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08/21/2025

Today’s blog

Lynn Murphy Mark

A mind of my own

Last night I was watching the series, “Annika”, on Prime. I blew through the second season in a few evenings, thoroughly enjoying the mystery and the humor. The main character, Annika, is a marine homicide detective in Scotland who is very funny and well versed in classic literature, which she tells the viewer about as the shows progress. This is yet another outstanding British crime show. I enjoyed it so much that I went in search of Season 1, not sure if I have ever watched it. 

According to Prime, I have. All 8 shows indicate that someone in my household has been through this season as well. Unless Mollie Dog or Jan were the viewers – highly unlikely – I am the party in question. This little sentence reminds me of Lily Tomlin portraying a telephone operator with her funny snort and voice asking, “Is this the party to whom I am speaking?”. 

OK. That’s an example of how my mind works. Out of the blue comes a memory, popping into awareness. There’s no rhyme or reason to how my mind works, hence this little blog about minds, mine in particular.

Back to my friend Annika. It was fast approaching bedtime but I had to start Season 1, episode 1, to see what I remember about the show. It turns out I don’t remember a damn thing about it. Watching it will be like it’s totally new to me. That’s a treat, since I so enjoyed the second season, and have made a commitment not to watch very much “regular” TV. I find myself impatient with most of the inane shows featured by the major networks. 

I have given up on MSNBC, except for Rachel Maddow and an occasional Lawrence O’Donnell offering. My usual default of Cardinals baseball watching has gone by the wayside since I am a staunch not-a-fan of the management. I have developed an interest in women’s basketball, so if there is a Fever game on, I will watch, wearing my Indiana Fever shirt. To me, women’s professional basketball players are much more strategic than the 7 foot tall male players who simply reach up and plunk a ball into the basket. 

It’s a little distressing to me that most of my childhood memories are not available to me. I remember a few episodes that are like still shots of memory as opposed to a running version of what happened in my early years. But it’s not just my childhood that’s hidden. My adult friends will say, “Remember when…?”. Usually my answer is a simple “Nope.”. 

It turns out that living in my brain is like being a witness to a series of single slide shows. Random things pop up. Like yesterday. Katie and I play Wordle every day and let each other know how we did. It’s a way to make sure that we both made it out of bed, rising on the right side of the dirt. Yesterday’s word was “LLAMA”. As soon as I figured the puzzle out I started laughing. Into my mind pops a little anecdote that Katie once told me about her very funny son, Michael. She was complaining about some body part that she called her “como se llama”. He was taking care of a sick baby, so his comeback was that he too was dealing with a “comatose llama.” Very funny. To me anyway. So it turns out that I had to remind Katie about this little exchange.

That’s how this mind works. Random and sometimes unreliable, my mind carries me through life remembering the oddest things. Do I remember my children’s first words? Nope. An episode that a friend describes in great detail? Usually not. Indiana family members who tell me about a childhood incident? Not on my life. But if you’ve told me a story, chances are I will remember in an instant. So how is it that the details of my past are so fuzzy or flat out unreachable?

Entertainment wise, my memory lapses are a gift. Like Annika, season one. I have a whole new series to watch and I went to bed absolutely delighted. There are books that I remember enjoying so I can read them like déjà vu all over again. However, if you would like me to reach into your past and recall an anecdote, I’m at your service.

08/16/2025

Today’s blog

Lynn Murphy Mark

How to be happy

It’s mostly been a happy week so I thought I’d write about the benefits of being happy and what got me there. For me, happy happens in the midst of tiny victories – like solving the New York Times puzzle game, “Connections”. Not that I can solve it every day, more like every third day or so. I’ll put the right thoughts together and pair the words correctly. It usually happens when I can let my mind wander around the possible meaning of the 16 words in the puzzle. Sometimes my age is an advantage because I recognize some old time words and their meanings. And then there’s “Wordle”, another word game that I find quite entertaining. I am still grateful to my ninth grade English teacher who made us learn enough new words to have a pretty wide vocabulary.

