“Life and death are one thread, the same line viewed from different sides.” -Lao Tzu

Today is the anniversary of Vincent van Gogh’s birth. Vincent van Gogh was born on March 30, 1852. He died on March 30, 1852.

Vincent van Gogh was born on March 30, 1853. He died on July 29, 1890.

Vincent van Gogh was the stillborn son of Theodorus van Gogh and Anna Cornelia Carbentus. And exactly one year later, they had another son, also named Vincent van Gogh, who became a famous painter. This stood out to me because it sounds familiar.

When I read my family history, I see these names listed among the children born to Solomon and Maria Derksen:

Anna, born February 11, 1897, died October 4, 1897

Anna, born 1897, died 1902

In the next generation, I see these children born to Heinrich and Maria (Derksen) Block:

Anna, born March 19, 1914, died March 29, 1915

Anna, born August 5, 1917, died October 18, 1917

Anna, born June 29, 1919

The third Anna born to Heinrich and Maria was my maternal grandmother, Annie (Block) Derksen. She died June 17, 2005. (She changed her name from Anna to Annie when she became a U.S. citizen.)

When I was young, seeing the names of children being given to later children always seemed a curious thing. A child deserves her own name. And what a burden, to carry the name of your older dead sibling throughout your life! To be honest, I still think it’s a curious thing, and I don’t fully understand why reusing names was such a common thing during that time. It seems odd to me to give a living child the name of a dead child. In so many ways, it feels like the name should be sacred.

Long before we started trying to grow our family, I chose first names and middle names for my wished-for children. At one point, I had names for at least 10 children, all of which began with the letter J (perhaps because Grandma Annie gave all of her 14 children R names!) Then I had a list of names that were all from the Bible. Then I had a list of names that all had two middle names (perhaps because Grandma Annie gave all of her 14 children two middle names, which she never could explain why, although I think might have been compensating for not having a middle name at all herself.) I needed long lists of names because I wanted a lot of children. (I was more reasonable than my grandparents. I only wanted 12, not 14.)

At some point, friends and family members started having children, and sometimes they would use a name that was “mine,” as if I had a claim on it. After a few years of trying to have children with no success, I think the frustration over the unjustness of another person besides me being pregnant became intertwined with the name issue, so perhaps it looked more like indignation than annoyance.

(Let me note that I think there certainly have been instances where people purposely “steal” names from others, and I think that is rude. If you happen to have been the victim of that, I’m sorry. No one else knew what names I had chosen, so there was never anything intentional.)

And at another point, I quit thinking about names. Because pregnancy and childbirth were not going to be part of my history. My mothering experience to my one child began with a 9 year old, who already had a name. We modified his legal name slightly at his adoption, but I didn’t want to change his name because it was his. It was the name his first parents gave him. It was the name he had known for all the years of life he lived before I became part of it. I didn’t want to take either one of those things from him. It felt like something sacred.

To be completely transparent, I still have a list of names “just in case.” It’s been adjusted on numerous occasions as I’ve grown and changed on this journey. And it’s been changed as other people have used more of “my” names throughout the years. And no, we are not trying, but I’ve heard enough stories that begin “My cousin/sister/aunt/neighbor, had gone through years of infertility…” to not have it completely erased from the realm of possibilities yet.

And if I were ever to have the privilege of naming a girl, part of her name will include Ann or some variation of Ann.

(Yes, I know what it will be. No, I’m not going to tell you. It’s one of the few aspects of trying to grow our family that I’m not yet willing to let go.)

Ann was the middle name of my paternal grandmother. Annie (Anna) was the first name of my maternal grandmother.

I, myself, was named after my great-grandmothers. One was Maria. One was Marie. One was Mary. One was Consuela. Mary Louise was the only great-grandmother still living when I was born, so I am Mary Louise.

I was named after both the dead and the living. I want to name a child after the dead. Because I think that feels sacred.

Is there a difference because the names are separated by decades? Perhaps. Perhaps not.

Perhaps there’s less of a separation between life and death than we often imagine. And perhaps Solomon and Maria and Heinrich and Maria knew that better than we do today.

A professor can never better distinguish himself in his work than by encouraging a clever pupil, for the true discoverers are among them, as comets amongst the stars.

-From the biography of Linnaeus by Benjamin Daydon Jones, ch. 9  

For my high school graduation, my parents gave me Bartlett’s Familiar Quotations. I was simultaneously delighted and disappointed. You see, I loved this book and had requested it, so I was happy to receive it. But I was disappointed, because while it was the Bartlett’s that I had come to love as a rich anthology of literary wisdom over thousands of years, it was not the same edition as the one I had been using for the last four years in Ms. Rita Dean’s classroom. (She was Ms. Tolch at the time.) It didn’t look the same. It didn’t feel the same. It wasn’t quite the same.

