Autumn Noelle

There’s Something About a Daughter

There’s something about a daughter…
A connection… an ability to relate unlike any other.
I guess it is because we are so much alike
And yet, we are so very different.
You are your own person and you always have been.
I am learning, by your example,
To be my own person too.

I have tried to model unconditional love
Acceptance of differences
Tolerance

I have tried to teach you
To care for yourself first
So that you will have resources to draw from
And can share yourself with others.

I have tried to show you
That caring is better than indifference
Love is better than hate
Spirit is always with you
And life is a magnificent adventure.
I have encouraged you
To find your dreams and follow them with passion.

All these things I wanted to share with you
Because I love you so much
And will always urge you
To make the most of the time you have here.

I see you doing so many of these things already
And I am deeply impressed with your inner strength,
Your courage, your humor and intelligence...
And all the lessons you learned at such a young age.
You have a bright future in front of you, my love
And I will be here to support you
Encourage you
Laugh and cry with you
And be your biggest cheerleader.

Most of all I will love you
Forever and for always.

To Autumn Noelle -  my Shortcake/Momo!

Tears & Tupperware

Tears and Tupperware

Anyone who has ever had young children around their house knows the wondrous entertainment value of a lower kitchen cabinet filled with Tupperware. Now days, it is most likely also filled with Rubbermaid and other knock-offs, but for the sake of simplicity, we just call it all Tupperware. If you have the courage and open mindedness to let your cabinet be in a perpetual state of disarray… your children, grandchildren, nieces, nephews, etc can have a world of fun with those convenient plastic containers and matching colorful lids. Throw in a couple of plastic cups, a spatula, a large plastic spoon, a funnel and a turkey baster, and you have the makings for hours of play.

At 9 months, my grandson would open the cabinet (the only one that wasn’t safety tied up or locked), throw as many things on the floor as he could reach, and then settle in for some real baby fun. He would bang the containers together – try to put the lids on - turn the larger ones upside down and beat on them with the spatula. Squeezing the turkey baster and feeling the air come out the end made him giggle. He was completely and joyfully engaged in the process of destroying my kitchen.

As he got older, he began preparing meals for me – using the big pitcher for imaginary apple juice or milk and pouring it into a cup for me – proudly serving out pretend pizza with a large spatula - and bringing me homemade ice cream and a gigantic plastic spoon to eat it with. So many delightful meals of imaginary peanut butter sandwiches, hot dogs, and delicious invisible cake. So many smiles each time I told him how yummy his food was. So many good times with my own personal chef and "Best Beau."

By the time his sister was old enough to stand by herself, Sebastian was more interested in the dragons that lived in my yard and the dinosaur eggs we found hidden among the river rocks in my planters. But his sister took over the care and service of the Tupperware cabinet. Savannah loved the plastic containers, and assumed Sebastian’s place on the kitchen floor. She was just over a year old when their family moved to the Midwest, so we never ate the imaginary meals I shared with her “Bubby” – but still, my Tupperware cabinet was blessed by her energy.

Yesterday I needed a container for some Greek salad left over from lunch with a friend. The cabinet that holds my “Tupperware” was in pretty much the same shape it was in when the grandkids moved away 9 months ago. For all those months I had kept the pieces I used most often toward the front of the top shelf, so I could just dig in quickly to find what I wanted, promising myself each time that my next project would be to organize those storage containers. But yesterday, I was hot and tired, and I couldn’t find a lid for the container I was holding in my hand. I got frustrated by the disarray – and next thing I knew, I was throwing containers and lids and everything else out onto the floor in frustration, tears running down my face. At first I thought it was just because I was aggravated with the mess, but then I realized my tears had deeper roots. Emptying that cabinet was just another affirmation that there would be no more grandchildren playing in my Tupperware. There would be no more meals cooked for me in pretend ovens or removed from pretend refrigerators with small sweet hands. There would be no more “Here Mawney – I hab a peanut butter sammich for you – and some ice cweam too!” Emptying that cabinet was another step in my grief process about becoming the “far far away” Grandmother. I was undoing what they had done – and it would never be done that way again.

