Much to share about this day. But first, I must take a moment and remember Emily.

Emily Davis was a student at my school, who was diagnosed with Ewings Sarcoma in February 2002. In the two years that she battled her cancer, she remained selfless and optimistic, immersed in her artwork and in working with others. She died six years ago today. She was 15.

I had the distinct honor to teach Emily’s brother and sister, and it is through them and their parents that I have been touched by Emily’s kindness, love, and sensitivity toward others. Emi will continue to inspire me to do my very best as an educator and as a human being, always remembering how precious life is, and how we must always treasure the moments we have with each other.

I lost my own mother to cancer almost exactly two years to the day when she was diagnosed, and many of you well know that my sister continues her brave battle. The courage and bravery that I have seen from Emily, my mother, and Cindy, as well as from a recent grad and good friend, Amanda, remind me every day that the celebration of our lives is in our hands every moment of every waking hour. We must believe in this moment, in all its beauty, and live it like no other.

Emily, we will never forget you. May we all remember your charitable love and kindness, and may we always share that willingly so that others may be touched by your good will as well.

I also wanted to take a moment to remember a friend and colleague of mine who passed away two weeks ago while shoveling snow.

Dave Barnett (photo by Brian Rizzi), a selfless man who loved his photography and jazz with a passion, left us suddenly and too soon. I include below the tribute that I wrote in his memory. It will be published Monday in the school’s memorial edition of the paper, remembering him and celebrating his life.

A Man Supreme

Part I: Acknowledgment

When the phone rang and brought me news of your death, I could not brace myself enough for the shock I felt, the disbelief that you, Dave, my friend, had died. We came to Centennial together in 2003, ready to take on the challenges we were offered, ready to provide assistance and solution wherever possible. Over the years, our professional discussions turned to other things that mattered just as deeply to us: politics, current events, and, of course, music and photography.

So many discussions, left in the air unfinished. I keep waiting for the exhale, the next thought, the next conversation. But all I am left with is silence.

Part II: Resolution

Our last conversations were, of course, about music and photography. Somehow, our meetings about technology always went in that direction. And sometimes, we skipped over the whole mess regarding the troublesome computers altogether and went straight to the latest photo shoot or the jazz CD we happened to pick up in some obscure, used music store.

Just before winter break, when the first big snow storm gave us an extra few days before the holidays, Dave stopped by my room to talk about his music, and how he was having trouble selecting his favorite jazz CDs among the thousands he owned (Coltrane’s A Love Supreme, along with Miles Davis’ A Kind of Blue, ranks high with me). As he was going through the selection process, each CD he picked up was filled with memories, he said; each provided a short story to his life. The process seemed as celebrating as it did melancholic to him, and I wondered why he was doing this.

He did the same thing with his photography. After a lengthy discussion one morning about his own photo work, he came back to my room with a collection of his note cards he had printed years ago (some of those images are printed on page 1). He asked which was my favorite, and when I selected one, he offered it to me as a gift.

Part III: Pursuance

Perhaps it was always our intention to meet about the latest glitches to crash my computers or cripple my printer, but both of us welcomed the excuse to talk about music and photography along the way. Maybe that’s the ultimate lesson I take from my friendship with him: in the end, it’s about the relationships we make with others that truly matter. I remember that last time we spoke on Friday, just before the two snows fell upon us. We listened to new and old jazz, searching for artists whose names had escaped our memories, but the melodies played on. We shook hands, wished each other gentle days ahead, and parted.

Part IV: Psalm

It’s the least I can do to keep a new melody playing and remember your name, to celebrate a life well lived. We’ll miss you, Dave Barnett. Please know that we are grateful for your kindness, your friendship, and your gentle nature. In every way, you were, and will always be, A Man Supreme.

Goodbye, Dave. Centennial will never be the same without you.

I was blessed this morning to spend it in Mt. Airy with about 15 writers, all there to study the art and craft of memoir writing. It is always inspiring to work with other writers, discuss the craft of writing creative nonfiction, and focus on publishing your work with a larger audience. I draw great strength from that.

May this weekend be a blessed one for each of you. Hug your loved ones, and remember to take a little time for yourself. The world’s dizzying whirl makes it hard for us to remember to do that, from time to time. . . .

