As you read over here (and maybe on Facebook), darling Dr. Miller passed away on Wednesday. Here’s how his oldest son described it:

After a small nightcap of whiskey, making his funeral intentions abundantly clear, refusing all unnecessary medical help (as only a surgeon can), having returned to his home… my father, almost 97 years of age, a former clinical professor of surgery and departmental chief in innumerable hospitals in Boston, a true gentleman with generosity and heart from a bygone age, passed from this earthly plane to one of bliss.

And now Maida, darling Maida, is lonely.

“I know I’m not alone… but I only want Harold.”

Her plan was always for them to pass into “bliss” hand in hand. Even in her tenth decade of life, living without her partner of 66 years was unfathomable until the cruel reality of his death. And although this is devastating, it’s an absolute honor to witness: to be called to comfort a woman capable of this much love.

Following traditional Jewish rites, Dr. Miller will be buried promptly and without pomp and circumstance. I can’t make it out to California in time for the service, but (if little boy schedules, flu season, and somewhat reasonable airfares permit it) I really want to pay a visit while the family is “sitting shivy.” Jews really do this well: let the family stay put, let the world come in and bear witness to a life, and let us hold close the ones suffering the gaping wound of its absence. I want to be a part of that for Dr. Miller, for Maida… for me.

My boys are, naturally, shaken. I’ll admit that my first fascination with the adorable Millers morphed into a bit of an outreach program to teach Brodie and Teddy the importance of generosity, kindness, and neighborliness. It was a joy to bring the boys across the street… to watch Maida’s face as Brodie played their Cold War-era-tuned piano or to find Teddy watching televised soccer at the feet of a snoring Dr. Miller. Coffee cake delivery to our ancient neighbors was a job to teach the boys how to cross the street carefully, looking both ways before they were greeted with kisses and pinches and love. And although we had discussed the sooner-than-later mortality of our 90-year-old friends many times, I wasn’t prepared for how sad I’d be… and how that would affect them, too. Teddy told Grandma Karen:

“The last time I saw Mommy cry was when she told us she had breast cancer.”

I’ll be reeling from that blow to the stomach for a little longer. Brodie reminded me of a funny voicemail from them: a rambling message from Maida listing all the reasons we were lucky to know each other, with Dr. Miller in the background yelling his “me, too!” endorsement of these sweet sentiments. I hadn’t deleted it. And it made us laugh all over again.

There is going to be a lot of talk about Heaven, where and what it is, and if Dr. Miller won’t need a walker because he can fly now. Because the afterlife is impossible for me to explain to anyone, much less these logical little people, I focused on more earthly explanations. I told them that Heaven can be found find right here in little moments. When we curl around my cell phone to listen to a funny message and laugh… that’s Heaven. When we stand in a circle and squeeze each other after Teddy yells, “Family Hug!”… that’s Heaven. When Maida opened the door and gazed with delight at two eager little visitors who never once shied away from a lipsticked kiss… that’s Heaven. We can bring a little taste of it to each other right here, right now. And if we’re lucky enough to notice it, it’s bliss.

(Farewell, darling Dr. Miller.)

“Other’s faults seem so small when looking at our own.” — Dr. Harold Miller

I’ve been nominated to join the Church Vestry: a huge honor. The first task was to pen a little blurb about myself for the Redeemer News and it went like this:

Britt Lee found The Church of the Redeemer in 2008 when The Lee Family was looking for intelligent, poignant, and witty sermons (and the option to enjoy them without the children). Smitten with the Rector and Sunday School, Britt found herself joining every committee listed in the Announcements. She has enjoyed being a member of the Sunday School Committee, co-chairing the Christmas Market, and being both a part of and a grateful recipient of the Pastoral Care Committee. She has a whole bunch of science degrees, but is lucky to ignore them and stay home quizzing small boys to be better than yours at math. When she isn’t blogging about Breast Cancer, she’s buying new plants that refuse to grow in her shade garden. She has pom pom wielding enthusiasm for our Church and is thrilled to join another Redeemer group where fellowship and love bring joy to any work done in His name.

