Hearing Aids

My hearing aids cost between 3k-4k EACH. Yes. So when they break, I need to drop up to $8,000 to hear. Typically the payment plans are half now, half upon receipt. I've never been offered anything more generous than that. Hearing aids last on average 5-7 years. If you take really good care of them you might be able to stretch that another year. Towards the end of their life it's like an old car, you try to figure out how many times you need to have them repaired before you just bite the bullet and buy a new pair.

When I have both my hearing aids in I am able to function fairly normally. I can hear most conversation. I still need captions on the television to understand what they are saying. When I see a movie in the theatre (which do not have captions easily accessible), I probably grasp about 40% of the dialogue. Luckily context and special effects round it out. But if it's a cleverly written film, I'll have to catch that on the blu-ray. 

When one hearing aid is in "the shop" for repair- I typically have to wait around a week for it to come back. Sometimes longer. Then I have one hearing aid to hear from. Which means I'm cranky and can't hear shit. I tend to decline social invitations during that time if I can help it, because being somewhere and hearing less than half of what is being said- is quite frustrating. There's a reason we have two ears. Once I finally adjust to my lesser state, I will get my hearing aid back and swear I can hear birds singing in Montana. 

Repairs can cost $50 or $350. You never know. And the warranties run out quick.

I have to change my hearing aid batteries once a week, sometimes I can go a little longer. 

Hearing aids are not water proof. So pool parties as a kid was a nightmare. When do I take the hearing aids out and swim? Do I want to be able to talk to my friends or get in the water? Can I express with enough seriousness that if they push me in the pool as a joke and my hearing aids get wet- they owe me 8 grand? (No- I've never made anyone pay for my hearing aids. Yes- I was pushed in the pool once by my dearest friend who still forgot.) Getting my hair cut with a new stylist is always awkward. I tell them I need to take my hearing aids out when they wash my hair. About 85% try to talk to me while my hearing aids are out. They learn eventually that it is too much work. I don't have the energy to read your lips AND enjoy the once a quarter head massage I get.

When they came out with the in-the-ear headphones as the cool new thing I thought- well shoot. So I take my hearing aids out and turn the volume ALL THE WAY up so I can kinda hear it. Headphones and hearing aids never worked all that great anyway. New hearing aids have bluetooth technology. That technology broke on my hearing aids three years ago. So I'll have to wait till my next pair to have it again.

I take my hearing aids out for a shower. Quiet showers are actually the best. I can't imagine showering in noise. That must be the worst.

I take them out to sleep. If I need to wake up at a certain time and don't have someone in the house waking up with me- I have a special alarm clock. It's called the shake-awake and it vibrates in my pillow. Sort of like waking up to a small earthquake. 

If my husband is out of town and I'm home alone with the children, I sleep with my hearing aids in, which makes the batteries die way faster. It gunks them up because they don't have time to air out. Typically at night I have a little dry-air machine that my hearing aids sleep in (gotta make them last a long time!). If I sleep with my hearing aids in I hear all the little noises at night and lay awake for much of the night trying to figure out what the hell that noise is. I don't sleep well at all.

On the plus side, when I'm not alone, I sleep like a log.

Some people think I'm a snob because I ignore them. They don't realize I didn't hear them at all. I used to be paranoid about this, but it takes a LOT of energy to look around you all the time and make sure you aren't ignoring someone. I now might be a snob, because if I didn't hear you and you are offended, I no longer worry about it. 

As a kid when all the best news and gossip was whispered- I didn't hear a damn word anyone said. Whispering is the worst. It sounds like I've entered a weak wind tunnel. No words- just windy noise. So I was fabulously naive and totally left out of any fun facts that were whispered. I don't think I missed a lot, but I sure hated feeling left out.

Having a disability has never been a huge deal for me. My parents never mentioned that I was limited. In fact, they may have given me too much confidence. I truly believed I could do anything I wanted to. In reality, that's not true, but it hasn't made any difference. I ditched the singer idea a long time ago. My older sister also wears hearing aids, so I had someone like me right in my own house. She and I joked about it and used our impairment to our disadvantage. (When my little sister was a baby and cried loudly- no worries- Hearing aids Out!)

