And what will Annika do in her 20's?
This is the question we've been pondering all week, beginning with her 20th birthday last Sunday. What will her 20's hold?
Graduate school. International relations. Leadership. Music. Singing, especially. Travel. We had our birthday dinner for her at a French restaurant to symbolize her plans for Paris. NYC is definitely on the agenda.
And who knows what else?
Well, for starters, an International Affairs major at the University of Colorado (Boulder).
We've been moving her in in stages, all week.
Bedroom linens by Marimmekko and IKEA. A trip to Target for a colander, silverware drawer, plates. Groceries from King Soopers. Gifts from friends. A wooden spoon from home.
White board and 3M hooks from Bed, Bath and Beyond. Luxurious blue blanket from BBB, too.
TV from a store in NYC. Desk lamp from IKEA and dad's genius with a screwdriver. Antique blue vases from mom. Christmas lights from the stash in the garage.
New computer battery from Dell. Expensive e-Books from the textbook gods.
And she's in. There are three roommates, four separate bedrooms (with locks!), a kitchen, living room with beautiful, peaceful very un-collegelike art. She has milk and eggs and pasta and peanut butter. I think we forgot bread. She has apples and granola bars and cereal.
Class starts Monday morning - tomorrow - at eight o'clock, sharp. She knows how to get there on the bus.
And so it is. And so it goes. A life-changing transition with a bunch of basic quotidian activities and materials. It went like clock work, simple, straightforward. Piece of cake.
A life-changing transition that takes your breath away. At least it took mine.
Annika's Birthday Octave is completed. And now the 20's really begin. What will they be?
Happy Birthday Annika! Now it really starts! (I love you so much!)
Sunday, August 26, 2012
Friday, August 24, 2012
Ghastly understatement is gross insult in British press
On this date in 1944 the Lodz Ghetto was 'liquidated.'
According to a Poland-based British news magazine, the Lodz ghetto was originally set up as a "Jewish gathering place" and became a source of Nazi materials while the inhabitants lived there.
This makes it sound like the Ghetto was a voluntary community. In point of fact, it was a gated community, one of the worst in Poland during WWII, where Jews were forced to survive, barely live, starve to death, and finally, be herded onto trains and taken to the extermination camps.
The Lodz Ghetto was a "Jewish gathering place" in the same sense that Ground Zero in Hiroshima was a city cemetery. Nothing the least bit voluntary about it. A place of hideous death and suffering. That Nazi material made while the inhabitants lived there was the product of forced labor and was the source, in many cases, of the Jews' own suffering and death.
I raise this for two reasons. One, basic awareness. All over Poland the Nazis herded Jews into involuntary quarters that were over-crowded by a factor of as much as 100, where disease and starvation caused mass deaths, and that were eventually liquidated to the extermination camps like Treblinka and Auschwitz-Birkenau. Point: The ghettos were part of the death-plan the Nazi's had for the entire Jewish population of Poland. Compliance was not voluntary and any ethnic Pole caught hiding and harboring Jews was shot.
Reason two for bringing this to your awareness today. British laziness? Anti-Semitism? Ignorance? Who knows why this story was so grossly underdescribed. It is a ghastly understatement and it's the Brits who made it. The Poles would not do this.
The accusations of anti-Semitism still leveled at the Poles are tiresome. Some Poles are anti-Semitic, as some Americans are racist against Mexicans, blacks, Asians, etc. But the official media and the official policies are not anti-Semitic. This is on the Brits.
Why? I have no idea. But let's be careful who we char with what brush. As I will be. Maybe this mistake was just laziness. Or a mistaken use of language. Maybe British English IS that different from American English. (I doubt it.) But anyway, the point we should all be clear on is that the Nazi's were the agents of death for Jews, and Poles, in Poland in World War II and today is a very sad anniversary. It led directly to the deaths of thousands of Jews who were stuck in that Lodz Ghetto against their will.
That is worth bowing our heads and asking for mercy.
According to a Poland-based British news magazine, the Lodz ghetto was originally set up as a "Jewish gathering place" and became a source of Nazi materials while the inhabitants lived there.
