Where Did You Go, Dad? Why Did You Leave Us?

Today is a day to celebrate fathers.  All over Facebook, friends are posting pictures of their dads, saying how wonderful they are, or wishing them Happy Father’s Day in Heaven, or some other similar sentiment.

I have a different kind of sentiment regarding my father.

The Father Who Wasn’t One At All

He was a handsome young man. I was told he was smart, talented, and…angry.  He did not get along with his father, who was old fashioned, proper, and formal.  My father was, I guess, more of a renegade.  Stories I’ve recently heard have caused me to compare him to Holden Caulfield, from Catcher in the Rye.  Sadly, I loathe the character of Holden Caulfield and I hated Catcher in the Rye.

My grandfather was a self made man, one who rose above the challenges he faced in his young life.  He was born in 1902, or thereabouts, and I assume it was in Philadelphia.  Around 1910, his mother died.  Grandfather came home one day to find a note from his father, stating he had left, and was never coming back.  I guess Grandfather  lived with an aunt or some other relative.  He eventually grew up to be a successful man, but I know nothing about what personal demons he may have fought throughout his life.  He did marry and have three children.

One of those children was broken – at the time nobody knew what autism or Asperger’s was.  From what I’ve been told, I believe my uncle probably suffered from Asperger’s.  This surely was difficult for Grandfather.

I do not know the dynamic of the family life – I only know that my father never got along with Grandfather.  And he was hell bent on being rebellious, though what prompted him to join the Marines I’ll never know. My brother and I are not even sure he made it past boot camp.

At some point, he married our mother Ellen.  He fathered my brother and me.

And then, Ellen died in a tragic accident.  And, I never saw my father again.  My brother saw him a few times, I guess – he took a bus as a young boy into NYC to meet him (Father couldn’t come here to get him I guess) and then he just disappeared out of our lives completely, and my brother, like our Grandfather, was 8 when he lost his dad and mom.

For years he did come to PA to visit friends but he never came to see us.  Then, he died in an accident.  I did not even know how to grieve. I felt so empty, numb…and I’ve been feeling empty and numb in ways off and on my entire life.

I never got to know him.  I would have welcomed him back into my life at any time. I yearned for his presence.  As a child of the 70s and 80s, I watched a lot of soap operas with my adopted mom.  I used to envision my long lost dad showing up out of nowhere and whisking me away (I did not get along well with my adopted father at all.  I didn’t have a good relationship with him until just before he died.)

I’m angry with you, Joseph Myles McGinnis.  You were very selfish and cruel, no matter how you may have justified your behavior in your mind.  You left two broken and bruised children behind, and you never looked back.  Shame on you.

In spite of you, we grew up to be good citizens, good parents, good people.  You missed out on so much by leaving us behind.  You will never know your five beautiful grandchildren, and they will only know you as an irresponsible coward and a selfish rebel who ran away.

What a legacy. What a shame.

Whitney. I Always Loved You.

Just this morning, I was thinking about writing a post about Whitney Houston. I was leaving the convenience store and happened to notice a tabloid in the stand, featuring a grotesque photo of one of the icons of my youth…Whitney Houston.  Looking shockingly more like a 70 year old woman instead of one who was only in her 40’s, I thought…”what a tragedy for her to ruin her body so…”

I also was disgusted at the tabloids and the people who keep them in business. They seem to serve only one purpose: to stomp on people when they are down and remind the public that they are “has beens.”  If you’re too fat, they make fun of every move you make (Ala Kirstey Alley).  If you are too thin, they cry out that you suffer from eating disorders.  You just can’t win when you are in the spotlight.

How horrifying for me to come home tonight and discover the news that Whitney passed away earlier today.  At this point, the cause of death has not been released.  Whether it was drug related or not, I am going to venture to say that her years of substance abuse certainly weakened her body, mind, and spirit to the point that she could not fight whatever it was that finally took her from us.  Too soon. Way too soon.

I have to say I am disgusted by some of the rude comments I’ve seen about Whitney…not only in recent history, but today. After the shocking news of her death was released.

I never once, ever, ever, even THOUGHT to make fun of that poor woman when she was alive and struggling with her horrible addictions – let alone now that she is gone. My heart was broken for her. I just don’t think it’s funny to make fun of people who are weak.

People were not created to be on a pedestal as we put our performers and athletes. They cave under the pressure that they think they wanted..we train our young children to idolize these people and train them to want to be ‘famous too’ and then when the few get there, they find it’s a life of horrors – horrors trying to live up, to compete, to remain relevant, to remain beautiful…and when the control begins to slip away, instead of being compassionate the public lashes out at the very ones that were “darlings” when they were perceived as “perfect.”

