A figurine of a Disney character may not represent for everyone the perfect college graduation gift. But for me, there was no other choice. The Little Mermaid’s Ariel had to be the gift given to my first-born daughter to commemorate the occasion of her walking across the stage at Miami University to receive a piece of paper that said she was officially, completely, without a doubt, now an adult. The obvious connection is that it was the first Disney movie that secured my daughter’s passion for Disney princesses, as she watched it over and over and over. For a period of several months she would sing Ariel’s anthem to end in a dramatic finale of the line “…wish I could be….part of that …world” which would see her three-year-old body posed in a position identical to the animated Ariel who was perched on a rock in the sea. I can see that image in my mind’s eye today, in spite of the woman’s body that has taken the place of the little girl’s. Still, the main connection I think of while holding the mermaid figure all these years later is the theme of Ariel’s voice in the movie. The little mermaid, of course, traded her voice for the legs necessary to walk in the world where she wanted to go. And that voice is what I think of when I think of my daughter. Yes, the magnificent musicality of her voice is part of what defines her as she now entertains, singing songs beyond Disney sound tracks. But it goes deeper than that. There is also her voice of compassion that shines through when a friend or even a stranger in a third world country is in need. There is her voice of reason that has always been wise beyond her years. There is her voice of change that will travel to Guatemala and places I cannot and probably do not want to imagine, simply for the reason that she might be able to make a difference there. All these voices are inside one beautiful girl who is today learning to walk on legs that will take her into a whole new world. But no matter where her voice… or her legs take her, I will always be blessed that she is, indeed, a part of my world.
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Nothing heralds in the overture of the spring season of rebirth like the blossomings of a Bradford pear and a magnolia tree. Every year I observe the coloration of the world with these beautiful branches awash in delicate pinks and whites, and I feel a sense of hope and connection to God. Perhaps it’s the fact that the creation reminds me of my Creator. I can imagine God dipping His paint brush first into a delightful pure white paint to tint the trees that were the day before brown and dreary. With the stroke of His majestic brush, He then draws on delicate flowerets that from afar look to be puffy popcorn balls. Then, perhaps, God smiles at His Bradford pear tree before moving on. For the next special masterpiece of the magnolia tree, God keeps just enough of the pear-tree white on His brush to blend with the sweetest shade of pink. With broader strokes this time, He paints pretty petals that will burst into life with the sunrise. I don’t know if the Creator then takes time to admire this beautiful creation, but I certainly hope He does. And then, sometimes too soon, it seems God must decide to dry the paint by blowing on it. Gentle winds --- and not so gentle winds waft through the air, transporting the pretty petals. With each breath of wind, the gorgeous blossoms of the trees become more sparse, as the once bare ground beneath the trees becomes carpeted with perfect petals of pink or white. As a child, the blossom’s short life-cycle used to sadden me. But with the gift of age, I’ve come to understand that a short life seems lengthened by the beauty left behind. Like sweet blossoms fallen on the ground, the memory of the departed wonder clings to our hearts making that wonder never far from us, even when it’s time to enter a new season of our lives. There I sat in my classroom a little after noon, awash in the Seussical sounds of “One fish, two fish, red fish, blue fish.” In an instant, I was a little girl again giggling over the way the wondrous words tripped over my seven year old tongue. For a brief moment I could bask in the task of needing to do nothing more than soak in the world, discovering the uncovering of words. Then, with no time between rhymes, I heard the familiar refrain involving the train and the rain: “I do not like Green eggs and ham, I do not like them Sam I am.” This time, though fast, the years had past. The little girl I’d now find in my mind was my daughter who was no more than two, reading by memory her favorite book. “Would you, could you on a boat? Would you, could you with a goat?” the precious voice from so many years ago proudly recited each line in my mind. And then the blast from the past gave way to today, as I remembered that little girl will be graduating from college in two months. Two months and then she will be completely free. No more my little girl. No more Seuss. No more youth. The mere thought made me wipe my eyes to try not to cry. But before I could dry my eyes, my movie wrapped with a quote from a note that Dr. Seuss wrote in his last years: “How did it get so late so soon? It's night before it's afternoon. December is here before it's June. My goodness how the time has flewn. How did it get so late so soon?" And as I stared at every letter, I knew no one could say it better. It’s a little known fact that a bleach bottle, when cut a certain way and filled with padding, makes a great chair. What is more, a box of tissues, covered in material, can become a perfect bed.
