HeavenOnlyKnows

It should be simple, words on the page

2011-06-30T23:24:00.000-05:00

When you're inspired,

your heart sings

in anticipation

for every breath;

and you're

tolerant, joyful,

and loving.

Dr. Wayne W. Dyer

Your Ultimate Calling, 2008

I am doing maintenance on my blogs I have accumulated through the years. I kept them named and separated by major topic because it seemed at the time that my interests covered a wide array of information with very little overlap. Not so. At times, I have had trouble trying to decide on which blog to post my entry. Now I am making things much more simple. Everything goes under one blog, this one. When the time is right, everything under this blog gets moved to my website that is currently in development. It took me a long time to understand something quite the opposite of what I had long summarized. Our lives are not complicated with confusion and even contradiction. Rather they are simple, flowing, all in the same direction. Getting everything I write about into one place will piece together that disconnect in my storytelling and questioning. Oftentimes, I think I ask more questions than I give answers, but that's as it should be. Many times the answer is in the asking of the question. Where am I going?. I am already here.

I am going to allow Dr. Wayne Dyer to visit my days more often. I have read several of his books, but it was one of his early writings, The Sky is the Limit, that caused one of the most profound changes in my everyday life than any other writer. Nobody else can make you happy, and you cannot not make anyone else happy. Quit trying. You are wasting your life. Quit living the life that someone else or even everyone else thinks you should be living. Quit working at that job that only produces a paycheck without producing happiness and satisfaction. I can remember vividly the process that I underwent immediately, with the help of a therapist, to loose myself of the trappings under which I had allowed myself to get bound. That was the 1980s. Hurray! for Dr. Dyer!

However, these days Dyer has moved toward a more spiritual realm of writing since I read The Sky. I, too, have moved toward a more spiritual realm of writing, as well. Less political, less social critical than in my university days. Less advertising driven than in my publishing days. Less mindfulness toward pleasing others in writing. It's one thing to shed the trappings of living to please others; it's other thing altogether to shed the trappings of writing to please others. Ironically, too, most of the time, writing to please others means writing to antagonize others. Confrontation sells, and it sells very well. When you make your living as a writer, you learn the ways of confrontation. The kind that sells. You'd probably have to be a reader of my writing for a few decades to understand what it means to entice others to read you by using the serious qualities of social criticism, social antagonism, personal affront. As a former editor of the university's official campus newspaper, UALR Forum, I spent most of my last year on campus sharing my mail with campus security due to threats of death, injury, and/or sexual assault. This was at a time when my extended family had no clue about not only the everyday comings and goings in my life, but the larger driving forces, as well. Threats of harm were some of those details that few knew about. The irony of being officially escorted to and from my publishing office on campus and vehicle in one of vast parking lots during late hours when no classes were in session with a student security officer by my side was that I never knew if perhaps the escort himself might be among those attempting to intimidate me into silence.

"Can you imagine anyone wanting to hurt me?" I asked the student guard, working late hours to help pay his own tuition and expenses through school, on one of those long walks across the dark campus.

"It's better to be safe than sorry," he replied, after he reported our position over his hand-held radio-transmitter, and placed it back on his belt. "You have to be careful when it comes to upsetting people and their views on the way things are and should be."

Ten minutes of walking was too long for me to go without prying more deeply into the young man's inner thoughts, who he was, what he believed, just beneath that student security uniform.

"It makes no sense to want to physically-harm someone though because they express different points of view," I prodded. "We are all different. No two of us are alike, even in our thoughts and beliefs. Why not embrace our differences? It makes much more sense to celebrate our differences. None of us are so divinely-inspired to know that we are right. We may think we are right, hope we are right, want to be right. But only the Great Almighty can know right. The rest of us just do the best we can and hope we don't hurt others along the way."

"Here's your vehicle, Ma'am," replied the relieved young man (You have to remember, I was a non-traditional student just hitting 40 that year, while most of the students and my friends on campus were the traditional 18 to 22 years old), who was over-joyed to know that he didn't have to answer that comment. "You be careful. You never know who may be wanting to hurt you. Not everyone out there is your friend."

That was twenty years ago. A lifetime ago. More than a lifetime. My writing is different. My thoughts may not be as different, but my way of expressing those thoughts has taken a different process. And thanks to facebook and adding children and grandchildren to our lives, most of those folks are now my fb friends. Life keeps getting better.

Nowadays, not only do I not write the media as I did much of my life, I don't even utilize the media much. Again, Dyer.

When you find

yourself being exposed

to uninspiring media onslaughts,

turn off the TV,

change the radio station,

put the magazine down,

and affirm: I no longer wish to be

in the energy field of anything

that isn't a vibrational match

with Spirit.

Keep on keeping on,
Sheila Witherington

Yesterday I fell trying to climb a tree

2011-06-21T14:59:00.001-05:00

Well, maybe that's not entirely accurate. The part about climbing a tree. The grandsons, Bird and Ike, were outside playing around one of the smaller trees in the front yard, and they came up with an idea that involved reaching some of the lower branches, but still far too high for them, even though they had stacked a yard chair atop the kids' picnic table, and then stacked my garden stool atop the yard chair, in an attempt to reach a limb they felt confident needed to come off the tree. It was, indeed, a dead limb, so when I saw their calamity in motion, and their request for my assistance, I agreed that I would get the dead limb down.

"You fellows can't stack chairs on top of the table," I warned them. That's dangerous. It will fall, and all will come crashing down, with you right in the middle of it. My sound advice was soaking in, I was sure, as I unloaded the chair and stool from the little table. I had purchased that plastic picnic table twelve years ago when my oldest grandson, Luca, turned one year old, and it has been in the family ever since. At one point, when that branch of my family lived in Helena, Arkansas, it was standard daily practice for every kid in the neighborhood within a mile radius to congregate at the only little white boy's house whenever he was at home. It would be exaggerating to say that there were a hundred kids in the yard at any given time, but it's fair to say there would always be more than ten. More than ten kids that you may or may not have ever seen before, is a lot of kids. They would try to come into the house, and it was impossible for little six-year-old Luca to eat or drink a snack outside or even within view from outside through the door or windows, without the begging to begin from the kids outside. And if my daughter or son-in-law were to ever make the fatal mistake of offering the few children in the yard a cup of lemonade or a cookie, the number of children in the yard multiplied immediately.

Anyway, the point I'm making is that this little picnic table was available for play during this time of experiential living in the Delta, and sad to say, appeared not to survive the ordeal. A year later, when the family moved to Memphis to lessen the trauma for Luca in his early public school education, the picnic table was set aside for trash pick-up. But I grabbed it, determined that I would make the necessary repairs. And I was right to think that with a tremendous amount of muscle, the flattened plastic table snapped back into place, and for the next six years has graced either my front or back yard, my living room, dining room, or one of the other areas of my house that was sectioned off "for the kids."

Unfortunately, yesterday I forgot the history of this once flatten plastic picnic table. If flattened once by rowdy neighborhood kids, I should have quickly thought that a slightly overweight petite woman might easily flatten the table again, if, for example, she should step upon it to reach a limb in the tree. None of that entered my mind, and the next seconds must have passed quickly, though to me, the world was spinning in slow motion as a variety of scenarios passed through my mind of what might be happening to me and what the implications might be.

I knew I was falling. Immediately I put out my hand to break the fall, but had forgotten that the hand needed for the moment was already filled with painfully hematomas, one of which was a new one that had popped up that morning and measured about an 1/8 inch in diameter, located between my fore and middle fingers. The neighbors would have known immediately that the decision to use that hand to hold my weight in flight, was a very bad one, had they been home, because I yelled in anguish and pain as soon as the hand touched the ground. I had to pull it away because it could not stand the force, and instead I let my face take the brunt, then rolled to my shoulder and arm.

All I could do was cry, moan and cry, but the sight was so unusual that the youngsters thought it was fun and games. Fortunately, there will be no trauma of the moment when their Grammy fell in the front yard because they could only imagine what I was trying to do and how that was going to help get the limb out of the tree. Their minds were still affixed to the mission at hand. Nothing had changed for them.

They didn't even recognize the tears, the crying as such. "What are you doing, Grammy?" asked Bird, the oldest. "The table broke."

I explained that Grammy was hurt and that it was important for them to help me. I asked them be ready to help me. Only then did they get quiet and concerned, and the questions changed to inquiring ones about what was wrong. Through the shooting pain in my hand and the stinging of my bruised face, I assessed whether I could hold my weight on my feet and legs and whether I could walk into the house. I asked Bird to go into the house and get my cell phone in order to call for help. But by the time he returned, I was already on my feet and walking across the yard.

The boys followed me into the house, climbed into their easy chairs to await instructions about what they could do to help. They were angels. I had dirt and yard debris all over me, front and back. I didn't think I needed medical care, but I called oldest daughter Bridget to come over and help me assess my injuries. She arrived with young Breck to assist. For about an hour, she asked questions, had me move different parts of my body, and determined that I was going to suffer significant pain over the next few days.

So I ended the day with a bloody bunged-up face and a bruised swollen hand. Both look like they may get worse before getting better.

Keep on keep on,
Sheila Witherington

Talking About Fathers With my Mom on Fathers Day

2011-06-19T22:25:00.000-05:00

I visited with my Mom today at her nursing home in Bryant today. She is 90 years old, and her father died when she was 8; therefore, the memories she talked about were at least 82 years old. She told me that they called their father, Papa, and they loved him with all their heart. I know she had told me previously that she was eight when he died, once or twice during all those many talks I used to have with her and her two sisters, Wada and Mart, in one of the back rooms during one of the times we got together. She remembered that he would call her out to the big porch of the house, way out in the woods where she could not remember the exact spot.
Once, after they were grown and well past their 50s, and maybe even their 60s, she talked her brother, Wayne, into driving her out to those woods to try to find where that old house had been, since she could no longer picture it in her mind. But once they were in the car those decades after life with their Papa ended, she said he ruined the trip by taking the opportunity to scold her while she was captive in the car, and he was doing her a favor. He started in telling her that some of the family members were complaining about her spending so much time over at her sister Netter's and eating over there too much. It's not that she ate so much, as she was thinner than anyone else in the family, or even that she was the only one who stopped by regularly and ate off Aunt Netter's table. Everyone in the family ate off her table, a lot. She cooked from scratched, good ole country food, always with lots of beans, cornbread, potatoes, fried chicken or dumplings, rice pudding, just lots of all the rural foods we all loved so well. My Mom was the only divorced woman of the family. The only woman who had no man in her life to help support her. She worked at least 40 hours every week and never had enough money for anything. The three of us kids nearly starved to death until we married, moved out, and made our own way. Nobody in the family bothered much about that part of the story, the starving part. Now who in the world would care if she or all the rest of us stopped over there and ate off Aunt Netter's table most every day, as long as Aunt Netter made us feel welcome, which she did. But there was one part of the family that made it their business and did not let up on the matter until Aunt Netter no longer had a table to sit at. But today, my Mom still did not forget that she did not get to see the old home place decades earlier because people resented her and her children eating at the main family table.
That's the way it is when talking to my Mom about nearly any subject. It all leads back to the poverty that nobody else around us, family or not, ever tasted, except for my Mom and her three children, of which I am one. Even for me, those days are more than 40 years in my past, but they are as vivid as yesterday. Not just the sting of hunger, but the embarrassment, shame, and rejection that came along with it. The people in my church and my friends and their families fed me more freely and with more graciousness than the extended family.
Today, while trying to talk about her Papa and her interaction with him in the 1920s, was slightly set back by the pain she feels of how she was treated later in life.
She said that in the 1980s, when she was hoping to go out to those woods, it made her so angry that she no longer wanted to even be in the same car with brother, who was scolding her for being hungry and seeking out food and company. She and her brother never finished the trip; and she never found their old home place again. Perhaps I can find someone who knows where they lived when my Mom's Papa died, and I can take her out there to try to find the home place somewhere deep in the woods of Dallas County, Arkansas.
This Father's Day, though, her mind went blank after getting distracted about Uncle Wayne's appointed task by family members to scold her half a life ago, that she could not remember my question I was asking. Where did you live when your Papa died? That's what I had asked her. To that, the only answer she had was somewhere out in the back woods. Once I got her back on track, she continued telling me about how her Papa would call her out to the big porch, where he would be lying, resting. He wanted her to rub his head, you know, looking for ticks or whatever. She laughed, "There weren't any ticks. He just wanted someone to rub his head. He would give me a dime to rub his head, and I loved rubbing it and being close to him. We loved him so much."
It was my next question that brought my biggest shock of the day. What did your Papa do for a living? She answered, "Don't ask me that. I don't want to have to lie to you. So don't ask me that." Well, of course, I wanted to know the answer after that response; therefore, I persisted, and asked again.
"He made moonshine," she said.
"For a living?" I raised my voice. "He didn't have another job? That's what he did to earn his income?"
"Yes," she answered. "See, I told you I didn't want to answer. But I wasn't going to lie to you."
"Where did he make it? Where was his still?"
"I don't know?"
Then she remembered that once she and her brother Joe found a big jug of moonshine in a big deep hole dug in the ground, and they got into it. She couldn't remember what happened to Joe, but she knows that she was found by one of her aunt passed out in the yard. They couldn't get her awake, so they sent for the doctor. Her aunt bent down to listen to her breathing. That's when she smelled the moonshine and declared.
"I know what's wrong with her. She's drunk."
If my Mom was eight when her Papa died, you know she had to have been a bit younger than that when she passed out from the moonshine.
Today I told my Mom that it only made sense that they had to keep all that a secret from everyone.
She replied, "No, we didn't keep it a secret. We just never talked about it. I've never talked about it since then. We didn't talk about it."
My Mom told me more things today, and she's told me a masterpiece worth of stories yet to be told. But today, she beat them all. She left me with the need to re-think all the other stories I've been told about the family to put them into perspective that my maternal grandfather was a moonshiner who lived in the deep woods of south Arkansas.
Keep on keeping on,
Sheila Witherington

Distracted by facebook... a long, long time

2011-05-22T01:24:00.001-05:00

Many months have passed since I last posted on any of my blogs. There are two main reasons for that. First of all, after the trip with my sister in 2007, I was wiped out physically, health-wise, and mentally for several months, recuperating from the strain of the trip. It was worth it, but still, I suffered the consequences of such a journey. Secondly, I discovered facebook, and I started posting most of the happenings in life on my facebook pages.

