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04/23/2025

Today’s blog

Lynn Murphy Mark

An Eggselent Hendeavor

Apparently the Fair Lawn Eight are now outside denizens. By that I mean that the chicks living in the Momoh basement are now big and feathery enough to be moved from a warm basement to the outdoor world. They have moved up in the world, too. They have been in a huge cardboard box with shavings and a heat lamp. Now, though, they are in a coop that Jan has named the Clucking Hilton.

Momoh is an engineer and a builder. He and the family have constructed a wonderful and very comfortable A-frame in upstate New York. That, it appears, was just a practice run to test the viability of building one’s own dwelling. As projects go, this one – still a work in progress – was a biggie. A relatively flat parcel of land was cleared several years ago and has been transformed into a very cool retreat home. I don’t know how many weekend hours were spent to get this far, but it’s a huge number. The commitment that it has taken to get this far is impressive.

So, now that an A-frame is habitable, Momoh turned his skills to crafting the very latest in coop technology. It started as any construction progress does. Piles of supplies from Home Depot made their way to the back yard and he devoted as many hours as he could to creating a handsome home for the chicks.

Yesterday there was an ongoing text string between Jan and Momoh, addressing the ambiance of the coop. A picture came through of eight feathered residents exploring the real ground for the first time in their short lives. All eight of the girls were gathered in a corner of the coop, still used to the closeness of a cardboard box. They were examining the dirt as if trying to figure out what that stuff is. It’s possible that they had not yet discovered the expanse of yard that is now theirs. 

The Momoh’s are pretty sure that all eight chicks are girls. The place that sold the little birds had “sexed” them with a 98% accuracy. If a two-percenter made it through and turns into a rooster, there must be a plan. Roosters are not allowed in Fair Lawn, New Jersey, for obvious reasons. As an answer to Jan’s question of “what if one is a rooster?”, three emojis came through: a man in a chef’s hat, a flame, and a chicken leg. Coq au vin, indeed.

My evening was made when Jan got an answer to her text. She wrote, “You know, Mr. Momoh, that you will never in your lifetime have an egg that costs less than 10 bucks because of the time and money you have in this thing…” Momoh wasn’t having it.

There followed a detailed explanation for the philosophy of backyard farm animals. The main goal, besides not paying outlandish prices that 47 promised would go down, is to show the boys a “few lessons about responsibility and caring for animals along the way…” So far, Mr. Momoh is the one doing all the work, but I’m sure that will change. Or will it?

For any chicken realtors in Fair Lawn, here is an ad for the coop extraordinaire if it’s ever for sale: 1. Eggs roll down into a tray for easy clean collection. 2. The coop door opens at dawn and closes at dusk. Now, this one begs the question of what happens when a chick doesn’t make it all the way home at dusk? 3. There is an ample feed and water supply area. 4. This coop has a deep litter system so cleaning and refreshing can be done monthly. 5. There is a hen-cam so the parental units can monitor the activity in the coop. 6. And the best? The coop is insulated for comfort.

Here’s one of my thoughts, that I have expressed to Mr. Momoh: I think he should build a mother-in-law senior coop with all of the above features. Jan and I have very few needs and they would all be satisfied with such a building. Momoh did glance sideways as I was speaking, presumably to make sure I’m not serious. God knows they will have enough eggs to feed us. 

04/21/2025

Today’s blog

Lynn Murphy Mark

A small let down

Easter is over. The New Jersey boys and girl are back at home. Mollie Dog is home from the kennel. This house is very quiet after a few days of boyish antics and energy and loudness. There are tiny lego pieces still scattered around. Perfect fingerprints prove that boys were busy at our glass dining room table. Small amounts of whole milk and orange juice are still in the refrigerator. Cameron’s art work is displayed on the bookcase. 

He has said he wants to be an artist, but thinks he has to be an engineer. After witnessing his lightning quick build of a big Lego kit, I believe he will be in whatever field requires an eagle eye and a quick grasp of shapes and how they fit together. Of course, he’s only 7, so much more will be revealed before he settles into a career – probably not in my lifetime.

