Bullying? Probably

I just read an article about a woman who was bullied by her fellow students in high school. On the occasion of her 25th reunion, she published a poem so that her classmates could see what had happened. Their responses, through the eyes of experience, were positive and resulted in a scholarship being set up in her name to prevent this happening again, and much forgiveness and cleansing took place.

About the best outcome possible from a situation like that - a strong, resilient individual, and people with enough humanity to admit that they were wrong and try to amend matters.

I got to thinking about my final years of elementary school, and realized that I just felt numb when I thought about the years up until my family moved in Grade 8. Why was that? As I thought and tried to remember, a large orange inserted itself in my throat, and I felt like crying. This was an interesting reaction. Then I remembered.

"Rooney's! You've got Rooney's" they would yell as they touched me and then tried to pass the "fleas" along. Never mind that my family was one of the most respected in the town. Never mind that I was a clean, well-dressed, well cared-for child. I had "fleas".

Even writing about this makes me feel like crying. Why did I dredge up this pain? What can I do now?

Maybe I can help somebody. Maybe somebody needs to talk to someone who has been marginalized, felt unloved, uncertain. Maybe somebody needs to know that it can get better.

To this day, I don't know what caused me to be so ostracized. Was I spoiled? The third of three, and the only girl, maybe to a certain extent. Was I different? Well, my parents never drank or smoked, my mom was a nurse and worked in a nursing home. My Dad was a minister, and I spent a lot of time doing things at the church. Neither of them played sports, or hung out at the bars. I guess that made me "different". We went to church every week, and I didn't play sports if I had to play on Sunday.

I studied music and read a lot. I escaped in the ways I could, but it was a lonely path.

Things got better after we moved. The kids didn't know me, didn't know my background and it was a new start. After awhile, though, it started to happen again, but to a lesser extent.

I tried to fit in. I learned how to smoke. I hung out with anyone who would let me, and I didn't work at school. Good grades were for the nerdy kids who nobody liked. I desperately wanted to be liked.

I joined the school band, and hung out in the music room during spares and lunch. At least it was someplace I was welcome.

In the high school I attended, there were over 2000 students, so there were friends for all, and I eventually found my group. Even so, though, nobody wanted to date a chubby, glasses-wearing smart girl. I never had a date, went to a prom, or hung out with any of the cool kids. I wasn't invited to parties, went with my Dad if I wanted to go to movies, and generally spent most of the time alone.

By Grade 11, I was just too sad. I wouldn't go to school, wouldn't leave my bed, and didn't see any future. I never considered suicide - it would hurt my parents, who loved me, far too much. There was no solution. I remember sitting with the school psychologist and just crying. That's all. I had nothing to say, and no hope.

One day, I woke up and decided that I was stronger than this. I made myself do things, talked less and listened more. It was too late to really save high school, but the new habits followed me to University and my life changed. What caused this? Well, I know that many people were praying for me. I'm sure that had a great deal to do with it.

Was I bullied? I guess there's no doubt, really. That bullying led to depression and had I not found strength through my faith and family to overcome it, I know I would have required some medical intervention.

Now, I have many friends who love me, a caring, kind and loyal spouse of 27 years, two kids who tell me I'm a "Cool Mom" and lots of people to talk to. Being bullied has made me the person I am. I will not tolerate prejudice (one kid in high school didn't like me because he "heard about me" from other kids). I will not allow people to be treated badly because of who they love or the colour of their skin, or whatever makes them "different" (what makes any of us different?). Everyone needs to be safe, and I try to provide that safety for people - because I know how it is to feel unsafe.

My kids don't call me a "cool Mom" because I let them do stupid, age-inappropriate things, or because I try to be one of them. They call me that because they know that no matter what they tell me, I will listen and try not to judge. Their friends engage me in conversation; some are Facebook friends (their request) and I hope that if one of them needs to talk and doesn't know where to turn, they will come to me.

I've never told this story before. It has been a numb place in my memory, and one that I put far in the past. I think now it's time to remember and share how hurtful it is to be bullied, how shameful it is to shun people, and how much we need to leave judging to the One who made us, who loves us, who cares for us, and who will ultimately decide what our eternal home will be. I am happy to disagree with you in love, as long as you will respect my views, as much as I respect yours, or at least your right to have them.

Now I don't want to talk about it anymore.

Furry Friends

Upon the death of our beloved old (22 years) cat, Mittens, in 2007, my children tearfully asked 'Can we get another pet?"