Then my sister and I traveled again in 2010 to Europe for an even longer and more intense and invested trip. This time we divided our trip into two main segments: first, to research the death of our maternal uncle who died in Holland in World War II; and second, to visit Chateauroux, France, meet new and old friends, and attend a reunion of Americans who presented a beautiful statue The Friendship Flame that was installed at a major intersection between Chateauroux and Deols. Before returning home, we took in Paris for a couple of days, opting for a hotel room in the Marais district, which we enjoyed. I'll have to tell more about this trip as time goes on. But again, that trip was a year ago, and such travels take the wind out of me. We traveled for nearly a month, and once every 7 to 10 days, we would take a day of rest and just spend the day in our hotel room, sleeping and regaining our strength. The last two weeks, my sister skipped her days of rest, but I was forced to take mine, due to hematomas that developed on my ankles and feet. It was very difficult to walk. But I would not trade the opportunity to travel for anything. I am looking forward to my next adventure, though I am not sure when or where it will be. For now, I am investing my time, resources, and strength into putting in a small vegetable garden and landscaping my yard on a consistent basis, and the effort is beginning to pay off.

I am back to blogging, drawn to the wonders of blogging by my daughter and daughter-in-law, who have started their on blogging at lifeinthebiggreenhouse.blogspot.com and I am linking my pages to theirs. Also, my sister is blogging for the first time at simplerawandnatural@blogspot.com, and it reminds me that my blogs are awaiting my attention.

Within the next few weeks or perhaps month or two, I plan to transfer my blogging to my new website, but for now, I'll keep on keeping on as I am.

There is no way to catch up on the missed months, but to just pick up where I left off.

Yes, I'll keep on keeping on.
Sheila Witherington

Christmas Day 2010 after Crepes on Christmas Eve

2010-12-26T16:11:00.000-06:00

It is a glorious Christmas Day, and I am grateful for all my multitude of blessings. Yesterday I hosted my traditional Crepes on Christmas Eve at my home, and it was wonderful. Every year the fellowship, crepes, and creative fillings get better. Let me see if I can name all the fillings: nutella, creamy peanut butter, Cool Whip, whipped cream, fresh local raw honey, bananas, strawberries, raw sliced mushrooms, shredded lettuce, bacon, scrambled eggs, grated cheese, shredded lettuce, golden brown mustard, diced tomatoes, grated carrots, Dijon mustard, sliced fresh local peaches, marshmallow cream, powdered sugar, horseradish sauce, Philadelphia cream cheese, hot fudge topping, caramel topping, sliced ham, sliced turkey, curried chicken, caramelized pears, curried potatoes, butter sauteed mushrooms, salsa, and that's all I can remember.

Keep on keeping on,
Sheila Witherington

Who needs inspiration?

2010-07-11T16:12:00.004-05:00

Notice, please, that it's been a while since I have posted on my blog. That time corresponds with my introduction to facebook, to which I transferred my writing energies. Facebook is great, but blogging is very different. I miss it. I need it. There is a reason why.

Today is Sunday. A week ago, Saturday, July 6, 2010, my precious Aunt Wada was taken to the hospital because she was very confused. They suspected a stroke, since she had had one previously. They ruled out stroke, UTI, and some other suspects. She was running a fever, and they knew there was infection somewhere.

Within a couple of days, they learned that she had cancer of the liver, but even that was not the site of origination of the cancer. Yet, she was too weak to endure more testing or any treatment. We learned immediately of her terminal state of her health. She would die soon.
I envisioned that she would live the next months or years either in a rehab center or at home under hospice care. The immediate family did not have time to deliberate another decision. Before I could consider further, Aunt Wada died peacefully. A lady always knows when it's time to leave.

Keep on keeping on,
Sheila Witherington

Where is my soul mate?

2010-01-30T00:20:00.016-06:00

Okay, I admit that I have been extremely negligent in writing on my blogs. Even though I get quite a bit of blog traffic, emails, and even phone calls, about information I have posted in the past, I put my writing aside for a couple of years and have not done much, which is a shame on my part. I commit to try to do better. I am seeking more balance in my life. My five grandchildren are a true blessing in my daily life. They all live near me, for which I am grateful. I am proud of each one, and to watch their unique personalities develop is a daily treat. They are Luca (10), Breck (6), Bird (5), Meric (4), and Ike (3).

However, I think my slackness in writing started when I became a foster parent, and it consumed my attention and has taken a while to get accustomed to the comings and goings of the children. One, in particular, stuck around so long that I adopted her, and now she is my third daughter and a permanent part of my family. However, the road to her adoption was not easy for her or me. She has certainly changed my life. Her I.Q. is very low, though you wouldn't know it by meeting her and getting to know her. We have been in child therapy for nearly three years, and we are still working on the most accurate diagnosis and best treatment for her to have the most fulfilling life.

I have worked with the Little Rock School District through these years, as well, to place her in the mainstream classroom for the largest portion of her day. Finally, we succeeded in getting this placement completed at the beginning of this semester. It is very difficult for her to make this change, but in the long run, I believe it will be best for her to have peers who are in the normal I.Q. range for the most part, in order for her to learn the best behavior patterns and how to socialize with other children in her age range. Bless her heart, she has had to learn to play since she came into my life.

I and my home are now certified to care for three foster children, in addition to my own young daughter adopted daughter. That makes four children at a time in my home, at times. That brings a very interesting routine to my life. And slowly, but surely, I am learning my limitations as to what type and age of children I can manage in my home without destroying my own well-being. The older teens have been too mature for my taste and want to take over the management of my home and their lives. That was a continuous struggle. Therefore, I no longer accept teens who are far into their levels of independence or who have given birth to babies or who are delinquents who will not stay in school. I draw the line at 15, going on 16, depending upon each individual circumstance.

In addition, I tried accepting some younger children who were in sibling groups, in order to keep the siblings together. The youngest was three years old and not potty trained. After two months, I was so ill that I could not walk or take care of myself, let alone the children. They were placed in other homes, and it took two weeks for me to recover. No more 3-year-olds and younger, no more children who are not potty-trained, and no more older teens.

My favorite kids are between four and fourteen, the ones who are old enough to dress, bathe, and feed themselves. but who are still kids who like to have a good time and play wholeheartedly. I have fostered so many great kids, and to the surprise of many, I am not sad to see them leave and go back to family. Instead, I understand that I am simply a new person in their lives who provided love and care for them during a difficult time. I want them to go on to live happy lives with the best people in their families that can be found.

Families can be difficult. It seems that most people have a tough time with their families at some time in their lives. I have not met many people who can recall wonderful childhoods without hardships, separations from loved ones, inadequate care or resources, challenging parents, ignorant parents, or extended family who caused them grief at times. Many of my friends from our military families seem to have the happiest memories. A small group of friends from life in a small rural town also tell stories of happy childhoods. Yet, much of that is surface talk. In all honesty, most people have had to overcome extremely difficult times during their childhood.

When my parents divorced when I was 11, it was very difficult to make the change from a two-parent home to a single-parent home. There were few resources to help children of divorced parents in that era. Still, I believe I became a stronger, more self-sufficient person through the challenges I faced in those situations. And I vowed that when I married, I would remain married to the same man for the rest of my life, through thick and thin, no matter what. Divorce for me was out of the question, especially since I had experienced the divorce of my own parents, which was very painful.

Yet. my children had to endure the divorce of their parents, when my husband and I divorced after 15 years of marriage. It was not supposed to be that way. If there was anyone on the face of the earth determined to be faithful and true forever and ever, it was me. But one never knows what one is destined to endure. I was so deeply in love with my husband that my heart would throb whenever I saw his work truck in town during the day. I married my sweetheart. I was devoted wholeheartedly. We married in early spring when we learned he was shipping off to Vietnam. I was pregnant with our first child when he left. I can remember thinking that I would have part of him forever if he were to get killed in the line of duty when he was in the war zone. During the year he was gone, I gave birth to a baby girl who changed my life for the better forever. I wrote to him every single day he was gone. My entire life was dedicated to taking care of my baby and preparing for the day when he returned.

At first during that year he wrote to me several times a week. Then the letters slowed to once a week, once every two weeks. Nonetheless, I continued to write every day. The last two months he was in Vietnam, even though we had a two-month-old baby at home, he did not write me a single letter. He called about once a month. He said there was nothing to say in a letter.

When he returned home to me and his four-month-old daughter, I had completed the set up of our household in our own small apartment in a duplex next to my sister and her husband. He started back to work at his former job. The first day he went to work, he did not come home after work. It was after midnight before he came home, drunk from going to the beer joint with a co-worker. I can still remember the feeling of realizing that he did not think enough of me to come home for dinner on his first night after getting back into the normal work life. I worried that maybe something had happened to him after work, that he had been in a car wreck. But I knew it hadn't. Still, I called around to see if anyone knew where he was. Finally, I tracked him down by talking to the last person who saw him head off with a friend to get a drink. But with him, there was no such thing as getting a beer. It was all or nothing. If he went to get a beer, he did not come home until everything shut down.

But we were young, and I thought that he would change. I blamed his nights out drinking on the particular friend he was with. If that person just wasn't in his life, he would be coming home to his family. Over the years, the person I thought was influencing him changed, but his behavior remained the same. If given the chance, he would choose to go with a friend and stay out drinking rather than come home to his family. It was not what I thought a happy marriage would be. My heart was sick, but I was so in love with him. We had a child. He had to change. It had to get better. Surely he loved me. He had told me many times early in our relationship that he loved me.

When he returned from Vietnam though, we were both different people than when we were separated by the war. Although he had not seen fighting (he was a switchboard operator on base), he had been exposed to the life of war, with free beer, free cigars, and hooch maids flooding the makeshift barracks to take care of the soldiers' needs. I had given up my friendships with my former classmates since I was in motherhood mode, and they were not. I had made new friends at church among married couples with young children. I gave birth without his presence because he chose not to take the one-month furlough available to him. He said it would be more difficult to come home and see the baby and then have to leave and go back than to just wait and come home for good. I never could imagine a man not wanting to be present when his first child was born, but that was his decision. I told him I wanted him to be there, but he chose not to. Six years later, when our second child was born, he was not present during my labor either. He had no desire to go through child birth classes and to be my labor coach in delivery. Instead, he did not even show up at the hospital (my sister-in-law dropped me off at the hospital and returned home) and I was left at the hospital alone for labor and delivery. He was less than two hours away. He always said he was there, but he actually showed up to the waiting room just before the second one was born. I gave birth to both my children on my own without his help.

So by the time the second child was born, and that experience simply added fuel to the fire as to all the problems in our relationship, or should I say, lack of relationship. The last seven years of our marriage, he never said he loved me. Even if he sent flowers to me on a special occasion, the card never said he loved me. If he purchased a card, it would be one from him and the children. There was never anything personal from him to me to express his love.

I had been divorced from him for a couple of decades before I realized that he probably never had loved me. I'm not sure he ever loved anyone, but he never knew how to express love to me. He was an excellent father and a poor husband. I made all kinds of excuses for him for many years. I wanted so badly for him to be my soul mate. I would have done anything to get his attention and keep it. I tried everything, including counseling. In the final years, when he knew I was going to leave if he didn't try to cooperate, he agreed to join me in counseling that I had been going to for several years. We completed a full series of couples' counseling, and in the end, the counselor said that we needed to make a decision one way or the other. The on again off again relationship was destructive to our children and to our own well-beings. Either we needed to come together as a couple and make decisions as a unit, or we needed to go our separate ways and start anew. On our drive home, a few tears trickled down my cheek, though for the most part, my crying days were over, because I knew it was the end.

Even in counseling, he could not say he loved me. He kept saying that he didn't want to lose me and that he didn't want to lose his children. He kept saying that if I would just straighten up and do what he wanted me to do that everything would be fine. But no, he couldn't say he loved me. He said he didn't know. He had been saying this for years. He didn't know. But he didn't want a divorce. He moved out of our home and into an apartment twice during our last years of marriage. He dated other women right out in front of God and the entire community. But he didn't want a divorce. I went to attorneys both times and filed for divorce. I cried in the lawyer's office both times. Neither attorney could understand why I was crying and why I wasn't furiously angry. It took a long time for the love to die.

It was after the counseling that I realized that my heart no longer throbbed when I saw his truck. I didn't care where he was. I didn't care what he did. I didn't care who he was with. I no longer felt I had met my soul mate. I filed for divorce without a flinch. A year later, the divorce was final.

During that entire year, he decided he did love me after all. He tried to court me. He made promises. He wrote love letters. He used the children as bait to regain my interest. But there was not a glimmer of a spark left. He was like a stranger to me. I did not want him near me. I finally realized I deserved to be treated with respect and dignity. I had done nothing to deserve the harsh treatment I endured all those years.

I can remember seeking advice from my aunt (my mom's oldest sister) when we were alone, who was a member of the church and who had lived with her husband until his death, even though he drank heavily and many times was gone drinking into the wee hours. There were rumors that he was not faithful to her. Yet she remained married to him no matter what. I asked her how she did it. Why didn't she leave him? Why did she stay with him even though he treated her so badly for so many years. Her reply was poignant and memorable.

I paraphrase her response to me: "Sweetheart, I didn't have any choice. Times were different than they are now. I had no way of taking care of myself or my children. I couldn't earn a living for myself. You have choices and many opportunities. You don't need him like I needed my husband. Would I have remained married if I had had any choice? Probably not. I wanted so many times to leave him. But I couldn't. You have to do what you think is best for you with the choices you are given. Nobody can judge you for making the best decision for yourself and your children. You can't compare yourself and your situation to mine or anyone else. Nobody knows what you have been through, and nobody can tell you what is right or wrong. You have to do what you feel is right in your heart, given your choices."