I have a lot of thoughts about what it means to be "disabled." I think my first, gut thought is to just voice how expensive it is to compensate and try to function in the world. I have many deeper thoughts- trust me. But the expense is the nagging thorn that shouldn't even be there. I have come to terms with the fact that I can't hear. What annoys me is how people don't get that health care is kind of a big deal- and not at all a fair enterprise.

Most insurance does not cover the cost of hearing aids. Not even a small percent. Mine certainly does not. I use my flex spending account to help out. Insurance does not cover repairs, anything. All of that is out of pocket expense. I (and my parents) had zero control over whether I can hear or not. But we pay the fine. I try to save money for hearing aids but it's hard. There are some programs for children and elderly to help pay for hearing aids. But as an adult who would not be able to hold a job without hearing aids- there is very little help.

I had a patient in hospice whose daughter in law had one hearing aid. She needed two, but one was all she could afford. Guys, that's like telling someone you only get one contact- do your best. I make it a priority to have both hearing aids because I am really quite deaf. But some people don't have the luxury of making it a priority. Some people didn't have amazing parents. Some people don't have a spouse with a job that pays a fair wage. Some people don't have the education and support to get their own job that can save 8K every 5 years. Some people don't have the cushion I do. So they go without. And they are isolated. And that makes me mad.

And I'm just talking about one little well known disability. My body (between hearing aids and three spinal surgeries) would send the average American to poverty. I was lucky. That's not cool.

So- if you have any questions about hearing aids, please ask me. I'm not hiding them. But don't get them wet ok? 

My Voice in the Church

Oh the precious, beautiful church, with whom I have a precarious and precious relationship. This is the first of many posts I will write on her.

When I was in seminary, my home church did not ask me to guest preach when I came home. They did not ask me if I wanted a mentor. They did not pull me aside and ask me what my goals were for a future in ministry. There was no investment in developing my calling or my experience, except to help out with the youth program (which I had no interest in pursuing vocationally). They did send me care packages with the rest of the college students (which I am grateful for). They did give me scholarships for books each year (which I am very grateful for). But they missed an extremely important step. No one saw me as someone worth pursuing as a woman in ministry.

There were two other women from that church who went to seminary. They also were not pursued, despite their giftedness and potential. 

When I was home one summer, I participated in a group that discussed the "mission" of the church. It was more of a catchphrase to put on publications, but I was happy to be a part of the conversation. The pastor, who I deeply respect, made comments about seminarians that were belittling and condescending. "I remember when I was in seminary and had all these new ideas, I thought I knew a lot!" Over ten years out of seminary, I understand these thoughts, but I would never dare say it to a seminarian. I pressed on, feeling that my voice still had importance. 

One adjustment I suggested was that instead of using "He" as the primary descriptor for God, that we switch the language into gender neutral terms. Scriptures have myriad images for God, many that are not male gendered. I wanted to represent a broader idea of who God is by giving space for those different images. When I expressed this, the group seemed to appreciate this opinion, and I felt I had made a significant impact. 

A few weeks later the mission statement was published. The word "He" was littered throughout, no gender neutrality at all. I was angry and confused. When I left the meeting, we had agreed on a mission statement that looked very different. Sometime between when I left that meeting and when the print hit the page, it was switched back to the previous language. I asked the pastor what happened. He said that one member (an older male) felt it was better the other way, so they switched it. He said it almost like it was an afterthought, no significance to note.

I realized I had made no difference at all. I felt small and insignificant. I felt stupid. Like my voice on that committee was just a token gift to make me feel like I had a part, when really I did not. I backed away and became less invested in the mission of this church that had snuffed my voice without notice or apology, and for something as small as the discomfort of an older white man. 

