Remembering Family

May 16, 1983
"Another full Monday. The grass was too wet to cut this morning, so I baked bread, sewed, washed. Keith and Bryce for dinner. Then I cut grass as fast as I could push it. My shoulder likes aspirin tonight, but the lawn got cut. Then we had an impromptu birthday party for Jay, at Bryce and Mary's. It was good to be inside. Our family parties are so important. I wonder how these kids growing up will remember them. Also wrote some letters this a.m."

My grandmother wrote that small paragraph in her journal. We have two dozen or so journals that cover eight to twelve months each of her life. In between writing about weeding the garden, the price of milk, cutting the lawn, and so on, she also wrote some amazing, insightful truths about our world, about her belief in the restored gospel of Jesus Christ, and about her family. "Our family parties are so important. I wonder how these kids growing up will remember them."

Grandma, those parties are some of the best memories of my childhood.

Almost every Sunday when I was little, all of the cousins that lived nearby would go to Grandma's and Grandpa's house. From my early childhood, I can count only three friends with whom I played regularly who weren't my cousins. We used to play "Run, Sheepie, Run" in grandma's backyard. We played house underneath the giant pine trees. We sneaked into the big yard to play on the derelict farm equipment. We used to swing so high on the swing set that we could catch the branches of the trees with our feet. When it got dark, we sat in a circle to play "Murder in the Dark" or we played "No Bears are Out Tonight." Inside, Grandpa popped popcorn and made grilled cheese sandwiches while we watched the "Wonderful World of Disney." Grandma kept an old cookie tin full of dominoes in a cupboard in the kitchen. I was twenty years old and living in Brazil before I learned that playing dominoes meant more than weaving a trail of upright, unstable dominoes around the kitchen table. Grandma also kept a cookie jar in the kitchen, and it was nearly always full of cookies.

When I was a teenager, my grandmother suffered a stroke. Overnight, she went from gardening, baking bread, and taking care of her neighbors every day, to being locked in a wheelchair and unable to make herself understood most of the time. But we still went to Grandma's house. During college, I would frequently go home to Idaho for the weekend. Before I could leave to go back to school, I always stopped at Grandma and Grandpa's place to say goodbye. Most of the time, I wasn't the only one there visiting.

Today, the tradition of family parties continues, even though my grandmother passed away over ten years ago, and my grandfather only a few years later. On the first Sunday evening of each month, the family gets together for an extended family home evening. Sometimes it's at someone's home. Sometimes it's at a family park. Someone teaches a gospel lesson. Little second cousins run around the house playing tag. There's usually dessert. And its usually a three- or four-hour event when its all said and done.

When I was young, my grandfather promised me that, if I lived right, I could have a home where my children would want to bring their children to come visit. Of all the promises, wishes, and hopes I have ever had, that one is my favorite. I do hope that my children and my grandchildren will want to visit. I want them to play games and run around with their cousins. I hope that as we raise our children our home can be a place of safety, of fun, of teaching, and that it can be a place of many happy reunions.

He can't be serious--can he?

I have never declared myself as belonging to either of the major parties, though I am definitely a republican leaning voter. The Terri Schaivo case has reinforced my disgust with politics in general. I cannot believe how much mileage the republicans are getting out of this, and, since I usually dislike the Democratic rhetoric, I am surprised and admire the silence of the Democratic party on this.

Tom DeLay had this to say:

"Mrs. Schiavo's death is a moral poverty and a legal tragedy. This loss happened because our legal system did not protect the people who need protection most, and that will change. The time will come for the men responsible for this to answer for their behavior, but not today. Today we grieve, we pray, and we hope to God this fate never befalls another." [reported on CNN]

We hope to God this fate never befalls another? This fate befalls hundreds every single day. Familes are called upon to make the hardest decisions they ever have to make. But wait! If Tom and the president get their way, we won't have to make this decision.

Congress will.

This is a decision to be made by families. When there is an argument, the decision should be mediated by the courts. Not the President. Not his governor brother. Not the Congress. 

To Tom -- Why don't you pay attention to your own ethics. Moral Poverty? Have you ever heard the the phrase "avoid the very appearance of evil?" I don't know about the allegations against you, but perhaps you should pay more attention to them. And avoiding situations which provoke these attacks.

To Bill Frist, who watched a video of Terri Schiavo and declared her diagnosis a mis-diagnosis -- Physician, heal thyself. You are a heart surgeon. Not a neurologist. And your use of the title M.D. is shameful in this context.

