I ran across my mom’s obituary the other day. Her birthday is coming up and I’ve found myself really missing her lately, so I’ve been looking at old photos and memorabilia.  As I reread what I had written for her obituary, I was reminded of what a truly remarkable woman she was: her many accomplishments, her generous spirit, her love of life, and her love for her friends and family.  But I was also struck by the fact that I had left out one of her most defining characteristics.  Thankfully, the Daily Independent newspaper’s editor, who was also a great friend of my mom’s, added her own comment at the end and filled in what I had missed.  She said:  “While we join her many loved ones in mourning her loss, we are grateful for the indelible mark of kindness she left on virtually everyone who was fortunate enough to know her. —Ed.”

An “indelible mark of kindness.”  What a perfect summation of how my mom lived her life and the impact she had on those around her.  Kindness was her superpower.  She responded to almost every situation with kindness, love, and humor.  She was the first person to volunteer to bring meals or lend an ear to an ailing friend. She elevated, encouraged, and celebrated those in her life.  And she could diffuse the most tense situation just by being kind.  Here’s a small example of that: One time when we were camping on Lake Isabella, a rowdy group of campers was keeping us awake into the wee hours.  Finally, my mom had enough and decided to go over and put a stop to it.  But she didn’t go over in anger as I might have.  Rather she walked over with a smile on her face and kindness in her pocket, introduced herself to the group, joined in their fun for a minute or two and then with her characteristic good humor asked that they tone it down a bit since we were all trying to sleep.  And that was all it took.  Her kindness was disarming. And it was transformative, and indelible. She always saw the good in people and worked under the assumption that people really wanted to do what was right. 

But she was no pushover.  Yes, kindness was her superpower, but her strong sense of justice, or what she called logical consequences, was her sidekick.  If we kids make a bad decision, we got to reap “the consequences of our actions,” though those consequences were always paired with a hug and a conversation. How fortunate we were to grow up with that combination of kindness and justice. 

So there are two questions I’m pondering today regarding her kindness.  The first is why.  This was a woman who was abused by her father as a child, whose mother abandoned her family and who lived in foster care with a few horrible foster parents.  And that was just the first few years. At a young age, she saw the worst of humanity.  And yet...and yet she was the kindest person I’ve ever met.  How did that happen?  I can’t help but assume that so much of her kindness emanated from her great faith.  I’m reminded of the verse:  “He has told you, O man, what is good; and what does the Lord require of you but to do justice, and to love kindness, and to walk humbly with your God?” (Micah 6:8).  I have to believe that this must have been one of her favorite verses because that is how she lived her life.  She didn’t pontificate or wear the trappings of Christianity or do anything that would create a barrier to anyone she met.  Rather, she lived that verse, providing the world a genuine example of God’s love -- and leaving an “indelible mark of kindness” in her wake.


My second question is: what she would think of these times where so many are being so unkind. How would she respond?  I’m sure her poor heart would be breaking to see the discord so prevalent in our country today.  I’m sure she would be dismayed by the unkindness of some of our elected officials and their followers. But I also know that her response would be to redouble her efforts to love as many people as she could and disarm them with her kindness. And at the same time, she would demand justice.  I’m quite certain that she would be out there marching and writing letters and talking to her neighbors, and imploring us to look inward and reconnect with the goodness we each possess.  And she would demand consequences for those whose actions warranted it.   

​My mom continues to inspire me, even after almost five years since she left us.  Her example encourages me to both be more kind and to be more courageous as we head into another year.  That is her legacy. And that’s how we change the world. 

When we moved to Escondido 25 years ago, our house came with a dining room table — a giant, heavy, slightly beat-up dining room table.  The owners were moving to Hawaii and didn’t want to lug the table with them across the ocean, so they left it for us. Now, 25 years later, that giant, much more beat-up table sits in our dining room in Oregon.  