The whole celebrity machine sickens me. I don’t make fun of stars who are messed up. Well, except Tom Cruise, I guess, I confess, I have hated on him a bit. But I repent. These people need our prayers…not our fickle temporary adoration until the next shiny thing comes along.

I wish I had taken the time to send Whitney a note telling her that I love her, always have, and always will. No other vocalist has caused me to break out in goosebumps at the mere thought of her singing “I Will Always Love You.”  Granted, I have always loved Dolly’s version of the song, and she always made me cry when I heard her singing it…but Whitney took it to a whole other level.

I hope, Whitney, that you are in peace now. I hope you have found the Greatest Love Of All…and it has nothing to do with loving yourself, but rather, the love of the One who died to bring you to His arms one day.  I don’t know what happened, Whitney…but I sincerely hope you are in a better place now.  No more tabloids or cruel jokes…maybe you are helping the angels sing their praises now.

I certainly hope so.  God speed.

Uncles, Girdles, and Flaming Sweet Potato Casserole

Missing Mom this Thanksgiving

My mom was somewhat of a nervous lady, as I remember her. She was skinny as a rail, probably due to nerves. I think she weighed 85 lbs soaking wet.

She liked things to go “nicely.” If things started to get out of whack, she’d get upset. Unfortunately in later years, this led to her being bedridden, sometimes for days, with painful stomach ailments. But sometimes, her nervousness would give way to a sudden firm strength that surprised people into silence, or laughter, or both.

Mom often called herself a “simple cook.” She was right – she rarely did anything fancy; most of her cooking was just down-home ordinary meat and potatoes, usually seasoned with salt and pepper. Never anything daring like garlic or oregano.

One area where she excelled, and to this day remains unmatched, was her homemade pies. I have yet to find someone who can top my mom’s apple pie, though Sue Misiak’s comes very very close. Mom’s other specialty was lemon merangue pie; though she often complained that her sister Ruth made better merangue. Well, maybe her merangues were higher, but Mom’s tasted best.

On Thanksgiving, Mom would break out of the original routine and go into “Holiday Mode.” Our holiday meals, whether Christmas or Thanksgiving, often consisted of the same special side dishes: baby carrots augraten, and the fabled sweet potato casserole, along with slightly dry mashed potatoes (that’s how dad liked ’em), her most awesome stuffing (I can not recreate it no matter how hard I try…), and jellied cranberry sauce, carefully placed on a cut glass dish and delicately sliced in half, care being taken to retain the shape of the can.

While many of the holidays were just Mom, Dad, me, and the various dogs, often Dad’s brother and his wife would come for Thanksgiving. This was a trial to my mom and definitely brought more dysfunction into our lives.

Uncle was a rather unfortunate person. He had some fine qualities: he was very smart with practical “hands on” knowledge, and he often meant well, but that was eclipsed by the fact that HE knew he was smart and always wanted all of us in his presence to know of his superior knowledge and experience in all matters. Additionally, Uncle would say bizarre things from time to time.

One time, he asked me, at the dinner table, what color underwear I was wearing. Everyone, except Uncle, was shocked at this display of inappropriate conversation, and I stuttered a moment and said “Uh, I don’t think that’s any of your business, Uncle….” Mom was looking daggers at him and Auntie looked about ready to pass out. Dad gave Uncle a sharp “look” and I, incredulous, wished I could be anywhere else.

Uncle continued: “Your aunt is wearing pink underwear, and I told her she was too old to wear colored underwear, and that she should leave the colored stuff to young girls like you.” After an uncomfortable silence, he then changed the subject and started talking about radio waves, Ultra High Frequency signals, and hand tools he had given my dad years ago that were not taken care of properly.  Another time, he blurted out to Auntie (also at the table) “Are you wearing your girdle today? Cause it doesn’t look like you have it on.” Good times, good times.

Auntie was a much more pleasant character, and I enjoyed her a great deal, but she would often get into very loud arguments with Uncle. It made for some very interesting times.

Mom would always tell them to come just moments before the meal was ready; if he came ahead of time, she would be probably need to be hospitalized.

One year, the dreaded thing happened. They came two hours early for Thanksgiving dinner.

The dogs started barking uproariously; Dad said “What the hell?” Mom cried “OH NO, THEY’RE HERE!” I proceeded to go in my room and turn on my hi-fi (that I got from Sears Big Book). “Oh no you don’t,” Mom said. “You stay out here to help keep me from killing him.”

I actually preferred to talk with Auntie, and so she and I sat in the living room and chit chatted while Mom fluttered around the kitchen, trying to keep her wits about her. Dad felt the need to go check on the deer and left the house. Uncle plopped himself down at the kitchen counter and proceeded to direct Mom’s movements in her kitchen.

“Don’t put that coffee pot back on the burner, it will break, that thing is HOT!”

“Why do you keep opening the oven door all the time? Don’t you know that lets all the heat out?!”

