The Hope Within Us

O Death thou hast
Conquered me.

I lay beneath thy dart.

But Jesus Christ shall
Conquer thee-

And I shall rise
again.

I found this epitaph on an ancient headstone while walking around Copp's Hill Burying Ground, Boston, in 1976. Boston was a fleeting stop on a family vacation to coastal Maine. My dad parked our orange Ford pick-up near the U.S.S. Constitution, and we walked the Freedom Trail across the Charles River to Old North Church. A long line of visitors snaked around the church and my parents, not terribly interesting in waiting in line or American history, decided to walk around the cemetery. I was immediately drawn to the archaic names and epitaph inscribed on the weathered, leaning headstones.

This particular epitaph obviously sparked something in me. Let's examine it for a moment. It speaks of the inevitability of death, for no one really gets out alive (unless you are the prophet Elijah, in which case I doubt you are troubling yourself with this blog). Yet, even in death there is a spark of eternal optimism as well as revenge. Yes, the resident admits he or she has been stung by the sharp arrow death and is now in residence beneath our feet. However, there is a Warning as well as a Hope. The Warning is that what goes around comes around. Death thinks to have won this round, but not so fast. There is a spoiler in our midst. Jesus Christ has conquered the final foe; an act which gives hope of a life far from the confines of a grave in disease-ridden 18th-century Boston.

Where am I going with this? It is very possible for Hope to spark something in the souls of 21st-century Boston or Baltimore as well. Life can get us down, sometimes for an extended count. Yet, there should always be a Hope within us. Hope for something, or someplace that helps us through the dark days.

Let's be brave. While we always need Peace, perhaps we really need to give Hope a chance.

Listening

I have been blessed with a wide assortment of wonderful friends. One of them is Annabelle, a seminarian at the Lutheran Theological Seminary in Gettysburg, Pennsylvania. When I first heard she had chosen to enter the ministry, I was slightly surprised. Annabelle is a tall, fun-loving, full-bodied cup of Teutonic intellect with a side order of absolute hilarity and juvenile behavior that pales my puerile antics. However, I have discovered that under the veneer of show-tune-karaoke and just plain silliness, Annabelle has been blessed with an old soul and a kind, seeking heart.

Annabelle has a blog (http://annabellepeake.wordpress.com), where she ponders a plethora of topics. Today's post is titled "Listening to Each Other," in which we find Annabelle wondering why we don't listen to each other, our bodies, and God. If I may quote:

"Life is so short and time so precious, why do we let ourselves be distracted from that which is so important?...Furthermore, do we take quality quiet time to sit and listen for God in our lives? I know that it's very easy for me to make excuses for not paying attention to those around me...and for not carving out time for listening for God."

I understand perfectly. It is not supposed to be about the goal, but the journey. A dearly-departed friend always reminded me that life is not a competition. It's a journey. The most important part of the journey are the experiences and the people you encounter along the way. The memories are in the minutiae of life.

I spend a lot of my time in the garret; some of it being productive while a lot of the time is spent hiding from the life below. However, that life always has a way of finding me. I'm working away and I hear footsteps ascending one flight of stairs, then another. A knock on the door and someone is there to chat or looking for a shoulder.

I stop and listen to my adult offspring. After all, it is my fault they are standing there looking for a word of hope. I taught them to come to me when they fell down and skinned their knees, or when their hearts were broken. Why should they stop just because they are wearing the earth suits of adults?


However, while they are pouring out their hearts to me I am often typing, surfing the Net, or playing spider solitaire. After all, I am a mom and programmed to multi-task. Their concerns are genuine and important to them. They deserve my full attention. God gives us His attention; I think we should honor the spirit in ourselves and each other by following the warnings posted at railroad crossings. Stop, Look, Listen.

When we are fully engaged in the lives of those around us wounds are healed, spirits lifted, and sometimes a life is pulled back from the edge of despair.

Keep on loving each other as brothers. Do not forget to entertain strangers, for by so doing some people have entertained angels without knowing it. Hebrews 13:2 The Journey.

What do you think? I'm listening.

The Fundamental Things Apply

While in high school, I fell in love with a boy. I can honestly say it was my first love. He was tall, dark, and handsome (at least to me). He was a musician and lived a physically rich but socially meager life under the control of his mother. I adored him.

