Response to The Expats an excerpt from Sweet Lonesome Journey

This post was inspired by mystery thriller novel The Expats by Chris Pavone. Kate Moore sheds happily sheds her old life become a stay at home mom when her husband takes a job in Europe. As she attempts to reinvent herself, she ends up chasing her evasive husband's secrets. Join From Left to Write on January 22 as we discuss The Expats As a member, I received a copy of the book for review purposes.

The following post is an excerpt from my upcoming memoir, working title--Sweet Lonesome Journey to be published in 2013.

My precious Mark and Sims, ages ten and thirteen, walked me down the aisle of a packed Central Baptist Church to start the wedding of my dreams and the marriage of my nightmares. Moisture filled eyes followed us to the altar. Everyone celebrated I had found a young, good-looking professional man because they also had watched and prayed as I lost Bart to cancer. I irrationally thought two and one half years amounted to enough time for my grief—which verifies out how grief cripples your judgment.

The gorgeous wedding ended and the marriage began. I accept full responsibility for this huge marital mistake. However, I do wish to note for the record, no family members and only one friend voiced misgivings about this match. Even my therapist later apologized he had not noted the signs of –what? Mental disorder? Dysfunctionality? Woundedness? All of the above? And that’s the part related to Dan. My part in this colossal mistake? I underestimated the psychological healing I had yet to do. At this point, I remained clueless concerning damage I still carried from childhood wounds. I didn’t know the work that still lay ahead of me. I didn’t know what I didn’t know.

Shortly before the wedding, my groom-to-be commented, “Your friends seem to think of you as being very sexy. I’m not comfortable with that.”

“No kidding.” I replied. “Did you think you were the only one on the planet who had noticed?”

The warning gong should have clanged with concern over his unhealthy attitude about sex, relationships and more, instead, his thinking ticked me off. This constituted the beginning of my daily urge to say to him, “Do you have applesauce for brains?”

On the honeymoon when he brought up issues he had not mentioned in a year and half of dating—all issues related to his need to control me, such as what I wore, where I could go and who I could be friends with, my stomach knotted in fear. My expression in all the honeymoon pictures looks like I’m gritting my teeth. I was. He assured me he just found it “necessary to rake back the glitter” when confronted with someone who shimmered like Brenda. I replied, “You’re doing the job with a god damn backhoe, not a rake.”

I repeat—I offer no excuse for my part in this gigantic mistake. Devastated by Bart’s death and desperate for emotional security, I thought I found a good man. A college professor who attended church, had two sons of his own, Dan shared many of my values and desired the kind of home life I wanted for my boys. His issues with sexuality and obsessive, irrational thinking escalated from the honeymoon until the day our divorce finalized. I learned an important lesson about myself from this marriage: I had very low tolerance for someone who needed to control me in order to feel safe himself. Circumstances necessitated I become my own authority at an early age, he didn’t stand of chance of controlling me in my forties. I also learned I didn’t have enough relationship skills to bridge the psychological divide between Dan’s dysfunction and my own.

Pondering Marriage

Getting Married and Other Mistakes by Barbara Slate, this month's selection in my www.fromlefttowrite.com book club, is my first graphic novel. We would have called it a comic book in my generation but now there are complete books illustrated in this manner. If I were talented in the visual arts, I would do a graphic novel of how I met John Lynner Peterson. Alas, I am not, so what follows is the story in narrative. 

The story of how John and I met will give middle aged single women hope that the right person exists for all of us. For most of his career, John worked at the intersection of religion and media.  In 1998, John produced the Fiftieth Anniversary Party for the World Council of Churches in Zimbabwe at which Nelson Mandela spoke. Doug Smith, a young minister, who assisted him on this event said, “John, if you ever move into doing work on the Web, call me.” Within a few years, the Hallmark Channel hired John to start a website called faithandvalues.com. John thought the job required a move from Chicago to the Manhattan headquarters for this job. He then received the news that they had chosen to locate this venture in Lexington, Kentucky because of a random conversation that occurred on an airplane. (Are you getting the picture here about coincidences?) John responded, “You’re moving me where?” Familiar with Manhattan, he felt comfortable there. But Lexington, KY? He had never heard of the place.

  As requested, John called Doug and hired him to assist in development of the website. Lexington didn’t feel as strange to Doug since he had gone to seminary there and served Newtown Christian Church as Student Pastor. As the dominoes rolled, Doug hired Martha Johnston for faithandvalues.com, a young woman who attended his youth group at that congregation and had since graduated from college.

