A month of Inspiration ...

A month of inspiration ...

"Wake me when September Ends" by Green Day is the song that rattles through my brain from the end of August through the end of September.  There are so many dates in the four weeks from September 11 - October 6 that tug at my emotions.  It begins of course, with the anniversary of 9/11, followed by our annual fundraiser, the Jeff Coombs Memorial Road Race, Walk and Family Day, my birthday, Jeff's birthday (just three days apart and within the week of September 11) and then as the emotions begin to settle, mine and Jeff's anniversary on Oct. 6.

But this September was filled with a couple more dates that inspired, made me cry, made me think, and made me say "WOW."  I had the unreal opportunity to be within viewing range of Pope Francis at the 9/11 Memorial in late September.  This was one of those odd, bittersweet blessings that resulted from Jeff's death.  While standing there watching him pray at the South Reflecting Pool, I thought of Jeff and how he would be laughing, happy that I was there, knowing how much I had hoped to be there. I didn't get to meet the Pope, but being in his presence was still pretty amazing.  He's unlike all the others before him -- he's more relatable because he feels more like us, on a much more spiritual level, of course.  But rather than seeming like a super-human, he appears to be more like someone's grandpa who happened to become Pope!  His smile is sweet and infectious, and his modesty is endearing.  "Pray for me," he often says to the people.

In such harsh contrast to this kind, gentle presence among us, as we stood watching the multi-denominational Meeting for Peace on an outside screen, and as people sang along with the children's choir "Let there be Peace on Earth," I looked away at the roof of the 9/11 Museum where sharp shooters stood ready with their automatic weapons. I thought "this is what we've become."  Sad.

And back to the sweetness of it all, as Pope Francis rode by in the motorcade in his miniature Fiat, we just had to laugh, and wave as he waved back.  I walked out of Memorial Park feeling a little more blessed having been in the presence of the Holy Father, and happy to have shared it with my good friend Mary.

The very next day I attended the dedication of the Martin Richard statue and school of social justice at Bridgewater State University.  Being among the couple hundred invited guests was truly an honor.  At only 8 years old, Martin Richard had become somewhat of an ambassador for peace after being killed in the Boston Marathon bombings.  The picture of him holding the sign "No More Hurting People -- Peace" became an iconic image of the tragic events of April 15, 2013.  Both graduates of Bridgewater State College, Martin's parents Bill and Denise saw it fitting to accept the school's invitation to erect a statue of their young son there, delivering a simple message of Peace to the thousands of students who would pass by daily.  In Bill's address to the crowd, he expressed his overwhelming gratitude for the support and the school's willingness to breathe life into a child's wish for Peace.

I couldn't help but smile through the tears that welled up after hearing Bill speak about losing their son as I saw Martin's little sister Jane (who is now nearly as tall as Martin was then) rest her hand on his shoulder, put her head next to his, and playfully give him bunny ears.  The bitter-sweetness of this day and the pride Martin's family and friends felt was palpable -- you could see it in Bill and Denise's smiles and hear it in their words.  As Bill told me afterward, they had many offers to memorialize their son, but the BSU statue just seemed right, and seemed more like an opportunity to continue Martin's message than to just erect a memorial.

Feeling much like I did after I left Memorial Park the previous day, I left there feeling blessed.

I am blessed to have come to know the Richard family (but wish we had met under very different circumstances); blessed to be touched by the strength and compassion of this young family, and blessed to have been inspired by Bill's closing words -- "just be kind to people."

And now with September gone for another year and what would have been our 31st wedding anniversary around the corner (putting to rest a long emotional month), the song in my head subsides slowly ...

As my memory rests
But never forgets what I lost
Wake me up when September ends.

Always remember

Fourteen years ago the public swore they would never forget.  Most have not and for that we are grateful.  Senator Kennedy was a friend to us, understanding tragic loss on a level others could not.  He brought hope to us at a time we needed it most.  Here are his words that have stuck with me over the years -

"I wish that no one was ever lost in the high noontime of their lives.  I wish that tragedy never robbed a single soul.  But I know that life sometimes breaks your heart.  I can tell you from my own personal experience, that their loss will forever be with you.  As you know so well, the passage of time never really heals the tragic memory of such a great loss, but we carry on, because we have to, because our loved one would want us to, and because the lives they led and the love they gave you will become a brighter light to guide you as time goes on.  you will never walk alone."

Thankfully, with family and friends always there, and the spirit of Jeff always touching me, I have rarely felt alone.

We go on, not because we want to, but because we have to.  Always remember, as promised 14 years ago.