I wanted so badly to be married, to have a lifelong mate, to live with my soul mate, to have that closest, most intimate bond. I spent the rest of my life looking for that mate, and made a few more mistakes along the way in that search.

At this moment in time, my children's father and I share five wonderful grandchildren and see each other several times a month. He finally remarried just a few months after his mother died unexpectedly. He said he was so lonely. He had lived with his mom for twenty years or more as he remained single after our divorce. Everyone knows he doesn't love this wife any more than he loved me, probably less. At least we had the children to share that we both love dearly.

I still hope to recognize my soul mate some day soon. It is very important to me.

Keep on keeping on,
Sheila Witherington

A trip of a lifetime

2007-10-24T21:30:00.003-05:00

My sister and I recently returned to Chateauroux, France, where we lived when we were youth, and our dad was in the U.S. Air Force. As soon as we arrived in the little city about 2 hours south of Paris, we checked into our hotel and began to explore the walkable downtown area. This was my third trip to return to Chateauroux, and by far it was the best yet. Each time I returned previously, I have tried in vain to find the little French house that served as our Southern Baptist Church from 1960 to 1964. My last trip was in 2001, and I could not find the church. Therefore, I began doing more research at home over the past few years to find out more about its location. Finally, I located a former pastor of the church who had moved there shortly after we left, and he gave me an address to assist in my search on my next visit: 10 Rue Basse. He also told me that the cross remained over the door for the past 40 years even though it has been a private residence during that time.
And we found it. After a couple of hours of walking and asking passers-by for assistance, we finally found Rue Basse and #10 was exactly as we both remembered. I was brave enough to knock on the door and the owner answered. She was willing to answer our questions, but we were not fortunate to get an invitation to go inside or to see the garden in the back. Nonetheless, it was a blessing I had nearly given up on to once again see 10 Rue Basse and remember the many memories associated with that little Southern Baptist Church during the early 1960s.

My thoughts for today,

Sheila Witherington

I'm a foster mom

2007-06-10T23:23:00.001-05:00

After nearly two years of inquiring and postponing and delays for surgery and recovery and training and paperwork, my home was declared an "open" foster home about two weeks ago. Becoming a foster mom is something I have been thinking about for over 10 years when my youngest daughter left home and I realized I had an empty nest. I even started the training process nearly five years ago, but had to miss too many sessions to continue at that time. But now I have done it. Life will never be the same.

In just two short weeks, I have had four children in and out of my home. One is still with me and tomorrow we celebrate our one-week anniversary together. It is anything but boring. I find myself often lacking in knowing what to say when a child is so sad as when they make a transition in foster care. One teen stayed 10 days and chose to leave because of her misuse of her cell phone. No, I didn't get her a cell phone, but her brother did, and it was a mistake. When I asked to have the service disconnected, she called her caseworker and demanded to leave. All of the adult advisors in her life agreed that the cell phone had to go. This confrontation happened yesterday evening. It was a major change for me because after 10 days, I had become attached and thought she might stay a long time. She broke my front all-weather screen door so badly that it will no longer close, and the wooden framing is split. It may be a major repair.

That left the little 13-year-old teen here with me. I bought her a new CD-player headset yesterday and a Hannah Montana CD, and the kid is in hog heaven. I took on her first garage sale shopping spree with $10 in her purse. She bought so much stuff, especially a hat and tons of jewelry. She has an eclectic style that may someday mess together. For now though I have to caution her to consider the way she coordinates her accessories. She got to move to the bottom bunk when her roommate left, and now she awaits the next arrival, hoping she is a teen her age. Still I am learning that even though I have committed to work through any problems that arise with the children and not ask to have any of them removed from my home, each of them has the option of asking to leave and being placed somewhere else. None of them seem to be interested in trusting me, envisioning me in their life for very long, or showing any type of desire to build a relationship. I'm the lady who lets them live with her for now.

Two young sibling teens were here only for one night. They had never been in foster care and were traumatized to the bone. It was an emergency placement. When their caseworker picked them up the next day for just an hour visit with their mom, she called a little later saying they would not be returning. I imagine relatives arranged to care for them until the court date. Little seems to work when it comes to brightening the spirits of the young people when their family problems are so vast it consumes their way of life. I bought pizzas and soda and tried to turn the evening into a movie-watching sleep-over. I offered to make chocolate chip pancakes for breakfast. Still the cloud of fear, guilt, and helplessness outweighed anything I had to offer. All I could do was protect them, provide their basic needs, and be a witness to their sadness.

How often do we count our blessings? Not often enough. So many things we take for granted, and when they have been removed or denied, it causes such trauma all through life.

My thoughts for today,
Sheila Witherington

Happy Mother's Day....

2007-05-13T21:49:00.001-05:00

It is a wonderful Mother's Day because my mom is still alive and went home a little more than a week ago. It has been so long since I have written anything because it has been and still is such a trying time with the responsibilities and worries of helping to take care of an ailing, aging parent. She was in the hospital for three full months. Then we transferred her to a rehabilitation/nursing center, but that did not work out as we had hoped, and we decided that home was the best place for her. It was and still is a difficult decision as to whether she should be in a medical institution or at home alone for some hours each day. She wants to be at home, and we are trying to accommodate those wishes.

The photo at left was taken on her 86th birthday weekend celebration at the hospital. It includes our whole family, and it is the first time we have all been together at the same time since all the great-grandchildren have been born. I'll name all of us. Click on the photo to see an enlarged version.

The children on the floor (left to right): Braeden Gaines, Luca Mosley-Sims (yellow shirt), Caleb Hopper, Ashlyn Gaines, Zac Gaines, and Breck Mosley.

Seated on the second row are: Brad Sims, Bird Mosley-Sims (in Brad's lap), Carmen Mosley-Sims, Ike Mosley-Sims (in Carmen's lap), Audrey Witherington, Sheila Witherington, Meric Pittman (in Sheila's lap), Holcomb Pittman.

Standing on the back row are: Ken Gaines, Molly Gaines, Travis Hopper, Janis Hopper, Harris Hopper, Amy Hopper, Max Witherington, and Bridget Mosley.

We had a wonderful day with plenty of food, shaped-noted singing, games, arts and crafts, and fellowship. Mom was able to go back and forth from her hospital room to the banquet room several times, as she needed to rest.

I only talked to my mom on the phone today because I have a scratchy throat and slight cough (I think due to allergies) but we didn't want to take the chance of spreading germs face-to-face. She is too weak to handle any additional health problems.

My own daughters called me today. One is visiting in-laws in Alabama. The other spent the past two evenings with me, trimming trees from my roof, removing debris from the roof, mowing the lawn, and raking up and bagging all the debris. What a wonderful thing to do for me.

Being a mom is the most wonderful thing I have done with my life. There is no comparison with any other accomplishment. And oh how I love being a grammy.

My thoughts for today.
Sheila Witherington

My mom prays for a miracle

2007-03-16T02:32:00.001-05:00

This photo of my mom and grandson was taken just a few weeks ago before she became so ill. My mom is remarkable. She is still in the hospital and was moved to the Advance Care Hospital in the same building and on the same floor as ICU at Saint Joseph Mercy Health Center in Hot Springs. Tomorrow starts her fifth week in the hospital. She is still on the ventilator, but at a much reduced rate. Most of the day and night, she breathes on her own. She had a tracheotomy about two weeks ago, and I have spent more time at the hospital during the past month than I have spent at home. She is being weaned from the ventilator with a vent collar, and physical therapy has her walking the hallway. This is all quite a miracle.

Last weekend there was an annual meeting at her church, Old Union Primitive Baptist Church, just outside Hot Springs. She wanted to go, but of course, could not. Her favorite preacher, Elder Mark Quarles from Jackson, Mississippi, was coming and she wanted to be there. She communicated with me through her ventilator that God could heal her just like that (and she snapped her fingers) and she might get to go to the meeting. I told her that the miracle might be that Elder Quarles might come to her hospital room to see her. She said she was going to pray for that. And she did. My sister and others from their church collaborated and arranged for him and three other men from the church to surprise visit her last Sunday morning. I had been told they were coming but to keep it a surprise. On Saturday, I suggested that we might try to get her hair washed and groomed. She asked the nurses if there was someone to do her hair (she offered to pay and of course, they do not accept money for doing these things), and the nursing aid that evening went to great effort to wash her hair while she laid in the bed, even though she could not even sit up.

I spent the night with her, and Sunday morning at 9:00 a.m., four men came to see her, and one of them was Elder Mark Quarles. She was so thrilled. She kept pointing at him and telling me that this was the preacher she had been telling me about. I acted surprised. She asked him to say a prayer right then and there and ask God to heal her. And he did just that, as he held her hand. When they left, I went to her bedside and declared what a surprise that was. She shook her head. No, it wasn't a surprise. She knew he was coming. She had prayed that he would came, and he came. She was expecting him.

My thoughts for the day,
Sheila Witherington

Thinking About my Mama

2007-02-25T13:40:00.001-06:00

Last Monday my mama was moved to intensive care after a crisis that nearly ended her life. She has had another near fatal situation in ICU. I have spent most of my time at the hospital for the past 10 days, but am home for now trying to rest. She remains on the ventilator and other life support mechanisms. Her pain medications needed to keep her heart rate and blood pressure steady keep her in a state of barely recognizing us. But she smiles and holds our hands when we visit. She says shakes her head gently when asked if she is in any pain. She cannot talk. She communicates with her eyes and head movement. No, she is not too cold. No, she is not too cold. No, she doesn't care what is the television. Yes, she know us. Yes, she loves us. Yes, she wants to have a big birthday party April 6 when she turns 86, with all her children, grandchildren, and great grandchildren to be photographed with her. Yes, she wants to get well for that.

But the doctors are less than optimistic. They both give her a less than 20 percent chance for recovery. The ventilator was connected last Monday; therefore, tomorrow a decision will be made as to whether she can come off of it or whether to trach her for a longer haul on life support.

All but one of her grandchildren were at the hospital yesterday to visit with her. She was so excited to see them. She tried to tell each one that she loves them, but of course, attempting to talk with a ventilator tube causing coughing and distress. The grandchildren cried to see her so happy but realizing she may not be with much longer.

There is still so much I want to know from my mama. She actually has never had a good memory and gets dates and events confused, but she can also remember significant secrets and mysteries in the family that nobody else has talked about. My mama and her closest sister were the only two in their large family who broke the traditional form of courting on the porch with an escort, and they struck out to the WWII USO dances. They danced with and dated soldiers they had never met previously. They have told some exciting stories.

I really hope my mama recovers from this and we can talk some more. She knows I love her. She knows how much I love her. But for some reason I just want to talk to her more about the bond we have all had during my lifetime.

She is very ill, and I do not want her to suffer. I pray that peace surrounds us all and gives us a greater understanding and calmness.

I cannot imagine my life without my mama.

My thoughts for today.
Sheila Witherington

The End of a Long Journey With my Mom

2007-02-18T21:18:00.001-06:00

Mama is in a room at Saint Joseph Mercy Health Center in Hot Spring, Arkansas, tonight. She was admitted last Friday evening, and as things turned out, I was the best choice of siblings to stay with her for the past couple of nights. She is very ill with something called CDT positive (cytolethal distending toxin), which was deadly just 20 years ago. It is a bacterial infection of the intestines and bladder. She is not even able to turn herself in the bed, let alone sit up, get up, or walk alone. She is very weak. She is in a great deal of pain and must be heavily medicated. She is being treated with antibiotics, and the doctor says it is going to be a long recovery.
Mama is 86 years old, and her birthday is April 6. She has admitted that she is tired and at the end of her journey on earth. She told my sister though that she believes the best part is about to begin, and she looks forward to it. This is the first time I am beginning to have a calm and peace about Mama's death.
Still, today she said that today is not the day. She worked hard to sit up for her meals and get up several times during the day. She agreed to starting daily physical therapy. She is a fighter.

Nonetheless, she has given us our warning that she knows she is seeing the light of the other side. That gives me peace. It is an answer to my prayer as we have nursed her during serious illnesses. I have not been ready to give her up. Now it is different. I do not want her to have to live flat on her back in pain. She doesn't want that either. When she releases herself to go, she will go. I told her today that I will support her if she wants to fight, and I will understand if she is too tired to fight against something that is better in the next journey. I know we will never be separated and she will always be with me.

This photo was taken just a few weeks ago. It is my Mama and my granddaughter Meric. I love my family.

My thoughts for today.

Sheila Witherington

Joy fills my life

2007-02-12T10:44:00.001-06:00

What more could anyone want than five gorgeous grandchildren? It is the best time of my life. I have no complaints, and I feel blessed enormously.
Not to say that I do not have challenges. I made my last medical trip to Kansas City week before last. My orthopedic surgeon released me because there is nothing more he can do for me. The surgery was not successful because the pain is greater than it was prior to surgery. But I knew there were risks, and I had to try. Nonetheless, I live with chronic pain. I have to focus on my blessings and keep a positive outlook.
Now I'll find medical care here in Little Rock, where it is more convenient. The trips to Kansas City were horrendous, plus my family sacrificed a great deal carting me back and forth.
I have a major goal this year: to attend the Chateauroux American School reunion in Chateauroux, France in September. It is the 40th anniversary of the year when American bases closed in France, and we are gathering for a huge event to remember a time when we were military families living in France. It will take a miracle for me to attend, but I am determined to make the arrangements to go.
My thoughts for today.
Sheila Witherington

Happy New Year 2007

2007-01-01T14:10:00.001-06:00

My hope for the new year is to do a better job at a number of things: daily meditation; daily writing; daily exercise; healthful eating; simple living; and eliminating clutter in my life.

