A birthday and a lesson after death...

Yesterday was my friend Jonathan's birthday. I've known Jonathan since sixth grade. He was kind and funny and seemed immune to negativity, peer pressure, hatred or meanness. He was quite simply the kindest, most positive and upbeat person I knew. Jonathan and I lost touch as many of us Gen X'ers did (we didn't have anything like Facebook when we graduated - life was very different). One day, at some point after I found Facebook, Jonathan did too and we became Facebook friends. He would send me messages now and then (not posts on my wall but actual, personal messages that often just said "Hi Amy, how's life? I hope you're great. I'm very happy that things went well yesterday at the hospital. I'm so proud of my boy! He's going to play soccer soon!"). You see, Jon had all the reason in the world to be down-trodden. His five year old son had cancer. He and his wife did all they could to have a happy, normal life as they fought against the cancer monster and celebrated his son's little milestones in the big battle and eventual victory over cancer.

Jon died a year and a half ago, suddenly, unexpectedly. Jon shouldn't have died. There was no reason for it. He was young, he was proud of his time spent working out at the Y to be healthy, and he had a son who needed him arguably more than any boy possibly could. I attended Jon's funeral at home and reconnected with old friends. We relived the pure beauty that was Jon. We mourned, we became closer to each other and I met his wife Sheryl and his son as they were saying their goodbyes to my childhood friend.

Sheryl and I connected instantly. I wanted to do something to support her. But I felt that there was nothing I could do. I was wrong. And I am telling you this - if you are reading - because you, like me, probably need to believe in a much greater power than what you and I can comprehend. You need to know that God/the universe/an energy greater than us is always at work in our lives - just like I needed to believe.

Jon died in the fall, not long before Christmas. I felt so compelled to do something for his wife and son but I couldn't imagine what - I barely knew them and I had no idea how it would be received if I did something. I wound up shopping for Christmas gifts for them both - surely, I thought, that was acceptable and welcome. While shopping for a woman my age and a five year old boy I was utterly compelled to purchase a pink feather boa that I tried many times not to buy.  I thought it was too silly, too inappropriate, too - something. But I just went with my first instinct and wrapped it up and gave it to Sheryl for Christmas mere weeks after Jon died. When she opened the gift, she was speechless. She smacked my thigh, looked franticaly around the room and then got up, searching for something. When she came back and sat next to me, she stared at me in disbelief. She couldn't speak and I really wasn't sure what was going on. She had a pile of photographs and kept telling me she had to find one. She found it. It was a silly photo of Jon wearing a feather boa. It had become a joke the two of them shared and laughed about often. I knew instantly: I didn't give Sheryl that feather boa, Jon did. But he needed a human to be quiet enough and trusting enough of her instincts to help him give this gift to his wife who missed him so much so he could say to her "I'm here." ...And I was that human who was eventually quiet and compliant enough to take a pink boa off a wall, buy it, wrap it and give it to someone who would, unbenounced to me, know exactly who it was from.

Yesterday we remembered Jon's entrance into this world in a now-Facebook culture. Many of us posted long messages on his wall about how much we miss him, how his positive outlook continues to teach us and what a gift he was to everyone. And while Jon is "gone," he is often present in my heart and mind because he has been my teacher, both in life and in death. He gave me my first tangible experience of connecting directly with the other side, with God. I took an action that came from deep inside of me, one I could not rationalize or figure out, no matter how hard I tried. That deep instinct (Jon's urging me) persisted and I acted according to that instinct. It wasn't mine to judge, just mine to act upon for someone else's benefit. I believe that this is what we are all given every day: A strong urging to do something that we may not understand, that may not benefit us directly but something that we know comes from a place of love so we go ahead and do it anyway. And so tonight, I share this with you all to suggest that we can all hear the guidance of God and our guides if we just listen to that knowing voice inside of us which proves to always be right, even if we never receive the evidence of just how right it is.

