Lessons in Losing ~ Jen

It was Gabe’s first championship game. And his team lost 2-1 in overtime.

I’m a mom so I’m only going to say we might have been robbed, and I’m only going to say it to you. The ref did a horrible job of keeping time, and a full minute past when our timers said the game should have ended, the other team scored to tie the game. Then we lost in OT on a direct kick after a dodgy handball call, and had a tying goal called back on a dodgy offsides call.

Instead of the Lessons In Winning post that I wanted to write, I get to write this.

So here goes. In my career as an athlete, I lost way more than I won. I lost a championship soccer game, just a few years after I played on a team that only won one game. I watched from the bench with a cast on my ankle while my team threw away a CIF championship game in high school. I’m the one who got roofed for the final point in a 5 game match against Notre Dame to lose a tournament in college.

Shea remembers losing. Dana remembers losing, usually loudly whenever someone says “Stanford”. My brothers can remember games they lost. I think the moments we failed are imprinted on our hearts even more than the moments we succeeded. Now at age 7, Gabe has one really big hurtful loss under his belt.

I can hear the helicopter moms wailing in the blogosphere: “RIGHT! WHY WOULD ANYONE WANT TO DO THAT TO THEIR BAAAAABYYYY???!!!”

This is why: failure keeps us humble and humility is the key to a successful life as an adult. Sometimes you do your best and it isn’t enough. That’s truth. The boys learned that lesson yesterday without anyone humiliating them, which is how it often happens to kids who have been protected from failure by their parents.

Gabe cried at the end of the game and I’m glad he did. He won’t forget what that felt like, and hopefully it will feed his intrinsic drive to improve. He’ll handle life better if he learns that sometimes you climb to the top of the mountain and find out someone got there first—it doesn’t change that you climbed the mountain. Before they went to shake hands, coach grabbed his shoulder and said “Hey, we don’t show them that”. I’m glad for this too. Gabe needs to know there’s pride in leaving it all out on the field, even if you lose.

As for the refs—the kids need to learn that refs are part of the game. I thank God for the assistant coach in college who told me that and I taught my teams the same thing. Refs don’t always get it right and sometimes that feels unfair. In adult life there are people like refs, who don’t always get it right either. I want Gabe to learn that we can either get stuck on the things we can’t control and be angry and bitter, or control the things we can with confidence and faith.

Yesterday was hard for all of us. Gabe shook it off faster than we did, with the happy go lucky resilience of a 7 year old wearing a shiny medal. Shea and I got a taste of what it’s like to hug the sweaty, sobbing, disappointed loser.

I didn’t like it.

But Shea and I weren’t going to take that hurt away with empty words like “It doesn’t matter who wins” or “It was the ref’s fault”. It was a big deal to him that they lost, so we stood in that space with him and felt it too.

We can’t save him from learning what it feels like to lose—we can only deflect it for another day. Which we aren’t going to do because the lessons are far too important for later in life.

So we lose. And we hurt. And we learn.

Not in My Village ~ Jen

I really, really believe in the idea that it takes a village to raise a child. Super believe, as Dana would say. I can’t do any of it without help–not raise my kids, tend my marriage or grow my faith. I need help! All the time!

It occurred to me this weekend, as I was reading the hopefully fake story of the Mean Lady in Fargo who was going to hand out shaming letters instead of candy to roly-poly princesses and Pokemons on Halloween, that maybe we need to be more specific in what we mean by village. After all, that lady said in her letter that she was just doing her job as a member of the village.

So here it is: it takes a village, yes. But not Salem village.

In Salem, people parading as good, decent folk used the accusation of witchcraft to punish their neighbors, and make themselves look better. Classic case of deflection: If everyone’s looking at the poor drunk woman in town, no one will notice that I am greedy and mean, even though I sit in the first pew every Sunday and paid for half the church to be built. Nineteen innocent men and women were hanged.

It’s true the devil was afoot in Salem; also that they hung the wrong folks. I wonder what the Mean Lady in Fargo is trying to deflect? Anyone in my village should make me feel better and supported as a mom, not worse and like a failure.

I want Walnut Grove, where Reverend Alden was gentle with his flock and the truth always won. They had their issues there in the Grove, but the issues were always settled with everyone’s dignity intact. Even Nellie’s.

