Who Me, Worry? (Day 1 in Japan)

I take after my Daddy.

Which is to say I have the worry gene.

Which is also why becoming a programmer was a cinch for me. I learned from my first exercise in Comp Sci 16 that one had to consider the worst case.

Which I still do.

As you might imagine, the leadup to our May 14 departure for Japan was fraught with worries.

My gout toe hurt. What if I came down with another horrendous case of gout and it ruined everyone’s trip. (It didn’t.)

No seat assignment for our flight from JFK to Tokyo. What if we were delayed by going to the counter and missed our connection and took a day off of our trip? (We didn’t.)

My mom is decreasingly agile. What if she fell while we were away and we had to come back stat from trip? (She didn’t.) 

You get the idea.

Hidden among these worries was: What if we can’t find Zack, Nat and Lilly at the Narita Airport? It’s a big place. We don’t speak the language. What if…

But, once I got on our international flight, most of my worries died down, thanks to my mom’s optimism gene. But that last one continued to niggle.

When we landed, I immediately tried to connect to wifi (What if I couldn’t connect to wifi?) and was able to catch him on Skype right away. Nat and Lilly’s flight had just gotten in and they were delayed a bit going through customs in a different terminal. He would collect them and find us.  So we were told to sit down after we passed through immigration. Which we did. I held my breath.

And friends, we saw beautiful wonders of God and man during our 9 days in Japan. We saw skyscrapers that boggled the mind. We saw beautiful women in exquisite silk kimonos. We saw Mount Fuji mysteriously wreathed in a garland of clouds. But nothing, nothing, nothing compared to the sight of my younger son, followed closely by my older son and his wife in that airport. All smiling.  An amazing and cherished sight. I exhaled. At last.

Zack, Nat, and Lilly catching train at Narita Airport 

As to our first (half) day in Japan, I learned that some common preconceptions about the country were absolutely true. The subways were packed. Filled to the gills, mostly by Salarymen. (Salarymen wear suits, ties, white shirts, carry briefcases and are very loyal to and very serious about their jobs.) People did not talk OR make eye contact on the train. Zack had to shush us (mostly me) and remind us to respect their silence. Everyone had their cellphone out on the train. I’m not sure exactly what they were all doing, but they were definitely doing something enterprising. We were wedged in pretty tight, with our luggage. It was anonymous intimacy.  A New York pickpocket would have had a field day.

Tokyo Station 

We emerged from the subway about 2 blocks from our hotel which was across the street from Zack’s apartment. He helped us get checked in and carried my suitcase to our room; he had been kind enough to handle in on the train for me, too. As he helped me plug in my cellphone in our tiny hotel room, I saw a look of alarm cross his face. His briefcase! He had left it on the train! Our vacation was going to start off on the wrong foot. It would be ruined. (Well, even I knew that was hyperbole, but still, it really sucked!)

He dashed out and back to the train station. I thought to myself: he will NEVER see THAT briefcase again. Earle and I unpacked what we could in our shoebox of a room and waited to hear from him. Within 20 we received word via Skype that he had found his briefcase! He asked at the station and learned it was located two stops down. They held it for him and he was headed to collect it. In 20 more minutes he was back, triumphant! I was releaved! One more “what if” put to bed!

I later verified that what Zack told me years ago was true. He was much safer in Japan than in America. Our violent crime rate is 26 times higher than theirs. Our total crimes per 1000 people is 84 times higher than theirs!

In fact, their crime rate is so much lower than ours that their young children go to school by themselves! We saw it time and time again. Elementary students navigating the subway quite alone, relaxed and attentive to their location. In Tokyo, we saw a little girl in a busy business district by herself. She wore a yellow cap and a yellow sign across her backpack stating that she was on her school commute. She took her time, walking along an obviously familiar route. She looked about 6 years old! I don’t think I would have been more surprised by seeing Godzilla drinking a nightcap! 

After that I didn’t worry about our safety anymore. (That doesn’t include worrying about getting separated from my group, but more on that later! )

Upon Zack’s return to the hotel, we all went on walkabout to a delicious tempura restaurant, where I managed to feed myself, rice and all, with chopsticks. Afterwards, we returned to our rooms and fell into bed, too tired to worry about anything.