Last Sunday the week started nicely. I was a prayer chaplain for the first time at my new church. Three people came to pray, which I consider a success. I’m stationed before and after church for any prayer needs. There’s a nice description of what I hope to accomplish in the church newsletter this week: “She will offer an affirmative prayer out loud, reminding you of your inner strengths…she will pray that you are guided by God’s infinite love, presence and support…and that any joy or gratitude will be multiplied and any fear or doubt will be transformed into peace and confidence.” That’s exactly what affirmative prayer wants to call forth from the person asking for prayer.

On Thursday Jan had her follow up endoscopy to check on the state of the three large stomach ulcers that were found about 12 weeks ago. The good news is that they are all healed and she is to continue taking the miracle anti-acid super pill that is responsible. We went out to breakfast at First Watch, a place that always makes me happy. So much so that I almost ordered a Mimosa. I didn’t, for reasons unknown.

Of course the fire excitement on Wednesday was not a happy-making occasion. Our patio is still a mess of charred material and melted plastic and ruined furniture. But Mr. Upstairs has agreed to pay for clean-up, as he should. After all it was a smoldering cigarette of theirs that lit their deck on fire. 

I talked to Jackie, too. The boys are really enjoying their camp experiences, and she gets time to herself during the day. Her Summer is almost over and she will have to hop back in the school saddle before the end of August. Cameron will be 8 on August 30^th. I can hardly believe this as it seems like just yesterday that he was born and I was there to witness his arrival. Alexander got his yellow belt in Taekwondo and I watched the video of him doing some moves then breaking a few boards with his little hand. Anyway, news from New Jersey is always a source of joy. 

Wednesday I took my friend Mary for her post-accident doctor visit and she got a good report for the progress she is making. While we were gone Rose got in a nap. When I brought Mary home there was a bag of home grown tomatoes, cucumbers and peppers waiting as my reimbursement. Any garden tomatoes are a source of happy and I have enjoyed them for the last two nights.

If you can trust an AI definition of “happiness”, what I just looked up says there are three elements of happiness: pleasure, engagement and meaning. Pleasure is the enjoyment we derive from activities in order to savor the good things in life, and from finding opportunities to look for joy. Engagement means being absorbed in an activity and getting satisfaction in the process. Meaning means finding the source of purpose and significance and connecting to something larger than ourselves. 

The philosopher, Bertrand Russell, wrote this in his 1930 book, “Conquest of Happiness”,: “Let your interests be as wide as possible, and let your reactions to things and persons that interest you be as far as possible friendly rather than hostile.”  He wrote that there are seven elements that helps us to “escape from the psychological sources of misery”. These are Zest, Affection, Family, Work, Perspective, Balance, and Radiance. 

I believe I experienced all seven this week. I am grateful.

08/14/2025

Today’s blog

Lynn Murphy Mark

Being neighborly

As I write this I can feel myself getting angry all over again at the people who live directly above us in our condo building. We have a very uneasy relationship with them as it is. We used to be friendly, but then life got lifey and that changed about a year ago. 

It all started at a Homeowners Association Meeting after Jan became the treasurer of our HOA. There have been some gifts from that job – mainly that Jan gets to use her awesome spreadsheet talents every month. She enjoys the company of her fellow board members and some good friendships have developed as a result.

The downside is that she gets unsolicited feedback when residents see her in the halls or in the parking garage. Occasionally she will get an irate phone call about something, usually trivial, that angers the caller. As it happens, our upstairs neighbor called yelling about something that she thought meant the end of the world. Jan was kept on the phone for over 10 minutes as the woman ranted loudly. Jan’s a lot more polite than I would have been because I would have hung up the phone after a minute of abuse.

In fact, this year has been a difficult one for the board of the HOA. There are a few folks who banded together to complain at every board meeting, so much so that the business at hand couldn’t be addressed effectively. Finally I’d had enough. I stood up at one meeting and said I wanted to remind everyone that the board is made up of volunteers, not paid employees. I said that I was a witness to how many hours Jan spends on the treasurer’s report. I also said she had been verbally harassed over the phone. I did not identify the woman upstairs, saying only that it was a resident.