Jon, thank you. I celebrate your birth into this world and the gifts you continue to give us. We all love and miss you and I pray that we will all continue to grow in ways we cannot yet imagine because I know you are there helping us whether we listen or not.

Happy birthday, sweet soul.

Gratitude for Gratitude

Last night, I celebrated my birthday again, this time with a friend I've known for several years who shares the same birthday as me (plus a few years) and while we are very different people in some ways, we are incredibly similar in some, too.  It makes me wonder if sharing the day of our birth somehow makes us understand things in a ways others cannot.

Happy Birthday to us!

Let me tell you a bit about our evening and how it brought me to a place of even deeper gratitude for Nate and a new commitment to speaking my gratitude aloud for at least one person to hear.

When Nate and I arrived at the restaurant last night, the hostess initially seated us in a very cramped part of the restaurant.  There wasn't even room for Nate to wheel his chair under the table without blocking the narrow walkway between the tables.  Yes, it was a Saturday night, but the restaurant was big enough to have the kind of space available that someone in an electric wheelchair truly needs in order to enjoy an evening out that the rest of us able-bodied folks take for granted.  I find it easy to become vocal about Nate's needs when we spend time together.  I notice so much of what he experiences on a daily basis and 90% of it just makes me angry.  After seating us at an impossible table (and after the hostess looked over Nate's head directly at me to ask a question about him), I got angry enough to get up and ask for another table.  Eventually, they found us one and we made the great trek to the other side of the restaurant (people needing to move themselves or their chairs in order to let us through).  We were re-seated at a table in the corner near the side door which was opened often, and every time it was we nearly froze to death but it didn't matter.  We were about to have a great time, as we always do, laughing, talking about work, relationships, God, the meaning of suffering and so much more.

Something always happens when I spend time with Nate.  A part of me feels his pain.  A part of me wishes to make things easy for him, even if just for the hours we are together.  A part of me worries that I will outlive him.  A part of me sees the beauty and great humility that comes from someone who must ask for help.

More than anything, after I've spent time with Nate, I am always reminded of the miraculous capacity humans have to face any amount of suffering and move through it to a place of not just survival, but gratitude.  Nate was proud to have lived fifteen years as a quadriplegic.  Turning 1 year older was a source of pride for him, despite all that you and I might view as the pain and loss in those fifteen years.

Nate is a teacher, like me.  He's caring and compassionate, just like me.  He has the ability to engage anyone in conversation and wants to make them laugh.  Last night complete strangers came over to speak to him - some offered to take our photo (Nate would tell you that it's because we are the two most attractive people in the world - unfortunately, that picture didn't save so we only have a few dark camera phone self-portraits to prove his theory).  Our waiter even thanked us for making his night a little bit brighter after struggling with a challenging party of 20 people (they were right next to us - between the camera flashes all night and, apparently, the bill divided 20 ways, I can imagine what a headache the night must have been for him).

While we would have stayed out much later talking about the reasons that our souls chose the paths we are on in this lifetime, Nate had to return home.  Before we said goodbye, though, we made a commitment to something.  We even pinky swore on it.  Nate and I agreed to post one thing on each other's Facebook page that we are grateful for every single day.  We decided that there is always something to be grateful for.  Even the tiniest thing.  And sometimes, the things that we can be grateful for aren't so tiny - like a night that was more fun than any other we've had (that includes the Sox-Yankees game I got to see with him because he can get tickets in the handicap section).  I could have chosen to focus on the rough start to the evening because Nate's unique needs were not considered but instead, I choose to think about how the evening ended up to be quite wonderful - for Nate, for me and a waiter named Jason.

And just so you know a bit more about the kind of person Nate is, here's one final detail about last night:  I started to get indigestion toward the end of the evening from all of the spicy food we ate and he insisted on asking the waiter where the nearest drug store was - and then going out in the cold himself to get me Rolaids.

So, gratitude for gratitude, that's what I'm sharing with Nate.  May you, too, find someone to share your gratitude with.  This is a way for us to keep each other thinking positive and remembering to always find something to be thankful for, even on our darkest days.