Those are just some of the ways I decorated my childhood Barbie house --- which was actually a three-tiered book case whose shelves I covered with left-over carpeting swatches. Hundreds of hours of my childhood were spent with my less than one-foot friend, Barbie, and her friends, Skipper, Francie, and Ken, along with an occasional “adopted” baby from another line of toys. Together we would decorate that house, make more faux furniture, become singing sensations, get married, and have babies, all before lunch some days. Back in those proverbial good-old-days, Barbie’s parent company, Mattel, didn’t release a new “must-have” dream house, sports car, or new, improved doll every season. Sure, I had a few of the commercial items like Barbie clothes and a mod-looking 1970’s camper, but my best memories of my Barbie days are of me pretending, stretching my imagination, being creative. My bond with Barbie was such a part of my childhood that I felt it mandatory to break up with her when it was time for me to go to that necessary next level of my youth: Junior High School. I was, after all, almost a teenager, and teenagers certainly didn’t play with dolls, did they? Always a proponent of ripping the band-aid off instead of taking it off slowly, I reluctantly said goodbye to and then banished my dolls to my plastic Barbie case under my bed the day before 7th grade began, forcing myself to go cold turkey. It wasn’t a painless rehab, but somehow I survived, only occasionally sneaking the cherished case out as if it were certified contraband all for the pleasure of checking on my old friends. Still, to this day, when I open up a new shower curtain and get a wondrous whiff of the brand new plastic, my senses take me back to the instant of getting that perfectly new Barbie case for Christmas one year and the childhood memories of my Barbie moments flood over me like refreshing rain. Now my Barbie in the case is turning 50. Some of those many years Barbie has been hidden, she might have been glad to be in seclusion Too much time and energy has been spent scaling Barbie’s measurements to that of a woman over five feet tall. It turns out if Barbie were true to size, her real life counter-part’s figure would measure 39-19-33. All that considered, it seems a miracle that during my youth I was fixated on cutting product boxes to make furniture for Barbie instead of cutting out lunch to make myself look more like her. And now, as she celebrates her golden birthday, someone is sending her a birthday present in an invitation to a vacation to go away and never come back. All this because Mattel has come out with “Totally Stylin’ Tattoos” Barbie that allows little girls to temporarily tattoo Barbie (or themselves) with a symbol such as a butterfly, flower or star. This edgy Barbie is sending some parents and politicians over the edge. According to the Associated Press, West Virginia state lawmaker, Jeff Eldridge, wants to outlaw the sale of Barbie dolls, saying, "I just hate the image that we give to our kids that if you're beautiful, you're beautiful and you don't have to be smart.” Maybe it’s the fact that my daughters, now in college, are old enough to get tattoos that aren’t temporary; or maybe I’ve been sniffing shower curtains again, but I don’t want anyone shoving my dear old friend forever in her case. Perhaps it’s the timing of the whole thing. In a week that saw a reality show bachelor profess his love to a woman; break up with her; profess and propose to another; break up with her, and then bounce back to the previous lady he sent packing (who welcomed him with open arms), I don’t think my 11 ½ inch doll is going to be the blame for girls not understanding their true worth. And in a time where a female singer is allegedly abused by her singing boyfriend, and then announces a happy reconciliation with him before the pictures of her bruised face are out of our minds, I doubt if the illogical proportions of Barbie, with or without a butterfly tattoo, will harm our children’s spirit more. If only more kids took the opportunity to innocently play in a make-believe world with Barbie these days, maybe they would have the chance to slowly discover who they are without waiting for the “real” world to thrust unauthentic identities upon them. I wish upon the girls of today the hours of imaginative fun I had as a child before my self-imposed withdrawal. Truthfully, though, unless Barbie would appear in a new movie with a rating of PG 13 or acquire her own reality show, kids probably wouldn’t be as interested. There just doesn’t seem to be that much innocent, creative, unplugged play going on now. No more tissue box beds or bleach bottle chairs. It all makes me a bit sad. Perhaps it’s time to sneak a look in my Barbie case again. Or maybe I’ll buy a new shower curtain. The lawn chair he always brought with him was green and white, but in his heart, everything was red… Cardinal red.