Alexander will be the popular mayor of a city when he grows up. He never meets a stranger and is eager to play with whoever else shows up at a playground. For now, he is a follower of his big brother a lot of the time. They are so close in age that it’s like they are twins and what one doesn’t think of, the other one does. Jackie and Momoh have their hands full with two bright and very active boys. My friend, Ginny, who has two almost grown grandsons tells me that at their age they are still messing with each other just like they did when they were little. Oh boy.

We brought Mollie home a couple of hours before I took the boys and their mom to the airport. Jan had a session with the boys where she laid out the best way to handle a skittish dog who is afraid of just about everything and everyone. The boys took her at her word and were very quiet and calm around Mollie for as long as they could be. Mollie hid behind my legs for a while, but eventually she retreated to her blanket on the couch. 

Then Cameron, who might be a little afraid of dogs himself, accomplished the almost impossible. He sat quietly next to Mollie, petted her head gently, and didn’t talk. That was surprising in itself and she stayed in her spot. But the biggest surprise came when she flipped over on her back and exposed her belly so he could rub it. She doesn’t do that for anyone at first, and often doesn’t trust anyone but us enough to show her most vulnerable side. There was an exchange of trust and understanding between boy and dog. Jan is still talking about it.

The Sorry set and Wicked Monopoly game are back on their shelf, probably until the next time boys visit. Alexander showed his prowess at counting and reading cards, which I think is great for someone in Kindergarten. He has a quick grasp of the rules, although he proposed many modifications, mostly to increase his odds of winning. He wasn’t real happy when we refused his suggestions. We did spend hours in happy competition. 

I never knew my grandparents, three of whom died before I was born. My maternal grandmother was a strict and mostly humor-less woman. She did not tolerate any loud behavior or any arguing about rules. How she produced my mother, who was very funny, I’ll never know. What I did learn from Grandma was respect for my elders and the futility of having too much fun in her presence. 

My own mother died before my kids were born. I know that she would have been a good grandma to be around. She loved card games and laughing and would have adored Jackie and Ted. So, I feel like it’s up to me to present as she might have if she’d had the chance. I treasure my role as Yaya to my two boys. But let it be known that I can be firm when it is called for.

As we were driving to the airport, from the back seat came some Cameron wisdom. “I feel like I’m exactly where I belong.”, he declared. “And I’m happy with it.” So this morning I miss those little boys and am so grateful to be a part of their lives.

Today’s blog

Easter Sunday

04/20/2025

Lynn Murphy Mark

His birth was a miracle, but much easier for me to grasp than what we celebrate today. A baby is born under peculiar circumstances; a star shines steadily to guide poor local shepherds and foreign magicians to see him and his parents. This I can understand. Like Mary, I have gone through hours of labor as my own miracles entered this world. She and I share that experience.

Much of this holy man’s life experience is hidden from us. We rely on writing from followers of his – often this writing occurs decades after his untimely death. And most of it chronicles the three short years during which the most astounding events occurred. He healed the sick, he raised the dead, he taught the multitudes precious life lessons.

We have quotations of words from his mouth that sometimes baffled people then and now. He spoke in parables, in stories that made sense to some and infuriated others. He was not afraid to speak his Truth, even when he knew well that powerful authorities would object to his revolutionary sayings.

All of this I understand. I imagine the agony that overcame him on Good Friday. I can see his beloveds taking his body from the cross, carrying it to a quiet little room carved out of stone. He would have been anointed with precious oils and the tears that fell from beloveds’ eyes. The Prince of Peace no longer able to express his love for them must have felt like a huge, painful loss. I can see the men struggling to roll a huge stone to cover the entrance to his burial chamber. 

Then they all scattered to their private places of mourning. I have been there too. Suddenly there is a gaping hole in the chest, and it is unclear what will ever heal and fill that broken heart space. But what was coming was unimaginable.

The next morning, the women who loved him most went to his gravesite, presumably to mourn and pray and comfort each other. They were as much his disciples as the twelve men who had sometimes straggled behind him trying to understand where they were going and what, exactly, this man was capable of? 