Here is our Gratitude for Gratitude, day 1:

Amy: I'm grateful for honest friendship.

Nate: I am thankful for good food, good friendship, and good conversation!

Heal the World, Make It a Better Place...

It's no surprise to anyone who knows me that I know that Michael Jackson sang about the kind of truth in the world that we are experiencing today.  I also know that we can Heal the World, we can Make It a Better Place.  And we must.

I'm so struck today by this unconscionable disaster in Japan.  Many of us are left with images today that shock us and beg the question, "what can I do?"  Or better yet, "what should I be doing?"  I'm typically not a fan of shoulding someone but in this case, I believe that it is our obligation as humans to do something.  And we can do something just as easily as we we breathe, think and enjoy the pleasures that exist just by being here on this big beautiful planet.

While so many are suffering on Earth today, I feel that I have to do something.

I can't go rescue people in Japan.  I can't put out fires.  I can't find lost loved ones or deliver water to people trapped in their homes.  I can't figure out how to secure nuclear reactors or put highways back together.  I can't tell a mother that her child is gone or a child that her mother is gone.  Someone else, somewhere, will do what I cannot do but that does not remove responsibility from me or anyone else.

So I will do what I can, where I can and how I can.  What I can do is feel good that I've been giving my time and passion to a volunteer cause helps young girls I've never met.  That today I gave my time and knowledge to a friend who is growing into a role much bigger than himself.  That tomorrow I will give my birthday to a cause that is dear to my heart.  And I will give my time and joy to my mother over the next few days.  I will also recycle, call my friends, see a newborn and commit to praying more for peace in the world.

I fear that some people have developed a sense of numbness, a sense of helplessness or surrender in the face of the extreme pain, loss and anguish we have seen so much of lately.  It's true that it feels like it is almost too much for a single heart to bear.  I fear that some people have given so much to the last disaster that happened - or to the one before it - that they feel they have been exhausted.  That they've "given enough" - or even worse, that they've "given too much."

We must all continue to give and to give every single day.  Not just when Katrina hits.  Not just when Haiti is in ruins.  Not just when there is upheaval or celebration over a toppled regime.  Not just when you can turn on the TV and be reminded of your responsibility to give.  Just like life, where we must continue to celebrate on all the days between the holidays, we must also give on all the days in between.  We must learn to give when everything seems well in the world, in our community or in our own home.  We must give every single day.  In any way we can.  We must say hello to a stranger.  Ask the clerk at the grocery store about his day and really listen to what he has to say.  We must acknowledge a homeless woman and remind her that she is just as important, or intelligent, or worthy as you or me.  Let's not look away from someone in a wheelchair.  Let's ask a restaurant owner why he is using Styrofoam and then ask him politely not to.  Offer someone a ride.  Offer your skills to a friend.  Start donating to a cause that can do what you cannot.  Be more loving toward someone who rubs you the wrong way.  Call your estranged father.

Let's stop drawing lines.  Let's start building bridges between us.   But more than anything, let's start giving something - anything-  to someone today.  We are all victims of Katrina, Darfur, Haiti, and Japan just as much as we are the hero who pulls bodies from the wreckage or the one who fixes the highways.  What none of us should ever be is indifferent because what happens to everyone else happens to us as well.

They are us, and we are them.  

I am you, and you are me.  

We are one.  

And we can all heal the world.  

...For the children, and the children's children.

We are all affected by one person's pain...

Today I pray for miracles, faith, hope, 
compassion, cooperation and peace 

in the aftermath of the earthquake in Japan.


We are all one.

So many lives were ripped apart by the unthinkable earthquake in Japan today.  We are all connected, we are all affected and we are becoming a humanity that finally feels one another's pain and anguish.  This and all natural disasters happening around the world cause us all pain.


I hope you pray today, send your love and remember that we are all connected. We are all one.  Take care of each other today, we all need one another.  Your prayers, thoughts and good intentions are powerful for you and every other human on the planet.  

