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Tag Archives: Carly Simon

Like a River

20 Wednesday Jan 2010

Posted by Janell in Life at Home, Prayer

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Carly Simon, Death, Everyday Life, Like A River, Prayer, Stephen Minister

“I’ll wait for you no more like a daughter
That part of our life together is over
But I will wait for you forever
Like a river…”     –  Carly Simon, “Like A River”


Like a river of life, Carly Simon’s music courses through my veins.

It has been this way since the earliest days of high school.  Carly shares her life so freely in song that it has always brought me comfort — she feels no need to cover-up the love or joy or pain.   I believe she grew stronger for the sharing of all her ups and downs;  and if not, I can say for sure that her openness made me stronger.

Carly’s songs invite me to lean into her experience, which prepared me to ride across similar rough waters of my own life.  So it is with Like A River, a song Carly penned in the mid-nineties about the fresh passing of her mother.  I listened to this song, along with all the other recordings released on Letters Never Sent, as I commuted to and from Houston in the late 1990’s.  Even now, I can see myself turning off of State Highway 288 on to south US Highway 59, listening to Like A River with tears in my eyes, as I got use to the idea of losing Mom long before I stood on the precipice.

Listening to Carly’s loss evolved into a longing to listen to others facing similar losses.  Though there are informal ways to offer the gift of a listening ear, I chose a more formal path, one that prepared me to become a Stephen Minister.  I sought training because I grew weary of feeling inept and uncomfortable around those grieving the loss of a loved one.  I wished to comfort however I could.  While I had no intention of becoming commissioned in the beginning, it  felt right to do so in the end.

Over the course of thirty months, I provided care to two different women.  Odd enough, both were facing the loss of their mother.   I cried with them and I prayed for them and with them.  But most of all, I just sat and listened and invited them to express their grief and their fears and ultimately their love, the love that would flow into eternity with their mother.

Long after the formal grieving period was over and all the family had returned home to pick up the doings of their own lives, I continued to visit them.  I came to listen to my care receivers, to offer them a safe and confidential space to express their grief in whatever way they wished.  And I didn’t stop coming until they felt their grief work was finished.

I gave up the ministry when I moved to Oklahoma.  But the Stephen Ministry led me to to explore spiritual direction which led me to create a contemplative prayer class, which has led me to pray for Connie, another daughter preparing to say good-bye to her mother.

Like a river, the stories of a mother’s passing are part of life itself — and like all life, the stories deserved to be shared.

No More

17 Tuesday Nov 2009

Posted by Janell in Life at Home

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Bad News Days, Carly Simon, Death, Never Been Gone, Prayer, Soul Care, Suffering, Writing

Today’s newspaper headlines should glisten with unshed tears:  “NICHOLS HILLS DOCTOR….JAILED IN SON’S DEATH”.

Nichols Hills is where money lives and breeds here in central Oklahoma.  And after reading a few details — 9 years old boy, Mom bruised in attempts to protect her son  and allowing myself a mere glance at the photos of the dad and son — I can bring myself to read no more. 

Why God?  Tell me how such a thing like this could happen?  Would any answer matter?  A little boy is dead.  This young boy was alive on Sunday.  Maybe he was happy then.  I’d like to think so.  Yet, sometime between Sunday happiness and Tuesday news headline, all hell broke loose.  Something terrible went wrong in Nichols Hills.  And it’s all over but the crying.  And I am terribly sad.

I grieve the loss of this young boy I did not know.  And I wonder about the irony of one who can take the Hippocratic oath “to do no harm” and do the worst sort of bodily harm that can be done to another.  And to his own child?  I am not consoled by my belief that this child is “now in a better place”, even though I believe it is so.  How can I not, when I allow myself to skirt thoughts of the last scary seconds of this boy’s young life?

Some will ask — as I just have — why God allows such suffering to happen in the world?  Why does God grant us such freedom, such power over another’s life, that human kind (or in some cases, human evil) could play God and snuff out the life of some young child — or some old man — or some whoever.   Minds better than mine have written on this topic — Philip Yancey and C.S. Lewis are two.  I must leave such high places of thought where angels fear to tread.

But a response does come at me like a freight train; God gives us such power so that we can make the right choices, so that we can love as we all want and need to be loved, so that we can bring up each other in the way that we should go, as the old Proverb says.  God entrusts the needy to us, hoping that we will shower them with love rather than with bullets — that we will feed them when they are hungry, clothe them when they are naked and give them shelter when they are cold. 