It was six months ago tonight that I checked Facebook one last time before going to sleep, and my heart just collapsed as I read the status updates: RIP Casey, Casey I <3 U, Miss U Casey, among others. I started texting friends, then making calls, then realizing that this world just lost a most beautiful person.

My life has not been the same since.

A couple of days later, I wrote a memorial to Casey in my own efforts to come to terms with her death. The writing helped me get through those tough hours, but sitting here six months later, the pain of her loss is still strong, the memories forever in my mind and heart of a loving individual who struggled with depression. She never asked for that; nobody with depression ever does. It is one of the most misunderstood illnesses that affects nearly 20 million Americans. Those who suffer with it find its grip unbreakable at times, and those who don’t understand it wonder why people who are “sad” just don’t get over it and be happy.

When will we recognize that depression is not something we just “get over”? Isn’t it enough that 20 million of us are struggling?

I want to put a few things in perspective for us to consider.

Less than three months after Casey died, on April 23, word of the Swine (H1N1) Flu traveled fast around the world after two cases were identified in California. Six days later and three months after Casey died, with 91 confirmed cases, the World Health Organization raised the worldwide pandemic alert level to phase 5, stating that this is a “strong signal that a pandemic is imminent and that the time to finalize the organization, communication, and implementation of the planned mitigation measures is short.” The next day, April 30, the CDC (Center for Disease Control) posted this statement on their website:

The United States Government has declared a public health emergency in the United States. CDC’s response goals are to reduce transmission and illness severity, and provide information to help health care providers, public health officials and the public address the challenges posed by this emergency. CDC is issuing and updating interim guidance daily in response to the rapidly evolving situation. CDC’s Division of the Strategic National Stockpile (SNS) continues to send antiviral drugs, personal protective equipment, and respiratory protection devices to all 50 states and U.S. territories to help them respond to the outbreak. The swine influenza A (H1N1) virus is susceptible to the prescription antiviraldrugs oseltamivir and zanamivir. In addition, the Federal Government and manufacturers have begun the process of developing a vaccine against this new virus.

On June 17, in addition to the $1 billion already set aside by President Obama to combat the flu, the House of Representatives approved nearly $8 billion in additional funds. As of July 24, 2009, 43,771 cases of the flu had been reported.

And to think that it all started, just three months ago, when two people were diagnosed with the flu.

Contrast those statistics with these. The UPLIFT PROGRAM published these statistics on their website about depression:

Depression Statistics

• Depressive disorders affect approximately 18.8 million American adults or about 9.5% of the U.S. population age 18 and older in a given year. This includes major depressive disorder, dysthymic disorder, and bipolar disorder. [1]
• Everyone, will at some time in their life be affected by depression — their own or someone else’s, according to Australian Government statistics. (Depression statistics in Australia are comparable to those of the US and UK.) [2]
• Pre-schoolers are the fastest-growing market for antidepressants. At least four percent of preschoolers — over a million — are clinically depressed. [3]
• The rate of increase of depression among children is an astounding 23% p.a. [4]
• 15% of the population of most developed countries suffers severe depression. [5]
• 30% of women are depressed. Men’s figures were previously thought to be half that of women, but new estimates are higher. [6]
• 54% of people believe depression is a personal weakness. [7]
• 41% of depressed women are too embarrassed to seek help. [8]
• 80% of depressed people are not currently having any treatment. [9]
• 92% of depressed African-American males do not seek treatment. [10]
• 15% of depressed people will commit suicide. [11]
• Depression will be the second largest killer after heart disease by 2020 — and studies show depression is a contributory factor to fatal coronary disease. [12]
• Depression results in more absenteeism than almost any other physical disorder and costs employers more than US$51 billion per year in absenteeism and lost productivity, not including high medical and pharmaceutical bills. [13]

Stunningly, despite these statistics, little is being done to combat depression, a disease that now affects directly nearly 10% of the American population. Programs such as Active Minds are struggling all across the country for funding to reach out to teens in need. Other wellness resources are being trimmed back because of budget constraints. School systems around the country, from preschools to universities, are being forced to limit, divert funds from, or eliminate entirely programs aimed to helping children and young adults cope with the stresses placed on them and manage their depression.