Loving someone you've never met...

No, I'm not talking about online dating.  I'm talking about a contagious Love that has caught me and so many others completely by surprise.  It is the Love for 32 orphaned girls in Mtwapa, Kenya that exists within a community of volunteers for an organization called One Home Many Hopes.  This is a community to which I happily belong.

I've worked with underprivileged children for as long as I can remember.  In many ways, I was one myself, receiving the support of kindhearted church-goers who funded summer camp for me and my sister, and the like. I have been working with, loving, and going out of my way to take care of children who need me since I became an adult and I don't see an end to that but I've found myself in a state of awe for the Love that exists in the One Home Many Hopes (OHMH) community.

When I attended an event in May of 2010 at the request of my friend and OHMH volunteer, Tracy, I was surprised to find well over 200 other people in attendance.  I wondered to myself if I had somehow missed the boat.  How had I not heard about an organization with this kind of following in my own town?  I brought my mom to the event which was a great experience because she was able to witness what turned out to be my Love at First Sight moment with the organization.  We sat in the front row, directly in front of the projection screen where I first saw the faces and voices of a group of girls I will now do anything I can to help.

By the time the time Anthony Mulongo (the Kenyan who rescued and housed each of these girls) was finished speaking, I was in tears and I had been changed for life.  I had fallen in Love.  I hugged the man I'd never before met and promised to do anything I could.  And I am.

I brought home magnets with the girls faces that night and put them on my refrigerator.  I now look at those beautiful girls each time I open the door.  I smile at them, talk to them and tell them I Love them.

To those who know me, this isn't much of a surprise - or very far out of the ordinary for me.  I care.  A LOT.  But there has been something special about the way I feel connected to OHMH and these girls that I can't quite explain.  And then, today happened.

Today I asked another volunteer, Cristina, to tell me her story about what drew her to OHMH.  Cristina sent me the link to her story on the organization's website, and I was amazed to learn that volunteering for OHMH is the reason she decided NOT to move out of the country.  I mean, people move for all sorts of reasons and they are typically not come upon lightly.  Some of us have even left behind relationships, families and best friends for the promise of something greater.  But to STAY for a nonprofit that can't pay you for your dedication?  That's unheard of!  I had a wonderful chat with Cristina who is equally in Love with the 32 girls who live in an orphanage in Kenya that she, too, has not met.  I thought this was a pretty incredible moment in my day.  After all, I'm giving my birthday this year to the girls, Cristina gave up an international relocation...  Really! What is in the OHMH water?

But Cristina's story was not the end of my amazement today.  My sister, Suzie, fell in Love with OHMH today, too.  Now, you should know that my sister is as about as opposite from me as she could be.  I'm a woman of words and emotion, she is a woman of images and thought.  I'm a teacher, a writer, and a motivator to causes.  My sister is a photographer with a dry wit who rarely shows the kind of gushy, mushiness that has long been part of my trademark.  Case in point:  She finally posted a response to her only sister's blog yesterday for the first time.  The entry she commented on was the deeply personal essay I wrote about Setting Boundaries.  What did she write, you might ask?  And I'm quoting her here:  "hey. that stop sign is in my neck of the woods."  Yup, she commented on the photograph I used to illustrate my deeply poignant message about boundaries. Oy.

Suzie and I have come to appreciate our differences and I love that my sister shows the world through her lens what is in her heart - and she's damn good at it!  She photographs the unique love of families, pregnant women in their most joyful moments, and babies who don't give a damn about the camera - and somehow each image manages to capture a moment in time that I'm pretty sure her subjects weren't even aware of.  You would understand, then, that I would never expected to get an email from my sister today with a two-page heart-felt letter written to every single one of her friends explaining her Love for the girls of Mudzini Kwetu. 