Flying the Friendly Skies

As a child of the 60s and 70s, I grew up on television: The Wonderful World of Disney, Lassie, Bewitched, I Dream of Genie. And behind these iconic shows beat the constant thrum of advertising. Especially memorable were those for airlines. Flying seemed so exciting (“Fly the Friendly Skies of United!”) International flying seemed downright exotic. https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=YLFeqsCaeJ4

I’ve always loved to fly - since the first time I went up with a crop duster as a kid. Taking flight seemed impossible, thrilling. I loved it! Especially that moment when the plane is picking up speed and suddenly, you are aloft! My spirits soared right along with the aircraft!  

Until, the wearying, standing-in-lengthy-TSA-lines, rude, overpacked experience today that is currently known as air travel. Where you are packed into sardine size seats and tossed a packet of pretzels and handed a cup (not a whole can!) of soda by a bored, casually dressed flight attendant who rolls past your seat with a rickety inflight snack cart.

But wait, brothers and sisters! ! I’m here to testify that the old Trans World Airline experience still lives! On Japan Airlines!

After a harried, American Airlines puddle jumper to JFK, we transferred to JAL for our 14 hour flight to Narita. Someone forgot to tell this airline what has happened to air travel in the 2010s, because this - this was the old TWA experience. Carefully presented for me, their cherished customer!

I know, I know - some of this is just the Japaneses company-customer business model, but my whole world view shifted immediately.

First - we did pay  extra - not exorbitantly extra like first or business class, but extra, for  PREMIUM ECONOMY seats. Not first class, by a long shot - but definitely not regular economy. (We needed extra room for Earle’s long legs and with his history of blood clots were willing to pay.)

The seats were actually roomy, comfortable, and inviting! They reclined WITHOUT putting you in your neighbor’s lap,  had small privacy partitions so you could rest your head even if you didn’t have a window seat, and small individual book lamps that only lit up your book and not your half of the plane. (They had me at booklight.) And plugs - standard and USB. The tray was adjustable - and  two cup holders. And blessed leg and foot room.

Awaiting us in our seats were fresh pillows and blankets, noise reducing headphones for the state of the art individual touch screens for movies/info/maps, and SLIPPERS. A quick peek at our neighbors showed that yes - everyone had their slippers on and we knew to don them as well. (Well, not Earle, who wears a size 14.)  

And the stewardesses! They were amazing!

Yes - I know stewardess is the inappropriate title for flight attendants. It is sexist and demeaning in today’s point of view. But I mean it in the nicest way, honest. These women who managed our area were  true stewardesses, throwbacks from a time of elegance and exclusivity. They were impeccably dressed: navy blue skirts with  jaunty pleats, navy vests  with crisp blouses, and colorful scarves. They were all Japanese; trim, graceful, lovely without exception. They wore their jet black hair in updos that would have looked perfect accompanying a Chanel 60s’ ensemble. They moved soundlessly throughout the cabin. When you were addressed by a stewardess, you felt they were genuinely concerned about you, personally. I felt cared for. I felt appreciative. I felt humbled. I felt relaxed.

And the food! I had been trained by the current state of affairs in the US to expect so little. But it was amazing! And plentiful! The tempura I had on the flight was as good as any I had in country! How they pulled off that magic hours into our flight, I don’t know! And of course, meals were preceded by a warm moist towelette. Snacks were equally delicious - including ramen. Both meals were served with tiny boxes of extras - pickled vegetables, small servings of delicately prepared fruit - and cups of miso soup.  Every taste, from the lotus root to the green tea “chaser” was carefully curated.

Every experience had been considered. The bathrooms were sparkling and had toothbrushes and mouthwash available. Before “lights out”, stewardesses offered eye masks and other amenities. Part and parcel, it was an amazing flight.

So yes, Virginia, there is still an elegant air travel experience still out there. Believe.

As we exited our aircraft amid muscial ‘goodbyes’ I again marveled at our stewardesses. They looked fresh, rested, and relaxed. More magic.

