Contemplations in Cemeteries

Cemeteries always provoke a lot of thought from me. I find them beautiful, restful places; full of history, architecture, and mystery. There are so many stories in these quiet places with neat lawns and rows of gray monuments, and the only clues left are forgotten names and short inscriptions about the life of the deceased. This evening, I went for a short walk, and found myself, as I so often am, drawn into one of several small cemeteries neighborhood. This one holds a few hundred grave sites, and is nothing impressive. There are no grand monuments, and in fact, many of the gravestones have cracked, broken, fallen, or from years of weather and wear, become indecipherable. It's a strange graveyard, that has no name, and no explanation. There is no church beside it, although perhaps there once was in bygone years. Tall pine trees hover above the gravestones, and many have been enveloped into the shrubbery of the forest that edges the cemetery. A woodchuck made a desperate lunge for cover, surprised by the human intrusion in his own personal sanctuary. I have never seen anyone other than the groundskeeper there, and not a single gravestone has decorative flowers or tokens left beside it. The most recent date of death I have seen is from 1964, and that was obviously scratched in much later on a family tombstone that predated the deceased.

The stories of those that no longer can speak not only elude my discovery, but in their silence, remind me of the realities of mortality. No one here was less important than I, no one less loved, I am certain. They dreamed, they strove, they labored, they sinned, they loved, they grieved, they felt, and they had as much value and worth as you and I in the eyes of God and their fellow man. Yet as my mind reads their names, it is the first time those names have been pronounced in any manner, or thought of, in a hundred years or more. There are no faces to them, no mourners, no one to memorialize them, or tell of how they walked in this life. There is no one who remembers their laughs, or what made them sad, or their weddings, birthdays, and funerals. The young mother buried beside her 7 month old daughter-so much promise lost in one fell swoop! Did they die of some sickness, or could neither recover from a traumatic birth? Were there other children left behind? Did her husband love her, and weep to lose her? The three soldiers, who marched off to the Civil War and came back in boxes. How did they come back, and where did they fall? Did their mothers and wives meet their caskets, and did they converge at this very spot, dressed in black, to mourn their brave young sons? A young wife, only 22, lies beside her husband, and I think, "I have outlived her already." A child, "the only daughter" of so-and-so is buried beside her parents, only twenty when she left her parents to continue life's journey without her. I feel almost guilty, passing over the gravestones that have succumbed to the passages of time, with no way to even wonder who Eliza, or John, or Ezra was. There is no one who cares enough to repair the broken stones. I wonder if any record even exists of those who were once memorialized beneath them, or if their bodies, returned to dust, have forever erased their record from the annals of history. All these people, all of this life lost, and this is one small cemetery in a young country that happened to build places of memorial for the dead, or at least the dead of the class that deemed a proper burial. How may more the vast, scoreless mass of humanity that has passed before us the world over!

Maybe it is melodramatic, or morbid, of me to dwell on these thoughts, but I think it is reality more than anything, and one that is almost to overwhelming to consider. When I was a child, I was determined my name would mean something, and that I would not lead a meaningless and forgotten life. I no longer believe any life is meaningless, no matter how short, or seemingly insignificant, but it is sometimes easy to fall into the lie of feeling that it is; whether it is my life that I am considering, and the little impact I have had, or someone else whose story bespeaks a "wasted" life. I do want my life to count for more than it has so far; for more in God's kingdom, and for more in the impact I have in living his love to those around me. Life is like the grass in the field; the wind blows over it, and then it dies. I get so caught up in the little things, the day to day mess that mires my feet to this earth, and forget the grand scheme and picture. I want my life to shout out, even if that shout is like one drop in a roaring sea. So far, it has been more of a self-centered whimper, and may God's Spirit consume that self-serving spirit in me! Yet it is about his grace, and not my performance, and I find comfort in knowing that I have a God who knows the number of hairs on my head. When I cry in secret, my pain lost in the crush of human triumph and agony stretched over the ages, as the Psalmist says, I know he keeps my tears in a bottle. And if I live a life where I have known the love and hope that comes from walking with Jesus, even if my gravestone crumbles and is forgotten in a hundred years, it will have been something beautiful.