#1 Dad

When I was little I played with dolls.  I imagined being a wife and a mom  one day – it was a dream I had.  That, and becoming a writer.  I never, ever thought about being a dad.  What little girl does? 

At 28, my dream came true.  It happened again at 30, and for the third time when I was 34.  Life was perfect.  I was a writer, a mom,  and a wife, and my kids had the best dad in the world. 

I know everyone says that – that their husband or dad is the best dad in the world.  I loved it when my kids would say I was the best mom in the world.  They said it like it was the truth.  They made me believe it was true because I was the best to them.  That’s all that counts.  And as far as Matthew, Meaghan, Julia and I are concerned, their dad was the best dad in the world. 

For 13 years of motherhood, life was perfect.  We had happy kids and a happy life.  I was living the dream that I had when I was little.  But luck shifted toward the end of year 13, and life interjected something I hadn’t planned for or ever dreamed of.  When I was four days shy of turning 41, I became a dad, sort of.  By default.  By force.  By necessity.

I’ve written about this before – about how my kids so endearingly acknowledge on Father’s Day my attempts at being to them what their dad was, and about how I’m the first to admit I will never be able to fill those size 9.5 EEE shoes.  Jeff was funny and goofy, and he had high expectations for them.  He was devoted, and in love with his family.  He saw his role as a dad as the greatest gift God ever gave him.  He was the best, bar none, to us.

 Now with the 14^th Father’s Day without him upon us, my kids and I still miss their #1 dad.  This Father’s Day marks the year that all of my kids have been without their dad longer than they’ve had him physically in their lives.  Anyone who has lost someone knows the physical absence doesn’t make missing them go away just because time has passed.

My heart breaks for my kids when I see other dads with their adult children, and I wonder what our kids and Jeff would be like together at this stage.  I picture them having their first (legal) beer together, him congratulating them on landing their first jobs, celebrating their first real paycheck.  I silently wish he had been here to show Matthew how to shave; to see them graduate; to help them through their first heartbreaks. I say to myself as I watch these young adults interact with their #1 dads – “appreciate him, respect him, and love him.  You don’t know how lucky you are.”

Not just on Father’s Day, but every day.

Remember with kindness

On the eve of the 2nd anniversary of the Boston Marathon tragedy, there's a lot to think about.  My thoughts first turn to the families of those lost that awful day -- to Martin, Krystle, Lingzi lu and Sean, and to those who were injured, too numerous to name individually.   Two years doesn't take away the survivors' or the families' pain, or make the grief any easier.  It has become part of their lives that they've grown more accustomed to, because they have to.

Tomorrow has been declared OneBoston Day -- a time to remember and to honor with acts of kindness.  Remember Martin Richard's plea -- Peace: No more hurting people.  Use it as a reminder to be kind and considerate.

Use it as a way to honor an innocent young boy who had a simple but important wish, and all those who were affected.  Over the last two years I've gotten to know some of those who were intensely affected by the horrific choices those two brothers made on a day that is typically full of excitement, hope, anticipation and community.  Each of those whom I met define the word resilient.  They exemplify compassion.  The families of the four who died have displayed amazing strength and have inspired our community, our Commonwealth, and beyond.  What better way to support them than with a day of kindness that will hopefully continue on.  Don't stop with just one day.  Make it infectious.

These past five-plus weeks in court brought back all the hurt two terrorists caused, and remind us that the families and survivors deal with the affects of that day on a daily basis.  A continuous wave of kindness can do wonders in helping them cope.

The verdict doesn't mean closure for them -- it may just add another piece to the puzzle that will never be completed. But closure hardly exists when life will never be as it was.

Immediately after the verdict was announced, discussions began about the fate of the younger terrorist. People wondered aloud what the families and the injured want to see happen to him.  I am quite certain that they have different opinions, and various reasons for feeling the way they do.  I wonder along with the rest of you what their thoughts are, but I understand their desire to keep it to themselves.

The day the verdicts were read brought me back to the day Osama bin Laden was killed.  I felt for those affected by the Marathon Bombing the same thing I remember feeling on May 2, 2011.  No joy, no elation, no reason to celebrate, even as people poured out onto the streets in triumph over the death of the most feared terrorist in the country, as if one of our beloved teams had just won the championship. For my family, we felt relief that at last the most monstrous of the monsters was no longer of this earth, never to cause harm to us again.  But we didn't celebrate.  I cried.  I cried so hard I shook as my sister 3000 miles away tried to calm me down.  I've never known why I had that reaction and I've given up trying to understand it.  Another puzzle piece had been placed in the never-to-be-completed puzzle.

