that the length of your sleeves was the length of your anointing and commitment to God. Of course I had to show off my commitment visually on my dress wearing long sleeves. I even  measured my sleeves, making sure they reached my fingertips, because I wanted to be a spiritual person.

And then one day, I noticed a woman wearing pants. Wearing gobs of makeup. Short hair. She was in church. And she was happy. Imagine! Her clothes didnt make her happy. Being herself made her happy.

That was the begining of searching for my happiness.  It's not other people. Its not our children. It's not our friends, although they all contribute to our happiness and enrich our lives.  

I was meant to be happy. Fulfilled. Helping others. Learning. Educating myself. Not looking for happiness outside of myself. Being a good Christian is not the length of sleeves, or giving up what you love and enjoy. It's following a path where you grow and learn. The place to call happiness is inside. It travels with us. 

Never allow yourself to be edited. 

Tammy and the Diamond Dress

 

Kim and I today

• Certain moments are so rare and special that they stick with us. Point in time, a teenage girl named Tammy. 
  
• When I first met Tammy, she had already been through many bouts of chemo. Her parents invited me for lunch and afterwards they shared their family album. I sat on the couch, carefully looking at each picture and commenting. Tammy caught a side glimpse of me lingering over her pictures riding a horse with her long blonde horse flowing down her back as she rode. 
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• Her expression seemed to say, "It's okay, I will be that girl again someday. Wait and see."
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• There was something so ethereal about Tammy. My four-year-old daughter Kim couldn't resist her and quickly became an adoring fan. 
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• One day, as I was sewing, Kim said,"I need a diamond dress to wear for special occasions. Can you make me one?"
• Since our 'special occasions' was usually a trip to the park or getting a Happy Meal, I asked, "And where would you wear this dress?"
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• "To a birthday party, or a wedding, or a funeral." Kim crossed her arms with satisfaction.
• "A funeral is a special occasion?" I carefully asked.
• "When people die they go home to heaven. I really need a dress to celebrate with them."
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• Kim and I took a trip to the fabric store. "I found it! Here is the  my diamond dress material!" she declared.
• I followed to where she stood, holding the heavy bolt in both arms.
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• I looked hard and long at the fabric. The print was colorful jelly beans on a green background. "Honey, those are jelly beans."
• "Nope. Diamonds."I looked at the material for a long time, trying to see what Kimberly saw, but finally gave up. I asked for two yards to be cut, picked out matching thread and paid my money. 
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• All week I struggled with making my daughter's diamond dress. To make it fancier, I sewed on a lace collar and dotted it with rhinestones. Kimberly was happy with the result; she saw diamonds, I saw jelly beans.
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• Christmas was festive at church with a wonderful program and platters of homemade food. Tammy admitted she felt awkward around girls her own age, as they didn't quite know how to act toward the girl who looked so different from them. As a result she remained by her little four-year-old friend and was a wonderful help in serving the food.
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• I thought I detected a little color crawling back into Tammy's wan cheeks. Surely she would recover and be just fine. I said another silent prayer for the hundredth, the thousandth, the millionth time.I watched Tammy out of the corner of my eye all evening. She checked plates and cups, making sure everyone had enough to eat and drink, and served more when needed. 
  
