Saturday, September 10, 2016

"Journey of Grief"

          The night of my father’s unexpected death, we gathered at my parents’ house in League City. I don’t know who suggested that we watch a movie together to take our minds off of our loss, but before I knew it, I was stretched out on the floor in the family room watching Jackie Chan and Owen Wilson in Shanghai Noon. It didn’t take long for us to burst into uncontrollable laughter at scene after scene.
         And in that raucous, rolling mirth and uncontrollable giggles nestled the first knowledge that we would recover from our unexpected loss. Grief, of course, shrouded us for months and months; yet, that first evening of laughter meant the world would go on. Our lives would change forever, but we’d find myriad reasons to smile and laugh again.
         Our personal grief entangled the next day with the September 11th terrorist attacks. The television, on in the background as we dressed to go to the funeral home, suddenly caught my sister’s attention. 
            “Did that plane just hit a building?” she asked.
         The surreal elements of our personal lives halted as we stood to watch the initial reports, before the second plane hit. We left the house and hurried to the appointment to make arrangements for Dad’s funeral, knowing immediately that the attack would affect our lives immediately.
         At the funeral home, the television ran in another room. The director’s phone calls to Fort Sam Houston Cemetery went unanswered. Mom, able to collect herself as she listened to the news, commented that all of Dad’s friends at the sheriff’s department would go on alert. She made an immediate decision not to have a viewing. We picked out an urn. The director finally reached the National Cemetery at Ft. Sam only to be told that we couldn’t schedule any plans until after the crisis had passed. Mom gave instructions for Dad’s cremation, and we all decided that David, Paul and I would drive back to San Antonio with his ashes. We’d schedule a service later.
         I’ve always admired my mother’s strength, but never more than that day. When she called the Department of Defense to inform them of Dad’s death, the young officer handling her call burst into tears. I sat on the floor, holding the checklist of numbers to be called, and listened as my mother consoled this young man. He had friends in the Pentagon.
         I marveled that my mother, so wrapped in her own loss, could take a moment to consider the shock and loss felt by a stranger. 


          Over the years, I've learned the power of laughter. Maybe if people took a moment each day to giggle or grin, or to belly laugh until they cried, our world would hold a touch more optimism. 



Copyright 2012 Elizabeth Abrams Chapman


"Journey of Grief"

          The night of my father’s unexpected death, we gathered at my parents’ house in League City. I don’t know who suggested that we watch a movie together to take our minds off of our loss, but before I knew it, I was stretched out on the floor in the family room watching Jackie Chan and Owen Wilson in Shanghai Noon. It didn’t take long for us to burst into uncontrollable laughter at scene after scene.
         And in that raucous, rolling mirth and uncontrollable giggles nestled the first knowledge that we would recover from our unexpected loss. Grief, of course, shrouded us for months and months; yet, that first evening of laughter meant the world would go on. Our lives would change forever, but we’d find myriad reasons to smile and laugh again.
         Our personal grief entangled the next day with the September 11th terrorist attacks. The television, on in the background as we dressed to go to the funeral home, suddenly caught my sister’s attention. 
            “Did that plane just hit a building?” she asked.
         The surreal elements of our personal lives halted as we stood to watch the initial reports, before the second plane hit. We left the house and hurried to the appointment to make arrangements for Dad’s funeral, knowing immediately that the attack would affect our lives immediately.
         At the funeral home, the television ran in another room. The director’s phone calls to Fort Sam Houston Cemetery went unanswered. Mom, able to collect herself as she listened to the news, commented that all of Dad’s friends at the sheriff’s department would go on alert. She made an immediate decision not to have a viewing. We picked out an urn. The director finally reached the National Cemetery at Ft. Sam only to be told that we couldn’t schedule any plans until after the crisis had passed. Mom gave instructions for Dad’s cremation, and we all decided that David, Paul and I would drive back to San Antonio with his ashes. We’d schedule a service later.
         I’ve always admired my mother’s strength, but never more than that day. When she called the Department of Defense to inform them of Dad’s death, the young officer handling her call burst into tears. I sat on the floor, holding the checklist of numbers to be called, and listened as my mother consoled this young man. He had friends in the Pentagon.
         I marveled that my mother, so wrapped in her own loss, could take a moment to consider the shock and loss felt by a stranger. 



          Over the years, I've learned the power of laughter. Maybe if people took a moment each day to giggle or grin, or to belly laugh until they cried, our world would hold a touch more optimism. 



