veritas: one woman’s journey

Today, on Valentine’s Day, memories of past loves infiltrate my mind, and I find myself smiling when I think of my first love.

He was strong and handsome; he had the most piercing smile and a gregarious laugh that would fill a room; people knew when he was around because of the warmth he emanated, and they flocked to be around him.

His strong features counteracted the boyish grin that graced his face; his honey-brown beard gave him a look of authority and set him apart from most of his co-workers at the hospital. He was tall and fit, a former soccer player and all-city diver. His wavy brown hair lay tousled most of the time in an endearing manner.

He loved to grab my hand and just hold me close or surprise me with an affectionate bear hug; he was always affirming of any endeavor I pursued; he sacrificed his career designs just to spend time with me. We spent many quiet nights together as he played guitar, sang, and read aloud to me.

Dinners were spent talking; weekends were spent doing activities together — going to museums, working around the yard, hiking together.

No one will ever take the place in my heart of my first love. We were separated by death four years ago, but he is the standard by which I have judged every romantic interest since him. He taught me about life; he taught me to love; he showed me what it means to pursue life with abandonment and live it fully.

Who was my first love?

Others called him friend, husband, doctor, or mentor.

I simply called him “Daddy.”

Twenty-four groggy, bone-tired college students stumble around the drafty, cement and bare insulation tinder-box building where half of the group were camped out during the wee hours of morning. The strong smell of French roast coffee, freshly ground, permeates the chilled air. Mugs in hand, waiting for the brew to finish percolating, the students wait for their morning cup of stimulant.

Six-hundred miles from home, these University of Michigan-Dearborn students, roughing it in North Carolina for a week as they dedicate their spring break to working for Habitat for Humanity, have learned to deal with the freezing temperatures, the less-than ideal housing situation, the cold showers, yet they still have a supply of upper-end coffee beans and a coffee pot they lugged all the way from Michigan in order to feed their coffee addiction.

Coffee — Necessary. Addictive. Delicious. Its presence as a major part of American culture knows no ethnic or socioeconomic boundaries. The obsession with lattes, cappuccinos, and mochas are not merely for the upper-middle class and wealthy – poor college students and lower-income individuals also shell out $4 a visit for drinks such as large skim mochas, light on the whip cream, or skinny grande caramel macchiatos. And we do not question our obsession but continue to spend our hard-earned money for such drinks.

What is it about society’s current obsession with coffee? Starbucks and Caribou Coffee, the top two coffee shop chains in the nation, are expanding their locations at a break-neck speed, and the public is responding.

“Coffee is the all-time, all-American drink of choice,” said Teri Leblanc, an employee of Caribou Coffee, shouting over the noise of a barista machine as she takes orders from a long line of customers waiting for their early morning fix.

Coffee houses are marketing coffee any way they can – whole bean, $4 drinks, plain drip brew — and we continue to pay the price. We have become a society hooked on our lattes and our mochas and cannot imagine not being able to get our daily fixes.

Why?

Phil Jessmon, a 22-year-old senior at UM-Dearborn, had an answer. “Coffee is now a social norm and a biological imperative. People need caffeine nowadays to be productive in society because we do not get proper sleep. Thus, [we] have three easy choices: coffee, pop, or caffeine pills. Society dictates that pop is [both] unhealthy and for younger people. Caffeine pills are strictly for younger people. Thus, coffee is the choice for those who wish to appear mature and productive.”

Jessmon also added, “Starbucks itself is attractive because it provides both commonality (everyone can find a Starbucks nearby) and uniqueness (the atmosphere is comfortable, yet eccentric, so one feels as if one is being more open-minded and culturally informed when going there).”

For many, a coffee shop such as Starbucks or Caribou Coffee provides a quick oasis from the stresses and rigors of life and work. For five minutes, customers are able to pamper themselves with a steaming hot cup of their favorite java before having to face the demands of their job or family.

For others, a coffee shop provides another social option – it allows one a convenient, fun atmosphere for conversation and discussion. Coffee shops have become a popular hang-out for college students, not only for social interaction but also for late-night study marathons.

As a college student who works at Caribou Coffee on the weekends, I especially enjoy watching families who come in bond with each other.

Two of our regulars — a father and daughter — run every Saturday morning at a local nature preserve and afterward, they come in for cups of hot chocolate and coffee. They spend an hour just talking together while they enjoy their drinks.

Coffee brings friends and families together. One justifies the expense of a Starbucks or Caribou Coffee latte for the sake of the community, pleasure, and stimulus it provides.

