veritas: one woman’s journey

These tears I cry
Do you see them?
Do you feel them?
Do you taste the salt?
Self-absorption
Sweet misery
We are all walking wounded
Have I somehow forgotten?
And you, you with your battle scars
And me, me with my incessant need to love you
The gulf widening
Communication fractured
Flesh and blood
Flesh and blood
Nailed to a cross
Do I daily take up my cross?
Do I daily die for you?
What is love?
Do we have a clue
Or have we packaged Hollywood conceptions
So neatly in our Sunday-school best
Pretending our mutual self-gratification
Translates to love everlasting
No wonder we trip over broken marriages
When did we start believing a lie?
Self-deception
Get over ourselves
Love nailed itself to a cross
When did we start to believe
That love requires anything less from us?

With Easter just around the corner, we are bombarded with Easter advertisements shouting for our attention and financial commitment. However, amidst all the Easter bunnies and brightly colored eggs, one has to wonder how much religion, and in turn “spirituality,” is actually at the center of this holiday or how much of it is simply an excuse to get together with friends and family and eat a box of chocolates.

America’s spiritual temperature, if based upon how many people claim to pray, is running “high,” but how many of those who profess a prayer life actually understand the Easter holiday they are celebrating, and the main crux of the holiday – the resurrection? Or how many people can give an answer for whether or not their prayers are effective or heard by a god-figure, whether the Judeo-Christian God of Easter or some other deity?

How many people understand how futile prayer is without there being a god who is listening? How many people understand that if the god to whom they pray to isn’t real, their prayers are fruitless? How many people can, with confidence, point to a specific event as evidence that when they pray, God not only is listening but actually cares?

Christians can point to one event in history as compelling evidence for all these questions. But the question is, for so many Americans celebrating Easter, how many actually understand the message and implications of Easter Sunday – the resurrection of Jesus Christ?

The reality is that Easter celebrations have eclipsed for many Americans the cornerstone of Easter Sunday – the resurrection, and they celebrate something which to them has mythical value.

For Christians, however, the resurrection of Jesus Christ is what makes or breaks their faith, and in turn, the power of their prayers. The Christian faith claims that if Jesus is who he said he was, then he proved his divinity by rising from the dead, and thus he conquered death and has restored all those who believe in him to having a right relationship with God.

In other words, we now have a hotline to heaven.

However, if Jesus did not rise from the dead, then all our Easter celebrations are empty festivities. Either God hears us or he doesn’t; either he is who he says he is or he isn’t. Either Jesus rose from the dead or he didn’t.

The beauty for Christians who pray is that they can rest assured that God hears their prayers for they have a God who left behind an empty grave in history.

And isn’t that what is Easter is all about, anyway?

–

[Comments: this post got spammed, so I saved the non-spam comments and am posting them here.]

1. dan Says:
   April 21st, 2006 at 8:45 pm ewell put.
2. Moriah Joy Says:
   April 26th, 2006 at 8:51 am eThanks.
3. Moriah Joy Says:
   April 26th, 2006 at 8:54 am eReading it over, I have to laugh a little bit. This was written in fifteen minutes (that’s being generous in estimating the time I spent on it) for a journalism professor who wanted something on Easter and prayer. Rereading it a couple weeks later, removed from it, it’s clear I did a poor job of tying prayer into the overall thrust of the piece.

“My parents cursed me with a love for learning.”

So said Bethany Patterson with a smile. Patterson, a homeschool graduate with a 4.0 GPA at Wayne State University, furthermore said of her homeschool experience: “I owe my success in college directly to my parents’ decision to homeschool me, and I attribute my wide range of interests and self-motivation/work ethic to homeschooling.”

Patterson is not alone. There are more than one million homeschooled students in the United States, with estimates as high as two million. Homeschooling, which is gaining popularity across the nation, has become not only a viable alternative to the public education system but has also become a springboard for many homeschool graduates for a successful, fulfilling life.

Homeschooling is a force to be reckoned with. So just what is homeschooling and what does it look like?

Imagine doing your algebra lesson in your pajamas. Or imagine learning history through exploring a museum or visiting historic sites. Imagine your kitchen table was your school desk and your classmates totaled the number of siblings you have.

That’s the case for many of the more than 1.1 million homeschoolers in the United States (2005), and the numbers are growing at a rate of 10-15% per year, according to Home School Legal Defense Association (HSLDA).

