The Orphanage

One of the hardest lessons I’ve had to learn is that life just isn’t fair. 

Last week I was in Mexico, leading a group of folks who volunteered at an orphanage.   The orphanage exists because life isn’t fair.  It’s not fair that parents die and leave children behind.  It’s not fair that parents abandon their children because their lives are so difficult they just can’t care for them.  It’s not fair that field workers get paid less than five dollars a day to provide Americans with cheap produce.  It’s all just not fair.

But even in the midst of the injustices and unfairness, there is good.  I saw so much good last week that all the bad things were slightly diminished.

I saw goodness in the arms of a single young man, working at the orphanage, as he cradled a toddler on his lap, establishing a relationship with him that he hopes will last a lifetime.  He’s providing a father figure for this tiny boy who appeared rather shell shocked by all he’d already lived through in his short little life.

I saw goodness in the smile of a young woman as she talked about why she gave up her career as a lawyer to become a teacher for the disabled children in the area.  Her heart’s desire now is to open up her own orphanage for the physically disabled and mentally handicapped.  Her life as an attorney, she said, was meaningless.  Her life dedicated to helping others is the richest life she could imagine. Her personal comforts were of no concern to her.

I saw goodness in the story I heard an American dentist tell.  He came to the orphanage for just a week to volunteer his services.  He helped many people, but one boy he helped nearly brought him to tears.  At just six-years-old, this boy came to the orphanage’s clinic because he had pain in his mouth.  The dentist said an entire row of his teeth on one side were black, his gums were purple and one tooth was missing with only the roots sticking out as it had abscessed and fallen out.  The boy was so brave, he said.  He had a six-year-old boy back home and he couldn’t imagine him suffering to that same degree.  The dentist was able to pull all the rotten teeth, remove the infected roots and give him antibiotics.  He was humbled to be used in such a powerful way, as he knew in just a few more days, the boy would be pain free for the first time in a long time.

It’s hard sometimes, when we think of all the injustices in the world – all the unfair things going on around us – to feel we can make much of a difference.  It all seems so overwhelming.  But I can say with great confidence there are people out there making big differences in little ways each and every day, one person at a time.   It only seems fair that such injustice is met with such goodness.

My Dad

The twentieth anniversary of my father’s death is fast approaching.  My dad was an amazing man – generous to a fault and so smart it scared people.

He was living in Conway before he died, doing work for whoever needed a handyman.  He was a very talented finish carpenter.  He and his father had milled all the lumber and did all the interior work for the bar at F.X. McRory’s in downtown Seattle years ago.  He was very proud of that bar and frequented it often, as he did many other bars – wherever he was living.  My dad came from a moonshining family in southern Missouri and he liked to drink, but he was a happy drunk and quite entertaining.  He was a captivating storyteller and befriended folks everywhere he went, which actually ended up being the death of him.

Dad met a young couple in a bar one day, after he’d been paid cash for a big job he’d done in Anacortes.  The couple, Lynda Holman and Travis Cargile, were a bit low on cash and saw all the hundred dollar bills my dad was flashing.  Lynda had promised her son a hundred dollar bill for his birthday, so she started scheming on how to fulfill that promise.

What really happened, only they know, but the story they told went something like this: they met my dad and he bought them a few drinks.  They decided to go bar hopping together and along the way Lynda said she needed to stop in the woods to relieve herself.  It was her plan to “roll him” – shove him out of his van, take his wallet and vehicle and leave him in the woods.  But things didn’t exactly work out like that.

My dad’s driver’s license was revoked for a previous drunk driving ticket, so he let other people drive as often as possible.  Travis was driving, and when they turned up a dirt road out near Concrete, they supposedly hit a deer.  Dad loved to hunt and always had guns with him.  He grabbed his rifle and was going to put the deer out of its misery, but decided instead to let Travis do it.  With Dad sitting in the passenger seat, Travis took the rifle, and as he stepped out of the van, turned the gun on my dad and pulled the trigger.  He died instantly.

