Deprecated: Assigning the return value of new by reference is deprecated in /data/9/1/53/139/1216954/user/1297445/htdocs/blog/wp-settings.php on line 512

Deprecated: Assigning the return value of new by reference is deprecated in /data/9/1/53/139/1216954/user/1297445/htdocs/blog/wp-settings.php on line 527

Deprecated: Assigning the return value of new by reference is deprecated in /data/9/1/53/139/1216954/user/1297445/htdocs/blog/wp-settings.php on line 534

Deprecated: Assigning the return value of new by reference is deprecated in /data/9/1/53/139/1216954/user/1297445/htdocs/blog/wp-settings.php on line 570

Deprecated: Assigning the return value of new by reference is deprecated in /data/9/1/53/139/1216954/user/1297445/htdocs/blog/wp-includes/cache.php on line 103

Deprecated: Assigning the return value of new by reference is deprecated in /data/9/1/53/139/1216954/user/1297445/htdocs/blog/wp-includes/query.php on line 61

Deprecated: Assigning the return value of new by reference is deprecated in /data/9/1/53/139/1216954/user/1297445/htdocs/blog/wp-includes/theme.php on line 1109
Anne Ryder’s Blog

Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas

December 8th, 2011

I heard her before I saw her. She was singing softly to the song that was playing over the store’s public address system.
“Have yourself a merry little Christmas,” she sang.
I looked up from my cell phone.
“Let your heart be light.” She turned and put toiletries into the bin behind her.
“From now on your troubles will be out of sight.”
She was actually SMILING as she worked behind the customer service desk at Walmart.
I was three deep in line and I watched her as she worked and sang, her voice soulful and sweet.
There were two women on duty that afternoon taking returns. I hoped I’d get her, and I did.
She looked up at me and smiled broadly.
“Well hello!,” she said. “What are you doing here?”
She recognized me from my years on the air at Channel 13.
“The question is, what are YOU doing here? With that voice you should be singing on stage somewhere!” I told her.
She smiled sweetly. Footlights were not in the cards, at least not now.
Her name was Kay and she had already put in a full day at work. In an hour, she would begin a second full shift at another job.
Early morning was the only time she got to herself. Kay told me she rose each morning at 2:30 to get to work at Walmart by 5:30. Ten hours later she was working her second job, which did not end until 10:30 each night.
“You don’t sleep much, do you?” I asked.
“I get about 3 hours most nights, ”she said.
She leaned across the desk with gentle eyes and a kind smile on her face. “This won’t last forever,” she said. “This too shall pass.”
Kay, as it turns out, knows all too well the meaning of those words.
“I have three kids, so I am accustomed to losing sleep,” she said. “But three years ago I lost my son.”
She paused, and the air between us got thick.
“He was murdered.”

Its hard to say why certain conversations become suddenly intimate—why you can tell a stranger on a plane, for instance, something only trusted family members know. The anonymity of the meeting and the parting is a grace of time and place that cannot be planned nor duplicated.
As a reporter, people often tell me intimate things because they have a story in mind, and reporters develop radar for those encounters. This was not one of those moments. The conversation unfolded with Kay organically as she processed my return.
When Kay told me about her son tears instantly came to my eyes.
She leaned forward again, speaking softly. “It happened in August of 2008. THIS is the first Christmas since his death I have even felt like singing. ”
At that instant there was a deep point of connection. I never lost a son to murder, but I have lost a son.
Grief is grief, no matter the package in which it comes.
I know the feeling of malaise and despair when everyone—even the commercials on TV—urge a merry heart and goodwill toward men . I also know what it’s like when the shift occurs–when hope flutters in your heart once again and you feel like singing to the carols when they come on the radio.
Kay’s son was her pride and joy–the first in her family to graduate college.
A few months after getting his diploma, he got in a wrestling match with a casual acquaintance. “My son got the best of him, and the boy came back and stabbed him 8 times,” Kay said.
There was a long pause as I looked at her, then reached across the desk for her hand.
Her voice became soft again.
“But I’m here. I’m still here.”
She told me how she buried her son, then did the only thing she knew to do—let go of the anger.
“I didn’t know the boy who did it, but I went to him and told him I forgave him.”
“Do you know what I mean when I say I could not carry that hatred around? I had to forgive him. I had to let it go.”
The look in her eyes was resolute.
It is a concept I understand intellectually, but I wonder how many people –faced with her circumstances—would have the strength to really do it.
She finished my return and I asked if I could give her a hug.
It was a long, sweet embrace over the desk—two strangers who were no longer strangers.
“You have a beautiful spirit,” she said. “ And so do you.”
I marvel at the stories people carry: Kay, at the Walmart customer service desk, singing as she serves, possesses an interior strength that is almost super human.
I walked into Walmart expecting to make a return, and walked out with Christmas spirit borne of a new perspective.
I will never hear the carol again without hearing the sound of Kay’s voice…
“Have yourself a merry little Christmas. Let your heart be light.
From now on your troubles will be out of sight…”