In other words, the message I get is this: Unless you can spend billions of dollars on it, make a vaccine for it, administer it quickly, and then move on with your life and look really good and heroic about how you saved us all from certain tragedy, it’s not a pandemic. Twenty million vs. 90,000 makes no difference if the results aren’t immediate and heroic, or fit nicely in a 4-year term or seasonal time frame.

Just weeks after Casey died, a few of us recognized that help wasn’t easy to find for teens suffering from anxiety, depression, and addiction. We started a foundation called Lines of Love to build a bridge to those resources, and we had several successful events this past spring to begin our outreach program.

We’re still in our infancy stage, but on this six-month mark of Casey’s death, I ask you to join me in making that commitment to do everything in our power to reach out to those in need. Become a line of love with us. Get involved with local wellness programs that can provide help for our friends and loved ones, if not for ourselves as well. Join the Active Minds chapter at your school. And, if there isn’t one, find out how to start one. Lines of Love is committed to supporting you in your efforts to be that bridge to our loved ones suffering.

More than ever, in the memories of all of the beautiful people who have lost their battle with depression, I am committed to building this bridge.

Please join me. We cannot wait for federal declarations of emergencies or impending disasters. We’re already there, and our loved ones need help today.

Emily Davis was never a student of mine. I never even met her in all her young years as she changed the lives of so many while battling cancer. Yet, when she passed away five years ago on this day, I found myself mourning her death as if I had known her.

But I did not know Emily, at least in the sense of meeting her in person. I am a member of the community comprising thousands whose lives were touched deeply by such an inspiring, courageous girl, a 15-year-old artist and hero who shared the passion of living and loving so strongly that it reached us, stayed with us, forever changing our lives and making us better individuals toward each other.

Emily’s love and inspiration touched those who knew her well so deeply that, in knowing them, I was touched forever by her strength in working with others, helping them see beauty  within themselves.

That love, that courage to make the most of today and to allow others to see it as well, is with me as strongly today as it was five years ago when Emily died.

Here’s why:

When I was much younger, still a teen in high school, I took a class called Education for Responsible Parenthood, and in that class I met a wonderful young girl named Meggie Curd, who, at the age of 8, was battling cancer. Now, this was 27 years ago that I met Meggie, and I did not get many chances to spend time with her or even get to know her well as I might a friend I see every day. But the frequency of visits did not matter at all. Meeting Meggie just those few times was all I needed to understand that we all have choices in our life in how we use our precious moments here on Earth. We can spend our time in sadness or grief over our past or our present, or we can embrace the new moments that are yet to come, filled with possibility and with hope, filled with whatever we choose to make of them.

Meggie did two things: She decided to see love in those moments, and she decided to share that love with others, so strongly and powerfully that it stayed with them so that they, too, could share that magic and that love with those they met along the way.

When Meggie died, we all cried and mourned her passing. But when we hugged each other in support and in comfort, we knew that each of us contained a gift from her to carry with us for the rest of our lives. She allowed us to see the beauty in these moments that we experience, and we have the awesome responsibility of sharing that love, that beauty, with all whom we meet.

That responsibility, that love, stays with us forever.

About four years ago, I was at a local restaurant with a good friend when I saw a few members of Emily’s family a few tables away. I wanted to let Emily’s mom know that her daughter, through her friends and her family, had touched me deeply with that love and seeing the beauty in each moment. A few others from the Davis party joined us at our table, and I shared my story of Meggie with her, telling her that Emily’s memory will not fade away; it will stay strongly with us just like Meggie’s memory is still with me and so many others.

One of the Ms. Davis’ friends who joined us at the table had been Emily’s nurse. She looked at me and smiled. “Meggie Curd?” she asked. I looked at her, a little incredulously and nodded. “Meggie was my patient. She touched people like that. She’s still making a difference.”

I got over the initial surprise that Emily’s nurse had also known Meggie as well. And today, I take great strength in the way our lives cross in such important ways. It reminds me that the ripple of love, of courage, of hope never ends as we carry with us the people in our lives who have passed on.

There is great sadness in the passing of a friend, a loved one, especially so young. But their lives, and the way they lived them, serve as reminders to us all how there is much to savor in a single moment. Each passing second contains an opportunity to make a difference, to reach out and remind each other that we do have a choice. In Emily’s memory, and in the memories of so many others that have passed on so early in their lives, I choose to see that love and pass it along.

