Tag: writing

The Irony of Music: A Family’s Guitar Journey

A family comes full circle with a classic guitar.

Nov 24, 2025

“Puleeeze…put that thing away til you learn how to play it!!”

“If I don’t inherit at least one Martin D-28,” my oldest son Arlo declared recently, “We’ve got serious relationship issues here.” We were both noting the irony. He had come along with me to pick out a new guitar for a birthday gift from my husband. Now, both of his parents own Martin D-28 guitars – beautiful, classic, what Arlo called the Porsche of the guitar world. This is in spite of the fact that Arlo is the best guitarist of us all, and if anyone deserves one, it’d be a kid named Arlo anyway, right? Seriously, I will never in my life be as good a player as he is, for sure.

That wasn’t the most ironic part of the story, though, we had to admit as we wandered around that candy store for musicians.

For twenty-plus years, while I was married to his father, Mick, I was the one who dropped the two of them off at the music store then wandered elsewhere killing time while they tried out guitar after guitar, both acoustic and electric, drum kits, steel drums, banjos and even the occasional glockenspiel. Now, though, I’m doing plenty of my own wandering around these stores trying percussion instruments and now guitars.

I sure didn’t see it coming, though, that I’d be part of the pack inside the music store, always searching, wondering, collecting. According to a plethora of guitarists I know, though, I am way behind though with only five guitars to my name. Don’t ask about the drums.

This past week, at the music store, I was trying out some of the models that were above the budget just to dream when one of the sales people walked by and asked if we’d seen that used Martin HD 28 that they’d just put out? And just like that, a Martin D-28 was within reach.

Let me say first of all that I do not feel at all deserving-in fact if I don’t work hard and improve noticeably before I get to play music with others besides my son, I may hide it “til I can play that thing!”

The real irony that amused us so much that day, though, is that Mick and I have a history with musical instruments, in general, and Martin guitars in particular.

Well before we were married, after he’d been in the military, he hitchhiked across country and halfway back, stopped in Missouri to use some of his GI bill at the college where we met in a poetry/song-writing class.

We became friends first, then started dating and eventually moved in together. For much of that time, he was traveling the midwest in a country band and we’ve got the pictures of him in a 10-gallon hat to prove it. It was difficult time trying to build a new relationship and we struggled a bit as new couples do, especially when he began touring for six or eight weeks at a time.

We lived in an old fourplex, on the second floor. It was actually pretty roomy with two big balconies and a claw-foot tub. The frig door sported a bottle opener. Meals as often as not were macaroni and cheese and beanie weenies. A local carryout provided a shared meal of cashew chicken with two egg rolls for under $5 at the time, a real treat. Dishes and lamps and blankets and, well, most of our furnishings, were hand-me-downs, except for glasses. Every time we bought jelly, we got a new glass.

The rent in 1980 was $100 a month and with him on the road barely making expenses and me in school full time and working part time, some months we barely scraped together that last $10.

We considered it a step up, though, from my first apartment where the kitchen was so tiny I could not open the oven door more than six inches. In his previous apartment, paid for largely by tips from waiting tables before he went on the road, the door wouldn’t unlock so the only way in and out was to climb through a window next to the door. When I rode anywhere with him in his car at the time, I had to put a piece of cardboard under my feet to cover the hole in the floor.

The idea of dating a musician seemed romantic at first, but the reality, especially the constant schedule changes, expenses and no income to speak of became wearying.

Because of the stress of being broke and apart much of the time, we ended up separating for several months. One reason in particular came to mind on my birthday this year as we stood in the music store: the day Mick came home to show me his new Martin D-28. At the time, forty-some years ago, it cost $1200, or one year’s rent for us. He was so proud of that admittedly gorgeous instrument; he played it well and still owns it. I was livid, though, in large part because there was no discussion, i.e., one of those red flags I am so adept at ignoring. Eventually, we did split up for several months, and the Martin was definitely still a sore point for me.

We did get back together, married, moved to California and then to Japan where we had two sons.

“You almost never happened because of a Martin D-28.” I reminded Arlo at the store, though.

We spent twenty-one years married, and Mick played that guitar often and well. I boast today I know almost every John Prine song-the lyrics, at least-because he played so many of them. For my own playing, knowing all those lyrics makes it easier to learn to play the songs I like by Prine – and there are many -except that when I learned them, I mostly learned by singing along on the harmony parts, so I’m working on learning the melodies.

We could not deny the irony, though, a few weeks ago, as we pulled up some stools and played the Martin HD28 that I eventually picked out. It is a gift from my amazing and generous husband, who is not a musician. I will tell you that he’s a much more generous person than I have ever been. He doesn’t necessarily understand why I hole up in another room every day to practice or lament any time I have to miss playing with others, but he feeds my addiction anyway. Two years ago, when I was just starting to be able to put together some chords and play a song or two, he asked me on a trip out west to think about what I’d like him to buy me something as a souvenir of the trip. I immediately took him to a pawn shop where we bought a used guitar so I could play while we were traveling. He never questioned that.

I certainly did NOT understand, though. None of my ex-husband’s and then my son’s desires to play and learn and practice and look at other instruments registered for me before, though I was curious and a bit jealous. I understood another guy who, a decade ago, asked me why on earth I might want to play drums. “Other than hitting things with sticks,” he asked, “what’s the draw?” I couldn’t explain it then but remember I considered hitting him with a stick….

Until I started making music with percussion, then picked up a guitar, though, I didn’t know much about the desire to play. I certainly had not anticipated that becoming a need, that there was a hunger I wasn’t feeding or that a part of my soul was being starved. Had you asked me even ten years ago if would I be allowed to play with other musicians as a group with no one telling me to put that instrument down until I learned how to play it, I would’ve laughed. Last month, after being part of a group at a house party, though, another musician told me when he looked at me during the evening, he could see so much joy. I always thought it’d be cool to play guitar; I never expected I could feel such joy though as I do when I get to be part of making the music.

