Oh Happy Day!

by Joanie Butman

I have passed the point of no return. Actually, I’m thinking of starting a movement to officially shorten summer by two weeks. Every year at about the same time, I hit a brick wall and start thinking, “They’ve got to go.” This isn’t a recent phenomenon. I felt the same when they were younger and could never figure out who those people were at the bus stop crying as they sent their offspring back to school. For a nanosecond I’d think, “What’s wrong with me? What am I doing wrong?” Just as quickly I’d answer, “Nothing! It’s them.”

I know what you’re thinking, “Your kids might read this someday.” Fat chance, but even if they do I say, “Good. Maybe it will give them the freedom when they’re parents to admit that too much togetherness is not always a good thing AND there is nothing wrong admitting that every moment with your children isn’t blissful.” Let’s face it, life’s not an episode of Leave it to Beaver, and I’m no June Cleaver. I’m sure they’re just as anxious to get away from me and back to their peers – who are a lot less demanding and way more fun.

Did you ever wonder why Jesus’ ministry didn’t officially start until he was 33? Divine timing? Perhaps, or maybe Mary finally suggested it was time to go. Come to think of it, wasn’t His first miracle in response to her prompting? Just saying…

This was my first summer of having a college-age child return to the nest, which added an entire new dimension to the summer. We had some awesome times and I thoroughly enjoyed spending time together, but the bloom is definitely off the rose. Parenting a quasi-adult who wants to enjoy the freedoms of adulthood without the responsibilities that come along with it is no easy feat. No, you can’t treat this house like an extension of your dorm nor can you waltz in at crazy hours and decide to take a shower in the middle of the night waking everyone up, then be surprised when we’re all irritated the next day when you arise at lunchtime. There are a couple of realities some kids just don’t seem to grasp. Number one: towels can be used more than once. Number two: there isn’t a janitor coming by to clean the bathroom, clean up the remains of your last meal, your empty coffee cups, soda cans and water bottles. Number three: “But I WORK!” isn’t a viable excuse for avoiding the most basic of household chores. So do most people. Get use to it.

My 17-year-old son who will be a senior this year had a grueling summer completing his college applications. It could have been finished in a few weeks if he hadn’t needed to take a break after each sentence he wrote for either a nap, a snack, a video game or some exercise. It was slow going. One day he informed us he decided not to apply to what had previously been one of his top choices. Curious, we asked why. Apparently, he was working on the application when he came across this question: “Talk about a book you can envision yourself discussing over coffee with your roommate.” Doug explained, “If there are people who do that there, I don’t think it’s the right place for me.” My husband and I exchanged knowing glances realizing this was going to be a little different process than with his sister who had color-coded files for each college by this point and every essay done with a few extras as backup. Doug was also under the mistaken assumption that any day he worked excused him from all other responsibilities, despite the fact that his shifts never exceeded 3 – 4 hours and were intermittent at best.

My husband and I are looking forward to reclaiming our house, which looks like a cross between a storage facility and a locker room. It’s amazing how much gear comes out of one miniscule dorm room. Given the volume of ‘stuff’ littering our abode, I have to wonder exactly what we were paying to store in Virginia.

We have a long way to go before our children can claim independence in its truest form – meaning off the payroll completely. Even though my niece and nephew are older, this summer I watched with amusement as my sister-in-law and they negotiated the terms of their iTunes divorce. I think they’ll need a mediator to resolve a number of custody issues of shared songs.

So what’s the solution to my parenting malaise other than my idea to shorten summer, which has already been instituted by the way? Well, my husband and I could choose to move into one of those over 55 communities. Now I know why they became so popular just as the baby boomers became young adults. Our parents were seeking refuge. Relocating isn’t really an option at this point, so I decided to get a job next summer, which according to their logic will preclude me from cooking, cleaning AND will keep me away from the mess. Out of sight, out of mind. The thing is, messy rooms don’t bother me as long as they keep the door closed. It’s when the sprawl takes over our common areas that it causes a problem. My husband, whose most valuable possession is his Swiffer, has had a harder time tolerating the mess than me. I feel like a delivery room coach. “Take deep breaths, it’s almost over” was the only encouragement I could offer.