“When my first wife was alive, she did thus and such on Thanksgiving, and it was always so nice…”

“That one in there talking to Karen can’t do anything right, I always have to tell her how she should be cooking things; you’d think after all these years she’d know but she doesn’t….”

(at this point, Auntie interjects some ascerbic response, and a brief arguement loudly erupts; the poodle starts to bark and looks at Mom wonderingly, and Dad is still out in the woods.)

All the while, Mom is doing a great job remaining civil and keeping things on track. Dinner is almost ready, soon we can eat, and then hopefully, they will leave…and Mom will be able to relax.

At last, it’s time to take the carrots augraten out of the oven and put the sweet potato casserole under the broiler to toast the marshmallows. She sets the Corelle casserole dish with the carrots on an unused burner at the back of the stove and turns on the broiler. Uncle asks her why she’s ruining a perfectly good sweet potato dish with “sweet stuff” as she plops the marshmallows on and puts it in the oven.

Dad comes in and says he’s hungry.

She takes to making gravy and Uncle says “I think something’s burning, Doris.” Sure enough, smoke is coming out of the oven and the marshmallows are on fire. The poodle and the lhasa apso begin to bark, and the cocker spaniel heads for cover under the table. Mom says “Oh no! they’re ruined!” and Uncle says “I don’t know what you wanted to do that for anyway….”

Suddenly, there is a BANG and a splat and the dogs run out of the kitchen and I hear Mom wail quietly, and Uncle swears. “What the hell did you put that dish on the stove for Doris? Didn’t you know it would break?”

Evidently, the “unused burner” was left on, unknown to Mom when she set the carrots augraten on it. Still keeping her composure, she starts cleaning up the mess. Then, the final straw comes.

Uncle says “Doris, there’s a piece of glass on the floor by the refrigerator.”

Mom has had enough. “Listen,” she says, “If you’re going to be out here then you can help clean up. Or you can SHUT up or I swear I’ll dump this on your head!” My eyes got big as I saw her point to the lemon pie. Uncle, knowing that the loss of the lemon pie would be a terrible tragedy, wisely shut up, and came into the living room with Auntie and me. The poodle warily enters the kitchen and tiptoes around Mom’s feet.  Dad does his part to help by hollering at the dog to “Get!”

Auntie sighs, looks at Uncle, and says “Can’t you ever just shut up?”

“I was just trying to be helpful. It would be nice to have some appreciation, that’s all.”

We survived, and mom never set the marshmallows on fire ever again.

Washing Feet

I read an excellent little musing on the ceremonial “foot washing” that occurs in some churches at this time of year.

Meant to pay homage to the example Jesus set forth by taking on the role of the lowliest servant by sitting down to wash the filthy feet of his disciples, the ceremony as practiced today is quite different.

Back in bible times, foot washing was a necessity given the vulgar conditions of people’s feet after traveling the dirty streets of Palestine in nothing but sandals, or perhaps barefoot. These were the feet that stepped in dung, among other elements.  Upon entering a home it was necessary to wash feet to avoid tracking the filth of the day all over.

This task was often done by servants.  Jesus was teaching His disciples that they should never consider themselves above others and to serve them even if the task is unpleasant and distasteful.

In modern ceremony however, most people partaking in such an event more than likely

Washing Clean Feet

come to church with their feet sparkling clean and the foot washer does not really have to “wash” anything.

My challenge is to take this real lesson from scripture and apply it in a practical way for today.  People generally do not traverse the highways and byways barefoot and most “normal folk” do not have servants to perform menial tasks that are “beneath them.”

But what about the single mother who is facing losing her children because she can not keep order in her household due to working every waking hour to eke out a living? How about pitching in with babysitting for free or bringing by groceries?

What about the “cat lady” who smells bad – how about giving her a ride to the doctor or to the store, even if it makes your car smell afterward?

Would the eager partakers of a “foot washing ceremony” be as willing to do things such as these?  If yes, then the lesson of the foot washing has been learned and applied as Christ intended.

If not, then something needs to change – from within.  It’s not about the feet. Partaking in a rite for the sake of ceremony is worthless, apart from having “real works” to back it up.

James 2:14-26 (New King James Version)

¹⁴ What does it profit, my brethren, if someone says he has faith but does not have works? Can faith save him? ¹⁵ If a brother or sister is naked and destitute of daily food, ¹⁶ and one of you says to them, “Depart in peace, be warmed and filled,” but you do not give them the things which are needed for the body, what does it profit? ¹⁷ Thus also faith by itself, if it does not have works, is dead.
¹⁸ But someone will say, “You have faith, and I have works.” Show me your faith without your^[a] works, and I will show you my faith by my^[b] works. ¹⁹ You believe that there is one God. You do well. Even the demons believe—and tremble! ²⁰ But do you want to know, O foolish man, that faith without works is dead?^{[c] 21} Was not Abraham our father justified by works when he offered Isaac his son on the altar? ²² Do you see that faith was working together with his works, and by works faith was made perfect? ²³ And the Scripture was fulfilled which says, “Abraham believed God, and it was accounted to him for righteousness.”^[d] And he was called the friend of God. ²⁴ You see then that a man is justified by works, and not by faith only.
²⁵ Likewise, was not Rahab the harlot also justified by works when she received the messengers and sent them out another way?
²⁶ For as the body without the spirit is dead, so faith without works is dead also.