I am still recovering from a major set-back with my last surgery to remove the bone stimulator from my spine. An enormous hematoma developed that covers at least a third of my back. It has been extremely painful and scary, knowing that it is a big blood clot that could cause major damage. But it seems to be healing slowly. I cannot drive well yet. I am using the time to focus on whole body recovery. I am grateful to be alive.

Black-eyed peas cooked overnight in the crockpot with a ham bone left over from Thanksgiving. I have already had my taste of the new years traditional feast to start my year off right.

My thoughts for today.
Sheila Witherington

The best of 2006

2006-12-26T21:23:00.001-06:00

Let me count my blessings of 2006.

Granddaughter, Meric Ruth Pittman, was born in February.
Grandson, Isaac Jace Mosley-Sims, was born in November.
Grandson, Breck Robert Mosley, turned two years old in January.
Grandson, Emil Bird Mosley-Sims, turned one year old in January.
Grandson, Luca Finn Mosley-Sims, turned seven years old in June.
I purchased my own home in August.
I had my long-awaited back surgery in June.
I attended the Meece family reunion for the first time in several years.
I finished two Bible study courses and made new friends.
I attended my brother's graduation from nursing school.
I spent many hours with Mary Catherine as a new friend.
I enjoyed many hours and adventures with my children and their families.

My thoughts for today.
Sheila Witherington

Isaac is Born on November 13, 2006

2006-11-24T18:53:00.002-06:00

Isaac Jace Mosley-Sims is my fifth grandchild. He was born Monday, November 13, about 7 p.m., weighing 8 lbs. 4 oz. I was not available at his birth because I had to be in Kansas City for medical exams. It is the first time I have missed the birth of a grandchild. But I stayed in touch with the family, and all turned out well. This photo is Isaac during his first hour after birth. I have had the privilege of visiting with him since he was born though, and he is indeed a beautiful baby.
Being a grandparent is one of life's greatest joys. I feel especially blessed to have wonderful children who have made amazing families. This Thanksgiving season, I have given thanks for my family and the blessings they bring me.
My thoughts for today.
Sheila Witherington

The Good and the not so Good

2006-09-11T18:51:00.001-05:00

The good news these days is that I may be purchasing a new house soon. I found a modest little brick home near the University of Arkansas at Little Rock, where the neighborhood association is strong and the residents say they live in the best kept secret in Little Rock. The purchase is in the final stages, and hopefully, there will be no problems. If all goes well, moving day will be the end of this month. Thank goodness, volunteers have offered to pack for me, and professional movers will do the heavy work.

The not so good news is that it seems I have developed bursitis in the hip, which is causing enormous and chronic pain and has impeded my walking therapy. I am hoping it is a temporary condition that is a part of my recovery process and that time will heal.

I had hoped to participate in an intense Bible study at my church over the next 30 weeks, but since the sessions are three hours, one night per week, I am not able to sit for that long. I have to be reminded that I am in a recovery process and be patient with my body as it heals. I even tried to attend Sunday School last week, and could not sit for the full 45 minutes. I ended up walking down the hallway a bit to finish out the class.

Still I have so much to be grateful for, and I am reminded of that every day, several times a day. I have no complaints.

My thoughts for today.
Sheila Witherington

When Toddlers Need Surgery

2006-09-05T20:16:00.001-05:00

Two of my little grandsons have had to have surgery in the past few months. It is so difficult to watch the medical staff take a toddler away to undergo anesthesia for any type of surgery. The first grandson had tubes put in his ears earlier this year at Arkansas Children's Hospital. This surgery was scheduled, and his parents took him to the hospital and took him home shortly thereafter. We had time to think about it and prepare mentally for it. But yesterday another grandson went into the emergency room at Arkansas Children's Hospital, and the staff moved quickly to perform surgery on him for a hernia. They spent the night in the hospital, and he came home this afternoon. Thank goodness, both grandsons are doing well.
Still it takes a trip to a hospital like Arkansas Children's Hospital to remind us what is really important in life. We are so fortunate to have such a wonderful hospital in our state devoted just to the care of children.
My thoughts for today.
Sheila Witherington

Spiritual Gifts Inventory at Sunday School

2006-09-03T17:58:00.000-05:00

My Sunday School class at First United Methodist Church in Little Rock is called the Unity Class. We are a sort of eclectic group of people of ages across the board that doesn't mind discussing topics that are usually way out on the edge of religious and spiritual agendas of modern day. It is a little difficult to get a shock out of this group, and I like it that way.

Now I'm not sure how it happened, but over the next eight weeks, we were moved from our normal classroom to a larger classroom for what is called a Spiritual Gifts Inventory process led by our Senior Pastor, Rev. Michael Mattox. I think the plan started when it was announced by mistake that the special class would meet in our classroom. Then rather than confuse everyone, it was decided that our classroom would be used and then we would meet in another classroom. Then it was decided that since the special class was meeting in our classroom that we would just stay and attend the special sessions. Then it was decided that the room would not be large enough, and another classroom was selected. By that time, we as a class had commited to attending the special sessions.

So today was the first of eight Sundays for these sessions. Now, remember, this special class is open to the whole church, one of the largest United Methodist churches in the state of Arkansas. Lo and behold, my little Unity class arrives this morning in the new classroom for this special class we have agreed to attend, and wouldn't you know, nobody else is there except our little Unity class and the pastor. Eventually, two other church members arrive, but for a while it was just us.

We are no fools, we Unity members. We know what a Spiritual Gifts Inventory is all about. It is a process that takes you through realizing what God has given each of us uniquely in the way of gifts and talents, and then of course, how and why we are supposed to be using those gifts in service to others, i.e., the First United Methodist Church in downtown Little Rock.

Today we took a test. Next week we'll learn how to interpret the results of our individual tests. Then we are going to study certain texts in the Bible to find out how Jesus demonstrated service to others using those gifts.

My two big talents popped out as administration and discernment. I guess I interpret that for now that I like to be the boss and I can tell when someone is working for the devil.

My thoughts for today.
Sheila Witherington

No big house for me

2006-08-31T21:07:00.000-05:00

I didn't get the big historic house I made an offer on because it did not appraise even close to the contract price. It was a disappointment but I always know not to get too excited about houses until the deal has closed. There were more problems in the neighborhood than I had originally known about. So I am back looking at houses to find my new home. I am ready to get settled and put down roots again.

I am getting more and more concerned about the continuous pain in my left side. It is chronic, never-ending, even with pain medication. Walking is the best thing for it, but it is painful to walk. I still walk two miles a day. I will probably call my surgeon next week to see if there is an explanation. I am afraid of the answer and have postponed calling.

My thoughts for today.
Sheila Witherington

Living the answer

2006-08-22T08:58:00.000-05:00

At the recommendation of Pastor Diane Nunnelee of Trinity United Methodist Church in Midtown Kansas City, I have been reading Henri Nouwen ever since my back surgery. Every night I take some time to read from a couple of books I purchased written by this late Catholic priest, and truly, the readings are affecting my being. I have been especially interested in practicing silence and living the answer. My mind churns constantly, and while practicing silence, I try to let these thoughts ease out of my mind, and usually I end up in a calm sleep. When I awaken, I am amazed at the ideas, impressions, feelings, actions, joys, and concerns that are on my mind.

This process has led me over the past few weeks to realize that I should buy a home again. Though I have owned numerous homes in my lifetime, and even designed and built my own home years ago, for several years since my work injury and disability, I have either rented my home or lived with someone else. I realized it was time for me to buy my own home again.

So here I sit 9 1/2 weeks post major back surgery getting preapproved for a home loan, attending home buying seminars, and searching for a new home in my very low price range. It has been physically difficult, especially in the southern August heat, but I have taken it slow and easy. Nothing was overly appealing until Saturday. I found a house, but it isn't just a great old 1920s historic home in a Little Rock historic district, but the seller is an amazing black woman who taught school at Dunbar and several other schools in the 50s and 60s in Little Rock, and she lives down the block on the corner in a beautiful brick historic mansion. Not only that, but the listing realtor is another amazing black woman who lives in the neighborhood and is a dedicated activist and works to change run-down neighborhoods into thriving communities. Both women are highly educated and socially active, just my kind of women.

The price of the house is unbelieveable though it has no central heating or air system. I'll be using natural gas space heaters and window air conditioning units for a while. Well, let me stop there, and tell you: I made an offer on the house last night and am waiting with bated breath for the acceptance. So the house is in its original early 20th Century condition and well maintained. Just no luxury and modern conveniences. It is the house for me.

Now the part about living the answer, as suggested by Henri Nouwen. I will be moving into an all black neighborhood, where a house has not sold in years. It is situated just off a main corridor of Martin Luther King, Jr. and Wright Avenue, on the edge of the famous Central High School Historic District, that butts right up to the elite Quapaw District where the wealthy and professional whites live. I know there are trends all over the country where white are moving back into neighborhoods where white-flight left the beautiful homes to black residents who began moving in. As the neighborhoods became predominately black, the property prices dropped, and as a result, began to attract the lower elements of life, causing crime and forsaken property to rise in many cases. I will be leaving a zip code where there are 5 registered sex offenders and moving into a zip code area where there are 9 registered sex offenders. The southern part of Martin Luther King, Jr. Blvd. is a haven for prostitution at this moment in time, though my house is not in that area. Still, there are several zip code areas in Little Rock where there are 25 or more registered sex offenders. I think 9 may be a number that compares to 5 and 25 as a suitable place to start to make some community changes. Of course, I am also the type of person who realizes these numbers are racial problems because almost all the sex offenders who are registered are black men. And I know there are plenty of white men running around out there commiting sex crimes who for some reason or another don't end up on the sex offenders registry. All sex crimes are horrendous, but the numbers are skewed. I know that.

My block is very nice. Every family on the block has lived there for more than 50 years. I will truly be the newcomer, and the seller has assured me that she will be my mentor and introduce me to all the neighbors. The houses are all beautiful on the block. Big, historic, beautiful solid structures.

I didn't plan any of this. I just knew I needed to buy a house of my own. I had no mission in mind, no purpose. And I looked everywhere, every neighborhood within and outside my price range, and nothing felt right until I found this house. Without planning, without having major life expectations, I find myself living the answer to life's purpose.

Last night as I met with the listing agent to make my offer on the house, we ended up extending our meeting and talking about community development. This new home that I hope becomes mine is within walking distance (less than a mile) of both Arkansas Baptist College and Philander Smith College, and this realtor partners with both institutions on development projects. I think that as soon as I can move and get settled, I may write a media proposal for both institutions to teach and oversee civic journalism projects that create a college newspaper for each campus, written and published by the students. I'll write the grant proposal to get funding for both projects.

Well, the house is not mine yet. The offer has not even been accepted. Already my mind is churning. I need to slip back into silence mode and allow the silence to work.

My thoughts for today.
Sheila Witherington

Walking two miles a day

2006-07-26T18:39:00.000-05:00

I called my surgeon the other day thinking I had really jiggled something seriously out of place in my moving around. I was thinking I was probably being too aggressive in my rehab and needed for him to tell me to take it easy, perhaps increase my pain medication, or something along that line. Ahem. He wanted to know how far I was walking every day. When I was discharged from the hospital, he said he wanted me to work up to three miles a day, and since I was only four weeks post surgery, I figured my one-half mile per day would be quite impressive. No, no, he said. You aren't walking enough. Two miles a day. You should be walking two miles a day.

Two miles a day? Normal healthy Americans are not walking two miles a day, and I can barely move, and I'm supposed to be walking two miles a day? Sure, I told him. I'll walk two miles a day, even in the dead heat of Arkansas summer in July. No sympathy from him. Whatever aches and pains I was having, he said, I would walk them off.

So now I am walking two miles a day. The neighbors all along the route are encouraging me onward as they sit on their front porches sipping iced tea or spinkling their yards. Good for you, they call out. It will get better, they encourage.

It's not getting easier though. I break it into two walks a day, a mile at a time, trying to find a cooler time of day. I tried going to the mall one day to walk, but it was quite boring inside like that. It is much nicer to walk where the grass grows and flowers speak out and the wind occassionally breezes by. I am using it as my meditation time as well.

My mind churns as I walk. Goodness knows, I don't need any more ideas floating through my mind, but here they come anyway. I am truly an idea person trapped for the moment in a body that can mostly just think. Still, with every mile I walk, I envision I am closer to overcoming the disability that has held me hostage for far too long.

Yes, I am determined to walk as told. It is never easy, but that's not the point. I want to do what makes me strong, improves my quality of life, and gives me a better chance at a longer more satisfying life on this earth.

And yes, I know. I have to add another mile to the routine in a very short period of time. I'm thinking about whether to make it three walks a day or add a half mile to the two I am now walking. That will give me something more to think about.

My thoughts for today.
Sheila Witherington

It's somewhat harder than I expected

2006-07-11T11:21:00.000-05:00

I am three weeks into my recovery following surgery and the process is very very slow. I have not had a chance to write about it and have not felt like it either. But I thought I had better run through a timeline of what all happened while I can still remember it.

Wednesday, June 21, I flew out of Little Rock National Airport on my way to Kansas City, but was delayed in St. Louis. Southwest Airlines overuses their aircraft to the point that there is not an extra plane any where, and if one flight is delayed in one city due to weather, it affects all the other flights that were scheduled to use that plane that day even if weather played no role in delaying their flight. Such was my case. My flight was using a plane that had to go from Kansas City to Detroit and back first. However, it could not leave because of bad weather in Detroit. Instead, of cancelling the Detroit flight, Southwest delayed all the other flights using that plane. To make matters worse, they attempted to make the flight to Detroit, and was denied landing in mid-air, and the plane was rerouted to Chicago where it landed and was stuck for the night. That meant I had a choice of sitting up all night in the airport hoping the plane came in, or rebook my flight and pay for a hotel out of my own pocket. I opted for the hotel, even though I didn't have access to my luggage. I had to beg the hotel clerk for a toothbrush, toothpaste, and razor. I slept in the nude and washed out my underwear in the sink and aired out my clothes on the vent all night. Fortunately, the hotel offered room service, so I ordered breakfast in the room and took a long time resting, eating, and preparing for the long day ahead on Thursday, June 22, which was the day before my surgery.

