Sounds of Hope

I have reconnected with people from every stage of my life. From people who knew me as a child in Brooklyn to people where I now reside, in South Dakota. My facebook friends range through all the years of my life and many of them are reading this blog. Many of these friends knew me when all these events were going on. For countless reasons, they never knew.  Any one has the chance to know now. If you are reading, I'd love to know. Comments are welcomed! Shortly before our wedding, we had also purchased our first home. We had rented a small house and cleaned it spotless. I remember the discussion with my mother of whether hands and knees scrub-brush or a mop with lots of water was better. I, always wanting to be the martyr, wanted to get on my hands and knees. She and Alvin both agreed a mop with lots of water best. Other than the day we spent their cleaning and my adventure of trying to pee in the shower since the toilet didn’t work, I don’t remember much of the details of this sh

July 2, 1968 wearing a white satin princess cut dress with bows on the shoulders attached to a six-foot long white train, I walked down the aisle at First Assembly of God in Columbia Missouri.  So long ago, I almost can’t remember the details of the day. I am sure much of the memories of those hopes, dreams and anticipation has been erased by the pain and abuse that followed. I have five daughters. I have looked at them when they passed through their 16 th year and wondered how my mother could have ever allowed me to get married at 16. She had to give permission. It was the law. Even the law knew that a 16 year old shouldn’t be making such decisions on their own. In fairness to her, I am sure she thought she was doing what I wanted. Alvin was a good church going guy at the time. We believed in a theology of redemption and individualism. His parents, his upbringing, even past sins could not stop the grace of God and the work of the Holy Spirit in one’s life.  I spent time in my child

It is tempting to go on with just the story of the molestation. To tell you how eventually, many years later, I began to experience healing. It was important for you to understand my comments about the effects of being molested as I tell my story. The rest of that story, will wait for another time. Now is the time to finish the story I started. I thought I was in love. I assume he did too. We were children really. Children who thought we were old enough to assume adult life and responsibilities. Obviously, we were not. His background and childhood was equally marred. I give him no excuses for the pain and abuse he ultimately inflicted. Nevertheless, his childhood shaped him into the person he became. He was living in an apartment near the campus. He was still in high school. Rules were lacks. He managed to get an apartment, live on his own and go to High School at the age of 17. I don’t remember the first time I visited his mother. She lived 10 miles away in the unincorporated “to

It took less than a minute to walk from Barbara's house to mine. I wonder what went through my mind as I did. Being 8 years old, I am sure it can only be described as confusion. Too young to understand shame still I knew something was wrong. I had kissed him on the mouth when I knew better. Yet, I always wanted to be a good wife and mother - girls of the 50's dreamed of those things. Was this what I needed to know to secure my future? My block in Brooklyn was my small town . We had a bad neighborhood, right there on the block. How fitting that I remember being in front of the "tenements" when I told my mother that I had done something bad. I had kissed Mr. Thompsen on the mouth. Feeling better that I had told, my mother I am sure feared there was more to this tale. I don't remember it, but in a rare conversation a few years ago with my mother about Mr. Thompsen, she said she was giving me a bath the next day. It sounds bizarre now but in those days, Saturday n

There is great risk in what I am doing. It occurred to me that I could be jeopardizing potential jobs in the future. Being old is enough to jeopardize a career, now I add truth, vulnerability and candor to the mix. I am telling you how I got to be that young woman giving birth to her third child while her peers received their degrees. It is frightening to expose myself like this. But I have a story to tell. A story I feel that needs to be told for that one person who needs to know they can pull through by God's grace, mercy and help. The story of your life is not fixed in your past,  it is fixed in today.   It is fixed in getting up today and stepping into your future. I realize whomever it is who reads this story, whether in this blog or a book that may materialize in the future, may think I am foolish. Others may say I am brave. Exposure to the critical eye of another is always both. My motives are not for my own self-promotion, or even self healing. My motives are to share th

I don’t remember what I wore that day. I am sure it was a dress of some sort. We still were required to wear dresses in public school in those days. The church was very conservative and pants were never allowed anywhere. When moving to Missouri, we had started at First Assembly. It was the logical choice. We had always been Pentecostal and strict. No make-up, no movies, no card playing, were standards of my upbringing. Even a simple game of “Go Fish” or “War,” played with "devil cards" were unacceptable. I’ve written before about not being able to see Sleeping Beauty . One of the arguments was, even if the movie is okay, would you want to be watching a movie when Jesus came back? Heaven forbid - your rapture readiness would disappear in the twinkling of an eye. This church added no pants, no short sleeves dresses and no mixed bathing (swimming in the presence of the opposite sex). Television was frowned upon with long hair preferred for girls. I guess my parents thought

It was Easter Sunday, our first Easter in Missouri. We had not gone to the Sunrise Breakfast, an Easter tradition with the church we were attending. The next Easter I would go. I would be married, be a mother whose first child would be dedicated that morning at First Assembly of God in Columbia MO. I had thought moving to Missouri was a great adventure. I had visited with my parents the summer before. My oldest brother was working on a doctoral degree at the University of Missouri. Looking back it now seems odd that we moved. At the time, perhaps I looked at it as the same as so many of our friends moving to Long Island, New Jersey or Staten Island. Brooklyn was experiencing exodus. Replacing the Norwegians were mostly Puerto Ricans; later would come the Chinese. The neighborhood was changing. My father was retired. Being in his 50’s when I was born, retirement came while in Junior High School. They would tell you that the reason for the move was me. I am not sure if that was real

