For Everything There Is a Season

In a matter of days, we will pack up the last of our things and move out of the Kinnaird home - the home that I have referred to as the "RG Homestead" for the past thirteen and a half years.  In my whole life, this is the home I have consistently lived in the longest.  My first home was in Bluffton, where we lived for nine years before moving to Fort Wayne.  I lived in the Maple Grove home for the following ten years before moving on to college.  Over the course of the next eleven years, I lived the dorm life, and in about five different apartments between Muncie and Fort Wayne.  


It is crazy to think about transitioning away from this house after so many years.  There are a ton of memories, both good and painful, that live in this house.  Some I will take with me, and others I'm happy to leave behind. 


I remember vividly how exciting it was to watch the movers bring our things into the Kinnaird home back in February of 2006.  It was my first house - the biggest purchase I had ever made, aside from the trusty Camry I purchased as a newly graduated social worker, back in 1998.  I was a newlywed and felt like I was on top of the world.  I was able to get my son out of apartment living and into a house - with a yard, and space to move.  It was my little slice of the American dream.


Over the years, the RG Homestead brought me some of my greatest joys.  I brought my second son and my only daughter home here.  I adopted my first puppy and brought her home to this place.  I watched all three kids learn how to ride their bikes without training wheels.  I have celebrated holidays with my entire family here.  I have hosted countless porch, backyard BBQ, and New Year's Eve parties here.  I opened my doors to friends of my children, neighbors in need, my closest friends, friends of friends, and members of our community.  I have provided a safe place for anyone who needed a supportive ear or shoulder to cry on.  I have initiated countless dance parties on early mornings when crabby moods have tried to prevail.  I have helped the kids with hours and hours of homework (sometimes relying upon Uncle Google to help me solve math problems).  I applied for, worked through, and finished my MBA in this home.  I have laughed and laughed, even to the point of wetting myself.  I have smiled proudly, listening to a variety of musical instruments play hour after hour. 


I have witnessed life in this home.  I have felt love and acceptance in this home.  I have found peace in this home. 


But I have also felt deep sorrow and pain in this home. 


I was standing in the dining room when I received the call that my bonus brother, Tommy, (we didn't like the term "step-sibling") had killed himself.  I was standing in the front yard when I learned that my cousin died suddenly, only two weeks after Tom died.  I was sitting on the couch when my mom told me her sister died.  And I was sitting at the dining room table when I learned my mom's other sister had finally passed after a short battle with cancer.  It was here that I prayed and cried out to God - begging for the strength to carry on.


It was here that I discovered the affair my (then) husband was having, but did my best to hide that realization for months to come.  I abruptly figured out how to single parent a newborn, a two year old, and a ten year old as my (then) husband walked out the door in search of his own happiness.  I cried myself to sleep for months and months during that time of transition.  It was here that I prayed and cried out to God - begging for the strength to carry on.


It was here that I came to rest every evening while my mom lay in the ICU at Lutheran Hospital or the Hospice Home.  It was here that I came back to after watching her take her last breath.  It was here that I sat, amidst piles of pictures and memories, in an attempt to create honorable memory boards for her Celebration of Life.  It was here that I gathered with my mom's brother and sisters, my cousin, my dad, my bonus mom and sister, my friends, and my brother, sister, and niece in the hours before and after that service.  It was here that I prayed and cried out to God - begging for the strength to carry on. 


But most importantly, it was in this home that I grew as a woman - in my faith, in my peace and acceptance of who I am, and in my capacity to love, to be loved, and to understand love in its most pure form.  I learned that I was much stronger than I ever realized.  I learned that I am capable of managing an entire house on my own.  I learned that I can pay the bills, solve problems, change light bulbs, fix vacuums, slay rodents, manage landscaping, and ward off all forms of the boogyman.  I learned what it means to "know" when the perfectly fitted piece to your life's puzzle comes along. 