John, Doug and Martha busied themselves with a Web presence when one day a light bulb brightened above Martha’s head. She called me on a Monday at that same Newtown Christian Church where I served as her pastor. “Brenda, you need to meet the Vice President of our company.” Gutsy for a twenty-something to call her fiftyish pastor and suggest a hook-up.

“I’m game,” I replied. “I’m not dating anyone.”

Thursday evening of that week, my cell phone rang while I ate out with my sister. Martha initiated the conversation with, “Brenda, give me a pep talk. I know the timing is right because he’s still here and the work day is over but I’m nervous. I feel like I’m asking him out myself and he’s old enough to be my dad.”

“Martha, get your ass into his office. I’m not getting any younger!” (Ass is a biblically correct term.) So she did.

John emailed me and we made arrangements to meet on Saturday evening. But on Friday evening, as I sat around in day-old makeup, my sermon just finished, (see how exciting life is for single women in ministry) I decided to call the phone number in his email to confirm that I would meet him at the designated time and restaurant. I assumed I would get a voice mail since people with real lives go out on Friday evening. What a surprise when he answered his phone.

“I just wanted to make sure you received my email confirming tomorrow night,” I stammered.

            “Yes. But, hey, I haven’t eaten yet. Want to go get a bite to eat now?” he asked.

“I’ve already eaten but I will have a glass of wine while you eat.”

“Ok, let’s meet at Ramsey’s on High Street.”

I knew he was a Northerner, so I blurted out, “Don’t you Yankees pick your dates up?”

            A bare thirty minutes later, I had thrown on some walking shorts and was letting my dog do his business when John drove up and got out of the car.

            “Oh my god, you’re gorgeous!”

The photo Martha sent me so I could see him in advance!

            How could I not fall in love with a man who delivers that opener? I later learned his expectation could not have been much lower. Fifty-something unmarried minister translated to him as over-weight, hairy legs with a bit of hair on her upper lip, a few wild ones on her chin, no make-up, sensible shoes and a very no-nonsense hairstyle. He later apologized for his unflattering characterization of female clergy.

            After dinner and ice cream, we sat on my deck and sipped tequila until two in the morning. I had never “sipped tequila” in my life. We both knew that first night that this pairing felt ordained, serendipitous, divinely inspired and meant to be--take your choice; color your own dream. When John walked through a hallway of my house where I had hung photos of my life in the arts, he said, “I’ve been looking for you.” Our mutual love of a variety of the arts provides just one of the lenses through which we see each other. John’s genuine recognition of me satisfies an identity hunger at my core.


This post is inspired by Getting Married and Other Mistakes by Barbara Slate. This graphic novel offers a raw, yet humorous look at what happens to Jo after a surprise divorce. Join From Left to Write on Thursday, June 28 as we discuss Getting Married and Other Mistakes by Barbara Slate. I received a review copy of the and all opinions are my own.

Response to "Girl Gone" by Gillian Flynn

This post is inspired by mystery thriller GONE GIRL by Gillian Flynn. They may not have the perfect marriage, but after Amy goes missing, Nick becomes the number one suspect. Can he discover what happened before it's too late? Join From Left to Write on June 12 as we discuss Gone Girl. As a member, I received a copy of the book not for review purposes but rather for blogging inspiration.

“Why do people get married?”

“Passion!???”

“No, because we need a witness to our lives. There are a billion people on the planet, what does one life really mean? But in a marriage you’re promising to care about everything, the good things, the bad things, the terrible things, the mundane things, all of it, all the time. Every day, you are saying your life will not go unnoticed, because I will notice it. Your life will not go unwitnessed because I will be your witness.”
        

Masayuki Suo (from the movie Shall We Dance)

With the chaos of my childhood behind me (or so I thought), I assumed creation of my own family would constitute the best part of adulthood. Nothing prepared me for the reality that the formation of my own family would be like a blind woman buying art. I doubt I am the first and quite sure I won’t be the last person to come out of a dysfunctional family who thinks she will form the perfect family and “do everything right.” In spite of failures and everyday bumps along the road, I cherish marriage and parenthood as pieces of life that helped me survive and thrive.

