Hana Cross

This is the cross overlooking Hana, a memorial to Paul Fagan who founded the Hana Maui Hotel. To those of us on the mission's trip, you can imagine it is a spectacular symbol of why we are there.

View from the Hana Cross

At the top of the hill in back of the Travaasa Resort, formerly the Hotel Hana, is a cross honoring Paul Fagan, founder of the Hotel Hana. Fagan played an important role in the growth of Hana, introducing cattle ranching as well as the hotel. The cross is a memorial to him and while we are in Hana we often have devotions at the cross. This is a view of  Hana Bay taken from the cross. We typically hold services at Helene Hall down near the bay.

Hamoa

We work hard at community service while in Hana, but at least once a day we typically have the privilege of visiting Hamoa Beach, one of the most beautiful beaches in the world and enjoy the sun and the waves.

Go

I will be gone for the next week to Hana Maui Hawaii. For the past five years I have taken a missions trip there. We hold services and do community projects. The meaning of the trip is very personal to me, but I attempt to share some of it below. During my time in Hana I will be out of email contact. I am hoping I may be able to schedule some blog posts to appear while I am gone, but I am not certain it will work. I will be back on August 6th and will blog all about the experience.

Go…

In the gospels, when someone encounters Christ and experiences a miracle there is a desire to go and tell about it. The Samaritan woman at the well in John (John 4: 1-42) goes away telling people “He told me everything I ever did.”

I understand this impulse. After the evangelist prayed for me, my eye was healed, the threat of a brain tumor or pseudo tumor removed, I wanted to do something, to tell and share. When you are changed, there is no desire to stand still. This was not a religious conversion for me. I had maintained a personal faith since I was a child, but like a domino once touched causes a chain reaction, so this experience propelled one in me.

Growing up in a small town that was smaller than small, I had never had the opportunity to travel much. My brother and I would visit the boy I cared about in Boston and after I met Joan, I finally began to see the country, taking a camping trip out west, visiting her land and condos, touring the states for dog shows, but even I was surprised when after attending a service with the same evangelist who had prayed for me, I found myself going forward and asking about the trip they take each year to Hana, Hawaii on the island of Maui. He had talked about it during his service – how they take a group of teens over each year, hold services, do community projects, spread the gospel through word and deed. I was not a teenager so I asked if they took older people and to my surprise they said they would.

I had no idea what I was in for, I simply knew I wanted to go and so, I did and while Hawaii is beautiful the work is not easy. I am older than the kids I’m with and sometimes that is not only physically challenging, but lonely as well, but I also felt that domino effect on my life. It has been life changing. The Hawaiians touched me and I hope I’ve touched them. Spiritual callings are inexplicable things. I’m not sure they make sense outside your heart. You simply go. And, so I do, and so I am again.

I first went to Hana six years ago. I had a tee-shirt made up at a local shop that read “Hana Bound,” in hopes that I would connect with others at Logan airport who were part of our group. A bit of a nerdy thing to do perhaps, since the people I was hoping to hook up with were a group of teens that no doubt didn’t find this cool. Before this, I had never flown by myself, never even left from an airport as big as Logan and for a person who likes to make sure all her t’s are crossed, her i’s dotted, the uncertainty of heading off for this unknown place with little information, loomed large for me. I didn’t quite fit in. I met up with a group from Maine who spent a great deal of the time trying to figure out my age. I never look nor act as old as I am, and in this case, being so insecure about travel, I certainly must have created a bit of a puzzle for them. Here, they were 16, 17 traveling to Hawaii and there I was 40 doing the same. This would be one of many experiences in their years to come; this type of experience was coming to me very late.

My youthful appearance worked for me with the Hawaiian children and teens that upon learning my age took me around like a show-and-tell project asking everyone they knew to guess how old I was. Although a bit strange it broke the ice.

I could write, revise, and write again and never be able to capture the feeling standing in Hana Bay the night of a service. The sun sliding down the horizon, the sky turning gray then blue, the waves lapping and crashing the shores and the kids standing, heads raised toward the horizon praying. You cannot hear their words, just the music from inside and you are swallowed in the beauty and holiness of the moment. Enveloped in such color and water and sound, you feel part of the sacred and it is hard not to praise a God for all of it.