The Old People

I have moved on to bigger, better things, but as my second post describes, my last temp job was with a mailing company. When I first started, there were a lot of temps such as myself, but slowly, their numbers dropped off, and they were replaced by "The Old People." The Old People are employees, but only called in as needed. Like with many elderly folks, their favorite topic of conversation was physical ailments, and it could get pretty competitive. One of the most vied for positions was Person With Most Doctor's Appointments in a Week, closely followed by Person Currently Afflicted With the Most Medical Issues. One senior would barely finish their story before another would steal their thunder with "That's nothing compared to..." Due to my blessed condition of youth and good health, my contributions were hardly welcomed or expected. So I had the privilege of listening, and learning a great deal about hip replacements and "The worst eye infection that my doctor said he had ever seen."

Now, I understand that aging has its challenges, and it is far from my point to mock or undermine the difficulties that come with advancing years. Still, I have an odd quirk for finding the humor in these sorts of situations, and one elderly gentleman, who we will call "Bernard" made keeping my composure especially challenging.

Bernard is probably in his seventies, a slight man, with spectacles and a thatch of gray hair combed over in one direction. He's not exactly cheerful, and his pet epithet is "damn." One of my first days working with him, another of The Old People inquired about a past job, upon which Bernard's head jerked up from his work, as he snapped, "Why, you writing a book or something?" With years of exerting himself in the labor field behind him, Bernard perhaps feels entitled to taking certain liberties over which the rest of The Old People shake their heads and mutter resentfully. Maybe they're just jealous at his ingenuity. Precisely ten minutes before lunch or break times, Bernard will rise from his chair, stretch, go use the bathroom, and refill his coffee. Yes, he is a man who knows how to maximize his free time, and savor every last second by getting the necessary inconveniences out of the way.

Bernard has another, more peculiar habit, which involves incessant, tuneless whistling throughout the entire work day. With his head phones on or off, Bernard consistently treats everyone to a less than varied selection of "tunes," with which he cheerfully fills the airwaves. He and the other Old People refer to their headphones as "ears," as in, "May, it's no use talking to him-he's got his ears in." Or, "Take your ears out, the boss is talking."

One of my favorite experiences with The Old People, and Bernard especially, has to do with their branching out into subjects other than illnesses. Now, they have a lot of experience and wisdom, but what they don't have is all of the information when it comes to current gossip. One morning, they decided to discuss the octuplet mom, and it quickly became clear that they didn't have the whole story. One of the women shook her head sadly, and remarked that the "sperm donor" was becoming involved again, and wanted to take the children back. Bernard didn't seem completely clear on the concept of a sperm donor, because he loudly declared that the men "just want to have fun and hightail it out of there." No, insisted his peer, this man wanted to help the babies financially and otherwise (I haven't heard any report like this), and was staying in touch.
"Why?" demanded our irrepressible friend. "Does he have the AIDS, or the HIV?"

While I don't miss the mailing center, I do wonder what sort of conversations The Old People are having, or what sort of interesting things Bernard is saying or doing. I hope they don't have too many illnesses to discuss, and that their breaks all seem to last twice as long. :)

(I don't mean to mock or trivialize anyone. Just recognizing humor in all its forms)

A Tale About A Robin and One About A Moth

This is a narrative poem about a robin I wrote last year for a creative writing class. It is not very good, but it is a true story.

Robin

you were a small, speckled thing,
your black-dotted breast
a faded orangish-red,
your bright black eyes examining, taking in,
the brand new world outside your nest
in the shade of the front maple tree,
dangerously close to the road, and i knew
i must shepherd you to safety; i, with ten years
of life could see vulnerability.
speaking softly, i tried to circle around-
oh no, little bird, not that way!
in the road, your chest thumping,
hopping awkwardly, unable to take flight,
eyes wild with fright,
and i held my breath,
first one car,
then two,
somehow you were ok, then that white van-
one second, a chance, the next
a tiny, deafening crunch,
and you were reduced
to a flattened mat of downy black
and reddish feathers,
sticky with blood,
your feet protruding out,
neat and stiff.

i'm sorry, and i wanted to tell
you then, only there was nothing
left to say, so i took
my dad's old gardening hoe
carefully picked you up, carried
your limp little body
back behind the rasberry bushes
where i dug a grave,
covering you with a round, gray stone,
and i cried and cried because i never knew
until i saw you die
how quick it was.