This is somewhat of a lighter tone than the other biographies with their rather more impressive employment histories and societal contributions and talents. What I lack in accomplishments, I attempted to bolster with goofy wit. Mr. T (his wife’s pet name for my favorite Church “elder”) mimed an adorable rah rah rah as I sallied down the aisle last Sunday, suggesting my ebullience for all things Redeemer was evident from that handful of sentences, at least for him. And yet… in the midst of current discussions (and self-flagellation) regarding the effect of the published word, I received a note from the Church Office. A fellow parishioner mailed in an edited version of my silly bio, correcting my usage of “pom pom.” Surely, I didn’t intend to convey “anti-aircraft artillery”-wielding enthusiasm for our Church! This lover of words felt strongly enough about my simile to put a pen to paper and stamp to envelope for edification. Now, I’m rather obsessed with meeting him.

Most likely, this brilliant man (who lived through WWII) was just struck by my word choice. Though I intended to summon the image of a tight-sweatered girl in pigtails, this reader conjured guns and death. Was he being funny? professorial? silly? or just kind of bored with Monday’s jumble? I need to know. I fantasize that we develop this deep kinship based on Writing, Faith, History, and Life. He’ll impart great, charming wisdom and lead me to some higher road where I never again write anything that could harm anyone. This is probably taking my romantic notions of all elders a little far, but forgive the fancy… I’m missing my favorite neighborhood ancients.

Once again I’m blown away by the work of the Holy Spirit here (less annoyingly Zealot types might call this “coincidence”—take your pick), reminding me that my little musings could feel like the rapid firing of so many angry guns. At Bible Study today (yes, BIBLE STUDY), we discussed word choice at great length. The King James version of John warns against the Wrath of God, yet other interpretations are kinder regarding the fate of people who fail to know Him. I’ll always favor the sunnier interpretations. I see rainbows and lollipops and cheerleaders instead of clouds and cavities and acts of war. My next writing assignment is to pen a cheery little letter to my newest (oldest) editor, cross-referencing each word with Wikipedia lest I unwittingly fall onto some horrifying Holocaust allusion in an attempt at bon mot. Wish me luck: I’ve got a great lunch-at-the-retirement-home outfit at the ready.

Yay, Church!

Yay! Steve Safran is back, encouraging all of us to embrace the inevitable: social media (and perhaps the backlash of those we drag into it). Although Stevie and I attended the same college, our friendship really blossomed on Facebook. Our shared love of shared-writing has led to this fun, bloggy partnership I cherish. And honestly, who doesn’t love a Facebook birthday?

The Truth Is… By Steve Safran

Webster defines “decorum” as “that thing other people think you’re violating when you write it, but not when they write it.” Webster does not, of course, write any such thing. He would… if he were alive in this era of Facebook and blogging, and also… if he were me. Alas, none of this is so, even though my fourth-grade nickname was “Webster” because I knew so, so many words. (Another lie. But I’m a writer–for TV–so the power of the lie is mine to spread, and abuse my power, I shall!)

Britt recently wrote about how people can react to seeing their names in print. Not everyone likes it. I’d like to offer why living this way is important to those who do. I’ve been writing online since 2002 and blogging since 2004. I started updating on Facebook before anyone knew anything about a man named Obama. This makes me an old man in social media. I live my life online. Writing. In Hebrew, Safran literally means “writer of the scrolls.” Really. How could I not write? It’s a Jew-y birthright.

Last week, I turned 45. I was working at a new job in a new city. By myself. And there, in a two-star Manhattan hotel room, the bedbugs and I read more than 150 “Happy Birthdays” and “Congrats on the New Job” messages. I was alone, but I was not lonely. Without social media, I’d have heard from a handful of people. I know it’s not strictly the numbers, but when you want to feel the love, let me tell you– there’s nothing better than 150 messages of “attaboy.”

