Mare's War

I came by my copy of Mare's War through winning a blog giveaway by its author, Tanita S. Davis. I have always wanted to write a review, but it was such an exquisite portrayal of life in the African-American Battalion of the Women's Army Corps, I knew I couldn't do it justice. A poor excuse, I know, for not giving the acclaim this historical novel is due.

Imagine you are a teenage girl with plans of your own for the summer when you find out you're going on a road trip - a very long road trip - with both your sister and your grandmother, who is anything but a "normal" grandmother. Marey Lee Boylen drives a "sporty red car" and "wears flippy auburn wigs, stiletto shoes, and padded push-up bras." Oh, and she smokes. Even though she knows she isn't supposed to. She might seem a tad far-fetched, until, through the course of the road trip to a family reunion, she tells the girls her fascinating story of leaving her less-than-ideal home in Alabama to join the Women's Army Corps and of the adventures she had during World War II. It was a harsh life, but Mare shows her indomitable spirit and Tali and Octavia aren't the only ones who will gain an appreciation for the contribution of African-American women to the war effort. Readers can't help but appreciate the sacrifice and amazing story of those women who served so nobly in an age when prejudice was normative. This is history with which we should all become acquainted, and Davis has packaged it in a vehicle (pun intended!) which entices the reader to hop in and hang on!

Tali, 17, and Octavia, 15, are typical suburban California teens and Marey Lee's story of war time ("then") is interspersed between chapters devoted to the "now" of the threesome's cross-country travels, told from the vantage point of Octavia. Adding to Octavia's amusing recount of their journey are replications of postcards that Tali sends to friends and family back home. Their journey proves to be more than just a road trip, but I'll let you discover that when you read the book.

And you really must read the book! February is Black History Month, for all of us, not just African-Americans. Because Blacks have shaped our shared history. You can't help but admire these women who gave so much to serve a country that denied them equality. Tanita S. Davis has gifted us with this story that celebrates what is good about that history without glossing over what was bad. What's even more remarkable is that she gives us this story without making helpless victims of those who suffered horrendous injustices. In doing so, she empowers all of us to move forward from that time, not in unhealthy denial, but with truth and strength.

The Price of Loving

I've never handled mourning very well. You'd think I'd have learned given the opportunities I've had, beginning when I was 7 with the death of my father from a fire in his apartment. I remember my friend down the street, a couple of years older than me, reading to me on the phone the description of his charred and blackened body from the front page of the paper. "What does 'suffocate' mean?" I asked my mom. That day a friend of my mother drove me to the eye doctor where I was fitted for my first pair of glasses. I remember my mom discussing with her friend whether to cancel the appointment, but they decided that I should still go, to keep the day "as normal as possible." That evening, when it began to sink in that I would never see my father again, I became hysterical in my protestations. It was March 1 in Wisconsin where winter still had a firm grasp of the situation, snow and ice claiming victory over sorrow and loss. In desperation my mom phoned a doctor for medicine to quiet me and my uncle was sent to get it. Later as I still cried for my daddy, Uncle Eldon admonished me that I shouldn't cry as he'd nearly caught his "death of cold" for having gone out in the sub-freezing weather to fetch the tranquilizer. Now I had guilt inexplicably mixed with grief, and never mind that I didn't feel I could survive the pain. Somehow I did. The stoic German in me rose to the occasion, or maybe it was the actress, preserving the "normal" facade so prized in my family. For several years following, I would save my tears and cries until I was alone, until one day I could no longer remember my daddy's voice and I gave up the fantasy that he hadn't really died and would come back to me.

Fifteen years later, the day after Thanksgiving, cancer would steal my mother from this life. At least this time I knew death was coming. For that, I was advised to be grateful, and indeed, I tried to be. This time there were no policemen knocking at the door at 4 in the morning to announce death's invasion. I was "grown up" supposedly; certainly I had the responsibilities of an adult thrust upon me. I remember being incredulous when my aunt, my mother's sister, said I must plan to have everyone back to the house after the memorial service, to prepare food and drink for them, that they might reminisce and console one another. I did as I was told. I must be strong, I was told, and that meant not to cry, not to mourn. So instead of later in the day, it would be many months before the totality of my loss assaulted me, the agony of it overwhelming me long after my aunt and my brother had returned to their homes, to their normal routines. And this time worry intermingled with my tears, as I was pregnant and feared what such profound sorrow might do to my unborn child. Thanksgiving the following year I spent with my best friend from high school, at her parents' house, she with a new baby, and mine a month from arriving. Bittersweet. Such has Thanksgiving been ever since.

Today is the first day of Autumn, and the early morning announced itself with torrents of rain pounding my bedroom windowpanes and the light covers proving not quite warm enough for the chill. Two years ago today, dear Vivian Marie, my granddaughter, was born. And today I think I feel the pain even more acutely than I did then, for you see, she was born with anencephaly, with the top of her skull and brain missing. We knew that she was thus afflicted and we hurried to Texas to be with her and my son and daughter-in-law when she arrived. Our gratitude was abundant that she survived her birth, and that we were able to share her precious few hours of life, keeping vigil at the hospital. True to my bringing up, I kept strong as I held Vivian, and as I listened to her breathing slowly change to death's erratic rhythm, and witnessed the sword of sorrow pierce my son's and his wife's hearts when Vivian was gone. She was so beautiful, so perfect in spite of her "boo-boo" as my 3 year old grandson called his sister's wound. Back then I couldn't yield fully to the anguish as I had (for an evening) when I was 7; I'm not sure why. But today I am stalked by sorrow and sadness. I want Vivian back! I want to hold her and listen to her coos. I tell my kids that I need a nap and I cry and sob into my pillow in the privacy of my bedroom, and wonder once again if I can survive the loss, knowing that I will, and that this is the price of loving.