And to prove I am not all seriousness and sadness;

Moth Before A Street Light

O light, O bright and promising
Wizard of life, to you I spread
My delicate, worshipful wings,
Before you I leap and flutter
In reverent admiration.
O luminescent sphere,
So like the sun and distant orbs
Yet accessible! How awesome
Your fluorescent splendor!
Before your vivid glory,
I bow, darken, and fade away-
Offering the unworthy sacrifice
Of my humble life.

Ok, so it is still a little dark, but meant to be funny, not as some people originally thought, a critique of religion (wow, that's reading too much into my simplistic thought patterns).

Ten Years Later

Life ten years later is a strange place that at one time, you thought you might never arrive at. You don't think about it every day, and it no longer defines your existence. At least, you try not to let it, and try not to think about the ways it has. You are a survivor, you are now strong, and free. That is, until you hear or see something which triggers a memory, and you are suddenly transported into the body and mind of a twelve-year-old girl; vulnerable, confused, and full of shame. One day, you thought you were beyond this, and healed enough to never revisit this place, but now you can taste the dry, metallic fear in your mouth, and feel the weight that drags your feet down as they retrace the steps of your nightmares.

This place you revisit is a hollow core, deep within you, potent with emotions and events that overwhelmed you then, and threaten to do so now. A child is an emotionally sensitive thing, and you were even more so than some. The fragility of the web that held you together then was torn and gaping holes ripped into its fabric. Now you've rebuilt, but parts are still weaker, and not resilient enough to face this return visit. Somewhere within you, that shattered child lives on, as if a piece of you is frozen in that moment, still begging to be rescued, and accusing you for having the audacity to move on; for leaving it there to face the monsters alone. But going back to that child is so difficult. Looking her in the eyes, you instantly are her again, and can identify with the searing pain that has left her there, frozen and unable to escape entirely.

Yet life ten years later is strange. It plays tricks on you. While you can feel that child's emotions so sharply, you cannot clearly remember all of the events that incited them. Part of you is relieved, and part is angry. Something was robbed, something left you in this position, and you cannot even recall some of the exact circumstances. Even the memory which you fool yourself into thinking would help you make sense of it all, understand, is slowly eroding. However, it is natural, in a way. You were just twelve, and it has been ten years. In fact, any other memories from that time have been driven away by the more traumatic ones, and it is that one incident that did, at one time define you, and much as you may refuse to allow it to do so now.

Then, you did not think, "I am a survivor of sexual abuse." You were given other titles for it; adulteress, dirty, tainted, scarred, damaged beyond repair, home wrecker, liar, and hypocrite. You wore the titles, because you had no framework from which to process or understand what had happened. You felt the filth of your actions clinging to you; felt each stroke of his hand destroying your value. You felt shame and guilt that made you reject your own humanity and wish for death. You took the blame, the sickened rage in your mother's eyes, your father's beating and demand of repentance, the rejection and disgust of siblings who knew no better, a church that claimed to represent God, and saw in a victim a disobedient whore. You watched your sister suffer from your actions, and her own innocence, and felt the weight of the guilt and an inability to protect her. You believed you had destroyed the lives of the wife and daughter you didn't even know he had, and furthermore, perhaps his own when his sisters came to you and said that he was threatening to take his life if you did not go to him, and you did not. You took the furious, lashing accusations from his wife that your parents encouraged, and held yourself responsible. You believed you had broken the law, because you were told so, and never knew the law was meant to prosecute him and protect you, because no policeman was ever called. You didn't try to see friends, although it was forbidden anyway, because you felt years older than them, and so much dirtier. You lived in fear, when you did start seeing them again, that they would find out just how wicked and repulsive you really were, and reject you, too. You even accepted God himself turning his eyes and love from you in horror and rage, and accepted the burden of earning his favor back.

In fact, the consequences of your parents finding out destroyed any shreds of childhood innocence that had survived the abuse, because you accepted the full weight of responsibility for the injustice of a crime committed against you. There never really was time until years later to process being lied to by a man twice your age, of living in fear of him, and horrible guilt of your actions, but still choosing to go to him, because at least he said he loved you, and you just wanted so desperately to be loved, and valued by someone. Because while you struggled with feeling rejected by your father, and afraid of him, at least this man offered what felt like love with the fear of what you could not understand. It was not until years later you could wonder what it does to a sexually unaware child to have things like a first kiss stolen, when you do not know how to kiss back, and only take the kisses standing still and trying to keep your balance. What it does to accept dreaded touches all over your body, because you know it will make him happy, and someday, it will be OK, because he will marry you. What it does when he tries to rape you in a drunken episode, and you don't understand sex enough to avoid being worried about getting pregnant, or terrified for years of having an STD. What it's like to live in constant anxiety for years to come that he will hurt your family, and it will be your fault, or snatch you up and take you to Mexico where "no one will ever find us" like he pledged. What it means to believe that you have committed adultery, and will be second-rate goods for any future husband.