My sister told me that her letter, and her Love for OHMH, came to her this morning while she was at church.  The message of that sermon was simply that "faith always has a plan."  I wish I had heard the rest of that sermon but I'm pretty sure her minister was talking about the kind of plan that built OHMH and has brought so many of us to have the kind of faith that allows us to Fall in Love with the girls, the cause and the community it has created.  I'm pretty sure that faith's plan is to show us all this kind of Love - the kind of Love that allows you to devote yourself to someone you've never met - and the kind of Love is changing the world.  


Have a OHMH Love Story of your own to share?  Send it to OHMHLoveStories (at) g m a i l (dot) c o m!

Give Your Birthday for Your Birthday

I'm sure there's a movement or a website for this kind of thinking because I love it so much.  If not, then I hereby declare this the beginning of the Give Your Birthday for Your Birthday Movement.

It started as an off-handed idea.  I have a friend who said she was planning to do a service project for her birthday and it got me thinking about throwing a bash for my birthday that raised money for my favorite cause, One Home Many Hopes.  I put the idea out to the universe on the universe's favorite communication tool, Facebook, and everything fell into place.

Some of the girls laughing and playing at their new home in Kenya.

I'll be throwing a fabulous party with the help of some very generous friends and I ask only that folks come to learn about the organization's mission and what is happening half a world away in Kenya.  Oh yeah, and that they make a donation. One Home Many Hopes (OHMH) is an organization founded by two amazing human beings, Anthony Mulongo (a Kenyan) and Thomas Keown (an Irishman) who work tirelessly to house, love and educate abandoned, abused and orphaned girls in Mtwapa, Kenya.  It's a small movement with immeasurable impact on the lives of girls who are just like you and me:  full of hopes, dreams, talents and important contributions to give this world.  Girls who WILL change the world.

I've found that my birthday party fundraiser has attracted more people than I expected and it's brought people together in a way I hadn't imagined.  OHMH is run by volunteers and this has brought several new friends into my life which is a gift in and of itself, but the richness of this entire experience is even deeper because it has opened a part of my soul that I hadn't yet tapped into.  I HOPE you take a moment to learn about OHMH as well.  Watch this two minute video and you will see first hand that the girls HOPE you do, too.

I dare you to Give Your Birthday for Your Birthday and see just how giving this special day away to those in need can bring you far more in return than what you would otherwise bring to yourself.  It's all about giving, loving and opening your hearts, people.  This is a perfect way to begin giving and commit to giving for a lifetime.  After all, you're going to have a birthday each year, every year.

Need more reasons to do this?  I'm great with lists, so here you go.

1. There are countless children on our great Earth who do not know their birth dates, let alone celebrate them.
2. The money spent on celebrating YOU can feed, house or educate SOMEONE ELSE for far longer than you think else where in the world.
3. We are here on Earth to love, to give to and take care of one another.  There are nearly 7 billion of us - that's far more people than you know and who can come celebrate with you.  
4. There are countless children in the world living without parents, without shelter, without food and without anyone to love them tonight.
5. You'll never forget your birthday so you'll never forget to give.
6. You're living in a part of the world that allows you to read what I'm writing right now and while you are doing so, someone is providing light, electricity, and internet connection - and probably even a little heat or air conditioning to make this a comfortable experience for you.  Do you know how many people CANNOT do what you're doing right now and never will?
7. You could have just as easily been born somewhere in the world where you would never celebrate your birthday because survival would be the only priority you'd ever have.
8. There are so many organizations doing wonderful things to help the people I've made you think about here and they COUNT ON donations from people like me and YOU.
9. Your friends will inspired by you to give back as well.  They will love you a little more and will probably make your birthday an even more rewarding experience for you.
10. To give is to receive.  Love is all there is and I promise you that the more you give, the more you get in return.

Want to give to OHMH for my birthday?  I HOPE you will.  Click here.  And I thank you very, very much.

Ends and Beginnings

I'm reposting an essay I wrote just over a year ago when my childhood minister passed away.  I experienced pure magic and a connection with spirit on this day.  I share this again in honor and memoriam of a man who significantly impacted my life.  His life has ended and in many ways mine began anew at about the time he went home.  Ron, here's to your end, my beginning, and the constant that is and always will be:  Our souls.