I've been thinking about writing a book. I've mentioned my desires to write several times now in this blog. I've mentioned the book. I've mentioned that when I was in high school, in Brooklyn NY, I thought I wanted to be a writer when I grew up. Although I haven't heard it in a few weeks now, for a while, it seemed every few days someone said to me, you should write a book. I wish I could tell you that the reason for my quietness on this blog has been that I have been busy with starting the book. I haven't started it. Nor do I have any idea of when I will write it. Then there is the book that my husband and I are supposed to write. Yes, I use the word "supposed" to because while I still may have doubts that any one is that interested in my life, I do know that "our" life is very interesting. I've wrestled with thoughts of "who do you think you are that any one would want to read about YOU?" I've told myself, "you&#

Last Saturday I woke up screaming. I had a strange dream. Unfortunately, this is not an unusual thing for me. Frequently I have nightmares. Some I remember, some I don’t. I have a recurring dream that often is nightmarish of moving back to Hannibal Missouri. I don’t usually wake up screaming with that dream. However, last Saturday I did wake up screaming. I had a convoluted nightmare that ended with me being in a strange house. Having been rebuked by the leader of a “prayer meeting” being held in that house for singing a song in parts, 10-12 black birds came flying toward me. Their wings fluttering loudly, they wrapped themselves around my head and neck. I managed to pull them off my neck but couldn’t get them off my head. With that, I started screaming, waking my husband who always asks the same question. Are you seeing a bad dream? I mean, duh? No I just like scaring him out of a sound sleep. Sometimes I won’t answer him because I just don’t want to talk about the dream. Sometimes

I would like to say I come from a family of writers. However, I think it would be more accurate to say, I come from a family of “wanna be” writers. Within my extended family sphere, three of us are blogging. My daughter is the latest to blog . She has been writing deep poetry for many years now and I am glad to see she has taken this step. Even in her teens, her poetry when read in church brought tears to the eyes of the hearers. Her poem about the death of her grandmother was read at her funeral.   I am very proud of her. We have another poet in the family, a niece, who has won awards and trips to Europe. I’ve not read her poetry, but evidently it is quite good. The awards give a legitimacy to her poetry.  Another niece has a deeply profound and moving blog about her journey. She is quite candid about her life. Since unfortunately my only personal interaction with this niece was when she was a baby, I’ve gotten glimpses of her as person through this blog. She has tremendous strengt

Have you ever heard the song about Barney Google, with the goo-goo-goo-ga-ly eyes ? Inspired by a comic strip, Barney had googly eyes. My dad used to sing this song sometimes. I can remember Sing-a-long with Mitch on the television with the bouncing ball helping us sing about Barney Google. It has a great catchy early jazz tune. I hope you’ll take the time to enjoy the video included. The word Google first came into the language in the early 1900’s in a children’s book The Google Book where googles inhabited googleland.  Now we use Google to refer to the search engine, Google reader, this blog is a Google blog, the list of parts of the Google Empire is very long. Before we Googled we “askjeeves,” went to altavista or some other search engine. Perhaps you are a “binger” trying the newer search engine BING. My favorite Google feature is Google Analytics .  I’ve used it since I first started to blog. Another blogger told me about this feature and I love it. Thanks to it, I know how ma

I’ve been looking at a lot of old photographs lately. I picked up a very odd collection of photographs my mother had in her room. I take greater delight than most in finding an old photograph. A house fire and too many moves have claimed our treasures forever. I was particularly delighted to find this assortment. It included photos of my dad as a young man, some of his brother and sister-in-law’s trip from Norway to visit us, his son and the 1963 New York City World’s Fair. There were photos of my mother with her siblings. I found photos of my mother as a very young woman with her first two children. How very young my mother looked. Her youthful beauty that she never saw in herself was striking. She always referred to herself as “homely” and as I looked at those pictures, I thought how sad that she never saw what an attractive woman she was. There have been other old pictures to look at as well. I’ve written before that I had the very unique and wondrous experience of ha

The window is open in the bathroom. I always open the window the bathroom when I come to Tennessee. Even when it is cold, I like to have the fresh air. I like to have the cold air hit my wet body. I like to hear the birds. I can't do any of this in South Dakota. It is a symbol of being home. We haven't been here since my mother died. Memory creep in and then become a flood. Even after she went to the nursing home, I found it difficult to go in the room she occupied. That room, always hot because of the rising sun. Now it is cold because of her absence. I wonder what we will do with that room when we settle back into this house for good. With a little coaxing and a bribe, my daughter Bethany will clean the house for me before I return. Too many times I have returned to a sink piled high to the ceiling with dirty dishes, trash piled to the back door and not one clean towel. It is worth the money for Bethany to clean. She is amazing. Not just because she cleans but because of