This makes it sound like the Ghetto was a voluntary community. In point of fact, it was a gated community, one of the worst in Poland during WWII, where Jews were forced to survive, barely live, starve to death, and finally, be herded onto trains and taken to the extermination camps.
The Lodz Ghetto was a "Jewish gathering place" in the same sense that Ground Zero in Hiroshima was a city cemetery. Nothing the least bit voluntary about it. A place of hideous death and suffering. That Nazi material made while the inhabitants lived there was the product of forced labor and was the source, in many cases, of the Jews' own suffering and death.
I raise this for two reasons. One, basic awareness. All over Poland the Nazis herded Jews into involuntary quarters that were over-crowded by a factor of as much as 100, where disease and starvation caused mass deaths, and that were eventually liquidated to the extermination camps like Treblinka and Auschwitz-Birkenau. Point: The ghettos were part of the death-plan the Nazi's had for the entire Jewish population of Poland. Compliance was not voluntary and any ethnic Pole caught hiding and harboring Jews was shot.
Reason two for bringing this to your awareness today. British laziness? Anti-Semitism? Ignorance? Who knows why this story was so grossly underdescribed. It is a ghastly understatement and it's the Brits who made it. The Poles would not do this.
The accusations of anti-Semitism still leveled at the Poles are tiresome. Some Poles are anti-Semitic, as some Americans are racist against Mexicans, blacks, Asians, etc. But the official media and the official policies are not anti-Semitic. This is on the Brits.
Why? I have no idea. But let's be careful who we char with what brush. As I will be. Maybe this mistake was just laziness. Or a mistaken use of language. Maybe British English IS that different from American English. (I doubt it.) But anyway, the point we should all be clear on is that the Nazi's were the agents of death for Jews, and Poles, in Poland in World War II and today is a very sad anniversary. It led directly to the deaths of thousands of Jews who were stuck in that Lodz Ghetto against their will.
That is worth bowing our heads and asking for mercy.
Thursday, August 23, 2012
Face,family, story, not a statistic
A very young man was buried today.
Too young to know dirt and the box.
Joshua J. Ehlers was buried today in a very small town, Albert City, in Iowa. He was the son of Betty and Steve Ehlers and the wife of Lauren, father of Izzy and Jamie. He was the grandson of Doris Skog. He was the brother of Bethany and Caleb and Andrew and Britta and Madison. He was an uncle, a cousin to our cousins, a friend, and a soldier.
Sgt. Joshua Ehlers took his own life a week ago near Fort Campbell, Kentucky.
His family is devastated.
Joshua suffered from Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder. He suffered. He went to war, came home, and suffered more.
His family is devastated. He is too young to be locked beyond time, beyond us, beyond his family, in ground.
We are told that one soldier commits suicide every single day. Every day one post-Iraqi and post-Afghani veteran kills him or herself. Every day. One dies.
We hear the statistics but not the stories. Joshua's mother is distraught. His father, his wife, his daughters -- when they become old enough to understand, his siblings. His grandmother. In little stories across this country, ground is opened and dirt is poured. It is a sour sacrament.
We hear the statistics and say, "something must be done," but we are clueless.
There are treatments for PTSD. Not enough soldiers have access to them. Or choose them.
I had such a treatment today. My war was only a few miles from here, from home. The IED's that blew up were quieter, but deadly. My wounds are hidden too.
Except to my family. And my therapist. This afternoon I held small electronic chargers in my hands and felt the bilateral pulses in my palms, while I relived a part of my trauma. I sobbed and felt the same sensations in my body as I had when the trauma occurred. An hour later, some small measure of healing had occurred.
It will be a long time before my trauma is healed. And I cannot say that this approach, called EMDR, works for everyone. Trauma is a tricky fox that shows itself in different guises and has manifest disguises. It does not give up easily. It is a brain injury. I don't know if it could help even those who can't afford treatment. I feel very lucky. But not everyone with PTSD is able to choose the various therapies available.
And not all of them work quickly enough to alleviate the excruciating pain that our veterans bring home. I don't know if Joshua was in therapy or had been treated for PTSD.
I just know that he was family. A face, a story, a father, a son, a brother, a husband, a guy who just last week was mugging for the camera with his young daughters, his wife, and two overgrown make-believe animals at a theme park. He was a grandson to a sweet woman who makes the best cinnamon buns in America. And now he's gone. All but memory.
