Lives Were Changed

 

I see Mom standing behind the counter of the small hometown Mom-and-Pop store--The Eighth Street Dairy that she and Dad owned for a time. It was there she was happiest. There that she blossomed.

The glass on the door of the milk coolers gleam and shine, the countertops of the sit-down lunch bar is wiped clean and ready for whoever the day brings into the store. All of the potato chip racks are stacked with every flavor; the bread aisle stuffed with bright packaging, soft loaves and buns; the soda pop chills.

Mom greets the regulars and she knows not only their names but their stories because she always says that everyone has a story to tell. The lady over there has an abusive husband; the one over there is going through health issues. That mean schoolteacher is lonely and only acts tough as if trying to impress everyone. But Mom sees through the facade and she gives and she loves and she reaches and she touches more lives than she may ever know. 

At the Dairy, Mom sips her steaming cup of coffee and chats with a best friend from childhood. They laugh about the handsome customer who just left the store and they giggle like school girls and are young again without a care in the world. 

Then another young man walks in--the one Mom favors and loves. She treats him like family; she understands his home life and problems. She embraces him with her words and deeds and this man will never forget her.

She carefully counts out bags of penny candy: Swedish fish, flying saucers, gum balls, candy lipstick, licorice, and more. The hordes of children will soon come when their school day is over and she is ready with sacks of one hundred of each item. She thinks of them as hers, these kids; a little brood of young chicks and she is the hen of this little fold and she lovingly cares for them, smiles at them, and gives of her time.

Her face lights up when the love of her life walks through the door after his day of work. Dad greets her with a kiss and Mom tells him about her day; about the new people she's met and how everyone's story is unique.

Other young people come in to the dairy and they tell Mom secrets--things they would never tell another soul. She understands them though some are so rough-around-the-edges and beat down. She knows what that is like from her own childhood. She cries for the child inside each of them as she heals from her own battle scars. She teaches forgiveness to them. She lets go and shows them how to let go and they love her for it.

Mom worries over her little boy when she works at the store. She keeps an eye on him as he makes new friends and protects him best she can from what is bad in the world. She takes his friends into her little fold, and they spend hours, oh so many hours at her home and feel more like family than friends. She loves them and her circle grows wider and larger.

When the time comes for the little dairy to be sold, a piece of Mom goes with it. Yet as years progress, people come to her and say how much she helped mold them and change their lives. "If it wasn't for you," they say... She cries but they are happy tears but she is humble and does not let this change her simple, good heart. She's a soul with a body. A beautiful butterfly who has emerged from a cocoon of sadness into the light of a bright new day.

Later in life her mind begins to falter. Some of her memories are fading. But that one young man, the one she loved oh so much from her time at the Eighth Street Dairy remembers her. I have spoken to him and he tells me how much my mother meant to him. As I whisper his name to Mom, telling her I found him again, she smiles, sighs, and repeats his name to me.  We would lose her two days later. She will take a small piece of all of those lives she touched with her where we cannot yet follow.

Just Ask

 

One day I was missing my parents so much. I talked to God and asked if someday He might share a small sign that they were near with me. I have never asked this. As I folded clothes later that evening in my room, I felt as if someone stood next to me. I looked to my side and said, "Hi Mom and Dad," and went right on with the clothes. I didn't see anyone.

Later that night as I turned in for the evening, I said "goodnight" to a picture of my parents that is laying on top of my nightstand. It isn't framed, only a regular photograph.

The next morning when I awoke, (I'd like to say I hopped out of bed with a spring in my step, but, well....arthritis and all...), but when I got out of bed, I looked over and the picture of my parents wasn't on the stand. I looked and it was laying on the floor on the side of the nightstand, face up with their beautiful smiling faces looking at me.

I placed the photo back on the nightstand. I tried creating a breeze with my arms, with my bed blankets, with the closet door, etc. Nothing stirred that picture at all. I tried to replicate laying there and hitting it with my arms, but it was too far away from me, and I usually cocoon myself like a burrito when sleeping, so flailing arms aren't usually my thing anyway.

"Well, Lord," I thought, "I did ask. The Bible says you have not because you ask not." Perhaps God's gentle breath blew through my side of the room that night. He stirred the picture of my parents to show me a sweet little sign. They're okay, Karen. They are here with me. They still love you, but they've changed, and they don't have the worries and concerns they once did. Be happy for them.