Make no mistake; we love our kids – just not their baggage or their garbage. I am leaving today to drive my daughter back to school and set off with a song in my heart. “Oh happy day……”

On a more serious note, teenagers may be messy, but so is life. As we age we just learn to hide ours better—keeping our doors closed in a sense. I’m not much different than my kids littering the world with my ‘stuff.’ I have to believe that God must feel much the same about me. Yes, He loves me – just not my baggage or my garbage. Fortunately, He always welcomes me home despite the trash I repeatedly create. Why? The same reason we welcome our own kids home—because I’m His child. Even with that said, He can’t coexist with messes either which is exactly why He sent his Son to assume the role of ‘servant.’ Christ willingly sacrificed His own life to clean up humanity’s mess – including my contributions. And He did it without expecting anything in return. His sacrifice is free for all. That is a truth which puts the same song in my heart. “Oh happy day……”

If I had more time, I would have made a lip-synched version with like-minded moms performing, but this was best I could find at short notice. Enjoy!

Legacies of Love

by Joanie Butman

When I was young, I was uncomfortable with old people. They smelled funny, were scary and boring, or so I thought. The closer I get to becoming one, the less intimidating and more fascinating I find them – as well as entertaining. Their age affords them a liberty to speak more frankly than the rest of us without consequence. Even so, getting a free pass to say whatever is on your mind seems to be a minor compensation for the loss of so much else – including your memory.

Last week’s blog about our family vacations got me thinking about my grandparents with gratitude and admiration. I regret not choosing to learn more about them while they were alive. From the view of a self-absorbed youngster, it just didn’t occur to me to inquire about their lives or that they even had one, other than simply being nana and papa or grandma and grandpa. The idea of them being individuals with hopes and dreams that might have involved more than tending to their children and grandchildren never crossed my mind. Sadly, much of their stories died along with them as even my parents don’t remember many of the details. That generation didn’t do small talk. They were too busy working to make ends meet and probably too exhausted at the end of the day to engage in idle chatter.

My parents couldn’t explain the lack of dialogue other than to say ‘We just didn’t talk about those kinds of things.’ Neither did we, come to think of it. It’s only as an adult that I’ve learned about my own parents – probably because my dad always liked to edit history a bit so you never really knew where the truth lay. He used to tell my younger sisters he was a famous opera singer but he gave it up for my mother. Of course, when they volunteered him to come sing for the class, he had to admit the truth. He also told us he was captured and tortured by the Japanese during WWII, which was why he had one leg shorter than the other. Little did we know he never saw active duty nor did he ever leave the East Coast, but it was much more interesting than a genetic quirk. Yes, we all knew my dad’s funny stories, but they did nothing to reveal the ones he held close to his heart.  What I learned since I started writing is that if you choose to ask the right questions, most elderly people are happy to share stories about their life. The trick is asking them while they can still remember them.

For example, the story of my grandfather’s immigration to the U.S. has always been a little sketchy when it came to the details. As best I can surmise, his father disappeared under suspicious circumstances, and his mother made arrangements with the captain of a cargo ship to smuggle my grandfather from Italy to America. The first version had him as a stow-away and jumping off in NY harbor. I believed this well into adulthood until I learned he couldn’t swim – minor detail. Regardless, whether he swam or walked, the truth is my grandfather arrived in NY alone at the age of 12 without knowing how to speak English. He was taken in by a cousin and became a fruit and vegetable vendor at the Hunt’s Point Market in New York rising everyday at 4 AM to load and unload produce. In fact, he taught himself English by reading the crates he moved. He remained in that business for his entire life. When he saved enough money, he sent his mother the fare so that she and his brother could join him. He and my grandmother had an arranged marriage. I don’t remember much about her as she died when I was young. The only story I recall is one my mom shared. My grandmother was explaining that I was Italian to which I replied, “I’m not Italian, I’M CATHOLIC!” Even at a young age, the nuns had already worked their magic on me. Despite my grandfather’s lack of education and modest salary, he raised his four children and offered them opportunities he never enjoyed – like an education.

