Hope's Cafe

Probably 6 years ago, for my birthday I received from my daughter, a “Skylight,” one of those devices which scroll through photos that are sent to it.  I recall when those first came out that I thought they seemed, I don’t know, frivolous? One more bit of excess in one’s life? Over time I have become a true believer. Every time I catch a glimpse as I walk by, or those times I actually sit for a bit and watch my life played out before me, I feel blessed.  Photos of our travels, of family gatherings, of our grandchildren, our friends, our animals, pass before me like a delightful parade.

              Rather ironic that I thought of this as excessive.  What is excessive are the dozens of photo albums, as well as loose photos from over the years, currently stored in our shed where we never see them.  My brother gave me all of my parents photographs after they died, which only added to the hundreds (likely thousands) of ours already filling storage tubs.  I have made albums, I have sent some to family, I have discarded many that were poor quality or were unidentifiable.  

              On the other hand, I recognize the value of these images, how some moments of our lives are captured to be re-experienced whenever the occasion arises. Routinely at family gatherings, we have dragged out all the photo albums to share once again the memories they contained.  It has been said “Photography is a way of feeling, of touching, of loving.  What you have caught on film is captured forever. It remembers little things long after you have forgotten everything.” (Aaron Siskind). Or as Neil deGrasse Tyson has so aptly put it: “Photography is a form of time travel.” Thank you, Neil.  We are in your debt for that eloquent description.

May we be bearers of hope, the “wait staff” of Hope’s Café for each other and all those we encounter.  Shalom, Kate

Hope’s Café Bonus: For example, this photo was taken at sunset on the farm we sold in August 2021.                                                                                           

Probably 6 years ago, for my birthday I received from my daughter, a “Skylight,” one of those devices which scroll through photos that are sent to it.  I recall when those first came out that I thought they seemed, I don’t know, frivolous? One more bit of excess in one’s life? Over time I have become a true believer. Every time I catch a glimpse as I walk by, or those times I actually sit for a bit and watch my life played out before me, I feel blessed.  Photos of our travels, of family gatherings, of our grandchildren, our friends, our animals, pass before me like a delightful parade.

              Rather ironic that I thought of this as excessive.  What is excessive are the dozens of photo albums, as well as loose photos from over the years, currently stored in our shed where we never see them.  My brother gave me all of my parents photographs after they died, which only added to the hundreds (likely thousands) of ours already filling storage tubs.  I have made albums, I have sent some to family, I have discarded many that were poor quality or were unidentifiable.  

              On the other hand, I recognize the value of these images, how some moments of our lives are captured to be re-experienced whenever the occasion arises. Routinely at family gatherings, we have dragged out all the photo albums to share once again the memories they contained.  It has been said “Photography is a way of feeling, of touching, of loving.  What you have caught on film is captured forever. It remembers little things long after you have forgotten everything.” (Aaron Siskind). Or as Neil deGrasse Tyson has so aptly put it: “Photography is a form of time travel.” Thank you, Neil.  We are in your debt for that eloquent description.

May we be bearers of hope, the “wait staff” of Hope’s Café for each other and all those we encounter.  Shalom, Kate

Hope’s Café Bonus: For example, this photo was taken at sunset on the farm we sold in August 2021.     

                                                                                      

The aroma is heavenly on Wednesday mornings at the Senior Center.  Except for the last Wednesday of the month, when birthday dinner at noon preempts cinnamon rolls at 9, folks gather for this sweet start to their day.  The rolls don’t always come out right at 9, so we sit chatting, waiting like little birds chirping to be fed.

This past Wednesday I arrived promptly at nine, anticipating a senior center cinnamon roll and fresh coffee to warm my tummy on a cold Montana morning. The smell that greeted me was not fresh bread, but roast beef being prepared for the birthday dinner later.   Alas, I had forgotten it was the last Wednesday of the month.

However, a couple of other members had also forgotten.  One of them was George, a Columbus native, born in a little house behind the EUB church, delivered by his grandmother, “the closest thing this town had to a doctor or nurse back then,”  nearly a century ago. 