My first significant experience with Mrs. Dean was when she was the coach for speech contest when I was in 7^th or 8^th grade. I was in the Honors English program in high school, and we would have one semester of literature with whichever teacher taught that grade’s English class and one semester of writing with Mrs. Dean, so I had her one semester each year for four years. She was the drama director, so I spent time with her during every play and musical season. She served as the sponsor for Students Against Alcohol and Drugs. She began the Sweetheart Banquet for seniors when I was in high school, and I worked with her planning that. I spent more time with her than with any other high school teacher except maybe the music directors. She was by far my favorite teacher. Spending many hours together with her in the classroom and the stage contributed to that designation, but it was more than that.

More than 20 years after my high school experience, if you asked me to name major influences in my life, her name would be one of the first I mentioned. Ms. Dean was always elegant and graceful. She was someone I could admire and look up to. She was someone I wanted to imitate. She was always poised and well-mannered. She always greeted the class with a smile. She wrote lots of notes on our papers as she graded them. She marked errors and passages that could use some improvement with tips for the next assignment. She also marked things that she liked and pointed out strengths so we knew what we were doing well.

She encouraged me to write. She would tell me about writing contests and urge me to send in a submission, which she would review and critique before I sent it in. The Sweetheart Banquet was her idea, and she asked for volunteers to help plan it. There were three or four other students along with me that were part of that group. She asked us for our ideas. She listened to our ideas. She used our ideas. Her goal was to organize a special event for the local senior citizens, and as long as our ideas were feasible, she let us take the lead. As high school students, we weren’t given very many opportunities to carry out our own ideas for a school function, and that is still one of my favorite high school experiences.

In my teen years, when I felt awkward and clumsy and out of place and insecure and a little lost, she encouraged me. She listened to me. She challenged me. She comforted me. She guided me. She believed in me when I didn’t believe in myself, and she helped develop my strengths when I did. I knew I admired her then, but in the last few years, I’ve realized how much I needed her then. And she was exactly the person I needed her to be to provide a steady, calming influence to my adolescent turmoil.

Seeing her unexpectedly at a restaurant or store after I moved away always made my day. We would be delayed to wherever we were supposed to go next because we would spend time catching up, as she asked about my life and my family. She would always ask if I was still writing. And she would give me a warm, slightly-scolding smile when I said that I was not. As I’ve been writing more in the last couple years, I have thought on more than one occasion that I would love to call her up and talk to her about it. Maybe she would mark up my essays the way she did more than 20 years ago.

I never called her.

And now I can’t.

I learned today that she died in a car accident earlier this week.

Tonight, I sit at my computer with my copy of Bartlett’s Familiar Quotations sitting on the desk. It’s not Mrs. Dean’s. It’s mine. I’ve used it hundreds of times over the years, and I still enjoy finding quotes in it even when it is faster and yields more results to use the internet. I wonder how much my love for this book is because of the association with my time with Mrs. Dean.  How much is because of the memories I have of sitting in her classroom or rehearsing lines or hanging up paper heart decorations? How much is because of who she was as a teacher and a mentor? How much is because of the gift she gave to me when she believed in me?

I don’t know of any more fitting tribute for her than to write, so in my tears, tonight I will write. And I will remember her every time I open Bartlett’s Familiar Quotations. And every time I write.

Caitlyn Jenner is on my mind today. She and I have something in common.  While much of America has been concerned about how she looks in a dress or how the Kardashians feel about her coming out, I’ve been following her for a different reason.

In February 2015, Caitlyn was the at-fault driver in a fatal car crash. I don’t know what it’s like to be an Olympic athlete or a reality TV star or transgender. But that, being the at-fault driver in a fatal car crash, I know what that’s like.

The comments on the news reports of a settlement in one of the civil suits were familiar. When the accident occurred, comments focused on Jenner’s sense of entitlement, celebrity status, wealth, the Kardashians, gender and sexuality (Jenner was still known as Bruce at the time, but it was already a much-discussed topic), and accusations that Jenner purposely caused the accident. When no criminal charges were filed, it was postulated that it was only because of Jenner’s celebrity and wealth and not because perhaps there was not enough evidence to indicate wrongdoing on Jenner’s part. When motions were filed in the civil suits, commenters accused Jenner of not caring about the victims and trying to avoid taking responsibility and again focused on her gender and sexuality. Reading them makes cringe.