The neighbors in question happened to be at that meeting. The lady rabble-rouser and her husband  looked shocked that I would mention the inappropriate behavior even though there was no way anyone would know it was them. From that time on, the friendly relationship morphed into them not speaking to us, and not making eye contact anymore if we happen to ride the elevator together. 

Our upstairs neighbors are heavy smokers, out on their deck puffing away at all hours of the day and night. Mollie, being a protective little dog knows they’re up there and growls and barks in their direction when I take her out. She is not held back by the bounds of politeness. She flat out doesn’t like them. Dogs are good judges of character.

Yesterday being Wednesday, I was at breakfast with Rose when a long string of texts began. Someone had set off the fire alarm so most of the building’s residents left the building and gathered on the courtyard outside. At first, no one knew where or if there was a fire, but very soon the fire department and the police department arrived. Someone in a neighboring building had spotted a fire on a second floor deck and called 911. Meantime, Jan noticed that there was debris falling on our patio from upstairs. She thought the neighbors were sweeping their deck. It’s not unusual for debris from them to fall on our patio. Out Jan went to check on what was going on. What she saw was 2 -3 foot flames burning the deck directly above our patio. She called 911 and was advised to pull the fire alarm to evacuate our building and to get out of our unit.

The fire alarm produced a piercing, shriekingly loud noise and most residents left the building. There were several very annoyed people because their morning had been interrupted. A few refused to leave their units. Go figure. 

The fire department responded quickly. The people upstairs were not home so their door had to be broken down in order to let the firemen in. They tried foam, which did nothing but coat our patio. Then they brought up a hose and hosed it down. By that time one of our patio chairs had caught fire.

To shorten this story I need to say that this whole debacle was caused by upstairs having left a smoldering cigarette behind when they left for the airport to catch a flight to Tampa. Said cigarette somehow lit the cheap plastic flowers that adorn the deck. The flames quickly spread on to the wooden deck boards and the rest is history. As a result, our patio is covered with debris and old foam and glass from the lights they had strung on the deck railing.

When upstairs was finally contacted, Mr. Upstairs sent Jan a text. “We will be home tonight. Sorry for the inconvenience.” That only served to annoy Jan to no end. So, the future of our non-existent relationship with Mr. and Mrs. Upstairs looks bleak. If you know Jan, you know that she will not let this go until our patio has been professionally cleaned, and our patio stuff has been replaced. You can count on this happening.

08/12/2025

Today’s blog

Lynn Murphy Mark

In other news…

On a pretty steady basis, my phone is a repository of the latest grandsons activities. Sometimes they are just standing together in comfortable poses, sometimes a picture will celebrate a milestone, and sometimes there’s no special occasion other than a celebration of their young lives. 

Yesterday was a picture day as Alexander was tested for his yellow belt in Taekwondo. He showed some punching moves, a kick that lifted his leg almost over his head, and the requisite breaking of boards with his six year old hand. His older brother had gotten his yellow belt a month or so ago. Now there are two of them in the Momoh household.

Taekwondo is a Korean martial art. It’s name means “the way of the foot and fist”. The real point is training in self-defense and mental discipline. Both boys, who are bundles of energy, need a way to diffuse that energy that will help them respect authority and respect one another. I now have pictures of two boys proudly holding their certificates and wearing their yellow belts. 

They have been training themselves for years at home, practicing their versions of Ninja moves anywhere there is enough space. They have dressed as Ninjas for Halloween. They both have a good amount of respect for Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles. These four cartoon characters practice “ninjutsu” against evil guys in New York City. Ninjutsu is a Japanese way of life that extends beyond martial arts to encompass survival techniques and stealth attacks against the bad guys. Their enjoyment of the TMNT guys is reminiscent of that same pleasure that their Uncle Ted had when he was their age. 