Or how about Avonlea? Anne of Green Gables seemed happy there. Or Concord, MA, where Little Women learned their life lessons. Yes, these are fictional and idyllic. But admirably fictional and idyllic.

In my village, I need god-fearing folk who will live and speak what they believe so that my kids are steeped in the love of God. I need to know that on the day I can’t read that freakin’ Dora book one more time, someone else will do it for me. And if a friendly villager knocks on my door before the 4 pm clean-up, they will judge me by the smile on my face and not the toys on the floor. Or at least believe my story about the 4 pm clean-up.

The neighbors who brought our puppy back when we left her outside? The mom who gently let me know there was more to the story than ours sons were telling us? The friend who reads the Dora book one more time? The couple who offer to watch our kids so we can have a date? Those are my Village People. We have God and we have love and we have each other.

And Mean Lady in Fargo needs to remember that. I have a whole entire village. If my kids ever get a fat letter in their trick or treat bag, we’re going to come for you and love you right out of town.

We know the devil when we see him and we’re not having that Here.

The Ghost in Our House~ Jen

My phone turned everyone on the edge of the lake into a ghost at dusk a few months ago. Weird.

Growing up, we had a ghost in the house. I’ll put that on my mom. And if my mom was writing this, she’d tell you the same.

We’d lived in the house probably ten years before we put it all together. We sat down as a family and told each other all the weird things that had happened that we thought were just weird coincidence or the creakings and squeakings of a 40 year old house. That night, I named her Dorothy.

Dorothy was the source of the knocking on my bedroom wall, the reason that the dog sat up and begged from no one. She whispered in everyone’s ear, waking us up in the dark of night. Up to that point, none of it was scary. Just weird.

But that dinner was like her coming out party. Once we acknowledged her presence, she got busy.

One night Teresa was playing with my mom’s music box, a masquerade clown that played “Music of the Night” from Phantom. As if that in itself was not creepy enough, two hours after she left, I was watching TV by myself when I heard the box play about six slow notes in the dining room. It did that sometimes, like it hadn’t quite wound all the way down.

Thirty seconds later though, that thing started playing loud and fast like someone had wound it all the way up.

I screamed for my brother, who yelled back “I’m not coming out there!” My mom came running up the hallway and grabbed the box, which had indeed been wound all the way up.

Dorothy.

My dad hired a painter to paint the family room. After six hours they wanted out. The paint fell over, the brushes moved from where they had been left, the TV switched on and off. “You got a ghost, boss” the painter told my dad.

Dorothy.

At Christmas, the stockings my mom made when we were all babies, that hung on the mantle every year, and were packed away in the same place, were gone. My mom turned the house upside down. Nothing.

When we dragged the decorations out for the next Christmas, there they were, right on top.

Dorothy.

I lost a pair of jean shorts, my favorites. I looked for them everywhere, even in my brothers’ drawers. Then I forgot about them. One day in the middle of winter, I pulled a load of whites out of the dryer and mixed up among them—my blue jean shorts.

Dorothy.

My brother used to surf early in the morning. The kid never remembered his house key. He’d tap on my bedroom window so I could get up and let him in the back door. One Saturday morning, he called my name and tapped, and I got up and opened the back door. Which set off the house alarm. Which brought everyone running, including my brother who’d been asleep in his bed.

Dorothy.

It got to be a thing. My mom, standing over the tv, turning it off only to have it turn right back on. “Dorothy, cut it out!” she yelled finally, and that time the tv stayed off.

One night I was doing the dishes. It was just my brother and me in the house. He came into the kitchen to get a drink, but then he bolted for the back door and locked it. “I just saw someone outside!” he said.

“Blond hair?” I asked him.

“Yes!”

“I’ve seen that. I think it’s Dorothy” I told him.

And then this night. I was doing the dishes. It was dark. The rest of the family was watching tv in the other room. I looked up from the sink, into the window, which was like a giant mirror, reflecting the room behind me. And I saw a woman with blond hair, in a long black dress, walk into the room towards me. I froze, and watched as she turned and walked out.

When I ran out into the family room to tell my parents, my brother said “I thought I saw someone walk into the dining room just a second ago”.

Dorothy.