A Rose & A Recliner....
February 21, 2010

The minister of my childhood church, Reverend Ronald Place, died last week at the age of 83. His wife, Margaret, died five years ago, also at the age of 83. Ron touched my life and helped to bring joyful memories and happiness to my childhood and formative years. We even lived in the same home, the parsonage next door to the Church; my family moving in after he had moved out and built a home of his own. I last saw Ron six years ago at Mass General Hospital. He and his wife traveled to Boston for her medical care and even there, in her hospital room, Ron took to counseling me on the personal and delicate topic of the interfaith relationship I was in at the time. I was completely open, my partner was not. I couldn’t understand my partner’s point of view and it was not until I spoke to my own childhood minister – the same one who opened my mind and my heart to all people, all faiths, all creeds – that I was able to understand why my partner struggled so much with our differences. Only Ron would have cared to focus on me and my struggles at a time when his own wife was ill.

When I was a child, Ron made me laugh, made me think and made me feel like I had an ally. While I have countless stories I could share about my memories of Ron, this story is about the memorial service I had for Ron today, on my own. His funeral was held at my childhood church yesterday and it was attended by so many who knew and loved Ron – by those whose lives he touched. Many of us could not attend – and more, I’m sure, don’t even know of his passing. Ron was a mahatma and he brought peace and joy and laughter to all whose lives he blessed. 

As I woke this morning, I felt the need to take a day trip to mark the last day of my February break from school. I thought about some of my tried and true destinations on the North and South shore. None appealed to me very much. Suddenly, out of nowhere while brushing my teeth, I declared to myself that I had to go to Salem, on the North Shore, not too far from where I live. I wasn’t sure why – I’ve only been to Salem a couple of times and I don’t know it all that well. Nonetheless, I gathered my coat and camera and got ready to go.




Before heading out the door, I went to my desk where a beautiful bouquet of roses has sat since it was mistakenly delivered to me one week ago on Valentine’s Day. When I called the florist that day to inform him of his mistake, he said I should keep them because another arrangement had already been sent to the correct address. I graciously placed the red roses on my desk, admiring them day after day. I called them my “Valentine’s Day flowers from the universe”. Not a bad substitute for one who does not officially have any other Valentine from whom to receive flowers. On the fifth day of admiring the roses in their pink glass vase, I took a photo of them, reveling in how they looked as fresh and alive as they did on Valentine’s Day – amazingly so, in fact. I love flowers so normally I freshen the water, trim the stems and feed them floral food – but instead, I just let them be. This morning, thinking of traveling to Salem, I decided I would have a private memorial service for Ron with a rose from the bouquet. I plucked out the flower that hadn’t opened completely and out the door I went.

On the drive to Salem, I started to remember snippets of my time with Ron. My memories came through at first as images and then, the further I drove, more as emotion and I began to cry. I looked to the rose, laying on the dashboard, and carried along on my journey. I didn’t think to bring my map book which typically lives in a pocket on the back of the passenger’s seat in my car (I’m driving a rental while mine is in the shop so it is devoid of all of the paraphernalia I typically tote around with me). I wasn’t concerned, however, I figured I could follow the signs to Salem and I’d make my way to my final destination somehow. Oddly, I still wasn’t sure where that was.




After exiting the highway and following the signs to Salem, I decided to keep driving and find a beach. I wanted to put the rose at the water’s edge as I said my prayers and my final goodbyes to Ron. Instinct led me to the water and I passed two small beaches along the driver’s side of the car as I drove. I knew the first one wasn’t it but the second seemed right. I pulled into a parking spot but decided I wanted more privacy so I backed out and kept driving. Something compelled me to drive back and park in the same spot, forsaking the four cars sitting across from the entrance to the beach. So what if people were watching, I decided. I grabbed the camera, my coat and the rose.