The Day the Clouds Swallowed the Sun

December 22nd, 2010

I was up before the dawn, which is easy in the winter solstice. I was intending to look up a recipe for Au Gratin Potatoes for Christmas, my “to do” list in my head.
But instead I looked out the window, and it summoned me to do what I so easily jettison every day:
Sit…in…silence… with…God.
It was spectacular.
The clouds were illuminated and outlined by the rising sun. They were like backlit sculptures. Across the lake, through the bare trees, the sun was rising—perfectly centered in the window from my perch on the sofa under the warm blanket.
It was as if a performance was about to begin.
Ah, yes. This is the way to start the day. Remember?
Forget the potatoes.
Silence—Gratitude. The crackle of the fire.
I reached for a book of daily readings and the subject was fear. How we are not to fear evil. How it has no power to hurt those who place themselves under God’s protection. As I read the line, the sun, rising quickly, suddenly appeared to shrink. It looked to be sinking instead of rising. What was going on?
It was an illusion. A bleary layer of grey clouds which I had not previously noticed, was making its way quickly across the front of the sun—across everything–and enveloping the sky. It looked to be swallowing up the sun.
Within two minutes, the rising sun, so promising and beautiful, had disappeared behind a wall of grey. I never saw it get above the trees. The sky, which was earlier turning shades of lavender, was rendered a dull, pale, shade of winter grey.
If this was a battle, from my seat, it looked like the bad guys won. But I know better. It was only an illusion. Something spectacular was behind that wall of grey and I don’t need to see it to believe it.
Which is stronger—those clouds or that sun? Which is higher in the sky? Given the 30,000 feet view, I know what I would see. Blue sky. Brilliant sunshine.
Can I trust my vision only?
When I put my faith into any equation it changes everything. It illuminates the darkness by giving me the confidence of dimensional vision—sight, sound, smell, taste, touch, and heart.
But heart falters sometimes.
And when I don’t feel God, faith—for me—is the obedience of putting one step in front of the other—and believing anyway. That is where stamina and backbone comes in. Connecting anyway, in love and service. This was the lesson of Mother Teresa, who asked to be a “pencil in the hand of God.” And she was, even when she felt internal darkness.
If the grey cloud bank that appeared to swallow the sun is a metaphor for the darkness around us–the sadness and anger, the hurt, depression, addiction, betrayal, loneliness, and joblessness, then here’s one vote for the confidence of faith. God’s got our back. That’s a promise. But the faith to see it, requires connection.
The lesson for me this day was in the clouds right outside my window: put down my to do list away for a moment—sit in silence and gratitude—and pay attention. The Au gratin potatoes will wait.