I don’t know whether this young boy died by a bullet wound or in some other way.  I didn’t let myself get that deep into this real-life horror story that is worse than any horror flick ever made by Quentin Tarantino.

Forgive me Father God.  For I need to go bury my head, like a baby ostrich in the sandbox, not ready for the scary sands of primetime news stories.  I want to pretend that everyone lives happily ever after.  And as for this boy, who now lives in the happily ever after, there is no need for pretense.

I offer this gift of words to this little boy that is no more; a boy that is no longer here at least.

And I offer this boy a prayerful hymn to accompany him on his journey.  It’s a tune of Carly Simon’s, one I’ve told my son Kyle that I wish sung at my own funeral some day.  It’s a great unknown song — for a great unknown little boy — a song that talks about coming home.  This is the best and only way I can love this boy right now — to let Carly sing him home.

 

The Good Old Days

09 Monday Nov 2009

Posted by Janell in Life at Home

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Birthdays, Carly Simon, Cattlemen's Steak House, Coming Aroung Again, Everyday Life, OKC Dining Out, Parents, Raising Children, Writing

My husband and I paused everyday life last night to mark the birthday of my first-born.  I’ve been a mother thirty-one years now; if you’re wondering, it seems every bit of thirty-one years, as I think on all the intervening events that have marked the passage of time.

We enjoyed a fine dinner in a nostalgic red leather booth at Cattleman’s Steakhouse, Oklahoma’s only claim to fame in the travel book, 1000 Places to See Before you Die. 1000 things Life does have a way of coming fast and furious, especially in your thirty-something years.  By day Kate is a full-time nurse.  By night and day, Kate juggles the competing demands of wants and needs that come with a family of six.

As I listened to her talk, I was struck by how similar Kate’s life was to mine at her age.  Newly married for the second time, her challenging career, her challenging home life with all the children’s activities — well, it’s enough to lose sleep over.  And Kate does.  She mentioned at dinner that she was unable to sleep the night before;  ironically, Kate was watching a television show on travel destinations in the middle of the night.

Though I suffer my fair share of sleepless nights, it’s worse to imagine your children fighting the same battle.   Usually, after an hour of tossing and turning, I get up to read a little.  Or like tonight, when my head is so full of thoughts of Mom’s storage shed and Kate’s birth night, I find it best just to release the spinning thoughts and anchor them to a line of words.  It’s an act of discipline, as if to write is to mutter sleepily….”Now stop your whining.”

I always lost sleep towards the end of a pregnancy.  My mother was living six hours south when I went into labor on a Wednesday night thirty-one years ago.  Kate was born early Thursday morning  — 1:28 am to be precise — and I recall being so tired and sore after it was all over, all I wanted to do was sleep.  Had it not been for the nurses who came in to check on this or that, I would have. 

My parents and sister arrived soon after Kate’s birth.  And Mom stayed behind a week to help me ease into my motherhood groove.  I’ll never forget those first days with Mom and Kate; even now, I can see Mom busy working in the kitchen, helping me with all the laundry  — how can one little baby cause so much dirty laundry?  —  and when all the work was done, Mom kept her hands busy by making a few crafts, including a nice big Christmas stocking for Kate.

I take out the memory of those days again and hold it up to the light.  How young my mother was then — both of us really, though it didn’t seem so with Mom now a grandmother and me now a mother.  Why is it that we never quite see life as it really is, while we are in the midst of living it?  Why does the passage of time and hindsight make the past more clear and even more precious? 

These thoughts remind me of a few words from a Carly Simon tune where she continues to refrain that these are the good old days.  These are words I need to hear and bear in mind as I continue to live my everyday life.  These are the good old days.

Yet, as good as the message is, it’s not a ‘just right’ fit for Kate’s 31st birthday and where she is in life.  Instead, I offer a variation on the same theme, from another Carly tune that I think she’ll recognize.  The words of this song, published in my 31st year, remind that if we’re willing to play the game of LIFE, that second and third chances happen; that the best kind of travel is our own time travel though life; and that seasons and reason to celebrate are always coming around again.  Just like a string of birthdays.

But in the meantime, I hope Kate relishes this one.  Because from where I sat, this birthday is already a good old day.

“Do any human beings ever realize life while they live it? — every, every minute?”

-- Thornton Wilder, "Our Town"

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