At first blush, five marriages would indicate I failed at doing “everything right” and that I’m not good at marriage. Au contraire. Ok, Ok, I certainly didn’t do “everything right” as planned. But I have had two great loves and two marriages that satisfied and fulfilled me--one of those ongoing. Another two husbands who should have remained dear friends not husbands. Now don’t let me off the hook of responsibility for my role in constructing the less-than-desirable marriages just because I had no model for how to craft a stable marriage. Marriage number three, a monumental disaster in judgment also taught me valuable lessons. I discovered more about myself from each marriage, perhaps lessons my parents should have taught me. I grasped more about myself in the good marriages but I also digested a few morsels from the bad. With time, therapy and additional self-understanding I have forgiven myself for the mistakes. I now embrace the marriages as part of the journey to find myself, know myself and esteem myself. Understanding as relates to men in general did not come easily for me. I didn’t have what psychologists call a “daddy hole,” the emotional lack of relationship with your father, I had a Daddy Crater and I learned to fill that crater in unhealthy ways.  

Grief Comes Calling--Again

During the fifth month of her pregnancy of her first child Natalie Taylor is devastated by the sudden death of her husband. Her journey with grief is chronicled in the memoir Signs of Life. Join From Left to Write on March 29 as we discuss Signs of Life by Natalie Taylor. As a member of From Left to Write, I received a copy of the book. All opinions are my own.

Robert Mark “Bart” Bartella

He may not have played it exactly as written,

but there was indescribable charm in his interpretation.

Paganini quote used for Bart’s funeral cards

I met Bart the summer I worked as a cocktail waitress at the Firebird Lounge in the Phoenix Hotel, downtown Lexington, Kentucky. I needed income during the summer when I didn’t teach so a friend suggested that I make an audition tape for an on-air position at WVLK radio station which crowned the top of the Phoenix Hotel. In 1972, with women’s voices uncommon on the radio, the station staff said my voice sounded too high. One of the radio staff knew the cocktail lounge on the ground floor needed a waitress and suggested I apply there.

“Are you kidding?” I asked. “I’m Baptist. I’ve only tasted liquor two times and don’t know any drinks except the beer and whiskey the alcoholics in my family drink.”

The manager of the Lounge, a woman, replied, “I don’t care; you have great legs.”

The first week I worked, Bart came in with his ex-wife as his date. He ordered Drambuie, an after-dinner liqueur. I asked him to say it three times and spell it before I knew what to request from Joe Lewis, the bartender.

Bart scrambled to ask, “Are you married?”

“Yes.” I replied.

He inserted, “But not happily.”

Still married to Dennis, I had not yet given birth to Denny and thought I had a good marriage. Bart proceeded to chase me around three Kentucky counties for the next three years before mine and Dennis’ marriage deteriorated and we divorced. During the summer I worked at the Phoenix Hotel, Dennis also grew acquainted with Bart. Bart arranged for athletic tickets for us, advised us about our first home mortgage and they knew each other in a distant way. When Dennis and I separated and I moved to Lexington, Dennis called Bart and said, “Brenda is moving to Lexington and doesn’t know anyone there. Would you look in on her?”

Bart, more than pleased to fulfill that request, “looked in on me” more than Dennis had intended. He was thirty-two years older than I. Yes, you read that correctly. He had two daughters, one two-and-a half years younger than I and the other two-and-a half years older. I told him from the beginning that I would see him socially that summer while Dennis and I were in divorce proceedings but that I could not get serious about anyone and I would date other men before I would consider marriage again.

We saw a lot of each other that summer. Bart wined and dined me at Lexington’s finest restaurants. We spent long weekend afternoons at the pool in his apartment complex and met each other’s families. While my eyes opened to the vision of dating an older man, they also opened to a new vision of myself as seen through this man’s eyes. I knew that Dennis and his family viewed me as part and parcel of a poor dysfunctional family. This new mature man saw me only as an individual. My family didn’t seem to be clinging to me in his vision.

Finally, the clanging cymbal of love rang for me. Finally, I got it why movies and books and songs got written about this thing called love. Love happened to me. I had no idea the power of this love. In those early years, I didn’t know love would enable us to make love with a colostomy bag in between our bodies and cry together afterwards. I didn’t know love would enable me to pack a surgical wound that went six inches into Bart’s body. I didn’t know his love for me would mean he agreed to have another child when he was sixty-two years old. I learned that love for us meant all these and so much more.