Arlo certainly makes my new Martin sound prettier, but the Martin makes me sound a bit better, and I admit I could play it for hours.

The irony that we had to acknowledge, as we stood in the music store a couple of weeks ago, was how my life had led me to my own fabulous Martin HD 28. (Mine is prettier, too, which matters some, with Herringbone inlay, and abalone diamond and square inlays, prettier than the instrument that vexed me all those decades ago.)

I’ll never play as well as my son or my ex-husband, I know, and yes, when other musicians I know see me pull it out of its case at a jam, I will feel sheepish and even feel something of an imposter. Nevertheless, I cherish the joy fix I get even as I expect I will smile at the irony every time I take my Martin down and start to play.

And yes, absolutely, Arlo will inherit at least one Martin some day.

Just Gotta Write

What I realized years ago is that writing is how to scream in a socially acceptable way.

I’ve been thinking of late that I need to write a book where every entry begins with, “I Am Not A Nice Person.”

It seems I frequently wake up thinking of starting an entry with that statement, followed by lots of annoying thoughts that have been buzzing about my head like nasty little kamikaze planes. I wake up certain that, if anyone heard all the complaining and frustrations clogging my poor little brain, they’d agree wholeheartedly that I’m not so nice. Sadly, much of my writing through the years has been nothing more than me complaining. What I have figured out, though, (through writing, thank you) is that dumping all those complaints onto paper for all these years has done me – and everyone around me – some good.

Honestly, I write because I too often wake up wanting to scream.

So, perhaps more accurately: a blog entry today should read simply, “Gotta write.” It will do me (and the people around me) some good.

Seriously, if you know me, you should count yourself fortunate that most of my furiously scribbled pages and pages have been purges no one else will ever read. I’ve spent the majority of my writing time getting my frustrations or anger or complaints off my chest, out of my mouth and thus, (mostly) out of the earshot of those around me. My husband has learned that my being in a bad mood and complaining is quite often a sign I am not writing. 

So maybe, I thought, instead, a blog entry today should read simply, “Gotta write.” It could do you (and the people around you) some good. Perhaps you – or someone you work or live with – is simply a frustrated writer.  

Writing is simply therapeutic.

Let’s be clear, though, there’s being a writer and there’s being an author.

Writing for therapy isn’t the same as writing because you might want to share your stories. The first is for your eyes only, a way to get all those thoughts and frustrations and even giggles out of your head to make room for some clarity or joy or discovery or a story to share. The second is a craft, i.e., what you do to the rare few of those rants and raves that warrant a second glance. Some will be worth a second look and perhaps the effort to fashion them into something another person might be keen to read or gain a personal benefit from the effort. This doesn’t matter as much because there’s honestly great overlap there.

Lots of people around me tell me (now that I’ve published a book and they’ve read it, thank you) they also have stories they love to share over meals, on the bus or while waiting in line, but are stopped by the thought of sitting and typing or writing them out. Simple enough, I tell them, use those easily available programs or apps that allow you to dictate, then go back and edit. For myself, I truly prefer the feel of graphite on paper, I explain, but that means I have to then go back and type up what I’ve written. So I have been using a Remarkable, an electronic pad that lets me use what genuinely feels like a pencil, then converts my scribbles to text. “Oh, my writing is too sloppy,” is the excuse most folks offer for why that method won’t work for them. I write quickly and in cursive on mine and, yes, some editing is necessary but the system works pretty darn well and I’m nearly finished with a second memoir written on the tablet.

“I can’t seem to find the time,” I hear. Years ago, though, I read about how helpful it could be for writers to simply buy some cheap spiral bound notebooks and every morning with coffee just scribble three pages. There’s a book and workshops and support for folks who want to use this method and I recommend them, but the gist is simply to write. You can start every morning with “I am so mad at….” or “I cannot understand….” or “I remember….” Just write is the idea. Write the first sentence over and over if you need but fill up three pages. You may not ever look at those pages again but your purpose is not to write the great American novel. It is simply to write. To get what’s in your head on paper. To grease the wheels. To make it easier and easier and more and more addictive to write than to not write. And to get whatever is annoying you off your chest.

This follows the discipline suggested by the writer and teacher Natalie Goldberg of writing three pages a day- scribbling, really, without allowing my brain to edit while I dump what’s on my mind. “Writing Down the Bones,” by Natalie Goldberg .(https://nataliegoldberg.com/books/writing-down-the-bones/.)

Goldberg teaches about getting those “first thoughts” on paper by keeping your hand moving and not letting yourself have time to edit, not stopping to criticize yourself or correct your feelings, simply to get those thoughts out of my head. The process is similar to keeping the wheels of a wagon greased. Whether you write for yourself or for others, this or some kind of discipline that involves putting pencil or pen to paper is, in my opinion, the place to start. Goldberg also points out the act of writing regularly teaches us to listen to ourselves, can help us overcome our doubts and affirms for each of us the value of our lives.

Often what I end up with after scribbling as quickly as possible in a cheap notebook  amounts to nothing more than a jumble of frustrations but that allows me to get it out of my system. That way, I don’t bore others around me with complaint after complaint and I don’t repeat myself all day because, I suppose, my subconscious knows it’s out of me. This is similar to writing lists for myself. I can go to sleep at night without worrying about what I need to do tomorrow because I’ve deposited those tasks onto a written list that’ll be waiting for me by the side of the bed when the alarm rings.

I also know where I can find it if I need to complain more. Again with the complaining. In all seriousness, writing out what I think helps me know what I think, discover how I feel, remember better, understand myself better and even uncover ideas about how to actually do something about what makes me so angry and frustrated, something more than simply grousing.

Whatever helps you write helps you write.