Crossing the road, I was faced with a biting cold wind that made me tear up instantly. My tears began to smatter on the inside of my sunglasses. When I crested the beach, I saw the oddest thing. If I weren’t walking right toward it, I would have done a double take. In fact, I am pretty sure I cocked my head like a curious dog when I saw it. There, ten yards ahead of me, sat a beige recliner on the beach. That’s right, A RECLINER WAS SITTING ON THE BEACH. At first I was irritated, thinking that this place might not be the right one for my memorial to Ron. How could a beach with garbage on it be worthy of this moment? I decided to ignore the interruption of the image ahead of me and walked to the water. When I reached the water, I placed the rose at just out of reach of the first wave. I wanted it to stay at my feet until I told the universe and Ron my thoughts and then it was free to float away, out into the ocean. 




I turned my face away from the wind, now with a combination of the tears that formed from the cold and those that came from my heart and saw something else that stopped me in my tracks: two seagulls danced in the sky above me. Normally these birds aren’t what you would consider to be graceful or even beautiful with one another. Sure, they soar in the wind and as long as they’re not trying to eat your lunch on a summer’s day at the beach, they are a welcome presence. I thought it odd in that moment, that there were two birds. Seagulls always struck me as more solo creatures unless there is food to be swooped up. These two birds wove back and forth around each other, away from me and then back. I knew that they were Ron and Margaret. Together, again. The sweetness of the thought made me smile. A moment later, they were joined by two more birds, seemingly out of nowhere. Again, I knew: these two birds were Ron’s son and daughter, who both passed away before their parents did. 




The experience on the beach with the rose and the birds was enough for me to believe that Ron was there with me. He was communicating with me; acknowledging my presence and my thoughts of him. As I turned to walk back to the car, I saw the recliner again. I laughed. I couldn’t believe it! Ron brought me to the only beach in the world that would have a recliner on it. He had a mischievous sense of humor and this was very like him. This wasn’t trash or a disturbance, this was Ron.




Before I left my house for Salem, and before I even had my Salem-bound-Ron-Place-memorial-Aha-moment while brushing my teeth this morning, I had been searching through old boxes and photo albums for a photograph of Ron. I knew I had a picture somewhere – I could see it in my memory. I was ten or so. We were in the basement of my church. My sister and I were there, along with so many other kids my age – some younger, some older – and we were there for a fundraiser to send money to people less fortunate than us somewhere on the other side of the world – Southeast Asia rang a bell. In all the years that have passed, that’s really all I could remember about the reason WHY we gathered that day and night and rocked in our pajamas downstairs from the church. 

Together with 15 or so other kids, I was participating in Ron’s “Rock-a-thon.” We rocked in rocking chairs for hours and hours at that event to raise money for a cause near and dear to Ron’s heart. While I couldn’t remember the name of the village we were supporting all these years later, I did remember the fact that we kids got to stay up all night (or so it seemed) and all we had to do is just keep rocking in our chairs. There was music, we had blankets and snacks and our parents and other adults came and went but Ron stayed with us, rocking in his RECLINER. We all brought hard wooden rocking chairs for the event but Ron was smart enough to know that he and his bum stood a far better chance of rocking as long as possible in the soft cushion surround of a rocking recliner he brought from home. 

So there on the beach, of course, sat a recliner. Ron would have had it no other way. 

When I got home today and sat at my desk, reflecting on my day and preparing to write this story, I sat in awe of the roses from the universe. They had finally started to die. Their silky crimson petals were now blackened and dried around the edges, their heads sagging down around the vase they had miraculously thrived in, nearly unattended, for seven days. They stayed strong and beautiful and alive long enough for just one of them to take me to Salem, to find that beach with the recliner and say goodbye to Ron.





Ron, I’m doing well (not “good,” of course) and I am so very grateful for every joyful, loving moment you brought to my life. In my childhood, you were pure peace to me and I will never, ever forget what you taught me.





With love and laughter, 

Amy