George happily shared stories of his life in this area.  In 1959, married with two small children and another on the way, their home burned to the ground.  They slept that night in the car, George totally devastated, unable to see how they would go on.  But the community rallied, helped him rebuild.  While their home was rebuilt, they lived in shack like quarters, initially without plumbing or electricity.  George was resourceful, having taught himself the plumbing and electrical trades.  His daughter laughed that they were the only place around with a lighted outhouse. 

George took his two little sons with him when he worked, said from an early age, they were never without a tool in their hands.  One became a plumber and the other an electrician here in town.  I realized one son was someone I am aware of in the community.  I made the connection to his daughter when he mentioned she is in the nursing home due to cerebral palsy.  She joins us when our church offers a service at the home on the third Friday of each month.  Now I will be able to tell her I have met her father. 

These little connections sweeten life like delicious cinnamon rolls!

May we be bearers of hope, the “wait staff” of Hope’s Café for each other and all those we encounter.  Shalom, Kate

Hope’s Café Bonus:  The senior center here is well supported by the community.  I learned recently that many of the other small towns around are limited in the days they are open and the meals they serve.

P.S. The movie I mentioned last week that I hadn’t been able to locate about the peace reached in Ireland, I discovered is “The Journey.” Worth watching!

The Ulster Project

Some years ago, as a therapist at a mental health center, I was part of a team that led a group for Irish students brought to the United States to give them some respite from the war within their country and to foster understanding, communication and the potential for reconciliation between the Catholics and the Protestants.

The troubled and tumultuous history of Northern Ireland is well documented,
and was played out in newspapers and on television screens across the globe.
At the height of the violence, known as “The Troubles”, the Ulster Project came into being. Every year since 1975 the organization has been working with teenagers in Northern Ireland and the United States, to educate them and develop them as leaders to effect change in their communities.

Originally known as “The Irish Children’s Project,” The Ulster Project had its origin in the imagination of The Reverend Stephen K. Jacobson, D.Min. He became rector of St. Mary’s Episcopal Church in Manchester, Connecticut in 1974 and soon discovered that 30% of the local community traced their ancestry to the town of Portadown in Northern Ireland. They came to Manchester to work in the Cheney Silk Mills as weavers. St. Mary’s parish had been organized by immigrants from St. Mark’s Parish in Portadown. Fr. Jacobson had been active in the American civil rights movement and was appalled by what was happening in Ulster. The year was 1974. He asked himself if the people of Manchester might make some small contribution for the cause of peace and reconciliation between Catholics and Protestants; in Ulster and in Manchester.

A year earlier he had become acquainted with The Reverend A.T.Waterstone, rector of St. Catherine’s in Tullamore, Republic of Ireland. Jacobson had advertised in The Church of Ireland Gazette inviting clergy to exchange pulpits with him in Middlebury, Connecticut. As a result, Waterstone spent two months in America and Jacobson spent two months in Ireland. The collaboration expanded from there.

The Ulster Project is based on a simple idea of sharing experiences. Catholic and Protestant teenagers are hosted by American families of the same religion and with a teenager of the same age and gender. In this manner, friendships are created immediately to provide a safe and trusting atmosphere. The teens meet daily in structured activities designed to foster trust between the different cultures represented in the project.

Though the Belfast Agreement, also known as the Good Friday Agreement, came about in 1998, the Ulster Project has continued.  The agreement is so named because it was reached on Good Friday, 10 April 1998. It was an agreement between the British and Irish governments, and most of the political parties in Northern Ireland, on how Northern Ireland should be governed. The talks leading to the Agreement addressed issues which had caused conflict during previous decades. The aim was establish a new, devolved government for Northern Ireland in which unionists and nationalists would share power. The two main political parties to the Agreement were the Ulster Unionist Party (UUP), led by David Trimble and the Social Democratic and Labour Party (SDLP), led by John Hume. The two leaders jointly won the 1998 Nobel Peace Prize.

Margaret Meade was right: “Never doubt that a small group of thoughtful, committed, citizens can change the world. Indeed, it is the only thing that ever has.”