I wrote a poem for him. I'm not sure if I ever gave it to him. However, I stuck it in a notebook of poems that found its way, years later, to my attic. I recently found the box and was relieved to discover my musings had survived several attic purges.

As a aspiring writer, I thought I might rework it. You know, take the eighteen-year-old out of it and insert some experience. Somewhere in my editing, I realized that I cannot change the poem. I tried to polish the grammar and punctuation. Then I bowed to the Muse and allowed my voice to remain that of an eighteen-year-old.

Finding this poem and its emotions I realized that in spite of the time that goes by, the fundamental things still apply.

I wondered if there was some way of reaching you.
Yours was not one of the classic cases that
appear in huge, dusty volumes.
Full of symptoms and cures for the affliction.

You have the same feelings, hopes and fears I do,
only slightly variegated so they might mold themselves
to fit and become the individual you are.

There were times when I gave up.
The times I saw no bright,
shining hope ahead.
Only darkness.

Then I would; and still do remember
a smile you once threw casually in
my direction.
Or just a few meaningless words that refuse to leave me.

Then my faith is again renewed in the
human race,
Of which you are the predominant member.

Lighthouses

Lighthouses are depicted as tall, majestic sentinels placed along the coast, often on a rocky outcropping overlooking a particularly dangerous stretch of open water. Sometimes it is a lake, bay, or the ocean. While some are short and squat, others are tall and regal. They shine their lights out over the water as a warning or guidance to watercraft sailing by. They are there to remind ships and boats of the danger-whether it is rocks or shallow water.

However, to me, lighthouses have a different significance. They are a metaphor for those too frightened to take the first step. They are the kids sitting on the benches at recess too afraid to get on the swings, let alone jump off the swings in mid-arc. They don't climb the ladder on the sliding board. They are afraid of losing control, therefore, they deny themselves the thrill of the moment of abandon; that moment at the top of the slide when gravity takes over and you slip down the shiny surface to land safely on your feet.

Lighthouse people find a safe rock to sit on and they stay there. Eventually, their bodies and spirits harden while their feet grow down deep into the rocks; immovable. They see the small boats out on the waves, and never think of the freedom of sailing (I once owned a sailboat, but that is another post). Seeing the waves, they are unable to cry out "Danger." A light is their warning, but sometimes the boats ignore the light, or they are tossed onto the rocks by the waves. Some are steered by knowledgeable watermen and women, able to avoid the danger, though they sail close by.

The lighthouse does not think of the watercraft that navigate the vast waters of the earth successfully. They only see the danger before them. They never notice the beauty of the sunrise or sunset, the majesty and power of the seas, the gulls flying low, or the dolphins jumping for the joy of their existence. They only see the dangers. They are afraid.

I would rather be the small sailboat, aware of the dangers but following the wind, current, and my heart. I choice faith in the unknown and hope that I will survive the storms that await me.

Tell me what you think.

A Crayola Forest

I promised my I would write about trees today. The beautiful, soft greens of spring, as well as the riot of reds and oranges in the fall. God has an amazing box of Crayolas at His disposal. I actually bought a box of 64 crayons last week just to try ant imitate what I see outside the window of the Garret everyday.

In a way, trees are like crayons, all standing upright in their little spaces. However, unlike Crayolas they all have brown wrappers instead of color-coded wrappings, unless you don't count the birches and sycamores with their white-splotched bark-wrappings.

One fall, as I was beginning yet another semester of graduate school, a good friend gave me a box of 48 crayons. "After all, school is starting, and who cares what 'grade' you're in, or your age-you need a new box of crayons." She was right. A new box of crayons is like January 1, Opening Day of baseball season, or your birthday. It is a new beginning when anything could happen, and you need to be prepared. With crayons.

I discovered Crayola has new colors: Macaroni & Cheese, Timberwolf (don't tell Stephanie Meyer), and Purple Mountain's Majesty, which made me feel very patriotic. Cornflower has always been a favorite, the same with Burnt Sienna and its counterpart, Raw Sienna.