Homeschooling, once a fledgling enterprise taken on by a few courageous parents, has become an academic force to be acknowledged with by both the public and private school systems. The movement has come into its own, answering critics’ questions about academic excellence and socialization concerns.

The choice to homeschool is often a response to dissatisfaction with the public and/or private educational system. While it’s actually been around for ages and public education is really the “new kid on the block,” it wasn’t until the late 1960’s and early 1970’s that home education made a resurgence as a viable option for education and has gained momentum and national attention ever since.

Homeschooling parents choose to homeschool for a variety of reasons including both philosophical and/or religious reasons; others choose to homeschool their children simply because they seek the highest quality education possible for their child.

My family is an interesting case study since there are seven children who were and are being homeschooled. Three are currently homeschool graduates, one is in highschool, one is in middle school and two are in elementary school. Of the three oldest children, who homeschooled through highschool, all three were granted full-ride, academic scholarships to the universities of their choice and carry almost 4.0 GPA’s. The next sibling in line, a freshman in public highschool, is a straight-A student and has adjusted well to public highschool, having been previously homeschooled his entire life.

You might be thinking, “So what? That’s your family.” So what about the educational quality and achievements of other homeschooled students? The statistics are in: homeschoolers score on average 30-37 percentile points above their public-schooled counterparts in all subjects. The academic achievement of homeschoolers, which used to be a concern until the stats came in, has proven to quiet critics.

In fact, many universities are actively recruiting homeschooled students because they have seen homeschooled students excel academically, and they recognize their self-discipline, drive and tendency to be leaders. These are traits that many universities are looking for in potential students. Jeff Lantis, as quoted on HSLDA’s website, said of Hillsdale College’s 75-90 homeschoolers, “Homeschoolers have to work harder thereby increasing student productivity. [They] are consistently among our top students; in fact homeschoolers have won our distinct Honors Program the last three years in a row. We tend to look very favorably upon homeschoolers applying to our college.”

Kathleen Wider, associate professor of philosophy at the University of Michigan-Dearborn, said of her experience with two homeschooled students that they were “so well prepared for college and seemed far better educated than most college students.”

Homeschooling works academically. However, what about socialization?

Fighting against the stereotype of a painfully shy, maladjusted child who cannot play with other kids or handle conflicts well, homeschoolers have had to face the question of socialization. Homeshcooling actually provides a better framework for learning socialization than its public or private school counterpart simply by its very nature.

Yes, you have your awkward homeschoolers, just like you have your awkward public or privately educated students. But overall, homeschooling prepares students for life better than its public or private school counterparts because it better reflects reality. For example, in public or private schools, you’re in a classroom with thirty of your peers, day in and day out; and they become your social “reality.”

Most of the kids are probably from your socioeconomic and cultural background as well. But “real” life is not like that. When you get out there in the workplace, you have to interact with people of all ages, socioeconomic, cultural and belief backgrounds. Homeschooling provides this learning ground because its very nature dictates a different framework for socializing. Your 85 year old next-door neighbor, your librarian, and family friends who have kids of all ages become your friends and social network. Thus, you learn to socialize with adults as well as kids who are younger and older than you, and you become comfortable in interacting with people of all ages and backgrounds.

Why does this form of socialization and learning work well? Because you learn how to interact with adults in a day to day basis that you don’t have the opportunity to experience when you go to public school for six or more hours a day. If one’s philosophy is that everything in life is a learning opportunity, all of a sudden, your “classroom” has no limits. You learn how to do math at the grocery store (while interacting respectfully with the cashier), you learn how to change the oil in a car when your parent takes the car in to be worked on, you learn how to serve the community when you volunteer your time, etc. These kind of life experiences add a depth and breadth to your academic education that is too often missing from your average public-schooled child.

So what about extra-curricular activities? What about sports and prom? Homeschoolers can enjoy the same benefits their public school counterparts do; because homeschoolers pay school taxes, legally they have the right to the same programs that public school students have. Some school districts are more open to allowing homeschoolers equal opportunity access, but in most cases, homeschoolers have no problem taking advantage of various arts, sports, or music programs within their school system.

In addition or alternatively, many homeschoolers join homeschool co-op groups, which are, in essence, large support groups of homeschool parents and their children. Parents come together once or twice a week to teach their strengths (fathers with a PhD in science teach physics; mothers with English and history degrees teach those subjects) while all the students get the benefit of other parents’ knowledge, simultaneously enjoying the vast network of other homeschooled students. Co-ops, arguably, offer the best of both worlds: parental freedom to direct the studies of their child while offering the child a classroom type setting and a great social network. Co-ops affords parents support while providing a social structure for their children.