I encourage you to read more about Emily’s story on her website, and please join me today in making a donation to her foundation. As importantly, please join me in taking a moment (or two, or every one) and making a choice to see and share that opportunity for love.

There’s an emptiness here that is heavier than I’ve ever felt.

It’s just a little after 2:30, less than 24 hours after you died, Casey. I’m sitting here alone in our room, 701, that you and Kelsey called your own for so many years. No music plays, and I keep staring in the back area, behind my desk, where you and Kelsey always settled in.

It is darker than the rest of the room, for some reason, as if its light has been draped in shadow.

The sorrow runs deep here.

I am waiting for Kendall. She misses you terribly, and we both need to talk a little, share the grief, and just try to make sense out of this.

At this moment, making sense out of anything seems utterly impossible.

I wonder if you knew completely what you contributed to my life, and to the life and the spirit of this room where so many students have come to seek a little break from the tensions of the world, where priorities are not necessarily ranked by grades and things to put in bulleted lists on tightly-sealed transcripts.

I wonder if you knew that this room was as much a part of you as you were a part of it.

Where do I begin? Your kindness? Your gentle, giving spirit? How about with your smile that halted a bad day in its tracks? Or maybe with your beautiful eyes that radiated a love as warmly as two suns never touched by shadow?

It is impossible to choose any one of these, Casey.

All of you—every smile, every laugh, every kind word—contributed to this space that continues to allow others to feel that they have a place to call their own. A place where they will not be judged. A place where they will be loved.

And although this room seems a little darker today, I will not allow the glow of your spirit to fade away. You filled this space, our hearts, with genuine love that will continue to stay with me as I teach, as I remember that everyone in our room is an individual before they are a student, and that they have hopes and dreams to hold on to love, to happiness long after they leave high school.

In this quiet, heavy room, it is heartbreaking to know that you reached a moment where you couldn’t touch that love, where you lost your grip on that hope, even though it was as much around you as it still is around me in this room.

All I can do, Casey, is get out of the way and let your spirit and your love pave a path for others as they come and go in 701.

For me, the heaviness remains, and the light is touched by shadow. But if I have learned anything in your death, it is that each of us matters more to others than we might ever realize, and when darkness comes, we must wait for the light to return. With it comes the love we try so desperately to hold on to. With it comes a new moment, a new hope, a new chance to replace the shadows with the light of life and of love, something you gave to me and so many others without conditions or expectations.

Unconditional life. Unconditional love.

It’s all we can ask ourselves to give, to hold on to, in your memory.

I did not know this young, courageous girl, but here in Baltimore, as I get ready for a busy but fun-filled day with my children, I take strength from Haley’s favorite quote.

Today, at 7:59 p.m. EST, marks the beginning of summer solstice, which literally translates to Standing-Still-Sun. It is the longest day of the year and the shortest night. Beginning tomorrow, the days will begin to get shorter and shorter until we reach winter solstice, on December 21, where the sun stands still once again.This is the earliest that summer solstice has occurred in 112 years–or since 1896. In my opinion, it’s the perfect occasion to mark the significance of Haley’s words.In mourning, we pause to reflect, to remember, to celebrate the life of a friend or loved one who has passed away. Our worlds stop, or stand-still, during this time, and we shift our priorities to embrace what we believe to be most important in life.

Thousands of years ago, individuals used to do the same thing during the solstice, where they would stop and take stock of the things they may have taken for granted or neglected. This is especially true during winter solstice, when in BCE times, individuals believed that the Gods were so angry with them that they decided to take away their sun. It wasn’t until a few days after winter solstice (around the 25th of December) that they realized that light was returning (the days were getting noticeably longer), and the celebration began that, once again, the Gods forgave them for all that they had neglected and taken for granted.

So maybe today–tonight especially–is the right time for us to take Haley’s words to heart. As the sun-stands-still at 7:59 p.m., maybe we can make those personal resolutions to get up and resume making our footsteps in history.

It doesn’t matter how you do it. A call to a nephew, a visit with Dad, even a return to a memoir piece you started years ago. Whatever it is, get up. Don’t let the sun go down on you. Take some steps. Make some history.

LIVE. LOVE. GROW.