I took my box of 48 crayons and did a little swatch test to see how they looked, and to find some new favorites. Wisteria is nice, as is Melon, Mauvelous, and Goldenrod. Now on to the box of 64. I need another sheet of paper...

There is a method to using crayons. First, you dump them all out of the box. No discipline or order here-this is play. Then you randomly pick one that strikes your fancy, scribble a swatch and saying the color name. Express your feelings about that color. "Ooohhh, Granny Smith Apple, niccceee." Sometimes you pronounce the color name in another language- "Spring Green...Vert Primtemps." Crayons are for fun, and self-expression. Whether it is just scribbling, or coloring a sky Sky Blue that, by the way, actually looks like the sky.

Crayola has a new catagory of colors: Kid's Choice. Famous is a beautiful, pure pink-but it is not carnation pink. I loved Bear Hug, a gray/silver mix. Super Happy is opaque yellow, and Happy Ever After is blue-green but not as dark as Blue Green (am I making sense?). Courage is a bright red-orange. I see the reasoning. Courage is a bright flame that inspires and encourages you even in the dark, mean times.

I think we all need a little box of crayons to carry around with us. We need Super Happy for the sun in our Sky Blue sky. Spring Green for the life around us, Bear Hug for caring and loving, and Courage. Maybe everyone's box could have two Courage Crayons. Because now we need an extra dose of something to give us strength, hope, and bravery. Perhaps, most importantly, we need Silver for the cloud lining in our Happy Ever After.

The Ladies are Back in Town

Saturday found beehusband and me standing behind a metal building in New Columbia, Pennsylvania. It was cold and windy. I was wearing sandals. Of course, I saw one other woman wearing flip-flops, so I didn't feel too weird. Most people were dressed appropriately for the weather; hiking boots, insulated vests. Layers-you get the picture.

What could entice us to drive over two hours and stand out in the cold? Bees. Along with forty other people, we gathered behind the Brushy Mountain Bee Farm storefront to watch someone "shake" bees into a hive without creating either physical harm to oneself and ending up on YouTube, or watching your queen bee fly away, never to be seen again. The queen part is a bad thing. YouTube is just a catastrophe of epic proportions.

The bee wrangler seemed very comfortable with the box of bees (similar to the box of bees sitting in the back of my Volvo wagon), and with great calmness, clarity, and a certain degree of humor, talked us through the process. He finished the demo; the bees shaken, not stirred, and all was well.

After lunch at Applebee's, we drove home and following the addition of several layers of clothing (and shoes for me), we bravely walked back to our hive and proceeded to shake some bees. We put the queen cage on one frame, per the demo, and did the deed. I added a feeder of sugar syrup, put on the top, and beehusband and I shared a cup of celebratory coffee.

Sunday, beehusband voiced concern over the number of bees left in the box sitting outside the hive. You must understand, sometimes the bees decide to take their time entering the hive, and would rather walk in than settle for the unceremonious shaking. However, the night was chilly, and we thought the bees had froze. I brought the box indoors, only to discover the little cadavers began walking around. So they returned outside.

Four days later, I checked on the little ladies. Everyone seems very energetic and are entering the hive laden with pollen and other bee-type goodness.

It is good to see to ladies flying about. I missed the activity in the yard. Winter took its toll, and now spring has given us another chance to be spectators and caretakers of the hive.

Saint Patrick in My Kitchen

Saint Patrick's Day, that day when everyone is Irish, the Chicago River runs green, and amateur drinkers imbibe to excess. I spent the day in the kitchen, exploring the uncharted waters of Irish and Irish-inspired cuisine. I gathered an interesting array of recipes, put on my green apron, and began.

I decided to play it safe and prepare dessert first. I started early in the morning, making Black & Tan Brownies. A layer of tan brownies baked for fifteen minutes, and then I spread the gooey, thick layer of Guinness-laced chocolate batter on top, and completed the baking time. When they emerged from the oven, I was a little surprised. While we are accustomed to gooey brownies, these were rather cake-like in texture. The recipe called for unsweetened chocolate, and even with the addition of sugar, were not hurt-your-teeth-sweet. The taste grew on us both figuratively and literally.