• 
  
• She seated the elderly in the most comfortable chairs. I saw her push back the constant fatigue she experienced in order to help turn the pages for the pianist's music. At last, she sat with the children gathered about her feet, leading them in Christmas songs, listening intently to their stories. She was a young girl who was not self-absorbed in makeup and boyfriends. She was a young girl absorbed with helping others.
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• Two days after Christmas, we received a call from Tammy's parents. She had been rushed to the hospital. Walking into her room, I noticed how small she looked among the bed sheets. Her mother rubbed her forehead and smiled into the blue eyes that were heavy with sleep. I stood by her bed, along with her parents. Although I had prayed for healing, God performed His own miracle and just before midnight took Tammy home to live with Him in heaven.
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• The members of the church dreaded the funeral of one so young. We seem to understand and accept better the death of someone elderly who has lived a long and full life. This young life slipping away from us, however, made our own mortality seem more brittle. 
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• And there were the nagging questions: Had we failed Tammy in not believing hard enough, in not praying long enough?I held my daughter's small hand as we walked up to the oak casket. Tammy appeared as if she had gotten ready for church and then simply laid down for a quick rest among her favorite toys. I squeezed Kimberly's hand tighter. If she got too close to the casket, would death snatch her too? Sensing my fears, Tammy's dad picked Kimberly up into his arms so she could clearly see Tammy.
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• "She is at peace now. See?" he said. Kimberly looked into the pain-filled father's eyes and then nodded seriously, turning her attention back to her friend."Thanks for helping me be quiet in church," my daughter whispered to her. "See, I wore my diamond dress for you today. You knew how important it was. I am so happy that you can see heaven."
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• During the service, Tammy's parents sat close, holding hands. The pastor spoke, "This is not the end but the beginning for Tammy. Let her example be a new beginning for us as well. Let's finish what she has started, and may it be a work in progress."
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• It was true. Tammy left us with so much. She set her own needs aside to help others. She cheerfully illustrated to my impressionable daughter, to children yet to be shaped, and to adults set in their ways, how to be of service to others when pain and tiredness are your greatest enemies.
• 
  
• That night I tucked my own little daughter into her bed, thinking that Tammy would never be tucked into hers again. Kim looked at me with concern. Her tiny finger brushed away one of my tears."Mommy, when I close my eyes I can see Tammy. She has her long blond hair back and wears a beautiful dress with stones all over it. I think her diamond dress is even prettier than mine," Kimberly whispered while pointing to her jelly-bean dress hanging in the closet.I closed my eyes too. Yes, I can imagine Tammy with her long hair and pink, glowing complexion. I think she is probably wearing her own diamond dress as she gallops on her horse.
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On the Street Where Mrs. Steffy Lived

 

When I am in a quiet state of mind, the past comes back on small running feet. That's what happened again this morning. This memory carried me home to the year 1956 when I was six–years–old and living on Wellington Ave in Chicago, Illinois–down from Wrigley Field and blocks from Lake Michigan.

I loved living among all the fashionable Brownstones and Greystones which were surrounded by old iron Fleur de Lis fences. Our family house stood out because it was the only tutor in the neighborhood. The other house that stood out was directly across the street.
A two story cottage with a sweeping front porch. Mrs. Steffy called it home. I watched over that place from my second story bedroom window. The late 1800s style was of great interest to me. 

I suppose Mrs. Steffy's husband had passed. He wasn't around and it didn't seem peculiar. She lived alone. On occasion one of her adult children would stop to check on her. Mrs. Steffy had long grey hair threaded with shades of brown, which she wore in braids, pinned together at the top of her head. She was a slight woman who always wore a simple cotton dress covered with a fresh apron.

Summer days, I enjoyed spending some of my time in a wicker chair, rocking away, on her front porch. I wish I could rewind time so I could listen to some of the conversations we had. Mainly, my goal was to get inside of her house to see what things looked like in there. I ached to have a look around.

On one particular occasion, Mrs. Steffy said I could come inside with her if I remained on the first floor and did not go up the steps to the second floor.

As I stepped into the dark, narrow hallway, I was charmed by the steep steps and curl of the old wood banister that led upstairs; the forbidden space. Tucked into the bend of the wall was a huge grandfather's clock. It put me in mind of the nursery rhyme, 'Hickory Dickory Dock.'

The living room was to the right, the dining room after that, followed by the kitchen. After I was shown these simple rooms, they no longer held interest for me. The upstairs was where I wanted to go next. 

After a drink of water, Mrs. Steffy beckoned me back outside. I remained in the foyer, still intrigued by the huge clock, and gazed into the abyss at the top of the steps. Mrs. Steffy was old and therefore slow. I was young and therefor faster. I dove for the stairwell. In five seconds I made it to the top. The old woman below shrieked, "I'll get your mother if you don't come down this minute." I calculated that it would be a good four minutes for her to get my mom and bring her back. It was all I needed to rummage. 

I did not reply to her threats, and walked into each of the two bedrooms. One by one, I pulled out the dresser drawers for a peek. I didn't move anything aside. I only gazed at the top layer of treasures.