And though I knew I was wrinkled, grungy, and weary, their goodwill and kindness made me feel a little fresher, too.

Thanks, Japan Airlines!

A Girl's Best Friend

I’m juggling a host of symptoms that, to my surprise, were diagnosed as laryngopharyngeal reflux. Along with the diagnosis came a plethora of dietary and behavioral restrictions. No alcohol! No caffeine! No chocolate! No tomatoes! Sleep with your head elevated! Wait four hours after dinner before going to bed! Don’t wear restrictive clothing!

Restrictive clothing?

Unless I’m in my flannel nightgown it’s all restrictive clothing!

When I lamented my sad fate to my 29 year old son, he sympathized with me appropriately. When he heard of my restrictive clothing restriction, he just laughed.

“Mom” he said, “just start wearing leggings!” 

Sage advice from my son – clearly displaying his status as husband to fashion forward Lilly – and firm supporter of women’s rights.

Women’s rights?

Well, yes. Women of a certain age range, which happens to include my age, are not confident about their bodies. And women of a certain weight range, which happens to include my weight, are not confident about their read ends. At a tender age, I was sold a life sucking piece of industrial bondage called a girdle. Putting on a girdle was not far afield from cinching corsets decades before, requiring contortions, discomfort, and unnatural compression. Ancestors of today’s Spanx, these iron maidens flattened and tightened all the jiggly bits leaving the wearer unable to fully inhale or walk naturally.

Thankfully, girdles have gone the way of the beehive hairdo, but my closet today does hold, well, shall we say, restrictive undergarments. And stretch jeans, lots of pairs of stretch jeans, which are equally successful at tightening things up.

So leggings?

Years after I met my husband, we discussed our first impressions of each other. While I unflatteringly told him I thought he looked like he had been cloroxed (well, he was a redhead and it was winter) he told me he thought I “packed an acre.”

Let’s unpack that. It’s an odd euphemism that says I had a big gluteous maximus, rear end, bottom, behind, fanny. It was with me then. It is with me now. 

So, I’m expected to cover my, er, fanny, with something as honest, as leggings?

I decided, despite the rabid criticism of Superbowl Gaga’s tiny tummy to try a pair, to embrace – to accept- and be unashamed of the muscles, ligaments and ample adipose that makes up the lower half of my body.

Off to Target to find a pair in the picked over selection – to snag a pack of Hanes Comfortsoft XL leggings – to check out – to hear the sales associate say “$19.95 for these; can’t you find them cheaper elsewhere?”– to the sanctity of my bedroom to try them on.

I expected to have to contort myself to get in them, but was pleasantly surprised to have them slip on like a second skin – no, not as tight as that They are “Comfortsoft” after all! And damn – are they comfortable! After putting them on, I rummaged for a top that covered as much as possible. And now – I’m all in! I see what all the fuss is about! They. Are. Delicious. Despite what the haters (and they are legion) might think.

So, I’m sorry President Trump. Unlike your staff, I'm not held to your “dressing like a woman” mandate. The days of Suzie Homemaker in a fitted frock, pearls and pumps, are long gone. I’ll dress to please myself. Sir, I hope your staff will too. Because we are not defined by our bodies, our hips (ample or not), our breasts or our uteri.  Nor are we  defined by our wardrobe. And we will not be restricted...by girdles or outdated dress codes or small-mindedness. 

So say I!

So say we all!

Now, where can I find one of those cute pink "kitty" caps? I’m pretty sure one would go great with my leggings! 

Me in my new leggings...no, I've not lost my marbles. 

Crossing the Line

  

When I was a twenty-something, I was always amused by the Christmas letters my parents received during the holidays. They were usually one of three varieties: 1. Bragging on impossibly perfect and successful children and/or grandchildren, 2. Boasting about Amazing Travels (The Grand Tetons! Peru!) or 3. Declining Health.

The first two of these varieties I could admire/laugh at/understand. The third type, I found just sad. Was their deteriorating health all the writers had to speak of?

