Spectacles and Retrospectives

"Will you go?" "Yes." After spending a day helping to lead three Christmas services, the students in my young adult program were asked if they would take an extra hour, make a fourth stop and visit a family from out of state who is receiving cancer treatment in Tulsa and is unable to go home for Christmas.  "Will you go?" I asked.  "Yes", they responded.  We arrived and asked, "May we sing for you?"  "Yes", they said.  A clergy person read scripture from the Book of John - the story and promise of light overcoming darkness Then we sang.  Each note invited the presence of light, love and peace into the corner room of the ICU.  "May we pray with you?"  "Yes", the family said.  Gathered in the room of strangers, friends that had known each other for a lifetime grasped hands with  new friends who we had come to know through the sharing of song.  The mood was brighter upon our leaving. Hearts were just a tad bit...

It has long been joked and understood that I am the glorious, difficult to describe, anomaly that happens when hippies have children and raise them on hearty diet of Jesus Christ, Joan Baez and Dr. Seuss. I was sung to sleep with James Taylor tunes and taught to recite the Apostles Creed. My musical intake consisted of John Rutter on Sunday mornings and Jimi Hendrix on the drive home. Grandpa schooled us in Pete Seeger's expansive catalogue. Mom steeped us in words and melody of John Denver tunes.  She was a dedicated and devoted fan. Denver's words, perspective and bond to nature served as her poetic  anchors. She valued his insight and articulation of the human spirit tremendously and looked to his eloquence for my name. The second stanza to "Zachary and Jennifer" poetically dreams of the naming of children :  And we want to call her Jennifer And she'll dance in fields of flowers And she'll sing in summer showers Lending music to the time Oh we want to l...

Before the clock rolled over to December 26th, she was reliant on a ventilator. Less than two weeks later, she was gone.  It took me years to not feel overrun by the hostility of being cheated by hope. It still burns. I still clamor and stumble in darkness to see past the  injustice of someone who had fought so hard to live through chronic health conditions being taken down by the unstoppable swift end to pancreatic cancer.  Christmas in my heart has been branded with the insignia of death. The season is painful. The sights, the sounds and the merriment  all remind me of a time when I was watching the life leave someone. The time when I was a helpless bystander in a confusing and bewildering drama.  The Christmas season that year was the end of so many things.  It was the end of my mother's life. It was the end to her pain and struggling. It was the end to Christmas past and my childhood traditions. It was the end of a chaotic normal. The f...

January 8 th . One year ago. It has been one year since my mom finally let go and left the earth. This past year has been one of the hardest of my life. Her death was the catalyst for unimaginable change. Two weeks before she passed away, the words Pancreatic Cancer were first uttered. There are few other words that will suck the breath and hope out of a room. It seemed so cruel, unfair, and unbelievable. She had emerged from years lived with chronic illnesses, genetic mysteries, freak medical accidents victorious. Yet, this was a diagnosis no one could defeat. Her body knew it. She knew it. And she started shutting down. This side of the journey was traumatic. ·       - For a family that had always had hope (and sometimes only hope) our hope was stolen. ·       - The flippancy of some of the doctors and medical staff still stings. ·       - The assumptions of the staff because of my mother’s appearance still ...

My mother was always gracious enough to let my camera accompany us on her numerous medical journeys. in the ten plus years we walked those roads, I had multiple conversations with outsiders who looked upon this as disrespectful or inappropriate. Mom and I both knew that she had a story to share. I always felt that when the time was right, the images would begin to speak for themselves. And for her. Her story, her history, her journey was one that was so intricate and complex words often failed to convey the experience authentically while simultaneously retaining her humanity.  What follows is a short documentary project from May 2013. This is the first time these images have been outside the hands of trusted friends and confidants. In sharing these, we begin another journey. All images copyrighted. 

This was written about two weeks before Christmas this year. Just now getting around to posting ...  I’ve gotten used to bad news at Christmas time. It never fails that what society inflicts upon us as “The Most Wonderful Time of the Year” always enters my life with both triumph and heartache. There are the usually family issues that everyone encounters: there are traffic-jammed highways, there are atrocious squeaky Christmas tunes “sung” by various woodland creatures. Illness always invites itself to the party. Some years we have ushered in the birth of Hope gathered around small dimly lit trees in ICU rooms – a place where there is noise and hurry. And pain and stillness. A place where the concept of Emmanuel becomes concrete. Other times, we have spent Christmas Day in the ER. Other times hospital season arrives just in time to watch fireworks from the hospital-parking garage. This year, we are stomping on fires and holding our breath. It hur...