Hands


I could listen to Christmas music all year long. Listening to the music of the Christmas season takes me back to so many wonderful holiday memories.

Today I heard Jewel’s Christmas version of her song, Hands, and thought back to December 1998, when my ten-year-old daughter was going through some crazy stressful stuff.

Looking back on it, she was wise beyond her years and incredibly courageous.

That night she pulled me into her room to watch an MTV video, which she said reminded her of us.

I was assuming the video would be something light and cute, but so not so.

The video was of the Jewel song Hands. The words and images chillingly resonated for so many reasons: Darkness indeed fears the light, poverty stole any golden shoes I might have wanted to wear, and I may be damaged, but never broken.

But what did the song mean to her?

My daughter said that Hands reminded her of the no-win situation that she was smack in the middle of, with no easy way out. And that although she was young, she could still stand up for what was right and speak the truth, no matter what the consequences. She was adamant about the fact that she had a voice—her voice, and her hands were hers alone. As she spoke, her hands flailed about animatedly.

Her words were powerful, and I felt a profound sadness and overwhelming guilt.

I know she felt my pain because she immediately took those tiny hands and oh so gently embraced me.

My precious youngest child was way too young to be experiencing the disunity that engulfed her.

And every time I hear the song, or watch the video it reminds me of her moral strength and steadfast resilience.

Hands

If I could tell the world just one thing
It would be that we’re all ok
And not to worry because worry is wasteful
And useless in times like these
I will not be made useless
I won’t be idled with despair
I will gather myself around my faith
For light does the darkness most fear

My hands are small, I know,
But they’re not yours they are my own
But they’re not yours they are my own
And I am never broken

Poverty stole your golden shoes
But it didn’t steal your laughter
And heartache came to visit me
But I knew it wasn’t ever after

We will fight, not out of spite
For someone must stand up for what’s right
Cause where there’s a man who has no voice
There ours shall go singing

My hands are small, I know,
But they’re not yours they are my own
But they’re not yours they are my own
And I am never broken

In the end only kindness matters
In the end only kindness matters

I will get down on my knees and I will pray
I will get down on my knees and I will pray
I will get down on my knees and I will pray

My hands are small, I know,
But they’re not yours they are my own
But they’re not yours they are my own
And I am never broken

My hands are small, I know,
But they’re not yours they are my own
But they’re not yours they are my own
And I am never broken
We are never broken

We are God’s eyes God’s hands God’s mind
We are God’s eyes God’s hands God’s heart
We are God’s eyes God’s hands God’s eyes God’s hands
We are God’s hands God’s hands We are God’s hands

Four Minutes, 154 Bullets

This past Sunday, the subject line of one particular email in my inbox jumped out at me:

4 minutes, 154 bullets

The email was from Nicole Hockley, the mother of Dylan, one of the Sandy Hook elementary school victims on that horrific December 14, 2012.  In Nicole’s email, she lovingly refers to Dylan as her beautiful butterfly.

The deranged shooter took ten 30-round gun magazines into Sandy Hook Elementary that day. It took him four minutes to shoot 154 bullets, killing 20 students and six educators.

In the email, Nicole says that more than a year ago, a bill was introduced in Congress to limit the size of ammunition magazines to 10 rounds—but lawmakers have refused to vote on it.

And then she heartbreakingly asks, what if?

What if those 30-round gun magazines had been limited to a fraction of the rounds? Would her beloved Dylan be alive today?

It was a painful email to read, and it reminded me of yet another example of the deep divisions separating our country. Every day I see more and more examples of how our nation is being torn apart.

And our differences are way more than gun control vs. gun rights.

President-elect Joe Biden has repeatedly stated: “I believe that Americans have more in common than what divides us.”

But I’m not sure I believe that.

Every single day, it seems there’s yet another something that divides us.

Left vs. right, mask vs. maskless, Democrats vs. Republicans, Trump vs. Biden, red vs. blue, white vs. black, college-educated vs. blue-collar, climate change activists vs. deniers, black lives matter vs. law and order, north vs. south, male vs. female, old vs. young, conservative vs. liberal, rich vs. poor, urban vs. rural, fake news vs. facts, heartland vs. Hollywood, pro-choice vs. anti-abortion, elite vs. deplorable, science vs. conspiracy theories, rigged vs. secure elections.

Merry Christmas vs. Happy Holidays.

Our differences are exhausting.

We are more than a divided America. We are fast becoming two Americas speeding toward a head-on collision.

The clash and crash of two very different Americas are devastating.

But nothing compared to facing 154 bullets in four minutes.
donate@sandyhookpromise.org

I Tried to Save a Cat’s Life Yesterday

This whole Covid thing has been getting to me.

My husband keeps reminding me that people go through way worse things, and I get what he’s saying.

But I’ve been held up in my house for 38 weeks and counting, and I’ve only been to four places during my eight-month odyssey:

CVS for a flu shot, and three medical offices.