Now, at the wise old age of 56 and 5/6^th years old, I may have crossed the line. You may not know it yet, but you have a line, and you will cross it one day or another. It’s part of the package of being human. If only the Almighty had given us individual instruction booklets at birth that foretold when and where we would cross ours.

The line is Before and After. It is Before we have had a Health Crisis and After we have had a Health Crisis.

I thought I had crossed the line when my thyroid went wonky a couple of years ago. But, I drank an atomic cocktail, killed off my pesky gland, replaced it’s hormones with a pill, and wham, bam, thank-you-mam, it’s all better! I had tiptoed up to the line, put my toes over for a little while, and then jumped back, safe and sound.  

But this time, ahhh, this time, I’ve skidded over the line on a poorly maintained Ducati and am stumbling around with my helmet off trying to find the damn line to step back over.  

The short of it is, I’ve got silent reflux, which is a kind way of saying the valve at the top of my stomach is loose and allows reflux to come up my throat, damage my vocal chords, sneak up into my sinuses, and spew into my lungs. I cough like a 4-pack-a-day-smoking demon out of hell. I am never able to sleep more than an hour or two without getting up to cough and clear my throat. Mr. Sandman, RIP.

Yes, I’ve seen a specialist. But it’s not a straightforward path to recovery. Meds must be tried for months at a time before being switched out. Other specialties must be consulted. Diet and Behavior must be changed dramatically. Weight must be lost. And it all takes T - I – M- E. And if all of the meds don’t work, maybe surgery in my future.

It sucks.

But I’m learning a lot along the way.

1. I miss Diet Coke. I used to worry about the artificial sweeteners. but it was the ph on par with stomach acid, carbonation, and caffeine that did me in. Like Pavlov’s dogs, all I have to hear is the pop of a can of soda to imagine that crisp, clean, cold caffeine bolus rushing down my throat. The perfect accompaniment to movie popcorn or pizza.                                                                                                                                                                          
2. Netflix is the bomb. Currently, during my middle-of-the-night coughing sessions, I’m working through seven seasons of Parks and Rec. I’m getting to know Leslie Knope quite well.                                                                       
3. Pants are overrated. Turns out pressure on my abdomen makes things worse. I’ve pulled out my old flannel nightgowns and if you show up at my house unannounced, you’ll likely find me in one. At my son’s suggestion, I’ve started shopping online for tunics and tights. Never say never.                                                                                                                           
4. I gathered my rosebuds while I might. Shout out to fond memories of Buffalo chicken, Vindaloo, tomato-based-holy-trinity of spaghetti sauce-pizza-salsa, fried ANYTHING, and hot and spicy soup. I’ll never forget you!                                                                                                               
5. When you cough like a she-devil in public, people assume you are contagious. Which leads to lesson number 6.                                              
6. You are never isolated when you have internet and/or mobile service. I pretty much decided to wait out the 10 days until my next appointment at home since venturing out seems too set me off in coughing in multi-hour jags. But I’m not alone – texts, email, Facebook, and Skype keep me connected to those I love. And to those I disagree with politically.                                                                                                                                 
7. Bland foods can be delicious. Like potatoes. Or potatoes.

There’s more to be learned. And more to share. So stay tuned while I hunt for that damn line.

And yes, this year, I’m gonna have one hell of a Christmas letter.

Finding Hope in the Christmas Chaos

I’m not going to lie. It’s been a tough Christmas so far.

Let’s rewind to last Christmas. My sister was in the hospital in ICU. After being resuscitated twice and spending two months as an inpatient, she pulled through. It was a lot of waiting and hoping and praying.

This year HAS to be an easy one, right? I’m due, right?

Instead, I’m knee deep in crazy.

The litany goes like this. My mom has had eleven hundred doctor appointments. Mother-in-law is in the middle of radiation therapy for breast cancer. I am trying to get my new diagnosed laryngopharyngeal reflux disease under control which includes giving up my precious Diet Coke, cold turkey. Younger son, newly engaged, is home for the holidays from Japan with his  fiancé. My older son and his wife are hosting her family from out of town for the holidays. We’re having everyone over Christmas night.

That’s enough, right?  But no.