I exacted a promise from Bart before we married that we would at least discuss having another child when Denny turned three years old. When Bart was sixty two years old our Mark, his first son, arrived. Their relationship played like a symphony which required only two musicians. Bart also decided to legally adopt Denny because he wanted Denny to feel loved by him and be a Bartella.

Ten very happy, fulfilling years followed before Bart died of lung cancer in 1985. He said we had a “one issue marriage.”

The two-shaded blue stretchy knit bathrobes clothed our little family of four for more years than I had imagined when I made one for each of us. Bart supported my sewing projects because he thought it occupied my days and assuaged my desire to go back to work. My Bernina sewing machine, the best on the market, challenged me enough to buy him one more year of a stay-at-home wife and mother. Then I gave him the ultimatum of law school or another child. He chose to have another child, a wise decision. We were three years in to this stay-at-home career path at this time.

The Stretch and Sew store in the Landsdowne Shoppes taught technique for new knits. Matching bathrobes smacked of cutesy to Bart’s no-nonsense mind, but he wore his more and longer than any of the rest of us.

For better or worse, too many of the memoires in that bathrobe mix in my brain with the sound of the ice in his glass followed by the stream of rum and coke. He awakened around five a.m. every morning and many Saturdays and Sundays, he sat there in his big orange recliner wearing that bath robe and well on his way to drunkenness by time I awakened around eight or nine.

The crashing realization that I loved this man as I had loved no one in my life sloshed around in my heart with the cruel irony that he was an alcoholic. Dressing the family up in matching bathrobes doesn’t cure alcoholism.

With the gift of maturity and Al-Anon, I accept and acknowledge how I enabled Bart’s alcoholism. In the beginning, I denied it as alcoholism. The drunks I knew didn’t dress in coat and tie and go to work every day as successful executives. By the time I knew in my bones he was an alcoholic, I loved him and thought my love would make the difference in his drinking. Foolish love. When he bought rum by the case, I meticulously loosened the state seal, poured out a third to a half and refilled it with water. I deluded myself that I had made the difference when “the issue” went away the last two years of his life. A more accurate explanation--the change occurred because he knew when he retired that he had to either quit drinking or die. Sadly, he did both.

It doesn’t take a Ph.D. in psychiatry to diagnose my marriage to someone three decades older had something to do with the “daddy crater.” But that explanation presents a shallow interpretation of this deep and rich relationship. Some folks said Bart served as my Svengali. He said, “I just provided a stable marriage and home life so you could blossom as you desired.” After his retirement, he joked that people in our home town began to know him as Mr. Brenda Bartella. Other folks called me his “Trophy Wife,” a summation accurate only in the sense that I was the young, attractive and glamorously dressed woman on his arm. Marriage to Bart offered me options I had not considered as roles for me—glamour girl, volunteer, civic leader.

Oh, the trophy wife moments happened—like that fabulous strapless shirred white evening gown which he called “the Rita Hayworth gown that stopped the gaming tables in the Monaco casino.” On vacation in Monaco, we decided to walk through the gambling casino before dinner. Because of the celebrity culture of Monaco such a distinguished older man and attractive much younger woman could only mean—they must be someone famous. As we walked around the perimeter of the room, the gamblers stopped their games and stared at us as if we were the newest People Magazine cover. In moments like Monaco, I pinched myself and asked, “Am I still Brenda Sims, the poor white trash girl from the projects?” The answer to that question even after marriage to Bart remained, “Yes, I am Brenda Sims and I have grown into a sophisticated young woman who still has a good deal of growing to do in spite of a white gown and a trip to Monaco.”

To finish with the speculations on the character of our marriage, my family joked that Bart thought he chose a glamorous sex object and got a Baptist Sunday School teacher instead. He didn’t get one or the other, he got both. The jokes and theories created part of the fun because our marriage rested on solid knowledge of each other. We enjoyed music, sports, books, movies, travel and shared parenthood. Since Bart had peaked in his career, he gave himself permission to enjoy these experiences in a way that he didn’t allow with his earlier marriage and his older children. Grateful for a second act, he made the most of it.

