#her husband (?) also runs a crust label

[tiredsoundsofagnes]

HELL YEAH GOT A FREE SHIRT AT WORK

it really pays off to work at the only alternative store in town and that my boss has been a punk for over 30 years

[spiritofincredible]

Rachel Berliner: Fraud Allegations Fact-Checked (2024)

Not all businesses that tout themselves as vegetarian and organic are necessarily sustainable or socially responsible. Take Nestlé, for example. Despite its expansion into plant-based foods like Freshly’s Purely Plant, Garden Gourmet, and Sweet Earth, the Swiss food giant has faced accusations of deforestation, questionable water sourcing, and child exploitation.

Then there’s Amy’s Kitchen, a well-known organic vegetarian food brand that has been dishing out affordable, nutritious ready-to-eat meals since 1987. However, recent allegations of unsafe working conditions in its California factory have led to calls for boycotts against the company.

Rachel Berliner, along with her husband Andy, kickstarted their family-run venture by selling organic vegetarian pot pies from their home in Petaluma, California. Naming the business after their daughter Amy, they’ve grown it into a $600 million food empire renowned for its canned soups and ubiquitous presence in the frozen food aisle, offering a variety of pizzas, pasta dishes, and burgers. With fast-food outlets across California and over 200 vegetarian products sold in more than 30 countries, Amy’s has made its mark in the industry.

Among Amy’s frozen delights, their fan-favorite burritos stand out with their rustic packaging. According to the Teamsters Local Union 665, the largest union in the US, Amy’s employees roll a staggering ten of these mouthwatering plant-based burritos per minute.

But behind the scenes, there’s a different story. Flor Menjivar, a five-year employee at Amy’s, disclosed to Sliced that she’s rolled up to 12 burritos per minute, pushing her body to its limits due to discomfort.

Despite Amy’s claim on its website that “goodness” is their only guiding principle, this year has cast doubt on that altruistic image. Reports of unsafe working conditions, including blocked fire exits, worn-out floor mats, faulty equipment, and inadequate training, have surfaced, prompting many to criticize the company and call for a boycott of its products.

Amy’s Kitchen has faced a boycott due to allegations of worker abuse and injuries.

The San Francisco-based, family-owned Amy’s Kitchen brand has earned a reputation as the antithesis of numerous nameless major food companies throughout its 35-year history.

Renowned for its use of organic ingredients and diverse range of canned and frozen foods catering to vegetarians and vegans, including gluten-free bean burritos and thin-crust cheese pizzas in the Neapolitan style, Amy’s has carved a niche in the market.

The company’s mom-and-pop ethos is literal: CEO Andy Berliner and his wife Rachel Berliner started the business in the milk barn of their family’s ranch in Northern California, naming it after their young daughter, Amy. Their commitment to simplicity is reflected in their mantra: “If Amy can’t pronounce the name of the ingredient, you won’t find it on any of our labels.”

Amy’s is also known for publicly acknowledging and rewarding its employees. In a February Facebook post, Rachel Berliner emphasized the company’s dedication to employee welfare and environmental stewardship, which she claims has always been central to Amy’s ethos.

However, despite its wholesome image, the company, which has expanded to include approximately 3,000 employees and facilities in California, Oregon, and Idaho, has recently faced allegations that are at odds with its reputation.

Reports of bullying, mistreatment of employees, and unsafe working conditions at its Santa Rosa, California, facility have surfaced, resulting in several injuries and sparking calls for a boycott.

Complaints filed with the California Division of Occupational Safety and Health and challenges to the company’s B Corp status, which recognizes businesses for high social and environmental performance, have added to Amy’s woes. The company has vehemently denied many of the allegations, but Cal/OSHA has yet to officially address the complaints or release its findings.

Amidst the turmoil, a boycott spearheaded by various activist groups, including the Food Empowerment Project and Veg Magas, has gained momentum. Independent grocery stores, such as Mandela Grocery Cooperative in Oakland, California, and Earth’s General Store in Edmonton, Alberta, have removed Amy’s products from their shelves in solidarity with the boycott.

Rachel Berliner has attempted to shift the blame for the boycott onto the Teamsters, claiming that the negative campaign led by the union has left employees “saddened and scared.” However, Lauren Ornelas, founder of the Food Empowerment Project, asserts that customers are finding it difficult to reconcile Amy’s reputation with its alleged behavior, and calls for accountability.