May we be bearers of hope, the “wait staff” of Hope’s Café for each other and all those we encounter.  Shalom, Kate

Hope’s Café Bonus:  An excellent 2021 movie is Belfast, set in the early years of “The Troubles.” There was a movie I watched a few years ago about the secrecy of the negotiations between Trimble and Hume that was quite fascinating, but I have been unable to search it out.

I came across a quote from Joseph Campbell in relation to a Nietzche idea that had impacted him.  I was stopped in my tracks by Nietzche’s thought-provoking words.  Consider this:

“Nietsche was the one who did the job for me.  At a certain moment in his life, the idea came to him of what he called ‘the love of your fate.’ Whatever your fate is, whatever the hell happens, you say, “This is what I need.”  It may look like a wreck, but go at it as though it were an opportunity, a challenge.  If you bring love to that moment—not discouragement—you will find the strength is there.  Any disaster you can survive is an improvement in your character, your stature, and your life.  What a privilege!  This is when the spontaneity of your own nature will have a chance to flow.’”

I can think of many situations that if I were in them, I would have a hard time “bringing love to that moment.”  When we were defrauded by our business manager, whom we had trusted for 17 years, and were forced to close our business, I prayed for her every single day for the following year.  I don’t know that that qualified as “bringing love to the moment.”  I considered it as protecting myself from becoming bitter.  Maybe if I had considered it as “bringing love to the moment,” it would have been an even more powerful action.

I can think of examples of situations where people brought love into the equation in difficult circumstances.  Some years ago in Atlanta, a woman was taken hostage in her apartment by someone who was running from law enforcement.  She very gently talked to this young man, encouraging him about his life and about not acting in ways that were destructive to himself and his future.  She succeeded in convincing him to turn himself in.

Or I think of the true story told in the movie The Pursuit of Happyness, where the struggling salesman, Chris Gardner, is left by his wife and remains the sole parent caring for their preschool son.  Behind on the rent, he is evicted and left homeless while still responsible for the child.  Despite obstacle after obstacle, he manages to get through an unpaid internship with Dean Witter and becomes a successful stockbroker.

When I explored his back story, I learned that he had had a dreadful childhood: an absent father, an abusive stepfather, stints in foster care several times.  Despite that, his mother had positive influence.  He recalled her telling him “You only have yourself to depend on.  The cavalry ain’t coming.”  She encouraged him to never give up.  So both Gardner’s mother and later Gardner were able to bring love to their circumstances.

Striving to bring love to the moment seems a worthy but daunting pursuit.  Such a different attitude would seem to offer the possibility of some altered results, the “spontaneity of one’s nature having a chance to flow.”

May we be bearers of hope, the “wait staff” of Hope’s Café for each other and all those we encounter.  Shalom, Kate

Hope’s Café Bonus:  One of my favorite quotes: “Things turn out best for those who make the best of how things turn out.”

This week we were invited by a neighbor couple with whom we are newly acquainted, to come have coffee with them.  A delightful, leisurely visit ensued.  What a lovely history this tradition of gathering informally for coffee and conversation has. Worthy of being resurrected, might we all agree?

              The term coffee klatsch comes from German Kafeeklatsch meaning “coffee chat,” or literally, coffee(kaffee) plus gossip (klatsch).  When our daughter Jenna was an exchange student in Germany in high school, no matter what else was happening in her exchange family, everything stopped at 4 p.m. for cake and coffee. Two big layer cakes made by the grandmother of the family were the centerpiece of this daily event.  When I visited, I gladly indulged in this ritual. 

              Coffee klatsches were popular in the 1950’s when it was common for women to stay home with the kids. They would gather for mutual support as they enjoyed coffee and perhaps some cookies or coffee cake.   More recently the term has fallen out of common usage.  But the tradition has evolved to become a proliferation of coffee shops with dozens of varieties of coffees and teas where people now gather to indulge in a plethora of drinks and treats. 

              While I have had my share of Starbuck’s and Panera’s—hazlenut coffee with cream and a Panera’s brownie sounds good at this very moment—I wouldn’t trade the experience there for the one I had this week, sitting in my friends’ dining room getting acquainted while sipping coffee and enjoying the pastry they offered.  Already my wheels are turning how I might build on re-igniting the coffee klatsch.  Certainly I look forward to returning the invitation soon.  The connections we develop in these informal gatherings are the invaluable brick and mortar of relationships.