To President Bush -- What if it were your wife? Would you have still signed the bill? Would you have then let congress move the decision from you to the federal courts?

To Gov. Bush, who said "The beginning of life and the end of life, I think, is something we need to learn to do better." -- Just because it sounds cool, doesn't mean the two go together. Your attempts to overrule judicial decisions were --saying it nicely -- very bad government.

To America -- Sign your living will, for all the good it will do, and then move on with life. Our obsession with Terri Schiavo (I should take my own advice since this is my third post about this) is another manifestation of our ugly fascination with celebrity.

Build a culture of life--

Terri Schiavo isn't even cold yet--and the president is further politicizing an issue of which he should not have been part.

President Bush sent condolences to Schiavo's families. "I urge all those who honor Terri Schiavo to continue to work to build a culture of life where all Americans are welcomed and valued and protected." The president and, obviously, the republican part will be casting this as another front for the fight against abortion.

CNN has asked for comments--asking whether "this case [has] affected [me] personally?"

Terri Schiavo's case should not have touched me personally--it happened thousands of miles away in a place I have only seen from airplanes. What affected me personally was when my family had to make the same decision for my grandmother. I can only imagine how much harder the decision would have been for them if congress had decided to intervene. And why did they not? Was my grandmother worth less that Terri Schiavo? No, Terri schiavo has become politcal carrion. In truth, the President's and Congress' actions are NOT about Terri Schiavo.

Will they be doing this often? Will the next highly publicized child-custody case also be moved to Federal Court? There are thousands of people in the U.S. alone in a persistent vegetative state, awake, but unaware of their surroundings. Hundereds of decisions concerning their care are made every single day. How will Congress pick and choose which decisions should be reviewed in federal courts? Their place is to make Law to govern us all--not just Terri Shciavo.

Whose family is next on the congressional docket?

An OpEd piece in my school newspaper praised Congress for passing the national version of "Terri's Law," saying that it showed how important the individual is amidst all our talk of programs and initiatives. I wrote this in response--

On Wednesday, Jon Cox wrote that "the most powerful political body in the world took a weekend to pass a bill just for [Terri Schiavo];" that he was "enthralled" by congress' focus on an individual, and that this sort of action shows just how much we care. Mr. Cox is wrong. In the U.S. alone, there are between 15,000 and 35,000 persons being sustained who have been diagnosed as being in a persistent vegetative state. Why were none of these mentioned in this national version of "Terri's Law?" Where is our concern for them?

There is no overpowering concern in this nation for Terri Schiavo. Terri's guardian, Michael, and her Parents, the Schindlers, are standing in front of a studio audience made up of the entire nation--we watch them call names; we are horrified at allegations of abuse; we blame the judicial system for abandoning Terri; we use bullhorns, pickets, and protests (look at the pictures) to speak out. Where is Jerry Springer when we need him? We are not concerned with Terri's life or death—We are enthralled by a family fight, the likes of which most of us can only imagine. After all, what is more alluring than another family's dirty laundry? Our concern is just another ugly fascination with celebrity.

Hundreds of people every day have to make this decision for a loved one—a decision between death and a life of mechanical breath and liquid food. Congress has made no law for them. The nation knows none of their names. And yet, just for Terri, we watch, we answer opinion polls, we protest, we cry. Where are our tears for the hundreds of tragedies that occur every day? Where is our pain for the dozens in our own communities who face the same circumstance?

What if this were your family or mine? Your Sister? My Mother? How many of us know the agony of that decision? It can only be worse to endure second guessing by an entire nation and its government. None of us beside her family and friends will truly mourn Terri. Of course we will be sad. Of course we will send flowers and TV cameras. But when she dies, which of us will remember how she was before her heart stopped? Which of us will cry to once more feel her touch or see her smile? Life will go on for each of us as it did the day before, absent no one.

I am not here to voice support for Michael Schiavo or the Schindlers'. I am here, however, to defend our system of law. The original court in this case determined in the year 2000 that it would be Terri's wish to have the feeding tube removed. The original court determined, on the basis of credible and distinguished expert testimony, that Terri is "awake but unaware", locked in a persistent vegetative state. Terri's parents appealed the rulings. For five years, court after court has found the original judge's decision to have merit. Indeed, the courts noted that "few, if any, similar cases have ever been afforded this heightened level of process." As congress intervened, they threw centuries of judicial practice out the window. Whose family will be next on the congressional docket?