After living with Mittens for so many years, I felt I needed a break to mourn her. And I was interested to see how life would be without the chores associated with being owned by a cat - litter box cleaning, grooming, and feeding. So, my answer to the children was "God will send us our next pet".

God did indeed send us our next pet, early in 2009, when my friend Sheila was desperately ill in hospital and a "temporary" home was needed for her service dog, Mentor.

We were glad to take on this duty, as Sheila was a valued and beloved friend. When it became apparent that Sheila would not likely make it, I sat down to have the discussion with my husband about whether we could keep the dog. To my surprise, my husband, who is not a fan of dogs "because they are so needy", didn't even feel the need for discussion. He simply stated "of course we'll keep the dog" and that was that. I like to think that having this piece of the puzzle taken care of enabled Sheila to leave us with one of her burdens eased.

On Labour Day Sunday in 2010, my daughter and I made a quick pit-stop at the grocery store for some coffee cream, as we were having company. A beautiful Fall day, it seemed silly to lock the car, (especially when, in my opinion, if you are going to steal a car and go to jail, you should choose something really worthwhile), so we left it unlocked and with the windows open.

We were no more than ten minutes, and when we came back, there was a white kitten in our car! A man nearby claimed that he had seen someone put the cat in (I now think he was that person), and he watched us carefully as we quickly decided that we would not leave such a vulnerable creature in a parking lot.

When we arrived home with this little, hungry, white and pink creature, my husband had to agree that we couldn't just leave him. In order not to become too invested, we all spoke about "her" as if we were going to send her back. We put up posters with her picture, and had no response whatsoever. One day, my husband said, "Well, I think we should name the cat, and I'd like to call her Zaidy".

The next thing was to take her to arrange for appropriate alteration of her reproductive organs. At that time our vet discovered that Zaidy was in fact a boy. As "Zaidy" is the Yiddish word for grandmother, it didn't seem an appropriate name, so we called him "Zed" instead.

After a little while we realized that Zed, a pure white cat with yellow eyes, was profoundly deaf, and that our hearing-ear dog had known it all along.

Zed has grown to be a handsome and courageous cat, and he and Mentor are the best of friends, often curling up together for a nap, and always tapping their muzzles together in a furry-mammal version of a kiss.

Needless to say, I've been praying to God to not send us any more pets!

"Spirits Open to a Thrust of Grace"

I'm still pondering something that happened in October of 2011.

A woman in our congregation asked me if I was coming to her wedding the following week. Not sure if I'd heard her correctly, I said "Your wedding?"

She replied "I guess John (my husband) didn't tell you. I asked him not to tell everyone, but I didn't mean you!" After getting all the details, I told her how delighted I would be to attend.

My friend, who had been a widow for several decades, was going to marry her childhood sweetheart, who she had dated over 50 years ago. They had reconnected after the death of his wife several years back.

The wedding was a joyous occasion. Their families just "meshed" as she put it, and a more lively and heartfelt wedding I have never attended. Afterward, at the reception, I discovered just how nice all the family members actually were.

The happy couple went West for their honeymoon, to see relatives. They returned and settled into a routine.

On the nineteenth day of their marriage, we received a telephone call. The bridegroom was dead, from injuries sustained in a car accident.

Needless to say, we were all devastated. Telephone calls and social media posts flew from members of our church community and beyond. One question that people kept asking was "Where is God in all this? Where?" My answer was "I don't know, but I'm sure He is here".

Fast forward a few days. One of my voice students was having a concert in her home to let a few friends hear some of her original compositions. I was invited and was glad to go, as she is a talented songwriter and it sounded like a lovely way to spend an evening.

Each song came with a short explanation. The concert was intense, spiritual, intimate and moving. I was immersed in all of these emotions when my mood was shattered by her description of circumstances that had lead her to include a particular piece.

She described being the first to the scene of a car crash that week, and climbing in beside the driver, an elderly man. She told how he grasped her hand and calmed as she spoke to him soothingly; how she was praying for him; how he quietly drifted away. I reacted noticeably when she told the story and she realized that I knew who the man was. I cried through that song, and the ones that followed. At intermission, we could hardly wait to embrace and celebrate this bittersweet bond that had been established.

I hurried home as soon as the concert was over. I had to tell my friend that God had made his presence known in her tragedy. Her husband died in the presence of an angel sent by God, a caring Christian woman who had held his hand and prayed for him as he passed away.

Her reaction was everything that I had thought it would be and more. For her, God paid another visit. Her husband had not liked being alone, and was on that road coming home to her because he didn't want to stay alone in his apartment, which he had been closing down. Even though it was late and he could have stayed, he wanted to be with his new wife. For her, the thought that he had died alone was nearly unbearable, and this news gave her a great deal of comfort.