Once I arrived in Kansas City about 11:00 Thursday morning, I had another long wait for Bridget, Holcomb, Breck, and Meric to arrive. They were driving to KC and left early that morning, with a stop-over in Fayetteville to visit with Holcomb's sister-in-law, children, and especially their new baby, Jake. By the time I reached Kansas City, they were just arriving in Fayetteville. I tried several options rather than waiting in the airport all day. There was no hotel van service to the hotel where we had reservations. All the taxis and other van services charged at least $45 to make the trip to the hotel, something I was not willing to pay, plus I would not have been able to get into the reserved room anyway. So I was pretty much stuck at the airport. I found a nice little restaurant that serves some light soup and salad and plenty of iced tea. I had rented a cart on which to roll my luggage that made it easier to manuever my belongings. Finally, I found a quiet spot near the baggage pick-up and nestled into a comfort zone where I could safely doze on and off throughout the afternoon without fear of anyone picking off my purse, luggage, or any other belongings without awakening me. And that's how I spent the long afternoon before my back surgery.

It was about 6:00 p.m. before Bridget and Breck arrived at the airport to pick me up after checking Holcomb, Meric, and their luggage into the hotel. It was good to get to the hotel, see everyone, and get ready to go out for a nice dinner at Jumpin' Catfish, one of our favorite restaurant. After dinner, we all went swimming in the hotel's indoor heated pool, and that was very nice. The kids had a great time. Later when the kids went to sleep, I stayed at the hotel with them, while Bridget and Holcomb had a night out at a nearby casino. They had a good time and came home when I called them a few hours later when Breck woke up wanting to see them. They don't get much alone time, so it was a nice though short break for them.

Still the two days before surgery were very challenging, to say the least. I was sure it would settle down soon. Friday morning, June 23, I had to be at the hospital at 6:00, and the surgery was scheduled for 8:00. Pastor Diane was already at the hospital when Bridget, Breck, and I arrived. The plan was that Bridget would get me to the hospital and then take Breck to get some breakfast and back to the hotel, then they would all come over to the hospital in time to see me before surgery. And I think that is what happened. Everything gets a little fuzzy at this point. They had no trouble getting the IV started this time. I visited with the anesthesologist and Dr. Drisko. The family came back for a brief visit, and then I was rolled away. I do not remember anything after that. I do not even remember what the operating room looked like. When I awoke, I remember thinking that hardly no time had passed, and I was so glad to be alive. So glad to be alive. I could feel the pain but had expected that. The nurse asked me about pain and gave me something for it. Then the family came back to see me again, I think. It is all fuzzy.

I had expected to get out of bed the same day as surgery on Friday, but it did not happen, and I was glad. I could not imagine how I would manage to do that. I rested most of the day, while Bridget and her family were in and out as they took care of things around the city. I really don't remember the day very much at all.

The next day Saturday, June 24, the catheter to my bladder out, which meant I would have to start getting up to go the the bathroom or use the bedpan. Throughout the rest of the day, I got up with assistance from the nurses and went to the bathroom numerous times. I don't remember much about phone calls or talking to people. I usually deferred any calls to Bridget, if she was in the room. Sometimes I just didn't answer the phone. I remained on a soft liquid diet and IV fluids because my bowels were not functioning at this time.

Sunday, June 25, Bridget, Holcomb, Breck, and Meric had to return to Little Rock to return to work. Bridget was hesitant about leaving me, but I assured her that there were plenty of options for my care when I was released from the hospital. Eric and Dustin had offered their home, even though they were not going to be at home and had 17 steps in their townhouse. Pastor Diane offered her home, even though they were not going to be at home for two nights. And there had to be a ton of rehab centers and such where I could get care. The process to get authorization for this was started by the social workers at the hospital. So the family left with me confident that my post-hospital care would be well arranged.

I remained in the hospital Monday, Tuesday, and Wednesday, June 26, 27, and 28, because my bowels were still not functioning. Concern grew about a blocked bowel, but finally late on Tuesday, my system started up again, and Dr. Drikso was ready to dismiss me on Wednesday. The social worker also stated that Workers Comp had agreed to pay for post-op inpatient care at a facility of my choice. She brought in a list of nursing home and care facilities. Dr. Drisko had tried to get me into a rehabilitation center, but I did not qualify because I was too mobile. I had been undergoing physical therapy twice daily and was able to walk short distances in the hallway and to walk up and down several steps, all with pain medication. When the list of nursing homes was presented to me, I informed everyone that I was not familiar with any of them and needed advice about which one would be best. I said I wanted clean, safe, responsive, and quiet. The social worker admitted that she did not know anything about any of them as well, and I thought that was strange. How was I to make a decision when I had no information with which to make a decision? Surely, such a fine hospital would not a facility on its list, if it was not a good facility. I felt confident that if it was on the list, it had been screened fully by the hospital.

I also needed transportation from the hospital to the facility and then from the facililty back to the doctors office and to the airport then following week. Which facility would provide that service? In the end, there was only one facility that responded at all to the requests for admission. White Oak Manor. Someday I will write about what happened when I was eventually sent there, but not now. It is too painful to think about right now. Suffice it to say that I was sent to White Oak Manor and stayed there for six hours until I demanded that an ambulance be called to return me to the hospital emergency. Fortunately, I was readmitted to the hospital during the wee hours of Thursday morning, June 29. I was shaking with fear and pain, even after being administered pain medication (I had received no pain medication while at the nursing home) and being transferred to my room on the 11th floor. No cells phones were allowed in the rooms on that floor because of cardiac patients on that floor, but the wonderful nurse was kind enough to ease me into a wheelchair and take me to the waiting room, with my list of contact numbers, where I called the people I needed to help me quickly over the next few hours. I knew I would not be able to stay in the hospital long, and I had no where to go. I no longer trusted the hospital's list of care facilities. My strongest option at the time seemed to be to check myself into a hotel that provided room service, but I did not know how I would really take care of myself. I could barely get out of bed and certainly could not drive. I was only six days out from having major surgery.

It was 3 a.m., and I called Eric and Pastor Diane and left messages on their answering services to call me on my hospital room phone as soon as they received the message and to please talk to each other about some options for me. Once I left the waiting room, I would be dependent on everyone else calling me, since I could not use my cell phone. I called Bridget and told her I was again in a safe place. She sparked the idea that ended up being the solution. "Why won't Dr. Drisko just release you early and let me come and get you and bring you home?" He had originally said that I could not travel for 10 days, and this was just day 6. On day 10, his office was closed for two days, meaning that I would have to wait until day 12 before getting the staples removed and being allowed to return home. "Why don't you see if he will let you come home and let Dr. Howard takes the staples out?" asked Bridget. Sure, I said. I would see but not to get hopes up.

Eric received my message when he awoke at 6:15 and called me immediately. It was so good to hear a local voice and that I had contact with a person nearby. I gave him a brief overview of what had happened, and he wanted to know what I needed him to do. I told him that I needed for him to go to the nursing home and pick up my belongings because they would allow me to bring them with me last night in the ambulance. They had assured me that I would be back. He said he would take care of it, and he did. That is another story, but suffice it to say, he did.

The hospital had assigned me a family practitioner during my surgery and stay in the hospital, Dr. Schutter; therefore, it was under her care that I was readmitted to the hospital through the emergency room. She was none too excited to see me back when she entered my new room Thursday morning. Two questions: What happened at the nursing home? And what are we going to do with you?

Well, it was clear that I could not return to the nursing home. It was also clear that I could not stay in the hospital because I was not acute care. I did not qualify for the hospital's rehab center due to my mobility ability. I did not qualify for the hospital's skilled nursing care unit because I was not a medicare patient; I was a workers compensation patient. We had a problem. What were they going to do with me? Could my family come to Kansas City and stay and take care of me for a few days? No, there were jobs and small children to consider. Could I check myself into a hotel and take care of myself. No, that's not a good option.

Then I asked my daughter's question. Would Dr. Drisko be willing to release me early, let my daughter come immediately and take me back to Arkansas, and let my family practitioner remove the staples next week? Dr. Schutter's eyes perked. She would go call Dr. Dirsko immediately. Within 10 minutes, she returned with a yes. Yes, yes, hallelujah, yes. She said to call my daughter and she would hold me in the hospital overnight for observation until my daughter arrived.

It was a little after 9:00 a.m. when I learned that I would be going home and called Bridget. She too was so excited and got into a panic. I knew she would need a little time to leave work, make arrangements with Holcomb and the kids, and to prepare to make the journey to get me. Still it didn't take long for her to get on the road because she arrived in Kansas City about 5:00 p.m. and was in my hospital room by 5:15, even before Eric arrived with my belongings from the nursing home.

Poor Eric. He had to go to the room (#112) where I had tried to spend the night in the nursing home, and pack my belongings. It was a pitful place indeed, and I still tear up thinking about it. Eric is meticulously clean and organized. There was a heavy lingering smell and feel about everything that passed through that nursing home, and I could tell he had experienced it and still felt the shock of it when he came in my hospital room bearing the weight of the luggage and bags. Bless his dear heart.

"You need to find you some new friends," I told him as he came into the hospital room. With friends like me, he must be thinking, how in the world did I get myself into this mess? He laughed it off, but he and I both knew that he helped save me. It is an awful place that I cannot talk about. I have asked the question many times since if all nursing homes are like that. I have thought about what I can do during the rest of my life to make my family love me enough not to ever allow that to happen to me, when even I in a state of helplessness, allowed it to happen briefly to myself. Not long, just six hours, but I allowed it to happen to myself. Those who are there cannot help themselves. I still had the ability to help myself enough to get myself out.

Dr. Drisko visited my hospital room earlier on Thursday, also satisifed that my early return to Arkansas was indeed the best solution. He gave me the dismissal instructions, and said that he felt sure that once my daughter arrived, she would be ready to hit the road on the return trip and I could leave whenever I desired at that time. And that's about the way it happened. By 6:15 or so that evening, the nurse was preparing the dismissal papers and instructions, and by 7:15, the nurse herself, escorted us down to the car as she ended her 12-hour shift, putting in a few extra care moments without pay to send us on our way. Everyone was so happy that I was free from the nursing home and on my way home.

Bridget and I stopped just 45 minutes outside of Kansas City to stop for the evening. I knew as soon as I was in the car traveling that it was not going to be an easy trip. Little Rock was a good 6 hour and 15 minute drive under the best of circumstances, without many stops. In my case, we would need to stop at least once an hour for me to walk and stretch.

I'll tell you more about the trip home later.

My thoughts for today.
Sheila Witherington

Speaking of agenda...ask me those questions

2006-06-19T14:09:00.000-05:00

Last night I had the privilege of meeting my daughter, son-in-law, and two grandsons at a nearby pizza place for dinner as they drove through Little Rock on their way from Kansas City back to Helena, Arkansas. It was just a little hour visit, but much can happen in that period of time, especially if you know how to set the agenda and ask the right questions.

Fortunately, I have trained my oldest grandson, Luca, to do just that. We were eating our salads (Luca had brought his own KFC in lieu of salad and pizza), when I asked Luca what was on his agenda for the coming week. He ignored that particular question and proceeded to skillfully set the agenda for the rest of the evening.

"Speaking of agenda," he said, "ask me those questions."

I knew exactly what he was talking about. For years, even before he was born, I developed a simple communion process when folks who care about each other are gathered for a meal, to ask each other a set of questions that just about covers the gamut of life. Those questions are:

What is the best thing that happened to you today (or this week, if you don't see other often)?
What is the most challenging thing that happened to you today?
What is something good someone did for you today?
What is something good you did for someone else today?
What are your goals for tomorrow?

The way it works is simple. You ask one question at a time and go around the table while people are enjoying their meal and let each person respond to the first question. Then you ask the next question and each person responds to that one. You continue until all the questions are answered.

Luca turns seven years old a week from today, but I will be in the hospital in Kansas City recovery from back surgery at that time. I am very proud that he has learned some things from me, particularly how to set a healthy agenda for the dinner table.

My thoughts for today.

Sheila Witherington

15 minutes and counting...then cancelled

2006-06-18T00:06:00.000-05:00

I am not in Kansas City recovering from back surgery, as planned. The surgery was cancelled just 15 minutes before I was going to be rolled back into the operating room. An indicator in a last-minute blood test alarmed my surgeon and he made the call to postpone it until we could find out what was causing a red flag. After consulting with a hematologist/oncologist and neurologist, we arrived at the consensus that the surgery should be postpone for a week. I am at a greater risk for having a stroke during and after the surgery than was previously known. We'll approach the process a little differently.

I returned to Arkansas to regroup, recoup from the stress, and build my strength to start this process over again next week. It is almost more than I can handle, and now the added pressure of elevated stroke risk makes it a little more difficult. Still, I think I need to move forward with my plans with faith and confidence.

Today was difficult. I have never had to make a decision that could cause my own death or disabling condition. I love living. I absolutely love living. I enjoy everything about living, especially my family and taking part in the activities in their lives. I don't want to die. I am not ready to die. It calls into question everything I know about faith, beliefs, after-life, and certainty. I am certain of nothing when it comes to after-life and truth. I only have faith that I know and have experienced a little bit of knowledge. I envision living many more years. I certainly want to live many more years.

I am asking everyone I encounter to pray for me. I need the prayers of those I love. I need to be lifted because I certainly cannot do this for myself.

My thoughts for today.
Sheila Witherington

And so it begins...the road to recovery

2006-06-14T11:52:00.000-05:00

I arrived in Kansas City late last night and Eric and Dustin met me at the airport as promised to take me home with them. What a lovely townhouse they have, and they have gone to great trouble to set up a guest room for me and to meet my needs. Oh, and guess what? They are both reading the same subject matter that I have been reading. I brought them a copy of Jane Goodall's Harvest of Hope, and they are reading Anna Lappe and Bryant Terry's book Grub. Strange how like minds can be on the same page without knowing it.