Head in the Clouds

September 27th, 2010

It may be time to dust off the Joni Mitchell and Judy Collins. Have you noticed the clouds lately? Something is –well–different.
As I write this blog, a perfectly formed face–with shaped holes for eyes, a nose and a mouth– is beaming sunlight through a darkened cloud, like a heavenly visage. I just looked again. The smile has widened.
An artist friend moved to New Mexico 20 years ago for the sole purpose of focusing her art on the New Mexico sky. Lately I see in our own Indiana sky what drew her to the great Southwest. The palate of the sunrise and sunset defy description. But the beauty lasts all day.
Lately, the cloud formations are so interesting and intricate, and the depth of the light so varied, I just sit at stoplights and look up, (often until someone honks.)
Something both ordinary and extraordinary is unfolding right over our heads and I feel compelled to tap my neighbor on the shoulder and say, “pay attention.”
If you are so moved, look up today. What do you see in the clouds?

The Power of Children

September 1st, 2010

In the quiet, affluent community of Zionsville, Indiana, even the Middle School is an oasis of peace, set back on a former tract of farmland. It’s brick facade, carpeted hallways and decorative stair railings mirror the comfortable homes and lifestyles of its students.

“Where we live, people live charmed lives,” says Kristin Todd, mother of 3 daughters.

But four years ago, Audrey Todd, the eldest of Kristin’s daughters, then age 12, reached past her comfort zone into another time and place when she reached for a book.
Its message affected Audrey so deeply she didn’t stop with the final page. She went a step further, reaching out to its author–a woman with whom it appeared she had nothing in common except heart and intellect.
Audrey’s efforts 4 years ago resulted in an on-going, interactive Holocaust education program at her school, a legacy about which Audrey’s parents never knew until recently.

This year, an unexpected email arrived in their inboxes.
It was from Audrey Todd’s 6th grade history teacher, Diane Aurand.
“I have to let you know how much of an impact on my life Audrey has been,” wrote her former teacher.
”I don’t think people realize how much students can affect the lives of their teachers.”
“This is something that may seem insignificant to her. But because of a precious student three years ago I had named Audrey, I can’t tell you the impact (made) on my life.”

Diane Aurand explained that each year she assigns students in her class a World War II book review project. She makes available a list of books from which the students can choose. In 2006, Audrey was the first of her students to select “Alicia, My Story,” a chilling first-person account of the Holocaust.

Alicia Appleman-Jurman’s true story reads like a novel, and the account of her life from ages 9 to 15 covers a stunning, almost incomprehensible series of events.
The opening sentences give the reader a scope of Alicia’s loss:

“First they killed my brother Moshe..
Then they killed my father..
Then they killed my brother Bunio..
Then they killed my brother Zachary..
Then they killed my last brother, Herzl.
Only my mother and I were left.”

Alicia tells a story of narrow escapes and a childhood that took a horrific turn beginning with the Blitzkrieg of 1939. Her family lost their home, belongings, freedom and one by one—each other.

At age 12, Alicia masqueraded as her mother to spare her from Nazi capture. Starved, beaten and poisoned with typhoid water, Alicia was tossed into a mass grave.
A Jewish gravedigger found her, smuggled her out and helped nurse Alicia back to health.

Alicia Jurman became a young heroine of the Holocaust and the sole survivor of her family after even her mother was later murdered in front of her. Alicia saved dozens of lives and stood up to her oppressors at age 13. Confronting a group of soldiers who came to arrest them, Alicia turned them away with her the force of her words.
That she lived to tell the story, married and bore three children is in her own words—a miracle.
Alicia says writing the book years later as an adult was an emotionally taxing ordeal, but also a sacred duty. She wrote for the children of generations to follow.
“I bear witness to the truth,” Alicia says, “and children always know when you are telling the truth. Children are the bravest people in the world.”

When Audrey Todd picked up Alicia’s book, she couldn’t put it down.
“This book struck a chord when Audrey read about someone her age living in such dramatically different circumstances,” says Audrey’s mother, Kristin.