Webster defines “catharsis” as “that thing you need so you’ll stop feeling so shitty all the time.” (This time it’s true. Webster was a total bring-down.) Writing is great catharsis. And writers must write! You don’t need to be a professional to write. You just need to write. This is fantastic. Britt is a doctor, which required years of training. To be a writer, all I needed at the start was a pencil. It had to be a Number Two Ticonderoga, but I’m a connoisseur. Want a good catharsis exercise? Write a really open, honest, mean letter to someone you’re pissed at. Then erase it. Do not– and I can’t emphasize this enough—do NOT hit “Send All.”

I fully understand Britt’s need to write about her illness. You write what you know. It’s great catharsis. I have depression and I am getting a divorce. I am not going to write about the joys of handcrafting fine cabinets. (Although I’m sure it would be an amusing read from someone who cannot handcraft a small block of wood out of a larger block of wood.) When you write honestly, it shows. You need to include the details, or it doesn’t feel real. Would Britt’s writing work without A Ma or A Gong? I suppose– but we’d be the poorer for it.

In Neil Simon’s “Biloxi Blues,” the character of Epstein says, “Once you start compromising your thoughts, you’re a candidate for mediocrity.”

I’m not running for that office.

Britt’s a writer. Writers need an audience. The audience demands the truth. Britt writes the truth. QED.

Webster defines “conclusion” as “that bit you’re very happy to reach, especially if the writer has belabored a point to death and, possibly, has been drinking too many Harpoon Ales.”

Stevie in his wheelhouse: on TV, plugging social media

I should never have agreed to the playdate. I loathe playdates. And by conveniently dropping two boys onto the planet in such quick succession, I find playdates unnecessary as Pete and Repeat here adequately amuse and abuse each other. But Teddy is goofy, funny, and popular and little Matty wrote him a starring role in his new “show” and had been looking forward to script re-writes and set design for the whole week. Try as I might to pull one of my typical last minute cancels, even I couldn’t disappoint a little boy who writes “shows.”

But then on Friday afternoon, Teddy was headed somewhere else, when all I wanted (needed) to do was squeeze both of my boys and shuttle them safely into our house. On the day when all of us were holding back tears of sadness and rage and fear at bus stops and pick-up lines, feeling relief (and guilt?) over seeing our kids alive and well, and searching for any explanation that could satisfy children with devastating questions, my littlest one was at a fucking playdate.

Of course he was quite safe, and fed delicious food by a doting mom who texted me pictures of unharmed, happy boys (after the frantic messages, emails, and phone calls requesting proof of Teddy’s well-being). That night, like every other parent in the world, we did multiple checks on sleeping kids, feeling so lucky (guilty?) at the privilege of our safe haven in a shattered world.

Last night, it became clear that I would have to explain Newtown to my kids. Teddy reported on the formation of The Security News Team at recess yesterday. Apparently, one of the second graders, with limited access to televised sports on a school night, was able to switch to the news channel when his mom was around the corner, and so had some information to impart to the Team. The fact that these 8 year olds have the wherewithal to know not only that something dreadful has happened, but also that we’re trying to shield them from it, and that they’re looking for answers ON THE NEWS was all at once awful and adorable. Teddy said the Security News Team intended to do its own investigative reporting (apparently by sneaking access to TV and the internet on a school night) and then share intelligence at recess. They are as desperate to make sense of this as we are.

So began the discussion so many of you have had with your own children by now. Brodie hid tears, Teddy wanted to assess his own personal risk, and we all agreed that this is the most awful thing that has happened in our country since 9/11. They took a modicum of comfort in the idea that someone so mentally unwell would have no idea that what he was doing was real—that certainly no one could be evil enough to harm children. But Teddy was stuck on the unfairness of kids “who will never get to grow up and get to be anything.” It was a night that required more than a modicum of red wine.