I still love that church. I still love so many people in that church, even some who have hurt me severely. I pray that they get to experience the power that is realizing God is not a man. It is so freeing when God no longer has to squeeze inside such tiny boxes. It's frightening, but beautiful. 

So here is my voice that was nonchalantly dismissed: God is not an old, white man. God is beyond the human descriptors that we use to categorize ourselves. God's self description: I Am. And we are created in that image. So like Paul says in the scriptures: in Christ there is no male nor female, Jew nor Greek, slave nor free. We are all images of "I Am"- and our categories are pitifully inadequate to capture the beauty that is God and humanity. How can we limit ourselves and God when faced with the ridiculous variety that is in nature? Not one thing in all of creation is like any other. Not even a leaf or a blade of grass. That takes some beauty, creativity, and flair for uniqueness. 

My mission statement: God is Love. We are ALL made in the image of love. I will strive in all the ways I can to embody LOVE, which is my truest foundation, the foundation of all creation.

My Body

This is one I've got years to go in my personal growth. (And multiple blogs to write to break the silence.)

When my maternal grandmother was dying, she lost an enormous amount of weight. She had been a round and soft woman my whole life. Her hugs were a safe place. She joked to me (from her hospital bed): "I've wanted my whole life to be thin, and here I am." I wanted her round again more than anything else in the world.

I never had an eating disorder, but I never felt satisfied with my body. I always thought something could be improved. Even when a brief obsession with healthy eating coincided with a growth spurt and I was a tall and very thin girl, I thought I could have better hair or clearer complexion. Always imperfections.

My whole life I dressed in a way that would make me blend in. I didn't want to stand out or have any parts of me stand out. That was for people who wanted all the wrong kind of attention. Jeans and a t-shirt were my uniform as a teenager. A ponytail or bun was my hair style of choice.

When I was in college, I sat in a packed auditorium full of college students while a campus minister spoke about boys and girls. He told the women that if their bra strap was showing, they were inviting the men to lust. That men couldn't help but automatically think about what that bra was supporting. And God forbid boys imagine that we have boobs. I watched as some girls with tank tops nervously adjusted themselves, hoping to God that their bra straps were safely hidden under the slightly wider sleeve. I remember thinking: "This is bullshit." But I didn't say a word. I sat and listened to it, like I was part of a social experiment, observing the customs of a foreign tribe. I soon drifted away from that campus ministry, finding a group that was less "cool" but more open. My new campus minister, a woman, never told me I was responsible for the lust of other men. Thank God for Ruth, and my mentor Alica, who showed me that women could be strong and in ministry.

But I have female friends who stayed in that religious group. They debated heavily whether it was OK to kiss their boyfriends before marriage. Kiss. Not have sex. Kiss. A friend who had become a Christian more recently and had been sexually active before wondered if she would ever find a husband who would accept her "damaged goods." That same campus minister asked us to think to ourselves how we will feel on our wedding night when the memories of all the other men would join us on our wedding bed. That by having any sexual relationship before marriage was somehow equivalent to having an orgy by memory with our husband.

It is hard for me to talk about my body without the story turning immediately to sex, because the female body is framed in sexuality. Our culture has seen to that. That theme of sexuality in our culture is not a healthy and natural outgrowth of the body, but a strange fixation on the female body being only a function for the sexual pleasure of a man.

Years ago I told my little sister her shoes were too sexy because I was terrified she would have some boy treat her like a sex object. I wanted to protect her somehow. I was scared of shoes. We are taught that our autonomy of our bodies is best accomplished by hiding them.

The brand of Christianity that I grew up with was dead set on teaching me to separate myself from my body. Ignore my body and certainly to cover it up and "save it" (since "it"/my vagina, is the only part of me worth saving- and saving it for a man). My body was a black hole of temptation, and the best way to avoid the temptation was to shut the whole body down. To hide it and then to shed it completely. My body was merely a temporary temple for my spirit, and it was important for me to keep it "pure."