As for me, I felt humbled to have been the conduit, the "fifth business" in this story. The lyrics I kept hearing in my head were "Spirits open to a Thrust of Grace". I felt like my spirit had been thrust open by Grace and it brought me to my knees with wonder that I should have a small part in this story of such love and comfort!

God, thank you for using me, and thank you for showing how much you love us by providing a pair of earthly arms to hold his man until he reached your everlasting arms.

Don't the hours go shorter as the days go by
We never get to stop and open our eyes
One minute you're waiting for the sky to fall
The next you're dazzled by the beauty of it all

Lovers in a dangerous time

These fragile bodies of touch and taste
This fragrant skin, this hair like lace
Spirits open to a thrust of grace
Never a breath you can afford to waste
- excerpt from "Lovers in a Dangerous Time" by Bruce Cockburn




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The privilege of caring

I remember a couple of years back, during a controversy over a man wanting to "pull the plug" on his wife who was being kept alive on a respirator. I was of the opinion that it was time, but my doctor made a comment that made me think. His comment was that if she died, her husband would be denied the privilege of caring for her.


This comment gave way to some questions, and perhaps even some answers. Why do we have those among us who are born with extra needs? Why do we have some who lose their abilities and must accept care from others? How do these people fit in?


I believe that the answer is simply the one given me by my doctor. It is a privilege to be allowed to care for someone.


You see it all the time - the woman with Alzheimer's whose husband ensures that she is dressed, her hair coiffed and her makeup on, as it was when she could care for it herself. You know she didn't do all this, and picture him lovingly allowing her to keep this dignity, even though she is beyond caring.


Then there's the woman or man who faithfully goes to see their spouse in a long-term care facility. The marriage as they knew it is over. It is unlikely they will ever live in the same room or share the same bed again. The visits get to be routine, but some days, something wonderful happens. The husband, locked in his own world, remembers his wife's name and that she is his wife and he loves her.


The wife, who has born the silence of a man who she knows loves her deeply, receives an unaccustomed and rare "thank you" or "I love you" from her taciturn spouse.


These are the moments they live for.

Birthday People

Whenever someone asks me where I grew up, I hesitate. Do I mention Woodville, where I spent the first seven years of my life and met my "Best" friend, with whom I am in touch to this day? Do I mention Ripley, where we spent the next seven years, and where so much of my growing up happened? Or is it Cookstown, where I spent my high school years?

I usually mention all three, because all were a large part of who I became, and who I am as a woman and a human being.

Ripley was a small town of 450 souls when we moved there in 1967. It was a bit of an "in" community, in that many people were related to each other, and had lived there for generations. Interestingly, I discovered that I even had relatives there. One of my classmates was the son of a woman whose mother was a first cousin of my grandmother. Confusing? Sure, but reassuring. I was part of the community.

Things weren't always rosy growing up there, but I made some marvellous friends, who have made a point over the years of keeping in touch. Bev married and settled near her family home. Kathy joined the Canadian Forces and ended up in the Maritimes. Anne became a teacher and moved to Ajax. What we all had in common was that we kept in touch, one way or another, over the years.

I moved away from the community in Grade 8, but it was after the Grade 8 photo had been taken, so there I am in their grad class. I arrived in Cookstown in time to get into the Grade 8 photo there, so I am in two grad classes!

All through high school, I kept in touch with my old friends, and when Anne and I ended up at the University of Western Ontario during the same year, we reconnected and I heard all about all my old friends and classmates from Ripley.

We all went our separate ways, but a party was held for the grad class to celebrate their tenth anniversary graduation from High School. I was invited and went, even though I graduated from a different school, and by that time lived in Toronto.

I sang at weddings, and went to reunions, and was never allowed to forget that I had once been from Ripley.

Recently, reconnecting on the miracle of Facebook, I was invited to a party being held to celebrate the birthday of all who were born in 1960 from Ripley. I heard all the excitement and buzz, but was unable to attend because of a family commitment.

After the party was over, there were many Facebook postings, and I was moved by the comments made about how I was missed.

I hope to get to the next party.

Where am I from?

Definitely Ripley. It just won't let me go. And I'm grateful.

Shedding

I seem to need a lot of time to think about things before posting them on this blog site.



For instance, after years of dreaming, we purchased our own home in April. In fact, the series of events that drove this decision were, without doubt, from God.



We had lived in a manse since moving to Chatham in 2004, and the manse needed some upgrading, specifically in the 1970s original kitchen.



