Monday, July 31, 2017

My Epitaph

Years ago, when my Dad was in the throes of Alzheimer’s disease, I’d visit him in the nursing home. There was a courtyard in the middle, so we could walk around and around until he was tired. One day, he got tired, so we sat in the little living room type area and he fell asleep with his head on my shoulder. There was an elderly black lady in a wheelchair about 15 or so feet away. She was all dressed up, complete with a hat with a big brim and flowers, white gloves, a shiny white patent leather pocketbook, and two red spots of rouge on her cheeks. She kept smiling and winking at me, and I smiled back. 

Eventually, she began to call out, “Come ovah heeyah!” “Yes, come ovah heeya!” 

I really didn’t want to disturb Dad, and I wasn’t sure she was talking to me since oftentimes Alzheimer’s patients are talking to a memory, so I ignored her for five or ten minutes. 

Soon, she got annoyed that I was ignoring her, and commanded me, saying, “Get Yo Fat Seff Ovah Heeya!”  

I thought that a little rude, and my fatness has always been a sore point for me, so I responded with a distinct lack of charity, “ExCUSE Me?”  

She was stopped cold and looked at me with her mouth making a perfect O in surprise.  Then she began cackling and laughing and slapping her hand on her knee. She wiped her eye with a gloved finger, and said the words that my daughter threatens to put on my tombstome:

“Ooooooh, and sassy, too!”


And, so, I am.

Sunday, July 16, 2017

Some memories I posted on FaceBook today

There are three people who changed my life: 1) I was born into a large, loving, liberal, accepting, generous family, which also had very high expectations in terms of developing character, integrity, and doing my best in all things. Thank you to my parents, who were always readers, who expected me to work to my capacity in school, who encouraged and pushed me, and insisted that I go to college. To my aunties who did exactly the same thing, and to my cousins, who celebrated every achievement with an unexpected party, complete with cakes that said things like, Happy Award, Denise. Having a family that celebrates your achievements and pushes you to do more, is the greatest blessing. 2) Librarians, you have the capacity to shape a child's outlook on the world - did you know that? Thank you to the librarians at Shute Memorial library, who were girlfriends of my mother, and told her that they had given me all the kid's books to read and now I needed to start reading from the adult section, or I would lose the love and habit of reading. They promised her that they would guide my reading choices, and what choices they were! They fed me a diet of classic literature, biographies, how to books, memoirs, and well written mass market books. Thank you to the twin librarians at the Shute. 3) A music teacher changed my life. He was John Sullivan, and he taught me the baritone during the winter of 1967, immediately put me in the high school band at 12, then bought me a beautiful double F french horn and guided me through learning that most beautiful of instruments. I had so much fun playing in the school band, woodwind quintet, and jazz band! But then he took me to play with the adults where I was exposed to classical music like I had never been exposed before, directed by the famous Ed Denon (yes, THAT Ed Denon of Boston Crusaders fame). It is one to thing love, appreciate and listen to great music, but it is another thing entirely to play it, in the center of an orchestra, with music swelling all around you and through you. Sully, you made me into a musician, and thank you.
So, my beautiful family, two librarians and a brass teacher changed my life. If you are a librarian or a music teacher (or a teacher of any discipline) you have the power to change the course of a child's life. You never know which child will look at you and say, Thank you!