They drug him out of his van, took his wallet, and headed up to Canada after Lynda stopped to give her son a hundred dollar bill.  A hunter found Dad the next day in the woods.  The sheriff’s department did an excellent job putting all the pieces together and arrests were made within a week.

Lynda was in prison a little over three years, but is now serving a 28-year sentence for killing her boyfriend.  Travis will be up for parole next year, after serving 21 years for first-degree murder.

To say I miss my dad is an understatement. His death was one of the hardest things I’ve lived through, but I lived through it.  Life goes on.  I so wish he could have met my son, though. I don’t like to dwell on the fact Dad’s gone. I’d rather just think about how lucky I was to have known him in the first place.  Faults and all, he was still a great dad.

Friends

I didn’t meet Kory’s mother until we’d been dating for over a year.  It took him that long to prepare me for her.  He kept telling me, “Just remember, no matter what she says – she means no harm.” 

Jenny was known for being rather blunt – never using any kind of filter to run her words or actions through as to whether it was politically correct or even whether it would hurt someone’s feelings.  She just said what she thought.  She had no idea the impact her comments sometimes had on her daughter-in-laws, and telling her was pointless because she saw no harm in what she said.  It was good Kory warned me about her, as I then chose to not take up any offense by her words.  I let them roll right on by, and we got along great.

It was good training ground for me, as over the years people have said things that could have hurt if I’d let them, but I just didn’t let them.  I also realized later that the grace I extended my mother-in-law is the same grace I have always given my close friends. I choose to never be offended by any thoughtless comment that may come out of their mouths.  The fact they do the same for me is what makes them my good friends.  People say things without thinking all the time.  Why we chose to let one person’s words harm us, and let another person’s words slip by, is puzzling.

The best part about having good friends is that they are safe.  I have the freedom to not weigh my every word or action – to just be myself and know that I’ll be loved anyway.  Of course, I never intentionally say or do things to hurt people, but sometimes I’m just not thinking.  It happens to everyone.

I was visiting one of my best friends this weekend and she was lamenting over the loss of some of her close friends due to them moving away or dying.  She told me how hard it is to make new friends at her age because “people aren’t safe.”  She doesn’t know who she can trust and who she can’t.  She’s easily wounded by the words of others.

I was a little surprised by her statement because she’s an otherwise strong, very accomplished woman.  Letting what others say affect the quality of her life seemed counter-productive.  But I could relate with her on the topic of making new friends later in life.  It’s hard to replace long-time friends you know you can trust and whose heart is always on your side.  

When I was in high school I read the saying “to have a friend, be a friend,” and it rocked my world.  Rather than waiting for people to show an interest in me, I took an interest in people I wanted to befriend.  I’m still friends with some of them today, and they know me well enough to know that no matter what I say – I mean no harm.  I guess my husband married the right woman, as his mother was great training ground for living with me.

Our House

Not every house has a story, but ours does.  It was built in four different phases, beginning in 1953 up on Pleasant Ridge by “Doc Owens.” He was a carpenter in the 1930s then worked his way through medical school to become an osteopath.  When he set up his practice, he built his house near the cemetery.  Maybe he thought it would come in handy in case he didn’t have a cure for his patients.

The house was originally less than 600 square feet with two small bedrooms, one designed to be his office where patients came to see him.

If I remember his story correctly, he later got engaged, then added on a living room and dining room. He built everything in the style of the 1930s, using a lot of salvaged material from older homes, so there are many “built-ins” which add a little charm to an otherwise funky floor plan.

“Doc” used to have an annual pig roast in his yard – the kind where the whole pig is buried in a fire pit for 24 hours.  That fire pit still exists, and in my mind, it’s a monument to all the little piggies that were sacrificed over those years.

The house was surrounded by trees and difficult to locate and “Doc” was worried the local firefighters would never find his place in case of an emergency.  The pig roast was his insurance plan - as he always invited the entire fire department.

Years later, phase three of the house was complete when “Doc” built a second story onto it – turning it essentially into a duplex.  He rented out the upstairs, as I guess the marriage that was pending, fell through.  