The church, knowing how poor the function of this space was, were digging deeply into their pockets to find the money for an upgrade.



I suggested to my husband that perhaps it might be a good idea to "test the waters" about purchasing our own home before the renovations were made. I would feel obligated to stay in the house if it were renovated for us!



At the next Board meeting, the question was asked: "How would they feel about us purchasing our own home." As the owners of an aging building requiring some work in the future, the response was, in many cases, relief.



We started to make plans. Because of the impending tax changes, we decided to make purchasing before the change our deadline.



Our real estate agent showed us many, many houses. Some were wonderful. Some were sad, some were lovely. Some were suitable.



We had finally seen a house that we liked, and were prepared to put an offer in on it, when she asked us if we would like to see one more house. It was not in our neighbourhood, which was a consideration, and right across from a high school where our children would not be attending (they are in French Immersion and it is not offered at that school). We went to see it. Why not?



From the moment we walked in the door, my husband was home. A beautiful raised ranch, with gorgeous hardwood floors, and a very functional layout.



It got better the more we looked, and finally, in the basement, the biggest selling feature - two "extra" rooms. They needed finishing, but the potential was huge.



The price of this prize? A wee bit above our top range, but still well within our financial capability.



The next hurdle was the kids. "Across from that high school?" "Are you kidding?". By the time they had seen the whole house, they asked us to put in an offer on it.



There was little dickering. We offered, they countered, we put in our final, top offer, and left it at that. It was accepted, and the papers signed that evening. It was a Sunday. We left the rest to our Real Estate Agent.



Monday morning, a house inspector called. He had an opening that day. We agreed to meet him at the house.



We arrived that afternoon in time to see our Real Estate agent turning away a group of prospective purchasers. I guess they didn't get the memo! They were annoyed, as they were prepared to make a cash offer.



The inspection passed with flying colours.



Tuesday, we received a call from our Mortgage Broker. We were golden, and he had gotten us a deal just before the rates went up by more than one percentage point.



All of the people who needed to be contacted were, and we set a closing date of April 22, since all conditions had been lifted.



On Thursday, we called for an energy audit, as it was apparent that the furnace and air conditioning would need updating. It was the day that the program was cancelled without warning by the government. Because we got on the list that day, we were still eligible for the incentives.



By the end of that week, everything was in place for us to move in, and we started packing.



We have now been in the home for several months. Every inspector that has seen it has told us what en excellent house it is - well built and attractive.



We still have a number of projects to do, but we are enjoying our own big, beautiful home. And we have great neighbours, too.

Truly, this is the house that God had in his plan for us. That is why he cleared all the obstacles out of our way and helped us to settle in our own, beautiful, home.

Vision

It seems surprising that I have not as yet commented on the biggest personal change to date.

After forty-one years of being almost totally dependent upon glasses, I no longer need them for most things. In January, I underwent a procedure known as Lasik, which restored my uncorrected vision.

Because of the extent of the correction which I needed, I am still waiting for the full effect of the surgery, but I am content with the improvement I have so far. People with strong prescriptions often have a lot of fluid left in their eye after the procedure, and it needs to work itself out, often taking several months. Until then, the vision, while good, is hazy at times, and needs mild correction in poor light.

This pain-free and quick procedure is nothing short of a miracle of modern science. For people like myself, it will save money in the long run, as my glasses are getting to be a major expense. Well, not any longer.

In some ways, I really don't know what to make of this miracle on a deep level. I have identified myself for most of my life as a glasses wearer. Now, I find myself wearing my reading glasses (yes, I still need those) unnecessarily, as if in some way I find them comforting.

What really amazes me is the reaction of health insurance companies to this miracle. In fact, their attitude about correction in general, whether it be glasses, contact lenses, or surgery is puzzling.

My dental care is completely covered under our plan. Yet, I can work, take care of my family, and navigate around quite adequately without a tooth. In fact, I can drive myself to my dentist if I am in need of care.

Vision care, on the other hand, is sparingly funded. My last pair of glasses cost nearly $600, yet I was only eligible for $100 every two years for a new pair. I was incapable of working, watching children or shopping without my glasses, let alone driving myself to my eye doctor.

Why is this so? It seems very odd, and probably ensures that many people driving around with corrective lenses are not seeing as well as they should, because they can't afford to update their prescription. I find this a scary thought.

For me, this problem is past. I will spend the second half of my life as a person who doesn't need glasses for most things. Now, I can hardly wait until the excess fluid in my eyes has worked its way out, and I can see completely clearly.

Now, that's a big change!