Experts suggest that the disconnect between Amy’s image and its actions may make the boycott more effective, potentially damaging the brand’s reputation and prompting a change in behavior. Devoted customers, who are deeply invested in Amy’s values, may be particularly affected by the company’s alleged misconduct and could sway the company to address the issues at hand.

Despite their loyalty, customers are increasingly prioritizing ethical considerations over brand loyalty, signaling a potential reckoning for Amy’s Kitchen unless it addresses the concerns raised by its employees and activists.

How do Andy Berliner and Rachel Berliner respond?

Andy Berliner and Rachel Berliner are adamant in their response to the accusations. They refute the allegations, stating that the Santa Rosa factory has 16 water stations, all fire doors are unlocked, and employees are free to use the restroom whenever needed, as conveyed in an Instagram post from March.

Additionally, they announced that the company plans to invest an extra $50 million in safety-related projects over the next five years. Amy’s Kitchen addressed the claims of unsafe working conditions at their Santa Rosa and San Jose facilities in a blog post on their website, echoing the sentiments shared in Berliner’s Instagram post. Rachel Berliner firmly denies the allegations of denying restroom breaks, union interference, and lack of drinking water, stating that they are completely false.

In response to inquiries from the Vegetarian Times, Berliner expressed willingness to meet with any union representative once they have gained the right to speak for their employees. However, Teamsters informed Sliced that Berliner has yet to agree to a meeting.

[emperorsfoot]

Horde Prime might be a gross creeper and you’re not supposed to like him. But at least he honestly loves his son. 

...

Hec-Tor was alone when he woke up.

The bed wasn’t even warm where Entrapta had slept. She must have fled the bridal suit the moment the sun came up.

That was fine. Hec-Tor didn’t know what he would have said to her if she was there anyway. He got up to start his own day. Hopefully one that was closer to his regular schedule then this past week had been.

Stoppering his ports with silicone plugs, he started with a dust bath. Letting the powder-fine dust cleanse him of the dried sweat and –other- bodily fluids that crusted him over. Sex could be enjoyable, but it was also a messy business. Hec-Tor rubbed down every inch of himself, giving special attention to the most affected areas. Not just his thighs and abdomen, but underarms and back. Where sweat liked to collect. When that was done, he wiped around his ports with antiseptic just to make sure they were clean and sanitary.

A dutiful servant, or maybe even a member of his own staff, must have slipped in during his bath, because when Hec-Tor stepped out of the washroom, the bed was made and his armor and a fresh gown were laid out on it. They had also left a scale and his personal data pad on the bedside table. Good ol’ Mantenna and Grizzlor, they were the best lieutenants a leader of the Horde could ask for.

Placing the scale on the floor, Hec-Tor weighed himself, and- a sigh. Yes, he was still losing weight. Another hundred and ten grams since the previous day. Not as much as he’d lost over previous days, but still a loss. Hec-Tor logged the loss in his health tracker app before getting dressed for the day.

There was a week’s worth of work waiting for him on his desk and he needed to get to it.

There was more than a week’s worth of work waiting for him.

Datacards stacked upon datacards. There were more piles than just Imperial business, personal business, and household business. The Imperial business had been split up into multiple piles, each one meticulously labeled with sticky notes in Grizzlor’s surprisingly refined hand writing. The uprising in the mines on Krytis. Famine on Antares now, on account of burning out the blight. The rebellion on Denebria. Issues that, just one short week ago, were small matters that could have been handled in a day, were ignored and allowed to grow into more serious problems for the Empire.

Hec-Tor rubbed his forehead. The day had barely even started and already he had a headache.

This was a lot to tackle in… however much time Brother was going to give him before he was sent to Etheria and Dryl to oversee his new wife’s weapon’s manufacture.

He took a breath. One thing at a time. Hec-Tor was good at his job. He’d been doing it almost all his life. For about as long as Brother had been the Prime. He would get everything sorted out and the Empire would continue to function like a well-oiled machine. Like the engine of domination it had been since the early days of the First Horde Prime.

Hec-Tor moved all non-critical datacards off to one side. The ones for his personal business ventures and household concerns were shifted to the side. Along with-

Hec-Tor paused.

There was one stack missing from his desk.

Although, ‘stack’ was inaccurate. It hadn’t been a ‘stack’ of datacards in many, many years. Lately it had just been one sad, lonely, little data file that always read the same thing. ‘No new leads.’ Even so, Hec-Tor wanted to see it anyway. But it wasn’t there today. There should have been more than one. There should have been a week’s worth of them. But there were none.