Sometimes I wonder why I haven’t gotten a new one.  This one is kind of a wreck. I know that farmhouse rustic is in, but this table goes just a bit beyond that.  I've tried to make it look presentable, but I can’t seem to clean off the red and white paint marks that were added when Lauren made Christmas ornaments one year.  And I’ve tried to chip away at the spots that look like food but are actually glue from the glue gun that Noah used when he was working on his robot -- but when I chip away at it, the varnish comes off too. And then there’s a gouge at one end where Joshua was working on some project with Jesse that involved an axe.  And the varnish in the grooves is pretty much gone from when Mark used a steak knife to get the food particles out. Also, one of the legs has teeth marks from when Jake was a puppy and used the table leg as a chew toy. Thankfully you can’t really see that unless you look down.  And every morning as I’m eating my breakfast, I have to push in the end of the table since it hangs down a little, maybe from all of the elbows-on-the-table conversations we have had over the years. 

Yeah...it’s kind of a wreck.  Maybe I should get a new one. Thanksgiving is coming and I want everything to be nice.  

But I can see our family dinners and our kids doing their homework at this table.  And I can see my mom sitting at the table setting up her appetizers for our "March birthday" get togethers.  I see the large holiday dinners where everyone could fit (thanks to two also-very-heavy leafs that made a giant table even bigger), and the smaller dinners with our Japanese exchange student or guests from England or friends or co-workers. I can see the long conversations Mark and I had about the kids, or about his company closing or about us moving to Oregon.  A lot of life happened at this table. And it shows. How could I possibly replace it? 

So in a few weeks, my family will gather around the table, eat lots of good food, drink lots of good wine, laugh ourselves silly, and continue to make memories.  And they won’t care about the paint and the glue and the gouges. They will just be glad that we are sitting around a table together. And we will count our blessings — one of which will be that 25 years ago, this beat-up old table was left behind.

You know all of those sayings and quotes about dogs that you’ve read over the years?  All of them are true. Yes all of them. Yes, dogs are our best friends. Yes, all dogs go to heaven.  Etc...

Case in point: Mornings start with Henry, our white Lab, politely barking (just one short bark) that it’s time to get up because he needs to get fed.  I walk out to the living room where they sleep and they both greet me with barks and wagging tails, but Henry throws in his “bucking bronco” dance, bouncing back and forth, tailing wagging, tongue hanging out.  After we’ve all had our breakfast, I open the back door and announce that it’s “time to feed the goats!” and Rammus just about pops a gasket with his high pitched and very loud barking, acting as if this is the very best part of his day, and then runs just a little ahead of me to clear the way, running back and forth between the goats and the chickens, giant dog smile on his face..  Henry trots more slowly behind us, pausing somewhere between the house and the barn because he has found something to nibble on -- blackberries, grass, goat poop…anything really. Henry lives for food; Rammus lives for his “job.” As the day progresses, everywhere I go around the farm, they are right there by my side -- standing guard as I work in the field, walking right next to me as I am doing my chores, and laying right next to my feet when I’m reading or watching TV.  Sometimes I talk to them about what’s on my mind, and they listen politely (and as if I have just said the most profound thing ever!), and sometimes we just hang out. And when the day is done and it’s time for bed, all I say is “OK boys, it’s time for sleeping,” and they get up and walk over to their beds.

These two sweet puppies are my daily companions, protectors, confidantes, and comic relief. How is it even possible to have a bad day with two such loving souls by my side?  I don’t know that we deserve these benevolent, loyal, loving creatures, but a big shout out to the Creator, for knowing we would need such steadfast companionship on our turbulent human journey.

​

Living most of my life in Southern California, first in the Mojave Desert and then in San Diego,  I had always wanted to live someplace where it rained more than twice a year (a slight exaggeration, but not by much).   I can remember running outside when it rained, lifting my face up to the sky, and then jumping in a few puddles (even as an adult).  I became a bit of a weather geek, watching the weather forecast constantly, hoping for a "chance of precipitation" in the five-day forecast,  and becoming very grumpy if that chance dissipated, as it often did. The light mist of a foggy morning didn’t cut it for me. I wanted rain, real rain, pounding rain, saturating rain.  Rain that would soak everything, running off of the house onto the pavement, rain that I could hear on the roof and that made me suck in my breath with the power of it. 

When we moved to Oregon, I got my wish.  ​