I do not underestimate the financial impact of this marriage on my life. It moved my standard of living from struggling lower middle class life to secure upper middle class. I remember the first time I thought, “I don’t have to parcel out the strawberries because there are enough for all of us to eat as many as we like.” I remember when Bart directed me, “Buy diapers in large quantities when they go on sale.” I had never had enough money to buy more than the quantity necessary short term. Upon seeing an advertisement in the paper that a scissors expert would be demonstrating at McAlpin’s Department Store, Bart suggested I run over there to buy several different kinds for our household use. What? Specialized scissors? I seemed the height of luxury to this girl from the projects.

Bart provided a lovely 5000 square foot home, swimming pool, constant travel and even after his death, paid for my two Masters degrees, Mark’s undergraduate degree and Denny’s long and winding road through education. Bart, of course, had a comment about this financial impact too, “I know Brenda could walk out of this marriage any day of the week and make it on her own in fine style.” The glue of this marriage of broken persons was love.

When I insisted on a pre-nuptial agreement for the marriage that followed Bart’s death, my attorney tried to dissuade me. “Brenda, you are not a wealthy woman.” He had no idea how vast that inheritance appeared to little Brenda Sims.

The repercussions of losing Bart in 1985 rippled forth in my life. I suppose I lacked awareness myself of the ways in which I could not let go of him. Ten years after his death, a new seminary friend commented, “Since knowing you, I also feel like Bart is just away on a business trip and will be back soon.” The mirror she held up for me reflected that I communicated a relationship with Bart that existed only in my heart and mind. I also endured nightmares in which Bart still lived but had moved on to another house, wife and family. Stating the obvious, I had deep-seated fears that all men would leave like my Dad.

In 2001, after meeting John, my last and current husband, I saw an advertisement on TV for a new film about a great love story. I thought, “Oh my god, I’m being reminded of great love and for the first time in sixteen years I don’t wish for Bart to still be alive!”

The Art of Hearing Heartbeats by Jan-Philipp Sendker

This post was inspired by the book, The Art of Hearing Heartbeats by Jan-Philipp Sendker.  As a member of From Left to Write book club, I received a copy of this book for review. All opinions are my own. You can read other members' posts inspired by this book at From Left to Write.

Click on the title above to buy this book from my aStore.

The Art of Hearing Heartbeats tells the story of love, spiritual depth and family choices. Set in Burma, when Burma was Burma, Sendker brilliantly weaves the tale of three generations. The compelling story of a blind boy who falls in love with a club footed girl who can’t walk anchors the novel and showcases a love so deep as to overcome logic, continents and time.

All families make choices that deliver a wallop of impact which ripples forth and we never know how far the ripples wave before the effect dies. My father died last week and I am particularly aware right now of the decisions he made that rippled forth in so many lives.

Dad and All Six Wives
Photo by John Lynner Peterson

Dad was married nine times—only 6 women—but nine marriages. He produced seven children—that we know of. I used to say, “Dad is not immoral, he is amoral.” He did not think rules, propriety, manners, codes of conduct or logic applied to him. He was going to do what he was going to do regardless of what others thought. He lived his life this way and accepted the consequences of doing so.

I suppose all parents make decisions that affect their children’s lives. And we don’t get to choose our parents. So the lesson in life and from The Art of Hearing Heartbeats is to go deep, find peace and let love take precedence regardless of the ripples you are experiencing from decisions past generations may have made. 

When Marriage Fails inspired by Lost Edens

This post was inspired by Lost Edens a FromLefttoWrite book club selection. Lost Edens is the memoir of Jamie Patterson. This is not a book review but rather a post inspired by reading Jamie’s book.

“Why do people get married?”

“Passion!???”

“No, because we need a witness to our lives. There are a billion people on the planet, what does one life really mean? But in a marriage you’re promising to care about everything, the good things, the bad things, the terrible things, the mundane things, all of it, all the time. Every day, you are saying your life will not go unnoticed, because I will notice it. Your life will not go unwitnessed because I will be your witness.”
        

Masayuki Suo (from the movie Shall We Dance)

With time, therapy and additional self-understanding I have forgiven myself for mistakes. I now embrace my bad marriages as part of the journey to find myself, know myself and esteem myself. Understanding as relates to men in general did not come easily for me. I didn’t have what psychologists call a “daddy hole,” the emotional lack of relationship with your father, I had a Daddy Crater and I learned to fill that crater in unhealthy ways.

Daniel Allen Moore (a pseudonym)

"I think we all wish we could erase some dark times in our lives.

But all of life's experiences, bad and good make you who you are.