Spending time flat on my back has put me in a reflective mood, so I guess I'll be vomiting out more posts about my life today.  When I was 16, the librarian sent me to the Boston Public Library, and I got a card there. I read a lot of stuff, especially in the religion section, and a book called The Orthodox Church by Sergius Bulgakov caught me like nothing ever had before, I knew that was where I needed to be. Fast forward a few years: I met and married an Orthodox man, weeventually moved to Sunnyvale, CA in 1980, and I met a priest at Church of the Redeemer, who challenged me, Fr. John Ocana. Fr. John had many gifts; he had the gift of sharing his love and excitement about the faith, and explaining things in a way that you could understand and would remember. After a year or two, I became the parish secretary during troubled times in that parish, and I saw close up that he walked the walk. He lived what he preached. After him, came another priest to that parish, Fr. Kirrill Gvosdev, who, though a little gruff, was/is actually a marshmallow inside. He didn't give great sermons like Fr. John, but what he did was, he lived with his people. He laughed with you, he feasted with you, he cried with you, he held your hand in the hospital, he brought you the gifts and a casserole. He showed up whenever he was needed. You never needed to ask him to come, he'd show up just as you were picking up the phone. He kept in close contact with his people - all his people - either by phone or knocking on the door for a cup of coffee. He knew your joys and your struggles and he did whatever he could to help, even if all he could do was to bring you a cup of coffee in the hospital. He was there. He was present. I cannot tell you how profound an impression these two priests made on me - they were like two sides of the same coin. They are everything that a parish priest should be. Fr. John is very elderly and frail, and Fr. Kirrill is still going strong. Many years! Well done, thou good and faithful servants!
So, I'm an only child, you know. My parents had one pregnancy and that was me. I'm not the stereotypical only child because I lived nearly half the year at the mothership on B. Street, which was overflowing with aunts, cousins, and whoever my grandmother brought home. Anyway, talking about how important having family support is, I want to tell a little story to illustrate what I mean. There was a big kindergarten graduation ceremony for us kindergarten kids, and the parents came. We filed out on the stage to sing our little song, and a little girl named Lisa on my right said, "Look, there's my Mommy and Daddy and my little sister over there!" She knew I was an only child and asked, not so innocently, "Did your family come?" I said, enthusiastically, "Oh yes! My family is those four rows over there!" She could not believe it! My parents, my grandmother, Aunts Nettie, Christine, Jenny, and Anna; cousin Harold Catalano, Marion, Fina, Ethel, Roseanne and Joe, Terry, Uncle Nicky and Auntie Emily with LIttle Em (who was an itty bitty baby) and Maryann, and also Marie Cadigan, my grandmother's best girlfriend. I don't remember who else was there to see me graduate from kindergarten, but there was basically, four generations in the audience for the little only child. Only child? I think not. Loved? I think so!
Then there was the time that I won a debate and got a medal for it. I came home from school with the medal in a little box, and my mother said we were going to my grandmother's for dinner, which was not particularly unusual. The usual cast of characters were there: Gram, two aunties, three cousins with their husbands and their kids, and us. For dessert, they brought out an italian rum cake with the words, Happy Award, Denise, and sang to me. Proud of me? Ya think? Was I supported? Yup. Did I carry that degree of love and pride and support in my heart forever? You bet your ass, I did and I do.
Then there was the time that one of my mother's cousin's kids got married. My aunties were talking about what a wonderful shower it was, and how wonderful the bride was because she went to every table and talked to every one, and how proud her mother must be of her. I listened to them, and when it was time for my own wedding shower, I went to every table and talked with every person and thanked them for coming, and after opening the gifts, I went around the room a second time and thanked them for their gift. The day after, I couldn't wait to get down to the mothership and talk with me aunties because I knew they would be so proud of me. We talked about how nice the shower had been and I waited. Not one word about what good manners I had. Not one word. Finally, I asked them what they thought about me going around TWICE, when whatever her name had gone around only ONCE. They were totally nonplussed. Finally, Auntie Nettie said, "Honey, we brought you up. We expect nothing less from you. You have been taught how to behave and have always shown good manners, so it's nothing special when you do what you have always done." I was crushed for a minute, but then I understood - the bar was high and I met it. The bar may be lower for others, but for me it was high, and I met it. Expectations matter. Kids will strive to meet your expectations. Make sure that your expectations are for good.
People, small things change lives, for the good or for the bad. Be kind, be thoughtful, be encouraging, be loving.

Sunday, April 09, 2017

Palm Sunday Then and Now

When I was around 16, I read a book called, The Orthodox Church by Sergius Bulgakov, and I clearly remember thinking as I read it, "This is it! I have found it! If this is not the true expression of Christianity, then nothing is, and we are all doomed." I looked at the listings for the Orthodox Church in the Metropolitan Boston Yellow pages, and started calling churches because I wanted to learn more and to attend. The first three or four people who answered the phone did not speak English, and I gave up. There is a lesson in there, but that is another post.