Late last week our ten year old black pug, Scooter, started throwing up. Which started the wheels in motion to have his gallbladder out on the Tuesday before Christmas. Thanks to our amazing vet and his incredible staff, Scooter made it through. Great, right? Well, except he’s not eating yet. Did I mention he’s diabetic? Oh, and he’s blind? But the fight is not over yet.  Scooter is one amazing pug and has muscled his way back from pancreatitis, thrombocytopenia and gastroenteritis in the past few years.   My husband and I are quickly becoming critical care nurses, giving a cornucopia of pills and insulin and offering tender support. Our cherished vet tech offers support via Facebook messenger. (Today’s speeddial!) Scooter’s deeply entrenched in our hearts and we are willing to try our best to give him a chance to heal. It’s not over, ‘til it’s over, but it sure is one hell of a roller coaster ride.

Scooter prepping for surgery. 

So what happened to my Christmas in the chaos?

I realized Advent was slipping past me in the blur. I couldn’t even stay current in my online Advent study (15 minutes a day) but I was determined to honor the birth of the Christ child in some way.

So I found a block of time this week, wedged between the doctor appointments  and while Scooter was in surgery and went to the Duke Chapel Open House.  The sky was grey when I emerged from the parking deck and a crisp breeze pushed me and other visitors towards the looming chapel.

 I stepped through the massive front doors and immediately felt…sanctuary. I felt apart from the stress, from the worry. I felt part of something bigger than me. Bigger than the worries that threatened to overwhelm me. I felt the presence of a loving and welcoming God.

The Chapel was filled with people, chatting, milling around, taking pictures or sitting and comfortably listening to the massive pipe organ play carols. I snapped pictures here and there and was especially moved to step up into the chancel and approach the altar. While I drank in the atmosphere and the beauty, my mood remained somber.

The Altar

As I worked my back along the aisle back towards the entrance, I gloried in the jewel tones of the stained glass windows. Though the day was grey outside, the colors were still bright, though subdued. I stopped here and there to take more photos.

Then, suddenly, a shaft of brilliant light pierced one of the windows right in front of me. So bright, my eyes must surely have blinked at the surprise. I stopped a minute to marvel at the way the colors of the stained glass caught fire and squinted as I attempted to identify the glowing images. Out of the many windows surrounding the chapel, that sunbeam shone solely through the tall slim window depicting the early life of Christ! At the top – the birth of the Christ child, beneath that, the angel appearing to the shepherds, then the wise men, and finally the escape into Egypt! Amid everything and everyone, that stubborn little sunbeam chose that window to bring to life!

The Sunbeam 

That is what Christ does to our lives – he brings it to life – he allows us to see more clearly the landscape of our lives – he illuminates!  He comes into our hearts and fills them with peace and grace and appreciation – for life, love, and yes, even the chaos that sometimes threatens to overtake us.

I carried that bright and brilliant moment home with me. And deep in the night when worries threaten to engulf me, I hope I can bring back that brilliant moment of peace and grace and let it illuminate my life again and again.

Our time of waiting is drawing to an end. Come, Christ child, come!

The sun finally shining as I exit Duke Chapel. 

Now the God of hope fill you with all joy and peace in believing, that ye may abound in hope, through the power of the Holy Ghost. Romans 15:13, KJV

The Words Every Mother Longs to Hear

When my boys were little, I did the unthinkable. To this day, I don’t think they have forgiven me.

 

Perhaps it was the times – perhaps it was being a Southern Mama, but I confess and freely admit that - - - I dressed them alike.

At first it was big brother, little brother outfits – especially when Zack was a toddler –   in which manufacturers used the same fabric or design detail, but the outfits were different – but as they grew and these outfits became unavailable, I turned to an even worse habit. I bought them identical red, white, and blue bathing suits every summer! I thought (and still do) that they looked ADORABLE!

But you need not fear, they paid me back in spades.

From late elementary school onward, they balked, resisted, complained, and refused to go clothes shopping. My compliant and engaged children turned into mules who refused to step foot in dressing rooms. I honestly believe they would rather go to the pediatrician’s office and spin a giant  roulette wheel of  immunizations and suffer the consequences that try on a single pair of Levis.