Thus, with utilizing the school system’s programs and also local co-op groups, there are many opportunities for homeschoolers to participate in any extra-curricular activity they desire.

What are the state regulations for parents homeschooling? Each state has its own regulations for homeschoolers; some states require parents to register with the state and have their curriculum approved; other states have less stringent requirements. Michigan is one of the less stringent states. According to HSLDA’s website, there are “no requirements to notify, seek approval, test, file forms, or have any certain teacher qualifications” in Michigan.

Public opinion of homeschooling has grown in favor as students who started homeschooling in the 1970’s and 1980’s have graduated. Phil Jessmon, a graduate student at Wayne State pursuing a PhD in anatomy and cell biology, said of his experience with previously homeschooled students (he was not homeschooled but went to a private college preparatory high school), “Every homeschooled individual that I have interacted with has been intellectually ‘smarter’ than almost all of the private and public school students I have known.”

He added, “They are, in general, better-trained in how to think about life, and this is perhaps due to their precedence in thinking more critically and making learning a more personal part of their life (at home).”

While society’s opinion about homeschooling has changed over the course of the years as the evidence supporting homeschooling mounts, why should you consider homeschooling your child?

Because as the parents of the next generation, we have a grave responsibility to them. The health of our country, society, and families rests upon the health and success of our children. As parents, we have the ability to impact the world for generations to come based upon how we choose to raise our children and educate them. We have the ability to shape the next generation’s leaders.

Homeschooling offers us one of the best tools to do so.

I was having dinner with Katie and Jamie last week (good times!) and Jamie made a statement that non-Christians don’t hate Christians because they are hypocrites; rather they hate Christians because they pretend that they aren’t.

Isn’t that the unfortunate truth too often?

There’s no denying that a woman has rights, but since when did we grant a right-to-choose over a right-to-life?

With the recent Supreme Court appointments of Justices Samuel Alito and John Roberts, it looks like the right-to-life of an unborn child will trump the right-to-convenience of a mother and be protected at the federal level, and rightly so.

We can only hope as a nation that the genocide that 1973’s Roe v Wade Supreme Court decision sanctioned will be undermined.

Yes, a woman has rights. And a woman’s rights are important. No one is denying that. But amidst all the clamor and arguments surrounding the national abortion debate, rarely do you hear about the unborn child’s right-to-life trumping a mother’s right-to-convenience. The issue isn’t whether a woman has a right to choose; the issue is whose rights trump another.

Life always trumps convenience and preference. Abortion-on-demand has to go. We have no authority to protest against the war in Iraq taking innocent lives when we turn a blind eye to the mass genocide happening in our country. Over 43 million abortions have occurred since the practice was legalized.

If we don’t speak out against abortion, we have, in effect, just as much moral responsibility as those in Nazi Germany who refused to speak out against Hitler. Are we willing to bear 43 more million Americans’ blood on our hands?

Gritty; hardened; a diamond in the rough — Alan Fisk, towering at 6’3”, is a self-professed “dinosaur” of the journalism world. Bushy eyebrows; hints of a goatee; graying, tousled hair; and an unassuming manner of dress (he wears jeans and a dress shirt, opened at the neck most days) – marks of a seasoned journalist. His extensive resume (the list covers over thirty different publications) is impressive, including positions at the New York Times and the Detroit News. Burned out by the fast-paced demands of the journalism world, Fisk decided to retire four years ago and turned to teaching, freelancing on the side. I first met Fisk in a feature writing class at UM-Dearborn.

After the first initial classes, I was determined not to like Fisk; his distaste for tardiness, brusque mannerisms, and his pervading no-nonsense attitude rubbed me the wrong way. Even sitting informally atop a desk, legs swinging, Fisk’s presence was a force to be reckoned with: in short, he intimidated me. I was further convinced his almost lackadaisical manner of teaching had nothing to offer me.

He proved me wrong.