And for the 24 college students from UM-Dearborn, working in 40-degree weather building homes for Habitat for Humanity, a good cup of coffee is not only a privilege but has become a necessary part of their day.

- Originally published in the Michigan Journal, April 12, 2005

Sitting next to a black potbelly stove, on a wooden folding chair with his arms folded across his stomach, his silver hair tied back and a warm smile peeking through his full beard, Richard Peterson (named changed), 52, reminds one of Gandolf of “Lord of the Rings” fame.

The setting is a Friday-night home Bible study; the time is affectionately known as “post-Bible study discussion.” Surrounded by a handful of high school and college students and their parents, Peterson is clearly at home as he discusses philosophy, science, politics and theology with his eager audience. Delving into the two subjects we’re instructed from babes never to discuss, Peterson doesn’t seem to mind the hot debates that are stirred, nor do the young people who are active participants and look upon him as not only mentor but also as friend.

Into the crazy fray of laughter and heated argumentation, one cannot help but notice the familial love in the group; it may seem like a strange mixture and setting for students to spend their Friday nights, but it’s become a cornerstone of the week for many of the students.

Peterson’s ability to connect with the younger generation and engage them to think deeply about their world and to teach about theology, philosophy, history and science is a gift, and part of the attraction is Peterson’s realness about his emotions and about the hardships of life. He may be the Bible study teacher, but he doesn’t sugarcoat reality, and the kids know they can trust him.

This welcoming attitude that Peterson exudes, a willingness to connect with others, is a stark contrast to his personality for many years after experiencing the worst moment of his life as a young child.

As one listens to his story, one is captivated by the simplicity with which he expresses the deep pain that altered his life in one swift moment.

“During the spring of my twelfth year, my father left his wife and children to move to the state of Florida and be part of another family,” begins Peterson. “The woman he was running off with was leaving her husband; her children were going to Florida with them, and they were also taking the 2-year-old child they had parented together while still married to their first spouses. I had known that my parents were in bad shape since I was the oldest child and my mother’s confidant.”

Peterson continued to relate the events of that soul-wrenching day. “The last day that I saw my dad for many years was a pleasant enough day; the sun was shining, I was neither hungry nor cold. In the living room of my small childhood home stood my father, mother, siblings, and self, and my dad was telling us that he was going away. The atmosphere in that room was not pleasant; the sun was setting and the cold was descending upon my heart. Many were crying; I was not. In that moment, something changed in me. I did not cry or laugh for many years. It was as if the light was going out and a part of me was freezing…and then he was gone, no letters, no calls, no visits.”

As the eldest boy, Peterson became the man of the house – with seven younger siblings, the burden of responsibility he tried to shoulder was crushing but not destroying. However, that experience and resulting consequences vastly changed him. As he stated, it was “many years later I learned to cry again. I was at a movie theater seeing a trailer for a coming movie. Johnny Cash was singing and Jesus the Son of God, the Messiah, was hanging on a cross, and I began to cry.”

The depth with which Peterson discusses this episode and the resulting wake that spread across the years of his life, affecting his disposition and relationships, strikes a haunting chord; this is a man who has experienced much pain and sorrow in his life. And yet, as evidenced by the content of the meetings and late-night conversations following at the weekly Bible studies that Peterson has led for the last five years, he has found peace with his father’s abandonment.

Forgiving him as an adult, the scars are still etched deeply; you can see it in Peterson’s eyes, and yet, there is now a gentleness and a peace that emanates from him as he discusses his father. Peterson’s chosen to forgive him, regardless of his father not deserving his forgiveness, and the love that is the agent that allows him to is the love and beauty that he pours into the students who come to learn from the wisdom he possesses.

(written winter 2005)

The wound, freshly opened, the pain, almost suffocating her as she drives along the freeway — the young girl wonders if it’s possible that the reality unfolding on the airwaves could potentially be just a nightmare she can escape by opening her eyes.

September 11^th, her generation’s JFK’s assassination day – the day everyone remembers exactly where they were when they first heard the news that New York’s twin towers had been struck – the day that will forever be burned upon her mind revealing her vulnerability.

If only she hadn’t turned her radio on.

—–

Her thoughts return to that morning.

It’s a beautiful, fall morning – the sky, a brilliant blue, the air, fresh and alive.

Running out of the house, she grabs her well used travel mug, filled to the brim with steaming coffee, and hops into her hand-me-down silver escort station wagon, tucking her full-length skirt around her legs as she readjusts her rear view mirror, her long blonde curls framing her face.

