Conflict v. Confrontation

Chris Hayes, interviewed this past week by Terry Gross on Fresh Air, mentioned that politics inherently involves conflict, that it's the nature of the political beast.  It got me thinking - again - about how conflict is an inherent part of families, too.  And to think otherwise can lead to incredibly negative consequences.

It feels like this world is more or less divided between people who tolerate conflict because they  totally shrink from confrontation ~and~ those who tolerate confrontation because they detest conflict.

Will there come a day when I am no longer horribly fascinated by my mother's loathing of confrontation & utter willingness to endure, even perpetuate, conflict?  Oh, Lord, I hope so!!  

Guess it's sort of natural to be thinking about this on this day of all days.  Ian died at age 11, when I was only 7.  Would he have been like our older sibs, who took after Mom, or would he have been more like Dad, who tended to call 'em as he saw 'em?  I like to think that he would have been like Dad, in part because I know from family tales that Ian asked questions, looked for deeper meanings rather than just what appeared to be true, another trait of our father.

Near the end of her life, Mom did too - much to my amazement.  When she was 90, Mom went totally outside her once-rigid comfort zone to ask Peter why he (& Mim & Mike) seemed so riled up by her seeking help from a psychologist to get a better, healthier view of herself.  As Mom shared with me later, Peter leaned back a bit as he pulled himself up to full height, leveled her with a look, leaned back in, and replied, "You ask questions!"  

Now, there are a lot of things that Mom told me over the years that I have to wonder about, but the physical description & the comment are too spot-on PRL to be false.  And I could see that it had really set her back on her heels.  Never, not in a million years, was she expecting that as his answers.  What upset them (according to Peter) was that she asked questions???  

Mom at 88 years old would have totally understood his answer.  Mom at 90 - no.  Which makes me realize - yeah, I can totally let go of what once was, because by the time she died, Mom had so gotten over her fear of confrontation.  She could march into the scariest lion's den she could think of - and come out whole.  

There were a lot of issues still unresolved between the two of us when Mom died.  Identified, but still unresolved.  Turns out, in writing this posting, that the question of tolerating confrontation or conflict is NOT one of them.  Oh, the power of blogging!

Dad - territory covered

Raymond (universally known as PETE) Lewis Lockhart

Mom & Dad had a glorious trip to England in 1972 - as soon as they were home, both were thick into plans for a return trip the next year. Then, her sisters' health started to decline & both knew they'd have to head west to California, where Dot & Betty lived, rather than back across The Pond.  

Although he apparently hadn't mentioned it to anyone else in the family, Dad confided to me on New Year's how much he was looking forward to a vacation because he felt worn out.  He chalked it up to Mike (who had worked with him) & Kerry's move to her native Australia.  They'd supported the young couple's decision, but it had a cost, both at the lumberyard & in our hearts.

It was around the middle of February that I saw them off on their way to San Francisco.  

They had a marvelous visit with Aunt Betty & Uncle Paul at their ranch in Newcastle, a great time with Aunt Dot in Sacramento (still remember Mom sharing with me on the phone a dinner they'd all enjoyed at The Fire House).  Mom was so happy to have that special time with her two sisters, since she felt like either of them might leave us in the near future.  Never, not in her wildest nightmares, could she have imagined that it would be Dad who'd be gone in six weeks.

Even now, that seems unimaginable.  

The two of them were about to board their flight home, were approaching the flight attendant waiting to take their tickets before they took the short walk to the aircraft.  Inexplicably, Dad dropped what he was caring.  When Mom looked at him, just as he was about to collapse, it was clear he was having a seizure.  He would have died right there & then, choked to death on his own tongue, if a U of P doctor hadn't happened to be right at hand.  "Get me a spoon," he barked at the attendant.  "We need to wait for our doctor," she answered.  "Damn it, woman," he yelled at her, "If you don't get me a spoon right now, this man will die right here."  Spoon in hand, he pressed down to keep Dad's tongue in place.

They took him to Penisula Hospital, an 5-star hospital with 5-star staff who took good care of Mom as well as Dad.  Because it happened where it did, the airline stepped up & took care of all of the hotel arrangements & made sure Mom had whatever she needed.  Bay-area New Church men & women gathered her under their sheltering wing.  As heart-breaking as it all was, at least it happened in the best possible place for Mom to get maximum support.

It turned out that Dad had a brain tumor deep inside his brain, inoperable from the instant the first lethal cell formed.  (Nicknamed "Carpenter's Cancer" because it often strikes wood workers, result of cutting treated lumber.)  He was given six months, maybe up to a year.

