MaryAnn Through the Years

turning points and miscellany

Happy New Year, Blue Roomies!

I’ve noticed a mini-trend on Substack in which writers do intro posts consisting of short snapshots from their life—turning points, significant memories and the like. I thought I’d give that a go since I’ve never done a proper introduction (aside from this, which is more professional than personal), and with the turn of the year I always appreciate the chance to reflect. So… below is MaryAnn through the years.

See “when I was fifty,” below

When I was three my sister Katie was born and we moved from the modest apartment in the Spring Branch area of Houston to a large fixer-upper house where we’d remain for the rest of my childhood. Katie and I shared an attic room that my parents decorated with clown dolls and a light at the bottom of the attic stairs that had a red bulb in it—presumably chosen because it provided some illumination on the stairs but was dim enough not to disturb the sleep of children. No, my parents were not psychopaths. No, it never occurred to us girls to flag this decor as creepy as hell.

We lived in the West University neighborhood of Houston. Only much later would I realize the university we were west of was Rice, a future character in our story.

Also when I was three, my dad quit drinking and joined Alcoholics Anonymous. Given the way addiction continued to wreak havoc on members of his extended family, my father’s steadfast sobriety one day at a time is a gift I will never stop being grateful for.

When I was five and seven my brothers Matthew and Luke were born. When we brought Luke home from the hospital, we put him in front of the TV in his car seat while we had dinner. His first TV show was Mork and Mindy.

When I was eight my sister and I had chicken pox. We had Benadryl in pill form to help with the itching, and one evening my mother had me take mine from the bottle on the kitchen counter because we were running late for Girl Scouts. When I did so I didn’t put it away properly and toddler Matthew climbed up and ate the rest. This was my first experience with the paramedics and with guilt.

When I was nine I was old enough to ride my bike the eight blocks to the community swimming pool, which I did daily in the summer. I ate bags of Bugles from the vending machine, which to this day don’t taste right without a bit of chlorine.

(Meanwhile, on another timeline, a boy named Robert who lived in Springfield, Illinois would visit his grandmother in Houston in the summers and they would sometimes go to that pool. The chances are good that we were there at the same time. But he doesn’t officially enter the story until later.)

When I was ten I came in second place in the school spelling bee because the principal mispronounced the word chortle, a word I knew well because I’d memorized “Jabberwocky” a year or two before. I’d already figured out that adults were fallible, but this was the first time I realized I could know things grownups didn’t. When my parents found out what happened they offered to go to the school and advocate for a do-over. I declined because spelling bees made me really anxious.

When I was eleven I won the school spelling bee.

When I was twelve my parents separated and divorced, and I started attending Alateen meetings. I appreciated so much the safe space to process. And also, I had lived a much more sheltered life than most of the kids there, all of whom smoked, all of whom had wild tales to tell. Still, I experienced complete acceptance there. A good friend’s dad had recently stopped drinking and it was a comfort to enter those rooms together.

When I was thirteen we moved from Houston to Dallas so my mother could raise the four of us with the support of her siblings and parents, all of whom lived there. For most of my high school years this extended family got together every month to celebrate birthdays or anniversaries. I remember the motor oil smell of my grandparents’ garage as we’d grab a Dr. Pepper from the extra fridge out there. That garage also had an empty ketchup bottle dangling from a string tied to the ceiling so Gram knew how far to pull in her Buick Regal so the garage door could close.

When I was fifteen the stress of raising four kids as a single mother became too great for my mother, even with help, and my parents made the difficult decision to separate us. My brothers went back to Houston where they spent the rest of their childhood with my father and our brand-new stepmother. This choice led to a lot of heartache, the details of which are too long for this post, and it’s a decision my mother probably regrets to this day. That said, none of us holds any of that against her. Thankfully the four of us siblings are close and get along well with each other and with her, perhaps because we’re determined not to let this rupture be a permanent wedge between us.

When I was eighteen I graduated from high school right at the time I finally felt a part of things among this group of kids I’d parachuted into during eighth grade. In high school at various times I’d been part of the school newspaper staff, color guard, speech and drama competitions, and Academic Decathlon. I ended up back in Houston at Rice University, not far from where I grew up. I’m positive that if we’d still lived in West U., I would have rejected this fine university out of hand, which would have been a real shame.