(picture taken at Loch Raven Reservoir, 6/19/08, as my children fed bread to the Canadian geese)

But most importantly, Mom, you gave me strength to wait out the storms. Suns really do return, Rainbows really do happen, and new days are always just on the other side of the moon.

I talked to the kids today about you and shared stories. Braeden still wonders when you are going to wake up. All I keep telling him is that you are alive and well in his little heart, where you shall always remain with all of your children and grandchildren, helping us get through those moonlit nights to the brand new day that awaits.

I love you, Mom. Happy Birthday. :)

When we moved last May, we debated about whether to bring our old tree with us. We bought it back in 2000 because we had a National Lampoon experience seeking out the perfect live tree. Three bad evergreens later (all resting outside our living room window, thank you very much), we decided to go artificial.

At that time in our lives, nothing could have been better or more convenient for us. The townhouse we were living in could handle few variables like the risk of a new tree every year, and with two more kids to come along in the next four years, we relied heavily on the structure and reliability of breaking out the box, building the bush, and plugging it in.

Voila. Instant Kristmas.

So when we moved to a much bigger home, we thought it might be time to say goodbye to ol’ greenie and go live. For some reason, we decided against it and brought the big lug with us.

We’re now glad we did.

Ol’ Greenie is now the kids’ tree in the family room, which they had a blast decorating. In the more formal living room, we put up a second, live tree. We bought brand new glass ornaments, garland, and ribbon for the tree, and without even realizing it, we were building a memorial to our mothers, both of whom passed away in 2007–five weeks apart from each other.

The last two ornaments we put up were the ones we picked out for our respective mothers. Amy picked an antiqued owl, and I selected the angel holding a star. In the beginning, I thought nothing of it, but when I approached the tree to hang up the hand-carved angel, I was overwhelmed with sadness. Suddenly there was a new significance to this live tree that was now in our living room. Yes, it embodied the spirit of Christmas and gave all of us a cause to pause and reflect, if but for a moment, every time we passed through the room. But now there was something more.

We had made it personal. We had made it mean something deeper than what we had been used to.

Simply put, when we shared our love with the tree that embodied the spirit of Christmas, it gave something back. Like the magic in Frosty’s ol’ hat, the magical feeling these two ornaments brought to the room is indescribable.

And that’s ok.

The picture at the head of this entry is Mom’s angel. I take great strength from this. Most of all, I take love to give love, and right now, I feel as if I have a limitless supply.

I really cannot explain it, but I was struck by Jenn See’s death. I did not know her at all, nor had I ever visited her blogs (see I am following my fish and tourist of everything here). Yet, there was this inexplicable feeling, this pain I felt in reading of her sudden and horrible passing. I mourned for her loss, and I mourned for her mother, for OldBen, and for MysFit. I mourned for all those who did know her. I decided to write my own tribute to Jenn See, which you can read here. It put me in touch with Jenn See’s mother and a few others in her circle of friends, and knowing them, even virtually through blog posts and emails, has deepened my sadness for her loss and my resolve to bring greater meaning to my own life through her passing.

I’m not the only one who has remembered Jenn See. Carl V posted a wonderful tribute to her last month (See Carl V’s one-year tribute to Jenn See here). Her memory and her legacy lives on through the hearts and the words of so many people, and I am humbled by this opportunity to contribute my little part to remembering her.

I’ve lost my own share of loved ones since Jenn See died, including my mother and my mother-in-law within weeks of each other. Three of my students have also died tragically, and I find that the older I get, the more time I spend at funeral parlors, graveyards, and memorials, contemplating the value that each moment holds in our lives as we are here on Earth. Since I learned of Jenn See’s death, I have had 365 opportunities to embrace life more fully, hug my kids a little longer, tell the ones I love that I love them, offer smiles to those who need them, and listen a little longer to those who just need to talk through a problem.

It’s hard to remember all that, all the time, though, isn’t it? I mean, right now, I am in the heart of my summer vacation. I teach 11 months out of the year, but I get the last ten days of July and the first 20 of August to call my own. During this time, I slow down, get to the gym every day, take walks, spend more time with my kids, write daily, and embrace and appreciate the natural sounds and sights that surround me. I cannot even begin to tell you of how blessed I feel, in so many ways, simply because I am alive, and I have the opportunity to experience all that is around me.