The boys wanted me to linger in their room at bedtime, needing to hear more explanations, needing to feel safe. Brodie found a prayer book (left by Zealot Sister) and offered to read one aloud that he said was “exactly for today.” Somehow, my little 9 year old boy landed on a Rose Sunday, Advent prayer in honor of Mary. A mother… His Mother. And even with its biblical language asking for intersession and whatnot, I think they got the gist: these moms need prayers, and this is something we can do. Teddy would also like “…for guns to be illegal for everyone but police and people in wars.” But we’ll start with prayer, because it’s something we can do.

Every day begins as a really bad hair day. (Every day also begins as a really good hair day, as the key to good hair is having it.) But now that I’m in the Hairdo With No Name phase, morning bedhead is alarming enough to start Bernie’s day with a good chuckle. Last night, Brodie noticed that my hair finally resembles the pre-chemo cut, and he giggled while he ran his hands through it because Mommy With Crazy Hair is apparently hilarious. Teddy wants to know when my hair will be long again. Like, exactly-put-it-on-the-calendar when? All of these mane musings remind me that my boys (like me) haven’t entirely put this behind them, and that maybe they’re sensing (like me) the Big Bummer Anniversary.

But instead of waxing maudlin about life changing, terrifying Cancer stories, I’ll share a picture that elicited Bernie’s trademark, Scooby Doo sniggering last night:

What Bernie thinks of my current hairdo.

Yup. That’s familiar. And vain as I am, I’m finding it difficult to look chic when I cannot escape the trappings of a teenager in 1961. I should don swirly skirts, sweater sets, cat-eye glasses, and all the spunky cheer of a girl that says, “golly.” And in a few months I will be trying to match an outfit to this hairdo from 1977:

Many hours logged under a hot hairbrush for this look.

Over the next year, I’m bound to post many complaints as Britt’s Phylogeny of Hair pauses for a few weeks at every calamitous coiffe I ever sported. Who knew that after the year I’ve had, and the body parts I’ve lost, the thing I’d want most for Christmas is… a ponytail?

Because I’ve mentioned it a million times, you know that I am the Christmas Market co-chair at the Church of the Redeemer (insert link to mass schedules, Lessons and Carols, and other sneaky evangelism). My main job is to recruit local jewelers, clothiers, toy makers, chocolate bakers, fancy towel embroiderers, and the like to peddle their wares in our undercroft… and pocket 15% of their sales to distribute to wonderful causes. Many of the returning vendors were aware of my Big Crappy Year, and so when they arrived for the 2012 Market, did what any loving, caring salesperson would do: they gave me free stuff. I left with chocolate Santas, a preppy tie, heavily discounted cashmere, a gorgeous breast-cancer-pink pearl necklace, and… a hat.

You might think I’d welcome a new hat, having grown quite tired of mine, and enduring a series of unwelcome hairstyles for the foreseeable future. But you’d be wrong. I’ll never wear a hat again. I’m hoping for another mild winter so that the freezing bus stop will not require this woolen reminder of fear, ugliness, and death. But when my sweet, darling mohair purveyor urged me to choose between a beanie and a beret, I was flummoxed. I should have admitted then and there my aversion to this accessory, but I didn’t want to answer her sweet gesture with a lecture from an ingrate with more post-traumatic stress than hair. Instead, I chose politeness over cancer-y gift suggestions, and I ended up with this:

Does this hat make me look cancerous?

Try as I might to snap a grumpy picture of me at my Marge Simpson best, I cannot pretend for even one iPhoto second that this thing doesn’t make me laugh. And though I don’t recommend this as a freebie to any pink be-ribboned girl, it has provided more than a few giggles during Big Bummer Anniversary week when we’re all a bit fixated on last year. Also, this fuzzy blue abomination does a wonderful job of making my hair seem quite fabulous in comparison. And for his Scooby Doo sniggering last night as he uploaded this Parent Trap still to poke fun at my not-quite-Hamill-hair… payback will be a pic of Bernie in this beanie.