For thirty years, Colerain High School’s biggest fan, Norb Monning, aka: “Mr. Colerain”, attended every game imaginable. Through victory and defeat, he watched and cheered from that lawn chair, never letting the outcome of the game effect his team spirit. Offering words of wit and wisdom to the youthful players, he became a grandfather-figure who wouldn’t miss a game of one of his hundreds of “grandchildren”. And like all good grandfathers, Norb Monning would often be found with a camera, taking pictures he would later bestow on the athletes along with more of his generous praise. It was as much a part of the Colerain tradition as their cardinal mascot. Then, the day one knows will come, but hopes never will, came to Colerain. "Mr. Colerain" didn’t show up for the girls’ basketball game; and the students noticed. He wouldn’t miss a game if he could help it. Something had to be wrong. Soon the news was broken that the heart that kept beat to the Colerain Cardinal’s fight song, had stopped beating. At the age of 85, Mr. Norb Monning passed away. Sometimes teenagers aren't the best at showing the emotions they are feeling, especially for older adults. But the week after Norb Monning's death, the emotion was palpable. It was as if a dimmer switch had turned the brightness of the school down a level or two. His family was kind enough to give the green and white lawn chair to the school to remind them of their number one fan. But if you ask any of the students "Mr. Colerain" cheered for and was there for over the last thirty years, the lawn chair isn’t necessary to hold his memory. That job is happily being done by the thousands of hearts that have been touched by a fan who turned out to be a true champion. I look out my ice-framed window at the wonderfully white winter wonderland that was simply my front yard the night before. The sun has finally come up to allow his rays to glisten on every ice cycle that envelops every bough of every tree within my vision. The blanket of newly fallen snow that the meteorologist will insist was only four inches looks to me to cover everything within sight. Its crystal surface shimmers in the new light of day. The mere brightness, or perhaps the mere beauty, makes my eyes begin to tear.
Where yesterday there was a messy mixture of mud and slush, hibernating brownish grass, and a driveway that has needed a new coat of blacktop for three years, today there is a faultless layer of sparkling perfection. At this moment, the moment before the first person dares to trod over the new fallen snow, before the dog runs out to do what dogs must do, this moment is the moment I am reminded of God’s grandeur. But even more, the purity, the clearness, the newness of the freshly fallen snow remind me of the grand gift of forgiveness. Only God can change the ugliness of sin –all our mud and slush and everything about us that is not at all attractive. Only He can cover our inequities and imperfections with the sanctifying Grace of exquisite forgiveness. We still know what lies underneath; we are acutely aware of what we’ve done, and the limits of who we are. But when we ask, when we are very still, God’s grace falls upon us like forgiving flakes, permitting us to be new again. And so I start the day by staring out my ice covered window, thanking God for the splendor of the seamless snow and the chance to glisten in the rising of the Son It’s not that I was surprised to be inspired. I was, after all, in church. It wasn’t so much the location of the inspiration as it was the source. We had all just stood up. The homily was over and we were getting ready to profess our faith. I know I should have been focusing on the stream of words coming out of my mouth, but as too often happens, I allowed my wavering attention span to wander around, taking my focus with it until landing on the family a couple of pews in front of me. And then I saw it. A young girl stood next to her father, leaning into him as if her own body could not support her light weight. He continued to recite his profession of faith. And that's when it happened. Somewhere before our petition of prayers, the little girl must have decided the support from the lean wasn't enough, as she instinctively held her arms up to her daddy who picked her up without a moment’s hesitation. The reason this caught my attention was that she appeared too old to be held. I wouldn’t have paid attention if she were three or under –but this little girl seemed years beyond the holding stage, and yet her father picked her up the moment she asked. Without any prodding or pleading, he picked up his daughter and held her for the rest of the standing portion of the service. Contented, she nuzzled her head on his shoulder with a look of peace that we adults just can’t mimic. It was that simple. She asked to be held and her daddy held her. And even though I was surprised by the request being made at her age, it somehow looked so right. And of course, it made me think. Why do we too often equate losing our ability to ask for help with losing our youth? Many times in life we might find ourselves growing weary, hoping for someone to lean on. But we’re too big, aren’t we? Shouldn’t we find a way to handle it all on our own? Life would be so much simpler if we could all remember no matter how old or self-sufficient we think we are, we are still God’s children. Like the daddy in church, God is always there for us to lean on. And when we need more than leaning for support, how happy it must make our Father if we could only remember to instinctively raise our arms to Him and ask to be held. For it is only in our Father’s arms that we might find the true peace of a contented child. The mound of luggage and laundry left at the door by my college freshman returning home for the upcoming holidays almost tripped me. As I stumbled to avoid a fall, something caught my eye. Right on top of one of the overflowing laundry baskets, was a very tattered, very loved stuffed animal named Simba.