When I look at the photograph now, a huge smile breaks out onto my face. For in this picture, they are young, healthy, happy, and so in love. And I believe they are like that right now.

What signs and wonders have you seen perhaps in nature, or in your own home that reminds you of God's existence and love?

A Promise to my Father

 

(Photograph: Uncle Peppy, my father's brother.)

As Dad's life began winding down, it was more important to me than ever to find out all I could about him. Though there had been countless stories told, perhaps I'd missed something. One thing I wondered about for years was the relationship he and his brother, Joe, (Uncle Peppy), had and why we didn't see his family. There had been speculation that an old rift had torn the family apart. Though I saw my uncle several times, and always enjoyed his visits, his children were always strangely absent. Why?

One of Dad's favorite stories was that his brother bought him a Lone Ranger watch when he was a little kid. Uncle Peppy (Joe) was considerably older and not around while my father was a youngster. But somehow he knew that his little brother loved that radio show, and the greatest gift Dad ever received was that watch. Then through the years when I was a child, Uncle Peppy would stop by and my father just beamed when he was around. They resembled one another and talked non-stop.

The only time I saw my father cry was the day he found out that his brother Joe passed away in early 2000. I didn't know how to console him, so I gave him space and let him grieve in his way. Though our family was never affectionate, we all knew how much we loved one another. Sometimes even in silence.

 I began to think about my uncle's family. Why hadn't we been close with them? Uncle Peppy's visits were always fun and pleasant. But my cousins, well, that was a different story. Why didn't they come on these trips with him. And more importantly, where were they now? Would I be able to find them? Would they even want contact with my family?

I remembered the married last name of Uncle Peppy's daughter and I found her oldest daughter on Facebook. She would not know me, but I carefully reached out, conveying how important it was for me to contact this side of the family. We wrote emails back and forth for a while. I told my father about hearing from her and he was absolutely thrilled that I'd found someone from their family.

Unfortunately Dad became very sick about that time and passed away shortly after. I'd promised him that I would continue reaching out to find if any of the others might be interested in hearing from a cousin they had probably not seen since the 1960's. 

To my surprise, the oldest son, Ron, wrote back to me. I couldn't have been happier to hear from this cousin I barely remembered. But would he be as happy as I was? Or would old family differences get in the way? I soon found out. Our emails were engaging and when we spoke by phone we had a lot to chat about. We shared photographs back and forth. I met some of his children through Facebook as well.

This past Saturday, something wonderful happened. I met my cousin Ron! He came for a visit to my home. He was an amazing, intelligent, warm man. I couldn't stop staring at him because he reminded me so much of our grandfather. His voice was similar to his dad's, and I could see "Mattia," our last name, written all over him. We enjoyed several hours of great conversation. We learned things about our families and past that helped put some of the puzzle pieces back together. Oh how I wished I could call my father and tell him all of this...

When you've lost someone you adored, as much as I did with my dad, you look for anyone and anything that reminds you of them. When you find it, you embrace it or them, with everything inside you. Not alone any longer, there is family and though you never knew them, you do now and you forgive any past hurt or divisions that kept you apart. You go forward with the knowledge that there are more of you... pieces of your past that connect you to those you loved and you go on so much better than before.

Here's to our visit, cousin Ron! I will never forget it, and I truly look forward to reconnecting many more times!

All my love,

Karen

Me and cousin Ron!

My brother Rick got to meet our cousin too!

I Gained So Much More

 

In the early 1980's, I married very young. He was charming, handsome, and funny. Everything a girl could hope for. He loved my family, and they loved him right back. Some things began to happen three years into the marriage that began to concern me. The day he told me he was leaving me, I felt as if I ceased to live. I couldn't eat or sleep well, and my self-esteem plummeted. I knew there had to be something wrong with me. Maybe if I had been prettier, skinnier, more affluent. 

My family was hurting right along with me. My little brother had adored him, and my parents couldn't get over the shock. Time passed, as it does, and I lost touch with his family.

Several years later, I found my ex in-laws once again. My father-in-law cried when we saw one another. We spoke for a while, and then I began to get together with them and my sister-in-law occasionally. It was as if time hadn't passed. These people were still family to me, and I found out that they felt the same way about me.

I was invited to dinners over their homes. I visited with my mother-in-law when she was in the hospital. When my father-in-law passed away, I grieved. I stayed with them through their sad time and if possible, grew even closer.