              May we be bearers of hope, the “wait staff” of Hope’s Café for each other and all those we encounter.  Shalom, Kate

Hope’s Café Bonus:  Perhaps my first effort at a coffee klatsch will include this, a favorite of mine, delicious and simple.  Gingerbread:  Heat oven to 325 degrees.  Grease and flour a 9 in. square pan.  Mix thoroughly ½ c. soft shortening, 2 T. sugar and 1 egg.  Blend in 1 c. dark molasses and 1 c.  boiling water*.  Blend in 2 ¼ c. sifted flour, 1 t. soda, ½ t. salt, 1 t. ginger, 1 t.cinnamon.  Beat until smooth.  Pour into prepared pan.  Bake 45-50 minutes.  Happy eating.  😊

*I have also substituted ½ the boiling water for gingerale, which gives a lighter texture and slightly sweeter taste. 

Today Terry and I witnessed the adoption of two of the children from church.  What a blessing it was to be included as friends and family gathered to share in the joyous occasion.  The circumstances that had brought these children into this family were rather dire.  But here we all were, the two boys most of all, celebrating this event.  I felt caught up into the shared elation, a part of the family network of relationships.

              Being witnesses to life seems like mindfulness intensified, a greater awareness of being a participant in that which you witness.   I have a friend on FaceBook who has full time responsibility for what I understand to be a great nephew.  I do not know what created the situation that made her care  necessary.  But in every post, love just radiates from the page.  I find myself writing comments to her, affirming the love she conveys.  Even in the unconventional, rather sterile world of a computer screen, I somehow feel I am experiencing the gift of participating in this little family. 

              So many times as a therapist I felt like a witness to life emerging from some dark place.  Once, as a very young therapist just starting out, I was working with a depressed woman who browsed in bookstores just to get herself out of the house.   When, after some weeks of therapy, I commented that she was beginning to look brighter, she responded that she, indeed, was feeling better.  She noted that she even had discovered books on the upper shelves! She had been so downcast for so long that she had never noticed anything existed above the lower shelves. 

              Beyond being mindful, I encourage you to think in terms of being witnesses to life.  Pay attention to whether that increases your sense of participation, being vitally connected to that which you witness.

              May we be bearers of hope, the “wait staff” of Hope’s Café for each other and all those we encounter.  Shalom, Kate 

Hope’s Café Bonus:  I recall from my sociology courses, the term “Participant Observer,” a role a researcher would fulfill by actually participating in an activity, not simply observing it.    Witnesses to Life seems to me a richer, though similar, term.  Witnessing Life combines being mindful, for example, of the song of the bird, and feeling connected to the bird and in some sense being part of its song, as well.

              In 1820 a French orphan named Martin Fugate settled near Hazard, Kentucky.  He eventually married a woman who carried a recessive trait he also unwittingly carried, called methemoglobinemia.  The effects of this rare blood disorder cause the skin a blue tint because the hemoglobin in the blood  is unable to release oxygen effectively to body tissues.  It would be nearly 150 years before the disorder would be understood and a treatment discovered.

  The Fugates bore seven children, four of whom were bright blue.  As you might guess, the response by others to this dramatic difference was not tolerance.  “The Blue Fugates” or “The Blue People of Kentucky” were shunned at best and horribly mistreated at worst, sometimes even lynched.  So they retreated from the wider population, only making the situation worse as intermarriages among cousins, aunts and other close relatives took place. 

There were varying degrees of the blue color.  Those with lower concentration of methemoglobin might only blush blue in cold weather, while people with high concentration were bright blue from head to toe.  While the condition didn’t cause any special health problems, the social embarrassment and mistreatment certainly were problematic.

A doctor named Madison Cawein III, a hematologist at the University of Kentucky, discovered a cure in the 1960s.  He convinced the blue people tucked back in the hills to let him draw blood which he could then analyze.  The solution turned out to be a commonly used dye called methylene blue with which he initially injected them. He later found pills containing the same ingredient worked better.