It was here that I enjoyed my very first unofficial date with Bryan.  It was here that we learned to enjoy the simple things in life together... like home-cooked meals, puzzles, quiet evenings together, and laughing over the silliest of things.  It was here that I learned the value of patience and trust during the difficult times.  It was here that I learned that the imperfections I see in myself are often the things Bryan loves the most. It was here that I finally felt I could be myself... no unhealthy compromises, no eggshells to walk on, no doubts, no fears.  It was here and with Bryan, that I felt no uncertainty or worry about the future.  It was here that I learned that every moment of life I have lived, up to the day Bryan left a simply sweet and adorable card on my front door to express his support and friendship, was preparation for this amazing and beautiful journey we are on together.  Our little family is pretty fantastic and I couldn't be more excited for whatever our future holds!


And so, as we approach the day that we lock that door for the last time, I will soak up all of these memories for what they were and for how they helped me become the woman I am today.  I will be thankful for every moment I ever experienced - good, bad, or indifferent - for they have brought me to a point of transition that can only lead to the best of what is to come!

3 Pages - Single Spaced

[What you are about to read is what I shared on the morning of February 4, 2019, when we celebrated the life of the greatest woman I have ever known.]

“If you could have dinner with anyone, alive or deceased, who would you choose?”

How many of us have been asked this question in a job interview, or as an ice-breaker, or in your English or Sociology class to spark discussion?  I can remember being asked this question several times in my life.  And as long as I can remember, 3 people have always been on that list: my Grandma Frances, my great-grandma Clare, and Anglea Lansbury.  Over the years, other folks have been guests at the table. John F. Kennedy, George W. Bush, Michelle Obama, James Corden, Mr. Rogers, Jimmy Fallon, and my oldest best friends Erin Arnold and Melissa Eckroth have all made the list.   Going forward, if I’m asked, I will forever have one more permanent dinner guest – my mom.  Oh what I’d give for one more dinner with my mom.

Throughout this entire ordeal, many people have said that my mom raised an amazing friend-daughter-mom-sister in me.  Thank you, by the way, for everything you all did for me and our family.  I don’t always feel amazing or strong.  Before I go on, though, I think it is important to set the record straight - I can’t give all the credit to my mom.  That man sitting over there has had a HUGE impact on who I am today – it’s just that we aren’t here to talk about how incredible he is today.  He’ll get his turn…. but, HOPEFULLY, not for another decade or more!! 

There are a million stories I could share about my mom – but then we’d all be here for days.  I can vividly remember her telling me when I was about 25, that for years and years she worried that she wasn’t a good enough mom.  Or that she didn’t do enough to make sure Erv and I knew how much she loved us.  That’s just silly. And I remember telling her that she was ridiculous for thinking that.  (Now that I say that out loud, I realize that I have recently questioned my own abilities as a mom a million times and have been reminded by many of you that I was ridiculous for thinking that same thing about myself.) 

My mom was the greatest at “leading by example” in nearly all aspects of her life. She suffered (and triumphed) through countless hardships growing up and in her early adulthood.  Those were her experiences to share, so I won’t go into them in detail today.  But the important takeaway is that she never gave up.  She fought through the darkest of days.  She relied upon her faith and something deep inside her to pull her through to brighter days.  When I was a teenager and young adult, I learned of those experiences. Shocking, painful, and horrifying experiences. I learned about her diagnosed Multiple Personalities.  She taught me that that diagnosis wasn’t something that should be hidden or to be ashamed of.  My mother wore that diagnosis as a badge of honor – to remind herself and others that she overcame and never gave up.  I learned about how she truly did become the matriarch of her family because her own mother passed away at a young age – leaving a houseful of younger siblings who needed her.  She stepped in and stepped up.  She did what needed to be done.  She wasn’t going to let life’s crappy circumstances stop her. It was while she was sharing those parts of her life with me, that so many of my early childhood experiences with her became more clear.  It was more importantly, in those years that my respect and admiration for her multiplied exponentially.  

