Mrs. Spicer

“She not only saw a light at the end of the tunnel, she became that light for others…celebrate her compassion.”

-       Kobi Yamada

This is what courage, strength, and beauty looks like. This is my dear friend, Beth Spicer. She is a breast cancer warrior. Today we are celebrating her 33^rd and FINAL radiation treatment.  This marks the end of a year that was unlike any other for her.  I won’t pretend to know all that she as endured during the last year, but I do know this, the way that she handled her battle taught me more about the kind of person I want to be.  She stared her cancer down. She sized it up. She made some of the most difficult decisions of her life. She fought.  She showed up to work after rounds of chemotherapy.  She fought harder. She loved her family through their suffering and through their fear.  She reassured her young students that she would be fine, even when I know her heart was heavy and unsure. She battled daily.  Her armor was her faith, her optimism, and the infectious smile that you see in this picture above.

It was almost a year ago when she called to tell me the results of her mammogram.  She was so “matter of fact” about it that I wasn’t sure exactly how to react.  We talked for a while about cancer, about treatments, about logistics.  I found it astonishing that her biggest worries were about how other people would handle the news.  From the beginning it was clear that she had not only agreed to battle breast cancer, but that she intended to do so without inconveniencing anyone and while running a small Catholic school. I am sure her family can speak to the battle with far more clarity than I can, yet I am compelled to share her story as I saw it unfold in so many poignant moments over the past year.

One of those moments was when she shared her diagnosis with her staff and students. This was early on in the school year. Just as she calculated the time that she would need to allocate for treatments, she carefully plotted out how she would deliver the news so that business would go on as usual.  She used that disarming smile to reassure her staff and her students that it would be a great year even when she knew it would be one of her toughest. She hated to draw any kind of attention to herself and opted to fight her battles quietly.  She rarely ever asked for help, but rather spent time offering her help to others. She chaperoned junior high dances, attended sporting events, celebrated student accomplishments. She demanded that parents let her be a part of a carpool to basketball practice despite the facts that a part of her day was spent in Columbus at chemotherapy.  In fact, at a meeting in April as her chemotherapy was coming to an end and before her radiation began her nose started bleeding as she was talking.  Worried and alarmed I handed her a tissue and she retorted with that same smile “I keep telling people I don’t have time for cancer. I am the principal of a Catholic school.” Then she winked and said “I’m fine, this just happens sometimes.” That sort of comment is about the closest she ever came to actually addressing the fact that she was in a battle.

Her humility and perseverance, her humor and compassion for others, her unrelenting faith that God would see her through- these are the things that I will remember about the past year. The year that this remarkable woman battled breast cancer and became a warrior. The year that she taught a school full of young children and their parents what living your faith looks like. The year she showed me the kind of woman I want to be.

She not only saw the light at the end of the tunnel, she became that light for others, and today I celebrate her.  

“Your friends were once strangers.

Somehow at a particular time, they came from the distance toward your life.

Their arrival seemed so accidental and contingent.

Now your life is unimaginable without them.”

― John O'Donohue, Anam Cara: A Book of Celtic Wisdom

It is funny how God puts people in your path to remind you that He is never too far away.  I have known Kara Burgel since high school. It is hard to believe that I am two years older than her, but it is, in fact, true (ha ha).  A two year age difference in high school was enough to keep our paths from crossing too often. We went to different colleges. Our paths ran parallel to one another but never really converged until we both moved back to Sidney as young mothers. We started talking as we were waiting to pick up our kids from Bible School. We started talking that day, and according to our husbands, the conversation has never really stopped.

We share recipes, parenting ideas, and secrets. We have weathered health scares, potty training, and hangovers. We celebrate our children’s achievements, however big or small. We have diagnosed food allergies, bad attitudes, and good teachers. We have survived the first day of kindergarten and the first year of junior high- keeping watch fretfully as these little people we love so much learn to navigate the world.  We have borrowed Wilton Ware, soccer uniforms, and homework information. We talk about all things, from to do lists, to kids’ being over  scheduled, to whether or not Nick Newman should shave. We solve each other’s problems over a cup of coffee or a glass of red wine, depending on the time of day. We pray for our families, for those who are suffering, and the promise of heaven someday. We give thanks for quiet moments, healthy kids, and time spent at Sollmann Bar. We worry about our parents, our housework, and what our children will remember about us. We protect each other- fiercely.

Last year, for my birthday. Kara gave me a necklace with the phrase “Anam Cara” engraved on it. The phrase means “soul friends.”  That is exactly what we are. Happy Birthday, Kara.  