In the material I found online, Benjamin Stacy, born in 1975, was reported to be the last known person born with the active gene and his treatment was successful.  So imagine my astonishment last week when I encountered a woman at the local nursing home with this noticeably blue skin.  I, of course, can not say that it was this same condition.  But she looked much like some of the pictures I found online.

In 1943, Kentucky banned first-cousin marriages, in part to prevent birth defects.  However, the Ku Klux Klan fought vigorously for the bill’s passage to maintain “white supremacy.”  Others were interested in keeping their clans strong by preventing young lovers from marrying enemy cousins, loyalty to one’s clan being deemed crucial.  Both the intolerance of difference and the mentality that would seek to keep a bloodline “pure” are reminders to us of the need to be welcoming of others and open to a culture that is growing increasingly diverse.

May we be bearers of hope, the “wait staff” of Hope’s Café for each other and all those we encounter.  Shalom, Kate

Hope’s Café Bonus:  I learned about this condition several years ago when I read The Book Woman of Troublesome Creek.  The novel was about The Pack Horse Library Project, which ran from 1935 to 1943.   The horse riders braved incredibly bad roads and weather to deliver literature to isolated families in Appalachia.  These folks lived in the poorest and most isolated areas of eastern Kentucky and had inaccessible roads, few schools and no libraries.  Thus, these brave riders encountered the “Blue People.”  The book is well written and very informative about this era of “book women” and this genetic condition of “blue blood.” 

Also of note is the author’s mention that the Fugates originated from France and were descendants of French Huguenots, as nearly as can be determined.  She questions: “Could the Fugates’ medical anomaly mean they were true “blue bloods” descended from European royals?”  (If so, what irony to have been so shunned and regarded as repulsive in Kentucky).

This week I came across the letter of Kurt Vonnegut written to a high school class in 2006.  I had seen it posted before, but grasped it at a deeper level this time. The English class had been assigned to write a famous author to ask for advice. Of the letters sent, Vonnegut was the only one to answer.  He wrote, in part:  “ What I had to say to you, moreover, would not take long, to wit: Practice any art, music, singing, dancing, acting, drawing, painting, sculpting, poetry, fiction, essays, reportage, no matter how well or badly, not to get money and fame, but to experience becoming, to find out what’s inside you, to make your soul grow.”

These words penetrate as I consider the writing of this blog.  I write for the discipline of it, the challenge of it, the pleasure of it.  Over time, I have begun to experience the connection with those who read the words I post.  Most importantly, though, I have realized that this effort requires mindfulness.  I pay attention through the week to my life, what I notice, what I might bring to this space.  So perhaps I am “becoming,” finding out “what’s inside” of myself, making my “soul grow.”

What if soul growth was our measuring stick for all our tasks?  I recall at one point in my life when I was very anxious about money.  I began to go to my meditation space to pay bills.  That turned out to be a valuable instinct.  My worry abated as I shifted into gratitude.  I began to feel more blessed than burdened.  I think that qualifies as “soul growth.”

Pain has sometimes been a vehicle of soul growth for me.  I learned this first when I was the mother of an infant.  I had injured my knee the night before she was born, and I struggled to manage some of the tasks for her care.  I began to use the pain as a call to prayer.  I felt connection to others in pain.  The same applies to my occasional sleepless nights when I offer my prayers for others whom sleep is eluding.

So, thank you, Kurt Vonnegut, for a meaningful letter and the important reminder to come to our lives in mindful ways that allow for soul growth.  Your letter epitomizes the line I always close with:

May we be bearers of hope, the “wait staff” of Hope’s Café for each other and all those we encounter.  Shalom, Kate

Hope’s Café Bonus:  Though I came across the post about Vonnegut on Facebook, do you suppose I heard his words differently because I was more deliberate in the last week about the kind of attention I gave to Facebook, as I mentioned in my previous post “Technology Idol”?

The report I receive on my cell phone of the time I spent on it the previous week is always a surprise to me. Now, in my defense, I often go to sleep to my Insight Timer. That adds up. But likely Facebook is the culprit. (Notice how cleverly I made Facebook the Villain. I would have you believe I am merely a victim of Facebook!) 