My mom showed Erv and I what it meant to love ourselves and to love one another, without end and without question.  She taught us what it meant to be a family.  She showed us resilience.  She gave grace (frequently) and never ever gave up on us (specifically me – wow, did I make a ton of missteps along the way). She taught us about unconditional love and support.  All that she taught us bled out into the work she was called to do: in the churches she served, through the lives she touched at Crossroads, within the hospitals she worked, and in the many communities she served.  If someone needed her compassionate listening ear, my mother volunteered and listened for as long as they needed her.  If someone needed prayer, my mother prayed fervently.  If someone needed to understand the love of Christ, my mother taught them.  If someone needed grace, my mother gave grace.  My mom stood tall, decades ago.  First, as a woman Minister in a sea of men; and then as an openly lesbian Minister.  She didn’t allow people’s fears, hatred, ignorance, prejudice, or phobias deter her from being who she was.  She taught, loved, baptized, married, and celebrated the lives of countless people…. Literally, more people than I could ever count.  She made people want to BE better humans, make better choices, and do more with their lives.  She showed people, that one’s life circumstances need not define who they might become or what they might accomplish.

My mother talked to me about “becoming a woman.”  She lectured me about birth control and responsible self-care. Get your annual exams and mammograms, ladies!  She took her turn being in the passenger seat while I learned to drive a manual transmission (God blessed her extra for that job.  Phew!).  My mom urged me to follow my calling to serve, care for, and advocate for others – even if that meant I’d have to marry rich in order to live the “champagne lifestyle” I daydreamed about. (By the by, that last part still hasn’t happened yet, y’all.) My mom cheered me on at all three of my graduation ceremonies.  She was there when I got married.  And she held me up through my painful separation and divorce.  She was there for the birth of all of my all three of my babies.  My mom taught me to love fiercely and love first. And she encouraged me to try my best to always hate last.  She taught me to give grace and forgive often.  She believed the act of forgiveness was about freeing oneself, over freeing the other person from the pain of wrongdoings.  She echoed one of my dad’s mantras: “You’ve gotta take care of #1 first.” She reminded me regularly that one day, I’d be a grandma and I’d look back and laugh at all the little stuff I spend too much time worrying about. (But let’s not make me a grandma any time soon, mmkay??) She taught me that laughter truly is good medicine, and that life is too short not to eat dessert first.  She was second mom to all of my best friends, grandma to anyone under the age of 30 she met, and friend to the masses.  She was the voice for those who either had none, or for those who hadn’t found theirs yet.  She spoke her mind with a sophistication, eloquence, and grace that I have spent the better part of 3 decades learning to master, myself.  

My mom loved her grandbabies and spent years perfecting her grandma super powers. She made every effort to attend each and every special event, performance, and award ceremony they were involved in.  She would often tell me how much she wished she lived closer to her Amanda, so she could be there in person to cheer her on as well.  She looked forward to every sleepover, every Saturday morning breakfast, and most recently, every delivery order she and Carole made from Pizza King (just so she could get a couple extra moments with her Theo).  I cannot tell you the number of times I called my mom in tears, because I was having a hard day and just needed her.  I just need her – right now, I need her.  I’m not sure how I’ll do life without her.  Without her wise words.  Without her gentle and reassuring touch when I’m at the end of my rope and sobbing on her shoulder.  Or without her calming presence when one my kids is having a hard day or are on my last nerve.  I just don’t know how to do this without her.  In my opinion, she’s gone too soon.  Her grandbabies didn’t have enough time with her.  Erv and I didn’t have enough time with her.  This WORLD didn’t have enough time with her.  It all feels so unfair. 

Over the course of the last 2 weeks of her life, there were lots of times it was just her and I together.  We would talk.  Sometimes it would make sense and would be about things happening in my life right now.  And sometimes, she was a bit mixed up – and that led to lighter, more humorous moments together.  We spoke of how certain she was that God had a beautiful place waiting for her.  She told me that she knew I didn’t want her to leave us – but that it would soon be time.  She also told me one evening that she “hated to go” because she loved us so.  She told me she would always love me and would always be near.  She made me promise to take care of her “sweet boy,” Erv – making sure he would be okay, and fighting any doctor who stood in the way of him getting a new lease on the rest of his life.  She made me promise to remind my dad that she never stopped loving him, and to thank him for giving her the two best things she ever created.  She made me promise to always love Carole as my “nuther mother,” and to make sure she remembers to drink lots of water.  She made me promise to thank Susan for taking care of her so kindly and gently.  She made me promise to always cheer on my kids, to push them to follow their hearts, and to lead by example so that they, too, grow into amazing humans.  She made me promise to visit her Amanda as often as I could, telling Amanda all about how much she loved her.  And she made me promise to always love myself, to never give up, and to forever believe in real and lasting love – because she knew my forever love was probably right there in front of me. She said that God had a plan for me, bigger than I could ever understand.  She reminded me that brighter days were right around the corner and that I would be okay.  That we would all be okay. 