Our house was full of plastic renditions of the Turtles and their equipment. This was a trend in the late 1980’s and early 1990’s. Ted had an extensive collection of figurines. One day we were in Walgreen’s where, at that time, there were TMNT figures for sale in the toy aisle. Ted spied a new one called, “Slicin’ dicin’ Shredder”. This one had a special sword, or some weapon that would enhance his evil ways. Ted wanted to get it, but I brushed him off and said we would get it next time we came to that Walgreens. In a very wise 6 year old prediction he said, “It won’t be here then.”. And he was right. And he was very disappointed.

Flash forward to my efforts to find him a Slicin’ Dicin’ Shredder that stretched into his adulthood. My mother’s guilt, which should have been spent on something way more important, led me to search Ebay one day. Eureka! There was that pristine action figure Ted had asked for decades earlier, still in its original package. So, in his 30’s I gifted him with the very Shredder he had asked for as a little kid. And, in a very silly sense, my guilt was soothed and resolved. Had I bought the thing at Walgreens I would have saved myself some $$$ and years of regret.

In other news, probably a bit of TMI, I had my annual Medicare doctor visit yesterday. My Primary Care guy is very young and enthusiastic about any hints that I am practicing self-care. I have lost some weight through diet and exercise, something that always pleases the medical establishment. I had my blood drawn by a very sweet lady who did not deserve my roll-away veins. Apparently that was the name of her day yesterday – “hard sticks” had presented themselves to her all day. The results are in and all of my levels are in the green (good) zone!

But she did it in only two sticks, apologizing for having to repeat the process. I told her my hospice story about what a terrible blood drawer I was – you either have the knack or you don’t, and I certainly don’t. But I told her that one of my skills was the ability to insert a urinary catheter under any circumstances. Once, I successfully put a catheter in a very large lady while she was in the recliner that was her permanent place. Now that’s an art – a weird one, but still…

08/11/2025

Today’s blog

Lynn Murphy Mark

A crack in the glass

This weekend something happened in Major League Baseball that is of a most phenomenal nature. MLB has been around since 1876, when the National League was formed. This was followed in 1901 by the establishment of the American League. Two years later, the two joined and formed the oldest major professional sports league in the world. Fast forward to 2000 when both leagues merged into a single organization led by the Commissioner of Baseball.

There have been other major milestones. On April 15, 1947, Jackie Robinson broke through the color barrier to start at first base for the Brooklyn Dodgers. He had played for the Negro Leagues’ Kansas City Monarchs for a couple of years. This “bold” move was followed that same year by the signing of Larry Doby to the Cleveland Indians, and the rest is history. What had been called, a “gentleman’s agreement” to keep African American athletes from playing in the major leagues dissolved. But it still took 7 more years for another five teams to integrate. Happy to say, the Cardinals were among that group. Finally, in 1959, the last hold out – the Boston Red Sox – signed Pumpsie Green to their roster.

A lot of this has happened in my lifetime. Growing up in Mexico I missed out on the enjoyment of baseball until one trip home to the United States when my dad took me to see a New York Yankees game. I remember it was a brilliantly sunny day and I was awed by the crowd and its reactions to good plays. 

Now I have experienced another miraculous milestone: a woman has become a Major League umpire. Jen Pawol, age 48, moved up from minor league games to take the field at a Marlins/Braves game. I would have given anything to see that. She worked the bases for the first two games, then stood behind the plate as the boss umpire yesterday. I have seen clips of the other three umpires shaking her hand and hugging her as a welcome to their world. Among the crowd were signs congratulating her, and thanking her on behalf of all girls and women who love baseball. She will donate her umpire cap and her scorecard to the MLB Hall of Fame to mark this occasion.

She didn’t get to Truist Field without a lot of hard work in the minor leagues. Her baseball career includes umpiring more than 1200 minor-league games. Baseball is in her blood. She has played softball in high school and earned a scholarship to college where she played as a catcher and began umpiring softball games for $15 a game. That is peanuts compare to a MLB umpire who can make between $150 and $450 K a year.

She made a career as an art teacher, having graduated from Fine Arts programs at Pratt Institute and Hunter College. She remained a part-time umpire for over a decade until she decided to attend an umpire training class in Florida and was rapidly selected for a spot in the MLB Advanced Course. In 2017 she began her umpiring career in the Gulf Coast League of the minors. She is not the first woman to umpire in the minor leagues. That honor belongs to several women, all of whom are mentors and supporters of Jen Pawol. 