Fisk expects from his students their very best and is not afraid to tell it like it is. He pushes his students to better their writing and critical thinking abilities, and he does so in an unconventional way. His wisdom and vast experience in the journalism field offer what other professors cannot: real-world know-how. That expertise, however, comes with a price. Fisk’s voice is marked with weariness and suggests a cynical worldview that is revealed through classroom discussion of world events. But he’s not as grumpy as he sometimes projects, and his honesty and humility are endearing. He’s a father with an estranged, adult daughter; a man with disappointments and hopes, successes and failures; a liberal-leaning, old-school journalist — in other words, an average-Joe who possesses an above-average ability to write and teach.

Fisk’s teaching ability is amazing; perhaps it stems from the fact that he wasn’t shaped to be a “teacher.” Perhaps it’s just innate, but one isn’t aware that Fisk is teaching. In fact, it almost seems too easy, his classes. But you find yourself walking away from his classroom with your writing skills vastly improved, and you don’t know quite how he did it.

Fisk’s editing is one of his best tools; his real-life work experience and knowledge-base offers what other journalism professors cannot offer, and time flies in his classroom. You find yourself continually wishing class lasted longer.

By the middle of that first semester, Fisk’s ability to teach and his expertise demanded my respect; by the end of that semester, he had won my affection. However crusty Fisk may appear upon first meeting, one discovers that not only does he reign supreme as one of the best teachers of the written word, but he also is really a giant teddy-bear with a heart of gold.

Women can’t have it all. We’ve been sold a lie that we can effectively juggle both family and career, and our mothers bought it, hook, line and sinker. However, today’s woman knows better.

In the wake of Betty Freidan’s death on February 4, unanswered questions remain — questions highlighted by Freidan’s activism in the 1970’s that started what many call the second wave of feminism, questions about women’s role in society and what it means to be a woman, questions that every woman has to face in today’s fast-paced, post-feminist world.

Society is still reeling from the effects of the modern feminist movement propelled by Freidan’s book The Feminine Mystique. While we can thank Freidan and other activists for many of the freedoms we enjoy today as women, we should also be aware that many of Freidan’s liberating ideologies are not so liberating after-all. Presupposing the assumption that women who are homemakers, wives, and mothers are somehow not all that they can be, the underlying message has hurt a generation of children and has resulted in a generation of stressed, burned-out mothers trying to juggle family and career.

Women should have the choice to pursue a career or to stay at home with their kids; but the feminism propagated by Freidan failed to acknowledge that some women want to be stay-at-home moms. To deny the value of a woman’s choice misses the whole point of the feminist movement – to give women the freedom to choose and be proud of their choices.

Thus, in the spirit of “choice,” women find themselves today on the opposite end of the pendulum from their mothers in the 1950’s; instead of being expected to be a homemaker and raise children, women are now expected to be super-moms while simultaneously pursuing careers.

Yes, many advancements have been achieved in the name of egalitarianism – the push for equal pay, gender-neutral want ads, the ability to pursue a career, etc. – but there is still very little “choice” for a woman who chooses to have a family; she is either looked down upon by society if she chooses to forgo working outside the home or she is obligated to try to be “super-mom” while juggling a career in a working world that is not “mom-friendly.”

Today’s women are realizing the reality of which they were never forewarned — that they must either pledge their allegiance to a career or a family but that they cannot successfully do both without sacrificing their quality of life and their well-being, not to mention their family’s.

Is it possible to work fulltime and raise well-balanced, healthy children who are rooted in love? Yes. But it is very difficult, and usually, by choosing to do so, a woman sacrifices her career, for her attention is necessarily divided. Today’s woman cannot pursue the corporate ladder full tilt while being fully involved in her children’s lives. To believe she can is to buy into the lie and will only leave her unsatisfied when she realizes she is not able to give either domain her full attention.

Thus in the wake of a generation of children who grew up with both parents working, the next generation of women are realizing that the system isn’t working. Exhausted, harried, overwhelmed — women are now bucking the status quo and are, in fact, demanding true choice — the choice to pursue a career or the choice to be a mother without having to give justification for not working “outside the home.”

Freidan, in an attempt to free women, effectively tightened their chains, replacing one set with another. How did we so easily swing from one end of the spectrum to the other and miss the point of choice?

By finally realizing the lies surrounding Freidan-feminism, we, as women, can confidentially assert our right to choose – to either pursue careers or to pursue being mothers and not have to stretch ourselves thin trying to do both because society dictates that we must.

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.

[Originally published in The Michigan Journal, 9/16/03]

As an ambitious young student headed towards law school, I surprise most people with my unabashed answer to their question, “What do you want to do with your life?”