It's no secret that my mother sometimes was a little short on patience, but always heavy on the strength and stubbornness.  (That’s a Feltes thing, people.  Trust me.)  That certainly didn’t change over the course of 4 months of illness.  After we made the decision to transition to comfort care, she would repeatedly ask me why God hadn’t taken her home yet.  She would wake up from a nap and say “well, I’m not dead yet.”  I would respond, “No, mom, you’re not.”  One time she demanded that I “get on with things and move this party along, that she was tired of waiting her turn.”  Another time, she demanded that I “contact the Japanese powers that be, because it was them who determined when people got to die.”  Yes, that happened.  Often times, I wondered how much negotiating she was doing with God.  Lots of times, I noticed that she was muttering things which were mostly nonsense.  But one time I heard her say “After everything I’ve done for everyone else, can’t you just take me home already?”  My heart ached for her in those moments and I struggled to understand why it had to take so long when she was so ready. 

For 4 weeks, I sat with her every day.  Two of those weeks, I practically lived at Lutheran.  I talked to doctors, worked with nurses, provided reassurance, answered questions, sent a million texts, held mom’s hand, napped at her bedside, watched hours of court TV and home renovation programs (to pass the time), and hoped for the best.  And for those 2 weeks while she was at VNS HH, I sat and watched her breathe.  I cried with friends and family, I prayed (a lot), and I waited. I firmly, but gently, argued with her on why she couldn’t get out of bed and why I wasn’t going to give in to her demands.  One time while we were discussing why she couldn’t get out bed, I told her that she was too weak to get up, even to the side of the bed.  My mother responded: “No. I am NOT weak; I am just not strong.”  There was even some colorful language a time or two.  My mother told me I was a nag, and she mentioned she was mad at me a couple of times.  It was all a part of the process.  A process that was, by far, the hardest thing I have ever done in my life.  But I couldn’t imagine being anywhere else.  I wanted to be with my mom when God finally called her home.  And I was.  She was beautiful.  She was peaceful.  She was comfortable.  One of my greatest treasures passed away January 26^th , 2019. 

In a moment, someone very dear to our family is going to sing a song that meant a great deal to me and my mother.  It was the first song I can remember singing on a stage, outside of a church, to a live audience.  I dedicated it to my mom in that moment.  She sat center-center of the auditorium at South Side High School, and when I was done – my mom was the only one giving me a standing ovation, with tears streaming down her face.  Mom, did you ever know that you’re my hero.  You’re everything I wish I could be.  I could fly higher than an eagle, Mama, but you are the wind beneath my wings.  After 27,686 days on this earth – my mother, the greatest woman I have ever known, the Rev. Dr. Clare Marie Walter, was called Home to her resting place for all of eternity.   I love you to Heaven and back, Mama.  Go rest high and be free.  We’ve got it from here.

Rev. Dr. Clare Marie Walter

April 9, 1943 - January 26, 2019

It Wouldn't Be Worth It If It Were Easy

There are a lot of things people say ... so many of those sayings feel cliché:

“That which does kill you, makes you stronger”

“Everything happens for a reason”

“It wouldn’t be worth it if it were easy”

 

I’m here to tell you,  being a single mother of 3 - trying to create and live a life of my own when I have 3 lives that depend upon my strength, guidance, and unwavering love – is certainly no perfect science.  And so every time I consider throwing my hat in the dating pool again, I ponder…. 

How do I know when it’s okay to trust in someone? How do I know I can trust their actions or words or intentions?  How do I know when it is safe to believe?  How do I balance what I know I need to cultivate a healthy relationship - without painful and significant risk to my own heart and mind, let alone to my children? There are a hundred critics out there, trying to tell single parents the "right" and "wrong" ways to date.  These critics all seemingly weigh-in about when the right time is to introduce your children to the one you are seeing, or when to immerse that person into your life and  into the lives of your children.  But what those critics don’t realize or don’t care to understand, is that every parent is different.  Every HUMAN is different.  We process differently.  We love differently.  We relate differently.  For most of us, these relationship and family blending puzzles aren’t easy puzzles to solve.  We think about these things.  We weigh our options, doing our best to predict the probability of it all ending painfully.  And we take a chance.