I read a quote some years ago declaring that the best discipline for any writer is to read. Gonna have to disagree. I respectfully disagree. The best discipline for a writer is to write. If you want to be an author, there are further steps. Find a continuing education course on the craft of writing or poetry or songs or memoirs. Next best: get your butt into a writer’s group. Writing to be an author is after all a craft and the steps to any kind of writing you want to publish are many. There is nothing to be brought to the crafter in you, though, if you don’t actually write. I don’t manage three pages everyday but I scribble enough to provide fodder for all kinds of stories if I want to use them.

Seriously, writing is simply therapeutic.

More critically, writing saves my friendships, my marriage and my sanity and, on occasion, helps me figure out how to help.

Last week, my furiously scrawling carried me back to those “Weekly Readers,” those newspapers designed for school-children. You remember? Where we learned about preventing forest fires, about how littering made others so sad, especially that American Indian chief with one single tear rolling down his cheek? Remember trying to wait patiently as the copies were passed out. Remember how we eagerly but gingerly turned each page to learn about how seatbelts saved lives, about the Civil Rights Movement or Rachel Carson or the value of community service?

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Those little newspapers were both welcome departures from math problems and verbs and adverbs AND they presented as gentle guides to create better neighbors and friends. Through them, we all became more aware of poverty, child labor, the dangers of tobacco smoking, and racism, among so many other issues.

Why do I find myself remembering and writing about Weekly Readers? You know why. Because so much of the progress we were inspired to help bring about over the past 50 years has simply been erased or rolled back at a terrifying speed.

Good God, if we keep going, the next logical outcome will be another Executive Order banning handicap accessible restrooms because they discriminate against the “able-bodied.”

You remember what things were like back then, before so many of the “woke” ideas helped make our world a better place, don’t you? My mother could not get a job, a bank account or rent an apartment without her husband’s or her father’s permission, for just one example. Um, not willing to go back.

Today, those newspapers would likely be considered anti-American. How dare they, for example, teach us about global warming, slavery or trying to normalize women and minorities in leadership, business or science roles?

The power of the Weekly Readers was they helped turn us into informed and empathic citizens, people who cared about one another and who recognized that we needed one another to be the best we each could be.

I am wondering now, if there isn’t some way to bring those back and deliver them right to the children at their homes? How subversive is that? Maybe Dolly would help. That’s the kind of idea that surfaces when I write. I want to know what comes to mind for you? Share. Let’s collaborate.

For now, next time you – or someone you know – thinks all you do is complain, go to the corner store and buy a cheap notebook. Choose a pen or pencil that feels good in your grip and start writing. Every morning. Only, make yourself a deal. Just write and know that most of what you write for a while, maybe for a long while, will just lay there scrawled in cheap notebooks. Don’t expect great things. Just write about all the things that you can’t stand – you may never get it all out of your system but you and everyone around you will thank you for leaving it on the page. You may not ever want to use any of that but, then again, you might.

Maybe you will be the one who come up with some ideas about how we can stop what appears to be a national temper tantrum. 

Ever notice how our leader always SCREAMS his posts on social media? What if we could get him to write BEFORE he shared?

Seriously, doesn’t it lately feel like so many people are simply pouting because they don’t want to share anymore or be nice or take turns? Faithfully writing out my three pages has helped me share with others what I think without screaming at them.

What I realized years ago is that writing is how to scream in a socially acceptable way.

I too often wake up needing to express my frustrations with the world, perhaps now more than ever. So, I am convinced the world is a better place because I leave most of it on the page. Less anger is spewed, less frustration gets passed along, less whining and complaining and criticism.

I DO think more about how to take action, though, and I’m a bit clearer on what and why. I remain certain that if people in my life knew how much I spewed, well, they’d be sure I wasn’t such a nice person. Because I write, though, at least some people like me most of the time. And occasionally, I figure out something to say that is helpful, useful, perhaps even wise. Through writing, I am learning that my superpower may be that I see and feel and cannot pretend the emperor is dressed. That’s what writing does. Honestly, it’s subversive.

And that’s what so many of us need right now to help us keep our sanity.

Now more than ever. I saw a meme last week that showed a woman holding up a sign that read, “We should all receive Oscars for acting like everything is okay.”

Every damn thing is not okay, let me assure you, and, depending upon where you live and who populates your family, maybe it never has been. So start writing about it. Get the screaming out in a way that doesn’t hurt anyone else. Figure out what you think. Let the rest of us know you’re with us, that you see, too, and especially, share any ideas. I’m seriously considering a Weekly Reader reboot and I’m gonna ask Dolly to help. 

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My Alamo

Individually, collectively, as a nation, there have been times when we’ve needed to draw a line. This is one of those times.

“Those who would give up essential Liberty, to purchase a little temporary Safety, deserve neither Liberty nor Safety.” Benjamin Franklin

Much of the time when any of us need to draw a line in the sand, as they say, I suspect it is a surprise. I say that because we are often not expecting the person moving aggressively towards us; thus, we are not prepared to mark any line. When we do draw a boundary, when we insist that the next step the person in front of us takes will be too far and we will stand in their way, it can feel jarring and aggressive, like we are the ones being combative. We are simply not prepared to counter aggression or abuse, individually or collectively. 

This is somewhat ironic, at least in the United States, though. Remember the Alamo? Legend has it that when Lieutenant-Colonel William “Buck” Travis, Texian Army officer and his fighters faced overwhelming forces at the famed fort, Travis drew a line in the sand with his sword and told his fighters to cross it if they were willing to stay and fight. Nearly all of them did. While that story is possibly more fiction than fact, it is nevertheless the lore many of us were inspired by, taught to emulate, part of the “GIve me liberty or give me death!” understanding of the cost of freedom of speech, freedom of religion, freedom from tyranny. We know what’s right. We know abuse when we see it. We know when someone is trying to frighten us into not fighting for those freedoms. We know and yet we are reticent, loathe to draw our line in the sand, whether personally, as a family or as a community and nation. We want it to all go away. But it won’t.