Then it was all your fault, and you never questioned this. Years of knowing your own wickedness, and worthlessness, of drowning in unbelievable shame that made you loathe yourself robbed you of much of the good that could have been in the following years. It was not until four years later that you were able to talk about it with someone; professionals in a hospital, where you ended up because of the overwhelming depression, much of it stemming from this incident. Talking about it was like trying to resurrect someone from the dead, because your family only vaguely referenced it once or twice to remind you of your depravity following those first months which were saturated with lectures, and calls for repentance. Embarrassment and shame threatened to drown you, as you tried to relate what had happened, because deep down, you still took the blame. Although it shouldn't have really mattered that much, it someone seemed as if your whole self worth, or excuse for being alive, depended on whether or not you were responsible for this catostrophic event. You had learned to think about it in such twisted ways, by trying to cope with it yourself, and it was what defined you; it was the major event of your life, the turning point, the moment in time you thought of for years after as when you died inside. Even then, you told yourself internally, "I'm dead inside; I'm not alive anymore, it's just my body here dealing with this." It was the only way you could survive.

Ten years later is a strange place to be. You know so much better than to think and believe everything you did then, but sometimes, you are taken back to that place and mentality against your will. You shrivel up inside, and feel shame to write something like this, because for years you could not even talk about it, and even now, do not know how to reference it. Saying "when I was sexually abused" sounds too weighty, and at the same time, too understated. Mostly, you call it, "That thing that happened when I was twelve" because shame dies hard. People don't just bring up things like sexual abuse; it is a looming skeleton in the closet, and you feel worry about people's reaction when you act as if the shame does not exist, and refuse to be silent. You will not be silent. You will not give it that power, or him that control over your life. It is not a dirty secret, it is something that happens to billions of women, and often much worse than what you experienced, and you will not allow people to look away because it is uncomfortable. Because you will not let anyone, ever again, make you feel worthless because you were taken advantage of.

How do you survive, to ten years later, when there are moments so dark that you wish he had just killed you, instead of leaving you breathing, while his crime and everyone else's reactions to it destroyed your life? All kinds of things, you think, would have made it better. Counseling after, or justice from the law would have provided some kind of vindication. Sometimes you wish desperately that he had been prosecuted, as if somehow, this could have righted the wrong. At least it may have let other people know that he was a danger, and prevented some other little girl from being victimized.

Yet the years for the law intervening have passed. Your father still holds you to blame, although your mother somewhat, and your siblings entirely have come to realize the truth of what happened, which as children, they could not have. Your sister still visited part of the nightmare which you did, and like yourself, her ten-year-old innocence cannot be redone. He may have hurt one, or several other little girls, and gotten away with it. His own daughter, now eleven, is most likely growing up without a father, and his wife must still live with the pain of that separation.

So ten years later, in this strange place, how did you get here, and how do you keep going on the days when the paralyzing Past breathes down on you like a living entity from the pits of Hell?In the darkness, when you cry, there is one comfort that surrounds you like a blanket, and that is the love of your Heavenly Father, who did not blame you, or hold out his favor in anger from you as you once believed, but instead must have wept for your pain, and felt anger at the injustice. When you feel utterly alone, like no one in the world can understand the agony that can still surround you, or the road you have walked down, you know Jesus knows the cause of every hurt, and the depth of every one of the tide of emotions that threatens to drown you. You know that while you do not understand why you had to walk down that road, he walked with you, and it was the work of sin and human depravity that caused those events; not his punishment, or rejection. Your own culpability no longer matters, because His forgiveness is complete, and offered even to the man who wronged you, and to those who stood to accuse and reject you. He was accused and rejected, and he, if anyone, knows the pain of that rejection. It is He, with his scarred hands, who holds that crying, wounded little girl, and has never, ever, for one second, let her go.

