"I might not have sight, but I have insight...."

President Harry Truman sharing a laugh with my father-in-law, H. Smith Shumway, in 1947 while giving him an award. After landing on D-Day on Omaha Beach in Normandy, France, he was blinded at age 22. He had been fighting though the hedgerows of France in the push to Paris when a landmine hit him..http://www.6juin1944.com/veterans/shumway.php

On May 8 this month, the world celebrated the 70th anniversary of V-E Day, the ending of World War II in Europe. On September 2, 2015 we will remember that final ending of the war that brutally dragged on a few more months in the Far East. Since I am going to be in Normandy, France next week for the 71st anniversary of D-Day, my thoughts drift to those brave souls who never came home to their families. And also those who left the Normandy shores with scars that would last a lifetime. My son and I will be there in proxy for my father-in-law who died four years at age 89. He came home blind, and would cheerfully, purposefully live the next almost seventy years in darkness. 

Although our world passed through unspeakable pain, death, and loss during the World War II years, I believe people rose to the occasion to do very difficult feats in those times. In many countries, they showed their mettle and courage--their strength of character. Maybe they did things they did not think they could ever do, but with sheer grit and dogged determination, they did it anyways. I salute them. But may it never happen again. May we remember those who have battled for us--by aspiring and living for peace.

In the internationally acclaimed book about WW2 in Germany, The Book Thief by Markus Zusak, the narrator, who happens to be Death, states at the end: "I wanted to tell the book thief many things, about beauty and brutality. But what could I tell her about those things that she didn't already know? I wanted to explain that I am constantly overestimating and underestimating the human race--that rarely do I ever simply estimate it. I wanted to ask her how the same thing could be so ugly and so glorious, and its words so damning and brilliant. ...I am haunted by humans." Yes, humans constantly evade my predictions and estimations too. We humans are remarkable in our power to do inestimable good, and unfortunately, immense evil too.

This next week when I am in Normandy, I will remember the fallen (the average age of the soldiers who landed on D-Day was 22), and all those who battled for what they believed in. As individuals and as a group, I am grateful for their service 71 years ago. However, in 1996 when I walked the beach of Normandy beach with my father-in-law on a breezy springtime day in May, he pointed up to the cliffs, and said, "It is so quiet here now, just listening to the seagulls and the ocean. I remember when I climbed to the top of those cliffs. As I mounted to the top of the cliff and looked back at the sea with all the ships, planes, jeeps, and parachutes, I thought to myself, 'If only Roosevelt, Churchill, and Hitler could have seen this view with me below, they never would have asked us to do it. '" As he gazed down the cliffs at the death that surrounded him, my father-in-law did not cower and cave to his responsibilities. He trudged on, like he would do for the rest of his life.

Grandpa, I will be thinking of you--not only how you lived your life in battle, but how you tried to heal yourself and others after the war too. After spending two years in rehabilitation, and nurses saying they had never seen so much shrapnel in a body or being told you would never see again, you, instead, choose to live not only with dignity and independence, but with compassion and cheer. I can still see you with a twinkle of playfulness in your glass eyes when you would say, "I might not have sight, but I have insight." Love you, Grandpa--all the way to heaven and back!

Grandpa is on the stand behind President Obama with the other Normandy veterans. He has his red cap on that has a patch with the Big Red One patch on it. 

Smith with his sister before he was blinded--just before he went to war. He aimed to be a doctor, but when he was blinded he got a master's degree in counseling. He would later became a national figure for the blind , advocating for inclusion in the classroom--long before it was an accepted norm. His aim to contribute and help never left him.

When he left his parents to go to war, some of his last words to them were: "I will come home swinging both my arms and legs." It did not occur to him that he would  never see their faces again.

He married his college sweetheart, Sarah, after proving to her parents that he could support her as a counselor for the blind.

Smith and Sarah would raise seven girls, and one token boy--my husband.  Smith never shied away from changing diapers/nappies. Lucky for Sarah, he could always change them in the dark....

On the Jersey shore with Sarah--always sharing a joke or a laugh.

His beloved Sarah passed away from cancer not long after this picture. He lived the next 19 years without her. Again, with profound loss, he continued to live with humor and cheer. He could out pun anyone on the planet.