Despite her selection to umpire at a MLB game, she will return to the minors as a person who can be called up to the majors to fill in if needed. Apparently it is possible for her to be called up as a full time MLB umpire next baseball season. I hope that happens for her. I would pay to see a game where she is behind the plate.

08/09/2025

Today’s blog

Lynn Murphy Mark

Saturday’s summary

This morning Enya is playing. Her music generally makes me feel peaceful and grateful, but today I am more subdued and reflective. It has been a busy Summer and the fact that we are into August already makes me think of how fast time flies at this age. I have adopted an attitude towards time that I heard Kathleen Madigan describe when talking about her parents in their 80’s. Her mother once told her that she and her contemporaries “have a different relationship with time at this age.” I get that. These days I can’t quite place happenings where they belong – I don’t usually know if something happened a year ago or 3 years ago. I’m lucky to remember that something happened at all.

It has been quite a Summer. Barely two weeks ago my cousin Sarah died quickly and unexpectedly. The only bright spot in that was my quick trip to Indiana for a celebration of her life and a reconnection with family. Less than two weeks ago my friend Mary was in a serious vehicle accident. Thankfully her injuries are not as severe as they might have been given that it was a five vehicle accident that closed an interstate highway for at least an hour. This last week my grandsons’ parents celebrated their ninth wedding anniversary. I was taken back to that magical time in Bermuda when I watched my first born get married against the backdrop of a very blue ocean. In June, my youngest turned 40 and now my children are 40-somethings. 

Less than a month ago I traveled for a long weekend with Katie at her sweet apartment in Baltimore. We spent one morning working to catalogue Kemet’s paintings and made some trips down memory lane. Kemet has been gone for 19 years, another trick of time. This month, on August 19, Jan and I will have made our first acquaintance twenty years ago in 2005 at the Starbucks at Lindbergh and Hwy 64. On July 22 we marked 19 years since we had our commitment ceremony at Trinity Episcopal Church in the Central West End. That was a lovely ceremony conducted by our brave minister in a time when gay anything was quite a hot topic in the Episcopal world.

Today I’m perched on the threshold of a new ministry. A couple of Sundays ago I gave a talk during service at my church about starting a prayer ministry. My minister and I have met a couple of times to consider this new endeavor and the talk was designed to inform the congregation of the possibilities that this new ministry contains. I have gotten messages that this is something that would contribute to the greater good. Two people have expressed an interest in being a part of this.

While I was at Katie’s we did card readings using “Sacred Rebel” Oracle cards. Each card carries a message, spelled out in a little companion book. Every card I drew mentioned the dawn of a new activity for me, and we decided it had to be about the prayer ministry. In the last two weeks I have drawn the same card twice. The title of the card is “Collaborative Dreaming”. Here is a part of what that card means: “You are being asked to honour your growing desire to co-create with conscious, like-minded people.  Your collaborative dreaming is a heart inspired win-win, bringing mutual enhancement to you and others…working with others creatively is a way to allow the heart to grow.” I am sure this has to do with the proposed prayer ministry. 

Finally, last week I met with a close friend. The purpose was for me to “give away” my 12 Step inventory in the form of a “Fifth Step” encounter. This came from work I have done on a Fourth Step, the one that says “We made a searching and fearless inventory of ourselves”, followed by the Fifth Step, “We admitted to God, to ourselves, and to another human being the exact nature of our wrongs”. It was a collection of character flaws that need correcting at the very least and require an amends at most. It is a somewhat painful, yet very cleansing, thing to do. My friend kindly gave me her thoughts. I left her house feeling a lot lighter.

I think I’ve gotten to the bottom of my slightly sober, solemn self this morning. My conclusion is that when life happens it’s good to pay attention to the lessons it brings. 