Society teaches us that our aim should be to find the ideal fit career-wise for each of us. For those of us who are idealists, we search for the careers that not only will be financially rewarding but will also, more importantly, be the most fulfilling: careers that will allow us to make a positive difference in this world.

There are so many options available to us as students at the University of Michigan; the list of careers we have to choose from is endless. Yet I believe for those of us who are women, we often overlook one of the greatest career options: motherhood.

The vehicle of motherhood offers a mode of opportunity that I would argue can leave a woman more fulfilled than any other career.

I’m not just talking about having children, for there is a great difference between having children and actually choosing to mother them. The law may view a mother as a legal custodian and caretaker of her child, but to truly mother that child involves mental, physical, and emotional effort that extends well beyond what the law requires. Thus, while a daily dinner of boxed macaroni and cheese and a steady diet of Saturday morning cartoons or video games six hours per day (especially during those first critical years of a child’s development) may not land you in court, the price your child will likely pay for your perfectly legal but morally negligent mothering will be costly.

Motherhood provides an enormous opportunity for those of us who are women to make a lasting difference in this world. We are given the gift of being able to shape a child’s life and instill in him or her a strong, lasting foundation. We are the ones who are raising the next generation. Our influence is great. Our power for good, incredible. Our task, challenging.

Too often we gloss over motherhood as a career option because as a society, motherhood is not given the place that it should be given. Mothers are taken for granted, their job is too often overlooked by a world which denotes value by a monetary scale, and what is one of the highest callings a woman can have gets short-changed.

As a result, women pursue the careers that offer them rewards that are tangible, overlooking the incredible, lasting satisfaction that motherhood has to offer them.

Ultimately, they risk missing out on what could be one of the greatest experiences. What an honor it is to have the opportunity to equip a child with the life skills to not only excel in this world but also contribute to society, and to know that it is chiefly your influence that shapes the person your child will become as an adult.

Such a realization is not only exciting, but also humbling, for it is a huge undertaking which should not be taken lightly.

Just as the best careers are challenging and require you to be sharp in order to excel, motherhood is also challenging. Some would argue it is the toughest job that exists. It is a full-time task, and the demands are high.

Mothers become superwomen out of necessity. Experts at multi-tasking and managing, they learn to wear many different hats, including nurse, playmate, chauffeur, cook, housekeeper, role model, teacher, mentor, friend, nurturer, etc. The skills one needs to raise a child successfully can compete with any of those listed on the best resumes.

Of course, having children is what we make it to be, and for those who do not have the vision of what motherhood can and should be, it may not be for them; but for those of us who see the importance of the job and are willing to take on the responsibility, we should embrace the job for what it is: an outstanding career.

-Christen Patterson

Driving through sterile suburbia, Fernando Ortega playing on the stereo, my father sitting by my side, still directing me as I drive.

A putrid pink hospital bucket in his lap; the windows rolled down, sun streaming on the window panes, the warm air blowing our hair out of place.

Silence.

We talk about everything but the thing we really want to talk about.

Death.

Staring us in the face.

Maybe if we don’t discuss it, we don’t have to face it.

But we’re driving to the chemotherapy appointment.

We sit in the waiting room; I work on economics. I try to concentrate.

Then we’re called. The nurse leads us to a private room. We’re given special treatment because my father is a doctor. A doctor who works there. A doctor who is fighting lung cancer.

I lie on a bed next to him — countless tubes hooked up to him, fluids dripping. He goes in and out of consciousness. I pass the hours writing. Listening to music. Angry music.

We take a break for lunch.

Walk down the two flights to the basement cafeteria.

We sit and have lunch. Eating gross cafeteria food.

We try to pretend that everything is going to be okay.

Dad pushes away his food. He can’t keep anything down.

He asks me to talk to him about anything on my mind; I refuse. In my stupidity, I refuse. I shut him out. And I hurt him. But it’s too painful. He doesn’t want to know about my life — not when he’s going to die. I refuse to burden him with the details.

We cry silently on the trip back. The way is too familiar. We’ve made this journey too many times before.

So weak, his daughter has to help him into the car. His hands shake. His body, decaying. His eldest daughter, now the one who has to take care of him.

The roles reversed.

They know the days are numbered. But they refuse to talk about it. Maybe if they don’t talk about the reality that is unfolding, it’ll go away.

- Christen Patterson, written June 2005