Erasing any of life's experiences would be a great mistake."

Luis Miquel

My precious Mark and Denny, ages ten and thirteen, walked me down the aisle of a packed Central Baptist Church to start the wedding of my dreams and the marriage of my nightmares. Moisture filled eyes followed us to the altar. Everyone celebrated that I had found a young, good-looking professional man because they had also watched and prayed as I lost Bart to cancer. My irrational thought that two and one half years totaled enough time to get over my grief just points out how grief cripples your judgment.

            I accept full responsibility for this huge marital mistake. However, I do wish to note for the record, that no family members and only one friend voiced misgivings about this match. Even my therapist later apologized that he had not noted the signs of --what? Mental disorder? Dysfunctionality? Woundedness? All of the above? And that’s just the part that related to Dan! My part in this colossal mistake? I underestimated the psychological healing I had yet to do. Clueless concerning damage from some childhood wounds, I didn’t yet know the therapeutic work left for me to do. 

Shortly before the wedding, my groom-to-be commented, “Your friends seem to think of you as being very sexy. I’m not comfortable with that.”

“No kidding.” I replied. “Did you think you were the only one on the planet who had noticed?”

The warning gong should have clanged at that time with concern over his unhealthy attitude about sex, relationships and more. At the time, it just ticked me off. This constituted the beginning of my daily urge to say to him, “Do you have applesauce for brains?”

On the honeymoon when he brought up issues he had not mentioned in a year and half of dating--all issues related to his need to control me, such as what I wore, where I could go and who I could be friends with, my stomach knotted in fear. My expression in all the honeymoon pictures looks like I’m gritting my teeth. I was. He assured me he just found it “necessary to rake back the glitter” when confronted with someone who shimmered like Brenda. I replied, “You’re doing the job with a god damn backhoe, not a rake.”

One of numerous difficult issues in eighteen months of marriage surrounded the issue of humor. Dan had no access to humor and my boys and I survived on ours. Intestinal gas is a sacrament to adolescent boys. Dan denied he ever experienced such a human failing. Mark would lay in wait outside the bathroom door and scream at the top of his lungs if a sound close to gas emitted from behind that door. How can you refrain from laughing at that? One therapist pointed out to Dan that the boys and I also laughed at ourselves which he seemed incapable of doing.

Mark impersonated Dan in Saturday Night Live style. Dan, handsome and very well built, bore the unfortunate characteristic of a high waist. In a culture already pushing pants to the lowest possible place on the hips, Dan’s high waist supplied a perfect set-up for caricature. Mark would pull his pants up to his armpits and imitate Dan’s overly-serious mode of speech. I tried on most occasions play the adult and refuse to laugh at these impersonations. I threatened dire consequences if they didn’t cease and desist. Laughter often won.

I offer no excuse for my part in this gigantic mistake. Devastated by Bart’s death and desperate for emotional security, I thought I found a good man. A college professor who attended church, had two sons of his own, Dan shared many of my values and desired the kind of home life I wanted for my boys. His issues with sexuality and obsessive, irrational thinking escalated from the honeymoon until the day our divorce finalized. I learned an important lesson about myself from this marriage: I had very low tolerance for someone who needed to control me in order to feel safe himself. Circumstances necessitated that I become my own authority at an early age, he didn’t stand of chance of controlling me in my forties. I also learned that I didn’t possess enough relationship skills to bridge the psychological divide between Dan’s dysfunction and my own.

A Celebration of the Life of Marilyn Moosnick

I first met Marilyn when she recruited me to raise money for the renovation of our Opera House in Lexington. I think it was full of pigeon poop at that time. What a delight to be part of that effort. The Opera House anchors the corner of Broadway and Short and gives hundreds of organizations a place to perform.

Next Marilyn took me on a tour of the empty YMCA building to talk about renovating it for the Lexington Council of the Arts now LexArts. That led to years of involvement with that organization and my service on that board for over six years. Another anchor for the arts in Lexington.

I had just married Robert “Bart” Bartella when I met Marilyn. Bart was 32 years older than I. Marilyn chuckled when she told me about when she and Franklin first married. While the age difference was only twelve years, the greater gossip fodder was that Marilyn was Christian and Franklin was Jewish. She assured me the interest in mine and Bart’s marriage would get old with time and become very boring to gossipers.