Sorting through this odd collection of containers, lids, spoons, and other odds and ends is a bittersweet exercise. Here is the blue wine glass Sebastian used to serve my pretend “appa juice.” Here are two of the plastic containers from Savannah’s organic baby food. Over there are two of the small rectangular cups with red lids that held Sebastian’s gluten free animal crackers, and next to that, the red plastic funnel that made such a funny hat. And sticking out of the big blue pitcher is one of Sebastian’s drum sticks - in the form of a white plastic spatula with the half-melted handle from falling on a burner many years ago. I would never ever part with these precious memories – no matter how wet my eyes get as I look at them. How is it possible for your heart to laugh and cry all at the same time?

Some people may think that crying over Tupperware is pretty sappy. Maybe it is. I really have no reason to worry about my grandchildren. They have creative loving parents and plenty of people in their Minnesota family who care for and adore them. We talk on the phone at least once a week - I send them little gifts and cards “just because” – and we are still part of each other’s lives. This is just one of those “Mawney” things. It’s just me, coping with missing them - missing the sound of their laughter - the excited look when they see me - the feel of their arms around me - the joy of their presence in my daily round.

Life does not always feel fair. Have you noticed? Sometimes it seems pretty merciless as it metes out day to day challenges. Sometimes all you can do is grab on and hang on for dear life. And sometimes, the best you can do is to remind yourself over and over that everything is happening as part of a much bigger, better and smarter plan laid out by a much bigger, better and smarter God ... no matter how wrong it seems from where you are right now... and no matter how many tears you cry over the Tupperware.

Daddy Dearest

Fathers are human. We usually wish they were more than that. I wanted my father to be truly as wonderful and happy and loving as the man he showed when he was singing in the church choir – the man he seemed to be to his Sunday School class – the man he was when we had a church picnic or a family reunion. He was a highly intelligent man - who took care of his family – provided well – and was a part of his kid’s lives. He was a deeply religious fundamentalist Baptist, who studied his Bible from cover to cover, with a particular love for Revelation and the end times. The Bible was interpreted literally… and legalistically. There was no alcohol in our house – no tobacco – no rock music or swearing… no going to dances or movies or doing any of the other obvious sins. My father needed to have God and the church be the center of his world… except when he had another need, which he first met with me in the basement cushioned by a pile of dirty laundry when I was 6.

So – my father was a pedophile. Not a very cheerful topic for Father’s Day. It went on until he moved away for work when I was 17. Icky… so icky, it seems, that I pushed it completely out of my conscious mind until I was 33, when the memories began crashing in. My father was a child molester. He denied from beginning, and never changed his story.  But I knew the truth. My father was a child molester. Damn, damn, damn…. 

Let’s imagine I have given you all kinds of gory details and told you about the years of insanity and addiction and therapy and pain and rage and on and on and on. Let’s pretend that is all out and done with… because a lot of it is.

Since this is an essay about Father’s Day, let’s talk instead about something that does not come naturally for me - the good that came out of my relationship with my father. If you had asked me about the good 10 years ago, I would not have been able to tell you much. I was still too entrenched in my unresolved issues with him. But time (and our Source), if we allow it, can bring a change in perspective. So over the last few years, I have set out on a journey to find good memories about the man that I always called “Daddy.”

At heart, my father was a good man. He laughed a lot – he loved music and sang all the time – he whistled almost constantly (which drove me crazy at times). He was a morning person, which I was not, so he would often wake me for school by pretending to be playing Reveille at my door. I was not amused. Wait… wait. It seems I’ve segued into teenage aggravations instead of good memories – let me get back on track.

My father bought me an upright piano when I was 6 so I could start piano lessons, and surprised me with a gorgeous cherry wood Howard grand when I was 13. Recitals, choir concerts and musicals would always find him sitting in the audience. He took me to a good Baptist church, where I was very involved and a leader. A nice home, nice neighborhood, nice clothes - all good things for a kid growing up. Thanks Dad.