08/07/2025

Today’s blog

Lynn Murphy Mark

70’s and 80’s

No, this is not about those two wonderful decades. Instead I have been thinking about being ages 70-something and 80-something. I even have a couple of friends who are 90-somethings. It’s my opinion that to live into the 90’s requires strong stock and perseverance. 

Since both of my parents died in their sixties, I thought perhaps that fate might be mine as well. Thankfully I got through that decade relatively unscathed and am now working my way through my 70’s. I’m at the halfway point, and in September, God willing, I will be 76. I don’t know how I’m supposed to feel at this age, but I do know that I move a lot more slowly and deliberately through the days. Otherwise I live a busy life that I quite enjoy.

Tomorrow Jan will turn 81. Recently she said she was bothered by this, but had no specifics to back it up. My good friends, Rose and Mary will be 85 and 84 later this year. When I tell people that Rose is in her mid 80’s they can’t believe it. That’s because she mostly thinks “young” thoughts about what is the next right thing to do, she enjoys a great sense of humor, and she continues to be of service in so many ways.

But, as I said, slow is my new speed. This coming Monday I will visit my 12 year old primary care doctor for my annual Medicare “wellness” appointment. I don’t have much to report except a nagging pain in my right foot that appeared a few weeks ago and seems intent to stick around. No injury that I know of. Two doses of Aleve a day don’t completely get rid of it either. I have to say that I am so grateful to be relatively healthy otherwise.

 I remember my Aunt Doris, who ran her little farm well into her 80’s, who had almost crippling arthritis and walked with a pronounced limp. So I’m not too bothered by a little foot pain. It’s one of those mysterious pains that seem to crop up with no notice – apparently a requirement of the aging process. It is possible to wake up in the morning and another body part falls off for no reason or some particular movement becomes painful with no obvious cause. 

My friend who was in a multi-car accident almost a week ago is proving that it’s possible to bounce back from serious injury – slowly but surely. Each day she is a little stronger and able to do more for herself. One goal is to get well enough to go on a much anticipated cruise at the end of September. Maybe that’s the key – have goals that are worth working for. In my case I want to be plenty mobile for my visit to Santa Fe, also at the end of September. 

On Monday I spent the day with my Indiana family and noted a preponderance of white hair in the crowd. Of the eight Murphy first-cousins, only four of us are left. I am the “baby” in the little flock. While we were getting our picture taken, Jane reminded us to hold up our chins. I don’t know exactly how many chins we have between us, but it’s more than four for sure.

The other thing I’ve noticed is an intent on my part to get my affairs in order. A friend and I were talking about that just yesterday. And it’s not that either of us have any reason to think our demise is anywhere near. But our friend was in a serious accident that will surely change life for her in a few ways. And, I am so aware that my cousin Sarah literally dropped dead on her 78^th birthday. Those two events have reminded me of the work that is left behind after a death. Out of love and respect for my spouse and my children, I believe I should tidy up the details of my life so that the loose ends don’t become a big obstacle for them.

Each day I wake up is a gift. I try to remember that when my spirit is a little saggy. I know in my heart and soul that gratitude is the best attitude for me at this stage of life.

08/04/2025

Today’s blog

Lynn Murphy Mark

A short distance and a lot of time

Yesterday after church my new car and I set about the business of finding Westfield, Indiana. It is a suburb of Indianapolis and I had traveled there two years ago for a Murphy cousins reunion at my cousin Sarah’s house. Somewhere at home I have pictures of all of us as kids: Jack, Janice (Uncle John and Aunt Gertrude), Ann, Carolyn, Elaine, Jane, Sarah (Uncle Pat and Aunt Audrey), and me, the only child of Howard and Jacqueline Murphy. We were cute little Murphy’s whose families were eventually separated by careers and geography.

We’re all gray-hairs now, in our seventies and eighties. Half of us have made our transitions. Sarah is the latest one to leave the planet. Jack left last year. Janice died some 10 years ago. My cousin, Ann, made her transition years ago, after a short but vicious bout with cancer. Ann was the cousin with whom I stayed most of the time. She was a nurse, very competent and in charge of almost everything. Before she died I made a short trip to see her and be of whatever help I could. The only other thing I ever did for her was to stay with our Aunt Olive once so Ann and her family could make a well-deserved out of town trip. 