I pleaded, I wheedled. Nothing.

Eventually I took to guessing the right waist size and length and bringing home pants for them to try on in the comfort and privacy of their bedrooms.  But there was always an excuse. At night time it was “I’m too tired.” In the morning I was “I’ll do it after school.” After school it was “I don’t want to try them on now, I will at bedtime.” Which resulted in “I’m too tired.” Yes, an infinite loop of refusal, broken only when a school program or too small pants necessitated a fresh pair. And always, always accompanied by eye rolls, heavy sighs and horror.

The acquisition of  new pants was such a dreaded task, that Earle and I spoke of a punishment for them that was worse than death. We threathened that  we would take them to Pants Mountain, a demented variation of Space Mountain, where they would be eternally trying on pants. Hell on Earth. 

As they grew into high school and college students, they seemed to think that 2 to 3 pair of pants was all anyone could ever need. Zack, in particular, wore jeans so “broken in” that they appeared to be held together by dental floss. I tried not to comment. I tried to look away. It was to no avail. Their pants were the stuff of my nightmares. And they could not have cared less.

And finally, finally – when  my own involvement in their wardrobe selection had dropped to zero. When all control was relinquished and all hope was lost, I heard the words that every mother of sons longs to hear.

“Mom, will you take me pants shopping?”

It seems that in Japan, Zack is a bit of an oddity. At 6 foot, he’s taller than most of his peers  and their “skinny jeans" just don't fit him properly. On his week long visit to America he needed American pants. Nothing special. 32 x 34. But bonafide NEW PANTS. 

So my answer? “Yes, yes, yes! I’ll happily take you pants shopping!” And though I was gripped with pain from a a gouty big toe, and anticipating a massive summer evening thunderstorm, Zack and I ventured out to Target, where Zack PICKED OUT and TRIED ON  MULTIPLE PAIRS OF JEANS AND CHINOS. And I, happily, paid for them. 

It was a parenting moment I thought I’d  never see. And it happened to me. To all the mothers of sons out there, keep the faith. It CAN happen to you, too.

Now, if only I could get matching jeans for Nat…..

At Nat and Lilly's wedding in 2014 - the last time they dressed alike! 

A Jewell of the First Water

 Proverbs 31:10-31

The Wife of Noble Character

^10 [a]A wife of noble character who can find?
    She is worth far more than rubies.
¹¹ Her husband has full confidence in her
    and lacks nothing of value.
¹² She brings him good, not harm,
    all the days of her life.
¹³ She selects wool and flax
    and works with eager hands.
¹⁴ She is like the merchant ships,
    bringing her food from afar.
¹⁵ She gets up while it is still night;
    she provides food for her family
    and portions for her female servants.
¹⁶ She considers a field and buys it;
    out of her earnings she plants a vineyard.
¹⁷ She sets about her work vigorously;
    her arms are strong for her tasks.
¹⁸ She sees that her trading is profitable,
    and her lamp does not go out at night.
¹⁹ In her hand she holds the distaff
    and grasps the spindle with her fingers.
²⁰ She opens her arms to the poor
    and extends her hands to the needy.
²¹ When it snows, she has no fear for her household;
    for all of them are clothed in scarlet.
²² She makes coverings for her bed;
    she is clothed in fine linen and purple.
²³ Her husband is respected at the city gate,
    where he takes his seat among the elders of the land.
²⁴ She makes linen garments and sells them,
    and supplies the merchants with sashes.
²⁵ She is clothed with strength and dignity;
    she can laugh at the days to come.
²⁶ She speaks with wisdom,
    and faithful instruction is on her tongue.
²⁷ She watches over the affairs of her household
    and does not eat the bread of idleness.
²⁸ Her children arise and call her blessed;
    her husband also, and he praises her:
²⁹ “Many women do noble things,
    but you surpass them all.”
³⁰ Charm is deceptive, and beauty is fleeting;
    but a woman who fears the Lord is to be praised.
³¹ Honor her for all that her hands have done,
    and let her works bring her praise at the city gate.