Such a tragedy. A human one. An Albert City tragedy. A family tragedy. A very sad sad loss.
Peace to the memory of this bright young man.
Too young to know dirt and the box.
Joshua J. Ehlers was buried today in a very small town, Albert City, in Iowa. He was the son of Betty and Steve Ehlers and the wife of Lauren, father of Izzy and Jamie. He was the grandson of Doris Skog. He was the brother of Bethany and Caleb and Andrew and Britta and Madison. He was an uncle, a cousin to our cousins, a friend, and a soldier.
Sgt. Joshua Ehlers took his own life a week ago near Fort Campbell, Kentucky.
His family is devastated.
Joshua suffered from Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder. He suffered. He went to war, came home, and suffered more.
His family is devastated. He is too young to be locked beyond time, beyond us, beyond his family, in ground.
We are told that one soldier commits suicide every single day. Every day one post-Iraqi and post-Afghani veteran kills him or herself. Every day. One dies.
We hear the statistics but not the stories. Joshua's mother is distraught. His father, his wife, his daughters -- when they become old enough to understand, his siblings. His grandmother. In little stories across this country, ground is opened and dirt is poured. It is a sour sacrament.
We hear the statistics and say, "something must be done," but we are clueless.
There are treatments for PTSD. Not enough soldiers have access to them. Or choose them.
I had such a treatment today. My war was only a few miles from here, from home. The IED's that blew up were quieter, but deadly. My wounds are hidden too.
Except to my family. And my therapist. This afternoon I held small electronic chargers in my hands and felt the bilateral pulses in my palms, while I relived a part of my trauma. I sobbed and felt the same sensations in my body as I had when the trauma occurred. An hour later, some small measure of healing had occurred.
It will be a long time before my trauma is healed. And I cannot say that this approach, called EMDR, works for everyone. Trauma is a tricky fox that shows itself in different guises and has manifest disguises. It does not give up easily. It is a brain injury. I don't know if it could help even those who can't afford treatment. I feel very lucky. But not everyone with PTSD is able to choose the various therapies available.
And not all of them work quickly enough to alleviate the excruciating pain that our veterans bring home. I don't know if Joshua was in therapy or had been treated for PTSD.
I just know that he was family. A face, a story, a father, a son, a brother, a husband, a guy who just last week was mugging for the camera with his young daughters, his wife, and two overgrown make-believe animals at a theme park. He was a grandson to a sweet woman who makes the best cinnamon buns in America. And now he's gone. All but memory.
Such a tragedy. A human one. An Albert City tragedy. A family tragedy. A very sad sad loss.
Peace to the memory of this bright young man.
Friday, August 17, 2012
The Box and the Amber Necklace That Got Away
It was supposed to have been an amber necklace.
Years afterward, I bought myself an amber necklace to replace, in my mind, the one that got away.
In the spring of 1987, I hosted a small delegation of some six or seven Russian Orthodox bishops at our congregation in Chicago for an ecumenical prayer service. It was a meaningful evening with early American (think Sacred Harp) and other traditional hymns and moving homilies about Christian Unity from the leader of the Russian group, an Archbishop Kirill, and the Presiding Bishop of the ELCA, The Rev. Herbert Chilstrom. My baby was barely five months old and the photos show I had not lost the pregnancy weight.
Later that night, Archbishop Kirill wanted to see the top of the Sears Tower so off we went through the streets of the South Loop, Orthodox hats with their long tails trailing and flying in the wind. It was rather hilarious, really. It turned into a fun day with lots of good feeling and a warmth I had hoped for but barely dared to expect. They had been a bit taken aback when I was the official representative to meet them at the airport, tiny imp in my arms. But we bonded. And at the end of the day, when I dropped them off at the Sofitel, they implored me to come up to their room. Their was much hush-hushing and murmuring among them.
As it turned out, the beautiful amber necklace they had reserved for me was given, an obligation, to the wife of Bishop Chilstrom instead. They had no gift for her when she turned up at the service and she must receive something. They felt chagrinned at having nothing left for me. So.