This is the way I believe life was meant to be lived. If you read through some of Jenn See’s posts, you will see that she got that. She understood. She lived a life filled with joy, with passion for her art and photography as well as for those who surrounded her.

Why is that so hard for so many of us to do? The 80′s and 90′s demanded so much of us to multi-task, thinking that was what the secret to life was all about. And in the earliest days of this new century, we seem to think that we are now masters at multi-tasking: talking on the phone, driving, selecting a new playlist on our iPod, and eating a Value Meal as we head to our next meeting, our next whatever that was written digitally into our PDAs months ago.

I know a wonderful person named becky who gets it. When I can, I visit her page on Facebook (or Myspace…I can’t remember which), and it is filled with love of friends, love of good times. Just yesterday I received a message from her to join her in celebrating some new pictures she posted of friends playing various stringed instruments around a fire. In each of the photos, there was genuine life, love, enjoyment in all that they did. I know none of these people but Becky, and for all I know, these folks might have day jobs that put them behind a desk for eight hours answering phones and attending meetings. Whether they do is immaterial to the fact that they haven’t forgotten how to get out, enjoy life, enjoy the celebration of friendship, to embrace the moments shared between each other, and hold on to love as if it’s the greatest thing that could ever happen to them.

On Carl V’s one-year memorial to Jenn See, somebody posted a comment that I fell in love with. This person wrote that “Jenn See Is. . .” Simple, yet powerful.

She is. Jenn See lives a little in all of us. Whereas her friends will always reflect fondly on her memories, She will always be in the present to all of us who understand that these days given to us come with no guarantees. Putting off another day to tell somebody you love them may be a day too late. Taking time for yourself and unplugging the phone, the computer, the everything and just slowing down for the sake of appreciating the moment–either alone or with the ones you love–is more important than any meeting you might feel you need to attend.

So, given this day, I say to all of you: I love you, and I wish you many moments of complete joy today as you take a moment to look over your cubicle and smile at a friend, take an extra five minutes at lunch and listen to the hum of the cicadas in their summer song, or call a friend and let them know you are thinking of them. It doesn’t take much, but it means more to them, and to ourselves, then we can ever realize.

Jenn See’s family has set up a wonderful scholarship program for artists and writers. The information is below. I encourage you strongly to make a donation and help Jenn See’s family continue to celebrate her life through helping others. Donations can be sent directly to: “Jan-Ai Scholarship Fund” c/o Bob Walker P.O Box 8068 Atlantic City, N.J. 08404. This fund is set up in jenn see’s memory to help struggling artists, photographers and writers. in this way, we are carrying on jenn’s energy and love of life. please help.memorial fish

I was also so pleased to see so many of my friends and my colleagues show up at the viewing and at the funeral. The support has been overwhelming, and I am grateful for all of your kind words, your support, and your love.

I also delivered the eulogy at today’s service. I’d like to share it here, so those of you who did not know Mom as well as others might know her a little more from these few words.

Ode to Mom, May 21, 2007

Well, Mom, what a long and magnificent journey it has been for you.

I don’t think that many on this Earth get the opportunity to experience so many different journeys, so fully, in one lifetime as Mom did. And, even if they do, I doubt many have embraced those journeys with such intensity and joy. For she certainly faced many events in her life where she could have simply turned away, given up, and let go.

There’s a reason why she didn’t, though, and I believe genuinely that it was in her celebration of life, in her celebration with God during her 81 years that made all the difference.

I remember during the late 80’s when Mom and I were having a discussion about Faith. We had touched on all the usual topics of heaven and belief in a higher spirit, but then she paused, turned away as if debating whether to go more deeply in the conversation. I waited patiently, wondering if she would decide to share, when she turned back to me and asked, “Why do so many Fear God? Why do they say I should fear Him? I don’t understand why I should fear Him when He does such wondrous things for us.”

I explained to her that I believed the word “fear” was actually meant to mean “to be in awe of” or “to have great respect.” At one time, it may have been used as a means of intimidation so that followers would be so afraid of God’s power that they had no choice but to bow down and show their respects to Him.