I am reminded of the lesson in Luke 9. The Jesus called the twelve together and gave them power and authority over all demons and to cure diseases, and he sent them out to proclaim the kingdom of God and to heal. He said to them, 'Take nothing for your journey, no staff, nor bag, nor bread, nor money--not even an extra tunic. Whatever house you enter, stay there, and leave from there. Wherever they do not welcome you, as you are leaving that town shake the dust off your feet as a testimony against them.' They departed and went through the villages, bringing the good news and curing diseases everywhere.

I packed so many things for my journey here, trying to imagine everything I might need so I would not be a burden to anyone, you know, that ever-driving human need to be independent and self-supporting. When I arrived at Eric and Dustin's house, lo and behold, they had thought through, as Great Samaritans, everything I might need and had it ready for me. I could have come empty-handed and been quite fine. Truly the Lord is in this place, and I am very fortunate to have such good friends to offer me their hospitality.

Traveling was a little difficult because my first task for the day yesterday was to the dentist for what I had thought would be a simple tooth refilling. But the tooth was spilt in two and had to be extracted. Of course, I have one of the worst dental phobias known to humankind and the tears started rolling down my cheek even as the dental assistant inserted the film into my mouth for an X-ray. I warned them that I needed happy gas from the get-go, but even that did not keep the tears from flowing the entire time. I have an ultra sensitivity in the nerves associated with dental medicine and it takes triple the amount of nerve deadening to make my mouth go numb. The nerves from my teeth run all the way down to my toes.

Therefore, even if I had not needed a pain pill for my back while flying yesterday, I would have needed it for my mouth. I was a miserable creature.

Tomorrow is the day for pre-surgery appointments with my surgeon and with the hospital testing. Today I am resting. Much needed rest. Friday is the big day. Friday morning, 8:00 a.m., that's the moment for my back surgery. Lumbar decompression and spinal fusion.

Many changes had taken place at Little Rock National Airport I noticed yesterday while flying. More lanes, more room to move, better care for the employees. That is great. I will be returning to work there in about six months, once I have recovered and am released from my doctor to work again. I am very excited about getting back into the working world.

My thoughts for today.
Sheila Witherington

Pfc. George A. Meece, killed in action October 5, 1944

2006-05-27T20:21:00.001-05:00

This Memorial Day weekend, my thoughts are on my mother's brother, Pfc. George A. Meece (known as "Son"), who was killed in action in World War II on October 5, 1944 in Holland. He was buried in Henri-Chapelle Cemetery near Liege, Belgium, but was later disinterred.

My grandmother received a letter dated January 14, 1947, from G.A. Horkan Brigadier General, QMC Assistant, informing the family of Congressional authorization for disinterment. In November 1947, his body was returned to Fordyce, Arkansas, where was laid to rest in Dallas County at Liberty Cemetery in a family plot. My mother and aunts told me through the years that all they knew is that he was in the infantry, a foot soldier, and he died in a fox hole. They knew nothing more about the battle or where he was at the time. Henri-Chapelle first served as a temporary cemetery and my uncle was one of the first soldiers buried there. The first shipment of remains of American War Dead were returned to the U.S. for permanent burial, and my uncle was among those returned. The repatriation program began on July 27, 1947 at a special ceremony at Henri-Chapelle American Cemetery when the disinterment began. It was reported that the first shipment of 5,600 American Dead from Henri-Chapelle left Antwerp, Belgium the first week of October 1947. It is told that there was an impressive ceremony with over 30,000 reverent Belgium citizens attending and representatives of the Belgium government and senior Americans presiding.

My mother tells the story of hearing the news on the radio as the excited voice of the reporter conveyed the depth of passion at the scene as the ship, the transport Joseph v. Connolly, came into the New York harbor with its load of the 5,600 dead soldiers who had died years earlier during the war. My mother, at the time, was several months pregnant with my sister, and living in Pennsicola, Florida with her husband (my dad) who was stationed at the Air Force base. Due to her pregnancy, she could not travel back to Arkansas to see her brother's remains returned to his home land. She said that little boats went out into the harbor to meet the ship, and the people in the boats were throwing flowers into the water, in memory of all the soldiers. Actually, the escort was much larger than my mother recalled. The American destroyers, The Bristol and The Beaty, plus the Coast Guard cutter The Spencer, aided with five of the city's fireboats and other small craft reached out into the harbor to escort the transport into home waters. My mother cannot tell the story today without crying. I cannot listen to the story without crying.

My mother's sister, Aunt Wada Laramie, and my Grandma Ethel Meece Berryhill, waited at the train station in Fordyce, Arkansas that November day in 1947, when Uncle Son's body was on its way home. At Thornton, Arkansas, five miles down the track, the conductor started blowing the horn of the train, in tribute to the dead soldier, and for five long slow miles, the entire countryside knew that George A. Meece was finally coming home.

Today I envision the same scenario repeating itself 6,248 times more throughout the U.S. as the coffins were dispersed to their native lands. Sorrow seeped into every vein, in every state.

Through much intensive research, I have pinpointed that Uncle Son was killed during the Operation Market-Garden with General George Patton's 3rd Army, 48th Armored Infantry Battalion, 7th Armored Division, Company B, in the Battle of Overloon in Holland, that extended over a period of several weeks. Thousands of soldiers died in this military campaign, (more than died in the Normandy invasion earlier that year) one of the first to secure a stronghold in Europe and one that freed the Danish people of the Nazi oppression.

Ironically, I did not know about the location of Henri-Chapelle Cemetery or the location of the Battle of Overloon on my journeys through Europe. I even spent the night in Liege, Belgium on one trip, and could have easily gone to the memorial sites at Henri-Chapelle. Next time, I go to Europe, I am going to try to revisit these places.

I grieve the loss of my uncle and the family and descendants he would have had. I see the visions of those families of soldiers who were saved and all the offspring. But for my uncle, there are none. He died in service to his country.

My mother misses him so much, even today. If he had lived and returned, her life would have been different in every way. They were the best of friends. Sixty years after his death, she still cries when she tells me the story of his death and return home. She never saw his coffin.

I found an article written by a journalist on the scene at New York Harbor that day in 1947. It is no less moving today than it was then.

WHEN WE COULD SEE THE COFFINS
by Meyer Berger in The New York Times, October 27, 1947
Sep/Oct 2004 by Berger, Meyer

The first war dead from Europe came home yesterday. The harbor was steeped in Sabbath stillness as they came in on the morning tide in 6,248 coffins in the hold of the transport Joseph V. Connolly. One coffin, borne from the ship in a caisson, moved through the city's streets to muffled drumbeats and slow cadenced marches, and 400,000 New Yorkers along the route and at a memorial service in Central Park paid it the tribute of reverent silence and unhidden tears.
At the service on the Sheep Meadow, chaplains of three faiths prayed for the soldier dead. Their words, and the choking sadness of taps, suspended in quivering, unseasonal heat, evoked women's sobs and caught at men's throats.

The transport Joseph V. Connolly broke through the haze outside the narrows at 9 a.m., a shadowy hulk all gray and tan, with a funeral wreath at herforepeak. Nothing moved on her decks.

The Connolly's escort wheeled into line: the destroyers Bristol and Beaty, the gleaming white Coast Guard cutter Spencer; five of the city's fireboats and other small craft. The ship's ensign, half-masted, stirred in the wind, and at 9:15 A.M. foam flowed from the Connolly's prow and the craft moved toward the harbor.

The pace was slow, a bare ten knots. Buoys tolled and lapsed into quiet. There was a stir on the Bristol's fantail, and Corporal Carroll Ripley, a marine, raised his trumpet and Church Call, muted and tender, hung over the waters. Rear Admiral John J. Brady, retired, opened a prayer: "O, God -" but a wind tore the invocation to tatters.

Meyer Berger in The New York Times, October 27, 1947
Copyright Columbia University, Graduate School of Journalism Sep/Oct 2004Provided by ProQuest Information and Learning Company. All rights Reserved

My thoughts for today.
Sheila Witherington

Back surgery scheduled for June 16

2006-05-18T22:31:00.000-05:00

My back surgery has been authorized after a 10-month wait. I am excited about the prospects of moving into the phase of treatment and recovery, and especially about being able to return to work. Being disabled has been the most difficult process I have ever been through. It does not match my mind and personality. And even though I am now disabled, I still have stereotypical images in my mind about disabled people. It has been an isolating process. Yet I have learned many things about myself that are life changing. One of my highest values of character is dependability, and I have lost that characteristic during my disability. When I say I will do something, many times I must later retract and say I cannot do it. When I commit to something, oftentimes I have to let people down and say I cannot do it after all. My energy runs out. My body aches. I get sick all over. I do not see myself as undependable. It is not me. My true self is somebody else buried deep inside me, not associated with this damaged body.

Much depends on this surgery. My surgeon is Dr. Robert Drisko at North Kansas City Hospital. I will be flying back to Kansas City on June 13 to get ready for the surgery. Two friends of mine from Trinity United Methodist Church in midtown KC are letting me stay with them during my recovery time before being able to fly back home.

The surgery is a lumbar decompression and spinal fusion. It will be three years in August since I have been able to work. Three years and a lifetime. Dr. Drisko started treating me 18 months ago. It has been a long journey. After surgery, I'll have a six-month recovery period before returning to work. I am so excited about returning to work. I love the work environment. I miss all the people, working with the public, being in the middle of all the excitement.

I'm not ready to give it all up. Much depends on this surgery. Thank God it has been authorized at last.

My thoughts for the day.
Sheila Witherington

A nurse in the family

2006-05-14T21:57:00.000-05:00

My brother, Max Witherington, graduated from Ouachita Technical College this weekend with a degree as a Licensed Practical Nurse. He is the tall man on the back row in the photo. I am so proud of him. This is a big career change for him, and he was the only man in his class. I attended his nursing class pinning on Friday night and then the graduation exercises on Saturday, and I was glad to be there. Nobody knows how thankful I am for this to be complete. I am so pleased to have been a part of his two-year effort to see this to completion. Now all he has to do is pass his state board exam. I think he is going to continue on a fast-track while working for his degree as a registered nurse. He makes a fine nurse.

My thoughts for today.
Sheila Witherington

Grandbaby #5 on its way

2006-05-11T14:50:00.000-05:00

Yes, Carmen and Brad are expecting baby #3 in late October. That will make grandbaby #5 for me. Of course, we are excited. Still Carmen has hyperemesis again and it is extremely difficult. She lost more than 20 pounds so far. When I am able, I stay with them and help cook because she is not able to be around food very much. Maybe the hyperemesis will pass soon. We are prayerful that she will be healthy again very soon.

My thoughts for today.
Sheila Witherington

Outcome of work started in 1998

2006-04-05T15:12:00.000-05:00

Sometimes it takes a long time to see efforts take a shape. I was asked to serve on the committee for the Oak Forest Area Neighborhood Action Plan in Little Rock, Arkansas, in 1998, and I remember the difficult meetings. The problems were immense and there seemed to be little attention to the neighborhood by policymakers. I was pleased to see that the report "A Guide to Achieve Our Vision" was successful in putting our ideas together. I owned a home in the Oak Forest area for many years, and I still miss living in the neighborhood.

My thoughts for today.
Sheila Witherington

A new grandbaby is born

2006-02-17T12:37:00.000-06:00

It is a girl. Baby Meric Ruth Pittman was born Thursday, February 9, 2006, weighing in a 8 lbs. 1 oz. and just over 21 inches long. She is my fourth grandchild, BUT first granddaughter. Welcome to the family, Meric. Mother and baby are home and doing well. I'll post a photo soon.

My thoughts for today.
Sheila Witherington

George and Ilona Gerbner died in December 2005

2006-01-05T08:14:00.000-06:00

A few days ago I learned that George and Ilona Gerbner died in December. Ilona died on December 8 and George died a couple of weeks later on December 24. He was 86 years old. He was also my thesis advisor at the Annenberg School for Communication at the University of Pennsylvania and my boss for nearly two years after I earned my degree. Together with others, we launced the Founding Convention of the Cultural Environment Movement in 1996.

I knew George was going to die some day. We all did. But still there are few people who have had more influence in my life than he, his wife, and a circle of friends that I came to know while working with him. He was the type of person who never shared his religious beliefs, his political affliation, or his social order philosophy. However, he spoke with conviction about these matters on any given day, in a way that made people pause and think about how they constructed and lived their daily lives. He was his own worst enemy by setting the task so vast that it was impossible to accomplish, at least in one person's lifetime.

I am hoping the the George Gerbner legacy continues and grows after his death and perhaps will become someone bigger than he was, something that can accomplish that impossible task that he envisioned.

My thoughts for today.
Sheila Witherington

Avoiding the temptation to spend money

2005-12-03T23:57:00.000-06:00

There is so much temptation to spend money during the holidays. I am trying not to spend any money on anything that is not necessary. It is difficult not to spend money on gifts for other people during the holidays. But we have all agreed that nobody really needs anything, so I shouldn't buy gifts. I am going to get my Christmas tree decorated and make it a festive place. It boggles my mind to think about how Christmas time is just the opposite of the way Jesus Christ lived. Christmas is the economic highlight of our society. I think that is a sin committed by all of us together.