When I was nineteen I had a bad breakup and was harassed and borderline stalked by my ex. I say borderline because while it was emotionally traumatic, he seemed to know exactly what he could get away with in order to inflict maximum suffering with no consequences to himself. I’ve often wondered if males possess innate awareness of exactly where that line is.

Also at nineteen I got to know that boy I mentioned earlier from the pool, a quiet soul with braces who wore flannel button-downs over nerdy t-shirts and had a huge crush on me and finally, the nerve to tell me so.

When I was in my twenties that flannel-wearing guy and I got married and lived in Houston where he worked in IT and I gradually made my way toward ordained ministry—from technical writing and training to an interfaith non-profit to youth director of the church where we were active members.

When I was twenty-eight I entered seminary in Atlanta, some of the best three years of my life as I studied with the most fascinating and brilliant people I’ve ever met, took study trips to Geneva and to Mexico, and uncovered what kind of pastor I wanted to be. I also learned what human beings were capable of on a sunny day in September my second year, when someone interrupted our Hebrew class to tell us that two planes had crashed into the Twin Towers. Two of the planes took off from Boston’s Logan Airport, and that very morning Robert was accepting a job that would have him commuting in and out of that airport for the foreseeable future.

When I was thirty-one, thirty-three, and thirty-five, our kids were born.

Also when I was thirty-one, in my last semester of seminary, my father died suddenly from sudden cardiac arrest, one week before my due date and two days after I’d accepted my first pastoral position. His final email to me was about that job offer and said, “You make me a proud papa (and grandpa).” As a first-time mother I felt too nervous to travel for the funeral, so while a large group of family and friends gathered in Houston, my seminary friends held a service for me in the seminary chapel in Georgia.

Also when I was thirty-one we moved to the DC area where we’ve lived ever since, raising our kids as he’s continued in IT and I’ve served three congregations plus several years in “free-range” ministry: writing, speaking, and ministry coaching.

Also when I was thirty-one (it was an eventful year), in December I wrote a silly thing about Christmas music, which became my first blog post, which led to poetry and magazine writing, which led to book writing, which led to the newsletter you’re currently reading.

When I was thirty-nine, my mother-in-law wanted to hike Mount Washington that summer during our vacation to Maine, so I started Couch to 5K. I made it up the mountain in slightly better shape than my old hiking boots, both of which starting losing their soles on the craggy rocks. We had to cut off the flapping rubber pieces using the nail scissors that we inexplicably had with us, instead of fixing the soles with the duct tape which we did not have with us.

But I’ve been running ever since. First marathon (Disney, age forty-three), Ragnar Relays (age forty-five through forty-nine), and the JFK 50 miler (age forty-seven).

When I was forty-three, we moved from our starter house to a larger town home on a small lake in a neighboring suburb of DC, closer to Robert’s work. That Christmas morning two women showed up on our doorstep dressed as elves and carrying a box with holes in it that contained two kittens Robert and I had picked out a few days before. There has never been a better Christmas for the Dana kids.

When I was forty-six, our eldest had a mental health crash that lasted more than a year. We’ve been in and out of anxiety and depression challenges with all three of our kids since then. Adolescence hits our kids hard, especially when combined with some neurodivergence and a world that’s pretty jangly for our sensitive, bright, creative kids. I can’t tell you how much work we’ve all done on our health and resilience as individuals and a family system.

When I was fifty, Robert and I walked across Scotland on the John Muir Way during my first sabbatical. I hope I can sneak in another sabbatical before I retire.

When I was fifty-two, I finished writing my fourth book and turned it in right before Christmas, and a post-Christmas trip to this place:

Öxarárfoss at Þingvellir National Park, Iceland

And when I was fifty-three, I blew out candles on a rum cake and my family shared what they appreciated about me—a tradition whenever one of us celebrates a birthday. My three kids all said in different words that they feel unconditionally loved by me, and I can’t imagine a better button on this list of life events than that.

~

Whew! That’s a life for you, though there’s so much more that could be said.

This was a lot to get through, so if you read to the end, thanks for being a superfan!

Steady on.