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.

True, or NOT True. You Decide. Story #1The Teacher Reflects

The backend of my most loved career was spent teaching 32 years for LISD. There, I spent a fair amount of time as a First Grade Reading teacher. The specialized program was designed by me and funded by my school district. CHIRP (Creekside Has Individual Reading programs) helped struggling students who academically fell between the cracks; they didn't  qualify as 504, or special ed. Fondly, I remember a particular group of  cute short legged kids. After their first lesson in my class (broom closet), they returned to their peers proudly announcing, "We are reading!"
 'I can see', 'See, I can.' Certainly it wasn't a novel, but it was a beginning.

We began with mini lessons. We sang rhyming songs while doing motions to help with motor skills. I had a pink glittery wand that I touched on student's shoulders when it was their turn to talk. Those years were enjoyable, but I did finally tire of repeating the names and sounds of letters 5 times a day.

Ten successful years later, I said goodbye to that school and my little sweethearts, when I accepted a study skills position at a low socio economic middle school. Never did I learn so much.

Through the student's eyes, I saw how utterly frightened they were at the sight of a white van slowly bumping down their neighborhood street. The rest of the day was a wash, as they cried and bit their nails, wondering if their parents would be home when they got there, and if they weren't, would they ever see them again? Comparing it to my privileged childhood, my heart broke seeing their terror, uncertainty. How could anyone learn when their existence was in jeopardy?

One of the most important workshops I attended was by noted author Ruby Payne, Understanding Poverty. "Middle-class understandings of children and adults in poverty are often ill-suited for connecting with people in poverty and helping them build up resources to see rise out of poverty and into self-sufficiency." It was life changing. Being at this school with such a dedicated staff, and teaching such vulnerable students with a principal who treated us as colleagues, was certainly the high point of my career.

But nothing stays the same. We never stay in the same place. We can never go back to another. We keep moving forward.

And I found JJAEP (Juvenile Justice Alternative Education Plan) where I spent the last 11 years teaching wayward students and while wearing many hats. Half way through those years, when I was assisting in the English high school classroom, one long legged, blond headed, young teen, looked at me and asked,"Did you used to have a pink glittery wand?"

 I hadn't gone backwards. I had moved forward. But in a moment that teen looped me back to First grade when life was simpler/safer for us all.

True? Or NOT True?
Leave a comment and find out the answer next week.

The Fairy Tale Changes

Like so many, I believed in the Happily Ever After' premise that if properly followed, surely produced a blissful life to one loving partner, forever. Amen. The Cinderella myth became my vision. My prayer. My goal. Like, who doesnt want to be loved and cared for? (I see no hands). We all need it.

 Once upon a time, at the very young age of 6, I dreamed a dream to be carried away (by horse, taxi, car, or bike) with Prince Charming. The thought of what happens after being carried away, never entered my 6 year old mind (I was too mesmerized by visions of wearing a flowing white gown, and the golden jeweled crown on my head). In fact, it didn't enter my adult mind during my engagement, when I should've known better. "I'll fix that about him," I figured, as I am sure he was figuring, "I'll fix that about her."

Backing up a few years, after high school, I thought my 'happily ever after' was at college. The scripture I hung on my dorm wall, To Thine Own Self Be True, I missed in translation. Mister Prince Charming didn't show up during college. Onto and into the workforce. I figured I'd meet him 'on the job', something like on the job training, or student teaching, but adult dating. I was headed in the direction of finding a mate but not the right direction.

There are classes for English Lit, math, science. Why not for doing taxes, balancing your budget, and how to find  mate? These are thoughts that once kept me awake at night.

As I dated, I'd study him to uncover the type of woman he wanted then twisted myself into that image. Naturally, it never worked. Not much of a surprise there, but it did always catch me off guard and each time ended tragically with me crying, or him crying. Either he decided not to date a copy of himself, or I decided I didn't like the person he was. So on I went,  just bumping along instead of seeking God's image. Don't snicker gals, I know many of you are/were like me. You guys, too.

It took years for me to come to the conclusion that I was okay. It took longer to discover how that looked.  My mother used to make me repeat these words: Who am I? Where am I going? How will I get there?

These days, I am here in my happily ever after phase of my life, no longer seeking a person to fulfill me. I seek moments. A chattering yard squirrel dubbed Chester that torments my 3 rescue dogs. Watching a seed I placed in the ground emerge into a beautiful flower. Listening to the giggles of my grandsons. Getting an unexpected phone call from my daughter. Spending time with my son on the back porch. A friend who unexpectedly calls and invites me to a movie, or dinner. Simple mundane events. And knowing myself.