It's been several years now. My life has changed drastically from that twenty-one-year-old girl. I have a son, a new marriage and have lost my own parents more recently. But one thing that has remained is the lovely friendship I've retained with my dear first sister-in-law and mother-in-law. At 93, Mum is an amazing woman. Beautiful, soft-spoken, gracious, and generous. Any time spent with these two is precious to me and I come away from our visits, a better person.

I wouldn't have known them if I hadn't been married to the man who left me so long ago. Though I never see him, I don't miss what I never had. But what I did have was so much more. I was blessed with people who loved me unconditionally. People I was able to love in return and show my true self. I was blessed with relationships that I would never have had otherwise and kind words, prayers, meals, gifts, conversation and laughter.

God can turn any situation around. He can make a masterpiece from disaster. He can give love back to someone who felt as if they would never matter to anyone again. He showed me more beauty with these family members through my life, than I may have had if I'd never known them.

I gained the kindest friends from something that was meant for harm. I gained so much more from the callousness of another. Never think that God won't give you beauty for ashes. His trade off is so much better than the original pain that we feel. 

Mother's Day

She was once a little girl. A daughter, a child. She had hopes and dreams. She knew laughter and fun. She also had hard times, worries, fears and tears. She was born in an old-fashioned era and knew hardship and lack. Yet she pressed on and fought the good fight in her life. She's my mother, Eileen, and I'd like to tell you a little about her.

 Mom had been such a stable even though she had her own adversities. A child of an alcoholic father, Mom grew up with fear as a constant companion. A father who would gamble away the last of the grocery money, a father who was unkind to his wife. And that wife, who took out on her children what she could not on the man she married. Little Eileen wanted so much more. She wanted to play piano, sing, soar. But tough times didn't permit her dreams to come true.

She married young, at nineteen years of age to my father, Richard, a man six years her senior. A good man, a loving man, someone who stood by her through good times and bad. Though nervous issues plagued my mother for many years, she found stability and tenderness. She fought her way through these times, these confusing times when the mind would play tricks on her, threatening to tear her apart. And she would come out on the other side stronger and better for it, with a heart so filled with compassion for others, that many lives would be touched by her.

A pregnancy came in later years after Mom lost two other babies. A doctor warned her to terminate the baby due to health concerns. But this strong woman, my mother, said words that have stuck with me all my life: "I'll have this baby, or die trying." And nine months later, my brother was born, a true blessing in our lives.

Mom ran several antique businesses through the years, enjoying the challenges they brought. But her biggest accomplishment to many of us was owning a small mom and pop store in our little town of Ambridge, Pa. The Eighth Street Dairy was a quick stop for kids after their long school days. A place to play a video game in the early 80's, and purchase bags full of penny candy, Swedish fish, gummy bears, gum balls. Nothing was more important to her, however, than her daily talks with the people and kids that walked through her door.

Some folks came daily for a newspaper and cup of coffee. They'd share stories with Mom of their lives and problems. Like a therapist, my mother would listen and occasionally give advice. And as for the children who came through the door after school hours, Mom would have a listening ear and

show by example, kindness and patience to all, qualities they may not have seen in their own homes.

Years later, many of the young people, now grown, would approach Mom if they'd see her somewhere. They'd tell her just how much she meant to them in those earlier years, the time she spent talking with them. A few have told how their lives have changed from knowing her. One man said, "If it wasn't for you, I don't know where I'd be. Every time I thought about getting into trouble, I'd think of you, and just stop what I was doing."

As for me, I think back to a lady who stood by me in one of the darkest times of my life: my spinal surgery for scoliosis as a teen. I don't know how Mom was able to keep her strength as she watched me go through such a difficult time in Children's Hospital. How she kept my spirits up and told me it would pass.

I've gotten my heart from my mother. My sense of humor. I've gotten a love of movies, books, and imagination from her, a spirit of creativity. I've gotten compassion, a love of animals and underdogs of the world. I've learned about faith and God from Mom.

I think my mother didn't realize just how many lives she impacted. And when her golden years came upon her, I reminded her: The world is a better place because of you, Mom. So many of us wouldn't be who we are without having known you.

Here's to Mother's Day, and the blessing, the great blessing my mother was to me. Happy Mother's Day, Mom. I love you with my whole heart.

Christmas Wonder

At any age the sight of twinkling lights can bring us back to our childhood, to simpler times gone by and days when we had no responsibilities or regrets. Thinking back to those years should give us a happy glow, yet  we sigh a bit reminiscing about the innocence, the times before the world and some of its harsh realities got to us.