Simba, the young cub from the Lion King movie, was a gift my daughter received when she was four years old. From that day on, Simba would be a part of her life. Through strep throat, chicken pox, various stomach aliments and even a tonsillectomy, clutching this cub was the best medicine for her. When she finally overcame her fear of spending the night away from home, it was only if Simba could go with her. So, it was not at all a surprise when I noticed the stuffed animal stuffed into the personal belongings she was taking with her to Miami University. And, now, standing by the door, I picked up this precious piece of my daughter’s childhood and I could not stop smiling. I smiled thinking of the messy young woman who left the pile by the door. Still so familiar in so many ways. She has the same way of talking like the rapid ratta-tat-tat of a machine gun; and the same way of laughing a laugh that leaves energy in the room long after she walks out. All that has not changed. But still, there is something different about this child who walked out the door four short months ago only to walk back through the door a young woman with a bit more of the world in her baggage. Yes, I know it’s called growing up, but to me it is more like growing into the person I knew she always was. Looking into your child’s face and seeing both the small child who clutches a stuffed animal for security, and the young adult who has been living away from you for awhile, is mystifying. And yet, somehow, so right. I understand she will go out that door more and more, and one day more time will pass before she walks through it again. And so I find myself clutching Simba, taking comfort in the fact that, like the raggedy stuffed animal, I know there is a part of me she always takes with her when she walks out that door, and whenever she returns. Dirty laundry and all. I received an email from a fellow teacher containing a poem recounting his return trip home from the war –the Vietnam War. He recalled buddies left behind, some he prayed might return one day, others whose flag-draped caskets were the only return they would ever get.
Reading his emotional account of his re-entry into the real-world following his service to his country – my country ---hit me hard on this week of Veteran’s Day. I was so young during the Vietnam War that I’m not sure what I remember about it and what has actually been planted in my mind from movies and old news footage. As I grew, I thought the Vietnam War was, like World Wars I and II, simply pages in a history book. Now, the war-pages of history are still being written. Daily, we hear of young men and women going off to serve their country. Last month, when one of my former students left for the Army, this living history became more real for me. I guess I always suspected the war was made up of sons, and daughters, and students, but as long as we can compartmentalize our world here and their world there, we don’t have to put faces on the soldiers. But of course, they all have faces. They all have positions of importance in someone’s life. And right now they are in a position of uncertainty, serving our country. Like the Vietnam War of years ago, so much is argued today about the rightness of the war that is currently going on. But at least one thing that has changed for the better, is perhaps we finally understand that no matter what someone thinks of the war, the soldiers---both young and old--- helping to fight it, deserve our thanks, prayers and praise. Throughout history, if we have managed to learn anything at all, it is that there would be no land of the free without this being the home of so many of the brave. A poet once observed:
“The sweetest sounds to mortals given Are heard in Mother, Home, and Heaven.” I was thinking about this recently after attending the funeral of a woman who epitomizes for me what a mother should be: Loving, faithful, serving, ever-praising. Alice Willig, wife of Ed Willig, was the mother of 11 children, 36 grandchildren and one great-grandchild. I got to know her as the mother of my dear friend, Fr. Jim Willig. When we were brought together to write his book, Lessons from the School of Suffering, chronicling his journey with cancer, much of it had to be written from his parent’s house where he was recuperating from different cancer treatments. Alice’s love and care for her hurting son was actually palpable. You felt it the minute you walked into their home. As a mother, I understood. It doesn’t matter if our child is four or forty. When they are hurting, we are hurting. And Alice turned her hurt for her son into ways to help. From praying with him and cooking for him, to rubbing his feet after a weary cancer treatment, Alice served her son with a happy heart. Fr. Jim would often comment how doubly blessed he was to have a loving, heavenly mother in the Blessed Mother, and a loving, earthly mother to help him through his suffering. Alice’s role in his life made his devotion to Mary all the more natural. But Alice wasn’t just serving and loving her suffering son; she was able to serve and love all her children and grandchildren with this selfless, Christ-like love. And all the while she was serving, she was daily praying for them and their salvation. We can learn so much from mothers like this: Moms who truly live their lives to raise their children in this world with the sole purpose of getting them into the next world. We get so caught up in our ideas of the super-mom of today: the one who brings home the bacon and fries it up in the pan. But, if truth be told, there is no better supermom than one who spends her life showing her children Christ’s love through her love for them. Today, we can all learn so much from the life of supermom, Alice Willig. We can smile as we think of the poet’s words once again: “The sweetest sounds to mortals given Are heard in Mother, Home, and Heaven.” And those words are even sweeter when they refer to a life well loved and lived, and a dear mother who finally makes it home to heaven. |
Tamara Bundy
Some musings on being a mom, teacher, writer ..or maybe just being. Archives
November 2020
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