Terri Schiavo has become the "Terri Schiavo case" and "Terri's Law". Terri Schiavo has become a symbol—a pawn—in a very political fight. Representatives who rightly recognized that Congress had no place in that hospice room will be vilified at their next election as the ones who voted to kill Terri. I am ashamed of our legislators and our president. We should all be ashamed of the circus we have made of a difficult situation. Terri Schiavo is a woman, a daughter, a wife, a patient, a friend. She should never have to be a sound bite in the next election.

Monsters in the closet

--So, I have an interest in writing and I don't have time (or anything remotely interesting to report on) to do anything very original yet. This story was written originally for a class assignment. I have only reworked it a little since then. Enjoy...



Monsters in the Closet

“There are monsters in my closet.”

“Oh, yeah? Well, little girls still have to go to bed—monsters or not,” said the mother. “Come on, give me a hug, and I'll tuck you in.”

To tell the truth, it was getting dark outside. It really was time for the little girl to go to bed. The family lived in a trailer park—“Mr. Hobson's Neighborhood”—that was just on the outskirts of town. The walk from the kitchen to the little girl's bedroom was only a few steps down the hall. Worn, brown shag-carpet stretched from the living room down a narrow hall, past the bathroom and a small bedroom, stopping at the door of the master bedroom. Fake wood paneling covered the walls. The front door, broken, was jammed tight with a sock between the door and the jamb. The smell of past meals oozed from the paneling: spaghetti, curry, microwaved hot dogs, and deep fried fish all mingled, becoming a sweetish smell that clung to everything. The little girl was also clinging to her mother.

“Do you want me to check the closet for monsters?”

“No, they'll still be there even if you check.”

The mother stood next to a large bed that was meant for growing into. She had nearly sprained her ankle on this particular trip to the bedroom. Next to a pair of plastic skates on the floor there lay two naked Barbie dolls in the midst of clothes and other toys in haphazard disarray. Supported in the mother's arms, the little girl's arms were wrapped tightly around her mother's neck. Her legs were clamped tight reaching almost all the way around the mother's waist. To be honest, thought the mother, her little girl was getting too big for this—for all of this really. She didn't know why her daughter still believed in monsters.

Just to be sure, she walked toward the closet, meaning to make a show of checking for monsters. It was hardly big enough for a six-year-old's wardrobe, let alone a monster of any consequence. As she held her daughter on her right side, the mother reached out with her left to slide open the closet door. The little girl stiffened, pressed her face into her mother's neck, and let out a small whimper. The door slid bumpily open on warped tracks; it took some effort to open it all the way.

“See? There's nothing in there.”

Unwilling to even look, the little girl's arms just squeezed tighter around her mother's neck; her eyes shut just as fiercely.

“They don't come out till later, after you leave.”

“But I've looked and there's nothing to be afraid of. It's about time you grow up and learn that there's no such thing as monsters!”

“Mommy, please shut the door. Maybe then they'll stay away.”

Reluctant to spend much more time on this, the mother gave up. With a small heave she pulled the door shut and noticed that the paint on the door was peeling. Not that it was the only thing that looked like it was coming apart around there. The stove only worked most of the time. The inside of the microwave was covered in grease and hard bits of food that never seemed to come off. Carpets had holes; doors shut only half-way; vinyl countertops were separating from the wood underneath. No, the closet was probably the least of her worries.

With the child almost in tucked in, the mother kissed her little girl.

“What about Daddy?” asked the little girl.

“He can't kiss you goodnight tonight, maybe tomorrow night. Now, be a good girl and go right to sleep. I don't want you coming out asking for drinks or to go to the bathroom.”

“Can you get my Barbie?” the little girl asked.

“Which one?”

“The blonde one. She's the prettiest.”

“There you go, sweetie. How tight do you want your sheets?”

“All the way,” said the girl.

The mother tucked and pulled on the sheets till her little girl said “when.” She shut off the light and reached to turn on the nightlight. It clicked on, and dim yellow light flooded the room next to the bed. The little girl lay perfectly still with her eyes closed. Her hands were clenched around the still-naked Barbie lying just on top of the comforter. On her way out, the mother kicked the roller skate and the remaining immodest Barbie out of the way. She peered into the dark corner of the room and noticed that the light from the night light didn't quite reach to the closet. Was that why her daughter was so afraid of something in there?