With habitual movement, she turns on her cd player, but it doesn’t work. Looking at the clock, the young college student, a freshman at the University of Michigan-Dearborn, realizes she is running late to her first class of the day, so rather than play around with the cd player, she turns the radio on. As she speeds out of her driveway, her mind is distracted with a million thoughts – thoughts of her father, thoughts of upcoming assignments, thoughts of what she was going to do with her afternoon after classes let out.

And then, into her habitual routine of stop, go, look to the left, turn, accelerate, her stream of consciousness is abruptly interrupted as she hears a drama being played out on the radio. Confused, she turns her attention to the unfolding drama – a plane has hit the world trade center. She furrows her eyebrows as she double checks the call letters of the radio station. “Didn’t I put it on 760 AM?” she asks herself.

And then, it slowly dawns on her that the drama that is unfolding in front of her on the airwaves is not a drama but is actually happening.

She hears the second air plane crash into the second tower.

Gripping the steering wheel tighter, her body rigid, she drives methodically to school, barely paying attention to the cars zipping past her on the freeway or the turns she makes. She wonders if she’s in a dream.

Two planes are missing; two planes have hit the building; frantic reports; no one understands what is going on.

And then, the pain that grips her heart as she listens to the radio broadcasts drowns out the voices and live updates. Not only is it the pain of a nation, but it is her personal pain.

—–

Once again, she is standing in her parents’ bedroom. It is a bright, sunny Saturday morning. Spring is announcing her arrival in all her glory. The leaves outside are budding; the flowers are blooming. The birds are singing their doxologies.

A stark contrast to the scene unfolding before her.

She stands before her father’s bed as he breathes his last; his spirit, one second there, another second, gone.

A chill enters the room.

In a haze, she’s vaguely aware of her six younger siblings, gathered around as they sob — their best friend, their teacher, their father, gone. The youngest, only a year and a half, is passed around from sibling to sibling; the 11-year-old brother, now man of the house, comforts his older sisters. Her mother, a beacon of strength, rests her hand on her shoulder.

The family says “goodbye.”

Embraced by the fifty visitors who have shown up upon hearing the news, her family files slowly out of the room, but she hangs back.

And she finally allows herself to grieve; this moment has been a long time coming – years of chemo appointments, radiation appointments, hopes and dreams raised and then dashed – refusing to accept reality until she could no longer hold on to hope. Her best friend, her teacher, her confidant, her beloved “Daddy” – gone.

Oblivious to the friends and family waiting just outside the room, milling about the rest of the house, springing into action planning the funeral arrangements, she flings herself upon her father’s chest.

His body, cold, rigid, the warmth fleeing from his strong frame, a frame that belies the two year battle he fought against cancer, she sobs and bids him goodbye.

—–

Her mother enters and wraps her arm around the 19-year-old’s waist, and together, they walk out of the room. The hearse lies in wait outside.

Three days later, the young girl walks methodically down the aisle of the sanctuary; hundreds of friends and family – mere blurs as she allows the tears to flow freely and takes her place at the front of the church.

Numb, her heart races as she questions “Why?”

With a sharpness, as she goes through the motions of that day, she realizes that the only thing that matters is relationships.

Time is short.

Her father’s achievements – class president, valedictorian, all-city diver, co-captain of the football team, best doctor of southeastern Michigan – all these milestones mean nothing.

Only her father’s heart for his patients, the friendship with his coworkers, the love for his friends and family, matter. His relationship with God – his relationships with everyone else. The only things tangible; the only things that count.

Her view, forever changed, her perspective, flipped upside down.

—–

Fast forward four months. She reenrolls at school as a freshman. Going through the motions, her heart still aches as she works through her grief.

A homeschool graduate, so much new, so much to learn. A new venture. Dow-eyed, but hardened by the reality of sitting with her father through incessant chemo and radiation treatments. Forever changed by entering the adult world too early, she doesn’t fit in with her classmates. Her world is not one they can understand.

And on this bright fall morning, she climbs into her car, unaware that her world will once again be forever changed.

—–

Methodically, she goes to class, too naïve to know she could skip. Her professor, briefly acknowledging the unfolding national tragedy, in shock, turns to lecturing for an hour and a half about political science. All the while, the young girl does not know if more targets have been hit, if when she walks out of the classroom, she will find out that more lives have been lost, more targets have been attacked, that the horror of the moment has an even greater scope.

Her peers, walking around in a daze. others, in fear, frantically running home. Searching for security. Searching for comfort. Searching for answers to “why?”