I don’t know Caitlyn Jenner. My guess, based on my own experience, is that she would do whatever she could to change the events of that day last year. My guess is that all of the motions and settlements have been negotiated almost entirely by her attorneys and insurance company. My guess is that she blames herself every day for injuring others and causing the loss of another’s life. The accident and legal outcomes are not a result of her gender, her sexuality, her celebrity status, her family, her past relationships, or her wealth. They are a result of her being a normal person, like you and me.

Reading news articles about Jenner’s accident has brought to mind many memories of my accident, the charges filed against me, the civil lawsuit that resulted. It was a difficult enough time that seemed impossible to me then. While my picture was on the local evening news, it wasn’t plastered all over the internet and the national news. I can’t imagine walking that road in the spotlight. I hope Caitlyn has people who are walking this road with her because I know it can be a lonely road.

Sometimes we forget that celebrities are humans. Sometimes we forget that people who live differently than us are humans. Sometimes we forget that people who make choices we don’t understand are humans. Sometimes we forget that people who struggle with different aspects of life than us are humans.

Sometimes we forget that we have a lot in common with Caitlyn Jenner.

Sometimes we forget that we have more in common with people whose names are plastered all over the news than we have differences.

Maybe before we comment on a news article or to a friend or co-worker or neighbor, we can take a few minutes to notice all that we have in common.

When Mike and I moved to Illinois, our sweet friend Marjorie asked us to promise her that we would come back to Ohio and sing at her funeral. That was 7 1/2 years ago. She had a couple scares since that time, but she kept going. Until last Friday, when she took her last breath at the age of 90. So today we sang at her funeral.

Marge was a character. She had been planning her funeral in great detail for several years. She had even given the preacher a list of Scriptures to read. The passages ended up being a total of 7 pages long! He skipped a few and hit the highlights. We went rogue and didn’t sing the song she had requested for us because it was not something within our vocal abilities, so we asked her son, who is one of our closest friends, for a substitute idea. I think she would have been okay with that, even though several of us joked that she would absolutely be the kind of person who would sit up in her casket and shake her finger at us telling her we weren’t doing it right.

She was spunky and vibrant and opinionated. She was sure to let you know if she disagreed with you or thought you were in error, and she always did it with a smile and a soft voice. She loved the Ohio State Buckeyes. She loved politics. She loved her family. She loved Jesus. She loved people. When we were in the midst of being licensed as foster parents and were deciding about adoption and worried about the outcome of the court case that resulted from my accident, she prayed for us and encouraged us and loved us. She was hospitable. She was generous. She chose to see the good in people.

I don’t know how many funerals I’ve attended in my life. This is the 3rd I’ve attended in the last 6 months. I’ve cried through all three of them, although for a different reason each time. Every loss brings a different kind of grief. Last night, we were with Marjorie’s family for a few hours. Her grandson said that this isn’t sad because this is the way you’re supposed to die. She lived a rich and full life. She lived her life well. She died in a perfectly natural way at the end of a long life. It is sad though, and I know her grandson would agree because he still cried today at her funeral. I am sad for our loss while rejoicing for her gain.

Another grandson read tributes written by her four sons and their wives. People have a tendency to embellish their loved ones’ memories after they pass. We idolize their positive attributes and skip over their negative attributes. I dislike attending funerals when people go on and on about how sweet and nice someone was when you knew that the person was known more for cruelty than kindness. Or someone is lauded for being selfless when selfish was more accurate. Or are given credit for things they didn’t actually do while they were alive. I met Marjorie more than 12 years ago. I know a lot of people knew her better than I did, especially since I’ve only seen her a handful of times since we moved to Illinois. But we have spent time with her and her family, especially one of her sons and his wife, who are some of our closest friends even though we are hundreds of miles apart. We knew well over half the people who attended the services today. Mike and I talked afterward about how, in the midst of all the glowing compliments given about Marjorie today, none of it seemed fake or forced. It was genuine because that’s who she was. Dozens of people remarked about how she had ministered to them or encouraged them or mentored them. She didn’t just say she loved people, she actually loved people with her words and actions.

On the drive home, I was thinking about how I want people to be honest about me when I die. At first, I thought that it would be good if people were willing and able to say, “You know, Mary could really be a witch sometimes.” And I hope if that’s how they remember me, that they will be able to say that instead of making me into a myth. But more than that, I hope I can be like Marjorie – that I can be remembered in a positive light because I made a positive difference to people.