Years ago, an experience from the first church I served paved the way for an extended family finally to take a stance, to draw their line in the sand to stop the abuse that had been harming women in that family for at least a generation. In this case, what had been a family secret became quite public because the abuser got reckless and over-confident and, in some ways, that arrogance made taking a stand easier for the family.

“Herb” (name changed to protect his victims) wasn’t a regular attendee at the church I served, so my radar was not pinging when I greeted him that Sunday morning. He was a 60-something married man who always dressed in seersucker and bow ties and prided himself still sporting a full head of hair, even if it was graying. I’d brushed off his previous suggestions about how my congregation would like it, he was sure, if I wore more colorful outfits when I stood in the pulpit. I glared at him and walked away when he suggested I unbutton a button or two on my blouse, but nowhere was there any guidance on responding to such behavior from this man whose family members occupied nearly one-third of the pews. I wondered why his wife never attended with him and started avoiding him, thinking he would remember he was talking to the preacher. Turns out, I should have opted for outrage from the beginning. At least I might have been prepared for battle when I walked out of the little white building one Sunday afternoon to see him seated in his big old Buick in the parking lot across the road. I waited for two cars to speed by, then crossed the two-lane blacktop warily, my chest tightening. My arms were full with my Bible, sermon notes, my purse and some funeral home fans that I’d grabbed off the table in the back of the sanctuary. The cardboard fans helped you breathe on the days when the humidity was looking for an excuse to break into a summer shower. 

Already sweaty, and looking forward to an afternoon of visiting the shut-ins, I moved cautiously across the road, hoping he would stay in his car. I had been headed to the fellowship hall to lock up before I started the afternoon’s visits. Herb exited his car and was next to me nearly as soon as I stepped off the highway onto the parking lot. I had to stop mid-stride to avoid running into him; I was off-balance as I tried to look behind me before stepping back because that would put me back onto the highway. 

Turning towards him, I stumbled to my right just in time to miss him grabbing my arm. I looked at him in confusion as he reached out again and said, “Why don’t we go inside?” 

In an uncharacteristic flash of assertiveness, I shoved him with my books. He stumbled back a bit, startled. I darted as quickly as I could around to the passenger side of his car. Did he really just grab at me? Herb started around the side of the car and reached for me again, so I threw my books at the ground near his feet to stop him long enough for me to move around the car until I was back on the driver’s side. I know my hands would have been shaking if I had not been clutching my black leather purse, instinctively wrapping the strap around my hand in case I needed to use it as a weapon. 

I would never have expected a man from my church to be bold enough to try to grab me in the church parking lot in broad daylight. That simply was not something I expected. Worse, he acted with such confidence, as if he would face no opposition.

Herb laughed. “Don’t be so silly,” he said, putting one hand on the trunk of the car as he slowly headed back around towards me. He seemed quite amused, at first, that I managed to run around his car—a rather large late model car–but all I could think about was the fact that, thank God, he could not reach across. When he snatched his hand back quickly in pain because the metal was hot enough to sting his hand, I bolted. 

He was moving around the car towards me again; I managed to dart into the fellowship hall, drop my purse and the ridiculous fans, and turn the lock on the wooden door. Maybe it was the sound of the door locking–maybe something else–but, apparently something brought Herb back to reality; he “came to himself,” like the prodigal son in Luke, and stopped grinning. Unlike the repentant son who asks forgiveness of the father, though, Herb stood before me, his fist raised, threatening to bust through the window of what seemed suddenly like a very flimsy door. I tried to breathe. Even though he was a member of my church with a large and influential family and now he was angry, I had clearly—finally—drawn a line in the sand. 

When he finally got back into his car and drove away, I leaned against the wall and let out a scream, then frantically ran to the other door, grateful to find it was locked. He hadn’t tried opening it anyway. He’d just driven off. 

I couldn’t catch my breath.

I gave myself the afternoon off from visiting parishioners. I did not let myself cry until I got home; navigating back roads is difficult enough when you’re watching the rearview mirror for a Buick the whole time.

The next Sunday, and for several Sundays after that, I was greatly relieved that Herb did not return to the church. For months, I would imagine his hand grabbing for me. While I was grateful not to see Herb for a while, I also felt quite alone and indulged in some hefty self-pity as I pondered how large a contingent his family was in our congregation. His wife, for example, was one of several sisters, many of whom attended the church. Herb had married the oldest sister when most of the sisters were still children. At least his wife was not attending our church. A few months later, though, his wife was scheduled for surgery and the prognosis was not good. A pastoral visit to the hospital was in order, if only to console her sisters.

I arrived at the hospital intentionally late. Even after the family was sent to the waiting room before surgery, nursing staff was willing to allow clergy in to pray. I smacked the oversized button to open the doors just in time to go back into the surgical prep area to see her alone. She was still awake and aware enough and thanked me for praying with her. Then I made my way through the winding hallways to the family waiting room. 

Nearly every seat was taken by a sister, but I spotted Herb on a chair in the far corner. I took a breath, said a silent prayer, and walked over to him. I leaned down to offer him my hand in greeting but, before I knew it, he was laughing because he’d managed to pull me onto his lap and wrap his arms around me. Even now when I think about how shamelessly he seemed to operate, how little he feared anyone’s disapproval, how brazenly he disregarded the line I had drawn, I want to scream. I’d been pretty damn clear, I thought, that his behavior was not welcome.

I jumped up as quickly as I could and found a chair on the other side of the room, next to one of the sisters. I did not look at anyone for several minutes; I was afraid they would have seen how hot my cheeks were with anger and embarrassment. I was grateful, finally, to look up and notice that sister number two, one of my regular members, was sitting next to me. Voices soft, we chatted quietly about how long the surgery was expected to last. I was grateful she quickly offered to call me when the surgery was over. “We know you have other calls to make, Pastor,” she offered. I thanked her, chose the fastest way out of the room and made it to my car before the tears began. 

