Happy Christmas, Bee

This is a totally, sappy post about grandchildren.  You've been warned....


I'm with my daughter, her husband and their two munchkins. And munchkins they are- both fairly short for their age and both walked early so they race around on stubby legs with too long pants tripping them up.  They are 18 months apart and someday will be best friends.  Even now, Noelle squeals when she sees her older brother after naps.  Actually, she squeals when she wants to eat, when she's "all done", when her brother takes his car/backpack/stroller/water bottle back.  She likes to squeal.  I'm their Bebe but Josiah calls me Bee.


It's beginning to feel like Christmas around here. We try to play Christmas music- anything besides the Veggie Tales book with " We wish you a merry Christmas" over and over.  "You want to read a story, Noelle?" as I slide the offending book under the couch.  The innocent little thing just plunks down on my lap.  My daughter and I think about holiday food and packages arrive regularly from Amazon.

And the Christmas tree towers over the munchkins- all seven feet of it.  Josiah loves the tree. He wants the lights on first thing in the morning and sometimes tells the tree goodnight.  And today, under the Christmas tree, we had one of those adorable, "why can't I film this or bottle it and savor forever" moments.

He had on the Bears Christmas stocking hat (a die hard if disgusted Chicago fan and fans-in-training live here) and he had that soft, captivating look on his face.



"I wuv the Cwismas twee," he sighed. "It's happy Cwismas."  And started singing "We wis oo a berry Cwismas..." Ok- a child you love can sing anything and you want a recording.   Then he looked at me and said, "I wuv oo, Bee."  Oh yes, this is the magic grandmother moment.  He holds out his arms and says, "Hug?"  Well of course,  I'm practically in tears- "anything you want, dear child."


Mama leaves and I have to capture this moment. Or at least re-stage it.  Get the hat, find the cute snowman, pose, capture.  All sweetness.  And the squealer lets me know she needs a picture.  A sequence of blurry pictures of a moving target follows.  In the only clear picture she looks like a fat black and white bumble bee.

Where did that belly come from?

And right in the middle of the photos, off goes the cute hat; the snowman is launched and suddenly, I have a two year old with a tantrum.  Cars are tossed.  "No happy Christmas!" Stomp, stomp.  I should have turned on the video but I was trying not to laugh. What on earth happened?

No picture captures his disgust at whatever set him off....ha!

Who knows?  He's two and a half. She's fourteen months. I'm much older.  They won't remember anything from today. I'll always smile when I see these pictures- sure there was a tantrum but first there was a tender little boy with his brand-new wonder, the very spirit of Christmas.  And there was a lovely little, squirmy squealer with her infectious laugh.   It's a very Happy Christmas.

The Sad Journey to St. Louis

Last week I wrote about the riots and protests that happened in Ferguson, Missouri. I was traveling through Missouri on my way to St. Louis for Thanksgiving. I haven't published them. It's taken some time to compose my thoughts. Then it was a holiday, more distractions happened and suddenly, a week has past and life is back to normal.  Or is it?

**********

I sipped coffee and enjoyed a home baked goodie. My girlfriend was hosting me in wealthy Overland Park, near Kansas City, Kansas.  The evening before we had a brisk walk around a nearby park- under low-hanging tree branches, near a stream.  The four young men on the path didn't frighten us. We felt completely safe.

The next morning brought the news-

"St. Louis County prosecutor Robert McCulloch said the grand jury of nine whites and three blacks decided that "no probable cause exists" to file charges against Wilson, who is white, in the death of Brown, who was black."

My stomach clenched.   My mind went first to my family- my son, his wife and child who live in the city of St. Louis. Their urban neighborhood has also experienced a shooting and protests. I prayed they were safe. And God forgive me- my second thought? I wondered if my luxury car would be safe parked on their street.

This news did not bring out the compassion in me. At first it just scared me.



After I left suburban Kansas City, I drove the four hours east, listening to news reports the entire way including reruns of the previous night's violence and confrontations after the grand jury decision.  I listened to commentary, civil rights activist, white citizens of Ferguson, former police.  Over and over.  And I drove.

