Just two people

No matter how hard I try,
I can't remember our first kiss.
But I remember every single detail
about our first hug.

It was on the sidewalk on Main Street
near the Overtime Tavern where we had been.
Arriving separately,
but leaving at the same time.

Bill the dog, waiting in the back
of Old Yeller (remember that pickup?)
parked in front of City Hall,
which makes the town sound bigger
and grander than it actually is.

It was not a first date
or any date at all for that matter.
It was just two people
enjoying each other's company
after work over a beer, belly-up to the bar.

For an Iowa farm girl,
he was an exotic cross between a hippy and a logger.
(I wonder what I was to him?)
His conversation was rapid and unpredictable,
as if bouncing off the bumpers in a pinball machine,
nearly impossible to catch up with.

As I recall, he mostly talked
and I mostly listened. Which is how I like it.
I understood some of what he said.

We left the bar together
and walked toward our vehicles.
Mine must have been parked
behind The Journal, where I worked.

And then suddenly,
I'm not sure how it happened,
I was in his arms in a perfect hug
that was exactly the right thing.
Unexpectedly perfect.

...

Now, many years later,
so much has changed.
The bar is a bistro, Old Yeller is gone,
the half-finished house is a mostly finished home.
The outhouse is now the recycling center.
The outdoor shower moved inside.
Kids have grown. Four beautiful daughters.
Grandkids arrived. Another on the way.

But one thing hasn't changed -
in his arms is still where I belong.
Exactly the right thing.
A perfect fit. Then and now.

...

(And no matter how hard I try,
I honestly cannot tell you about that first kiss.
More than thirty-two years ago.
But I'm guessing it was a doozy.)

Is it true?

"Is it true Auntie Lynn, that racism is
increasing in America?"

A simple question from my
'Ugandan daughter' Josephine.

How do I answer?
Living in a small town in Washington,
without television in my home,
I find myself isolated from so much.
How do I even know?

I try to pay attention.
I try to live my life in a manner
that encourages and supports others,
to be aware of the opportunities I have had
that are so easy to take for granted
and are not shared by everyone.

But I know, even though it is painful to say,
what I am doing is not enough.
Not if there are people
who are not safe to live their lives
in the country I call home.

...

Walking down the red dirt roads
in Uganda, I have experienced
being different, standing out because
of the color of my skin.
Children pointing and yelling "Mzungu"
but in an excited and curious way.
Friendly, not hateful.

I have climbed onto a boda,
a small motorcycle for transport,
and have wondered what the driver
thought of me, because of what I look like
and where I am from.
(Mostly, he probably thought
I could pay more for this ride.
And he would be right.)

I have experienced being a minority
for a couple weeks at a time
but I have never experienced racism.

I have experienced people
making assumptions about me
because I am American, and we are all rich,
but then I go home
to my middle-class life
where my culture tries to convince me
that what I have is never enough.

That is when my privilege
becomes something I want to hide,
making me want to take a scrub brush to my skin,
scouring off the white.

But wait - this is who I am.
And perhaps I can do a better job
choosing how I wear the color of my skin.

"Is it true Auntie Lynn, that racism is
increasing in America?"

Oh Josephine, the truth is that
it has always been here,
if we were honest enough to look.

Now, perhaps,
it is getting the attention it deserves.

Going Home

Behind every door, behind every curtain
in every ICU, there is a story.

It is a place where life is fragile and is held gently.
A place where the rest of the world falls away.
(It sounds peaceful when I say it like that.
But you know it isn't.)

Our family has a story.
Not all stories have a happy ending,
but I will tell you now - this does.

If you're looking for good news,
you are welcome to be part of this one.

Here's what happened.

The flu (the regular kind, not the pandemic)
turned into pneumonia in our mom's 86-year-old body.
It was February 8th.

The backdrop to this narrative
became a room in the ICU.
A room quickly filled with family,
trying to stay out of the way
as the nurses and doctors did their jobs.

It wasn't long, just a couple of days I think,
before hope was sent out the door
as if visiting hours were over.
We, however, were able to stay.

The doctor we named "glass half empty"
knocked the wind out of us
with his ominous description of to what to expect.
Preparing us for the worst, which is part of his job.

It felt for a while,
that the ventilator was keeping death alive.

And then later, so many days
filled with so many tears later,
that same doctor delivered to us hope,
as he went about his business
of saving our mom's life.

...

Off the respirator (for the second time)
trying to make sense of where she was
and what was going on,
and why so much family was there,
she asked, in a voice barely audible,
am I going to die?

No, no, we answer, you're getting better!
The words were a gift for us to say
and a blessing for her to hear.

And so she did. Slowly, bit by bit.
With much poking and prodding and hard work.
So much determination on her part.

Now she is going home. Today.
March 27th.

...

Writing this story down on paper,
I find myself careful not to equate God's love
with earthly outcomes,
as I speak of hope and healing.

Because we are all very aware that these
aren't the main characters in everyone's story.

Looking back,
recognizing the strength and comfort
we received from your prayers.
And for those of you who do not pray,
from your thoughts.
All flowing from the same love.

So very grateful.
Thank you.