For years, Terry and I did not have cable television because it was not available to us or the cost was prohibitive to put the line in. We were able to finally get cable about a year and a half before we moved from Tennessee. Now we have established it in our home in Montana.  The availability of television shows and movies is still a novelty to us. We often end our evenings watching multiple shows or a movie. We do read, but often that is accomplished on our Kindles.  

I read an article today written by an embarrassed parent who confessed to hiding in the bathroom to scroll through Facebook so his child would not see him spending so much time on his phone. He compared his phone to an idol. Indeed, there is some truth to such an admission. The amount of money spent on the purchase of phones and the monthly charges can be astounding. They have become a high priority for which we sometimes choose to pay dearly.  

Lest I sound totally jaded, I will say that I appreciate my phone, the convenience and safety of having one. Years ago, when Terry and I still had our private practice, we were “beeped” by our answering service, while we were out on a Sunday drive in the country. There were still pay phones at that time. We stopped at one, where a person was using it and clearly had no intention of ending the conversation. We drove for a little way to the next one we could find and encountered the same situation. The next week we purchased our first cell phone, one of the early ones, a monstrosity in comparison to today’s models. I quickly adapted to having a cell phone. Once on a cruise when I was without my phone or computer, I felt somewhat anxious. In the middle of beautiful surroundings, I allowed my focus to be marred by the lack of access to technology. 

I say all this as a reminder, to myself and to any who would recognize themselves as sharing this dilemma, that we easily become attached to our electronics in a way that distances us from more important matters. There is a world full of wonder. There are relationships needing tending. The father hiding in the bathroom recognized he was missing time with his son. What might you be missing? 

May we be bearers of hope, the “wait staff” of Hope’s Café for each other and all those we encounter.  Shalom, Kate 

Hope’s Café Bonus: Might I suggest a technology “diet”? I have stopped automatically turning on the tv in the mornings to take in the quiet. I am considering spending a day a week when I do not open Facebook. What might work for you?  

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Wednesday night as Terry and I were out for an evening walk, the brightest shooting star I have ever seen came crashing across the sky, looking so close to the earth that I almost felt like I could reach up and touch it!  What a wonder to behold!  I will treasure the memory of it.

Last weekend we had a little overnight getaway just outside Yellowstone National Park.  A friend suggested we drive the scenic byway through Shoshone National Forest on our way home.  Oh, wow!  At every turn, something spectacular appeared.  Rushing streams, lovely lakes, dramatic mountains, breathtaking views delighted us.

I once had a friend who said of the Grand Canyon, “I don’t know what the big deal is.  It is just a big hole in the ground.”  Is that not astounding?  How does one live lacking the attitude that nature is full of marvelous features to appreciate?  Such beauty should break us open to deeper places within ourselves.

How fortunate I am to have had a mother who paid attention to the exquisite splendor of the night sky and who was forever fascinated by mountains.  My husband, too, is attentive to nature.  He once woke me up at 3 a.m. to see a most gorgeous full moon spilling its light over the Smoky Mountains.  When we would take walks on our farm, he would often point out a hawk or other bird taking flight, an animal he could make out in the distance, a particular bird song he heard or flowers he found especially pretty.   

When my daughter was four, from out on the patio she called, “Mommy!  Mommy!  Come see!”  Startled, I thought something was wrong.  I rushed out to find her enthralled with the flowers I had planted.  I know very little about plants of any kind but had made the attempt at a small flowerbed with sunflowers and zinnias.  Amazingly they flourished.  What a small act on my part for the huge reward of my daughter’s pleasure.  She has had a love for sunflowers ever since.

When Terry and I had a home on the lake, sometimes the three of us would sleep on the dock, lulled by the lapping of the water and the motion of the dock.  Even as I write this, I can sense the peace and pleasure of those nights. 

There is much to savor.  Let us tune up our attention, open our eyes, open our hearts to wonderment.

 May we be bearers of hope, the “wait staff” of Hope’s Café for each other and all those we encounter.  Shalom, Kate

Hope’s Café Bonus:  “The wonder of the world, the beauty and the power, the shapes of things, the color, lights and shade.  These I saw.  Look ye also while life lasts.”—-from an old gravestone in Cumberland, England.