Then out of nowhere, my mother appeared and yanked me from the room, down the steps and out the front porch across to the street and back home. I'm sure I was scolded. That memory isn't clear, but I do remember being happy I saw the entire house. 

Mrs. Steffy passed about the same time we moved to Delavan, Wisconsin, years later when I was thirteen. Eventually her house was knocked down in order to enlarge the street. Another historical house lost. 

On the rare occasion I get to Chicago, I take a cab and walk down Wellington Avenue. After looking at my former childhood home, I turn about to see Mrs. Steffy's house directly across. And for just a moment I am surprised to see it gone. 

Do I regret racing upstairs to Mrs. Steffy's dismay? Nah.

I only wish I remember what was in those dresser drawers.

Have you ever ventured into a place you weren't to go? Tell me about it.

It's Been A While. Welcome to My Bar

  

It's been a while. At this moment in time, writing on my blog after such a long absence, I feel like a bartender on a slow night, greeting returning guests whom I haven't see in a while. The overhead lights are dimmed, the music is the same, but the drink menu has changed. We both need something stronger these days, like a brain tune up, or a knee replacement. 

Here we are. I have changed. You have as well, although you may not readily agree. I see your clothes are newer. Your hair, a bit grayer. Your step, a bit slower, but your wisdom has deepened.

And I sit in a new place. A small room, closet sized. Actually, it was supposed to be a closet but I sparred with the builder to leave it open. I knew someday it would become something. Like me. After evolving, its become my writing room, although not much writing has taken place of late. But I hope to change that. (There's someone in my life who encourages me to return to writing, but my imagination has dried a bit.)

One of my favorite lines from a book (A Bear Named Song) is, 'We are all storytellers of one kind or another.' You might not write the stories down but you share them with friends, on Facebook, tell your spouse, and grandchildren and great grandchildren. Its posterity.

When I was in the neighborhood of a 10 year old, aspiring writer, my dad, a purple heart recipient of WW1 (you heard me right. No typo there) would regale my mother and older sister of his war stories. I was sent to bed. Too young to hear. Evidently, the ears of a fourteen year old were able to take it in without problem.

I lay in bed, frustrated. I so wanted to hear the stories my dad told. "When you are older, we will tell you." But somehow that slipped through the cracks. I cannot tell you about them, they cannot be used in my books, they are lost. A tragedy of epic proportions.

Blogging is a wild beast when, like me, its never about the same thing. I write mini stories and reflections. So, I guess I am writing by the seat of my pants and whatever walks into my life will be shared here. 

But today I encourage you to write down your stories and thoughts. Tell them to your family. Let everyone in so they know who you are. How your life path has squirreled around, or how things turned out exactly the way you knew it would. 

I have walked through spooky forests. Lost my path many times. Found new paths, some rocky. I have forged through scary times. I have walked in the sunshine, feeling love and alive. I have sat in hard places and cried. Each experience has become me and I carry that story. 

Today, I was about to make my third apple pie in my entire life, but got distracted by plants. Birds Nest, Fig Leaf tree, and Rosemary. They are well watered, in their new pots and placed where I think they will be happiest.

                                                                                 

A Bit Late, But Here's to You Ron Grenke

                     A Bit Late, But Here's to You, Ron

My adult daughter told me that I lived in a bubble. Huh? Me?

The comment felt perplexing because I regard myself as an open minded progressive. As a result of this conundrum,  I decided to spend time in self-reflection. Finally, I came to the conclusion that we all live in some sort of bubble created by our experiences, our culture, traditions, etc. As we journey through life, hopefully, we acquire new experiences, meet diverse people, listen to different points of view,  and enjoy unfamiliar food.  Our bubbles should enlarge; you've heard of paradigm shifts, right? That's it. I certainly do not want to be stuck in my 1950's perspective, not even the one from last year. I want my life to be filled with change. 

In the 1980s we moved from Illinois to Texas and was hired by the Lewisville Independent School District to teach at a middle school  in Flower Mound. What a great place to work, but also a bit problematic. I lived in Lewisville and with one family car, that was otherwise used, I found myself in need of getting to work, and my daughter needing get to elementary school. 