Fast forward a few years. I was in college, and met a guy named Jerry Norman. He was a nice guy, and I liked him. We had some dates and I had met his parents for dinner once, but nothing really serious. We were chatting with friends in the cafeteria and something he said made me say to him, "Hey, I thought you were Jewish!" He replied no, he was Lebanese and a Christian. So, I asked, as you do, "Are you Melkite, Maronite or Orthodox?" He replied he was Orthodox and I asked him to take me to church. After more dates and more requests to take me to church, we finally went with his oldest brother, sister in law and two little nephews.

St. George Antiochian Church of Boston had sold their Boston property and had just begun building a new church in West Roxbury, so Holy Cross Greek Seminary was kind enough to let them worship in their gymnasium, which at the time, was also where the Celtics practiced, but that's another story entirely. I was nervous because I hadn't been to an Orthodox church, and I hadn't met the brother and his family. We all piled into the car - Jerry, me, Joey, Maddie, Ricky and Jimmy - drove to Brookline and walked into the gymnasium on Palm Sunday, 1976, 41 years ago today.

There were tons of people chatting, greeting each other with two kisses, lots of English and a little Arabic being spoken. There were two chairs on the stage with two big icons propped on them. It was not a pretty church at all, and my Roman sensibilities valued order, so I found the noise level and the milling about and greeting people somewhat jarring. There was a guy on the right side, just below the stage, who was singing something mysterious and moody and very Middle Eastern sounding in a mixture of English, Arabic and Greek. I looked out the doors, and saw a rowdy crowd of people making their way toward the gymnasium, maybe 40 or 50. They came in, chatting and greeting people, and milling around in the back. There were children EVERYWHERE, getting underfoot, running around. It was chaotic.

Then the priest came out. I learned later that his name was Fr. George George. He was as wide as he was tall, had a cap of silver ringlets and when he opened his mouth, the most beautiful, silky baritone came out. Then there was a single toot on a pitch pipe behind me, and that rowdy bunch of 50 people began singing in 4 and 6 part harmony. Such beautiful music, music like I had never heard before. Beautiful words set to beautiful music that perfectly fit what was going on at the altar. I didn't understand everything, but it was clearly a dialog back and forth between the priest, the deacon (Fr. Philip) and the choir. There were altar boys, fans, golden vestments... Eventually, it was time for communion, and mothers and fathers brought their little children to communion. I found it very moving.

It was all so beautiful, and strange, yet so familiar. It moved me so deeply. I really was transported that day, in a gymnasium, without all the trappings that Orthodox Churches usually have. The timelessness, the emphasis on awe and mystery fed me in a way that I had never experienced. I didn't know if I was in heaven or on earth, just like St. Vladimir's emissaries. At the end, there was a procession with the little children leading us. Everyone had candles with flowers (mostly forsythia) and palms. We were led by the cross, a gaggle of altar boys, and all the many, many children who were singing something and waving their palms. And then it was over, way too soon. I fell in love that day with the Orthodox faith and I have never fallen out of love with it.

That was 41 years ago today. Since then, there have been 41 Palm Sundays in my life, at St. George's, St. John of Damascus while it was still on Museum Road in Boston, Church of the Redeemer in Los Altos Hills, CA, St. Nicholas Greek Orthodox Church in San Jose, South Bay Mission in Santa Clara, St. Innocent when it was still in Fremont, St. Mary Magdalene in Georgia, and last year at St. Christina's in Fremont. 41 years, 41 processions, joyfully following Christ and proclaiming him to be The One, only to kiss him on the cheek and betray him four days later, 41 Holy Weeks. Am I any different than I was 41 years ago? Certainly, I'm older, and life has not been kind. I weathered every storm and tragedy, holding on for dear life to the Orthodox faith. Older, for sure, maybe a little wiser, but fundamentally, am I different? Am I more like Christ today than I was 41 years ago? Or, am I like a mill horse, endlessly walking around in a circle and never getting anywhere? I fear that is the case. Life keeps happening and requires a response which takes up my energy. A few years ago, Jerry dropped dead suddenly without warning and brought home to me the fact that time is short. I don't have 41 more years in me, maybe 25 or 30, to work on a good defense before the dread judgement seat of Christ.