My fairy tale has changed. Age and facial lines with very unattractive, drooping body parts might have helped come to this conclusion. But, I do feel peaceful about it all.

And if someone lovely comes along, he will be welcomed. But I no longer stand at the gate waiting. I am on an adventure.

"Life is Beautiful. I Just Cannot Expierence it."

The above title is a quote from my adult son Matthew who is suffering from a mental health condition along with extreme anxiety. He has been on disability for 3  years now, and is with MHMR, sees his medical doctor, psychiatrist, and counselor regularly. Although he is on meds, nothing has touched the extreme anxiety he experiences.

Matthew's place of calm and peace is, here, at home. His perfect place is on the back porch, enjoying the day and the critters that the Lord brings to the yard. It hurts to see him so isolated. Once upon a time, he was social and out with his friends, leading a very normal life. Then his neurons started misfiring in his late twenties. It changed him irrevocably.

Yesterday was the start of a 3-day vocational evaluation. Driving there, Matthew turned to me and said, "Mom, I am not even nervous." I looked at him and indeed he appeared calm. No throwing up. No red face. No sweating. Not begging me to turn the car around and go home. Not the usual panic. I watched him walk into the building and now I had butterflies, not unlike the ones I experienced on his first day of kindergarten, but he was no longer 5. He was 34. No longer I could protect him in the same ways I did back then. Now, Matthew was an adult. He had to learn to function and be brave without me.

At noon we met for lunch at Pizza Snob. I asked how things were going. With a lift of his shoulders he answered, "Great. There's two other people besides me, and the teacher. I've been taking tests all morning and I know I did really bad on math."

"I'd be bad on the math, too," I admitted.
"No, Mom. I did really bad, but that's okay. I think I did good on most of the reading. Getting the results will help me find a skill I can do. I would like a part time job to supplement my disability. I want to be around people again. I want to feel useful. Maybe I can be a janitor."

I dabbed at my eyes. My heart was full. This is a dream. A prayer answered because Matthew had hope and was ready to take risks.

Yes, he is just half way through this testing. More hurdles to go over, more challenges to meet. But he is trying.

Our backyard is a beautiful place to be, but its not out in the world living the life he needs to have.

Weeping may Endure for a Night. Let's Hope Joy Arrives Soon

As a young girl, I loved Sunday School. The stories about Jesus feeding the thousands, turning water into wine, and calling the children to come to Him, filled me with joy. However, my favorite was Jesus finding the lost sheep. The powerful image of Him returning to the flock with the errant animal carried on His shoulders took my breath away, and remains one of my favorites.

I knew I loved Jesus forever. In that pocket of my world, the world that I knew, nothing could go wrong.

And then, I began to grow up. I left the soft padded seats of a stained glass church and began attending tent meetings where fire and brimstone, along with an angry God was the theme of the day. Fear of failing God entered turned my faith inside out.

My beloved Jesus of mercy suddenly became a God of anger and judgment. To fit in, I nurtured a critical spirit. I tried to pray. Apparently there were certain words I had to use in order for God to hear me. I was told I prayed wrong. No matter how I searched for the correct phrasing, they were always wrong. I didn't learn until later, that it wasn't the words of my mouth, but the attitude of my spirit.

And then finally I could take judging people any longer. Adrift at sea, I no longer connected with God and turned inward.

On social media I read words of anger and hatred toward certain sects of faith and people. "Wait!" I wanted to scream at these church goers. "Jesus died for these people." But now the Bible was being cherry picked.

 If someone was sick, I was told it was because they had committed a sin. Or, if your faith had only been enough, if you had prayed harder, this could have been avoided. Or, if you really gave your soul to God, your life would be better.

How had I come to this moment, allowing others to define what I believed?

As Christians, aren't we to show mercy and love? And yea, where did my faith go? It was here just a moment ago. Or 5 years ago? Or, 30 years ago.

I began to change. Many said I was no longer a Christian. I spent hours wondering the same. I read and reread the New Testament. I felt life within me. The excitement of loving God and His word.

Where am I today? Rediscovering my faith. The faith and Jesus of my childhood.

I don't have all the answers, nor will I. This I do know; Jesus does feel our pain and grief.  For He has delivered my soul from death, my eyes from tears, and my feet from falling, even when I went away, even when I couldn't pray. I still don't use a prayer formula, I just speak from a broken spirit, one who is willing to be His servant.

In this world we have tribulation, but be of good cheer for He has overcome this world. "The light shines in the darkness, and the darkness has not overcome it."

Weeping may endure for the night, but joy comes in the morning. Hold on to Him.

Be merciful. Be kind. Forgive. God hears your prayers. Its a heart condition. Words don't matter, our love toward Him and being His feet and hands on earth do.