From her upscale Zionsville home, Audrey was transported to the ghettos of wartime Poland, and connected deeply to Alicia’s message and mission that the world never forget what happened to the Jewish people in World War II..
“I cried through much of the book,” Audrey recalls.
“The first time I read it I was struck by the loss. Every time Alicia turned around another family member of friend was gone. I recognize how terrible human beings can be to one another. It opened my eyes to how much we take for granted.”
Audrey was impressed that Alicia was often the sole source of income and food for her surviving family due to her skills, robust health and an appearance that helped her blend into the population.
“Alicia would work all day, risking her life to bring home a slice of bread and a bit of sour milk,” Audrey says. “We toss out sour milk. We don’t use it to nourish our bodies.
Alicia’s family gave away all of their fine things so they could live another day,” Audrey says.

Audrey was so inspired by the book told her teacher she wanted to interview Alicia as part of her book review.
“The first thing that came to my brain was no way.” Diane Aurand recalls. “The book was more than 20 years old and I didn’t know if Alicia was still alive. I did sort of discourage her but I didn’t squelch it. I just told her she needed a backup plan in case she couldn’t track her down because the deadline was looming.”
Audrey, however, was determined.
“ When you are in 6th grade adults often tell you what you can’t do. When you are younger you are not afraid to fail,” Audrey says.
Audrey used the “About the Author “ page to narrow her search to California, and contacted Alicia through her son.
While Alicia was no longer healthy enough to travel for speeches and appearances, she was eager to grant telephone interviews.
“Two days later Audrey walked into my room with this big smile on her face,” her former teacher recalls.
“Guess who I talked to last night? Guess who wants to talk to you?” Audrey announced.
Diane Aurand called Alicia that evening and made the arrangements.

Audrey’s perseverance yielded more than an “A” on her project. It seeded a connection that continues to bear fruit. Now Alicia’s book is part of the curriculum at Zionsville West Middle School. Alicia signs books for every student in the class each year and takes part in a teleconference, fielding their questions. Last year nearly 70 students took part.
“Alicia brings the Holocaust to life for them,” Diane says.
“Children today need to understand what happened so they can prevent it from happening again. They need to understand how fragile life is, and how fast things can turn.”

In 2009, Diane traveled to San Jose to meet Alicia who insisted she stay in her home for the three-day visit. They formed a friendship that resulted in Alicia
granting Diane permission to use a lullaby that her late brother Zachary composed as a young man.
“She is the only person I have ever given the music to, because I trust her,” Alicia says. Last year Diane’s class incorporated Zachary’s composition into a play they wrote based on Alicia’s life story.
“It would make Zachary so happy to hear your children playing his music,” Alicia told Diane.

At age 81, Alicia continues to defy death. She has survived her American husband and fought through several serious illnesses. “As the historian of my family, I carry my pain in my heart and lungs.” she says. “There is no such thing as getting used to it.”
Her view on God in the face of such horror is paraphrased eloquently on a page in her book—a conversation between Alicia and a young man that took place in the rain.

“Do you see those raindrops?,” Alicia asked him. “They could be tears falling from the skies.
Maybe God is crying with us, for he has lost so many people he also loved.
Somehow we will have to prove to him that people aren’t all evil, that we
are capable of love–love of one another and love of him; unconditional love.
We will have to do good deeds to have God respect us and thus regain our
self-respect. We will have to fight evil with good.”

Alicia has devoted her life to fighting evil with good through education and service. She says her early education (part of it in a Catholic school) sustained her self-worth and dignity through the most difficult days of the Holocaust.
“I knew who my people were, and who I was,” Alicia says.
Service to others helps her balance feelings of hatred with the power of love.
“I told my own children that a human being is like a stream,” Alicia says.
“What goes in must give out. If you don’t give, you have a stagnant pool that goes nowhere.”
The ripple effect of Alicia’s gift is growing in Zionsville, Indiana as the reach of “Alicia: My Story,” expands each year, more than 2 decades after it was written.
My editor calls the book a ‘sleeper’” Alicia says with a smile.
It’s message woke up a 12-year-old girl named Audrey, her teacher Diane, and their entire school.
“It took a 12 year old for me to understand to expect the unexpected and not to turn your back on a potential opportunity,” Audrey’s former teacher Diane says.
Each year Alicia sends bookmarks to Diane’s class along with the signed books. On them, are words that connect her past with their present, and shared vision of the future:
“There is a destiny that makes us sisters and brothers. None of us goes his way alone. All that we send into the lives of others comes back into our own.”