41 years is a long time. Orthodoxy is in my bones now. It takes a long time for converts to develop an Orthodox phronema. I tell converts that the process of becoming Orthodox does not end with their baptism and chrismation - that is when the real work begins which will last a lifetime. At the least, I can say that I have persevered, and will continue to persevere till the end.

Saturday, April 01, 2017

Knitting advice from Metropolitan Anthony Bloom

Metropolitan Anthony Bloom in his book “School for Prayer” tells a story about a lady who visited him shortly after he became a priest in the Orthodox Church. She wanted his advice about prayer. For fourteen years she had been saying the Jesus prayer almost continually, she said, and had never experienced God’s presence at all. “If you speak all the time”, said Anthony, “You don’t give God a chance to get a word in”.
“What shall I do?”, she asked. Anthony advised her to go into her sitting room after breakfast, “Make sure everything is tidy and sit in a chair, light the little lamp before the icon that you have, and first of all take stock of your room. Just sit, look around, and try to see where you are. Be aware of what’s around you. Admire the objects. Be totally present. Take out your knitting and knit for about 15 minutes before the face of God, but I forbid you to say one word of prayer. You just knit, or sit still, and enjoy the peace of your room.”
Well of course she didn’t think this was very spiritual advice at the time, but some weeks later the lady returned. She was a different person. “It works!”, she told him. “I got up, washed, tidied my room, had breakfast, came back, made sure there was nothing that would worry me and settled into my armchair and thought ’ Oh how nice, I have 15 minutes in which I can do nothing without feeling guilty’ And I looked around, and for the first time in years, I thought ‘Goodness! What a lovely room I live in’. Then, she said, “I felt so quiet because the room was so peaceful. There was a clock ticking, but it didn’t disturb the silence. Its ticking just underlined the fact that everything was so still, and after a while I remembered that I must knit before the face of God. I began to knit and became more and more aware of the silence. Then I perceived that this silence was not simply the absence of noise, but that the silence had substance. It was not an absence of something, but a presence of something. The silence had a density, a richness and it began to pervade me. The silence around began to come and meet the silence within me. All of a sudden, I perceived that the silence was a presence. At the heart of the silence there was Him, who is all stillness, all peace, all poise.
Knitting is powerful stuff. Knitting is so profound.

Tuesday, February 21, 2017


I really like Facebook.  I mean, I REALLY like Facebook. I have a zillion friends (I actually have 652, but who's counting?).

Facebook has allowed me to keep up with family and close friends that live far away, to see their kids grow up through pictures, to keep abreast of big and little news, to rejoice and sorrow and pray with them, even though I am nowhere near, and may never even see them in the flesh again.

I like Facebook because it has allowed me to reconnect with people from my past, both distant and near. This includes people I met on the first day of kindergarten, as well as my former tenant.  I have learned so much about these folks that I may have known only superficially before, and have become close with a few. Facebook has fostered the growth of these relationships.

I like Facebook because I have met new people through it. Yes, I know that I haven't REALLY met them, at least not in the flesh, but I have met their ideas, thoughts, jokes, ideals, needs and photos of their life. People friend me and I friend them, mostly because we have something in common, be it our faith, our musical or artistic interests, or, a common friend.  I have met choir directors and singers, clergy, iconographers, knitters and spinners, chefs and down home cooks, gardeners, readers, Orthodox and non Orthodox, crafters of all sorts.  I have learned so much from these people, enough that my life has been enhanced.

I like Facebook because it has allowed me to meet and follow people that I admire for one reason or another; people with skills and gifts that I admire or aspire to.