Work Reflections

Coming out of college, I didn't expect finding a decent job to be easy. In fact, I had anticipated that an English degree would not exactly make me a top favorite in the job market. However, I didn't think that it would be quite so difficult as it has proven to be. For instance, I do not consider myself a stupid person. I graduated with the second highest level of honors in a well respected state school, and I consider myself more than qualified to fill a receptionist position. Apparently, no one else agrees. Most employers either insist on, or prefer at least a year of experience. I find myself stuck, since I don't have that experience, and can't get it since no one wants to give me a chance. And I can't help but to wonder, what kind of genius do employers think it takes to answer phones, make appointments, etc.? Do they believe that someone with a four year degree is incapable of mastering the intense requirements of secretarial work? Perhaps I overestimate my abilities in the competitive, demanding world of receptionists, but it seems to me that either employers are being a bit too selective, or my resume completely sucks and causes them to dismiss me immediately without further consideration. Ok, so maybe my resume is not absolutely the most compelling document, but I would think that someone out there might say, "Hey, this girl is smart enough to do well in college...I bet she can learn this whole answering phones and creating spreadsheets thing!"
In the meanwhile, my husband is laid off, college debt is coming due, and the other bills need to be payed. So I have started doing temp jobs. The first was not too bad. I worked in a community college bookstore as a cashier. I definitely didn't feel pride in living up to my potential, but for a couple of weeks, I survived. Then, last week, I accepted an assignment that has been pushing the limits of my sanity. From 8am to 5pm, I stuff envelopes full of ESL Credit Union system update notifications. Over and over, until I have every little movement down perfectly, and I begin to feel like a mindless machine. Count off a box of envelopes into bunches of 50. Take a cover letter in my left hand, a booklet in my right. Place letter over booklet, stuff into envelope, turn envelope over, flap down, place on pile. Stack piles facing different directions so they remain in groups of 50. Go get more supplies. Come back, sit down, da, da, da, doop.
It is also a test of my ideals and faith. As a Christian, I believe that everyone is of equal worth and value, and has the same basic need; to find their purpose and worth in Jesus Christ. I spent several months in St. Louis trying to learn to love people, no matter their situation, sin, and mistakes. Yet that room of people stuffing envelopes is full of profanity, ignorance, and people who lack respect for either themselves, or others. And I sit there, praying against the feelings of superiority and pride, trying to remember that so much of what I dislike in others is in me. Maybe in my own life my sin takes different forms, but still, except for the grace of God, I could be in their exact situation. In fact, the more time I spend there, the more I begin to understand some of the circumstances that have propelled people to become single mothers on welfare, or why the man next to me spends the entire day inebriated. For instance, one single mother, whose philosophy on parenting makes me cringe talks about losing her virginity at 12, being beaten constantly, and becoming pregnant at 16 simply because her parents forbade it. She was slapped to the ground by her infuriated mother when she found out that her daughter was pregnant.
The man across from me has been a single father of two boys since they were little, and has no idea how to raise his sons other than to give into their every whim. Now he can't stand his own children, because at 10 and 11, they have become demanding monsters, and he doesn't know how to handle them anymore. He works at least two jobs on a regular basis to try and pay for the life he can't really afford.
And I think, Lord have mercy, but I can't help but to also think, I want so badly to get out of here. I want a job where I don't feel like I can barely make it through the day. I don't want a job where I am forced to meet my own inadequacies, because I don't know how to respond to those around me, or how to share the hope I have found in the Gospel. Maybe that is why I am in this place; perhaps it is a time God will use to grow me, and make me rely more on Him. I know that the financial situation at home is forcing me to do that, even though I would much rather have a job where that reliance on God isn't felt so keenly. Maybe that is exactly why I need to be in this place at this moment in my life. However, I'm still looking forward to the day when I can feel like going to college wasn't a waste, and I don't feel inadequate because no one wants to hire me. I still dream of a job that challenges me, utilizes my talents, and values my contributions. From the mailroom, it's looking an awfully long way off.

First Blog

This is all because of my sister Susanna. Because she encouraged me to put my madness out there in a semi-public forum. I hope she realized the Pandora's Box she was prying open to unleash upon the unsuspecting cyber universe. At any rate, I have decided to bare my soul to the internet world, which is not as daunting as it may sound, since I currently have an audience of one (Susanna). So thank you Susanna, and I hope you at least will appreciate the madness that is bound to proliferate upon these pages.