That’s not the kind of person Mom was. She didn’t fear; she loved. She saw God’s beauty in the outdoors on her many camping trips. I can trace them all the way back to 1959 where she kept notes on each trip: how well the weather behaved, how hospitable the hosts of the campground were, even how good the fishing might have been for Dad.

She saw God’s beauty in each of her children: Warren, whom she always saw as the great protector, the one who would defend her at all costs; Jim, who dedicated his life so selflessly first in the fire department, just like dad, and then in doing God’s work so that others may know love, comfort, and peace; Steve, whom she trusted unconditionally to provide her safety and security, both after Dad’s passing and after her own as well; and Cindy, her best friend, her shopping partner, her only daughter who knew how to make her laugh during the greatest challenges in her life, the one she drew strength from, even though hundreds of miles separated them. Mom always said that she could not have had five more different children if she tried, and that gave her the chance to love each of us that much more.

She also saw God as a provider of strength and courage as she decided to go back to school to get her Associate’s degree in Culinary Science. Here she was, approaching 50 years old, and returning to the classroom with students less than half her age. But she did this because she loved to learn. She loved to remain active. She loved to live. And she wrote about the strength that God gave her to pursue the things she most enjoyed.

And of course, sometimes that strength and courage spilled over to us. –Out of necessity. You see, even with Mom’s degree in Culinary Science, we sometimes found her food to be, well, more on the side of scientific experimentation than on culinary masterpieces.

I don’t think I will ever forget the day we moved Mom into her own apartment after Dad died. I remember most of my brothers were there, and we were working like ants, making a military march from the truck, up the steps to the third floor, then back down again to pick up the next load. It was like this for a good while, but everything changed the minute she defrosted the “mystery meat” and served us a complimentary dinner.

Now, we would never disrespect Mom by telling her that her cooking was a little less than worthy of the Culinary Science degree she earned. But what happened, rather naturally along the military march to and from the apartment, was that the word spread that a dumpster, clean out of mom’s sight, was just a few yards to the left at the end of the street. I don’t think she ever realized that we were a little slower in getting her belongings up to her new apartment, although she did comment on how hungry we must be, as she needed to refill our plates every time we came back upstairs.

All I know is that we were lucky she never peaked her head out to see that our military march had become a triangular trip from truck to apartment to dumpster, all in good stride.

We may have feared the food, but Mom never feared God; she embraced Him. Let Him fully into her heart. Let Him do His work through her so that others may benefit from such Excellence in Love.

On the day when Mom became a member of St. John’s in October of 2001, Psalm 100 was printed on the inside of the bulletin. This is the same Psalm that we all considered to be highly appropriate to share in her passing. How fitting that such a Psalm would capture the essence of Mom’s beliefs:

Psalm 100 begins,

Shout joyfully to the Lord, all the earth.

Serve the Lord with gladness;

Come before Him with joyful singing;

Know that the Lord Himself is God;

It is He who has made us, and not we ourselves;

We are His people and the sheep of His pasture.

Isn’t this the way Mom embraced all of life, though? Her life with Dad was a magnificent journey in every way, and when he passed away in 1989, she mourned his loss genuinely and fully. I had the good fortune to take several trips with Mom after Dad passed away. We went to Florida, New England, and Canada. We talked about the essence of life, of seizing the day. Carpe Diem we would shout joyfully together in the mobile home, navigating the winding curves along the King’s Highway throughout Canada, having no idea where we were headed, but taking it all in nonetheless.

And when Mom emerged from mourning our father’s loss, she once again felt great joy that God had led her to begin a new journey with another individual who had also just lost a spouse of many years. Together, they forged a new relationship that strengthened so much that my own children saw Charlie as their grandfather, a great man who loved their grandmother very, very much.

Mom wrote about how happy she was listening to her grandchildren run the model trains with Charlie in the basement. The woops of laughter as they all enjoyed the simplicity of life in a full-blown city, scaled down to fit nicely on the smoother side of a 4 x 8 piece of plywood.

That’s all it took. A few smiles, some good laughs, and always a lot of love.

Then a few years ago, Mom started taking a different type of journey. In 2005, she was diagnosed with cancer, and from her hospital bed, we had to break the news to her that, without treatment, she had maybe three, four weeks to live. It was the hardest thing I think we might ever have to do, but my brother Steve spoke so strongly, so confidently to her, letting her know that she could still take control, still fight this, and still live maybe another year or two.