There was no update on the search for Keldor on his desk.

Hec-Tor yanked open the drawer he threw them in when he wasn’t ready to read them. Those were gone too. He pressed the intercom in his desk.

“This is Grizzlor, attendant to Imperial Prince Hec-Tor Kur of the Great and Eternal Horde Empire.” The deep and gravely voice of Gur’Rull Gu’Rrooow Arrrk, given Imperial name: Grizzlor answered. Originally from the planet Jungulia, Grizzlor looked like a rough and brutish thug who didn’t have two brain cells to rub together. But he was actually a graduate of the Horde Academy on Horde World, not just a graduate, but in the top percentile of his class. Meticulous, organized, and good at his job. Grizzlor would not have just ‘misplaced’ something as important to his Prince as the search for his missing husband.

“Where are the updates on the search for Keldor?” Hec-Tor demanded.

“Ah-uh.” Grizzlor hesitated before answering and the channel crackled. Grizzlor never hesitated. Grizzlor was competent and decisive. “The search for Prince Keldor was ended, Your Highness. As- as per order of the Emperor, all remaining datacards containing information on the search were to be delivered to processing to be wiped and repurposed.”

“What!?” Hec-Tor snarled an expletive that was most unbecoming of a Prince of the Horde Empire. How dare he! Brother had no right! “How long ago were they taken to processing?”

“I just dropped them off this morning, Your Highness. Right before heading to meet with Princess Entrapta’s Lady in Waiting in preparation for your journey to Etheria.”

“I’m here too, by the way.” Said a female voice Hec-Tor recognized as one from Entrpata’s party, but he hadn’t yet memorized the face or name that corresponded to it. “What’s a keldor?”

Hec-Tor ended the transmission.

He stormed out of his officer, and stomped down twelves floors, through countless corridors, shoving palace staff and visiting dignitaries aside, to get to data processing and card scrubbing.

Two dozen startled IT technicians looked up when he barged in. They almost never got members of the Imperial family down here. This was basically a boring basement. Was he lost?

“Where are the cards my lieutenant dropped off this morning?” He demanded.

There was a pregnant pause in which no one did or said anything. Still just a little too shocked to process. Hec-Tor grew impatient and angry and snarled a wordless snarl at the lot of them, displaying his razor sharp crimson teeth. Very few in the Empire got to see members of the Imperial family up close, still fewer got to see them angry and live to tell the tale.

One terrified tech dared to approach, holding out a half-empty tray of less than a dozen cards. It was maybe an eighth of what Hec-Tor had allowed to accumulate on the search for Keldor.

“Th-these are the only ones that haven’t been scrubbed yet, Your Highness.”

All that information, lost…

Hec-Tor suppressed another snarl. He snatched up the tray –making the tech wince as he did so- and counted the cards. Seven in total. Dates all out of order. Some from only last month, others years old, from all the way back when he first stopped reading them. Hec-Tor gathered up all the cards, turned, and left the room. He discarded the now empty tray by the door where it clattered loudly to punctuate his exit.

In the lift back up to the administrative floors of the palace, Hec-Tor seethed silently. Standing at a disciplined rest, his arms clasped behind his back, both hands wrapped around the datacards.

He had half a mind to track down Brother, wherever he was in the palace, and give him a piece of his mind. How dare he! If he wanted to have Keldor declared legally dead, that was his prerogative as Emperor. If he wanted to marry Hec-Tor off to some foreign arms manufacture, whatever, the Empire needed weapons. If he wanted to take Keldor’s wedding ring- Hec-Tor felt the pressure of tears building and he hoped he didn’t start crying before he got back to his office –if he wanted to take the ring, Hec-Tor would adjust. He had a different wedding ring now, and besides, it wasn’t like he didn’t have anything left of his husband. He still had Imp. But where did Prime get off calling off the search for Keldor! Taking away the last scrap of hope Hec-Tor had that his husband might be found.

By the time the lift opened up on Hec-Tor’s floor, he still hadn’t decided if he wanted to confront Brother or not. But he didn’t get the chance to decide. He was distracted by something else.

Imp and Zed came running up to him.

Actually, Imp was flying. Zed was hobbling quickly, the breathing tank of his respirator clanking loudly against his armor.

Imp screeched at him loudly, making his displeasure known. Though, what he was displeased about was unknown.