I can imagine their astonishment at the gaping opening of the tomb. The rock ledge where his body had been carefully laid was just that – a ledge holding a crumpled shroud and nothing else. Had grave robbers disrupted his peaceful resting place? Why? And the inevitable question: where was he? They looked all around, but the only other being there was a humble gardener. The women ran to find their companions, carrying this perplexing news. Where was the Lamb of God?

Having been a hospice nurse for many years I have been present at hundreds of deaths. I have seen the light go out of someone, and I know that the light now shines somewhere else. I have prepared bodies to be transported on a long journey from deathbed to grave. I know very well the stillness of death. I know the finality of it all. But what I don’t know is what it took for Jesus to rise from his tomb, defying the laws of nature. Except maybe that law that says matter can neither be created nor destroyed. This phenomenon has a name: The Law of Mass Conservation.

This law helps me to know that, in a manner that is actually beyond all understanding, the energy that was Jesus was transformed – not destroyed, just changed – into a presence that tested the faith of his followers. Ultimately, I believe this is what Jesus’ main purpose was: to challenge belief systems and to invite us into this Paschal mystery.

04/19/2025

Today’s blog

Lynn Murphy Mark

The Seniors

On Thursday I ventured into Glendale to pick up Jackie and the boys for the time they allotted to spend with Jan and me. That time has rushed by, as good times usually do. Today, on this rainy Holy Saturday, I will take them to the airport this afternoon so they will be home tomorrow for the arrival of the Easter Bunny, I mean, the Easter day celebration…

The last two days have been filled with little boy energy, contained within a smallish 1 bedroom condo. Alexander proclaimed that he liked this home that is “actually an apartment.” It is very close quarters here, but enough space to allow for game playing, movie watching, grilled cheese eating, and one lunch with Rose and Mary.

When Cameron got into my car on Thursday he declared that he wanted to watch Wheel of Fortune and Jeopardy. Not because he is drawn to these programs but because he wanted to watch them with “The Seniors”. By that he means Jan and I and Rose and Mary. I didn’t question the term. It seems so appropriate. And I guess if you are a WoF and Jeopardy fan you qualify as a Senior.

But first there was a Lego challenge awaiting the boys. Cameron assigned himself to help Gigi (Jan) build her 945 piece Lego Wicked set that I gave her for Christmas. Xander and I were meant to build a less complex set featuring a boat that would actually float in the tub. So Cameron set off to open the bags of pieces that are mostly green, of course, and have figurines for the main characters in the Wicked movie. They made a huge pile on one end of the dining room table.

In my best Senior mode I tried to advise him to just open the bags in order since they were numbered from one to nine. He wasn’t having this. He did open the  first instruction booklet and off he went. With dizzying speed he started assembling. Jan and I had thought it might take him a day and a half to finish this big project. Three hours later, there was the Wicked emerald castle complete with Elphaba and Glinda and Madame Morrible. It was an incredibly fast build and we Seniors were left with our mouths open, reminded that this child is a genuine Lego Master.

Xander was not too attracted to my little project, so this Senior set about building the puny little 145 piece boat by herself. I can report that it made it into the tub last night and, as promised, it floats. Xander was more interested in creating fighting matches between two of the figurines. This has been his MO since he could hold one thing in each hand and have them do battle with each other, complete with sound effects.

While Cameron was building, I started working on the brownie mix. These boys have never had a brownie in their short lives, so it was up to me to introduce them to this chocolate delight. After the mix was in the pan and in the oven, with Mom’s permission I introduced them to the most fun thing about making brownies: licking the spatula and the stirring spoon. That was a huge success. Once the brownies were done and cool enough to eat they were served their first brownies. They declared them delicious and their mother promised to add them to her baking repertoire.

Yesterday morning, Cameron was up at the crack of dawn. We also have a Wicked monopoly set that caught his eye – by the way, Jan is a huge fan of Cynthia Erivo and by extension also a fan of the Wicked movie, hence the Wicked theme at our house. Anyway, Cameron and I played monopoly in the early morning dawn hours. Before the game was done, he owned all the properties and left me with a measly 10 Ozian coins to my name. Cameron 1, Senior 0. 