Grandpa Shumway, as everyone called him, lived with our family for almost seven years when our kids were growing up. Living with a blind grandpa has lots of bonuses: wrestling on the floor with a University of Wyoming wrestling champ, accompanying him as he played the violin and harmonica, getting him to speak for World War II Days at school in the community, having him show you his glass and plastic eyes, giving "professional like" magic shows for birthday parties and Cub Scout events, playing a competitive game of Rook, and being your cheerleader. He would always say when given a choice to do something fun or go home (and a few people were tired and it was late), "Don't be a party pooper." Sometimes he told me, "With your voice, you should be on the radio." How could you not love him?

A picture at the last family reunion. He had 41 grandchildren, and the ability to make everyone of them feel significant and important. They all knew he was one of their biggest fans.

Shedding Layers in the Desert

Leaving St. Louis last September, where another world, far, far away awaited us....  Guitars are not superfluous, right?

Last week we marked our six month anniversary of living in the Middle East. Sandstorms, prayer calls from minarets, and women with covered faces are now the normal in my daily routine.  Since I speak to many people from all over the world every day here, I can easily observe their expressions, mannerisms, looks, and language, and tell what country they come from. I can make myself understood in a surprising amount of situations when neither of us speaks the same language. Although I speak very minimal Arabic, I feel comfortable in a mosque or with my friends who wear abayas and burqas. 

But there is one thing that I have unexpectedly learned: as I have shed many possessions to come to this place, I have also chipped away at old fears and apprehensions. I now know I can do things I wasn't certain I could do, like driving with 500 cars on a round about and playing in an orchestra. Just like a desert snake sheds his skin periodically, abandoning it to decay in the sand, I too am stripping away layers that needed excavating, probing, removing. I came here with only what I could carry on the plane, and have found I want/need/require so very little. The most important things bubble to the surface here, and I am content without the extraneous. Put simply, Lao Tzu said, "Be content with what you have, rejoice in the way things are. When you realize there is nothing lacking, the whole world belongs to you."

24 hours later: arriving last September at the Doha airport with E. I felt like I was "a long way from Kansas"--or Missouri. Ha! We carried all the essentials, and probably a lot more than needed....

Leo Lionni, the four-time Caldecott Honor winner, was one of my children's best-loved storytellers as they grew up.  We had a very tattered, wrinkled anthology of his stories, and The Biggest House in the World was one of my favorite tales to read to them. Ironically, as I told the story and explained the message, "my own house" that I was carrying around/living in was heavy and required a tremendous amount of surplus energy to manage. Unintentionally, I was leading a cluttered life that needed some restructuring and lightening.

The children's storyteller, Leo Lionni, magically tells the story of a snail who was wisely reminded not to accumulate too many possessions. His father teaches him that carrying everything around with you is cumbersome, and can prohibit your destiny and dreams.  

One of the splendid things about living in the desert is that you must shed possessions because you cannot carry too much as a sojourner. It is a hot, barren place--where you need to use your wits and wisdom. If you are to thrive in an arid place, it is quickly learned that accumulations slow the progress of the journey. To obtain the replenishment you seek, sometimes casting off unnecessary things is critical, even life saving. Although desert living is not perhaps luxurious at times, I am finding a simple elegance as I discard not only the superfluous in my possessions, but in my soul. The old residues or layers of fears and pretenses are beginning to blow away, just like the sand that breezes by me every day here.

Here is a quote from a mentor, Lowell Bennion, that exactly portrays the glorious simple life, a life that requires not carrying heavy things in your soul or on your back:

“Learn to like what doesn’t cost too much.

Learn to like reading, conversation, music.
Learn to like plain food, plain service, plain cooking.
Learn to like fields, trees, brooks, hiking, rowing, climbing hills.
Learn to like people, even though some of them may be different…different from you.
Learn to like to work and enjoy the satisfaction of doing your job as well as it can be done.
Learn to like the songs of birds, the companionship of dogs.
Learn to like gardening, puttering around the house, and fixing things.
Learn to like the sunrise and sunset, the beating of rain on the roof and windows, and the gentle fall of snow on a winter day.
Learn to keep your wants simple, and refuse to be controlled by the likes and dislikes of others.”

–Lowell B. Bennion

A painting by a friend, Steve Chamberlain, that conveys the simple life Lowell Bennion speaks about. I love the frame Steve made from aspen trees. Simply beautiful....