My next exploit was the main course, Chicken and Dumpling Stew. I really didn't want to travel the corned beef and cabbage route this year, and I have it on good authority that chickens do live in Ireland. Chopped carrots, potatoes, peas and chicken simmered in a cream-based broth for several hours. Yum. The smell alone was wonderful. I used whole wheat flour for the dumplings, so they were not as light and fluffy as my mom's. Yet, in keeping with the theme of good, home-cooked, comfort food, the stew was delicious. I confess; I made yummy noises.

My final stop on the day's food travel was the making of the bread. Not just any bread, but Irish Soda Bread. I Googled "Irish Soda Bread," and found the web site of the Society for the Preservation of Irish Soda Bread. I knew I had struck the Mother Lode. The site is loaded with information, recipes, and the true definition of ISB: flour, salt, baking soda, and buttermilk. I made a wonderful, crusty, round loaf with the traditional cross cut into the top. One bite and I knew someone's Irish Granny was smiling down on me.

It was a great day for my kitchen and Saint Patrick. Easter is on the way. I must begin searching for recipes-maybe some Hot Cross Buns? I'll let you know.

Requiem for the Hive

I have an update on my bee situation. I mentioned in an earlier post that the top cover of our hive blew off during a fierce wind storm in January. I tried communicating with the ladies, but to no avail. Communication involves knocking on the hive and listening for a response (BUZZZ). Yesterday, the president of the Beekeepers Association stopped by and suggested an impromptu visit to the hive. We sloughed through the snow and Jeremy knocked, but no one answered.

Our particular colony was the product of a hive swarm. The colony becomes too large, or the queen begins to age. In an attempt to survive, she sends out a pheromone signaling a portion of the colony to fill their bellies with honey to sustain them until they begin gathering nectar again. Then the queen leaves, taking almost half the colony with her. Think self-preservation, for if the colony believes she is tired, old, or not laying a sufficient number of eggs, the colony kills and replaces her. Therefore, we had no idea as to the strength and age of our queen.

After removing the top cover, Jeremy peered down through the frames searching for signs of bee-life. Alas, the hive was silent. We began systematically removing frames and examining the evidence. It appears the ladies starved for lack of adequate honey reserves. The comb was empty of honey. Many of the bees were head-first in the comb, as though they were eating. A typical hive requires approximately sixty pounds of honey to survive the winter. While we fed them sugar syrup and fondant, it was not enough. Jeremy mentioned that when a colony begins to die, everyone dies within a few minutes. They live, work and die together. As we knocked the bees out of the frames, their carcasses blew across the snow, like scattered ashes.

While upset, I was expecting that verdict. I had a gut feeling the hive had perished. As I mentioned earlier, "keeper of bees" is an extremely inaccurate term. Bees keep themselves, we merely try to provide optimum opportunities for them to flourish and pollinate. All we ask for in return is the chance to steal a little honey now and then.

Our new colony arrives in April. We learned a great deal about bees this year. We will continue in our attempt to decipher the mysteries of the hive.

Becky Tales

I am a firm believer in celebrations. Birthday, anniversaries, graduations, all deserve to be honored. I do not believe in celebrating death, although I am a fan of graveyard art. I don't wax sad and lonely on the anniversary of my grandmother's death. I believe in the remembrance of a well-lived life. Therefore, even though today is the anniversary of a passage-I choose to revel in the well-lived life of Rebecca Ann Lyons. There is insufficient space to relate all of my experiences with Becky. I hope others take time to share their Becky Tales with me.

I met Becky Lyons in 1998. I was a shiny, newly minted and uniformed seasonal ranger at Gettysburg National Military Park. My supervisor, Pam Neil, shared an office with Becky. Honestly, the first time I met Becky I was a tad intimidated. She sat behind a huge desk loaded with books and official-looking papers. Although her eyes seemed friendly, I knew my metal was being measured and at the appointed hour would be tested. I hoped I would not be found wanting. (She later told me people always saw her as tough, but she was really a big marshmallow on the inside.) On Pam's days off, I had permission to use her desk to study and work on my programs. During those days, Becky and I talked about life, the afterlife, and history. Or should I say HISTORY. She had an extensive and expansive background that included medieval history, a field I was at that time considering for my graduate program.