My grandparents on my mother’s side immigrated from New Foundland with their two oldest children and barely an elementary school education between them. My grandfather built his own boat at 12 and started fishing as was expected. By the time he was a young father, he realized that fishing wouldn’t support his growing family and chose to seek opportunities elsewhere. He brought his family to Brooklyn and became a carpenter. My grandmother cleaned houses for $1 a day to supplement his income. Oddly, given my opening statement, the strongest memory of my grandfather was the comforting sawdust scent of his flannel work shirt. To this day, the smell of fresh cut wood brings his image to mind. My grandmother, though tenderhearted, had a more imposing presence starting with her considerable girth. I remember my brother getting his head caught in a wrought iron fence and while everyone else panicked, she walked up and effortlessly pried the stiles apart to release him. She was a force of nature with an iron will for sure. No wonder the women in our family are so strong-minded.

As I sit in my comfy rocker overlooking the ocean, I feel guilty for my cushy life and wonder how I got so lucky when so many in this world have not. I certainly don’t deserve it so am overcome with gratitude and admiration for my grandparents’ courage, determination and for the many sacrifices made so many years ago—sacrifices that brought each subsequent generation a much improved lifestyle, a plethora of opportunities and the gift of choice, something in limited supply for them.

The idea of choosing to do something you love to earn a living wasn’t a luxury my grandparents enjoyed. They did whatever they could to survive and provide for their family. They faced each day with hard work and no expectations from life. Even though they may not have been viewed as ‘successful’ by worldly standards, their success was measured by the life of opportunity they created for their families. What their children and grandchildren chose to do with those opportunities was now up to them.

Truth be told, I’ve been blessed with lots of things in this life I don’t deserve: my freedom, my husband, my children, my large extended family, my health, my home, my seat here by the ocean, but most of all my salvation. I don’t deserve what Christ did on my behalf and too often neglect to express my gratitude and appreciation not only in words, but in the manner in which I choose to live my life. Even though I often fail miserably to honor that sacrifice, I choose to continue to ask questions and seek answers about His story because even more than my earthly family, it defines WHO I am, WHERE I came from and WHERE  I’m going. Yes, I am thankful for the opportunities my grandparents provided but even more so, I am grateful for the privilege to be part of an ongoing legacy of love that Christ created through His sacrifice. How can I not choose to honor that legacy in the way I live my life?

My grandparents’ choices are a reflection of their character. They had no idea what their children and grandchildren would do with the opportunities they presented. The same can be said about Christ. He didn’t make the sacrifice because I deserved it. He did it because of who He is, not because of who I am. Neither one had control over what I would do with the gift, but both offered it lovingly and unconditionally. And that’s a story worth telling over and over and over…..

Goofie Newfies

by Joanie Butman

We just enjoyed one of our extended family weekends during which my parents and siblings shared memories of our childhood family vacations at our grandparents’ home on Long Island.  This was not the Hamptons-area of Long Island. In fact, the only thing Mastic and the Hamptons have in common is that they both exist on the same planet. It may not have been fancy, but I thought we were rich because my grandparents had a ‘country house.’ It was where we learned to swim, make fires in a 50-gallon drum in the backyard, play bingo, cards, eat pistachio ice cream and listen wide-eyed to my grandmother’s hair-raising ghost stories. It was also where we picked up a touch of arachnophobia by camping out in the backyard with a large community of Daddy Longlegs. Sleeping in the tent was billed as an adventure, but my guess is they just ran out of space and needed the beds.

Built by my grandfather, their 1100 sq. ft house was an oddity. There was one bathroom, but no hot water or even a shower until he and my uncle decided to erect one in a shed in the backyard that began life as a bomb shelter, which wouldn’t have saved anyone from a firecracker. We only had a certain number of flushes per day because the homemade septic system that my brother and cousin dug had a limited capacity. The second floor was entirely constructed of old doors rescued from the dump. Everywhere you looked were doors at every conceivable angle. No wonder we never knew whether we were coming or going. I don’t remember the musty odors others describe, just the mouth-watering aroma of my grandmother’s cooking – especially her pies after we went berry picking.