I wonder if she had passed away when she was my age – 38 – if she would have been spoken of in the same way as she was today. I kind of doubt it. I mean, I think she was probably mostly the same person then as she was at 90, but I think that some of it is a result of allowing herself to be refined by her experiences. And I realized another reason I’m sad. I’m not sure I’m living my life in the same way.

So as I go to bed tonight, this is my prayer:

May I live a life like Marjorie’s

A life marked by concern for others

A life marked by encouragement

A life marked by faith

A life marked by You

Write. In my religion we’re taught that every living thing, every leaf, every bird, is only alive because it contains the secret word for life. That’s the only difference between us and a lump of clay. A word. Words are life, Liesel. –Markus Zusak, The Book Thief

I have always loved words. Reading. Spelling. Vocabulary. Journaling. Word art (real art, not the Microsoft version). Words are powerful. A carelessly chosen word can cause pain. A well chosen word can bring healing.

When I was growing up, I dreamed of being a writer. I wanted to write books that impacted people. But I wouldn’t write. I didn’t think I had anything new to say. I didn’t think I was all that interesting. I didn’t think I had enough credentials to write. While I’ve experienced a lot of things in my life, I don’t feel all that confident in sharing the lessons I’ve learned. So I just didn’t write.

In the last few years, a few people have encouraged me to write anyway. One friend gifted me a book called Speak as a not-so-subtle hint. Once when I was pointing out someone I had recently met, whom I admired, Mike said, “Yeah, but she hasn’t written a book.” When I said that I hadn’t either, he responded, “Yes, you have in your head.” My therapist has told me repeatedly that I have a book or two in me. Who knows if the future holds anything for me as a writer.

I am learning, though, that the act of writing – sitting down with pen and paper or at the computer and recording whatever comes to my mind – is healing for me. I write for me.

Last weekend, Mike bought me a new laptop. A beautiful, cutting edge Surface Book. He downloaded writing software. So I can write a book.

He said, “People with less credentials than you have written books. I know you don’t have time to write a book now, but I want you to know that I’m committed to supporting your passion.”

I recently joined an online writing group (http://hopewriters.com/). I find that a little overwhelming, too. They are sharing about monetizing blogs, writing book proposals, marketing books, etc. Thankfully, there are a lot of people there like me. They call us “hesitant writers.” A little over a year ago, I wrote an essay that I never shared called “the reluctant writer.”

Honestly, I’m not sure exactly why I’m sharing this with you. When I follow a blog and someone says, “Hey, I haven’t been writing much, but I’m going to start writing more,” I find it pretty annoying. And usually they don’t actually start writing more. But I feel like I need to be more intentional about writing if I ever want to be a writer. I’m hoping that saying this publicly will help keep myself accountable to actually write.

And now I have a spiffy new laptop to do it on, which is a great reminder that I have an invested supporter.

When I was young and newly married, Mike and I were part of a very small church. A young woman started attending with her brother and his young family. She was pregnant. Being fairly new at the church, I didn’t know if it was customary for them to host baby showers for expectant new moms, so I asked a couple women about it. One of the women very firmly said, “No, we do not do that for unwed mothers. We won’t do anything for her unless she is placing the baby for adoption.”

I was angry. I was fuming mad. I went home and talked to Mike about it. I complained about the injustice of such a position. I know a lot more about the complexities of adoption now than I did then, but I knew that was not a good answer.

I protested. They said, “If we throw a shower, we are condoning and celebrating her sin. If she places the baby for adoption, then we will know that she has repented.” I will spare you all the thoughts that ran through my mind right then.

I pleaded. I said, “What about the baby? Doesn’t the baby herself deserve to be acknowledged and celebrated? What about helping this poor (because she really was poor) young mother give her baby a good start? Demonstrating grace and redemption to her by caring for her?” They soon learned that I didn’t easily back down when I was passionate about something. They finally agreed that we could collect money to buy “Supplies for the baby only. Nothing special for the mom. No wrapping paper or fun stuff.”

I collected money. I bought a laundry basket and bath supplies and diapers and wipes. I showed them what I got with the money. And I delivered the supplies to the new mom and her little one shortly after her birth.

I rebelled. Before I delivered the basket, I added body wash and lotion for the mom and a sweet smelling candle. And I sat with this new, young mom, who was rather uncertain about most of the things in her life, and I talked with her. And I held the sweet, new baby. And I congratulated her.