There is a malachite box on my kitchen island this week, reminder of their visit. They gave it to me late that night as a consolation gift in place of the afore-lamented amber necklace. It is a beautiful little box. I have a small Orthodox cross tucked inside. It also happens to be the perfect size for holding AA batteries. It usually resides on the living room bookcases.
Why did I move it to the kitchen? As it turns out, Archbishop Kirill is now Patriarch Cyril of the whole big Russian Orthodox Church, their pope, as it were. And a top supporter of Putin. Patriarch Cyril is currently visiting Poland, trying to promote and ratify a better relationship between their Roman Catholics and the Russian Orthodox. That is a longer story than this brief blog post can even begin to tell.
I am simply being a bit sentimental. Remembering a long time ago, a meaningful evening, a riot of bishops billowing in the windy canyons of downtown Chicago. Cyril has long been a vehicle of the Russian government -- I'm not that naive -- but he was a funny, kind man when I met him. And I understand something of the cost of discipleship in impossible places. No excuses, just a bit of nostalgia. And a wisp of wistfulness for the amber necklace that got away.
Years afterward, I bought myself an amber necklace to replace, in my mind, the one that got away.
In the spring of 1987, I hosted a small delegation of some six or seven Russian Orthodox bishops at our congregation in Chicago for an ecumenical prayer service. It was a meaningful evening with early American (think Sacred Harp) and other traditional hymns and moving homilies about Christian Unity from the leader of the Russian group, an Archbishop Kirill, and the Presiding Bishop of the ELCA, The Rev. Herbert Chilstrom. My baby was barely five months old and the photos show I had not lost the pregnancy weight.
Later that night, Archbishop Kirill wanted to see the top of the Sears Tower so off we went through the streets of the South Loop, Orthodox hats with their long tails trailing and flying in the wind. It was rather hilarious, really. It turned into a fun day with lots of good feeling and a warmth I had hoped for but barely dared to expect. They had been a bit taken aback when I was the official representative to meet them at the airport, tiny imp in my arms. But we bonded. And at the end of the day, when I dropped them off at the Sofitel, they implored me to come up to their room. Their was much hush-hushing and murmuring among them.
As it turned out, the beautiful amber necklace they had reserved for me was given, an obligation, to the wife of Bishop Chilstrom instead. They had no gift for her when she turned up at the service and she must receive something. They felt chagrinned at having nothing left for me. So.
There is a malachite box on my kitchen island this week, reminder of their visit. They gave it to me late that night as a consolation gift in place of the afore-lamented amber necklace. It is a beautiful little box. I have a small Orthodox cross tucked inside. It also happens to be the perfect size for holding AA batteries. It usually resides on the living room bookcases.
Why did I move it to the kitchen? As it turns out, Archbishop Kirill is now Patriarch Cyril of the whole big Russian Orthodox Church, their pope, as it were. And a top supporter of Putin. Patriarch Cyril is currently visiting Poland, trying to promote and ratify a better relationship between their Roman Catholics and the Russian Orthodox. That is a longer story than this brief blog post can even begin to tell.
I am simply being a bit sentimental. Remembering a long time ago, a meaningful evening, a riot of bishops billowing in the windy canyons of downtown Chicago. Cyril has long been a vehicle of the Russian government -- I'm not that naive -- but he was a funny, kind man when I met him. And I understand something of the cost of discipleship in impossible places. No excuses, just a bit of nostalgia. And a wisp of wistfulness for the amber necklace that got away.
Thursday, August 16, 2012
Welcome home Missy Franklin
How refreshing this is!
In a grim summer that seems only to get bleaker, it was so much fun to see the uninhibited, unabashedly joyful posters in the neighborhood this week that say, "Welcome home, Missy!" I've taken to driving past them just to make me smile.
A young woman doing what she is gifted to do. A young woman doing what she loves to do. The perfect marriage of love and ability. It is a gift to this world to have joy and laughter and skill working in sync -- one can hardly say working with a straight face, it looks like such fun, except we know it does involve a lot of work.
Five Olympic medals, four gold (in case you slept through the Olympics, fair enough) are now at home just up the hill from our house. Pretty cool. And a lovely young woman who loves life.