One night many decades after meeting Marilyn, we were chatting at the airport as we each waited for a family member. When Franklin came down that escalator, the rest of the world faded away. As I watched them embrace and gaze into each other’s eyes, I saw the kind of love that can bridge whatever differences individuals may bring to the relationship. This kind of love encouraged Marilyn to convert to Judaism and lend her considerable talents to all manner of Jewish organization including being national President of Hadassah.

When Southern Baptists were first becoming radicalized, I was still Baptist (although even then a member of a very progressive Baptist church). Some of the evangelist actions of the Baptists during this time were extremely offensive to Jews. Marilyn pulled me aside at a wedding we both attended and said, “Brenda, what can we do about this? How can we build a bridge that will be beneficial for all?”

Building bridges, sparking change, inspiring others, encouraging involvement---that’s just who Marilyn was.

Rest in eternal peace, dear friend. Your work here was well done.

    

Congratulations and Best Wishes to Mary and Don

Mary and Don's Engagement Photo by John Lynner Peterson

I officiated today at the wedding of dear friends, Mary and Don. What a delight. Many in the congregation commented that it was the happiest wedding ceremony they had ever attended.

Noted author Scott Peck draws an analogy between marriage and a base camp for mountain climbing which Mary and Don have claimed as their own. They explained to me (I would be the last to know), If you want to climb mountains you must have a good base camp, a place where there are shelters and provisions, where one may receive nurture and rest before you venture forth again to seek another summit. Successful mountain climbers know that they must spend at least as much time, if not more, in tending to their base camp as they actually do in climbing mountains, for their survival is dependent upon their seeing to it that this camp is sturdily constructed and well stocked.

Mary and Don have chosen to build a base camp together that will nurture them through life as they venture forth from this marriage, always to return to their source of shelter and provision.

This creative and vibrant couple also created a beautiful symbol of their mountain climbing metaphor in their rings. They are beautifully crafted with mountains carved around the ring.

I asked Mary and Don to write letters to each other about why they love the other and why they wanted to be married to him/her. These letters will go in their keepsakes of this day. There were interesting reasons as you might well imagine. Many expected reasons and some you might be pleased or surprised about. Did you know that pumping someone’s bicycle tires is a reason to love someone? Mary also loves Don because he is not a spirit squisher! And Don assures us that it’s a basis for love if you too like to read, love NPR and vampires. Who knew? And their list will go forward from today.

Thank you, Mary and Don, for allowing me to share in your special day. You have taught us anew what it means to love.

And, of course, the gorgeous photos and specially designed and printed guest book are by John Lynner Peterson.

When Oprah asks, you must answer---

The invoice came to renew my subscription to O Magazine. The subscription was in my husband’s name but a gift to me. So the invoice looked like the picture above.

Oh, Oprah, how do I answer this question. I’ve tried to answer this query for nine years now. John Lynner Peterson exploded into my life and my heart on August 17, 2001. I had no idea the wild ride I signed up for by marrying him four months later.

He’s Lutheran, Minnesotan and Norwegian. This combo platter seems alien but interesting to this southern girl. His family reveres this heritage and speaks of lutefisk and Syttende mai and they regularly eat lefse. My Irish roots have never met a potato I don't like, so I get on board with this potato-based tortilla-type bread. Yummy when heated with butter, cinnamon and sugar and rolled into a dripping candlestick treat.

In addition to being a Garrison Keillor clone, John is also a creative talent who produces twenty ideas a minute and still fights ADD in his sixties. We live in this cyclone of artistic thought and ADD chaos. He sees no point in putting an object back in the same place two times in a row. How boring for him! How frustrating for me!

The answer to Oprah's question resides in my favorite children’s book, What Do You Do with A Kangaroo? by Mercer Mayer. It begins:

What do you do with a Kangaroo who jumps in your window and sits on your bed and says, “I never sleep on wrinkled sheets, so change them now and make them smooth, fluff up the pillows if you please.

 

Exotic creatures appear in the little girl’s life and demand accommodation. The end result---she lets them stay. She wallows in the wonder, excitement, strangeness and fun.

I find this the perfect answer to Oprah’s question, “What should we do about John Lynner Peterson?” I celebrate and support his artistic endeavors (www.johnlynnerpeterson.com), I snuggle up to that Viking hug, I revel in sharing movies and music with someone who understands my passions and tastes. This alien creature blesses my life on a daily basis and I give thanks.