I mostly followed those instructions. I became so separated out from my body, so shut off, that I only thought of myself in intellectual and spiritual terms. My body was a shell that I was doomed to carry for this lifetime, happily to shed in the next. This separation was freeing in many ways. It was better to separate from my body than to obsess about how to dress it in order to attract the opposite sex. It was better to forget my body so that I didn't need to spend too much money on clothes, hair cuts, and other extravagant frivolities. These were my two choices: Hide or Sexy. I chose hide because it was safer.

That distinction between my body and soul was bolstered when I had spinal surgery, twice as a teenager (and now a third time as an adult). My body was not good to me. I could not depend on it, and it was a shell that wasn't even fully functional. I couldn't hear (I wear hearing aids), my spinal condition left portions of my body numb, and my scars left me feeling a bit like Frankenstein. But who cares? It was just my body. It wasn't me. Thank God. I never depended on it to satisfy me or bring me joy anyway.

Then I had my first son. My body proved to be more powerful than I knew. I carried a child and gave birth to it. My body was surprisingly good at that, even though I had done nothing to make it so. Then I nursed that child for over a year with breastmilk. My body was surprisingly good at that, also with very little work on my part. That power frightened me. I didn't know what to do with a fully functional and necessary body.

What frightened me more was that another human being depended on my body. To have someone need me so primally, so physically, was a shock to my system. I was supposed to only be needed for my mind and heart. My physical body was just a carrier, a suitcase, and a disappointing one at that. But my son's life and survival came from my body. My body was not a total disappointment, and that confused me.

Despite my body's "success" at nurturing a human being into existence, I couldn't wait to have my body back, so I could hide it again. Having it be so useful and important was incredibly vulnerable.

My body is more than a sex toy, more than a suitcase, and I am still learning how to embrace it. I am in my thirties and without trauma, and I still have years to go before I truly am comfortable in my own skin.

Even the Dying

I was a Hospice chaplain for a year and a half before moving to a new town because of my husband's job. I'm taking this year off to write and settle in to the new place.

I learned a lot in my time as a Hospice chaplain. I loved the job even though some days I didn't want to do it. I drove 50-100 miles a day traveling from one patient's home to another. Each patient had something to teach me, some gift for me that I didn't know I needed. Some of those gifts were painful to receive. I'm going to share about some of them in this blog. Of my female patients, several had a history of abuse, and that statistic spanned race, class, and age.

One patient had been abused her whole life, most recently by her then deceased husband. It took many visits before she admitted to the trauma, and only a small part of it. Many visits before she confessed her fear that she might see him in heaven (or hell, as her abuser made sure that she wasn't sure she deserved to go to heaven). 

The time came when she was actively dying. This is a phrase we use in the hospice world for someone who has reached a physical stage at which death is imminent. There are physical signs. The breathing changes, the body temperature spikes, the skin changes, the eyes stare. There are spiritual signs too. Sometimes people reach out with their hands to embrace someone we do not see. Sometimes people ask for people to say goodbye. Many times a patient is silent because they have physically deteriorated to the point where speech is difficult or impossible.

This patient was speaking, a lot.

My job as a chaplain was to be with the patients and their loved ones (if they had any) throughout their journey towards death. The most spiritually exhausting and beautiful work was nearly always done in these final hours. There was often someone that needed to come home and be seen. Sometimes a patient needed to be held. Sometimes a patient needed forgiveness. Sometimes a patient needed to forgive. When I say need, I mean it. Patients would linger on in this actively dying stage far beyond what medicine and logic could say was possible. Weeks could go by with no food and barely any fluids- but if there was something the patient needed, they could hang on. The human spirit is a powerful thing. When someone held on for a long time in this stage, it was actually upsetting, the hospice team would frantically search for what it was that the patient needed but hadn't gotten yet. 

My patient, with whom I had become closely connected to, was actively dying. She was muttering. Many words came out, but the most distinctive was her chorus of "No, no, no." Her eyes were alight with fear. Something in me understood that she was afraid of leaving her safe world (she was given great care by a kind family member). She was afraid that in death, she might meet her abusers. That somehow if she closed her eyes to this space, she might find that which she feared in the next.