That summer I decided to develop a living history program. I realized many stories were told of the valiant men who fought and died at Gettysburg, but very few stories told of the brave women who shared that history. My program, based on the life of a Daughter of Charity, became the first program at the park to highlight the work of the religious order. Becky was versed in living history, so Pam decided I should work with Becky on my research. Pam found a position at another NPS site, so Becky officially became my supervisor. She tutored me in all things related to developing a solid, believable program. Her standard comment was always: "Word choice is everything. Think before you open your mouth." Becky and I had the opportunity to present our respective programs at Ford's Theatre, in Washington, D.C. What a tremendous honor to tell our stories on that stage. Those presentations led to the organization of the First Women's History Symposium at the park.

Soon, our relationship became a friendship. Becky and I spent time walking the battlefield, eating lunch, and talking. She liked my husband and my children-a great achievement for an unmarried woman who was an only child. We exchanged presents at Christmas and birthdays. She was my friend, mentor, and sister in so many ways. I am a better person, and a much better historian for having known Becky. When I wrote the acknowledgements for my first book, I wrote "Last but not least, I am indebted to Rebecca A. Lyons, my friend and supervisor from Gettysburg National Military Park, who passed before this project was completed. Her guidance, wisdom, and humorous insight regarding the human predicament touched many lives. She will remain a constant reminder that our words and actions matter now, and in the future."

Epiphany and Life in Three Boxes

I have never counted the epiphanies in my life. I wonder if I should be recording them; keep a record of the times grace has silently slipped into the room occupied by my mind and shone a light. After all, isn't that the description of an epiphany? The appearance of a divine entity; usually accompanied by a bright light. Your own personal deer in the headlights moment. Only you are not afraid of a semi-truck pointed in your direction. It's really much worse than that. For those less inclined to believe in a deity suddenly appearing in the middle of their daily commute, it could be an intuitive moment when a solution presents itself. A leap. Epiphanies have regularly scheduled themselves on my calendar. Evidently, I am in great need of intuitive leaps.

Today I had the leap. Three years ago, I lost a dear friend to self-neglect, fear of the unknown, and such a strong sense of self-reliance she could not call out for help. Many of us knew she was in trouble. However, we believed she would consider an intervention an invasion of her privacy, and she would retaliate by excising us from her life. So rather than anger her and risk losing her friendship, we lost her.

One brave soul took up the mantle of estate executor. We discovered the departed had hoarded so many memories within the walls of her home. Those memories included tangible items (perhaps against their will), as well as a vast number of books. It was a frightening revelation of her needs. She considered books her only friends. Friends who could never disappoint, betray, or abandon her. The executor told me she filled a large industrial dumpster almost a dozen times before the house was empty enough to clean.

My friend infected me with the book-hoarding virus. I was attending graduate school and commuted several hundred miles a week. Research on campus required a great deal of forethought and scheduling. It was easier to search for and purchase books online. My friend encouraged me in that activity, and I believed I would need those books forever. Every research topic, every graduate course required more and more books. My office became a book depository with just a narrow walkway through the boxes.

My epiphany was realizing I didn't need a thousand or more books forever. So, I finally began disposing of the majority of my book collection. I discovered a wonderful used bookstore whose owner gladly bought my books. I have sold over three hundred books in the past year. It has been torturous at times. How do you decide which child to leave on the steps of the orphanage, and which child to keep?

I love the movie "Under the Tuscan Sun." The heroine finds she must decide what personal possessions to take from her home. Finally, she points to three boxes. "Those are all I want." She is a writer, so the boxes are full of books.

Faced with the luxury of three boxes, what would my boxes contain? They would hold pictures of my children and husband. Maybe a crocheted or knitted afghan and a pair of embroidered pillowcases, an apron, and a cookbook. My book selection would include The Bible, Shakespeare's Sonnets, Thoreau, James Michener, and the Chicago Manual of Style. Perhaps a few DVDs as well for entertainment. It is a brave thing to reduce life to a small circle of light. To realize what is really necessary for your mental and emotional happiness and fulfillment. It is energizing.

If you only had three boxes in which to pack your life, what would be in them? Think about it. Let me know what you decide.