There is a pretty cool playground less than a mile from the house, so they visited that twice and used up some of that endless energy. Apparently Xander spent too much time on a spinning thing and the result was a prodigious episode of getting rid of his lunch. There was also some TV watching of a very annoying show called “Bad Dinosaurs” that the Seniors did not appreciate but the boys loved it for its sound effects and bad behavior on the part of the dinosaurs.

So ends 2 ½ days of fun and indulgence. And, by the way, Cameron declared both WoF and Jeopardy to be very boring. So much for the Seniors’ watching habits. They can take that off their bucket list!

04/16/2025

Today’s blog

Lynn Murphy Mark

1984 in 2025

Last night I watched Rachel Maddow. This is the only news show that I watch with regularity, and occasionally I get a few minutes of Lawrence O’Donnell following Rachel’s show. I know I can be accused of a heavy bias toward liberal news outlets, and I have to agree. But as I remarked to Jan last night, it is nice not to have the television on 24/7 tuned to MSNBC. One hour a day is enough for me. That and my car radio is tuned to NPR at all times. 

Last night’s show featured a whistleblower from the National Labor Relations Board. This brave man has reported an apparent huge breach of sensitive information by DOGE operatives. Almost immediately after a pathway to the inner workings of the NLRB was established, a Russia-based website tried to penetrate the NLRB by using approved login information. The DOGE operatives left no trace of themselves, or any information of what they actually did while searching the NLRB’s confidential files.

The part that gave me chills is to learn that after he requested an investigation into this breach, someone taped a letter to his door at home. The letter included sensitive personal information about him and pictures of him walking his dog – pictures taken by an overhead drone. The man is not letting this deter him from getting to the bottom of what DOGE actually did to gain information about companies and labor unions and their leaders.

In George Orwell’s novel, 1984, the protagonist is a man named Winston Smith. Smith protests against the totalitarian government. His goal is to fight against the mind control methods of the government through  protests and an illicit love affair. It does not turn out well for him. By the end of the book he has been tortured and reprogrammed to support the powers that be.

The novel describes a government that has become a totalitarian regime, controlling all aspects of life and manipulating history. Surveillance and propaganda are the methods used to force obedience and loyalty to the party at the top. Speech is regulated and speaking out against the administration is not tolerated. 

These mind control efforts are underway through the goals of Project 2025. In 47’s administration, an unelected man is invading our private data. Efforts are underway to demolish Social Security and the IRS along with many other government programs. DOGE is not really about cutting costs. In my opinion it’s reason for existing is to force us into loyalty to 47 and his minions. It intends to keep us off-balance and afraid. Institutions like the press and colleges and universities are being penalized for allowing freedom of speech.

This administration believes it is entitled to ignore court orders, including from the Supreme Court. The travesty of justice that is being forced upon people sent to a concentration camp in another country is beyond belief. The other day, 47 made reference to “homegrowns”, aka US citizens, being jailed and sent to other countries as well. 

I live in the same building with a really nice couple with whom we are friendly. They accepted our invitation last year to attend Jan’s 80^th birthday celebration. We always speak when we see each other. We’ve been out to dinner with them once to thank them for something nice they did for us. They both voted for 47 on November 5^th. Now every time I see one of them it’s all I can do not to ask them outright, “Is this what you thought you were getting when you voted for him?”. I have no way of knowing if they regret their decision or if they actually support what is going on around us. 

Last night Katie and I were texting as we watched Rachel’s show. I told her that it’s altogether possible that Jan is getting an ulcer as a result of the political landscape. Katie says the only time she feels peace is when she is buried in a book, or listening to music. Those are her oases in this cruel desert. I have my job to keep my mind busy, and my 12 Step meetings to keep me on track. I try to walk 30 minutes most days, and I find that the quiet rhythm of steps helps settle my mind. I write this little blog as one way to practice free speech. I support organizations that are fighting against totalitarianism. That’s the best I’ve got. 