She wasn't sure she deserved peace, happiness, or love. What if death gave her the thing that she had been told she deserved?

Her abuse affected even her dying. She couldn't relax and let go. She couldn't let her guard down and release her spirit. I was so angry on her behalf. So angry that she couldn't rest in peace. Her abusers had stolen even a peaceful death.

As she moaned "no, no, no" out of fear (her pain was managed), I spoke softly in her ear, over and over again: 

"You are safe. You are loved. It's OK to let go. 

You are safe. You are loved. It's OK. 

You are safe. You are loved. You can let go."

She died the next day. When I found out, I whispered a prayer of thanks to God that she was safe, that she would feel fully Loved, and that it finally became OK for her to go.

When people speak of abuse, it is not a distant memory or a forgotten fight. Many times it is a scar so deep, that even the dying are more scared of "him" than they are of death. Abuse is not a joke or something to be flippant about.

To my friends who have been abused, I can say this: You are loved. I am a safe place. 

My Value

"You will never amount to anything."

This is a direct quote from Mr. Wetzel, who was my art teacher my Senior year of high school. He decided that his anger and disgust for me was worth saying these words to a 17 year old girl.

I had just moved that summer, away from friends and familiarity. We had been in the Florida panhandle for eight years, a record for a military family, and I still have yet to live anywhere longer. I chose to move to south Florida with my family, despite being given the option to stay with close friends and finish out my Senior year.

I chose not to separate from my family because if you learn nothing else as a child in a military family- it is that family is forever. My Dad had been on TDY (like a long business trip) for nearly two years of my high school experience, and he had been at his new job for a year in Connecticut. We saw him frequently, but I did not want to miss out on having my entire family consistently under one roof before I left for college. I moved, and everyone was fairly miserable that first year, but we were together.

I made friends with twin girls in my class, so at least I had someone to sit at lunch with. I had to drive on the highway for the first time in order to commute to my school, the only school that had the IB program I had been enrolled in at my previous school. (An advanced placement type program.)

South Florida was nothing like the panhandle of Florida. It was a culture shock on many levels.

At my school, there were a lot of children of migrant workers, and they all hung out on one wall. People called this the "Guatemalan Wall" and no one spoke to them. They all spoke Spanish to each other. I didn't know they were children of migrant workers, not until much later.

Christianity was an oddity here, as opposed to my previous home where it was "cool" to be Christian. The Christian club was astonished when they gained a new member. We got every Jewish holiday off for school, my first exposure to the Jewish religious calendar, as we had only one boy in my last high school who served as the "token Jew."

My adjustments were significant to live in this new place, but I managed to find my way and make it work. I found a church. I spent more time with my family. I was going to be OK.

Then Mr. Wetzel started showing signs of not liking me. He didn't like my particular art choices (I had to do an art project for my IB final). He gave me an "F" in class despite the fact that I turned in all assignments, completed and on time. He gave me an F in the class, but when he was forced to provide an impartial score as part of my IB final, he gave me a more than passing grade. He just didn't like me.

Mr. Wetzel told me I would never amount to anything. I would never accomplish anything in life. He said that. To me. To this day I cannot figure out why he had such a fierce dislike for me. It was the first time I realized what someone in power could do if they didn't like me. I didn't know whether to speak up or run away.

I did both.

The day he told me I would never amount to anything, I went home in tears and yelled in my anger. I told my parents about it, about how he failed me in the class, and how he had told me I had no future. It was the first time I ever cursed in front of my parents without any regret- and they didn't blame me.

I screamed: "He is an ASSHOLE!"

My parents set up a conference where they convinced him to give me a D so I could graduate. His D kept me from being in the top 1% of my graduating class, an honor I had been looking forward to. Before we could come up with a permanent solution, I was allowed to go to the other art teacher's room during art. I had already finished my requirements for the IB art program, so I just needed to bide my time until the end of the year.