But my then teen-age daughter said it best.  She couldn't sleep thinking about it.  She was only 7 when ObL and his terrorist cohorts took her dad from her in such a violent and hateful way.  She sat in her bed at 2 a.m. and said "I think it's great that they got Osama bin Laden, but nothing really changes for us, does it mom?  Dad still isn't here."  Now nearly 14 years later, my kids have each lived without their dad longer than they had him in their lives, and their memories of him continue to grow more distant. And we continue to miss him every day.

I am not speaking for them, but it's likely the families of the Marathon attack feel like my daughter did. One of their attackers is dead; his younger brother in prison, where he will die a natural death, or be convicted of the death penalty.  Either way, he is out of society, unable to cause harm again.  Either way, the families of those who were killed will continue to grieve the loss of their beloved Martin, Krystle, Lingzi lu and Sean.

Either way Officer Dic continues to feel the affects of nearly bleeding to death after being shot in Watertown during the surreal chase to capture the heartless terrorists.  And either way, all the limbs lost and other injuries suffered continue to be a challenge for more than 260 individuals whose lives have been changed forever.  Whether the younger punk thug terrorist is put to death (which will take years after an appeal) or confined in a solitary cell in a super-max prison, nothing can take these individuals and families back to their lives as they were the morning of April 15.

God bless them.  And remember, be kind.  Peace -- No more hurting people.

So Much More Than A Quilt

So Much More Than A Quilt 

Last month I spent two days making a quilt for my son.  It's a promise I finally fulfilled after nearly 14 years, and one I had also made and completed for my girls almost two years ago.  But Matthew's I put aside, thinking maybe it wasn't as important to him since he never asked for it while the girls did, often.

My daughter Meaghan asked me two years ago why I hadn't found the time to make it yet, when I had carved out time to make other things for other people.  I told her it was an emotional barricade I was trying to break through.  These weren't just any quilts made from fabric carefully chosen at the fabric store.  They are quilts made from their father's favorite clothes.  It was easier to keep the clothes in a box, stored in the attic, than it was to bring them out and cut through them.  Each piece of clothing, mostly shirts, stirred my emotions, jogging the memories I shared with their dad -- as well as ones they shared with him.  Each one told a story.  I could almost see him standing in front of me, wearing the well-worn Mt. Washington t-shirt from a hike he took with our son, or the Kokapeli sweatshirt he wore on a hike with Julz, and the faded jeans that were baggy in the seat.  By touching the sleeve, it felt like I was touching his arm, trying to get his attention to tell him something.

But I finally decided it was time to make Matthew's.  I would surprise him for his birthday, which was the next day.

I'd be taking him, his girlfriend and his uncles out for dinner, so I had less than two days to get the job done.  Monday night I assessed what I had and what I needed.  I pulled out the shirts I would use and got everything ready for cutting Tuesday after an early morning meeting.  I was glad to be finally getting this done for him.

As I cut the monogrammed cuff off Jeff's Lands End all cotton white dress shirt, I saw a much younger me taking the iron from him to press his shirt for work.  "You don't have to iron it," he'd always say.  "I can do it."  But I really didn't mind, especially when I wasn't working outside the house because I was staying home with the kids.  The acid-washed blue t-shirt with the Colorado River on it reminds me of how we sat together on the couch as he showed me pictures of his river-raft trip through the Grand Canyon that he took with our brother-in-law Fred.  That trip was his annual time for rejuvenation.  He loved it so much and hoped one day to take Matthew. There were also shirts from our days at the University of Arizona, where we met.  The NCAA Basketball Champs shirt took me back to our first house in Weymouth when, moments after the Wildcats took the 1997 championship, Jeff handed me the phone and said "call your sister to buy us shirts!" He wore his so often it became transparent and full of holes.  These shirts spanned our life together, and a couple of them even came from his youth.  Scouting was an important part of his life, and he loved participating in it with Matthew. Realizing Jeff saved everything, I dug through a box until I found it and included his shirt from Cub Scouts, as well as his Lechmere shirt from his high school job.  Making these quilts was an emotional trip down memory lane.

The end result was a beautiful quilt full of love, meaning, emotion and thought.  It represented a life well-lived, and cherished memories between a father and son, father and daughters.  For me it's the most precious material gift I have ever given my children.  I hope when they wrap themselves in it, they feel a big hug -- the love from their dad that along with mine, runs deeper and more different than any love they'll ever know.