I drove home discouraged. How could I keep being the pastor at that church? Even if they wanted me to continue, could I keep dealing with this man and his aggressive behavior? I could not shrug it off, and I did not find it amusing, like he did. Worse, I feared other congregation members might also find it amusing. 

Everyone in that waiting room had seen Herb pull me onto his lap and me pushing his arms off of me and jumping up but no one had said a word. I’d not received help when I’d spoken to my mentor: “It’s part of the job,” I was told. I did not sleep well that night; I was drafting my letter of resignation from the ministry and imagining the sensation that would ensue within the church once it was made public.  

The next morning, I was praying about the letter when sister number two called me, I assumed, to tell me how recovery was going. The conversation was so short I almost didn’t remember it.  

“You need to know,” she said quietly but deliberately, “Bobby has spoken to Herb,” she said. “He won’t be bothering you anymore.” She paused. “He won’t be bothering anyone any more.” She paused again. “We’ll see you Sunday.” 

Suddenly, I was not alone. One of the other men in the church had stood up to Herb. Sadly, though, slowly, I began to imagine several young women standing next to me with tears in their eyes. I had not considered how many others Herb probably had “bothered” over the years but they were suddenly standing next to me.  

All those younger sisters and their daughters would have been easy targets. No one had stood up to him before then. Evidently, no one had even spoken in any voice louder than a whisper about his behavior for decades until that day in the waiting room when he accosted the preacher. The family finally found the line they would not let him cross.   

Likely, in the past, the family had hoped Herb’s behavior, something most of them could not even fathom, would have just gone away on its own. Challenging one of the patriarchs of the family had been too painful and even frightening for them to consider. What would they do if he said “she” initiated it? Who might he go after next? What if he suddenly turned the tables and claimed he was a victim? How many of the neighbors might take his side because THEY were already victims and afraid or feared becoming targets? 

Because they had never expected to even contemplate such abuse from one of their own, the family could not choose a line. 

Because they were afraid to talk to one another about what was going on, no line was drawn.

Because no line was drawn, the abuse continued, unchecked.

Trouble is, this is a common pattern. Whether the abuse is of a person or a group of persons, though, not wanting to talk about it only aids and abets the abuser. Not wanting to talk about what we know is wrong because we are afraid or because it is not our family or because we’re not sure the child maybe “deserved” some punishment or worst of all because we simply don’t want to believe what is happening only emboldens and strengthens the aggressor.

Do not be fooled. These lessons apply to us—to our families and our nation. 

We know in our guts how this goes. We know but we are hoping we won’t be asked to draw any lines ourselves.

We wish some people would stop constantly reminding us how more and more boundaries are being crossed every day, how free speech and due process, decency and respect for others are being blatantly, publicly disregarded, then even applauded. We are afraid and tired. Didn’t we move past this decades ago? 

Are we waiting for another Colonel Travis to draw the lines for us? Have you admitted you need to think about those now, like it or not?

Are we waiting for another Colonel Travis to draw the lines for us? Have you admitted you need to think about those now, like it or not?

A public school teacher told me today she had decided she would obstruct any immigration authorities who tried to take her students – children – from their classroom. She has admitted to herself what is possible, even as horrific as it sounds, and she decided where to draw her line.

Where is your line?


Understanding Fragility: The Hidden Lessons of Power Outages

We forget we operate on trust. That is, until the light switch doesn’t respond and we are left sitting in darkness.

You’ve been there. You flip the light switch but nothing happens. You push the covers back and scurry across the chilly floor only to realize the thermostat doesn’t respond with some heat, so you curse yourself for not investing in throw rugs, slippers, a generator.

As minutes become hours, what started out as annoying can become a serious hurdle to starting your day with the looming potential to morph into danger for you and your family though. We’ve seen how easily a home without heat can become deadly. 

In the case of my granddaughter, who has Cystic Fibrosis, lack of power for any length of time means someone has to beat her on the back and chest for thirty minutes twice a day to break up deadly mucus that can build up. At night, because she has a feeding tube, losing  power for more than a couple of days means she cannot consume enough calories to provide the nutrition her body needs.

In the United States, though, most of us operate on the assumption that the things we trust will be there. Switches provide light. Cars start. Ambulances come. Social Security checks are deposited. We will be able to buy insulin. The medicine will be available and safe.

We forget we operate on trust. 

That is, until the light switch doesn’t respond—until we are left sitting in darkness. 

Again, it’s mostly just annoying in the short term for most of us because our experience is that we can have faith someone out there is working on it. Maybe we call the power company to report the outage to verify the powers that be know our predicament, but our expectation, our experience has been that someone out there is doing their job and working to restore our power. 

Until we realize they aren’t. 

Until we realize no one is on the job, maybe because they cannot get there, maybe because there is no way to fix the problem, or maybe, we fear, there is someone in control who feels empowered to decide who gets attention and service and who doesn’t, who deserves light and food and civil rights and who isn’t worthy of those things.  

It’s terrifying to realize you might not be able to pay your rent next month if you do not, in someone else’s opinion, deserve to be paid. To add insult to injury, that same someone and his cronies even demonize you for the audacity to work for a non-profit whose aid reaches outside the country.

It’s even more terrifying to wonder if there is anyone doing anything about the chaos since reporting is sporadic and mostly limited to U.S. news sources. Visit another country and watch the news, though; we are not only not alone, but neighbors the world over grasp how interconnected we all are.

Few of us in the U.S. are aware of how incensed our friends in other countries are in reaction to the chaos in our country. 

We, on the other hand, seem to be simply baffled.