04/13/2025

Today’s blog

Lynn Murphy Mark

Foxtrot Delta Tango

There are t-shirts coming out with various iterations of the letters, FDT. No, it’s not a misspelling of the famous florist company. It does represent three words that have become way too popular in my daily vocabulary. As soon as I see 47’s face or hear his raspy voice the once-forbidden foxtrot word busts into consciousness. As helpless as I feel in the wake of his dangerous and sadistic polices, it is one expression that I can utter, hopefully to myself.

We had dinner with friends last night. All of us are gay and two couples are lawfully married – for now. One of the women is pretty sure that when 47 has finished banishing people from this country, he is coming after us. She and I agreed that it’s altogether possible that our marriages may be in danger. 

Jan and I have been together since 2005. In 2006 we had a lovely commitment ceremony at Trinity Episcopal Church officiated by our friend, Reverend Anne Kelsey. She was brave enough to hold our ceremony before it was completely acceptable to do so. In 2014, we were living in Santa Fe. That year, New Mexico legalized gay marriage. I remember going to city hall to get our marriage license. The clerk there declared it one of  her happiest duties to hand out the precious certificates. On June 11, we had a private ceremony at our home. Reverend Brandon Johnson pronounced us a married couple. 

In all our time together we have not tried to convert anyone to gay-ness. We have not interfered in anyone’s marriage to declare it not acceptable for whatever reason. We have not protested against gay couples who adopt babies and give them happy and healthy homes. We have not objected to people’s desire to transform their bodies to better express who they feel themselves to be. 

We have explained to our grandsons that a solid marriage is between two people who love one another and are devoted to each other. Our youngest, Alexander, asked in wide-eyed innocence, “You mean girls can marry girls and boys can marry boys?” Yes, Xander, yes they can. For the time being, anyway. 

According to the Holocaust Encyclopedia, “Before the Nazis came to power in 1933, gay communities and networks flourished in Germany, especially in big cities…during the Nazi era between 5,000 and 15,000 men were imprisoned in concentration camps…This group of prisoners was typically required to wear a pink triangle on their camp uniforms.”

At the dinner table my friend and I expressed our concern that the way MAGA policies are being pushed through it won’t be long before there is a declaration that gay marriages are not legitimate. Jan, being her brave self, declared that this is a hill she is prepared to die on. 

She and our other dinner companions grew up in the 40’s and 50’s when the only option was to live in the proverbial closet. They have lived through the worst kind of prejudice. They have worked in professional capacities, hiding their other life from co-workers and supervisors and organizations. They have kept their intimate relationships a deep secret for years. 

This is why I found Jan in tears that day in Santa Fe as she was holding the newspaper with a big title about the approval of gay marriages. I don’t think she ever thought she would see that day. She was undone by this new freedom. We didn’t wait too long after that to formalize and legalize our relationship. We decided to acknowledge our civil right to do so. 

I remember Reverend Brandon telling us how he and our senior minister had gone to city hall to officiate dozens of marriages on that first day of legal status. People were there from Texas and surrounding states to proclaim their right to marry. He was there for hours as couple after couple were joined in holy and civil matrimony. He said he will never forget that day. Nor will I. 

Foxtrot Delta Tango.

04/12/2025

Today’s blog

Lynn Murphy Mark

Immigration stuff

The month of May is coming soon. In the 31 days that make this month, three clients will become US Citizens. In April alone, three other clients will have their citizenship interviews and hopefully get in line for an oath ceremony in May or June. Only one of these six people represented a regular case with no complications. My other five clients have been through the process with fairly big issues in the way. 

Five people were denied the chance to move on to an Oath Ceremony and had to resubmit an application. There is a provision in the immigration law that allows for a person to be exempted from taking the civics exam in English, and from taking the reading and writing exam in English. 

This exemption requires a detailed statement from a physician or a licensed psychologist attesting that due to a medical condition the client is unable to learn or study in English. The practitioner must certify that because of the condition, the client’s capacity to learn and retain new information is severely compromised. In addition to the regular citizenship application, called an N-400, the client must present an N-648 – the medical exemption form.