Then I found myself in the narrow supply closet, a hallway between the two art rooms. The other art teacher hand fed me a nectarine in a very uncomfortable and awkward encounter, and I had to get out of there completely.

I was allowed the grace of Mrs. George, one of my other teachers, who allowed me to be an aid for her on a pass/fail class so that I could escape the creepy art teacher and the angry art teacher. She provided my safe place. I never had to look at the art department again. I also never got to tell them how I felt.

I will never know why Mr. Wetzel had so much anger towards me. I suspect it was because I was intelligent, informed, and refused to submit to his ideas about art. I'm sure I wasn't his typical student, and I can't say I was always happy to be in this new town and school. He should have understood that given my circumstances. But he treated me with such anger and hatred, that it knocked me down. I ran.

Today I say: NO. Mr. Wetzel- I have become something wonderful and I've got an entire lifetime more to play and see what else I can do. I have a masters, have two beautiful children, I've been a hospice chaplain, a youth director, a hotel front desk person, a Congregational Care staff person, a caregiver for elderly, to include my grandmother, and a stay at home mom. Now I'm a writer. I amounted to so much. I ran away from your anger, and wish that I had confronted it. However, I have no desire to prove anything to you now.

It should have never been OK for you to say that to a student, no matter what. To creepy art teacher in the other room- what the hell is wrong with you? To my parents and Mrs. George: thank you. I'm so grateful I had the support network that would not allow me to believe myself unworthy and would not let me stay subjected to this bullying behavior.

My Value: Intact.

My accomplishments: humanity and love.

My Voice: Cracking that glass sound booth.

Glass Sound Booth

My whole life I've been learning how to be quiet.

When I was little it was about respecting my elders and others. But it was also about not boring people. It was about putting the interests of others over my own. Except I didn't often hear the caveat that my own interests could be equally valid.

As I got older, I learned that being quiet meant that I didn't have to have conflict with certain people who were more powerful or more adept at manipulating a conversation. My silence afforded me peace. Censorship was a happy price I paid so that I didn't have to engage in something that might make me emotional, vulnerable, or powerless.

As I got older I started to understand that my voice was valid, but that I needed to learn just how to word it correctly. I start to work on nuances in language to make my opinion palatable. I became slightly more bold, if not at least more cunning. Sometimes my boldness backfired.

As I got older I learned that my opinions and voice were valid, but that not everyone needed or wanted to hear it. I learned to accept that with grace and gauge if it was important enough to speak up. I learned that many times I didn't think it would matter if I spoke. I learned that I could have my thoughts freely, and that no one could take them away from me. No one could hurt my thoughts if they stayed private.

As I got older I learned that my opinions and words expressed freely could get me or a family member in trouble. That I could be horribly misjudged. That relationships could be shattered over the smallest expressed thought. I learned that in order to manage how people relate to me and my family, it was best to keep things very simple and only be my complete authentic self with people very close to me, who I could trust. I learned that I couldn't trust as many people as I thought.

Today I learned that my whole life I've been learning how to be quiet. This lesson has been disguised in various levels of maturity and diplomacy, but the goal has always been the same: hide and don't be vulnerable.

Today I decided that I'm done being quiet.

When America was on the verge of electing its first female president, mentions of the glass ceiling were peppered in every newscast. Shatter that glass ceiling! It wasn't shattered because white men showed up to stop it.

I confess: I don't want to shatter the glass ceiling. I have no desire to be CEO, President of anything but my own self. No, I don't want to shatter the glass ceiling.

I want to shatter the glass sound booth.

The sound booth that has been around me my whole life, comforting me with its thick, insulating walls. The sound booth that, when women venture out, they are often forced to go running back into its protection. The sound booth that I was allowed into in certain groups online when woman after woman confessed that she had been raped, assaulted, paid less, harassed, belittled, ridiculed. I knew in my brain that the statistics were true, but when I saw story after story after story of untold heartache that the women kept inside their sound-proof booth, I realized just how naive I had been. Millions of women- same story. Same heartache. Same silence. We weren't being diplomatic, we were being silenced.