Take my mother, Eileen, for instance. She was a lovely little girl, born into a family who had lived through the great depression. A sweet child who had no knowledge of some of the rough roads ahead. Families were poor in the 1930's and 1940's and Christmas gifts were some of the last things parents would worry about. Yet one year, an elderly man who lived near young Eileen took it upon himself to bestow one of the best Christmas gifts she'd ever receive.

Mom often talked about getting fruits and nuts in a Christmas stocking, but this particular Christmas, the elderly gentleman brought a package wrapped in tissue paper. "For the little girl," he'd said, coat buttoned against the cold, frosty breath blowing before him as he handed it to Mom's mother, Louise. Nobody knew why he'd chosen to bring this one special gift to a little girl he barely knew, but when Mom opened the package, a most beautiful dolly peeped out at her. Brown curly hair, blue snowsuit with fur trim, my mother beheld something she'd only dreamed about.

The cherished doll was priceless to her, a lovey to hold on nights when an drunken father spouted abusive words. The doll was her strength and belief that kindness existed, and perhaps there was goodness around the corner.

Mom would tell years later that her most prized gift vanished when she and her family moved to a new house. She'd walk past the old apartment she'd lived in, trying to peek through a window to see if the doll was still there. She never saw it again.

Years would bring sadness to Mom as she lost a beloved sister and mother at early ages. Two miscarriages would follow and she somehow held on. Yet she would survive a cardiac arrest and live to tell an amazing story of the afterlife. With a good man at her side, and two children of her own, life settled into a routine as it usually does.

Now later in life, as older age takes hold, Mom relives precious memories and the stories which meant so much to her. She's spoken recently more and more of the beautiful doll she'd once received, and the kindness of a stranger one Christmas night.

I've talked about our Christmases before and the generosity of my brother. How each year he picks one of us and tries to replicate a gift from our past, searching until he finds it on Ebay perhaps or some other venue. This year he researched dolls with fur snowsuits from Mom's childhood era.

Yesterday, as Mom began opening her last gift, her face crinkled into a frown. She peeled layers of tissue paper from the box and then began to cry. For there, before her was a doll, much like the one of her youth. Years melted away and the little girl, untouched by sadness and grief once again shone like the sun.

Family: The gift of Thanksgiving

As Thanksgiving approaches I want to take some time to list my gratitude.

I am grateful for being raised in a family that cares about others. A family where my mother taught us children about respect for the elderly, for those less fortunate and for animals. A mother who once called me her shining star and would have done anything for me when I was faced with serious surgery as a young teenager. A woman who's battled deepest depression and found the will to go on in her darkest moments. A woman who can still laugh heartily.

I am grateful for a father who taught me about patience, resilience and a sense of humor. A man who didn't give up in the heat of life's toughest moments, who honors the sanctity of marriage and  his wedding vows. An unselfish man who is soft-spoken and kind, gentle and good.

I am grateful for a husband who calls me his best friend. A man who tells me almost daily how glad he is that we met later in life and he doesn't know what he would have done without me. A husband who respects me, listens to me even when I rattle on and on about some infraction that may seem boring to him, yet he gives me his time. A man I enjoy taking trips with, laughing with and praying with. A man who is not perfect, but loves God with his whole heart.

I am grateful for my son. He's taught me about life and never giving up. He's shown me that I could love so unconditionally until it hurts. During some of the toughest moments when I thought my heart would break over things he's had to go through, I learned that my love for him is one of the deepest emotions a mother could feel. I am grateful for our ability to talk with one another, enjoy each others company, and share stories together.

I am grateful for a brother who is one of the most selfless people I know. A man who would put others before his own needs. A man I've called best friend many times in my life. Though he came along fourteen years after me, I am grateful for our closeness and confiding in one another.

I am who I am because of these amazing people. Each of them with so much to offer this world. Each of them a part of the makeup of my life, my self and all that I am. I am blessed, honored, and yes, so very grateful for each of them.

There are countless others in my life, step-children, friends, cousins, aunts and uncles and my beautiful nieces who have meant the world to me. They, too, have contributed to the fabric of my life, the gratefulness I feel at this time of the year. I give you all my love each and every one of you and wish you the true gift of Thanksgiving in your own lives.