The last time I put gas in my car was in late February.

The weather channel predicted an unseasonably warm November 28, so we took advantage of what would probably be the last time we could enjoy our family outdoors and invited them over.

It had been a lovely day, but as we walked back from the park, there was a crowd of kids and one woman stooping over something in the middle of a fairly busy street.

The “something” was a black and white tuxedo cat.

Just so you know, I’m not an animal person and haven’t been a pet owner for close to fifty years.

But just because I don’t have animals doesn’t mean I don’t care about them.

Anyway, the woman at the scene said that the cat was pregnant. The poor cat seemed to have been hit by a car and was seriously injured. The woman took a box out of her car, placed the cat in it, sat the box on the sidewalk by the curb, and drove away.

What? Did she leave the cat on the side of the road to die? Pregnant and all?

Some of my family walked back to the house and suggested that I do the same. But three of us stayed with the cat, furiously making calls to 911, animal shelters, animal control, Nassau County, and the auxiliary police.

Every call we made resulted in the same response: There was nothing they could do.

I asked the crowd of kids to keep an eye on the cat while I went home to come up with a plan. I made some more calls, sent out an email to a rescue center, grabbed a heavy towel, and ran the six blocks back to the cat.

The kids cheered when they saw me—what a sweet bunch of kids they were. The cat was trying to climb out of the box. But then I covered her with the heavy towel, and she relented and put her weary head down to rest.

By now, it was past 4 pm, and it was getting damp and cold. But I couldn’t leave that damn cat.

I called animal control three more times and then called the Fourth Precinct a second time. The officer on duty again reiterated that there was nothing they could do. In tears, I explained to the officer that my heart was breaking for the cat.  I know the officer felt terrible because I could hear it in his voice, so I pleaded with him: “Please, officer, can’t you help me? The cat’s pregnant.”

He paused for a second and then said, “Don’t be upset miss, I’ll get someone over there.”

When the thirty-something police officer arrived, he brought tears to my eyes because he reminded me of my son. I can’t explain why.

He took a look in the box, made some calls from his car, and then said he couldn’t get permission from his superiors to take the cat to a shelter. But at least he tried.

I called animal control for the fourth time and tearfully said that the cat had to be freezing if I was cold. I asked the woman what kind of animal shelter would allow an injured and pregnant cat to freeze to death? I finally convinced her to send someone to pick up the cat, although she warned me that it could take an hour or so.

Those kids stayed with me until close to 6 pm. They would have stayed longer, but their parents called them all in.

I stood there in the cold, baby talking to the soon-to-be mommy cat, who was probably already dead.

At 6:30 pm, a van pulled up, and a young woman took the cat away. She gave me her card and told me to call in the morning for an update.

I had a sleepless night. My worries about the pregnant cat turned into concerns about Covid, school closings, my mom, vaccines, elections, my son, the countless animals out there in the frigid cold, and the fact that I had surrounded myself with all those kids who weren’t wearing masks.

Just my luck that after eight long months of quarantine, I could get coronavirus by trying to save a stray cat.

I called the Town of Hempstead this morning and received the sad news that the cat was deceased by the time it arrived at the animal shelter the night before.

I thanked the woman, who in turn thanked me and said, “You know in these trying times, there are a lot of really kind people among us. I like to call them angels on earth. Never forget that there are countless people out there who truly care. Too many to count. That’s a beautiful thing, right?”

I had been so busy feeling Covid sorry for myself, so obsessed with counting this vote or counting that ballot, that I forgot about the countless people out there who genuinely care.

Too many to count.

I said goodbye to the animal shelter lady, who in turn said:

“Never forget that there are angels among us and never stop caring about all of God’s children.”

RIP my almost mommy cat.

Happy Birthday Nancy

Nancy is my beloved mother’s name. And for my first fifteen years, she was my only Nancy.

Until, in 1968, I met my second Nancy, at Staples High School in Westport, Connecticut.

She was a vision of beauty. Tall, blonde, face like an angel.

I don’t recall the exact circumstances of how we met. All I remember is Nancy’s kindness, naivete, inclusiveness. She was shockingly unaware of her star quality or the enormity of her heart.

She was a breath of fresh air in a town full of snobs.

And she chose me to be her friend at a heartbreaking time in my life when nobody seemed to want to give me a chance.

My second most favorite Nancy.

A year ago today, we celebrated her 66th birthday together. I hadn’t seen her in way too many years, but it didn’t matter. We picked up right where we left off.

We pigged-out on the best ever lobster rolls at P.J. Clarke’s in NYC.

And then, we topped it off with a breathtaking rooftop view at the Peninsula Hotel.

We hung out at my house until all hours of the night, like we were fifteen again, and played Twister at the TWA Hotel.

As the pandemic rages on, the photos from Nancy’s birthday have been comforting and a reminder to make every moment count.

Happy birthday, my dear friend. I love and miss you.

Xo Teri