He was gone in six weeks.  

Remember his first & last day back at him lumber & millwork shop - the call to Mom that he was coming home because he couldn't do figures.  And when he had to resign from being a church usher, a big part of this life.  The effect of seeing his response as bits & pieces of his life vanished.  He went downhill fast.  

Back in 1973, there wasn't any hospice or even the sort of compassionate hospital support that we take for granted these days.  Six weeks to the day he collapsed, Dad died alone in a Richboro nursing home, because back then all visitors had to leave at 8:00 p.m.   I contrast that with what I experienced when Mom was in her final hospitalizations & hospice.  Hospice - it was unheard of back then.  What a comfort it would have been to Mom & Dad for him to be at home.

Other than picking the minister, planning the memorial service fell primarily to me, which was wonderful as I could make the music selections - picked in consultation with Mim & approved by Mom - our last gift to Dad.  Bishop Pendleton did a fine job of capturing my father, closing with "Well done, thou good & faithful servant."

Ian - territory covered

So, what did I learn as a result of my brother Ian's death?  Considering the reality that I was only just 7-years old at the time, quite a lot.

That death can come to anyone, at any moment.  

That our body is temporary, but our loves are forever.

That mourning parents could put aside their grief in order to comfort the family where the accidental shooting happened.

That my big strong Daddy could be totally broken. 

That you never know when someone might be taken from you, so be sure be aware of & grateful for them NOW, because there might not be a later.

and later...
That a tragedy can draw a family together or push them further apart.

That people can go through the exact same situation but perceive & experience it in vastly different ways.

That different people handle loss in different ways - my Mom  longed to go back to the lake, because it made her think of Ian;  Dad couldn't bear to go back to the lake, because it made him think of Ian.

That family members have different ways of communicating.  I was alone in our family in wanting to consider how Ian's death affected us as individuals & as a group.  The only time we discussed the impact of Ian's death was when we agreed,  a couple years before Mom died, at a family meeting with her psychologist, that we never discussed it.

in addition...
I learned from Mom that it was possible to recover from such a devastating loss,  that "one day, you'll notice again that the sky is blue - but it will never be the same shade."

I learned from Mom that when tragedy or loss hits friends, it's better to show up on their doorstep when they don't need you than to stay home.  She shared that with me when family friends lost a young son in an accidental drowning - their friends were gathered outside the house, not wanting to intrude on their sorrow, not knowing what to do.  Mom went up to the door & rang the bell - and the lad's mother practically fell into her arms for comfort.  

Take My Hand

I've been blessed to know some remarkable life coaches - most recently, the deeply gifted Anna Friesen Cole - and have been complimented when friends & acquaintances have urged me to become one.  How many time have I heard, "But you're a natural!"  Never shared that image of myself.  But I can relate with heart, mind & soul to the image of myself as a guide, helping people navigate difficult terrain I've trekked numerous times. Will never be a life coach, but here's my YES to being an end-of-life guide, because I've been there & done that.

Ian Scott Lockhart 1959

Saturday marks the 54th anniversary of my brother Ian's death, suddenly gone on an Easter Monday afternoon.  I experienced that unspeakable time as a 7-year old, so a lot of the most grievous parts went over me.  What I knew for sure was that my 11-year old brother, my closest sibling in age & manner, wasn't coming home from his afternoon of play.  

One priceless gift that came out of at most grievous time - Ken Stroh, Ian's 5th grade religion teacher & the minister giving his memorial service, took the time to talk to a little girl & had the courtesy to treat me like a big kid, asking if I had any questions.  I had one - what would Ian look like when I saw him again, in Heaven?  

Ken gave a brilliant answer, one that resounded in my so-very-young mind.  Realizing that my worry was how he would look after the accidental shooting that took his life, he drew me over to him & sort of leaned me against his lap, so we could look straight into each other's eyes.  "Ian won't look the way you remember him right now," he explained gently,  "He will be a young man, much older than Ian was on his last birthday.  But, Elsa, you will know him immediately because you will recognize his loves, which is all that we really are."  In the moment of seconds it took to tell me that, "Mr. Stroh" flicked on a switch in my mind - it might seem sort of esoteric for a very young girl to grasp, but grasp it I did.  That image of Ian as his loves rather than an earthly body helped get me through all the strange adults hugging my & patting my head, got me through the burial, where Dad slumped against a tree & Bishop Pendleton went over to put his arm around his stricken friend, got me through everything.  It stays with me still.

next - Raymond (universally known as Pete) Lockhart 1973

Toe Holds & Foot Prints

It wasn't until my father's memorial service, about 40 years ago, that I got my first inkling of the indelible image he'd made on the community into which he married & lived & raised a family.  Then & over the years since, I'ved heard story after story from people who held him in high regard just because they'd experienced in him a good-hearted man.