We’re watching those in power operate in a way we’ve not experienced, maybe ever. They are moving aggressively, not collaboratively. Hell, they are starting the conversation by turning off the power, then daring us to come and stop them. We are baffled.

When did we decide we needed to regress socially? When did we agree to dismantle all the social advances of the past century? What’s next? Smokey the Bear is homeless? Littering is okay? Seriously, will we be told soon that teachers, libraries, recycling centers, veterans’ services are the problem? How long before we’re being told child labor laws are unnecessary? All it takes – all it has taken – for most of us is a few weeks of watching this behavior around us before the fear, the terror we feel, is that no one will try now and eventually no one will be able to stop him.

The rug has been pulled out from under us. 

We have been reminded as of late just how fragile our lives and how vital are our interactions. I’m thinking this painful recognition, though, is a gift. That may sound incredible, but I believe that those of us who are pretty secure most of the time are blessed when we become painfully aware of the tenuous nature of those threads that hold us together.  I believe we more fully join the ranks of humanity when we who do not usually go hungry or worry that someone will start shooting at us when we are in the market, feel that sudden sick feeling in our stomach and become acutely aware of how easily our bones break and our breathing can stop. Fragile. Vulnerable. In denial until we aren’t able to be any longer.

So many people in our world cannot rely on a light switch to have any effect. So many might not even have a light switch at all. 

Reminding myself of that, though, does slow me down, make me look around, and help me think about the countless others in this world who are struggling. Two decades ago, I visited Nicaragua with a study group for Vanderbilt Divinity School.  In Nicaragua, the literacy rate at the time was 50%, and the material conditions are worse than that: no one, for example, not even in the government offices, had toilets down which you can flush paper because there existed no viable sewage treatment facilities; no one had clothes washers, let alone dryers; everyone did their wash on a washboard. Because there are no emissions standards to speak of, air pollution was a palpable problem. In that tropical heat, only major buildings could be air-conditioned; most houses had no screened windows, and the majority of the people living outside of towns lived without electricity or running water, let alone sewage.  A family with a new cinder-block, two-room house was considered rich, even though the floors were dirt and there was no electricity, even though they used an outhouse and got their water from a well.

The family I stayed overnight with in the countryside had a five-year-old son.  The parents–in their twenties– both worked five days a week in the coffee fields or the local elementary school; then, on Saturdays, they both walked seven kilometers to the bus stop to ride into town to attend high school because neither of them had had the money to attend high school when they were teens.  The elementary school which their son attended had 120 children, in three rooms with 25 desks; it had three teachers, few supplies, no water and no toilet, and no heat or air conditioning. 

Medical care was rare; most people in the countryside would walk an entire day sometimes to see a doctor and get a tube of antibacterial cream.  In Managua, children who lived on the streets (the numbers were in the thousands) sniffed airplane glue every day because the glue and the high they got was the only thing that would dull their constant hunger. Tragically, while the glue, which numbed their hunger, also killed their brain cells; most of those street children would die from the damage within ten years. This is their reality, the reality of more than ¾ of our world still today, a reality we neither see nor want to see and yet most of the world has no choice in the matter like we do.

One of the first things I learned on this trip to Nicaragua was that I am rich. I realized I carried more in my daypack than most of our hosts owned altogether. I can afford to throw away food when it goes bad or when I don’t finish my plate. I do so every day. I’m not considered a particularly wasteful person, but I have learned to take for granted that I am not going to starve and so I did not feel much guilt throwing food away. Until I started noticing how carefully people in Nicaragua prepared and kept food in order not to waste it. We would never eat food that came off a stranger’s plate; many of us will not even share food with family members. Once it’s been touched, we tend to toss it because it is contaminated with germs, bacteria, who knows what. Now I realize what a “luxury” it is to be able to throw food away. Far too many of our international neighbors cannot afford such a luxury. The people who fed us in Nicaragua took whatever was left on our plates and put it back in with the other leftovers to be eaten at the next meal. This luxury to waste, though, I realize now, is part of what isolates us.

When we do not recognize a need for one another, sitting alone on our own couch binging movies is just easier.

This is particularly evident in the U.S., I believe, and the COVID lockdowns of 2020 only exacerbated our tendency to isolate. It simply does not occur to us here as easily as it seems to in other countries that, together with our neighbors, we could figure out how to find – and take – some power. 

One of the questions we got most often in Nicaragua was how it was that so few of us were active in politics; grassroots movements and neighborhood groups were the norm there and everyone played a part in helping make decisions about governance. When I offered that I was impressed with how everyone played a part, they asked, “How is it that you don’t?”

How is it that we do not reach out naturally, do not work together, do not at least recognize we are not alone? Why does that idea seem so foreign to us? 

When I returned home to preach in the rural church I served, I shared with my congregation this local legend I’d found while researching poverty.

A poor peasant lived daily on the verge of starvation. One evening, the old man found a basket of apples on the doorstep of his tiny hovel. Delirious with hunger and joy, he sat down to eat in the light of his one flickering candle. You can imagine his disappointment when he bit into the first apple and found it rotten and wormy. He tossed it aside and tried a second only to find it in the same condition. Again, a third and fourth apple were rotten. Torn by hunger and disgust at what he saw in the apples, the starving peasant paused to consider his choices. Hesitating for only a moment, he blew out his candle and ate.  

I’m grateful to report that such stories and meetings with those living in poverty changed much of how I see our world. Even twenty years later, lessons emerge regularly from unexpected places. Recently, I experienced an epiphany while riding my bicycle that moved my understanding of this story and connected it to the questions we’d been asked by our hosts in Nicaragua.  One of the reasons I live where I live is because I can ride my bicycle or walk to much of what I need. Walkability. Walkability scores in most of the places I’ve lived in this country are low. Not that there aren’t plenty of motorized vehicles of all sorts in my neighborhood, but riding during the day is only frightening to me when I need to cross the main 4-lane road. The usual vigilance does take some of the joy out of the ride: drivers who don’t see you as they pull out of a home or parking lot, grates in the road, debris in the road, rocks in the road. Just to be safe, I often will walk my bike across this road even while I’m in the crosswalk, furtively watching for that racing driver who might not see me even though I am in the marked crosswalk and have the green light. 