For a period of time, USCIS officers were allowed to deny the exemption if they did not judge the exemption form to be specific enough. Describing the condition that affects the ability to learn new things has to be worded in a certain way. This required a lot of time spent calling doctors’ offices, speaking to the nurse, sending sample letters, sending instructions from USCIS, and writing letters to doctors asking them to modify the language used so that it fit the requirement. 

Because I’m an old nurse, I know how to approach the receptionist who answers the phone. These highly trained gatekeepers know how to protect their doctors from doing more work than is absolutely necessary. What I’ve found to be effective is to quickly tell the patient’s basic story. Then I tell them that the doctor is the only person who can clear the way for a person to become a new citizen. I give them the Cliff Notes version of the story.

All five of these people are victims of severe PTSD due to conditions in their home country that prompted them to come to the United States. One lady, from Syria, was denied twice by the same officer who did not approve of the language used. Her story is as tragic as the rest: she witnessed members of her family killed by a bomb dropped by her own government. Since then she has suffered from depression, severe anxiety, and fear of leaving her home. I’ve been working on her case for three years. I’ve gone through three different doctors to get the correct wording on the form. I am so happy to report that this last interview was successful and she will soon be a citizen.

When we go for the citizenship interview I arrange for an interpreter to attend as well. The interpreter is a key person in this scenario. USCIS does not allow family members in the interview, so I have to hire the interpreter through companies with whom we have contracts. He or she must establish a quick rapport with the client, and help me explain what to expect in the interview. I have nothing but praise for the interpreters that I have met. They have a natural understanding of the difficulties that my clients have faced in their mutual home country.

The only problem I’ve ever had happened last week, when the interpreter did not appear. Turns out his wife had taken his driver’s license to conduct some business and had not returned it to his wallet. So when he entered the federal building without a license, he was not permitted to enter. This all happened 5 minutes before the scheduled interview. Luckily the USCIS officer is a young man who is kind and laid back. He arranged for an interpreter to do telephonic interpreting. This is an unusual happening.

In my little office the two of us who go to these interviews swap stories about one particular officer. She is inordinately strict and not very friendly. She is impatient if the client takes a little too long to answer her questions. She has asides that she speaks out loud, intended to remind us that she has the power. My colleague and I call her the Blonde Bombshell – and that’s the sanitized version.

My attorney friend in Florida, Lindsay, has a sweet practice that I am going to start. For every client who becomes a citizen, she places a big colorful star on the wall. I love that idea. It’s a reminder that the work we do can change lives.

04/09/2025

Today’s blog

Lynn Murphy Mark

A friendly reminder

One of the things that is important in any 12 Step program is to agree to be a sponsor when approached. Recently a young woman in a meeting contacted me after the meeting and asked if I would consider being her sponsor. I responded that I would be honored to serve in that capacity for as long as she finds it helpful. She lives on the West Coast so we won’t be getting together in person, but between email, phone and zoom, we will have plenty of contact. 

As in all 12 Step programs, self-image is one of the torturous paths that many of us walk. In fact, not until we address our sometimes skewed self-image can we enjoy any thought of recovery. There is a prayer, the 3d Step prayer, that asks our higher power for relief from “the bondage of self”. The first time I read those words, I understood immediately what they mean. This bondage goes beyond my self-absorption and selfishness and gets all wrapped up in feeling sorry for myself. In this frame of mind I am not free to appreciate my possibilities or the overall goodness of my life. Instead I give in to resentments and fears when I am at my worst.

I bring this up because my young friend is struggling with how she sees herself, and how she thinks others see her as well. It’s not unusual with our particular disease to have a great deal of “body dysmorphia”. This is so prevalent, even in the general population, that there is a mental health condition “where a person spends a lot of time worrying about flaws in their appearance.” (National Health Service, UK). BDD, or body dysmorphia disorder, is written about at the Mayo Clinic, where it is suggested that psychological therapy and medication is often indicated. At its worst, this condition can “cause major distress or problems in social life, work, school or other areas of functioning.” (Mayo Clinic).