The first week of teacher inservice, I hung a sign on the workroom bulletin board asking if anyone in the Lewisville area could give me a ride to work. Quite a commitment for the entire year. The next day, the 8th grade science teacher sought me out, and Ron said he would be more than happy to take me to school each day.

"Ah, one more thing. Would it be too much of an imposition if we dropped my daughter at her school on the way? She starts first grade next week." (I purposefully left out this tidbit until we were solid on my ride.)

Without blinking, he answered, "Sure."

So for the entire school year, Ron Grenke picked Kimberly and I up at our house, dropped her at Timbercreek Elementary, then went onto the middle school. I must admit, my previous bubble had not known any one who was gay, and Ron was my first introduction. 

He was kind hearted. Generous, Giving. My bubble began to grow. One morning when he picked my daughter and me up for school, his car was filled with several delightful gentleman. They were talkative, joked with one another, introduced themselves to us. I looked at my six year old daughter. Her face was open and innocent. Of course, she had no idea of their life style. She was too young to be told, anyway. But here she was, thrilled to meet Ron's friends, which I knew were adding color to her life. And value to mine. 

By the next school year, I acquired a second car, so I was able to get Kimberly and myself, back and forth from our schools. 

Ron and I remained school friends. Kim no longer saw him due to the lack of need for transportation.  One afternoon, I saw Ron stumbling around in the hallways. This was at the start of the aids epidemic. A man who never missed a day from work in years of teaching, now was racking up absences. It wasn't hard for any of us  to guess what was happening to him. To this day, I regret not having the fortitude to talk to him, let him know how much I admired him. To say, I was here for him if he should need a ride to anywhere, for anything. But I didn't. I wasn't scared of catching aids. I just didn't know what to say.

And then, Ron died. It made an impact on my life and on everyone who knew him, including my daughter. Only recently did I realize how much it affected her.

When my now adult daughter returned to Dallas on a business trip not long ago, we went out for dinner, and returned to the hotel room with a bottle of wine. In the middle of a midnight heart to heart, Kimberly began to sob. "Do you remember Ron Grenke?"

"Of course I do."

"I loved him and he died." Her words were simple but impactful, as though coming directly out of the memory of a child's heart. "He was so good to me. We talked about school and he had funny stories. I loved him, " she repeated. "At the time, of his death you just told me he died and then walked away. I didn't know what to do with my pain. I didn't know how to process it and you didn't help me."

Until that moment I had no idea how much Ron meant to her. As a colleague, he meant a lot to me. Looking back, I may have wanted to shield her from the ugliness and controversy of aids so I avoided saying more when she needed to know more. 

Sadly, I could relate. I was six, her age, when my beloved Uncle Ralph died. I remember sobbing to my parents, begging to attend his funeral. But I was too young to attend, they said. All these years, I still regret the decision they made for me.

And I had inadvertently made that same decision for my daughter. Ron passed. Our life went on. Yet, this exemplary man, who taught science to hundreds and hundreds of middle schoolers, who was kind to every person he ever spoke with, who took time to help a woman with her daughter get to school each morning for a full school calendar year, and who left his entire inheritance to the educational foundation for teacher grants. 

Now, as grown women, we lifted a glass to remember him, a wonderful human being. "Sorry we are late. But, here's to you Ron Grenke. We still love you."

It's Been A While. Welcome to My Bar.

 

It's been a while. At this moment in time, writing on my blog after such a long absence, I feel like a bartender on a slow night, greeting returning guests whom I haven't see in a while. The overhead lights are dimmed, the music is the same, but the drink menu has changed. We both need something stronger these days, like a brain tune up, or a knee replacement. 

Here we are. I have changed. You have as well, although you may not readily agree. I see your clothes are newer. Your hair, a bit grayer. Your step, a bit slower, but your wisdom has deepened.

And I sit in a new place. A small room, closet sized. Actually, it was supposed to be a closet but I sparred with the builder to leave it open. I knew someday it would become something. Like me. After evolving, its become my writing room, although not much writing has taken place of late. But I hope to change that. (There's someone in my life who encourages me to return to writing, but my imagination has dried a bit.)