Recently, I left an event later than I had planned, though, and so the ride home at dusk was more dangerous than normal and the spectacular sunset wasn’t helping visibility. My mood was darkening as well, until I looked around me (while stopped and waiting for the light).  I was spiraling from frustration to self-pity, I realized, then from defensive to angry. I began to wonder if the people around me were feeling the same; my tendency has been to believe I am the only one. 

My epiphany, though, was that I was not alone. Older couples were waiting for trolleys, a neighbor who commuted by bike to work was waiting to walk across the road, a couple trying to get to the grocery store across the road was stepping over debris left from the last storm; all of them were vulnerable like me. I did not know if any of them were consciously feeling fragile or in danger, because we were not communicating; hell, we barely made eye contact. If we had been at least acknowledging one another, though, perhaps we would eventually discover one or two of us had ideas about making the commute safer for bikes or pedestrians. We might even have discovered in some locales, for example, that there exist efforts for community organizing around safe travel for non-motorized travelers. Because they do; it’s just that so many of us in this country do not know about them because community organizing has not been a necessary part of our lives until recently. 

Stopping to get to know a pedestrian at that moment simply did not seem like it would have been welcome, though, so I did the next best thing I could think of to connect: I prayed. I began to pray for not only my own safety but that of others as they passed me on the way. I could connect, I realized, at least for a moment and still allow all of us to focus on safely completing our journeys. 

Moving out of myself required a conscious effort, but that is where I will find others struggling just like me. When I am most afraid or feeling most alone, the best thing for me to do is to get out of myself because I am seldom as alone as I think in my grief or fear or struggles. 

Turns out, what seems most personal is quite often universal. If I am hurting, others around me are, too.

For the first time, it occurred to me to wonder why the  farmer in the story had not considered taking his apples next door to see what the neighbors had, a kind of stone soup potluck sharing. Maybe we can find our neighbor and compare notes about what has worked in the past when the lights went out. Maybe we can pool our resources for when generators are needed. Maybe we go together to speak to our representatives or, when they do not listen, organize to elect new ones because together we now more keenly recognize that keeping the light switches working might require some effort on our part. Maybe that’s not all bad. 

Realizing how fragile we are, then, is a gift, one that can isolate us or bring us together.

At the very least, when the lights go out and we can no longer assume we are safe, perhaps we take a breath, greet our fear with gratitude and look around us, recognizing that we are, in fact, most fully human when we feel the most fragile.

Check, Please!

Adventures in

Dating After 50

Ask anyone who’s played the “dating game” as an older adult and they will likely be able to offer up some horror stories, especially if they ventured into the world of dating sites (and later dating apps on phones.) Even if they succeeded in finding that special someone, and plenty of folks do, the journey can at times more closely approximate a game of MarioCart than a stroll down EHarmony Lane; the rules change quickly, toads abound and princes and princesses can be tough to locate and even tougher to engage.  

As I approached my fifties, after twenty-one years of marriage, I found myself clumsily navigating the dating world. I hated being alone, but I would end up single for far too many years before I found a man in Tennessee who would even consider a relationship with a liberal, divorced, (female) Methodist minister.

Lonely People (by America)

“This is for all the lonely people, Thinking that life has passed them by, Don’t give up until you drink from the silver cup And ride that highway in the sky.”

For readers living in more socially open-minded areas of the country, the divorced aspect was actually the least of the problem. I had stayed in Tennessee for one reason: our divorce decree would not permit me to move and take my young sons with me. Evidently, though, my being liberal in Tennessee was way more repugnant to many men I met, and, too often, I felt like a little blue raft adrift on a sea of red. I tried making sure that “liberal” was prominent on my profile’s description in hopes that those with more conservative leanings would just move on; sadly, being up front about social issues also attracted plenty of ugly comments. 

In contrast, being a minister was, apparently, just plain confusing for potential dates. “Are you allowed to date?” “Are you allowed to kiss?” Female clergy quite often seemed as foreign as Cyborgs. I understand that. When I started looking into preaching nearly three decades ago, I was asked if I could see myself preaching and leading worship and I had to confess I’d never seen a woman do either. I was not alone in my lack of experience at the time with clergywomen and so I could understand why single men quite often were at a loss as to what a relationship with a woman in ministry might look like. Still, there’s lack of education, and there’s rude. I was stunned when a guy who was working on my campus ministry building leaned over one day and said, “I guess you don’t want people to see you out on a date, so why don’t you just meet me at the hotel down the way? And, do you have a dress because I bet you’d look good in a dress.” Gee, how can a girl resist?

I held onto hope through several abysmal dates arranged on dating sites on the internet; this was before you simply looked at a face on your phone and swiped left or right. If I met someone on EHarmony.com, we talked for a week or two before they got my full name or even my phone number. I even joked that I didn’t date anyone I couldn’t Google. If a guy didn’t have a positive history, we would not meet up.

One hopes we all learn as we get older, but, if you have never experienced online dating or dating apps, you might be surprised by the shenanigans, even on sites catering to the “silver” set, guys who are old enough to know better. Surely, I thought, they’d be more mature than the younger guys who were often simply looking for a one-night stand or someone to talk dirty to them for a while. Now I wish I had a dollar for every time an older “gentleman” made sure before we even ordered our meals that I knew he’d taken his little blue pill. Can you say, “Check, please?”