The nation’s tragedy, mirroring on a larger scale her own personal tragedy, forces the girl to once again acknowledge her vulnerability; no longer does she have a strong father figure to run to for protection. No longer does she have someone assuring her everything will be alright. No longer does she have strong arms to wrap herself in, even as the tragedy unfolds across television screens around the nation.

And she realizes that she cannot live in fear — the fear that grips her friends, her family, her classmates. Slowly digging its claws into their hearts, into their minds, into their lives, paralyzing them. Burdening them.

Time is short; she realizes that whether by cancer or terrorist attacks, her life could be taken, just like that.

And with a sad smile, she realizes that she no longer has fear; through her grief, she has been released. She realizes she must live life passionately; she must live it to its fullest; she cannot be held back by the “what ifs?” She cannot dwell on the loss, allowing it to cripple her.

Only after tasting death is she truly freed to begin living. Free to embrace life with abandonment.

September 11^th, – a milestone — the day a nation began mourning, the day a girl realized we are not guaranteed time; we are only guaranteed the freedom to choose how to live.

(Originally written in winter 2005)

With the turning of the leaves and the chill in the air, autumn has settled in with force. It’s perfect weather for long walks in the woods and baking pumpkin muffins with your loved ones — the smell of nutmeg and cinnamon infusing the house, helping to shape memories that will last a lifetime.

I recently set out to bake nutritious pumpkin muffins that even sweet-loving children will devour. My accomplice was Luke Patterson, an energetic 9 year-old. An eager and excited young cook, he said, “I like baking because it’s cool having to mix ingredients or chop stuff up, add spices, cook it, stir it, and then, once you’re done, you’ve known you made it, and it tastes better than if someone else had made it.”

I had asked Luke to guide me in making one of his favorite muffin recipes, and as he gathered all the ingredients and set them on the long kitchen counter, he explained with authority how to make them.

“First, get your flour, and if you want, you can add some oatmeal. Then put in nutmeg, cinnamon, salt, and baking powder and mix everything together.”

Walking to the refrigerator, Luke grabbed two eggs, and cracking them with chef-like skill, he turned to me with a proud grin and said, “See? I cracked them with one hand. Bet you didn’t know I could do that!”

He continued explaining the recipe: “In another bowl, stir in two eggs, some honey, and oil. You can use olive or canola oil; it doesn’t really matter. Mix it all together and add to the flour mixture. Then you stir in some pumpkin — canned pumpkin.”

As he had me finish mixing the batter, he greased the muffin tins and then we proceeded to pop the filled muffin tins in the oven.

While we waited for the muffins to bake, Luke said, “And, if you want a little treat, you can make frosting,” so we made peanut butter frosting.

As we worked, side by side, the thirteen years age difference melted away as we spent time together, enjoying each other’s company. Luke was not my little brother during that time but rather my equal partner in the kitchen, even my teacher, and he had the satisfaction of knowing that he had my undivided attention.

We discussed law (he’s an aspiring lawyer), how much I make at my current job (money seems to be on his mind), what his goals and desires are in life, and his favorite computer game, SIMS.

I realized as I listen to him chatter on, and watch the excited look on his face as he frosted his muffins, that it is not the baking of muffins, itself, that was so important to him, but rather, it’s what it symbolized – it was the time that it took and the opportunity it afforded us for building and fostering a relationship.

As Luke put it, “When a window is open, you can smell the fall air, and you’re baking muffins, the two smells combined just smell really good, and plus it is so much fun to bake with my sister; we even took pictures of us baking the muffins and we were able to talk!” and talking, in a day and age when we are so on the go, hurried from one responsibility to the next, is a precious commodity.

- First published in the Michigan Journal, 11-2-04

Pumpkin Muffins

1 C. cooked, mashed pumpkin

½ C. oil

½ C. honey

2 eggs

1 ¼ C. wholewheat flour

½ C. old-fashioned oatmeal

1 t. baking soda

1 t. baking powder

½ t salt

1 t. cinnamon

½ t. nutmeg

1/3 C. water

1. Preheat oven to 350˚.

2. Combine dry ingredients in a bowl.

3. Beat oil and honey together in a separate bowl; add eggs; mix well.

4. Add dry ingredients and water to honey mixture.

5. Mix in pumpkin.

6. Grease muffin pans.

7. Spoon in batter.

8. Bake for 20-25 minutes.

9. Remove from oven with potholders and let cool.

10. If you like, ice with peanut butter frosting.

Peanut Butter Frosting

½ C. smooth peanut butter

3 T. butter, softened

2 T. honey

1 T. milk

Beat butters and honey together in a bowl; add milk gradually if needed. Spread on muffins with a knife.