My Granddaughter

Last summer seems a lifetime ago!

In September, on the feast of St. Pio, my granddaughter, Vivian Marie, was born. When we realized that she was alive and was going to live, at least for a time, there was such joy in the crowded birthing suite! Two sets of grandparents, two aunts, an uncle, cousins, and dear friends celebrated her birth with her parents and brother. Prayers had been answered and the glory of God was visible.

You see, Vivian Marie had a condition called anencephaly, in which part of her brain and skull did not form. Her chances of surviving birth were a little less than 50:50. But survive she did, and we were graced with 15 hours of miraculous life. I don't think it's hyperbole to say that her 15 hours with us changed our lives. Her parents gave their fiat to God, and agreed to accept whatever time God would give them with little Vivian. What's more, they did so with love and a desire to honor her life, however short it might be. I could not help but think of our Blessed Mother as I watched my daughter-in-law labor for hours, knowing all too well that she would be giving the life of her daughter to God, much as Mary gave Jesus to the Father.

Vivian Marie is our little lamb, my son and daughter-in-law's, my husband's and mine, all of us who loved and love her still. Certainly we, and hundreds of people on prayer chains far and wide, were praying for a miracle, were praying for Vivian Marie to be born intact, whole, and healthy. God had other plans. We who love her suffer, and yet we are called to unite our sorrow with that of our Lord in His Passion. "Not my will, but Thine," said Jesus to His Father.

I pray that God will do wondrous things with our suffering, with my daughter-in-law's and son's acceptance of theirs and Vivian's cross. My mother used to tell me that God loves more those to whom He gives greater sufferings. (She probably learned that from St. Terese of the Child Jesus.) Experiencing Vivian Marie's birth, brief life, and death has shown me a reason why. It is because He is thereby allowing us a fuller participation in His Passion, and therefore in His Life. That is indeed a great gift.

I give thanks for Kyle and Genece and Jonathan. I marvel at their love that was incarnate in Vivian Marie and shown to all through their actions, as they carefully honored her life and cherish her memory. God gave the Virgin Mary (and all of us) the joy of the Resurrection. I cannot but hope that He will--even in this valley of tears--give Kyle, Genece, and Jonathan a resurrected joy, a healing of their brokenness, and a peace which surpasses all understanding.

Rudy's Daughter, Too

March 1st. I still remember the snow on the ground, lawns buried in icy whiteness, and sidewalks that were navigated with peril. I remember awakening at 6 that Thursday morning to sounds in the living room: my mom sitting on the davenport in her nightgown and robe sobbing, two police officers standing there--strangers let in on an intimate moment, witness to the pain. My 17 year old brother was there, too, and as he saw me amble in he grimaced as if to say, "You don't want to come in here! Go back to bed!"

I saw my brother's look and ran right past him to my mom. Ignoring the policemen I asked her what was wrong. "I'll tell you later," she said through her tears. But I was persistent, and she too weak to fight me. "Your father's dead," she said at last.

What does that mean to a 7 year old? "Your father's dead." It would not be until later that evening that it would sink in, that my mind would finally try to grasp the meaning of the words. And then it felt as if I would die, too. "Never coming home" was too big a reality to take in, and as I contemplated exactly what that meant, that I would never see my daddy again, I became hysterical with grief, feeling that my very heart was being pierced and I could not survive.

Over the next few years I would have moments again of that unbearable grief. I was a latch-key kid of a single mom and my brother had moved away, so alone at home I would pray to God to please let it all be a mistake and please let my daddy come walking through the door. I would remember his last words to me, and remember how he sounded, and what it was like to climb into his lap. I had been his princess.

Then the memories of his person faded and one day I realized that I could no longer recollect in my mind what his voice sounded like. A new loss, to not be able to recall that sense of him alive, but with it I gave up wishing for his return. Eventually the overwhelming sorrow subsided.

I determined to be strong in life and did not grieve again for many years. I've often been told that I think like a guy, that is, I'm analytical, methodical, a problem-solver. It took me many years to ever let myself be vulnerable, especially to love. Still, I was extremely rational and fought off feelings of sadness, dismissing the loss as being "a long time ago."

A freedom of middle age has been to learn to honor my memories. No longer do they threaten anguish against which I must defend myself. No longer do I listen to my internalized elders--or others--telling me not to weep, not to feel the sadness. No, today I allow my tears. No little girl should have to lose her father, although many of us do. No little girl should have to grow up so fast, although I did. In many ways, I became the father I didn't have. But on this day, on March 1st, I let myself be the daughter again, the daughter mourning the loss of her daddy.