Patience, Compassion, and a Good Pair of Scissors

" Her children arise and call her blessed; her husband also, and he praises her, 

'Many women do noble things, but you surpass them all.'" -Proverbs

It is safe to say that I gave my Mom a good deal of trouble when I was growing up. I was the child who never could find her shoes. The one who would borrow things from my mother’s arsenal of craft supplies and never return them. I would complain about what she had made for dinner. Daily.  Especially if it was healthy. It should give my Mom great comfort to watch me try to parent Genevieve Olding who can’t ever find her shoes, constantly uses my things without returning them, and is disappointed with every dinner, unless it involves a processed chicken product.

 

            The older I get the more I discover about how patient, compassionate, and intelligent my Mom is. I would like to take all of the credit for helping her develop a good amount of that patience, but I had three siblings who contributed to the process. We would imitate her voice when we were children, mockingly squealing “Wait until your father gets home.”  or “Who took my good scissors.”  Now that I am the mom I understand more about the nature of such comments like these. Motherhood is exasperating and my Mom made it look easy. She would iron the pleats in our school uniforms, cut the crusts off of our sandwiches before she packed them, and was NEVER late picking us up from anything.  You would not get the same report about me from my children.  My Mom had it together.

            I learned more about her compassion as I moved into my college years and beyond. I was so incredibly homesick during my freshman year at Miami and my Mom knew it, not because I told her, but because of who she is.  This was before texting, social media, and email, so what my Mom did required a lot of effort and organization. She wrote me letters. A lot of letters. Some letters just described what she had done that day, some were funny, some were serious. All were cherished. Each time I opened my mail box in Dodds Hall my Mom was there. Her letter writing got me through my freshman year of Miami. My Mom has gotten me through a lot of things I didn’t think I could survive. The power of my Mom’s presence in a crisis is more potent than anything a doctor could prescribe. When I first found out I was pregnant there were several perilous days where the doctor told me he did not think the pregnancy was sustainable. Basically, he told me that I was in the process of miscarrying. I was completely devastated. Then my Mom showed up. She sat next to me on my couch for three days. She told me we would wait together. We waited and we prayed. We talked and cried and laughed. In the midst of gut-wrenching uncertainty, my Mom provided stability. SHE saved me, and to her credit she saved Grace too, because I wouldn’t have survived that week without her.

            My parents are successful people. It took me a while to realize it, but my Mom is the brains behind that operation. She is one of the most intelligent people I know, but she hardly ever takes credit. Even when my Dad tried to give her credit, she will change the subject.  I often wonder how she imparted some of the lessons she did. There was little discussion about education in my house growing up, but there was no question about how important it was. How did she do that? There wasn’t preaching about the importance of going to mass, but you knew better than to miss it. As an adult, one of the things I am most impressed with is how my Mom raised her children to be so independent. My sisters and I are all fiercely independent women. We have different opinions about almost everything and we aren’t afraid to share them. My brother can hold his own when we are all together.  No matter how different the opinions or how much our ideas contrast, all four of us realize that our relationship trumps anything else. We understand the gift we have in each other. My Mom did that. 

Happy Birthday, Mom. I will never be able to adequately express how much your life has meant to mine, but I promise I will never take your good scissors again.

 I love you. 

The Original Class Act

This is a picture of my Dad on his sixth birthday. He is happy, full of mischief, and surrounded by people who love him. This picture captured my imagination because my little boy, C.J., will turn six this year. It is hard for me to imagine my Dad as a little boy whose biggest conflicts are what time he has to go to bed and whether or not he gets dessert after dinner.  Imagining my Dad as an impatient and ornery  little boy is difficult because my Dad is the most genuine and sincere man that I know.

As I was growing up, genuine and sincere was often mistaken by my friends for loud and strict. My Dad has a commanding whistle that can stop traffic, wrangle kids into a car, or force an umpire or referee to rethink a crappy call. His whistle is his genuine signature. His way of letting others know his excitement. Truth be known, it is ear-piercingly loud. My twelve year old plays soccer, and even the girls on her team get excited when my Dad shows up because they love to hear that whistle. Grace loves to hear it too because there is nothing like knowing that Papaw is near.

As I got older I realized that other kids my age didn’t always recognize sincere. For example, when I was fifteen a group of my friends were jumping in the back of a pick-up truck to ride on back roads. I wanted to go so badly, but I remember telling them I couldn’t. My Dad had explicitly told me that if he ever caught me riding in the back of a pick-up he would “tap dance on my forehead.” I had to translate so my friends understood that this was a promise that things would not end well for me.  It was a sincere promise. Even at nineteen when Bryan and I went on our first date I remember telling him I wasn’t allowed to go further than Piqua in a car with a boy. Bryan laughed so hard he pulled over on 1-75 and jokingly asked if I had a curfew too. I responded, “Yes. 12:30, and when you meet my Dad you will understand. It is just easier if we do things his way.”

