Sounds of Hope

We came back from Tulsa with just a little more information. It was late summer. It was time to go back to St. Louis. I come from a Christian tradition that does not baptize infants. Rather we dedicate them as Hannah did Samuel. My husband chose to never participate in these experiences. At the time he assumed that a dedication made them permanently Christian – oh that it would! I had opted to participate in this ritual alone with each of our children. Bethany was the first one that I dedicated alone. Her father having beaten and deserted me when I was pregnant with her, I had no choice. Our pastor at the time had my mother participate. It was just so difficult for the church to deal with a single mother in those days. (Read about her birth here and the beating here .) I remember he used the passage from Timothy about Timothy’s Mother Lois and Grandmother Eunice . He did do a wonderful job. Now it was time to take my son alone. I was rather used to this by now but I never liked it.

This routine of the two-hour trip to St. Louis continued. In the summer, it would often mean a trip to Columbia first, also two hours away but in a different direction.  My mother never liked Hannibal. She was right, but we lived there. She would prefer we bring the children to her. Grandma was very good to the kids while they were in Columbia. The routine on most hot summer days was a late breakfast of pancakes. Dressed in their bathing suits they’d pile into her car and go to Oakland Pool. For a few cents, they’d enjoy the pleasures of summer at a city pool. Sometimes she would have to hunt for them, other times they were ready, when she’d come to get them to take them home for the evening. Before they arrived at the trailer, they would stop at a hamburger place. The place was shaped in an A frame and sold hamburgers for 50 cents. A bag full of burgers for sun baked chlorinated kids made for a wonderful summer. I had quit my job at the Mental Health Center in order to keep up with

Hospitals love early mornings. It was very early the next morning when the nurse came into the room. We were to carry our very hungry son to the surgical floor. As we went down the elevator I held him close and prayed. This was new territory even for me. My son Jason had been quite sick as an infant. He was in the hospital several times. Bethany had been critical after her birth. She had seen a heart specialist at 2 years old. However, she required no surgery and her birth defect was outgrown. Our fifth child, the precocious daughter who claimed the road, had also been very sick as an infant. I had slept many nights in the hospital with her as she labored for breath. Nathan and Jason had both had tubes in their ears. I was no stranger to children and hospitals. But this was different. The future looked very bleak at that moment. The airline ticket that meant single parenthood was still in his possession. There was no word on what he would do. I never remember him even speaking of it

The ophthalmologist was old. He was nearing retirement. His manner was very gruff.  He was old fashioned, no receptionist, no nurse, just him and his equipment. His equipment was very old as well. As I held my screaming infant down he looked in his eyes with hand-held equipment. He had a hand-held instrument that sat directly on the eyeball to measure the pressure in the eye. He placed this instrument on his right eyeball. I found the emotional strength to keep it together. Finally, with a worried look on his face, the doctor had a verdict. He said, I’ve never this before. You usually see it only once in your practice. Your son has glaucoma. Glaucoma?! That was a disease of an old person. He continued. I am not equipped to handle this. He got on the phone. He called St. Louis. A doctor’s office at Barnes hospital answered. An appointment was made for the next day. It seemed there was an urgency. If his eye were to be saved, we’d need to act quickly. The old ophthalmologist soft

I was about to have this baby any time. I had lost weight but my stomach swelled. It seemed this baby was a large one. I continued to see the doctor in Hannibal and planned to have this baby in the hospital where I worked. I had so much anxiety. I had no idea what I would do. I remember thinking that at least I knew the “system.” I could go back on food stamps. The government was no longer giving away commodity foods except for the large blocks of cheese. Later we would qualify for this cheese and because of the size of our family get 45 pounds of cheese a month – that’s a LOT of cheese. I was in labor all day. I waited until my husband came home from work. I headed to the hospital thinking it would be a quick and easy delivery. My last two had been very quick. This one was not. It wasn’t a long delivery, but it wasn’t short like the others. This baby was large. The large baby I had was only 7 pounds and she came quick and easily. Delivery rooms were still mere operating rooms. It

I’ve sort of gotten side tracked in telling this story. Plus I’ve gotten busy. The idea was I wanted to tell you about the miracle of my youngest son. I’m going to fast forward to that. No one in the family who remembers Hannibal, remembers it fondly. We’d been through some pretty awful stuff. We’d had some funny experiences with the kids – things that are funny now, but weren’t at the time. Like the time my oldest son Nathan and his brother faked illness to stay in the hospital. They had matching coughs and were admitted to share a room in the hospital. Jason knew how much fun this was sitting in bed, watching TV and having nurses call you sweetie while they brought you popsicles and pudding at the ring of a bell. One day the doctor decided to give Nathan his antibiotics by injections in the rump. I was working upstairs in the hospital. I heard it. Paging Dr. Strong – the code for a person who needed to be subdued by all the men available. We used that page a lot on the psych unit.