The most extraordinary feature about the house is how many people it could accommodate. ‘The more, the merrier’ is a mindset we never outgrew. To this day at our family gatherings, no matter how much space is available, we all cram into the same small room. The ability to fit large numbers of people into close quarters also held true for the car. By today’s standards we violated every safety precaution known to man. My uncle use to let my cousin sit on his lap and steer while he was doing 90 down the highway! Once, I remember pulling up to the movie theater for the opening of Sound of Music in my dad’s two-door Cadillac and people staring in amazement at the seemingly endless stream of people coming out of our small car! I think the maximum occupancy signs you see so often today were designed specifically for people like us.

We were all laughing out loud as dormant memories sprung back to life. The consensus was that these were the best of times – at leastfor the kids. My mom had a glazed look on her face by this time and when we asked what her favorite memory was, she replied without a moment’s hesitation, “Leaving.” As an adult and host to many of our family gatherings, I can now empathize with how exhausting it must have been, and I applaud her endurance in choosing to do it repeatedly despite the inconveniences, discomfort, and hard work along with my grandmother who housed and fed us all with untiring diligence, creativity and love.

My father, on the other hand, has the gift of selective memory and, at that time, the ability to return to the office come Monday – as handy a survival tool in our family as his singing and clowning. I think his main purpose in Mastic was to keep my mom from having a nervous breakdown. He accomplished this by frequently piling us in the car and taking us to the local playhouse, for long rides to mysterious destinations or day trips to Montauk. I remember him taking us with him to buy lobsters once, which seemed harmless enough until the live lobsters got loose in the car. What a scene!

He created a bus song that we still sing and have passed on to our children. I even taught it to the 90+ Ghanaian children I brought to the beach on a trip to Africa. They are the only ones I ever met who far surpass our family in how many people you can fit in a vehicle. Regarding my father’s antics my cousin commented, “Maybe your dad’s bus routine wasn’t trying to entertain us so much as fighting his impulse to drive us all into a ditch, thereby averting a greater disaster.”

As I listened to the stories and reviewed recent emails from my cousins, visions of The Beverly Hillbillies, Swamp People and Honey Boo Boo came to mind. My mother’s parents were immigrants from Newfoundland and aptly referred to our motley crew as Goofie Newfies so I suppose that would be the name of our reality show. And what a show we could make. As an introduction, perhaps the opening episode could be about our ‘trips’ to the lake. Prior to the installation of the bomb-shelter shower, the adults would take us to a nearby lake to bathe. I can’t imagine what people must have thought as the swarm of us unloaded and were each handed a scrap of soap (homemade of course) and a towel. In order to protect the innocent (and the not-so-innocent), I can't share many of the memories as you might conclude we were white trash, which couldn't be farther from the truth. A little outrageous perhaps; but for the most part just your average crazy family.

Continuing the tradition of family vacations is the way I choose to honor my parents’ decision to return again and again to that tiny, steamy, overcrowded house to provide us with wonderful childhood memories and more than a few nightmares thanks to my grandmother. We may enjoy more room and modern conveniences, but we still have plumbing issues when everyone is in residence. We’ve had our mishaps and adventures, but it is my hope (or maybe delusion) that perhaps my own children will remember our family weekends with the same fondness. The location and conditions may have changed, but the loving atmosphere when we are all together remains the same. It’s not where you are but who you’re with that counts. We all have our quirks as did the original cast of Goofy Newfies, but our willingness to choose to embrace each other, warts and all, is what makes our gatherings not only possible but enjoyable.

Even though my mother didn’t necessarily share our fondness for those days, she made an important observation: “I think if nothing else we learned it doesn’t take much to make good memories – just lots of love.” So you see, my original belief that we were rich was true – maybe not in Hamptons-style, but certainly in all the ways that matter most. My grandparents didn't have more than five years of formal education combined, but our time with them taught us something you can't learn in a classroom - the value of family. For that I will be eternally grateful.

Despite the fact that our most vivid memories varied widely whether it was the smells, the spiders, the zany antics, or just the general state of chaos, we all remembered being surrounded by people who loved us unconditionally which is my parents' and grandparents' legacy to us. In her novel What Happened to Goodbye, Sarah Dessen gives the best description of home I’ve ever heard and a reality that the Goofie Newfies (as well as the Italian side of our family) chose to embrace a long time ago:

“Home wasn't a set house, or a single town on a map.