The mystery was solved one afternoon at my grandparent’s home. I was telling Dorothy stories and my grandmother, a few Canadian Clubs into the afternoon, said “We had a ghost here too. Bessie.” She then launched into a list of Bessie stories that sounded a lot like Dorothy. My grandmother thought she haunted a painting they used to have.

“Is she gone?” my dad asked.

“Oh sure, since we got rid of the painting” my grandmother said.

“Where did it go?” he asked.

“We gave it to you years ago! The one in the living room.”

And I knew exactly the painting she was talking about. A delicate, Romantic style portrait of a young girl, her face glowing against the background, even in the dark.

The girl in the painting was not a blond. And she was not dressed the way that Dorothy was dressed the night I saw her. But since the day my dad took that painting off the wall and sent it to Goodwill, there has never been another Dorothy incident in the house.

I know. Spooooooky.

Happy Halloween!

And Time Goes On ~ Dana

So Saturday is my birthday. And I don’t feel like having it. In fact, sitting here thinking about it, I’ve got a slightly sick feeling in my stomach. I just might vomit.

This will be the first year that I “celebrate” my birthday without my dad. How do I celebrate a year like this?

I have steered away from writing too many “my dad is gone” posts, because first of all, I don’t want to be “death lady,” and second of all, in general, I think I’m doing pretty well. I mean, I’ve cried every day since he died. That’s 141 days in a row. And I’m sure there were a few strung together before that, too. But life has continued on, and I’m fall-down grateful for it. My kids are getting bigger, and more beautiful, inside and out, by the minute. We have a beautiful home. My sweet mother, husband, cousin, brother, sister-in-law, niece, nephew, in-laws, and countless friends are standing bravely by my side, facing this with me. I’ve decorated my house for fall. I smile. I laugh.

And yet, this week, I am struggling. My birthday and then his, 13 days later. The last time we went out to dinner together was to celebrate our birthdays. And Halloween night last year was the first time that he was hospitalized… the time that we have come to call “The Beginning of the End.”

This month it will be five months that he has been gone. It doesn’t seem possible. Five months is a long time to dread every Saturday, the day that he died. Or to remember every Thursday that it was on a Thursday that he last told me that he loved me.

It’s the cruelest trick of nature that time moves on, because I don’t want to live one more day without my father. Not it a suicidal way, but in an I’m-all-done-with-this-little-game way. And that phrase “time heals all wounds” feels like complete crap. You see, with the passage of time, the gap only widens. He hasn’t hugged me in a long time. I haven’t heard his laugh. There have been no emails from him in my inbox, or hand-written notes on wolf stationery in the mail.

With the changing of the seasons I’ve had to clean out my girls’ closets. When I started, I realized that I hadn’t packed away their things from last winter yet. And as I took each sweater off the hanger, I remembered that my dad saw them wearing these little clothes: the hat that kept Mazie warm in the hospital waiting room, the dress Violet wore when he held her in the kitchen, the outfits they wore on the day of his funeral. How can I give these clothes away? Is there still a piece of him hanging on to them?

In those last days, I begged God to show Dad mercy and I am so grateful that God did. But there is a selfish part of me that just wants him back. And I know that he is with God, but doesn’t God have enough people up there in heaven? Can’t He just send my daddy back? My irrational brain argues, “Well, I know he would want to come back, and we all want him to come back, so I don’t see what the problem is.” Things just don’t work that way.

I’m realizing is that this is what grief looks like. When I was facing this loss, I knew that it would be hard. Then it got here and it’s so much worse than I ever imagined. In those first days after Dad’s death, many well-intentioned people told me things that they thought would make me feel better: “He’s in a better place. His suffering has ended. This will get easier.” But the problem with those sentiments is that they just don’t make me feel better. And truthfully, I don’t want to feel better. We live in a world where we are expected to just suck up what life gives us and go on about our business with a stiff upper lip, or to just look at the positive side of things and ignore difficult, painful emotions. And I’m mad at that. Even my therapist told me, “Six months. Things will be better in six months.” And my first thought was, “Clearly you’ve never suffered a loss.” I just want to sit in these emotions for a while. I know that I must travel through this darkness so that I can once again see the light.