The Ten Percent

 I grew up in a family where money was sometimes an issue. As a young girl, attending business school in downtown Pittsburgh, during lunchtime while all the other girls had their crisp dollar bills ready at our local McDonald's and other fast food establishments, I shamefully brought along my brown bagged lunch. My parents didn't have daily money to hand me. I was fortunate I had enough to ride the bus to and from school. My brother and I never wanted for anything, but frivolity wasn't a part of our lives.

 Years later when my father retired, he took a drastic cut in his monthly wages. He even got a part-time job at a convenience store to make ends meet. Because of many health bills and re-financing through the years, my parent's home wasn't paid off and I saw them struggling financially as they grew older.

It was about this time, I became separated from my husband of twelve years. At first, my son and I lived with my family, helping with monthly bills, until we found a small house to rent. I had a full time job, but as a single mom, new challenges were presented to me. Clothes for my son, food, whatever he'd need for school projects and such. Yet through this whole time, I kept hearing about "the ten percent."  I had strong Christian friends who spoke about "tithing", the giving of ten percent of your wages to your church. For years I questioned it. Brought up in a traditional church, we gave an envelope, sometimes lucky to put 10.00 on a good week. Yet here were my friends, all who seemed financially stable telling me about the biblical principle.

I read my bible about it, looking up any passages I could find. I prayed about it: Lord, is this something I could be doing? Is this something I should be doing?

Finally, after feeling deep down inside that this was something I needed to do, I made a decision to tithe to my traditional church. I truly began to believe that my son and I would be taken care of financially. I noticed almost immediately while writing out my weekly bills, as long as my first check was the ten percent, all the rest of the bills were able to be paid as well, with money left over. This was amazing.

About that time, my father came to me with a problem: his little old car was on its last leg and Dad wasn't sure what to do. There was no extra money to buy a used car, and his credit was poor at the time. After prayerful consideration and many, many tears, I decided to help him out. I took a small loan at a local credit union with tears streaming down my face. How would I do this? I'd promised God I'd tithe, and here was a new burden laid upon me. Month after month went by, and somehow, some way, I always had enough. I still gave my ten percent, paid my own monthly bills and took care of my father's bill as well. The principle overwhelmed me.

Years have gone by since that time. I've remarried and taught my husband about the ten percent. It's almost miraculous because not only are we able to take care of our bills, but I see the blessing being passed down to the next generation, our children. I see each one of them with amazing blessings in their jobs and their lives. It's true, the principle of God throwing open the floodgates of heaven. It may not mean picking the winning numbers for the lottery, but I can tell you this: It is God's promise, a promise of stability in our finances and lives. Of generosity toward our church and others. And a lifetime of financial peace and blessings.

Happy birthday, Dad

Happy birthday to you! Happy birthday dear Daddy! Happy birthday to you!!!

My goodness. Time does fly! I can remember the fun, silly man, the one who always tried to make everyone laugh. The time my father dressed up like Fred Rodgers, complete with zip- up sweater singing "It's a beautiful day in the neighborhood...."

Another time, with a large tin can upon his head breathing heavily like Darth Vader stating, "Luke, I am your father."

Or once, in J. C. Penney's, a fedora cocked sideways on his head while we walked through the men's department, pretending to be Hannibal Lector in the final scenes of "Silence of the Lambs."

This soft-spoken, good-hearted man, who walked through life seemingly without a care in the world. But there were cares. When I was 13 years old, laying in a hospital bed in Children's Hospital, my parents stood by stoically, trying to make light of the seriousness of spinal surgery. Dad would invent some crazy song or antic to make me laugh. He'd poke fun at the nurses and doctors, calling them all sorts of humorous names behind their backs. Day after day, he'd drive himself and Mom to visit me, though driving to Pittsburgh wasn't something he liked to do.

My rock, my strength. A man who was there in times when my mother was hospitalized when I was a little girl. A man who took the time to build crystal radios with me, paint little football men in an old game, explain word problems in math one more time. Walk me back to bed, when upon waking in the night, I'd need the reassurance that everything was alright. Explain the plays yet again to the tiring questions I asked while watching Steeler games with him. A man who never put himself before anyone. Humble, simple, loving and kind. These words don't do my Dad justice.

In 1999 my father was rushed to the hospital. A quadruple heart bypass would follow. My brother and I thought we might lose him at that time. Dad not only pulled through, but today, March 6, he turns Eighty-three.

God has been good to our family. I'm blessed to have both my parents and consider every day a gift with them. Though we've seen hard times through the years, our deep love and humor carries us through life's journey.

Happy birthday, Dad. When I grow up, I want to be just like you. All my love. . .