What I remember most about that trip was that Jackie, who was maybe 3 or 4, somehow got into Aunt Olive’s pill bottles. We never knew if she took any of them, but Aunt Olive, also a nurse, happened to have a bottle of Ipecac on hand (no one but a nurse would keep that in their home). The poison control center advised us to give it to Jackie. Poor baby sat on the edge of the kitchen sink while the Ipecac did its work. As an aside, in her small child-hood, she once confessed that she may have eaten some mushrooms from Grammy’s yard and got the Ipecac blast once more. I don’t think she’s ever eaten another mystery mushroom again.

After church yesterday I visited the drive-through Starbucks across the street from church, fortified myself with an iced coffee and hit the highway. The trip to Indianapolis is simple – get on 70 East and stay on it for 280 miles. My Onstar friend helped me find the hotel in Westfield. As I was pulling in to a parking place, my Chicago cousin Elaine pulled in next to me. I met her two sons and a granddaughter for the first time. The five of us had dinner together at a very good Thai restaurant across the street.

The four cousins who are left are gathering for Cousin Sarah’s funeral today. She died last week, very suddenly and unexpectedly, on her 78^th birthday. She and I were the youngsters in the group. Next month I’ll be 76, hard to believe but very real. In a few hours we will gather at Saint Mark’s Methodist church for a visitation and funeral. Elaine tells me there will be a lot of people there, partly because Sarah was so active at church, and being a social being, she has lots of friends and family.

Sarah’s daughter, Nora, and I have something in common. We are both only children. I just want to spend a few minutes with her and share the grief that comes with being an only child when your mother dies. The last time I saw Nora she was just a kid, and, along with my two kids, we met at a family reunion that had to be at least 35 years ago. Now Nora has her own brood of three teenagers. Proving once again that time flies and children grow up and have their own kids. 

There will be a luncheon after the funeral. I was going to start for home after the funeral but have since decided to stay. It is an hour later here in Indiana, so I will gain an hour on the way home and it won’t be too late when I get there. Besides, there are cousins and second cousins to meet and greet. 

So I will head West after lunch, and Sarah’s family and sisters will head East, to the Murphy family plot outside of Winchester, Indiana. It is a sweet little old cemetery on a hill with lots of trees. It’s name is Buena Vista, but in Indiana lingo it is simply “Beunie”. My grandparents, aunts, uncles and cousins are buried there. There’s a lot of history on that hill that holds the memories of hard-working, good farming people. Rest in Peace, Murphy clan.

08/02/2025

Today’s blog 

Lynn Murphy Mark

When I was an old lady

This is a mixed blog because it involves someone I love getting hurt in an accident yesterday. For this I am asking for prayers for my friend who was injured on Highway 44. When the airbags deployed she suffered a broken nose and cuts to her face. She also broke a lumbar vertebra in her back, which was already a problem before the accident. The person she lives with called me to let me know which hospital they were at. And this is that friendship where there is no question – I was going to join them to be a support person and a nurse in disguise. This is a part of the agreement when friends are actually family.

 I grabbed a soft drink and headed down to my car. In this new car I have access to Onstar, which is a great version of a GPS. I pushed the button to summon the Onstar lady. When she came on I told her I needed directions to Saint Clare hospital in Fenton. At first she tried to steer me to hospitals that are close to my home, perhaps thinking that I needed help. My vigorous “NO” finally got her to identify Saint Clare’s location and send instructions. So, off I went. 

I found my way to the emergency room where some lovely nurses were stationed. I told them my friend’s name and they looked on their computer. “We don’t have anyone by that name.”, was the answer. Now, when my friend called to tell me she was at the hospital she told me they couldn’t find our friend at first. So I was set to do battle. I insisted that my friend was there. In the patient tone that one takes with old people, two nurses asked me if I knew that I was at Saint Clare hospital. “Of course I know that!”, said my indignant self. They advised me to call my friend and let one of them talk to her.