I drove through rolling hills dotted with peaceful farms. Billboards inviting students to visit numerous colleges. Huge signs for "Mizzou".  Bucolic, peaceful. A world removed from the city.

"It's difficult to get a sense of the wider situation in St. Louis from any one position on the ground, as so much is happening at once. As some businesses burned, looters broke storefronts in scattered places across the area, and a St. Louis-area police officer was shot, according to the St. Louis Post-Dispatch. It's unclear whether the shooting was related to the Ferguson unrest."

As I drove, I thought, "I'm not a racist. I don't judge. I have friends who are African/American. Or would they prefer Black?"  Honesty, how well do I know the people who share the label "American" with me?  I hear the conflict in the voices on the radio, echoing my own. What really happened?  Is peaceful protest possible?  Is violence ever justified? How do we fix a broken system?  A system that favors me and mine.  My sons don't fear police, they aren't stopped and harassed, they aren't profiled.


After arriving in the St. Louis suburbs, I picked up a Craigslist find for my daughter-in-law.  I exited the freeway and wound through wide, clean streets. Artificial ponds graced the landscape around thriving businesses.  I give the optometrist money for his daughters' used doll house that would be a birthday gift for my granddaughter. An expensive wood doll house with a little family, a Caucasian family.

Back on the road I see expensive neighborhoods, sleek office buildings of successful Fortune 500 companies, stately churches- one's website showed their worship service. More Caucasians. They published their vision statement online-

 "A shining light on a hill …sharing Christ with open arms 

through preaching, teaching and healing."

What does that look like? Do they really have open arms? Do I?  What does it mean to be a "shining light on a hill" when you are in the wealthy suburbs of a racially divided urban city?

I had needed a moment to compose myself and process that day.  I picked a familiar grocery store and followed my smart phone. It's embarrassing how comfortable I felt when I saw REI, Whole Foods, Nordstrom Rack.  And Arhaus- my niece manages one of these high end home design stores. Why is this one all boarded up?

I still don't have answers, only questions.  Why do I get to feel comfortable in affluent America?  What did the young man collecting carts in the parking lot feel?  The one with long, shiny dreadlocks.  I figured I was wise not to drive the 20 minutes into Ferguson- I had no place there. I also knew I was too scared to go. And that makes me uncomfortable. Sad.

What does my response look like now that I've arrived? Beside worrying about my car, my family. 

As I crossed the parking lot that first day to a coffee shop,  I felt again the anger after deaths of young Marine pilots and my own husband's death. In my grief I would wonder,  "How can everyone go about business as usual? Don't they know..."  

This feels like that, like loss and grief. The anger at the normalcy of life going on as usual.

All I know- I sat there in a comfortable, familiar cafe.  Middle age women chatted, a casual business meeting went on in the next booth,  a plethora of expensive laptops dotted tables. Behind me the espresso machine hissed and Muzak soothed the savage beast. Except there didn't appear to be any passion there, let alone savage beasts. 

Before I cocooned myself in Panera's, I had texted, "I have the dollhouse. I'm thirty minutes....and a world away."  Suddenly I needed to get on the road to my son.  I felt the sun's slide and I didn't want to drive into St. Louis in the dark.  That night I parked my car on a public street within a quarter of a mile of the site of a shooting.

FERGUSON, Mo. — Ferguson residents woke Tuesday to a scorched and scarred city. Rows of burned cars in one parking lot glowed gray in the sunlight as wind blew away their ashes. Yamiche Alcindor, USA TODAY6:29 p.m. CST December 1, 2014

*********


It's been a week. A week of sirens, helicopters overhead and a domestic violence next door. And no one touched my stupid car.  One night it snowed and I prayed for peace, like soft falling snow.  But what does peace accomplish if there is no change under the cover?

"The first meeting of the Ferguson Commission was marked by outbursts from angry residents.

They came to speak their minds and got fed up with the hours-long process.

Too much talk, not enough action-- that was the outcry from people in the community who came out to this first commission meeting at the Ferguson Community Center." Mike Rush, KSDK7:34 p.m. CST December 1, 2014

What's my response? I'm still thinking. 

What's yours?