I am going to use this blog to start speaking. Start hammering into that glass sound booth. Start saying NO or YES with no reservation. I do this for myself. I do this for my four nieces, that they have voices that are heard. I do this for my friends who are victims of sexual abuse. I do this for my friends who (male or female) have their own painful sound booth that they are now terrified to step out of.

I do this because I want to learn, finally, how to speak.

New Blog, Old Blog

I have been wanting to post something new here, it's sort of my outlet for sanity.  However, as you may know, I've been maintaining my sanity by working on a new project.  I thought I would give you the chance to read my first blog post of my new blog here, so you don't have to work so hard.  But after you read this, go to my new blog and catch up- I've written lots and had lots of fun doing it!


I have a story to tell.  I’ve always wanted to tell the kind of story that is real, earnest, honest, not rose-colored or censored. I wanted to tell the kind of story that you can’t get in a headline, but rather the secrets you hear on the sidelines. The real, authentic, vulnerable true story that is only shared within the bond of love and trust. I finally found it. It involves war, tragedy, loss.  It radiates hope, courage, and love.  It is a love story above all.  Against the backdrop of hate, my story illuminates with love.

It all starts with a family of four: a boy and a girl and their parents.  The boy is Tom, or as I called him: Opa.  He was my Grandfather, a German immigrant who was stubborn and sweet. He spoke impeccable English in hushed German tones.  Before he became my Grandfather, he was a child in a country haunted by The Great War, or World War 1 as we know it. His family lived in a large apartment in Berlin, Germany and he witnessed the Nazi party’s rise to power.

Opa told me snippets of his family history while I was growing up, and I was always fascinated.  I can still hear his German accent in my memories. As a young girl, I was mesmerized by the love story between him and my Grandmother.  Grandmother grew up in Kansas, the youngest of 4, spoiled as the only girl.  When she and Opa met, she was engaged to another man.  My two sisters and I never heard any details about this story until we spent the night with my Grandmother on the evening after Opa’s funeral.  It was a slumber party to keep her company, and to relive a little of our girlish youth.  Grandmother told us that the “other boy’s” name was Archie and that she certainly had made the right decision to marry Opa.

Several years later, after being the primary caregiver for my Grandmother who had declined in health, I convinced my parents that she needed to live closer to them. I had a young child with plans to expand my family and we were not guaranteed to always live close to my Grandmother. We needed to move her to the stableness of my parents, so she could be near family, her son is my Dad. We spent hours cleaning and packing for the move. One day my husband and I found a box in Grandmother’s office. It was a box of letters. The letters date as far back as November, 1939 and showcase the correspondence within my Grandfather’s family as he emigrated to the United States, letters of courtship from Opa to Grandmother, letters between the families on either side of the ocean, and letters of news of loved ones near and far. I was enthralled. I read handfuls of letters, crying over the news of those who had died long before I was born as if it was real time.

It turns out that my Grandfather left me a legend. As someone with a writer’s heart, I have always wanted to tell a story, but I never had one that was good enough. Now I did. I had the earnestness, the true love, the vulnerability. These letters slowed the moving process to a crawl before my family evicted me out of the box and promised that we would go through the letters later. Now my Grandmother has joined Opa in heaven and I begin my journey through their story. My blog will share that journey. My husband has volunteered himself as my researcher. I will journey through these letters in chronological order, read documents and articles about the world around that time. I will show you the letters and give you the information I learned, and I’ll share with you how it has moved my soul. You, my reader, have a chance to experience this story of love firsthand. The love that is shown through multiple generations, between strangers and family. It is a story that brings me hope. Light in the darkness. It all starts with a little boy and his sister, his Jewish mother, and agnostic father in Berlin.  Somehow broken engagements, true love, Albert Einstein, Nazi’s, the holocaust, the US Army, and even the Quakers- all get involved.

Join me in my journey.