It was wherever the people who loved you were, whenever you were together.

Not a place, but a moment, and then another,

building on each other like bricks to create a solid shelter

that you take with you for your entire life, wherever you may go.”

And so it is with faith. It gets built slowly, one brick at a time with Christ being the mortar that binds us together. However, the choice is alway ours as to whether we want to join His family or not.

Measuring Up

by Joanie Butman

Judging from the number of emails I received in response to last week’s article, I think I may have struck a nerve. Could it be we all share an innate desire:

• to make a difference in this world
• to leave knowing that in some small way we have contributed to making the world a better place
• to know that our life has value and significance

The problem arises only when we choose to compare our own contributions with others regardless of which side of the equation you find yourself. Everyone has a purpose. Who are we to assign more or less value to one over another? Life is a cooperative effort requiring only that we all do our part with love.

Maybe it’s because of the question posed to me last week or because I am watching my son go through the painful process of applying to college, but recognizing and expressing our own self-worth doesn’t always come easily. Why do some of us have an unhealthy predilection towards self-deprecation rather than self-appreciation?

Personally, I suspect at some point in my youth, I bought into the lie that self-love equated to conceit. It can be, I suppose, if you are glorifying your achievements without honoring the One who made them possible. But acknowledging God as the source of your gifts, talents and accomplishments allows you to glorify Him rather than yourself. Furthermore, I am learning that choosing to recognize and appreciate the gifts and talents we’ve been given is necessary for discovering and determining how and where we choose to utilize them.

If we don’t choose to value ourselves, why would anyone else? And by devaluing ourselves, aren’t we expressing discontent with what we’ve been given or that those who love us don’t have good judgment or taste? As my friend said when discussing this topic, “I’ve always felt that my best resume is my long list of amazing friends. I truly know that they adore me and since I know their intelligence, amazing attributes, etc. I feel totally honored that they like me and want me to add to their already full lives.”

There is no denying we live in a performance-driven society where our culture tempts us to let our accomplishments determine our identity and self-worth. It seems as if no one does anything for fun anymore. Our children’s lives have become one long resume-building process. They are evaluated on everything they do since birth, so how could they not judge themselves in comparison to others.

The following email from a friend illustrates this phenomenon perfectly. “Value, growing up, came from A’s, degrees, sports, serving, looking skinny, being cute, etc. (it’s embarrassing to even write it). But it’s only through Christ that I can know my value. I was so glad you wrote about BEING a child of God because I think that fact (over any other detail, accomplishment or even service) in our life is the truest source of our value. Because if it isn’t, then we can come up short in our efforts to serve others, and we’ll always come up short in our effort to earn His love through works. I've always clung to the fact that God couldn't love me any more or any less based on my actions, attitudes or whatever (thank goodness). Because His love is complete...and THAT's where my value lies...completely.”

It took me years to grasp the wisdom and freedom of her last statement. So much time and effort wasted in pursuit of something I had all along. The interesting thing is once I embraced that reality, I discovered gifts and talents I never knew I had. They just came bubbling to the surface as if He had uncorked a bottle of champagne, and I was intoxicated with joy and possibility.

Regardless of circumstances and abilities, everyone can choose to participate in the same kind of coming out party. Louis Savary suggests starting each day with the following prayer. I can’t think of a wiser choice.

Fundamental Choice Prayer

Dear God,

I choose to live this day

as an instrument of your love and work in the world.

I choose to commit myself to your divine project,

whose goal is to bring all human persons together

into one great loving union.

Therefore,

I choose to live this day as healthily as I can

in body, mind and spirit.

I choose to live this day true to myself.

I choose to live this day taking responsibility

for making my contribution to the world.

Amen.

Postscript to last week's blog:

At the same time I was writing last week’s blog, my friend and her mother were celebrating a combined birthday this past weekend. She was turning 40 and her mother 70. I love the plaque they received highlighting their accomplishments. These are two gifted women in their own right, but worldly achievements are not what their family chose to emphasize. It reads:

Given in recognition of outstanding achievements

and other exceptionally meritorious stuff

during the past 110 combined years.