Tuesday, February 07, 2017


Facebook has a function where you see all your posts over the years for that day. Today, I was brought up short by the one I've quoted below. I'm saving it here, because as I read it, I understood how far I've come, and I think to be reminded of that from time to time. Putting it here will keep it safe for rereading when I think the sky is falling. I don't really want to repost this on Facebook, so here it will go. This post is from 2013:

Age I was given: Bev. Cooke gave me 35
I lived in: a fog, but otherwise, in San Jose, CA, around the corner from the Winchester Mystery House. I lived with my daughter and husband and our little lhasa apso named Harry, as well as my parents, Ed and Bea who came when the baby was born (of course), and stayed after the baptism (the happiest day of my entire life) for my mom to have very delicate open heart surgery which she nearly did not make it through. Once she was nearly recovered, the year of hell commenced. Thank God, and I really mean it, that my parents stayed and were there to help and support during that year.
I drove: a red Nissan Sentra, and Jerry drove a white Ford Escort
I worked at: maintaining equilibrium during this most difficult year in which I went from supreme joy at finally becoming a mother after 11 years of trying, to dazed fear of losing my daughter to cancer. In between, I attempted to maintain my medical transcription business which did survive - barely. I worked at becoming knowledgable about childhood cancers, nutritional support and being a strong advocate for my daughter's medical care. I worked extremely hard at forcing my insurance company to pay for my daughter's treatment which they tried to skip out of. And to think that some people say we have the best medical care in the world. Not.
I wanted to be: Living a different life. Anywhere other than where I was. I wanted to take my daughter and my dog and run away which I did do six years later, and learned that running away changes nothing but the scenery. But really, when I was 35, it was what I didn't want that stands out. I didn't want to be the one that everyone relied on - I wanted someone to rely on. I was exhausted from carrying the weight of our life. I didn't want to be the mother of a miraculous child who had cancer. I didn't want to watch my daughter change from a chubby, happy baby to a hairless, emaciated, solemn gnome. I wanted to be at rest and peaceful, but there was little of that to be found, except during liturgy, but I couldn't attend every week due to my daughter's health.
I feared: Breaking, and I came so close... My daughter's death - I used to have nightmares of her in her little wooden casket. Once in a while, I still do. I feared that everything I had built my life around - God - wasn't real. I feared that my husband and I would never recover our relationship after this, and we never did. I feared my own weakness and sinfulness, since I felt that every aspect of our family rested on me. I feared making a wrong decision. I feared that I would never be able to forgive the weakness of some people that I depended on during this time. I feared that life would never again be the same, and it wasn't. I feared that my faith and my love would not be enough, but I was wrong. Lord, I believe; help my unbelief was my prayer. Also, Isaiah 40:30. Mostly, I feared not surviving intact, no matter the outcome of that awful year of 35, when every aspect of my life blew up. But I did. I really did. And it was only through the grace of God.
And that is more than you EVER wanted to know about me, Bev!
"Like" this status and I will give you an age!

LikeShow more reactions
Elizabeth Winkelmeyer Much, much love. ((((((((hugs))))))))
Don Fausett I am not asking for your age. I just liked reading this. I hope it was cathartic for you to write it.
Carol Wetmore It's a gift to have your insight. You survived!
John Plummer Thanks for sharing some of your story. Isn't it amazing to look back at life and everything which has brought us to this moment? Wishing you every blessing --
Rebecca Magaziner Matovic Thank you for sharing this, Denise. Words fail, but thank you.
J. Max Sullivan I love you, Denise. God bless you.
Karen Rubino Wow God bless you<3 span="">
Anna Bennett Thank you for sharing this!
Kathy Pieracci It is amazing when you think you are alone, He is always by your side....thank you for sharing
Shanna King Thank you for writing this... Hugs...
Denise M. Babineau Thank you everyone. I just want to say that my life is good, and even though I've hit bottom a couple of times in my life, and 35 was one of them, I think that it was necessary for me to understand what is important in life, to get my priorities strai...See More
Peter McGurrin I've come to realize I don't even know 'how' to put aside my own strength. When I do, it feels like someone other than me doing this...thanks Denise
Maha Adranly Love you Denise. I remember all of that!!