Last year, I did not go, although I have been four times before. Last year, I was too busy with work, changes at my school, the launch of my blog, the Writer’s Group I had joined. I thought I would not go this year, certain that my mom’s knee surgery would make it impossible. But her surgery was postponed and so I thought it worth a chance to contact the evangelist and ask, and once again I was surprised when the answer was “yes.” I had waited until they were almost going to ask. And, so I go.

And, it is not about religion. It never was in the gospels. It is about something that happened and it changed me and when that happens, you cannot keep still. Because I was going blind, but now I see….Such miracles demand action. It’s a chain effect.

Go…

Home

My baby brother is home from bootcamp and I am leaving home on a Mission's Trip to Hana Hawaii. It is my fifth year going, this time for only a week, but life seems to be happening so fast there is hardly a chance to catch a breath. We come and go, our homes, revolving doors as we move forward in an attempt to define and discover ourselves.

Soldiering On

I couldn’t help but burst with pride as I watched my brother graduate from bootcamp the other day. At the same time, I couldn’t help but feel fear as the drill sergeants and company leaders spoke about how courageous these men were to enlist at a time of war. I worry for my brother and for his son, my nephew Christian, who seems to want to follow in his footsteps. As much as I admire and honor their choices, they are not the ones I would make for them. They wear war paint, tattoos heralding a battle cry. I wear a peace symbol on my ankle. I argued against my brother enlisting, up until the very moment he signed up and then I proudly attended his graduation, tapping the Colonel sitting next to me on the shoulder and declaring “That’s my brother” as he came out of the smoke caused by the pyrotechnic show, moving across the field gun in hand. I am thankful for our soldiers, for people who serve their country. My heart swelled with pride when I first saw Paul in his uniform, but I would have preferred he never put himself in harm’s way. We cannot choose how another lives. We can offer our opinions, our advice, but in the end it is our support and love that is most welcome. Each of us needs a safe haven as we soldier through life and I choose to be a part of theirs.

Marked

On the week his father graduated from boo camp, my nephew Christian got his first tattoo. My brother Mark, his wife Gretchin and I designed it: Psalm 144:1 “Praise be to the Lord my Rock, who trains my hands for war, my fingers for battle.”

We designed the P to be both a sword and a cross in keeping with the scripture and its meaning. But, this tattoo has meaning that can’t be captured by a simple design. It is a rite of passage, a link between father and son. It expresses both my nephew’s desire to follow in his father’s footsteps and to step out on his own. He wanted to surprise him with it, like a passing nod to say, “Look what we share, look at who I am.”

It was a family affair, this rite of passage. We aided in its design; Christian’s cousin, mother and his mother’s boyfriend all got tattooed on the same day. Texts flew with pictures and updates. As we all shared in the raising of this boy, we also shared in this milestone. None of this, of course, was shared in words, unless you count the one marking his flesh, and in the end, I guess that one sums it all up. He will wear it and people will inquire about it and he will tell its story, but to me it is the behind the scenes story that counts. Mark, Gretchin and I scurrying to bring this desire to fruition, his mom and family lending their unwavering support; the exchange between father and son. There will be some who think this tattoo is about battle. To me it will forever be about service and love.

Farewell, Tuff Twikett

“Like all of us in this storm between birth and death, I can wreak no great changes on the world, only small changes for the better, I hope, in the lives of those I love. – Dean Koontz

This is not a post I wanted to write as it is not a happy one. I called home from Georgia the other night and heard from my Mom that Joan had called and left a message that our little Tuff Twikett, the sole surviving puppy in Releve’s litter had died. Death is an omnipresent entity in the short lives of dogs and the longer I am around them, the more I realize how true this is. Not all puppies survive birth or the short weeks following and this time around there must have been something truly wrong because Releve never really accepted this litter. But Twikett was indeed tough and survived a couple of weeks.

Why? That’s always the question isn’t it? Why is life so short? Why does this one die and this one survive? Grappling with death is an ongoing debate. Some prefer to avoid it. What’s there to add? It happens to us all. This is especially true with dogs. The discussion can become repetitive, maudlin, overly sentimental because something touches us to the core when we lose one of our companions and we all struggle to make sense of it; sometimes dwelling in this stew of emotions. But Twikett hadn’t been around long enough to be such a companion had she?