I always called Jewell Faye Glover “Mrs. Glover.” That’s what we did when I was a kid. And it stuck, despite the fact that I found myself affectionately calling the mothers of other friends “Miss Nancy” or “Miss Jeanette.” I loved all the mothers who helped raise me and surely Mrs. Glover was one of those, but there was something about her that I recognized, even in my bedraggled Girl Scout Days, that set her apart. Mrs. Glover was what novels call a “jewel of the first water, meaning she was extraordinarily fine and I knew it from the start.

Mrs. Glover embodied the Wife of Noble Character in Proverbs 31. I can attest to that because, in several periods of my life, I had a chance to be a firsthand witness of her life. A witness of her witness.

The first was when I was a friend of Jill’s, whom I met at school and got to know more as we grew: through Girl Scouts and church activities and trips to the State Fair and Camp Caswell. Jill was a year younger than me and we became fast friends at the end of middle school and the beginning of high school. It was during this time that each of us often visited the home of the other.

Visiting the Glover home was a bit of a thrill for me. My own sister, 9 years older than me, went to nursing school when I was 9, so I often felt like an only child. But in the Glover home, there were five children! It was hard for me to wrap my head around. And two of those were brothers! I longed for brothers!

Someone looking in might imagine a house with five children – TEENAGERS – as chaotic. It was anything but with Mrs. Glover at the helm. She saw that the home was beautiful, inviting, and dare I say – serene. A miracle! I remember once when sitting down to a chicken dinner, I looked around the table at all the siblings and wondered “Hmmm, are they going to fight over who gets the breast?” I was surprised and amused to see the only arguments that ensued were over who got the wings. WINGS! How teenagers could overlook the breast, shortleg – the good parts – and argue over the paltry wings was a miracle in itself! No-one fought over the good parts – instead leaving them for others.

But that was how Mrs. Glover saw the world, she never overlooked anything or anybody and always put others before herself. She saw through my braces, wire rimmed glasses, pimples, extra pounds to see the real me, long before others did. She extended such love and grace to me that I always felt so cherished in her presence. I remember her voice from those long ago days as mellifluous and enveloping as her warm embrace. She always had time for “Miss Jackie.”  She saw her own children that way too, each important, each different, each unique and lovable in their own way. Jill was a bit of a spitfire and yet her mother sought to make her feel loved, nurtured and validated, despite Jill’s wont for teenaged turmoil. And I believe this allowed Jill to fell free to be herself and to express herself, because she knew she was loved. Always. What gift is more precious?

In addition to modeling how to be an extraordinary mother, she modeled how to be an extraordinary wife. Her love for Mr. Glover was a palpable thing and their relationship was the heart of the family. Their casual affection felt so intimate and true that more than once I blushed and turned away rather than intrude on a private moment.

The second period of my life when I drew close to the Glover family was when Jill was in an automobile accident and spent  much time at UNC hospital. I lived near campus and often visited with Jill and the family.  Mrs. Glover exhibited her usual strength, faith, and love during all of those visits. I believe she never forgot that Jill was God’s child and as well as her own. That regardless of Jill’s physical condition she was on the path to Heaven.

Mary Frances Draper and  Jewell Faye Glover

I also have memories of visiting Jill in the nursing home some months later. I met Mrs. Glover in town and we went in together. The whole place lit up when she walked in the door. She called everyone by name – staff and residents and inquired over each. She was a witness that day and everyday, whether in her faithful presence by Jill’s side, in her support of her church, in her marriage, in her life as a mother, in carrying Bibles to Russia, in visiting my family in the hospital days before my own father’s death. In so many ways! And that is why the mourners at her funeral were so numerous they spilled out the door of the sanctuary and the fellowship hall. Because so many people felt her unconditional love. 

Mrs. Glover surely had the fruits of the spirit: love, joy, peace, forbearance, kindness, goodness, faithfulness and gentleness. And she brought up her children, and her grandchildren to live and love God as she did. What a blessing for them! What a blessing for us all! 

Rest in blessed peace, Mrs. Glover. And please, give Jill a hug for me. 

Jill and I