My thoughts for today.
Sheila Witherington

Thinking about Chateauroux and military life

2005-11-08T22:31:00.000-06:00

I have been thinking about the time I spent with my Air Force family in Chateauroux, France, when I was in the 5th and 6th grade in the early 1960s. In fact, I think it is sad that the military is having such a problem in recruiting new prospects to build military families. Living a military life can be a wonderful lifestyle. It is a unique way of building family. There are military bases all over the world, and when a family is stationed in those overseas communities, it opens up a world of opportunities for the entire family. Even living in a broad range of states in the U.S. instills in children and families the complexity of landscape, culture, and religion. I lived in France during the time when the Berlin Wall was built, the Bay of Pigs shocked the world, and the Cuban Missile Crisis sent all of us to the brink of disaster. Oftentimes I think I would be a fabulous military recruiter, even in the face of the Iraqi war. No, not everyone is cut out for military life, and that is the mistake military recruitment is making today. The current mission is to recruit anyone who will sign on the dotted line. Instead, the recruitment mission should be to seek those who are interested in stepping outside the boundaries of their current environment and begin a path of exploration and growth.

I would not trade my growing up military for anything.

My thoughts for today.
Sheila Witherington

Living independently again

2005-09-29T23:47:00.000-05:00

For the first time in two years, I am living independently again in my own place. I moved last weekend into a lovely townhouse. It is a big step for me, and it is difficult. The simplest tasks associated with running a household on my own exhaust me and test my physical limits, but the rewards are worth the effort. I actually enjoy having time to myself, eating and not eating whenever I wish, and keeping my own schedule. Oh, and seeing my own belongings that have been packed and stored for two years or longer. I feel much stronger emotionally though about trying to take care of myself. Plus family is nearby. Help is always available if needed.

My back physician in Kansas City has ordered surgery for me, but it has been delayed pending bureaucratic authorization. I won't be surprised if it doesn't take six months or longer for the paperwork to be completed. I will be having a lumbar decompression, spinal fusion, and bone stimulator. There is an 85 percent chance for success. My friends in Kansas City have offered their guest room to me for my recuperation following surgery before I will allowed to fly back home to Arkansas.

I expect to get some serious writing done.

My thoughts for today.
Sheila Witherington

Moving was difficult

2005-09-19T11:07:00.000-05:00

Weeks have passed since the move back to Arkansas, and it was very difficult. I have been living with my other daughter and her family for several weeks. I completed the series of three back epidurals in Kansas City, with no relief, and my doctor ordered back surgery. It was supposed to have been early in August, but has been delayed pending authorization. It has been a time of misery. But I have found a new place to live, and hopefully, I will be moving this week into my own place. I have been homesick for friends and church in Kansas City. I have visited some Sunday School classes and worship services here in Little Rock, but have not found a new church home.

I have been doing a lot of writing and even more reading. But I'll be glad when I get something done about my back.

My thoughts for today.
Sheila Witherington

Things are about to change

2005-06-11T18:53:00.000-05:00

Moving day is less than seven weeks away. Carmen, Brad, Luca, and Bird are moving to Helena, Arkansas. I am moving back to Little Rock. Finally, the decision has been made. I spent a few days in Little Rock last week, looking at houses to buy. That part is not finalized yet. But I am more settled on the idea of buying my own house again and putting down roots, unpacking all my dishes, and throwing away the moving boxes and packing paper.

Going to Saint Paul did not work out this year. There was not enough financial aid for me to attend. At my age and in my health, I cannot think of borrowing more student loans. That was a big disappointment, but I finally realized that it was not all for naught. Something else will come of it, and I'll know it soon enough.

I started my back epidurals yesterday, and but there has been no relief from the pain yet. In fact, I guess the pain is worse for the time. That may change. I return on June 29 for the second injection. I have not even left the house since I came in from the clinic. I am not sure I will get to church tomorrow or not. Tonight was the farewell party for Pastor Sally at the church, but I could not attend. Many changes are ahead.

I have been writing much. I have been reading most everything Maya Angelou wrote. It is inspiring and helping me with my own writing. I am also thinking about starting to write a play script.

Many changes are ahead. But it will be nice to see my dishes again.

My thoughts for today.
Sheila Witherington

AIDS Walk Kansas City coming up

2005-04-13T20:03:00.000-05:00

It's nice to be a member of a church that is participating in the AIDS Walk Kansas City this coming Saturday. In fact, it is a big deal at my church, Trinity United Methodist. I am in charge of the "cheerers" since I won't be walking. And actually, I may be the only one not walking.

I only have a few days left before I have to send in my confirmation deposit to secure my spot at Saint Paul School of Theology. I am sure I will be getting it into the mail before the weekend arrives.

My thoughts for today.
Sheila Witherington

Nobody knows I'm here...This is kind of fun.

2005-04-06T11:00:00.000-05:00

It is an amazing thing. I have been blogging consistently for more than three months, and nobody knows I am here. Millions and millions of people out there, and I am not hiding. My name, photo, everything is right out there, and nobody has found me. Nobody knows I'm here. I have many friends, lots of family, even people who do not like me, but nobody has found me. I have not been acknowledged by anyone who does not know me. I have not told anyone I am here. I want to see how long it takes somebody to find me. Three months and counting. This is kind of fun.

My thoughts for today.
Sheila Witherington

They are leaning toward Helena

2005-04-03T23:11:00.000-05:00

My daughter and her family returned from a four-day trip to Helena, Arkansas, where she has been offered a job as an attorney with Legal Aid. It is right in the middle of the Mississippi Delta. Well, they liked it. They feel a calling to go. They liked it. That is a big deal. A real big deal. It affects me, too, because I live with them.

People have been asking me for months what I am going to do if they move. My response has been that I didn't know, that I didn't want to think about it until I had to. Now, it seems I may have to think about it. It seems that I need to pray about it.

My thoughts for today.
Sheila Witherington

Sally is leaving

2005-03-30T22:20:00.000-06:00

I learned today that my pastor, Sally Haynes, is leaving our church to go to Warrensburg, Missouri. It is a good move for her. A big church that will be good for her teenage children. I just met her less than three months ago, but she has had a big impact on my indoctrination into the United Methodist Church. I am going to miss her. She wrote my letter of recommendation for Saint Paul School of Theology. She visited me in the hospital. She has seen to it that I have been appointed to committees. I have watched her carefully, her preaching style.

My family left today to go to Helena/West Helena, Arkansas. My daughter has been offered a job as an attorney at Legal Aid there. They are going to make the decision whether to leave Kansas City and move to Helena or not. It will have an impact on me as well. I decided not to make the trip with them. I think they should make the decision without any input from me. I am praying for a safe trip for them and they will be guided by the Holy Spirit to make the right decision together. I am also praying for myself and that I will know what I am supposed to do when I am supposed to do it.

My thoughts for today.
Sheila Witherington

How to make cornbread

2005-03-29T10:57:00.000-06:00

I am writing a book about how to cook with basic ingredients. One of the recipes in this book is how to make cornbread. One of my favorite meals is cooked fresh greens (mustard, turnip, kale, collards, etc.) and cornbread. Cornbread can be a staple food that is inexpensive, nourishing, and easy to make. Here is how to make a simple pan of cornbread with basic ingredients.

Start with a very hot cast iron skillet and a very hot oven (475 degrees). Heat 2 tablespoons of cooking oil in the skillet on top of the range until hot enough to quickly fry a few drops of cornbread mixture. Do not leave the skillet unattended while heating it. The oil is very hot.

Sift the following dry ingredients into a large mixing bowl:
2 cups cornmeal
2 tablespoons baking powder
1 teaspoon baking soda
1 teaspoon salt

Mix the following wet ingredients together:
1 1/2 cups milk (buttermilk is better)
1 egg
2 tablespoons cooking oil

Combine the dry and wet ingredients in the mixing bowl and stir until smooth. Once the cast iron skillet is hot, test it by dropping one or two drops of cornbread mixture into the hot oil. If it browns quickly, it is ready. Pour the mixture into the skillet and bake in the hot oven for about 20 minutes. Check the baking process every 5 minutes or so since temperatures vary among ovens. When golden brown to desired outcome, turn out the bread onto a plate. Use thick oven mitts to handle the hot skillet because cast iron retains heat very well. If the bread does not slip out of the skillet easily, set the skillet on a burn-proof mat and run a dinner knife around the inside edges and underneath the bread to loosen the bread from the pan. Then turn out onto the plate. Cut the bread into desired portions. Some people like to butter their bread while it is hot.

My thoughts for today.
Sheila Witherington

Coining a phrase: A purpose-driven life

2005-03-24T09:51:00.000-06:00

There is a good article about a purpose-driven life in the Christian Science Monitor. Rick Warren was smart when he used the phrase. I am sure he did not coin the phrase. I have heard it most of my life, long before he started his ministry. But it easy to say, as opposed to "meaning in life," "purpose in life," "why are we here?" "life's purpose," etc. Whatever we call it, the meaning is the same. There must be more in the way we make day-to-day decisions and life-long decisions than just wait and see what happens, or even worse, making decisions based upon material or political gain.

The thing about a purpose-driven life that I wish we could somehow encompass in our national and global agenda is a purpose-driven existence as large and small communities. Of course, the United States may very well have a purpose-driven existence, and it may just be that it is not within God's will. We have so many wonderful traits as a nation that could be used to make this a peaceful world. We have everything that is needed to live a purpose-drive agenda as a nation. Our people are among the most talented. We have enormous natural, spiritual, and intellectual resources. We have enough common will to make it all happen.

What will it take to create a nation moving within God's purpose-drive existence? I believe in the power of miracles. I believe in the power of prayer. I believe in change and a flow of energy that makes us humble to God and one another. What I lack is faith that it can happen to us in the midst of our wrongdoing. But I haven't given up hope. I think I will pray for more faith, stronger hope, more diligence, and willingness to response.

My thoughts for today.
Sheila Witherington

Accepted to Saint Paul School of Theology

2005-03-23T20:06:00.000-06:00

I learned today that I have been accepted into the Master of Divinity program at Saint Paul School of Theology in Kansas City. That is no small feat. A few more miracles will have to happen to make it happen. All I know to do is take one step at a time, one day at a time.

My thoughts for today.
Sheila Witherington

The day I met Eleanor Novek

2005-03-23T09:53:00.000-06:00

It was shortly after I arrived at the Annenberg School for Communication at the University of Pennsylvania in 1991 that the school hosted a get-together for the first-year graduate students, including me, to meet their assigned mentors. Eleanor Novek, a doctorate student, was assigned to me. Eleanor Novek, the Jewish nontraditional student from New Jersey and me, Sheila Witherington, the Baptist southern single mom from Arkansas. Imagine that. Well, it was lucky me. Thin, and with a height that was almost eye-ball with mine, she introduced herself, asked questions that informed her of my situation as a southern, single mom transplant to the northeast for the first time, and began to think about what we could do together to learn from each other. The first thing I learned from her was how to schedule time during graduate studies. We began to have weekly outings that occupied no more than 4-6 hours of entertainment for the week; then it was back to the grind. It might be a shopping trip through a regional mall, or checking out an ethnic nightclub at midnight on Saturday, or a trip to the Italian Market in south Philly or tasting the African barbeque on South Street. More often than not, she insisted that we include my teenage daughter, who was still in high school and living at home with me. She has affected and influenced my decision-making process in many ways throughout the years. She became the best mentor a mentee could envision and stayed a solid friend ever after. Even after we went separate ways with different careers, we stayed in touch via email and occasional visits. Now she has been invited back to the Annenberg School for Communication to give the annual George Gerbner Lecture in April 2005. I wish I could be there, but I cannot. She is one of those people who didn't have to keep on keeping on with the issues of discrimination that she has researched and written about for decades, but she did anyway. She is at the heart of what I think of as the reconciliation movement. I hope everyone at the George Gerbner Lecture at Annenberg appreciates her and her wisdom.

My thoughts for today.
Sheila Witherington

Holy Week with fresh eyes

2005-03-22T20:26:00.000-06:00

Yes, it is Holy Week, and many people are familiar with what that means. Oddly enough, with all my church upbringing, Holy Week wasn't something that was recognized and celebrated in my church. But at Trinity United Methodist in Kansas City, where I am now a member, we have a full agenda, and it is nice. The whole Lenten season has been a wonderful new experience for me leading up to Good Friday and Easter. I have been asking a lot of questions and looking up a lot of information about all the different days of observance.

Sunday is Easter, and it is also when Daylight Savings Time changes forward. I am a member of the new Welcoming Committee, so we are expecting a big day.

My thoughts for today.
Sheila Witherington

International Fellowship for Reconciliation

2005-03-22T09:53:00.000-06:00

There are many organizations working for nonviolent ways to live together in peace throughout the world. This organization, the International Fellowship for Reconciliation, was organized during World War I. Check it out.

My thoughts for today.
Sheila Witherington

Working with George Gerbner

2005-03-22T01:13:00.000-06:00

One of my most memorable times in my career was the years I spent working with Dr. George Gerbner, Dean Emeritus of the Annenberg School for Communication at the University of Pennslyvania. He was my thesis advisor during graduate school, and I was fortunate enough to help him launch an international nonprofit organization called the Cultural Environment Movement after I graduated. As Director of Operations for CEM, I watched in awe as he kept on keeping on through impossible situations. It has been many years since I have seen him, though we correspond frequently. Not only do I remember those years fondly, but also the time I spent with the people who worked closely with him on the mission. Our founding convention created a lasting document, The People's Communication Charter, with bold ambitions. http://www.tbsjournal.com/Archives/Spring99/Documents/Congress/Charter_intro/charter_intro.html I think of George, and his wife, Ilona, often. They both had a big influence on my life as well as the life of my two daughters.

My thoughts for today.
Sheila Witherington

The Christian Science Monitor | Daily Online Newspaper

2005-03-22T00:36:00.000-06:00

The Christian Science Monitor Daily Online Newspaper
This is the best newspaper I have ever read.