I patiently did as I was asked. I handed the phone to a nurse. Very quickly, she determined that Saint Clare was actually NOT the right place, that I needed to head to Mercy South. I had misheard my friend, or made up the destination because Saint Clare Hospital is where they usually go and it is near the accident site. The two nurses and the security guard gave me that kind, concerned look that comes before they take your keys away. 

Now, I used to work at Mercy South when it was known as Saint Anthony’s Medical Center. But because I was in unfamiliar territory, I called my Onstar friend again, who asked me if I was sure that I wanted directions to a different hospital since I was at one already. Honestly, by this time I was feeling like a slightly demented elder crone. Anyway, off I set for Mercy South. I was following directions until I saw an alternate, quicker route. I turned off on to Kennerly Road, which would take me straight to the hospital instead of getting back on the crowded highway. 

This irritated Ms. Onstar. Using her firmest, most polite tone, she kept advising me that I was off the planned route. By this time I was tired of being seen as an incompetent driver so rather than adjust the route I let her keep admonishing me. I had a conversation with her about how many times in my life I have gone off the planned route and lived to tell about it. She was not impressed.

Some 4,000 steps later I was led to my friend’s trauma room. It is a gut punch to see someone with facial damage. So, in the end, I’m asking again for prayers of healing. Today my job is to locate her car which was severely damaged, and to be available for whatever else is needed. 

08/01/2025

Today’s blog

Lynn Murphy Mark

Singer, songstress

Every once in a while an artist I have loved and listened to in the past, but have lost touch with over the years, pops up. Then I am reminded how much I enjoyed the music, and the words, and the rhythms coming from their soul. This happened yesterday as I was on the elliptical, blasting tunes through my earbuds. Somehow I had not heard any of her work for maybe two decades. 

This jewel’s name is India.Arie. When I last really listened to her music she was approaching 30. This year, in October, she will turn 50. I found this out when I looked her up. To me, she will always be a 20-something producing big tunes with words about life on life’s terms. She has won four Grammy Awards and been nominated over 20 times. Her first album, Acoustic Soul, was released in 2001 and was quite successful. 

She writes songs about spiritual things, race issues, self-determination, and cultural identity. One of her songs says, “How could I live without music?”, a sentiment I share passionately with her. She writes about love lost and found. She writes about everyone’s right to a genuine self-respect. 

She has sung with other great artists. Adele, Stevie Wonder, Carlos Santana, and Herbie Hancock,  are just a few. But her solo work is mostly her path. She writes songs like, “I am not my hair”, implying that a person is so much more than the way they style their hair, or wear their clothes, or choose to fashion their lives. She writes about human rights and how people can get along if they are willing to look beyond the surface.

In 2022 she joined several artists who decided to remove their music from music service Spotify. She based this on the fact that Spotify featured racist podcaster Joe Rogan. She objected to his use of inappropriate language related to racial issues. She once wrote that her songs are  “made to be listened to in a quiet time, prayer, meditation, yoga. My wish is that these songs bring softness, clarity, calm and inspiration.” I love those songs, and I pair them with her R&B songs with very cool beats.

In 2009 she decided to retreat from the music industry. She talked about this on Super Soul Sunday with Oprah. Like Tracy Chapman, the business was eroding her soul, and she recognized that her body was suffering too. Her throat was closing and hurting when she spoke and sang. Her spiritual exhaustion caused her to make the decision to back off of the craziness of her schedule and the pressure to always produce more music.

On June 15 of this year, on Father’s Day, she and her mother spoke out for the first time about the domestic and sexual abuse they both suffered at the hands of her father, Ralph Simpson, an NBA player. Her mother especially wanted the message to come across that it is possible to break the generational trauma that so many families experience. It was a courageous act that India.Arie posted in her Instagram account. She wrote, “I’m not posting this today to tell you that I’m struggling, because I’m not. I’ve spent my entire adult life working through my issues with my father. I’ve come a long way. My mother, though, is coming to terms with her feelings and we are supporting each other in telling a deeply personal, shared, story. A family story.”

I am grateful to have re-discovered this fine musician. I love her messages.