Because he is so genuine and sincere he has been my moral compass for the better part of my life. I look to him to figure out if the world is working the way that it should. When I was in high school, he would leave notes on my windshield when he knew I was having a hard time. He probably doesn’t remember writing them, but there was always some sort of encouragement or advice, metaphorically expressed in a way that only he could. “Don’t do anything half-ass” or “Just remember that 50% of people have it worse than you and the other 50% are glad you have problems.” One of my favorite was when he would say “Sara, be a ‘class-act.’” It took me years to understand what he meant by this.  I still struggle with it sometimes. I used to think it meant to always agree with him. That is not the case. What this means is that even when things are worse than you could have imagined them to be, take the high road. Even when your instinct is to lash out at someone, instead, embrace them. Pray for them. Even when it would be easier to do anything other than the thing you are being asked to do, you must do the difficult thing if it will benefit others. Be sincere, be genuine, be a “class-act.”  He wrote it as advice and demonstrated by example.

When I was little I was amazed by how strong my Dad was. He could move huge bags of mulch, enormous boxes, even furniture. I thought he could carry anything. As an adult, I realize I am not too far off. I am still amazed by all that he can carry. He carries others many things for many people.  He carries his unflinching faith daily. He carries problems for people so they don’ have to carry them alone. He carries the daily burden of missing his parents. He carries an immense love for my mother and his family.  He carries the imagination and curiosity of his eleven grandchildren.  And… he carries the weight of being my hero. Dad, I don’t know what you wished for on your sixth birthday, but I hope you got it. You are the original “class-act.”

Because I knew you - I have changed for good.

“I've heard it said

That people come into our lives for a reason

Bringing something we must learn

And we are led to those who help us most to grow

If we let them

And we help them in return

Well, I don't know if I believe that's true

But I know I'm who I am today

Because I knew you.”

My sweet niece, Allison, graduates from high school tomorrow. To many people this is not a big deal as graduation happens each year. In fact as a high school teacher, I participate in the graduation ceremony each year. However, this year is much different. I am having trouble processing all of the emotions that I have about Allison graduating. I am proud, amazed, excited, astonished, anxious …  Allison is graduating with high honors and multiple scholarships. As her English teacher I can vouch for her work ethic and prowess in the classroom. Her academic potential is limitless. As her aunt, I am truly astonished at how quickly eighteen years have passed.

Allison was born during my senior year of college, February 14, 1995. My entire adult life has included her. More importantly, my entire adult life has been blessed by being a part of her childhood. I have been amazed as I have watched my younger sister, Emily, develop as a parent. She has sacrificed, fought, studied, struggled, worked, planned, protected, but most all LOVED. She has loved Allison right through everything. The two of them are a force. I feel blessed to have been included in their journey.  So many memories have been flashing through my mind this week. One moment I see a pudgy- faced toddler who worships Disney princesses and the next moment I am speaking with one of my favorite students about her future at OSU. It is a lot to take in when the people you love and your professional purpose --- collide.

Tomorrow, my sweet Allison, as I sit on the field with you as Mrs. Olding and facilitate graduation I am proud of all that you have accomplished at SHS. I will slap you a high five and share your excitement for all that you have earned, just like I will with the rest of my seniors. The trouble is that Aunt Sara will be there too. Aunt Sara is going to take one look at you and weep with amazement at the beautiful, intelligent, thoughtful, INCREDIBLE young woman that you have become.  When I look at you I can’t stop the slide show. I see you with a pacifier in your car seat. I see you in your first communion dress, asleep on my lap for hours. I see you at Christmas ecstatic about opening an American girl doll. I see you begging Bryan not to go back to Chicago, sledding down the hill on Williams Street, on a pontoon with your cousins. The slide show goes on and on.

I guess what I am trying to say is that if the lyrics are accurate and people really do “come into each other’s lives for a reason, bringing something we must learn to help us grow”… well then I owe you a thank you.  You have taught me gratitude. There hasn’t been a day since you were born where I haven’t been grateful to be a part of your life. In fact… “so much of me is made up of what I’ve learned from you.”    You have taught me that family is stronger than anything. Stronger than conflict, career, anger, time, finances, haters, lovers, any of it. You have taught us all that when family comes together nothing else matters. So tomorrow, when the stoic Mrs. Olding can’t keep it together, I want you to know it is all your fault. Because she knew you---she has been changed for good.

I love you.