It’s about the heart.  As always.

Erectile Dysfunction & Public Pajama Wearing

There has to be a connection.

One of my online friends commented that she is getting a lot of spam touting cures for erectile dysfunction.  Of course, we are all familiar with this dire problem.  There must be a strong market for this type of stuff, otherwise we wouldn’t see so much spam about it.  It’s interesting to note what the Hot Buttons are.

I came across another “hot button” here several days ago.  Evidently, public pajama

Lustful, Wicked Garment

wearing by women is a growing plague, and it is bothering many men in the process and causing them to sin.  According to an official poll taken by one of the participants in this discussion, men look at women wearing pajama pants and then assume they are not wearing any underwear, and then they’ve opened the lustful Pandora’s Box.  All because of these.  ———>

I took my own official poll, asking The Hubby, if he notices women in pajama pants in the store.  Yes, he does, and he doesn’t like it because it looks sloppy.  (Which was the general consensus of the discussion. Most people feel you should be dressed more formally when you go out in public.)  But then I let the shoe drop:

“Do you wonder if they’re wearing any underwear? Does it make you think sinful, lustful thoughts? Does it make you think about —the bedroom?”

At this point, he probably wondered if I was suffering from a mental malady due to the great juicer incident of a few days previous.  Maybe some of the shrapnel hit my head.  Looking at me like I was stoned, or worse, he said, incredulously, “No……”

Personally, I think the problem is greater than that. I think that women wearing pajama pants in public is the cause of this scourge of all this erectile dysfunction going around! Maybe if women would dress decently in public, the Viagra spam would STOP!  It makes more sense that this type of dress would have THAT effect rather than a “Come hither, hot mama!” effect….it ain’t exactly Victoria’s Secret stuff here, people!

ON A SERIOUS NOTE…

Some of the comments in that discussion about pajama pants were rather disturbing.  Some of them were downright mean-spirited – saying that seeing someone dressed this casually in public makes them think “Trailer Trash!” or “SLOB!”   This is coming from Christian women.

Personally, I dislike seeing women in pajama pants but I think it’s probably because I’m jealous – I’m jealous that I don’t have that much confidence in myself to dress comfortably and take a risk at looking a little “sloppy”.  Plus you never know when a prospective client will see me and it really isn’t good to look like I am headed to (or from) a slumber party.  It’s not fair that *I* have to be dressed up and others get to go as they are to the store.

[Allow me to interject that I find the school PAJAMA DAYS intensely annoying. We are NOT pajama people; we wear long johns or sweats and PAJAMA DAY means I have to go BUY special pajamas for the kids to wear to school.  THANKS A LOT.]

Back to the original discussion, there were a lot of comments about worrying about what people think of you.  It is important, they stressed, to keep in mind that other people will form opinions of you based on your external appearance.

Oh.  Seriously? This is so juvenile. I remember my mom using “I don’t have anything decent to wear” to avoid going to church.  With women like this around I guess her feelings were legit.

I remember when I first made the decision to follow Christ, I befriended a girl from town who had problems. She had a bit of a reputation, had undergone at least one abortion, and was now a single mom.  Someone from my church got stirred up over it and called my mother to tell her what kind of girl I was hanging around with, and it wasn’t right for a nice girl like me to be seen with someone like her.  This. Is. True.  I was LIVID.  I should have started my “unchurching” journey then, but it would take many years before I came to that point.

We all know that “people” had very strong opinions about Jesus and the things HE did.  They didn’t like that He hung out with prostitutes, crooks, and other sinners.   Well, why not? He wasn’t welcome with the “goody goody” people. They had no room for Him in their lives – they were doing just fine, “keeping up appearances.”

What does our Lord think?

1 Samuel 16:7: “The LORD does not look at the things people look at. People look at the outward appearance, but the LORD looks at the heart.”

Jesus was very harsh with the Pharisees (who were very concerned with outward appearances) in Matthew 23.  He called them “whitewashed tombs filled with dead people’s bones.”

Wow.

Maybe we should worry less about what other people are wearing, and worry more about the state of our own heart that allows us to think about these things. Who really cares what someone else is wearing?  Really? Trailer trash?  How about…minding your own business, dressing the way YOU feel comfortable, and let others do the same?