THE POWER OF CHILDREN

September 1st, 2010

In the quiet, affluent community of Zionsville, Indiana, even the Middle School is an oasis of peace, set back on a former tract of farmland. It’s brick facade, carpeted hallways and decorative stair railings mirror the comfortable homes and lifestyles of its students.

“Where we live, people live charmed lives,” says Kristin Todd, mother of 3 daughters.

But four years ago, Audrey Todd, the eldest of Kristin’s daughters, then age 12, reached past her comfort zone into another time and place when she reached for a book.
Its message affected Audrey so deeply she didn’t stop with the final page. She went a step further, reaching out to its author–a woman with whom it appeared she had nothing in common except heart and intellect.
Audrey’s efforts 4 years ago resulted in an on-going, interactive Holocaust education program at her school, a legacy about which Audrey’s parents never knew until recently.

This year, an unexpected email arrived in their inboxes.
It was from Audrey Todd’s 6th grade history teacher, Diane Aurand.
“I have to let you know how much of an impact on my life Audrey has been,” wrote her former teacher.
”I don’t think people realize how much students can affect the lives of their teachers.”
“This is something that may seem insignificant to her. But because of a precious student three years ago I had named Audrey, I can’t tell you the impact (made) on my life.”

Diane Aurand explained that each year she assigns students in her class a World War II book review project. She makes available a list of books from which the students can choose. In 2006, Audrey was the first of her students to select “Alicia, My Story,” a chilling first-person account of the Holocaust.

Alicia Appleman-Jurman’s true story reads like a novel, and the account of her life from ages 9 to 15 covers a stunning, almost incomprehensible series of events.
The opening sentences give the reader a scope of Alicia’s loss:

“First they killed my brother Moshe..
Then they killed my father..
Then they killed my brother Bunio..
Then they killed my brother Zachary..
Then they killed my last brother, Herzl.
Only my mother and I were left.”

Alicia tells a story of narrow escapes and a childhood that took a horrific turn beginning with the Blitzkrieg of 1939. Her family lost their home, belongings, freedom and one by one—each other.

At age 12, Alicia masqueraded as her mother to spare her from Nazi capture. Starved, beaten and poisoned with typhoid water, Alicia was tossed into a mass grave.
A Jewish gravedigger found her, smuggled her out and helped nurse Alicia back to health.

Alicia Jurman became a young heroine of the Holocaust and the sole survivor of her family after even her mother was later murdered in front of her. Alicia saved dozens of lives and stood up to her oppressors at age 13. Confronting a group of soldiers who came to arrest them, Alicia turned them away with her the force of her words.
That she lived to tell the story, married and bore three children is in her own words—a miracle.
Alicia says writing the book years later as an adult was an emotionally taxing ordeal, but also a sacred duty. She wrote for the children of generations to follow.
“I bear witness to the truth,” Alicia says, “and children always know when you are telling the truth. Children are the bravest people in the world.”

When Audrey Todd picked up Alicia’s book, she couldn’t put it down.
“This book struck a chord when Audrey read about someone her age living in such dramatically different circumstances,” says Audrey’s mother, Kristin.

From her upscale Zionsville home, Audrey was transported to the ghettos of wartime Poland, and connected deeply to Alicia’s message and mission that the world never forget what happened to the Jewish people in World War II..
“I cried through much of the book,” Audrey recalls.
“The first time I read it I was struck by the loss. Every time Alicia turned around another family member of friend was gone. I recognize how terrible human beings can be to one another. It opened my eyes to how much we take for granted.”
Audrey was impressed that Alicia was often the sole source of income and food for her surviving family due to her skills, robust health and an appearance that helped her blend into the population.
“Alicia would work all day, risking her life to bring home a slice of bread and a bit of sour milk,” Audrey says. “We toss out sour milk. We don’t use it to nourish our bodies.
Alicia’s family gave away all of their fine things so they could live another day,” Audrey says.