The final phase of the house was when he dug out the basement and installed a concrete foundation.

“Doc” eventually rented out both levels of the house and moved to McLean Road.  The Curry family bought the house from him and lived it in 27 years before we bought it.  According to Christie Curry, who grew up in the house, they never used the upstairs in all those years as it was “the scary part” and no one would go up there.  It’s easy to see how the spiders could take over, as that’s a daily battle living in the woods.

In 1988, after Julie Curry’s husband died and her children were gone, she spiffed up “the scary part” and rented it out - to me.  I started dating Kory, and on the weekends he’d come up from Seattle and do repairs for Julie.  He put a new roof on the garage and re-sided it as well.  Little did he know that someday he’d be owning it.

After two years I got married and moved away. I had fallen in love with The Ridge and told Julie if she ever sold her place, to let me know.  Six years later she called.

It took nearly a year of full time work to get the house customized to our liking before we moved in, and now, even after 16 years, the customizing isn’t complete.

We’ve turned the upstairs into our “guest suite” so we are able to host people for extended periods of time without them feeling like they are imposing.  Last week, a family of four moved in.  Their house sold and the house they were going to buy fell through.

Not every house has a story worth writing down, but I love that our house helps us write our own story - as it provides a place for us to be a help to people in need.

Connie

She’s always called me the daughter she never had.  Connie was a childhood neighbor, a friend of my mothers.  I used to babysit her two boys.  She taught me how to bake and how to iron shirts.  Her husband was an engineer for Boeing in the 1960s and he wore a white shirt and tie to work every single day.  She paid me five cents to iron a shirt when I needed a little spending money.  I don’t iron shirts today without thinking of her and the way she taught me to iron them.

Boeing transferred their family back east when I was fresh out of high school.  We wrote letters, we called often.  When the news came that her husband left her, I was more than a little distraught.  How could he do such a thing?  She was the quintessential mother, devoting all her time to her family.  She had to get a job.

Fortunately, her employer was more than accommodating when her youngest boy, Curt, got diagnosed with Hodgkin’s Disease and she had to schedule her work around his treatments.  My little Curtie, the one I babysat since he was three years old and loved dearly, fought that disease for three years.  When Connie called to tell me Curt died, I thought I was going to die right along with him.  He was just 21. 

Connie had to bear the weight of losing a child alone.  Robbie, her oldest son, moved back home and in just a few short years, he too was diagnosed with cancer.  It was more than anyone should bear.  She was sure it was the well water from their home in eastern New Jersey.  Sure it was the chemical companies dumping pollutants into their water source.

Even after chemo and Robbie’s oncologist declared him cancer free, the treatments left him permanently disabled, permanently in pain, not able to work.  His cancer has recently returned.

I’ve visited Connie and Rob many times over the years.  They’ve come out my way to visit us, too. After my son was born, Connie was here.   She’s always loved me like a daughter.

A few years ago we were visiting her when Hurricane Sandy struck.  I was so thankful we were there to clean up her property after the storm did its damage.  She’s too old for this, I thought.  She needs to move.  I could see then she’d slowed down.  Her memory seemed to be failing, as she’d write down everything, keeping notepad and pen close at hand.

I hadn’t talked to Connie for months - too busy to call.  I got worried when my birthday rolled around and I didn’t get a card from her.  I’ve always gotten a card from her.  Sometimes the cards were the size of posters arriving in the mail.  She loved sending me crazy things, always reminding me how much she loved me and missed me.

I called her last week. “Hi Connie!  It’s Mickey!” I said, like I have a thousand times before.  “Hi hun, where are you calling from?” she asked.  “Home,” I said.  “Where’s that?” She asked.  She didn’t know who I was.  I told her “Seattle” and she said, “Oh, we have friends in Seattle,” and then went on talking to me like I was a complete stranger.  When I went to say goodbye she asked me my name.  She asked how to spell it.  I had to give her every letter more than once.

Everyone has a story that will break your heart.  Her story broke mine many times, and now, continues to do so.  Sometimes love really hurts.