My sons were sick most of that winter. Eventually Jason was put in the hospital. They never could find out what was wrong with him. He had never been a well-child but I suspect now that it was grief. Once in the hospital he liked the attention. He liked having someone bring him popsicles and pudding at will. Lying in bed watching television or playing video games was certainly better than school. Eventually he was pronounced well enough to go home. Then it was my turn. I was pregnant with my fifth child. We didn’t know whether we would have a boy or a girl. My husband desperately wanted a son. We planned to name him Isaac. Perhaps because of stress or grief or both or neither, my blood pressure shot up to dangerous levels. I was still working at the mental health center. I asked one of the nurses to take my blood pressure. In horror, they told me it was 160/110. I called the doctor 100 miles away. He said come tomorrow and if it is still that high I’ll admit you to the hospital. It

I knew my stepfather but never really did know him. My mother’s relationship with him was probably as complex and complicated as any marriage. I am sure a marriage later in life, a second marriage where both have been widowed is very different from anything I have experienced. I think that overall, they were happy. I know the day he died suddenly and unexpectedly, they were happy. As I recall they had gone out for a dinner. I know he had just finished his new shed that would become his workshop. He did wood carvings. This shed had electricity for his tools and lots of room. They had moved from a large house into a two-bedroom two-bath mobile home. The shed would supplement for storage as well. My mother married her second husband in December before Bethany was born , one month before the beating and three months after I had remarried Alvin. It was a quick romance. It was so odd to see my mother with the blush of new love.  Even odder was to see my mother change into a holiness woman

I remember our move to 2007 Grace Street. Everyone was excited. My husband and I had our first child together. Her older siblings were excited. The house was great. It was an older three bedroom Victorian that had been remodeled. It had pocket doors in the living room, arches between the living room and dining room and a grand staircase. We moved from the tiny town of Hallsville Missouri. My husband taught Agriculture in Mexico Missouri half time and in the evening would deliver trays to patients at the Medical Center. I substitute taught in Hallsville. This new marriage was working out reasonably well. It had kinks like all new marriages. I was determined to be successful. Yet, something was wrong. I never felt like I belonged anywhere. Now I know that some of that was internal. I went to the same church but my life was so different than the vibrant college students, recent grads and newly married. I was newly married but not in the same fresh faced way that they were – what I saw a

My husband woke me up from a very sound dreaming sleep this morning. He usually tries very hard to be quiet but after 32 years of marriage, I hear him. However, I didn’t this morning. I guess because I have been sleep deprived and this was good sleep. I get up with near perfect predictability and fix his bowl of oatmeal every morning. He doesn’t like oatmeal particularly but he’s been on a cholesterol reducing diet for a while. I fix the oatmeal for him the way my mother fixed it for me when I was a kid, with milk, on the stove. No micro oatmeal here. Some mornings I want to play possum and just stay in bed. He wouldn’t care. He’s not demanding about his oatmeal. But love gets me out of bed and to the stove. Occasionally I really do oversleep. I thought that was the case this morning. My husband leaned over and kissed me. When your prince gives you a kiss, you wake up. My initial reaction wasn’t princess like. I thought geez I was sound asleep. Then for a split second I thought oh,

I grew up not far from Lapskaus Boulevard in Brooklyn. No that wasn’t it’s official name. Officially it was 8 th Avenue.   It was the heart of the commercial heart of the Norwegian community. A stroll down this avenue felt no different than a stroll down a street in Norway. There were fish markets and bakeries, restaurants and bars and lots and lots of churches. There were several Norwegian congregations. Most were Lutheran of one sort or another. The Salvation Army had an officer straight from Norway. My own church, a Pentecostal church, had a pastor with a thick Norwegian accent who could switch from Norwegian to English without thinking. Our life centered on the church. It didn’t always have to our church, just THE church. My father liked to go to a good meeting. That meant if one of the Lutheran churches had someone special, or a special meeting he’d go for the service. If it were the Salvation Army, same thing. Everyone seemed to know Brother Johannesen. Then there was the mi