Audrey was so inspired by the book told her teacher she wanted to interview Alicia as part of her book review.
“The first thing that came to my brain was no way.” Diane Aurand recalls. “The book was more than 20 years old and I didn’t know if Alicia was still alive. I did sort of discourage her but I didn’t squelch it. I just told her she needed a backup plan in case she couldn’t track her down because the deadline was looming.”
Audrey, however, was determined.
“ When you are in 6th grade adults often tell you what you can’t do. When you are younger you are not afraid to fail,” Audrey says.
Audrey used the “About the Author “ page to narrow her search to California, and contacted Alicia through her son.
While Alicia was no longer healthy enough to travel for speeches and appearances, she was eager to grant telephone interviews.
“Two days later Audrey walked into my room with this big smile on her face,” her former teacher recalls.
“Guess who I talked to last night? Guess who wants to talk to you?” Audrey announced.
Diane Aurand called Alicia that evening and made the arrangements.

Audrey’s perseverance yielded more than an “A” on her project. It seeded a connection that continues to bear fruit. Now Alicia’s book is part of the curriculum at Zionsville West Middle School. Alicia signs books for every student in the class each year and takes part in a teleconference, fielding their questions. Last year nearly 70 students took part.
“Alicia brings the Holocaust to life for them,” Diane says.
“Children today need to understand what happened so they can prevent it from happening again. They need to understand how fragile life is, and how fast things can turn.”

In 2009, Diane traveled to San Jose to meet Alicia who insisted she stay in her home for the three-day visit. They formed a friendship that resulted in Alicia
granting Diane permission to use a lullaby that her late brother Zachary composed as a young man.
“She is the only person I have ever given the music to, because I trust her,” Alicia says. Last year Diane’s class incorporated Zachary’s composition into a play they wrote based on Alicia’s life story.
“It would make Zachary so happy to hear your children playing his music,” Alicia told Diane.

At age 81, Alicia continues to defy death. She has survived her American husband and fought through several serious illnesses. “As the historian of my family, I carry my pain in my heart and lungs.” she says. “There is no such thing as getting used to it.”
Her view on God in the face of such horror is paraphrased eloquently on a page in her book—a conversation between Alicia and a young man that took place in the rain.

“Do you see those raindrops?,” Alicia asked him. “They could be tears falling from the skies.
Maybe God is crying with us, for he has lost so many people he also loved.
Somehow we will have to prove to him that people aren’t all evil, that we
are capable of love–love of one another and love of him; unconditional love.
We will have to do good deeds to have God respect us and thus regain our
self-respect. We will have to fight evil with good.”

Alicia has devoted her life to fighting evil with good through education and service. She says her early education (part of it in a Catholic school) sustained her self-worth and dignity through the most difficult days of the Holocaust.
“I knew who my people were, and who I was,” Alicia says.
Service to others helps her balance feelings of hatred with the power of love.
“I told my own children that a human being is like a stream,” Alicia says.
“What goes in must give out. If you don’t give, you have a stagnant pool that goes nowhere.”
The ripple effect of Alicia’s gift is growing in Zionsville, Indiana as the reach of “Alicia: My Story,” expands each year, more than 2 decades after it was written.
My editor calls the book a ‘sleeper’” Alicia says with a smile.
It’s message woke up a 12-year-old girl named Audrey, her teacher Diane, and their entire school.
“It took a 12 year old for me to understand to expect the unexpected and not to turn your back on a potential opportunity,” Audrey’s former teacher Diane says.
Each year Alicia sends bookmarks to Diane’s class along with the signed books. On them, are words that connect her past with their present, and shared vision of the future:
“There is a destiny that makes us sisters and brothers. None of us goes his way alone. All that we send into the lives of others comes back into our own.”