The mother stepped into the hallway, leaving the bedroom door open a few inches. She reached for the hallway light switch and lingered for a moment while she looked toward the closed door to the master bedroom. The man that the litte girl called Father was honestly her father. He wasn't exactly the woman's husband, but somehow he counted as more than a live-in boyfriend. He had bought the trailer and they moved in just a few months before their girl was born. The woman always knew that he hadn't wanted to move in, but he had insisted:

“It's not right to just leave you both out to dry. Besides, she's my little girl too.”

Shaking her head, she switched off the light and moved into the kitchen. At the sink she scrubbed uselessly at the dried-on remains of what looked to have been spaghetti—at least she thought she could remember making spaghetti that week, or was it last week? No matter what she did, it just wouldn't come off. She threw the plate into the cold, soapy water that had been there since much earlier in the evening, and selected a fresher plate to clean. It just seemed so pointless. For a while now her husband had seemed to be growing more and more distant. No matter what she did, he just seemed to be locked away from her. Tonight she just couldn't deal with him.

After realizing that she had been scrubbing the same already-clean plate for several minutes, she dried her hands. With the first dry hand, she reached into the cupboard on her right, and pulled out a plastic cup. With the second, she opened the cupboard door above the sink and pulled down an unopened bottle of vodka. She decided that it was an “on the rocks” kind of night, and went to the freezer.

“Damn. No ice.”

She gave up and settled into the recliner that he had given her two years before, when they weren't so far apart. It was the only thing in the trailer that had held up at all. She poured herself nearly a full cup of the warm clear liquid, and watched a re-run of “I Love Lucy.” Two episodes and more than one cup later she had almost forgotten her problems, completely absorbed by the television.





In her room, the little girl was having nightmares again.

Hadn't mommy closed the closet door? How did the monster get in? She was running, hiding, trying to get away. No matter where she turned the monster was only steps away. It was big, and dark. It didn't want her to run, only to stop, and let it hold her. But it scared her, and she couldn't let herself stay near it. Suddenly she noticed that her Barbie was gone. When she went back to find her, the monster was holding it. The monster was telling the Barbie how she was a good girl, how it didn't want to hurt anyone, how pretty she . . .

The child's screams were muffled by the blanket that she had pulled up over her head.

The girl started awake from the sound of her own nightmare screams. She clawed at the blanket that suffocated her, pulling it down below her chin. Cold sweat dotted her forehead. The little girl took deep, gasping breaths. She was afraid to move, but her eyes darted to each corner of the room before settling on the closet. It was still closed, but the monster might have shut it before she could see. She stared at the closed closet door for several long moments before light from the hallway spilled onto the floor revealing toys and kid blankets scattered everywhere. A massive black figure stood in the doorway looking at her. The monster hadn't gone back into the closet, she thought. Then the figure entered the room and shut the door tightly behind itself.

The little girl shut her eyes, hoping that the monster might go away thinking she was asleep. The bed moved, and she felt someone shaking her. She began crying again, gasping for breath between sobs. Finally, she opened her eyes and recognized her father.

“Shhhhh. It’s only a nightmare, it can't hurt you.”

Tears of relief streamed down her cheeks. The little girl reached up with her empty hand, still holding the Barbie close.

“Daddy, there was a monster. It was here,” she said in between successively calmer sobs and long gulps of air, still only half awake.

He quieted her again and reached for the Barbie doll that she held clenched in her small fist. He took the Barbie and tossed her next to the other one on the floor as he picked the little girl up from under the covers. She held his hand and he stroked her cheek, trying to comfort her. She heard him tell her that she was a good girl and that no one wanted to hurt her. He told her how pretty she was and that there weren't any monsters for her to be afraid of. Quiet, and this time, scared, tears rolled down her face as he held her tight to his chest. She let her body go limp as she gave in to his soft voice. Only a small whimper escaped her mouth, as he laid her back down on the bed.

. . . how it didn't want to hurt her and how she was a good Barbie. The little girl was hiding from the monster but couldn't wait any longer. She had to help her Barbie. The monster sat down and was caressing and talking gently to the Barbie. When it set her down for a moment, the little girl bolted for her doll. She ran as fast as she could to grab the Barbie, intending to run away with her. But it heard her, and it was waiting. When she was close enough it grabbed her and held her so tight she couldn't even move. She felt like she couldn't breathe and could hardly make any noise at all. It told her not to be scared, that it didn't want to hurt her. It asked why she always ran. It touched her hair and then her cheek. She was so very scared, and it could tell in her eyes.