Okay – now that the obligatory appreciation is over – what is the truth about my father’s legacy to me? I have agonized over this for a long time… and here is what I think I know. My father lost his mother in a car accident when he was 8 – was raised by an alcoholic father - and I suspect his childhood was very painful. Still, he managed to educate himself, find good, steady employment, and be responsible in providing for the financial needs of his family. When my mother became ill again and again, he stayed. When my brother and I had challenges, he stayed. He embraced his spiritual beliefs, drew strength from them, and I think, eventually, found release from many of his personal demons through his trust in his God.

My father suffered from the same thing we all suffer from – human frailty. Our frailty demonstrates itself in so many different ways – some more appalling than others. But in the end, even though he had deteriorated physically and mentally, my father continued to model his faith and his humor. After not speaking for 15 years, I called him on what turned out to be his last Father’s Day. I had no idea he was ill – Spirit just moved me to overcome my fear and dial the number. I opened the conversation by saying that I was willing to try starting over from that moment forward, and see what would happen. He seemed pleased with that. Probably the next thing he said was “Have you found a good Independent Baptist Church?” It was an old old joke between us – and we had a good laugh. We went on to talk about my kids, and my life, and in this, our last conversation, I was able to hear the voice of a man who loved me... my Daddy. His love may have been flawed, but it was still love.

Forgiveness found a small foothold for me in that conversation. 6 months later I had a call from my brother telling me that my father had passed. I grieved more than I expected to – and my willingness to forgive continued to shift. Something about my belief that my father understood everything now - and had found forgiveness for himself… released me to see things more clearly.

Daddy, I wish things had been different – for me and for you. I wish there had not been so much pain… that things had been easier. But some of the best parts of who I am today are there because of the role you played in my life. I am beginning to believe that you offered to come and play this role because I asked to learn forgiveness in this lifetime. You were an excellent teacher. It could not have been easy for you. So I am going to say something I never thought I would say. I forgive you. I forgive you… and even more important, I think I am starting to forgive myself.

Happy Fathers Day Daddy. I love you. I hope you are in a heaven that is everything you ever imagined it to be… and I hope you’re singing tenor in the choir.

A Letter to Savannah’s Guardian Angel, April 29, 2011

Dearest Angel,

I don’t know your name, but I have seen you. I had a glimpse of you over Savannah’s crib in the hospital one time –folding your magnificent wings around her – blessing not only our precious girl, but everyone else in the room. I know you are with her this instant – watching over her - and that she is never outside the safety of your wings.

She’s had a rough road for her short 19 months. But what I believe right now is that our sweet Angel Girl understands. If it sometimes seems like she is confused, it’s only because she has to deal with so much from her physical body right now, so she gets distracted. But the Truth is that with her young child clarity she can hear her old soul wisdom. She knows that she has been sent here to teach as well as to learn, and she is willing to be both the teacher and the student. I know she is learning – her family is learning - and every life that has touched hers through this journey has been changed for the better.

There seem to be more questions than answers right now, so I am going to trust you to keep her safe without understanding why this is all happening. I am trusting that sweet Savannah is experiencing your presence whenever she is feeling separated or in pain – and that she is embracing the truth of you without question. I know that you allow her Mommy and Daddy and the people around her "with skin on" to love her and meet her needs… and then you fill in the cracks and take up the slack when things get bigger than humans can handle. I believe she sees you clearly when she feels alone – hears your soothing voice singing to her when she is upset – knows with everything in her that you are a channel of goodness and comfort to her in every moment. I suspect that sometimes, when she seems distant and detached, it is because she is sitting in your lap, enfolded by your wings, completely focused on soaking up all the love, light and peace that come directly through you from her Holy Creator. Her mind is not cluttered with all the craziness and suspicions that we adults carry around… so she can accept that you are there without questioning – or wondering if you are real. She can believe in you in the pure childlike way she believes in God and in herself… unconditionally, with no doubting. She is a perfect representation of Good, as are you… and she knows it is okay. Everything is okay.

Thank you for being with our Savannah Angel – for faithfully seeing her through everything that happens. Thank you for always being right there beside her, your lovely face and kind eyes smiling into hers, radiating God’s pure Love. I am grateful for you… and I thank you for doing all the things I cannot.

In loving gratitude,

Savannah’s Mawney

PS - could you please pass this along to the other Mielke and Elward Guardian Angels? Thank you!