Copyright 2012 Elizabeth Abrams Chapman




        

"Journey of Grief"

          The night of my father’s unexpected death, we gathered at my parents’ house in League City. I don’t know who suggested that we watch a movie together to take our minds off of our loss, but before I knew it, I was stretched out on the floor in the family room watching Jackie Chan and Owen Wilson in Shanghai Noon. It didn’t take long for us to burst into uncontrollable laughter at scene after scene.
         And in that raucous, rolling mirth and uncontrollable giggles nestled the first knowledge that we would recover from our unexpected loss. Grief, of course, shrouded us for months and months; yet, that first evening of laughter meant the world would go on. Our lives would change forever, but we’d find myriad reasons to smile and laugh again.
         Our personal grief entangled the next day with the September 11th terrorist attacks. The television, on in the background as we dressed to go to the funeral home, suddenly caught my sister’s attention. 
            “Did that plane just hit a building?” she asked.
         The surreal elements of our personal lives halted as we stood to watch the initial reports, before the second plane hit. We left the house and hurried to the appointment to make arrangements for Dad’s funeral, knowing immediately that the attack would affect our lives immediately.
         At the funeral home, the television ran in another room. The director’s phone calls to Fort Sam Houston Cemetery went unanswered. Mom, able to collect herself as she listened to the news, commented that all of Dad’s friends at the sheriff’s department would go on alert. She made an immediate decision not to have a viewing. We picked out an urn. The director finally reached the National Cemetery at Ft. Sam only to be told that we couldn’t schedule any plans until after the crisis had passed. Mom gave instructions for Dad’s cremation, and we all decided that David, Paul and I would drive back to San Antonio with his ashes. We’d schedule a service later.
         I’ve always admired my mother’s strength, but never more than that day. When she called the Department of Defense to inform them of Dad’s death, the young officer handling her call burst into tears. I sat on the floor, holding the checklist of numbers to be called, and listened as my mother consoled this young man. He had friends in the Pentagon.
         I marveled that my mother, so wrapped in her own loss, could take a moment to consider the shock and loss felt by a stranger. 



          Over the years, I've learned the power of laughter. Maybe if people took a moment each day to giggle or grin, or to belly laugh until they cried, our world would hold a touch more optimism. 



Copyright 2012 Elizabeth Abrams Chapman




        

Thursday, September 8, 2016

"Kirk or Picard?"


            I love the entire Star Trek franchise. Only nine when the first series debuted, I recall propping up my head against a stack of pillows, my favorite blanket in hand, to watch the adventures of the Enterprise and her crew. My sister’s love for Chekov mystified me as Spock captured my attention with his devotion to logic and science. I dismissed the antics of the plastic characters in Lost in Space while I longed to join the journey “to boldly go where no man has gone before.”

            The rash and brash cockiness of James T. Kirk hooked me from the first episode. I loved his assertive leadership and boasting attitude. A Cavalier risk-taker, Kirk’s impetuousness influenced my playground spunk. I emulated his swagger in mock battles. I mimicked his self-confidence as I bossed other kids around. I fought against “aliens” and outwitted opponents with a mixture of wit, charm, and arrogance that guaranteed my popularity in the neighborhood. Small for my age, I learned from Kirk that acting first and thinking later edged my ability to hold my own among the older kids. With flailing fists or whipping jump rope, my brazen attacks against villains may have landed me in trouble with my parents, but no one messed with Lizzy during my Captain Kirk phase.
            As an adult, a different captain of the Enterprise captured my interest. Star Trek: The Next Generation aired its first episode in 1987 with Jean-Luc Picard in charge. This captain didn’t have Kirk’s devil-may-care defiance. Picard, who learned from his youthful mistakes, provided a rational and diplomatic leader for his crew. He often displayed his boldness with subtle nuances that appealed to my grown-up Lizzy. Picard liked music, and art, and books. He understood consequences to his actions. He tried to think first and then act, very different from my childhood idol, Kirk. Picard entered my life when I had matured into relying upon negotiation to solve playground problems. His tact and discretion became traits I admired and wished, sometimes desperately, to claim as my own.
            So when the question arises, as it inevitably does in Geek conversations, “Which captain of the Enterprise is better, Kirk or Picard?” I have my reasons for loving both. The child in me clings to Kirk with his youth and energy while the adult in me would love to sit and sip Earl Grey, hot, with Jean-Luc.   





Copyright 2012 Elizabeth Abrams Chapman

Monday, June 13, 2016

"Defeated"



 Whenever our world takes a dive into nastiness, my optimistic nature turns mulish. I pep talk myself into believing things will improve since I cannot imagine anyone would plunge our society into darkness. Who chooses politicians spewing hateful philosophies over ones espousing tolerance? Who supports dogmas that foster divisiveness over creeds that call for unity? Who supports a legal system that demoralizes the victim and worships the criminal?  Who willingly supports doctrines that leave citizens battered, bloodied and dead?
     My logical brain cannot comprehend that other people foolishly make decisions based upon emotional rhetoric instead of factual evidence. When I hear these people speak about their “gut feelings” that guide their judgments, my own stomach twists into knots. They add into the mix the prejudices of their religions, biases of their socio-economic class, and abhorrence to all that appears different from themselves, and end up with infectious hatred. 
  Applying heat to this festering hostility will bring things to a head. But can we withstand  this first step in treatment?
  I long to lance these boils, push out the pus that poisons and destroys, and slather on purifying, healing balms. In my optimism, I envision scenarios of miraculously curing our diseased nation. Yet, I fear that the contagion runs too deep, and all I feel is defeated.

Copyright 2016 Elizabeth Abrams Chapman