My thoughts for today.
Sheila Witherington

Talk about Martians and Aliens

2005-03-21T11:49:00.001-06:00

My grandson, Luca, and I spent some time on an art project this morning. We made zoo animals in cages, including a giraffe, rhino, hippo, bird, and lion. I'll spare you the details. But it was fun. Afterward, he wanted to draw and talk about Aliens and Martians. He is five years old. I'll spare you the details about that, as well. Only thing, such talk does get one to think about what one really knows, what one thinks one knows, and what one doesn't know at all. In many ways, I think I am getting wiser. In other ways, I know less every day. The wisdom, I think, is being comfortable in realizing that I know less every day, and that's okay. Don't get me wrong. I love learning, lifelong learning, and a continuous quest for knowledge. It's just that the imagination sometimes wanes after childhood ends, and we enter into our adult lives. Then something happens when one has grandchildren and enters that process of life where one knows there are fewer years left ahead than there are left behind. We give ourselves license to allow our imagination to come alive again and just let time pass, living in "what if" thoughts of Martians and Aliens. What if the neighbor is really a Martian? Cool. He's one of our best friends. I am so glad to have the opportunity to spend time just imagining with my grandson.

My thoughts for today. Sheila Witherington

My first Palm Sunday

2005-03-20T21:36:00.003-06:00

Now this may sound like a strange thing to say, but this was my first time to ever celebrate Palm Sunday. I grew up Baptist, and we didn't observe Palm Sunday and Holy Week and Ash Wednesday and Maundy Thursday, etc. But now I am a Methodist, and this was my first Palm Sunday. My grandson, Luca, and I attend the services at Trinity United Methodist here in Kansas City, while his parents stayed home with baby brother Bird.

Our day started with breakfast this morning served by the youth of the church. Luca went out into the church yard with Dallas and cut fresh flowers for the tables. After breakfast, a group of about 30 of us walked several blocks with palm branches and the youth carrying flags, to Gleed Park, where we met several other Midtown community churches for an outdoor Palm Sunday service. We sang hymns and exchanged palm branches. It was lovely. Then we walked back to our churches. I was exhausted from the walk, but I was glad I did it. It was Luca's first Palm Sunday, as well. He was full of questions.

It is going to be a busy week with meetings at the church and then dinner for Maundy Thursday. It will be my first Maundy Thursday, too. Pastor Sally Haynes and I talked as we walked to the park today, and I think she is right. Since I am new to the Methodists, I see the traditions in a whole new light and can add a different perspective to what is happening. It all seems new and fresh to me.

Now that the day is over though, my back aches, my feet ache, and my ears are stopped up beyond hearing. Still I will remember the events of today for a long time.

My thoughts for today. Sheila Witherington

Images that capture the real me

2005-03-14T15:47:00.002-06:00

An elderly friend of mine told me in recent years that it is important for us to take photos of ourselves through all the phases of our lives, even if we don't like what we see at times. I have not enjoyed having photos taken of me for quite a while. I gained much weight during my marriage that ended in divorce a few years ago. But I have been working to lose much of that weight. It is a struggle, but I continue in that direction. I am posting two photos: one is how I think I look without looking in the mirror; the other is how others see me because it a photo of the phase of life that I am living now.

There is a big difference in how I see my inner self and how I am presented to the world. Those two images need to meet one another, and I should feel good about it. Nonetheless, that, too, I am working on faithfully. Is it healthy to hang on to an image of ourselves that is nearly 10 years old? I think perhaps no.

This is me; the image of years passed, and the image of today, squished by beautiful, healthy grandsons. We should all try to look, feel, and be as healthy as possible, but let us celebrate each phase of our life, no matter the image. My elderly friend is right. Each phase/image is very important to our wholeness.

My thoughts for today,
Sheila Witherington

Planning to go to Fordyce

2005-03-14T13:45:00.003-06:00

I spent much of my youth in a small town called Fordyce in south central Arkansas. Every year about the third weekend in April, the town hosts the Fordyce on the Cotton Belt Festival. I attended last year for the first time in many years and saw former classmates I had not seen in more than 15 years. I am going to try to attend this year as well, although it will be a difficult trip for me in many ways. When I was a teenager I sang in a girls quartet called The Ideals, and we are invited to sing at the Redbug Round-up on Friday night of the festival. We have not sung together in 35 years.

The Ideals include Becky Cochran Bryant (bottom right), Sherry Smith Leary (top left), Becky Vineyard Rogers (bottom left), and me, Sheila Witherington (top right). I hope to be there. I think we are going to sing "Circle of Friends," by Point of Grace, even though I don't know it yet. I guess I'll learn it.

I had a minor stroke, what they call a TIA, February 28, and I have been a little slower than normal since then. I haven't driven great distances, and Fordyce is a long way from Kansas City.

My thoughts for today. Sheila Witherington

The death of Dick Venezky

2005-02-03T02:46:00.000-06:00

I'm really glad to be a live. I learned this past week that a former boss/mentor/friend of mine, Dick Venekey, died last summer, and I did not know it. He was very intelligent, kind-hearted, hard-working, well-liked and respected, and extremely successful in his career. But he died of luekemina after fighting the battle with it for two years. I cannot get it out of my mind. He was not yet even 60 years old. I think about how fragile life can be, and I wake up and rejoice that I have the blessing of life and family.

I have been giving more and more thought to being a more considerate person. Just today, I caught myself saying some unkind remarks about people I really care about. I am going to change that. I don't think I am going to say anything about anybody that I would not want them to hear me say.

My thoughts for today.
Sheila Witherington

Watching the Jesus movie

2005-01-26T23:09:00.000-06:00

I have never celebrated Lent before, but since I have started going to a United Methodist church recently for the first time, I guess I'll be learning about Lent. Baptists don't do Lent, and my family is all Baptists. Anyway, the little bit I understand is that beginning Feb. 9, I think, Ash Wednesday, I am supposed to give up something or change something that is not positive and good. Hmm. I have been giving it some thought. I have been chewing on my thumb nails for months, and it would be nice to grow my thumb nails out again. I have already started changing my language to calmer and more thoughtful words. I could give up sugar for Lent. That would be difficult. I have been baking quite a bit. It would be difficult to bake chocolate chips cookies and not eat any of them. Still, that may not be a bad idea.

I sang in the choir on Sunday. It was a great feeling. But the added pain of standing longer and probably just the stress of singing compounded my back and body pains, so I have decided to postpone getting fully involved in the choir. My grandson, Luca, has been attending church with me as well, and if I sing in the choir, then he has to go to the nursery for services, since he can't sit with me in the choir. So I think it is best to sit in the congregation and then he can stay for the services. He is 5 1/2 and he is almost old enough to start learning to sit through services. He has been asking so many questions about Jesus. He wanted to know how Jesus died, who killed Jesus, and if I hated the people who killed him. So we went out and rented the movie "Jesus," and watched it together. We took a break about every 25 minutes, but we watched every bit of it. It is strange how drawn he is to knowing about God.

I am excited about the future, though I have no idea what is ahead. I need to give Lent a little more thought.

The next word out of your mouth

2005-01-18T15:46:00.000-06:00

I am more aware of my language lately. And even then, I don't say everything I think. I say enough. My grandson, Luca, came into the bathroom early this morning while I was in the middle of grooming, and emptied his bladder, claiming the bathroom as his own. When he was finished, I reminded him to flush the toilet, which earned me a "grrr.." from him under his breath. Next, I asked if he wanted me to run his bath water. To this he replied, "The next word out of your mouth had better not be anything to do with this room we are in." He is five years old. Now where in the world did he learn to talk like that? Partly from me. That sounded just like something I would say to him. "The next word out of your mouth had better not have anything to do with...." Well, he picked up on that quick enough. Last night, when we were settling down for the evening and reading a few bedtime books, he asked me, "Grammy, why is it okay for grown-ups to call kids 'motor-mouth,' but it's not okay for kids to call grown-ups 'motor-mouth.' I escaped that one by saying he needed to ask his dad that question. I didn't have an answer.

I used to talk fairly decently when my children were young and impressionable. Then as they grew older, there was a period of a decade or more when there were no young children around at all, and somehow, my language turned bitter, biting, and at times, vulgar. I have thought several times I should cut that out. Now I know I have no choice. Not only do I need to eliminate the vulgarities, I need to look at my language even more critically. Is it necessary to be condescending or angry in my speech? Not at all. Are wise cracks the best way to get a point across? Absolutely not.

This is heavy on my mind. I am going to watch my mouth. I think I will even try to ease the tension that runs through my mind to have a kinder, more gentler flow of language running through it, even if I do not speak it.

Emil Bird is born

2005-01-11T16:05:00.001-06:00

What a blessing! My third grandson, Emil Bird, was born on Sunday. It was a busy day. My oldest grandson, Luca, went with me to visit Trinity United Methodist Church here in Kansas City Sunday morning, and that, too, was a blessing. We went to Sunday School and church, and the people were very friendly. The minister, Rev. Sally Haynes, is wonderful, as well as the other church staff. I plan to go to choir rehearsal on Wednesday night and sing in the choir on Sunday, maybe. We just brought Bird home today, so it is a very busy week.

The rest of my family will be coming to visit this weekend to see the new baby. That means I'll see my other grandson, Breck, as well. I want to get a photo of all three grandsons with me.

I am just filled with joy.

My thoughts for the day,
Sheila Witherington

The cycle of life and death

2005-01-06T13:23:00.001-06:00

My third grandchild is supposed to be born tomorrow. That's the due date. Carmen and Brad are at the doctor's office at this moment. A new life about to be born. Life begins anew. Each time a new member joins our family, it is difficult to remember life before they existed. Each person changes the whole composition of the family, and we all become something new again. I wonder what this new member will do for our family? How will we change? What will it bring? What will disappear upon its arrival?

Both of my grandchildren thus far are boys: Luca and Breck. I don't know the sex of this new baby. Carmen didn't want to know, but Brad did. So he found out during the ultrasounds, but she didn't. Now he won't tell anyone. They have a bet. I wish I knew, but I will have to wait for nature. I'm sure it is not a girl. I should expect a boy.

There were so many deaths in our family and extended family last year. Still we expect more babies during the coming year. My cousin, Mildred Garlington, learned she had lung cancer last summer. Three months later to the day, she died, still saying that she was not finished living. The last time she said that, she also said she was tired, told her children she loved them, and closed her eyes. Her oldest daughter, Denise, said that a chill entered the room, swooped the hospital drapes up from the window and slammed the door shut. She walked around the room to make sure no windows were opened and that everything was settled before they all left to get some rest. Mildred died as she slept shortly after that. Brad's brother-in-law, Virgil Bodle, was killed in a motorcycle accident, leaving his wife, Michelle, and three sons, Josh, Patton, and Zac. They were all on their way in a caravan to Patton's ballgame. Zac is seven. Josh had just married three months earlier, and his wife, Sarah, lost her father shortly after the wedding. My ex-husband's mother, Mary Nell Mosley, died suddenly during heart surgery. Brad's grandmother died.

I am so thankful to still be alive, as full as my life has been, and I love being a part of family. I'll take whatever I can get when it comes to family and friends who really care about me. I look forward to building a lifelong relationship with this grandchild. They are each different and each special.

I was fortunate to capture a moment today as the sun shone through the snow being blown from the rooftops and it looked like the skies were sprinkling glitter over all the earth. Those who guided me during my life and have since died gave me precious gifts of knowledge and love. I still feel their presence as much as I did when they were alive. I hope my children and grandchildren and others feel my presence in that same way, if I have anything of any value to offer them. I hope I at least pass along what others have given to me.

My thoughts for the day,
Sheila Witherington

Pancakes for breakfast

2005-01-05T14:28:00.002-06:00

My grandson, Luca, talked me into making pancakes for breakfast. Actually, we made a deal, and he got pancakes out of the deal. I made them from scratch, and they were good. It is snowing outside, accumulating on top of the ice that built up over the night. Homemade pancakes with maple syrup while the snow falls outside. That's a memory in the making. Still my daughter,Carmen, went in to work--though I'm sure few others were there--because she had work to do. Her baby is due on Friday. But still she has work to do. Within a couple of hours though, she called her husband to come get her.

A man came by with a shovel wanting to shovel the sidewalk for coffee change. My son-in-law, Brad, was penniless out scrapping the car, and the sidewalk had already been scrapped, but he came inside to see if I had a dollar for the man to buy coffee. I gave them a dollar. He patted the man on the back as he handed him the dollar. He said something to him, though I don't know what. I watched them from a distance from the warmth of the house. Brad is a good man. He homeschools my grandson. He's a stay-at-home dad.

I found a church I want to visit. Trinity United Methodist Church in Kansas City. They are a part of the Reconciling Ministries Network within the denomination. They have a female pastor, Rev. Sally Haynes. They are also inclusive for all, which is important to me. I plan to go on Sunday. I found them on the internet. I just love technology.

My thoughts for the day,
Sheila Witherington

A calling to minister

2005-01-04T14:08:00.001-06:00

I have to confess, I have a calling to minister. Several times in my life I have considered going into the ministry. The calling is still there, consistent, plaguing. I first felt the calling when I was 14 years old. Today I am 53. So for 39 years, I have postponed responding. Today I still postpone.

I am thinking about the seminary, but wondering how this ties in with my talents as a writer, especially writing about food. I know I have experienced miracles repeatedly in my lifetime first-hand. I know that I have felt the oneness of God into my very being. I know I have reached into the debts of knowledge about love and spirituality. I know I have chosen a difficult life. I'm not sure this is the only life I have lived. I am not sure of my purpose.

I think I would make a nurturing and guiding pastor, not in giving the right answers, but in offering some choices that bring peace and understanding. I already know quite a lot about the Old and New Testaments. I think Jesus teaches us the most important lessons in how to love, respect, and care for one another. But I am sure that Jesus would not approve of the Christian doctrines of exclusion. His example was one of inclusion, except when it came to power-hungry religious leaders.

That's what I am thinking about today. Jesus, food, and communion. If you have any thoughts about this, I would love to hear from you.

My thoughts for the day,
Sheila Witherington

My current project

2005-01-03T22:10:00.002-06:00

My name is Sheila Witherington, and I am a writer. My current project is a book about cooking with basic ingredients and why families should eat at home around the dinner table each evening. If you have any thoughts about this idea, I'd be glad to hear from you.

My thoughts for the day,
Sheila Witherington