After Steve had finished, she looked around at all of us, firmed her upper lip, and said, “I’m going to lick this cancer.” And for those two years, that’s exactly what she did.

At first she set small goals: the first to make it to the day Kohl’s Department Store opened in Lutherville. Mom was a shopaholic. And when that day arrived in August of 2005, we covered the event like it was the Media Story of the year. It was her first milestone, and she laughed when we were all done, telling us that her next goal was to make it to her 80^th birthday.

Soon after Kohl’s, I remember taking her to chemo treatment one day, and she and I looked around the waiting room. We were surrounded by individuals, young and old, battling cancer just like her. The difference was that, in many of these people’s eyes, you could tell that they had lost their fight to live.

She leaned into me and whispered, “Don’t they know that they are still alive? Isn’t that something to hold on to?” I nodded, and after Mom went into the room behind the blinds for her treatment, I peaked in every once in awhile to see her, getting chemo, looking patient, maybe even a little anxious. After her treatment, I asked her what she was thinking about that whole time, and she replied, simply, “Why, spending the evening with Charlie in Atlantic City, playing the slots all night!”

And that’s exactly what she did. From Chemo to Kohl’s, to Wegman’s to Slots, she spent each moment enjoying life to the fullest.

Even in her final journey, when the chemo treatments could do no more and Mom became too weak to leave her bed, she still reflected on the good, on a life well-lived, on her faith in God, where there was no fear, only joy for what God had provided her along the way.

Indeed, until the very end, she did Shout joyfully to the Lord, all the earth. She did serve the Lord with gladness.

In her final hours, my brother Jim and I sat by her bedside and looked at how peaceful she lay there. Days before, she whispered of being with our Dad and with her sister Lorraine, and Jim and I wondered what this last journey from Earth was like for her, to be so peaceful in this parting.

Really, though, all we need to do is look at the second part of Psalm 100 to understand:

Enter his gates with thanksgiving,

And his courts with praise.

Give thanks to Him; bless His name.

For the Lord is good;

His lovingkindness is everlasting,

And His faithfulness to all generations.

To all generations.

Finally, I offer this: Years ago, Mom wrote a note to me and asked me to share some important words at her funeral. I am honored to fulfill her request:

Mom wrote:

“If I’ve learned anything in my life, it is that we should never stop loving each other. My children are lucky to have such wonderful families, and I want all of them, especially my precious grandchildren, to remember to always cherish and enjoy life, to love one another without judgment, and for goodness sake, to always stay in touch with each other. I love you all. I always have, and I always will, from here, from heaven, forever.”

]]> http://rusvw.net/blog/archives/157/feed 4 http://rusvw.net/blog/archives/156 http://rusvw.net/blog/archives/156#comments Fri, 18 May 2007 12:15:48 +0000 rusvw http://rusvw.net/archives/156 Eileen Westervelt, May 12, 1926 — May 17, 2007

I don’t think I have ever been so sad, yet so honored, in my life.

The passing of my mother was not an immediate thing, nor was it ugly in any sense in these past two years that she battled cancer and lived more fully than I can imagine ever doing. She passed away as I believe she deserved: a graceful, peaceful journey where she left this world slowly, gradually, and entered a new peaceful world on the other side of all that we know to be true here on Earth. We all had our chance to say goodbye when she was aware of what was happening, and then we had our time with her as she left us slowly, breath by breath, until her final exhale at 12:10 yesterday morning.

My brother and I had a very special hour with her less than three hours before she died. The room was dimly lit, quiet despite the sound of the oxygen generator running in the next room. In this, my final hour with her, there was a greater, almost indefinable spirituality that I experienced, where we spent much of the time in silence, wondering where she was in the journey, what she was experiencing as she left this world and entered a new one.

There was no fighting on her part, nor was there sadness beyond the immediate realization of losing our mother. Instead, there was a certain honor to be with her at this time as she let go.

When my father passed away 17 years ago, I struggled on so many levels with his death. But Mom has shared with us the greatest of gifts in her final days. She has allowed us to be a part of her passing, and it is an experience that we will never forget; it is an experience that will always fill us with a greater love for life, for family, for all that is genuine, for all that is true.