So I cry when I need to, even in front of my kids. I don’t hide these emotions from them. And my sweet 2½-year-old comes and gives me a hug and says, “You’re sad for Zha-Zha?” Yes. “I miss him, too.” Yes. And sometimes she’ll say, “Gosh darn it.” Yes, Mazie, gosh darn it. He is supposed to be here.

That’s where I am now. I am learning to navigate this birthday week and this life without him. And it’s hard. But I am hunkering down with my family, surrounding myself with my friends. And they are faithful, sharing my pain and loving me up. They are baking me apple pies and cooking up pot roast. They are meeting us at Disneyland. They are lifting me up in prayer and holding my hand, just as good family and friends are supposed to. And thank God for them.

Aloha! ~ Jen

The first time I went to Hawaii, I was 17 years old and it was a volleyball trip for my high school team. We spent a week in Honolulu before school started, playing in a tournament with teams from around the islands and the nation. I was hooked.

Five years later, after my first year of teaching, I went back. This time to Maui, where I felt an immediate soul connection. Maui was magic. I made the trip about every two years after that, with some of my best girlfriends. I couldn’t get enough of Maui.

Ten years later that all made sense when I met Shea. He grew up on Maui, in an honest-to-goodness sugar shack in the middle of a plantation. Our first trip together, he showed me kama’aina Maui, places tourists rarely go. And I showed him haole Maui on the Ka’anapali side.

Hawaii is important to us. The lifestyle and culture are an intrinsic part of who Shea is, and he wants to share it with our kids, who are natural water babies and fish eaters. They revel in the feeling of warm sun on their shoulders, so they take to Hawaii like they were born to it. Which, in a way, they were.

We just got back from a week in Kauai with my parents, where we snorkeled, body boarded, jumped waves, zip lined and ate fresh mango, coconut and fish. The Hawaiian people are enormously generous and kind, but even more so once they find out Shea is kama’aina. For Hawaiians, this makes us ohana.

Speaking of ohana (which means “family”), look at this sign we saw while shopping one day:

This was hanging outside a local souvenir shop in Koloa

Wow, right? I just wrote about keeping the Sabbath and here was this sign, like a…well…sign. See how it doesn’t say CLOSED? CLOSED is a brusque, unfriendly word that conveys a feeling of nothing.

OHANA DAY is a whole other feeling. It says “We’re with our families. You go be with your families. It’s all good and love. We’ll see you here tomorrow.” Most of the non-super touristy places were closed on Sunday. And the parks and beaches were packed. How’s that for some Sabbath?

We had two highlight adventures. The first was suggested by a local guide on a snorkeling trip. “Salt Pond Beach is the best place to watch the sun go down” she said. “Build a fire, cook dinner, sit back and enjoy the view.”

So we did. We gathered driftwood, which the Eagle Scout (my dad) turned into a perfect beach fire. We swam in the dusk, roasted hot dogs and watched the sun set. Amazing.

Salt Pond Park, Bonfire dinner at sunset — Salt Pond Beach, bonfire dinner at sunset

Then on our last night, we went to Po’ipu Beach to watch the sunset. There’s this cool little cove that’s a natural kiddie pool—protected by rocks, only 18 inches deep. After dinner, Gabriel was out hunting crabs in the rocks with a bunch of boys when they started screaming.

You know I thought “Shark!” before my brain processed that they weren’t running away, but towards whatever it was. Then I heard TURTLE!

And sure enough, three huge honu had risen off the rocks right where the boys were playing. Scared the bejeezus out of them, since the smallest turtle was at least 4 feet long.

Hawaiian Honu, green sea turtle.This one was at least five feet long and two feet away from me!

Hawaiian honu are special. For native Hawaiians, they represent longevity, peace, humility and the spirit within us all. I feel that when I see them. They seem divine in some way, like they know God. There’s also a legend that the first honu, Kauila, could change herself into a little girl, and that she watched over small children playing on the beach.

I love the honu. I have three tattooed on my ankle to represent my babies. It was a special gift to see them that close on our last night.

My mom and dad, still loving life and each other after 45 years!

Waimea Canyon, smack in the middle of Kauai.

I really can’t say enough about Hawaii. I know that it seems a world away and very expensive, but for us, it is no different than traveling to Mexico or Portugal or Croatia to take the kids back to the motherland. And it might not be as expensive as you think. Check it out!

Aloha!

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