___________________________

Something had brought that story to mind shortly before I heard someone say that if we are angered by something, we should look for the good and be grateful. That is not a new sentiment. I’ve heard that and other similar platitudes that encourage people to dismiss anger and move on instead of digging deep and finding out why it makes them angry many times before. Honestly, that makes me angry.

If you are angry, you are angry for a reason. I will spare you the psychological explanation for now.

Sometimes the reason might be that you have been selfish in your thinking, and you need to shift your focus to be able to see the situation more fully.

Sometimes the reason might be that it brings to mind a way that you have wronged someone else, and you need to ask their forgiveness.

Sometimes the reason might be that it rips the scab off your old wounds, and you need to tend to your own healing.

Sometimes the reason might be that someone else is being wronged, and you need to stand up and speak for them.

___________________________

I have to admit, I’m not likely to offer to plan a baby shower for an unwed mother today. That’s not because I feel any different about how they should be treated, but because everything about pregnancy and babies is hard for me.

And I’m not saying that’s what you should do either, necessarily.

I am passionate with a capital P about a number of things, issues that get me fired up, and I would love for you to share that passion. If we worked together, we could change the world.

I realize, though, that there are a lot of concerns around this world. I can only focus on a few. There are a lot of people who are marginalized and dismissed and shunned. You need to pay attention to what angers you, and do something about that.

If we all do that, we will change the world.

So next time you find yourself feeling angry, get curious. Ask yourself why, and do something about it.

I woke up this morning with thoughts flowing, feeling inspired to sit down and write a blog post. I know. It’s been awhile. Anyway, I got out of bed, fed the dogs, took a shower, got dressed, and sat down at the computer. Up until the last action in that list, the ideas were running freely. They weren’t very organized, but they were there. And, I think some of them were really good. But as soon as I sat down at the computer. Poof. They were gone.

So I started typing something like the paragraph preceding this one, and Evernote ate it. I opened up Word and started typing in that.

And now I’m just mad.

I had thoughts. Good thoughts. Passionate thoughts. Inspiring thoughts.

No thoughts.

I’ll just start typing. That will get them flowing again, right? Nope.

What on earth does that mean?

…

Maybe the thoughts that were racing when I woke up were meant to inspire me to do something but they weren’t the ones I was supposed to share.

As much as I don’t like that answer, there might be something to it.

I’ve had a lot of things going on lately. My schedule has been pretty full with a variety of events and everyday life stuff.

The people I love have had a lot of things going on lately, too. Dear friends have had tragic, life-changing events drop out of the blue. At our small company, our employees have lost 4 close family members in only two weeks, one of those being Mike’s aunt. A couple friends have learned of terminal cancer diagnoses for a mom and for a husband. There are other big, hard things going on and a couple big traumaversaries this time of year, for me, for my family, and for our country. Yesterday I learned of the tragic death of someone who was only an acquaintance to me but very close to many of my friends.

I want to stand up and shout from the rooftops for everyone to pay attention to the people around them. Don’t pray for them. Sit with them. Don’t talk about them. Listen to them. Don’t feel bad for them. Understand them. Love them. Hold them. Be with them.

I did actually post something similar to that on Facebook yesterday. A lot of people liked it, and a couple people shared it. A few commented on it. A few people messaged me about it. I think a lot of people got my point. And I felt like a couple people completely misinterpreted it in ways that feel pretty significant to me. Honestly, I’m a little angry about that. That’s not true. I’m a lot angry about that.

I woke up thinking of ways I could restate my case. To help people understand what they missed in what I was trying to say. I am angry that I took the courage to speak up, use my voice, and tell my story. And I’m angry because I feel like people are trying to rewrite it for me. I’m angry because I feel like people are trying to co-opt my story instead of telling their own.

Wait. That’s actually the second time I’ve said that this week. My therapist and I talked about it a couple days ago relating to another situation. When I said to him, “They need to work through their own stories instead of stealing someone else’s!” he asked me if I was doing that myself. I adamantly affirmed that I am. That’s exactly what I’m doing. I have an entire journal of working through my own story. I’m reading Brené Brown’s Rising Strong, and I’m in the rumbling stage. Of course, I’m working on my story!

…

Except maybe I’m still trying to avoid parts of my story. Because the visceral reaction I had to people seeming to misunderstand what I was trying to say probably means I still have some internal wrestling to do.

And waking up ready to rant to the world and then completely losing my thoughts might be a signal that I need to do that before I co-opt someone else’s story.

Maybe you need to do that, too. If you get really angry about something today, get curious. Ask yourself why. What in your own life are you trying to avoid?

Maybe we could work on it together.