Been thinking a lot about Dad as we move closer & closer to March 25, the date he died.  

Although he hadn't shared it with the rest of us, Dad had been experiencing terrible headaches for a couple months.  Mom had realized that he seemed to using a lot of aspirin, but hadn't made any connections between the pain relievers & his health.  

The closest he came to sharing his deteriorating health with any of us was with me, on New Year's Eve; he'd picked me up from a party at Glenn & Joel's and on the drive home shared how much he was looking forward to the trip he & Mom were taking out to California to visit with her sisters - he was really tired, he confided, and was looking forward to having some time away from work, an opportunity to relax & unwind.  

For Dad to be looking forward to not being at Lockhart Lumber was unusual.  He enjoyed a vacation as much as the next fellow, but he truly loved working at his teeny tiny lumber & millwork "shop" - loved his use, loved being of use to others.  

Mom was much the same with her "job" as wife & mother.  She loved every aspect of her work, even cleaning out the fridge.  And she thrived in her role of wife, which she translated as being a partner through good times & the difficult.  

Both of them - individually, as a couple, as parents, as a family - embodied what their faith taught about expressing in word, thought & deed a life of use.  Mom & Dad never knew the word "stint" when it came to giving their precious time, their boundless energy, or their limited money.   If they saw a need, they did everything in their power to fill it.  

Naturally, I thought that every kid in town was brought up with that sort of outlook.  My brothers were hauled into helping Dad with parking duty, getting up early early on Sunday mornings to help direct cars into the most optimum parking spots.  (Imagine the demand for space back when Glencairn was a private home, when there were no parking spaces aross the street, back when the college parking lot was a vast wheat field!)  Mim had her own kids’ club.  I was encouraged to do what I could to make dorm students feel less lonesome – can’t remember a time Mom was reminding me that “their lives might seem glamorous to you, but they don’t get to have a homecooked meal every day or sleep in their own bed.” 

None of us gave much thought to cost – Mim financed her Explorer’s Club (featuring weekly meetings, activities, even a 3-night summer camp in our back yard!) with piddly dues & money she earned from babysitting;  Dad paid for the ingredients for all the batches of goodies that made their way to the dorms.  Both my parents encouraged us kids to invite dorm students down for Sunday dinner.

Mom & Dad weren’t sought after social types.  They were the other's best friend.  So, it was a stunning surprise at Dad’s memorial service when the family rose to sing the first hymn and were hit with a wave of beautiful singing, our first indication that the nave was filled, from our front row to the very back.  Mind you, Dad's service was on a weekday afternoon, so a lot of the people - from corporate presidents to his car mechanic - had to take time off to attend.   

And there it was, my first inkling that although my parents had a very small toe hold in our community, they left a very big foot print.  Their legacy was & continues to be the example they set of what mattered most to them – forging relationship to God, to your partner, your family, your friends, your community, your nation.  Very big shoes to step into!

Beyond Abundance

Sheez, was it just a few days ago that I wrote about walking away from my 6th-grade self, turning away from the old west road with its familiar yet setting sun, turning instead toward the yet-to-be-seen rising sun in the east?

As Gomer Pyle, USMC would say - GOLLLLEEY!

In the past 12 hours, I've discovered that the model of community that I hold in my heart but was challenged to fully envision in my mind already exists, that there are loads of people who understand the purpose that fills my being with what feels like a zillion stars, who share my passion for helping older friends live their fullest possible life and, when they face death, to greet it as a friend.  There are books and articles and flesh & blood folks who grasp my questions & can offer answers or more questions, information or deep discussion, or oh so many incredible things.  

This week, it hit me - I am the right person in the right place at the right time.  

Accident?  I think not.  Not even simply sweet serendipity.

The ever-guiding hand of the Divine.

Dorothy asked me today how I was.  Heard myself answer, "Dorothy, it's like the universe opened up & dropped all manner of delights in my lap."  No fluff or frivolous comment, just the spectacularly unplain truth!!

Throwing Down the Gauntlet

Walk away from my 6th grade self toward what always hovered on the edge of reality.  Walk away from the old west road to the rising sun in the east.