No grim lectures, no hateful, snarky rhetoric (of which I too am guilty), no fires, no drought, just joy and being who God made her to be.
That is the coolest thing and I am going to be all about that (I hope).
Those welcome banners of course should hang on the neighborhood signs for all of us who work hard and do well at joining our gifts to good purpose. But for now I'll at least enjoy the ones that welcome Missy.
"The Golden Gator" (the neighborhood swim team) is back in the 'hood. And we're all feeling a bit brighter.
Next?
Who in your neighborhood gets a banner and a welcome home party? Think on these things.
In a grim summer that seems only to get bleaker, it was so much fun to see the uninhibited, unabashedly joyful posters in the neighborhood this week that say, "Welcome home, Missy!" I've taken to driving past them just to make me smile.
A young woman doing what she is gifted to do. A young woman doing what she loves to do. The perfect marriage of love and ability. It is a gift to this world to have joy and laughter and skill working in sync -- one can hardly say working with a straight face, it looks like such fun, except we know it does involve a lot of work.
Five Olympic medals, four gold (in case you slept through the Olympics, fair enough) are now at home just up the hill from our house. Pretty cool. And a lovely young woman who loves life.
No grim lectures, no hateful, snarky rhetoric (of which I too am guilty), no fires, no drought, just joy and being who God made her to be.
That is the coolest thing and I am going to be all about that (I hope).
Those welcome banners of course should hang on the neighborhood signs for all of us who work hard and do well at joining our gifts to good purpose. But for now I'll at least enjoy the ones that welcome Missy.
"The Golden Gator" (the neighborhood swim team) is back in the 'hood. And we're all feeling a bit brighter.
Next?
Who in your neighborhood gets a banner and a welcome home party? Think on these things.
Wednesday, August 15, 2012
Medical school commencement
Commencement: To begin, to enter in, to start.
The first day of school. Pencils, check. Notebook (electronic), check. Big pink erasers, check. Bike headlight, check.
I'm remembering the shopping trips that netted big bags of yellow number 2 pencils, chubby-finger primary color crayola brand crayons, Elmer's glue, a red pen for the teacher, Hello Kitty folders, pink backpacks, and a plastic protractor. I loved those trips for school supplies.
Every year our trip was itself a sign of forward movement. From Hello Kitty to horses to, finally, plain color folders. Big trapper binders. Expensive calculators.
How does it go so fast? The girls don't think so. They think, "FINALLY!" I'm thinking, "what, where, when did it pass?"
Medical school commencement. The first day of school. A ceremony that involved a stethoscope, an oath (think Hippocratic only updated to allow cutting of skin), and a sleek white coat. A processional, a recessional. Suit coats and fancy dresses.
Now we have gone from locker partners to "body buddies," from algebra to anatomy.
She is a woman. Her own woman. Still ours but more hers. It jolts the system, I confess. Even while it feels right. She can cut skin and bonk people on the knee to check reflexes and, before we left, she confirmed that each of us has a heart.
Commencement. It has begun.
The first day of school. Pencils, check. Notebook (electronic), check. Big pink erasers, check. Bike headlight, check.
I'm remembering the shopping trips that netted big bags of yellow number 2 pencils, chubby-finger primary color crayola brand crayons, Elmer's glue, a red pen for the teacher, Hello Kitty folders, pink backpacks, and a plastic protractor. I loved those trips for school supplies.
Every year our trip was itself a sign of forward movement. From Hello Kitty to horses to, finally, plain color folders. Big trapper binders. Expensive calculators.
How does it go so fast? The girls don't think so. They think, "FINALLY!" I'm thinking, "what, where, when did it pass?"
Medical school commencement. The first day of school. A ceremony that involved a stethoscope, an oath (think Hippocratic only updated to allow cutting of skin), and a sleek white coat. A processional, a recessional. Suit coats and fancy dresses.
Now we have gone from locker partners to "body buddies," from algebra to anatomy.
She is a woman. Her own woman. Still ours but more hers. It jolts the system, I confess. Even while it feels right. She can cut skin and bonk people on the knee to check reflexes and, before we left, she confirmed that each of us has a heart.
Commencement. It has begun.
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