After reading her latest offering I had to confront my own thoughts about my body. (This is actually one of the benefits of being a sponsor because both parties are able to deal with difficult subjects and offer assistance and support to one another.) I had to think back on the decades during which I have disparaged my body and been totally dissatisfied with my appearance. I’m grateful that my young friend and I can address this while she is still in her 20’s.

As I work the steps in my program, I rely greatly on feedback from my own sponsor. One evening she sent me these words by Nayyirah Waheed: And I said to my body softly, “I want to be your friend.” It took a long breath. And replied, “I have been waiting my whole life for this.” We both teared up.

For me, I had a mostly unhappy relationship with my body most of my life. But now, in my older age I have finally learned just how grateful I need to be for all the ways that my body has served and saved me. Working the 12 Steps is a most important factor, as I learn how important it is to have a forgiving attitude towards so many unruly thoughts that I carry with me.

So, I wrote to my young friend, how I am reforming my way of thinking. I sent her an email with these words, “I think that many of us grew up and have lived with a distorted body image. In my later years I have learned to work on this by learning how to be grateful to my body and how to become its friend. After all, it has been my vehicle through this lifetime and has withstood illness and depression and injury. It has also allowed me to do things like swim, water ski, jog, and walk. It sheltered my two children for the nine months that we lived together in one body. Every day I try not to be too harsh in my criticism because I feel a lot better when I keep up a good friendship with my body. I’m not saying it is easy – in this country there is so much emphasis on looking a particular way, and being overweight is not acceptable in so many places.” 

I don’t know if these words will help her, but in that mysterious 12 Step program way, it helped me.

04/07/2025

Today’s blog

Lynn Murphy Mark

Bits of colored glass

In 1995 I made a big change in the trajectory of my nursing career. I left my management role in psychiatry for a new endeavor in hospice. I never dreamed that the next 16 years would be devoted to palliative care and the ending of precious lives. 

When people find out that one is or has been a hospice nurse, there is almost a universal reaction: faces soften, brows wrinkle a little, and it’s either a verbal response of, “I could never do that!” or “God bless you!” . I can feel the respect that comes forth, respect for the ability to participate in something monumental that, as a people, we are not all that good at facing. 

Hospice work is a calling and a challenge. It takes courage to enter the life of a family that is facing an outcome that no one wants. Working gently with people who are in denial of what’s coming requires the ability to be hopeful and realistic at the same time. Judging when people are ready to really talk about the inevitable takes patience and compassion. Often, the patient is much better prepared to face it than the family caregivers. So many issues arise that it takes a whole team of people with different skill sets to address them. 

After a couple of years in hospice I noticed a certain sadness of spirit taking root. I loved every part of the work, but I was still learning how to leave sorrow behind as I left a patient’s house. It’s hard not to carry the burdens of home visits, both while the person is still alive and at the time of their death. Yet, maintaining a certain psychic distance was essential for my ongoing ability to be effective in the face of tragedy. 

One day I was walking on Main Street in Saint Charles, window shopping. I came to “The Glass Workbench” and saw a sign for lessons in stained glass craft. I immediately went into the store and signed up for the next class. What followed was years of pure joy and creativity, once I had mastered the art of cutting glass and joining pieces together with a soldering gun.

The finished product arrives in a series of steps. First there is the choosing of a pattern. Flowers were my favorite subjects. Once the pattern is decided on, there is the fun of examining sheets of glass of every color imaginable, and choosing the colors and textures that will give the best result. There are a variety of tools needed, so the collection begins. Glass cutter, grinder, lead solder, copper foil, soldering iron, a workbench, special nails to hold the piece together as it is being soldered. 

I would pick the pattern and colors, and begin the cutting of paper templates that would be the guides for cutting the pieces of glass. Then the cutting begins. I would spend hours examining the grain of the glass to get the best piece, then cut each piece to fit the pattern. Sometimes the cutting was effortless and it seemed as if the glass itself was willing to be shaped. But there were also times when I was not in tune with the glass and would have to stop cutting. I could definitely feel when I was aligned with the process and when I wasn’t.