One of my favorite lines from a book (A Bear Named Song) is, 'We are all storytellers of one kind or another.' You might not write the stories down but you share them with friends, on Facebook, tell your spouse, and grandchildren and great grandchildren. Its posterity.

When I was in the neighborhood of a 10 year old, aspiring writer, my dad, a purple heart recipient of WW1 (you heard me right. No typo there) would regale my mother and older sister of his war stories. I was sent to bed. Too young to hear. Evidently, the ears of a fourteen year old were able to take it in without problem.

I lay in bed, frustrated. I so wanted to hear the stories my dad told. "When you are older, we will tell you." But somehow that slipped through the cracks. I cannot tell you about them, they cannot be used in my books, they are lost. A tragedy of epic proportions.

Blogging is a wild beast when, like me, its never about the same thing. I write mini stories and reflections. So, I guess I am writing by the seat of my pants and whatever walks into my life will be shared here. 

But today I encourage you to write down your stories and thoughts. Tell them to your family. Let everyone in so they know who you are. How your life path has squirreled around, or how things turned out exactly the way you knew it would. 

I have walked through spooky forests. Lost my path many times. Found new paths, some rocky. I have forged through scary times. I have walked in the sunshine, feeling love and alive. I have sat in hard places and cried. Each experience has become me and I carry that story. 

Today, I was about to make my third apple pie in my entire life, but got distracted by plants. Birds Nest, Fig Leaf tree, and Rosemary. They are well watered, in their new pots and placed where I think they will be happiest.

                                                                                 

A Season for Everything

My garden teaches me about a life embellished with journeys. Its a time table of the last 6 and a half years of living here. You've seen the pictures of my son and I planting a knee high tree that is now feet over our heads.

My garden also shows me that I don't have to leave home to be on a journey. In my wild imagination, I always considered a journey would be going somewhere else, like to the beach to scuba, or the mountains to hike. I'd have someone take my picture of these feats so I could post online. Lately, I've discovered most of my journeys I have taken in place. Inside my head and heart. My spirit. My garden. My interactions with others. I learn from it all.

Are you a person like me, worried about a situation one month and carefree the next? Perhaps, fretful over bad choices one day, while singing praises o thankfulness the next? Married for a bit, and then not? I am finding my equilibrium through these situations as I read Ecclesiastes, A Season for Everything.

A time for this and a time for that. A time to be short on cash and a time of plenty. A time to date and a time to be alone. A time to eat and a time to fast. A time to be with others and a time alone.

Seasons.

Leaves are the touchstone of seasons. In the spring, buds burst into green leaves, then in the fall the leaves turn orange, red, brown, yellow, and cascade off limbs. They change. We change. Nothing stays the same, certainly not our life pathway. We are caterpillars emerging from our cocoons and inching our way through life, until we become a butterfly and take flight.

Fall has a great affect on my mood. Summer was too long and the heat did not help, but just yesterday, the Texas air turned cool. Breezes wandered through my house windows and open doors. "Ah, I remember you. It took you a while, but here you are again." It turned my mood peaceful in the knowledge that God walks us through seasons of our life.

Nothing lasts forever. Winter teaches us that, brutally at times. But that too has its own beauty.

My apologies. I am a bad blogger. I mean to blog each week. Want to blog each week. But then the week turns into weeks, and adds up to a month, or two. And, it seems in my retirement, I cannot blog if I don't feel inspired, kinda like the feeling I get when I need to clean the house. "Oh, I think I can wait another day, or two." Its not at all like brownies that demand they be made right then and there.

Going forward, I will try to be better, but not promising a thing. There are lovely things outside that pull me to it, and my dogs need cuddling, and my hair needs combing, and my bed looks so comfortable, and there is a book that needs finishing and another book that needs starting, and there is a new program on TV that appears really interesting.

I used to be spot on with deadlines. Behold, that's when I worked, and my days were all scheduled and organized by a calendar. Since I am 'off the clock', for 5 days a week now, all that needful stuff has floated away as my mind drifts on the wings of birds and the spinning of leaves with each puff of wind. I will be better, perhaps. Maybe. Someday.

By the way. The last blog story is true, for those of you can even remember what that story was. All who guessed are one hundred percent correct.