Father’s Day & Nesting Robins

A friend of ours, who happens to be an excellent father, once remarked that he hated Father’s Day sermons. “robin - CopyPastors always elevate moms to near sainthood on Mother’s Day,” he insisted, “but they beat up on dads on Father’s Day, chiding them for being workaholics, advising them to treat their wives better, telling them to spend more time with their kids.” Sadly, I’ve noticed that he’s right. Fathers deserve more credit.

Image (17)I wish I would have told my dad more often how much I appreciated him. He lived a quiet, hardworking, honest life, raising my two sisters and me. Nothing earth-shattering or epic. The kind of life we’re all supposed to lead—loving God, doing right, living well. He died much too young from a heart attack at the age of 62. I miss him.
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Dad had perfect Sunday School attendance growing up, and a string of gold pins to prove it. He used his magnificent bass voice to sing in the church choir where my grandmother played the piano. He was a much-loved only child, and I cannot imagine how difficult it must have been for my grandparents when he enlisted in the Navy during World War II at the age of eighteen. He rarely talked about his wartime service, so I know very little about it. He was assigned to a submarine chaser in the Pacific. He was a signal-man, sending and receiving Morse Code messages. He served most of his time in the Philippines. And forever after, he hated rice and the smell of the gunpowder from our cap pistols.

Image (16) - CopyHis family was all female—a wife and three daughters, living in a small, two bedroom house with one bathroom. Poor Dad was outnumbered. He used to joke that even our family dog was female. Yet he was good-natured about his suffering—and pretty quick at shaving on school mornings. He was a very big man and quite tall (I could always find him in a crowd) and I never doubted that he would protect me from harm. He was quiet, a man of few words, with a deep, hearty laugh. While he wasn’t openly affectionate, I always knew he loved me. I once decided to run away from home after fighting with my mother but only got as far as the front sidewalk when I met my father, coming home from work. “Don’t run away,” he said. “I’d miss you.” He shooed me back inside.

My father was a natural-born salesman who could probably sell ice cubes in the Arctic and spepsi - Copyand in the Sahara—but mostly he sold Pepsi-Cola in the Catskills, where we lived.  He worked hard all his life, and while he didn’t always like his bosses or the daily grind of work, he got up every day and did his job and brought home his paycheck without complaint. That’s what men in his era did. It’s how they showed their love.

bennygoodman - CopyBut I think Dad’s real love was making music. He played the clarinet in a band before he married and was a fan of Benny Goodman and Big Band music. I would see his face light up when he got out his clarinet or alto saxophone, and he had a deep respect for my husband who is a professional musician. Dad had talent and probably could have turned professional with the right breaks. But men needed to get “real” jobs in those days, especially if they had families to support.

Which brings me to the robins. A pair of them have built a nest in the crab apple tree outside my office window. I don’t know how many babies are in that nest but I hear a loud chorus of chrobinseeping every time one of the parents swoops in with another worm. All day long, the mama and papa birds take turns sitting on the nest and flying off for more worms—all day! Just watching them wears me out. Yet they continue doing it for hours on end for their babies’ sakes. That’s parenthood. That’s commitment. I watch the robins working tirelessly, getting the job done, raising children who will fly off and leave the nest one day—and I thank God for my steadfast, hardworking father. I miss you, Dad!

Double Blessing

Mother’s Day is doubly special for me. It’s not only a day to honor my mom and thank her for everything she taught me, but it’s also the day that my only daughter, Maya, was born in 1984. These two very special women bookend my life and fill me with joy and gratitude.

Mom, me and Maya in Jerusalem on the Temple Mount steps
Mom, me and Maya in Jerusalem on the Temple Mount steps

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Playing, Writing…and Playing

I enjoyed Robin Lee Hatcher’s blog last week about how much she loved to read as a child, and I envy her early discovery of the joy of writing. But I have a confession to make. While I also grew up in a household of readers—my mother was the town librarian—I was never a reader as a child. And I couldn’t sit still long enough to write! I remember my third grade teacher reading one of my writing assignments aloud to the entire class and praising it—my first 5-star review—but I still didn’t catch the writing bug.

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Artist’s Date

Gardens 5One thing I’ve learned during my 28 years of writing is that creativity is not infinite. Each time I sit down to dream up imaginary characters and the vivid worlds they inhabit, I’m tapping into a source that resembles a bucket more than a bottomless well or a flowing stream. If I don’t take time to refill that bucket, sooner or later my creative “juices” are going to run dry. Julia Cameron first drew my attention to the need to replenish my creativity in her book The Artist’s Way, and she taught me several ways to do it. She calls one of her ideas an Artist’s Date. This is time away from writing when I take my creative child somewhere to play. Last week, when writing became a chore and my nagging, inner critic started telling me that every word I wrote was drivel, I decided I needed to refill my empty bucket.

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Rosie the Riveter

WomeninHistoryMonthI often give a speech at women’s conferences and churches across the country, about how women’s roles have changed through the past centuries. Inevitably, wherever I go, a sweet, grey-haired woman—or two or three—will come up to me afterwards and say, “You know, I was once a Rosie the Riveter.” As I listen to them talk about their jobs in shipyards and aircraft factories, I marvel at how they learned to use welding torches and rivet guns to build submarines and jet airplanes. The women all smile sweetly and say something like, “Oh, but we just did what we had to do.”

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Dorothea Dix

WomeninHistoryMonth I’m so honored to be part of the amazing group of women writers. And I’m excited about introducing you to Dorothea Dix.

Dorothea Dix
Dorothea Dix

As a Baby Boomer, I was fortunate to grow up in an era where girls were encouraged to pursue a college education. But when it came time to apply to colleges and choose a career, I discovered that most adults, including my high school guidance counselor, still believed that the only acceptable careers for women were as teachers or nurses. They made it seem as though I should be grateful for those two options!

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