She had. That’s what my time at Pugdom has taught me. It has become a microcosm of life and death, helping me to understand the process, to deal with the pain and questions. Twikett’s life was so brief yet she made her presence known. Joan’s friends gathered at her house to help her be born. We held her, named her, fed her. We grew from our care of her and from our support of each other. She knew the hand of a human, the warmth of her mother’s breast. She crawled and cried, snuggled and suckled and like with all of us, her time was too brief, but she lived. She may never have opened her eyes, but for two weeks she made small changes on the world. We may forget her name in the years to come, but not her presence. Life brings change and growth. It can’t be dismissed, overlooked or glossed over. Tuff Twikett survives in the love we gave her.

Turning Blue

My father cried. I fought back tears. My sister-in-law beamed and my brother Paul showed a slip of a smile as he stood in formation during the Turning Blue ceremony in which he received the blue cord of a U.S. Army Infantryman.

When the field was still bare and we waited with the other families for the moment when our soldiers would march out, I glanced through the program and found Paul’s name --“Paul Christian Gifford,” some emotion welled up in me akin to surprise. "That’s my brother," I wanted to cry out and almost laughed because of course, that’s why I was here. My baby brother was graduating from bootcamp. I had written about it, lived through the waiting with his wife, children and parents, knew that my brother the cop was at bootcamp, but seeing his name, a part of me was still surprised.

That’s my baby brother graduating from bootcamp. Paul is a husband, father, police officer, man, but I remember when he was just this little five-year-old who liked to dress in Michael Jackson zippered jacket and Don Johnson’s pastel coats; who was the only kindergartner to get to keep his bike in the classroom; the little boy who insisted on buying the most gigantic sombrero at Disney World; who was chunky with spiked hair until he grew up, began working out and became a body builder. This was my little brother and even though I’d written about it, even though I’d lived it, like any one whose ever watched a child she loves grow up, I was taken aback with surprise, left wondering when did it happen? Left with an overwhelming sense of pride in this person he became.

Planes, Trains and Automobiles

Planes, trains and automobiles..Well, planes and automobiles at least. That coupled with a bout of airsickness, a headache and too many hours without eating and I have to say I’m already a little tired of traveling and I’m just beginning. My father, sister-in-law Leah and I arrived in Atlanta today and rented a car to drive the hour-and-a-half or more to our hotel. Honestly, I’m not sure where our hotel is or how long the drive actually was because I’ve been so bus that my father and Leah made all the plans, but they got us here and tomorrow we see my brother. I’m spending three days here and arriving home late on Saturday. I have a day-and-a-half home before a 17-hour journey to Hana, Hawaii. I will share more about that later, but this will be my fifth journey with a group of teens and young adults. We travel to Hana, Maui and hold services and do community projects such as painting the senior center, building a house, clearing a coconut grove. I’m home on August 6^th for a few days before I head to Maine for two days for a reunion with a bunch of college friends.

The other night one of my fellow writers from the Hubbard Hall Writers Project emailed me that she enjoys hearing about my travels. It made me smile. I drive a couple of hours to attend our meetings in Cambridge, NY and I am always sharing about a dog show I’ve attended. I’ve written about attending a Writers’ Conference in Woodstock, NY and Blogpaws in Washington, D.C.  this spring and yet, I don’t see myself as a traveler. For years, I never went anywhere. I was rooted in the small town in which I grew up. My sophomore year of high school, a small group of us traveled to Washington D.C. and since it was the only place I had ever been, I assumed I could attend college there. My best friend and I packed our belongings and our tolerant families drove us to George Washington University where we were to go to school, only to pack us up a week later and take us home. We ended up going to college in Middlebury, VT, an hour from home.

Later, I would drive to Cambridge, Mass. to see the boy I loved. And, for a present my freshman year, my parents took the family to Disney, but it wasn’t until I met Joan, my friend and pug breeder. that the traveling bug bit me. Two years after meeting her she mentioned that she was headed to Best Friends Animal Sanctuary in Kanab, Utah to camp and volunteer and wondered if I wanted to come along. My brother Mark and I ended up going and it changed my world. Suddenly, I saw the possibilities. There was so much I never knew I could do. On this trip I saw the great expanse of the Grand Canyon, but an even wider realm opened up inside me. I could move in the world. I had feet and having roots didn’t mean I needed to stand still. I still live in my hometown, in my family’s home, but I have not been stuck there and although I don’t always think of myself as a traveling girl, I guess I am. I saw that the world was big, but so was I. The limits were largely self-imposed and I was free to roam.