So when it all blows up in our face, and everything we thought we knew isn’t what we really know  – we can’t help but become our own worst critic.  I can assure you, that we criticize ourselves much harsher than any outsider could ever do.  We wonder how we could have planned better.  We worry about how our children will cope.  We wonder if it is even worth every trying again. We wonder if our lives are better spent without companionship, for the sake of our children.  We wonder how our hearts will ever heal and how we will ever come back from this moment:

When you try your best, but you don't succeed.
When you get what you want, but not what you need.
When you feel so tired, but you can't sleep - Stuck in reverse.

When the tears come streaming down your face.
'Cause you lose something you can't replace .
When you love someone, but it goes to waste.
What could it be worse?

               (Coldplay - Fix You)

But what I’ve learned in those moments (much like moments I’m experiencing presently), is that all we can do is manage our grief.  We have to figure out how to cope with our feelings and to manage our response to the pain.  We have to learn to let go of what we cannot change or control.  For me, I let my faith guide me. I believe there is a plan – one which I don’t have a say in helping to predict or design.  I take the moments to cry when I need to, and I hold on to the promise that whatever I’m feeling right now will eventually grow weaker. 

I know that for some people, the serenity prayer is often associated with Alcoholics Anonymous. But I have found that it helps calm the anxiety I feel from trying to be a “fixer” in situations I do not have the power to “fix.”  And so as I navigate yet another heartache, I gently remind myself….

               God, grant me the serenity to accept the things I cannot change,              

               Courage to change the things I can,

               And wisdom to know the difference.  

At the end of the day, I have come to believe that if I'm meant to find my forever and he will really be worth the rest of my life, the road getting there isn't going to be easy.  I just have to stay the course and trust that it will all work out in the end. 

Being An Anomaly

Anomaly – “Something that deviates from what is standard, normal or expected”

People have often half-jokingly referred to me as an anomaly.  I’m not like most people, they say.  And I guess I agree that I view the world and the relationships in my life differently than most people.

I believe that the world is made up of all kinds of people, each on their own journey.  That is what makes this world amazing and intriguing.  I have never thought that for two people to be successful together, that they must believe in the same things.  I have thought quite the opposite, actually.  Because for me – life is always about learning and growing as a person.  I have long since felt that a partner who challenges you to grow and rethink (or reframe) your perspective over time is a better partner.  Our differences should not divide us – they should bring us together.

Sometimes I wonder if I expect too much from people.  I had a long conversation with my dad the other evening.  Both he and my moms have echoed one another throughout my life.  My dad has often said “you’re not easy to live with”, but quickly follows that with “but that’s not a bad thing.”  He says I’m different from most people, and that those differences are hard for most people to process and accept.  He says he didn’t raise me to be like everyone else.  He raised me to be passionate about life, about love, about faith, and about who I am.  Both he and my moms have encouraged me to remain true to who I am and to not give up hope. 

From my perspective, the worst part about being me is that I believe in people.  I believe in what they say.  I take their words and actions to heart, and then I expect them to deliver.  And when they don’t, I am crushed and often gobsmacked.  And I feel like a fool for ever believing.  Deception and foolery is a terrible plague.  Saying to others what you think they want to hear because that is “easier,” is straight up wrong.  And becoming swayed by public input or expectations, rather than standing firm in what you know to be true about someone else or your relationships is equally as terrible.  No one wins when these things happen.

All of that said, I’m just doing my best to raise my little humans to be good adult humans.  And so I have taken these lessons learned, and started teaching them to my children at a young age, in the hopes they, too, will grow up to be “anomalies” just like me:

• Say what you mean, and mean what you say -  don’t dance around the content of your message
• Have the hard conversations, because they typically don’t get easier with time
• Extend compassion and be kind
• Give grace and forgive often
• Know your worth and find strength in both your successes and failings
• Listen with the intent to understand – this a fundamental core component of strong communication skills
• Be accountable and be able to admit when you are wrong
• Never stop growing and learning
• Have faith and believe in something good