The Chronicle of the Bees

I have a confession. When I was small, I caught honey bees in a jar and watched them fly about trying to escape. I have since come to my senses, repented of my sins against bees, and become a beekeeper. It is an interesting term: beekeeper. It is not the same as owning a dog or cat. Believe me, no one really "keeps" bees. In most instances, you stand by and watch the bees do their thing. You try to provide a proper place for them to colonize, build honeycomb, raise new bees, and store honey; like a beehive. At certain times of the year, depending on the weather, you provide additional nutrition, or bales of straw to protect the hive from the ravages of winter winds, which can freeze a colony in not time flat. Otherwise, they usually ignore you. I think that is a good thing, for I believe it reminds us of our place in the universe.

As a researcher, I did the usual thing and researched bees, their plight, and the joys of beekeeping before I took the plunge. I was afraid of the responsibility of "keeping" a hive of 30,000-60,000 little souls (as I thought of them). We obtained a swarm in the middle of June, which put the ladies at a disadvantage, or so we thought. However, before I continue, let me explain a few terms. Bees are female, unless they are drones. Drones impregnate the Queen, then hang around and eat until the real workers expel them from the hive in the fall. The drones have nowhere to go, and die. In beekeeping circles it is called The Massacre of the Drones. Women, even bees, are ruthless. Therefore, we refer to the colony of workers as "the ladies." Bees are dependent on pollen and nectar flows at particular times of the year. We were concerned they would not have the opportunity to build up their numbers before fall. The president of the Beekeepers Association visited our hive and pronounced everyone right on track.

I monitored their progress through weekly hive inspections and supplemental feedings. The bees were always pleasant and non-aggressive. (Wasps will sting you for no reason whatsoever; bees only sting protecting the hive.) I loved to wander out and watch them fly in and out of the hive entrance on their various errands. They ignored me, or occasionally one buzzed me to check me out. Once, while inspecting the hive a bee landed on my protective gloves and began buzzing. A very interesting, strange, and funny sensation.

They seemed to be doing well until about three weeks ago. We had a period of very low temperatures and wind. Even though I placed straw bales behind the hive in the direction of prevailing winds, the wind changed and attacked the hive from the front. To add insult to injury, the high winds blew off the top cover of the hive. During cold weather bees cluster around the Queen and maintain a temperature of around 94 degrees. Extremely cold temperatures and my inexperience may have seriously damaged the colony.

I am now waiting to see if the little ladies survived. There is nothing I can do. If they did survive, they will emerge one warm spring day. If not, I will clean out the hive and start over. It is Nature. I will be sad, but I know others have lost hives as well. I will continue to update their status as time goes on.

I have become more fully aware of the importance of the honey bee. At least one of every three bites of food we consume is the result of pollination by honey bees, or other varieties of pollinators. I will leave my editorial on the loss of the honey bee and its consequences for another day. However, I encourage you to plant a few bee-friendly flowers this spring. There are numerous Internet sites listing plantings for bee and butterfly gardens. Catch the buzz. Respect the Queen. Keep the little ladies flying.

Karma Pictures Continued

While blogging about my own karma pic I mentioned my sister. She is an interesting study. Seven years separate us with me in the lead. Like all younger siblings, she complains that there are more pictures of me than her. That is logical, as I have been camera fodder longer than she has.

As a child she did not care for sand, wind, and sun. She insisted on wearing sunglasses to ward off the evil sun and a hat to keep her hair neat. Sand was her worst enemy. My dad enjoyed camping vacations near water. Usually if there is water there is sand, especially along the Atlantic Coast.

Dad snapped the picture of SisterBee and MotherBee on Daytona Beach, Florida. Our dad believed it would be great to go to Florida during Easter vacation. Fortunately, my vacation schedule did not coincide with Spring Break or we would have been miserable.

That winter reminds me of our current weather situation. It is cold everywhere, even in Florida. A strong onshore breeze made the beach untenable, so Dad built a beachhead of sand to deflect the wind and give Mom an opportunity to sunbathe. I wore a sweatshirt over my swimsuit. Being young and determined, I stayed on the beach playing and even running out into the cold ocean.

However, SisterBee clung tenaciously to her beliefs. The picture says it all.

Post Script. When I returned to school following vacation no one believed I had been in Florida. They held their own beliefs, which even a suntan could not sway.