Your commitment to excellence and the tireless pursuit  of virtuosity,

as exemplified by distinctive and awesome feats in the esteemed domains of:

skiing, appreciation of fine potables and comestibles, efficiency, partying,

keeping up with family, laughing and silliness in general,

is in keeping with our very finest traditions.

Your dedication to living life to the fullest is exemplary.

Therefore we, your family,

hereby bestow this plaque onto you

on this day of July 27, 2013

on the occasion of your 110th birthday

in honor of these,your accomplishments.

I think their sentiments sums it all up beautifully, and I thank her for allowing me to share it with you.

Say What?

by Joanie Butman

I was blindsided this week by the most direct question I’ve ever been asked. It came from a man I love dearly, who has never had a filter so I shouldn’t have been surprised. Even so, this was the pièce de résistance of years of the most unconventional comments and bizarre questions that defy description and all acceptable social standards. He was remarking on the intelligence and accomplishments of a number of my siblings when he innocently asked, “What have you ever done other than get married?” You’d think I’d be stunned into silence but after decades of practice, I was able to make a joke saying that my choice of spouse was probably the smartest decision I ever made. I took my leave shortly thereafter, and I’m sure my companion never gave our brief conversation a second thought.

I, on the other hand, haven’t been able to stop thinking about his inquiry. Not necessarily in the negative way it might have affected me twenty years ago; it just started me wondering. His query prompted me to examine my life carefully and think about how I would choose to seriously answer that question. It was an extension of an exercise I’ve been working on with my friend who challenged me to come up with one thing each day that I like about myself. It’s harder than you think because most of us only focus on the things we want to change about ourselves.

A four-hour car ride the following day provided an excellent opportunity to conduct an honest evaluation of my life. True to form, my innate reaction was to start listing all the mistakes I made and all the things I didn’t get right. That roster was longer than Santa’s naughty and nice list and brought me half way home. However, his question wasn’t about my failures. I was going to have to switch my train of thought. What exactly have I accomplished? After much consideration and soul searching, the following is my honest answer, which I intend to share with him.

Not always, but hopefully more often than not, I’ve been a good daughter, daughter-in-law, sister, sister-in-law, cousin, aunt, friend, mentor, wife and mother.

So, a more thoughtful answer to his question is I’ve:

raised two wonderful children

created a loving home

fed the hungry

comforted the hurting

cared for the needy

been a friend to the friendless

offered hope to the hopeless

visited the sick & elderly

held the hands of the dying

mothered the motherless

suffered and survived to discover its blessing

laughed

cried

laughed till I cried

enjoyed the satisfaction of a hard day’s work

loved

lost

learned to love again

been a good neighbor to friends and strangers alike

I HAVE LOVED AND BEEN LOVED, which is the highest calling anyone can hope to answer in this world regardless of their occupation.

My value isn’t determined by what I do but how I do it, not by how I feel but how I make others feel. It isn’t about what I do but who I am. I am a child of God, and that is enough in any capacity. All He asks is that I choose to do what I can, where I can, whenever I can – not with perfection but with love.

A note to mothers of all ages:

Much of my list falls under the guise of being a mom. I’d guess that you accomplish a similar one in the course of a normal day. And for many, it is in addition to whatever job they hold outside the home. Don’t ever underestimate the value of your role. It is your example of selflessness, love and compassion that will prepare your children to share what they’ve enjoyed with others. You are their window to the world. After all, home is where most of us first learn how to love and be loved.

Your children may not always do what you say, but eventually they will do what you do. In the words of Glennon Doyle Melton, “Carry on, warrior!” (Ms. Melton is the creator of Momastery.com and author of Carry On, Warrior.)

If you have a few minutes, take a look at the video below. It will make you think about how you would choose to answer the same question. I picked it out for my funeral four years ago. Yes, I planned my own funeral, and I know you're thinking, "How creepy!" However, given the circumstances at the time, it's not as weird as you might think. But that's another story for another day. All I can say is that some people are called to greatness, but for most of us it's the little ordinary things that add up to a great life.