Once I arranged to meet a potential dating partner at a local restaurant, but didn’t see him in the restaurant even though there were only two other patrons and one was a woman. Turns out, his picture online was from more than a decade earlier, so, once I walked over to the booth and determined he was indeed the man I’d spoken to on the dating site, I had to wonder why he had sent his father to meet me. Foolishly constrained by politeness, I ordered and drank down a soda, then asked the waiter for my check and told the old man sitting across from me, “I’ll call you.” I lied. 

Another guy complained about middle-aged women “letting themselves go” and gaining weight. “I hate it when they sit at a table and their breasts rest on the table,” he said. Yes, I would agree in hindsight that such a ridiculous comment ought to have been enough to prevent further conversation, but I was still hopeful that one comment didn’t sum up his entire attitude towards women. When I saw him walk into the restaurant, I didn’t recognize him, though, because, it turns out, he had gained more than forty pounds since the picture he had posted of himself! Okay, I thought, he’s embarrassed about his weight. When, though, halfway through the meal he gave me directions to his apartment in case I had trouble following him home, I excused myself to use the restroom. Nowhere had we discussed going anywhere together after the meal, let alone his place. I found the waiter, paid for my own dinner at the hostess station and left alone. 

 One guy openly lied about smoking – I said no smokers on my page – because, he said, he was looking for a girlfriend to help him quit. Another guy, who agreed to meet even after discussing the fact that I was a minister, informed me before we had even gotten our menus that whatever relationship we developed would not end in marriage. “Just to be clear,” he said, then he asked what I’d like to drink. No check necessary. One guy commented on my profile page that he didn’t date women with short hair. I responded that we at least had one thing in common! Yet another was charming throughout our phone conversations but then, during our first dinner, when I commented that his family sounded lovely, he calmly informed me that he was looking for a mistress and would not ever be introducing me to any of his family. I just left him with the check. 

Photos I used on my dating profile in the dark ages….

I did go on some dates that were not arranged through sites. I’d started taking social dancing classes and met a few nice men but no one I wanted to go out with until one New Year’s Eve. A charming man I met while dancing that evening, who was funny and who was respectful of my vocation, danced well and we ended up dancing nearly every dance together.  At the end of the evening, we were sitting around a large table with of my friends, enjoying a champagne toast to the new year when he invited me to visit his “compound” in rural South Carolina. Seemed innocuous enough until he began to press me for specifics. How soon could I make the trip? I wouldn’t need a car, he said. He’d drive me there and then I could have my choice of any of three refurbished RV’s (if I wanted privacy once we arrived.) When he lifted his glass in a toast to the fact that my impending visit to his compound would be a “forever thing” now that we’d found one another, he was sent back to South Carolina alone. 

I honestly wondered for the longest time if it were going to be possible to find anyone even to date, let alone to hope for a mutually supportive and loving relationship. I did meet some nice guys but both of us being liberal or even both of us being Christian wasn’t enough to build a relationship. As a pastor, I couldn’t date congregation members because of ethical concerns. The few colleagues I knew who weren’t married were often looking for a more conservative and/or less outspoken wife. It really seemed hopeless for so long. 

Mirror, mirror, on the wall….

What was most depressing was realizing there were often obvious reasons why some folks weren’t married any more; too often, a failed attempt at a connection caused me to look at my own foibles and failures and, more than a few times, caused me to wonder if I was just meant to be alone. 

Then I met the man we will just call Walt. No, not his name. He was also a minister. We met for the first time when my campus ministry team visited his church. A week later, he brought his youth group to an event we held for prospective students. He was the life of the party and danced several times. We shared dating horror stories. Then he asked about spending more time together and I began to hope my solitary days were coming to an end. I was happy to find such an out-going, gregarious non-conformist; he even spent evenings, he told me, on his porch surrounded by the hummingbirds who had become his friends.  

We arranged for a first real date, which started with a brief meeting of his mother and young granddaughters. They were delightful and it was a positive sign, I thought, and so I didn’t blink when he said he wanted to share a little bit at dinner before we officially began dating. I agreed. We were both old enough to have some baggage and we needed to begin any relationship with our bags open for inspection. 

Dinner began quietly. He did not drink any more, he shared. I was a longtime member of Al-Anon and we understood one another on that topic. I told him about my divorce and he shared about his; we both lamented the struggles of sharing children with exes, especially when the rift was still painful.  

“One thing it’s tough for me to share, though,” he said after we ordered. He took a breath and said simply,  “You need to know: the probation will be over soon.” 

Probation? 

By “soon,” he meant, “there are only eight months left on a twelve-month sentence.” 

“It’s okay, though,” he said, reaching across the table and putting his hand on mine, seemingly to reassure me all would be well. “The drugs were not mine; they belonged to the prostitute.”

I remember staring, confused, at his hand patting mine. Knowing that the drugs weren’t his made it better? 

“No one here will ever know,” he explained. “It’s in another county.”

I pulled my hand back, still silent.

“You should probably say something here,” he said. I had just been staring at him, trying to process this information. “You know,” he said, “you can’t tell anyone about this. What people tell clergy, you know.” 

I remember I laughed just a bit at that. He was wrong about so much at that moment. No such privilege existed, though he clearly hoped I believed it did. Most baffling was that he seemed convinced I’d be fine with the idea of him soliciting a prostitute so long as she had been the one who brought the drugs to the party. 

Not only were we not on the same page at that moment, we weren’t even in the same book. In fact, I was only clear about one thing at that moment. I raised my hand, caught the eye of the waiter nearby, and said, as calmly as I could manage, “Check, please.” 

Pickleball? Really?

I will tell you that, after many years alone, I did enter into a caring relationship with a man whom I met playing pickleball, of all things. Who knew pickleball would replace EHarmony, Match.com or the vegetable aisle in Whole Foods as the place to meet eligible singles? By the time my husband and I met, though, I’d pretty much given up looking. That was wise, though, because, honestly, when I review my dating experience before that, well, I think you’d agree, if I didn’t laugh, I’d cry. Check, please.