As time passed and I got better, people would ask me if I would make a piece for them. I made a few custom pieces for a big window sidelight, and for cabinet fronts. Mostly I made them all to be given away. There was such satisfaction in finishing a project and delivering it to its new owner. It brought joy to recipients and to me.

I will always be grateful for the ability to create something of beauty. I no longer am involved in this wonderful art form, but my heart remembers the love and creativity that went into my time with colored pieces of glass. It helped me keep my work life in its proper perspective. It also enriched my soul and put me in tune with God’s creative gift of artisanship.

04/06/2025

Today’s blog

Lynn Murphy Mark

A mother’s terror

Sometimes it’s a quiet day in my corner of the Immigration world. I am the only one there from our small group and I get a lot done. I had a list of things to do for a couple of my clients, as well as a list of intake voicemails to take care of. These calls are how we get our clients and it’s my job to return the calls, assess the situation, determine if it is a case we can take, and make a referral if it’s not. About one third of my time is devoted to the intake process. It’s how I meet people who are looking for help, or who are simply looking for some information and options. Many of these calls are from Spanish speaking people, so being fluent is a plus.

One day it was nearing time to leave, but there were two phone calls I still had to make. One was to a client of mine with the question that all of our clients eventually ask. To me, the biggest problem with our Immigration laws is the difficulty of getting a work authorization card. Most of our clients have to wait several years – and sometimes more – to be granted permission to work legally. At any given time our department is serving over 100 people. I’m going to say that 90% of them are ready, able, and willing to work. They have families to support, so most are working in our “underground” economy, doing jobs that US citizens don’t want to do.

My last phone call was in answer to a message that a very young sounding woman left. All she did was leave her phone number and ask for a call back. I didn’t know what her issue was because she didn’t leave any details. I called the number, and the reception was spotty at best, with a lot of background noise. I could barely hear what she was saying, but I did hear the panic in her voice. “I need help finding my children.”, was what I finally heard from her. It caught me off guard because that is not a request I have gotten before.

I asked her for more details. She said her sons had been dropped off at our Southern border and were to have been taken across by another family also coming to enter without permission. Apparently the children had crossed over near Nogales, Arizona. They had supposedly made the crossing last Tuesday and she had heard nothing from them since. Thinking these were probably teenagers I asked their ages. What she answered almost made me gasp. The boys are 12 and 8 years old. “I don’t know where they are”, she said, “they have my phone number but no one has called.” 

The area around Nogales leads into the Sonoran desert, one of the deadliest places to cross into. Temperatures soar well over 100 during the day and drop into the 50’s at night. There are no water stations except for those set up by a not for profit agency called No More Deaths. There are no phone booths available for calls to be made. In short, it is a deadly zone and hundreds, if not thousands, of immigrants have died in that desert. It is such a problem that there are agencies whose purpose is to find bodies, try to identify them, and then try to contact family members back home – wherever that may be.

This is the first thing that came to my mind, but the last thing that I would have said to the caller. I told her there was a possibility that the boys had been caught by the Border Patrol. Without knowing exactly what my next steps would be, I told her I would do a little research and call her back as soon as possible.

Since there was no one around, it was up to me to figure out my next steps. I started by calling the Southern border office of the CBP (Customs and Border Patrol). It took a while to be connected and the person gave me a familiar number – Immigration customer service. I know better than to call that number for this kind of help. Mr. Google and I found a more direct number to CBP. This time I was told that they were unable to release any information about minors, but I could call the ORR (Office of Refugee Resettlement) since they are the agency that gets minors crossing the border. I got the 800 number, and called it to see if there was a Spanish option, which there is. The message said they were experiencing a high volume of calls, so wait times were longer than usual.

The only thing I could do for this mother was to give her the ORR number. I told her she would have to wait a long time for an answer, but there was a Spanish option for her. I told her to keep calling until she got through. In my head, I know this is a long shot.

This was one of those calls that reminds me how broken our immigration system is, and how the most vulnerable, brave, people take their lives in their hands in search of “a better life…”  This mother won’t be a client of ours, but I am determined to call her when the office opens next. Hopefully by then she will have heard from her boys. Dear God.