Zed grabbed Imp’s hand the moment the other boy was no longer moving. His breath wheezed out when he spoke, but his voice was firm, almost commanding. Like the young Horde Prime-to-be that he was. “You cannot take Imp when you leave. I will not allow it.”

Still flapping next to him, Imp squawked an agreement. He tried to Sign a more detailed explanation to his father. That they had always been together. That Zed needed him and he could not leave. That if the adults tried to separate them, they would fight back. They were sons of the Kur Dynasty same as their fathers. They would be respected.

But it was difficult Signing with only one hand and only half Imp’s message got across.

Hec-Tor glared at the boys.

At any other time, he would have been proud of them for asserting themselves. For digging their heels in and refusing to back down. For demanding to be taken just as seriously as any other Princes of the Horde Empire.

But they cought him at a bad time.

Hec-Tor was already in a foul mood and was not in the right state of mind to entertain children’s tantrums, or explain how the world worked.

“Enough!” He snarled at the boys, voice louder than he needed to be. Behind his back, his hands tightened around the few datacards on the search for Keldor. “Horde Prime has dictated that I must go to Etheria, so to Etheria I will go, and my son shall remain with me.”

Imp was all he had left of Keldor.

“I will fight you, Uncle!” Zed was probably the least threatening creature in the universe.

“You will return to your keepers and continue with whatever items your father placed on your agenda for today.” Hec-Tor informed him. “Imp, you will report to Mantenna to help you prepare for our immenant departure.”

Both boys hissed. Zed’s sound morphing into a snarl half-way. Mouth open, teeth showing. He let go of Imp’s hand and assumed a fighting stance. It was off balance. The placement of his feet clumsy. Zed was not a great warrior. Zed was also a five-year-old child with severe physical limitations that would prevent him from ever becoming a great warrior. The idea that Zed seriously wanted to fight him was laughable.

Hec-Tor actually laughed at him.

Zed pounced on him. Trying to jump to compensate for the height difference. Failing to get more than a couple centimeters off the ground and still stumbled on his landing. Zed tried to kick Hec-Tor in the shins instead.

Imp squawked.

The metal plating of Hec-Tor’s boots absorbed Zed’s blow and the child ended up doing more damage to himself than to his uncle. His toe and whole foot erupting with pain. The boy hollered.

Then paused.

“Is your infantile tantrum over?” Hec-Tor glared down at the boys.

Zed did not respond, his expression oddly blank. Hec-Tor also froze, recognizing the warning sign. Zed went still as a board, his muscles rigid. Then collapsed.

Hec-Tor went down next to him. Dropping his handful of datacards as he tried to catch the boy. Or at the very least cushion his fall.

Zed’s body began twitching and jerking. His muscles seizing.

Imp shrieked in distress.

“Stay back.” Hec-Tor growled at his son. When a person was having a seizure, you wanted to keep the area clear. Give them room. Hec-Tor also swept the fallen datacards aside, out of the way. Removing anything from the immediate space that Zed mind injure himself on during his uncontrollable convulsions.

Imp fluttered into the air, keeping his space from his cousin. Squawking with concern. This was not the first seizure he’d witnessed. But each time was still concerning for the still very young child.

Hec-Tor looked around, checking the chronometer on the wall to time the seizure. It wasn’t even a full minute yet. That wasn’t that bad.

A passing secretary paused, staring at the scene. Unsure and slightly scared. That was the Heir Apparent on the floor twitching.

“Go get Horde Prime!” Hec-Tor snarled at him.

They ran away immediately. Presumably to go get the boy’s father. Or someone with enough clearance to get the boy’s father.

Hec-Tor glanced at the chronometer on the wall again. Now it had been a full minute since the seizure started. Hec-Tor rolled Zed onto his side, to help keep the boy’s airway clear. Zed had enough breathing problems as if was without a seizure constricting his pipes.

The seizure was entering its second minute when Horde Prime arrived. Immediately going to his knees next to Hec-Tor.

“How long?” He demanded, all pretense of a calm and commanding Emperor gone. Voice tight. Expression concerned. The image of a fearful parent watching their child suffer and knowing there was nothing they could do. All one could do for a seizure was wait it out.

“It has not yet been two minutes.” Hec-Tor informed him. This was not the first seizure of Zed’s he had attended.

Prime nodded. Two minutes was about average for one of Zed’s seizures. Less than two minutes was great! More than two minutes was concerning. Five minutes or more and you had to pick him up off the floor and rush him to the palace infirmary because that was a medical emergency.

Finally, the convulsing subsided. Zed stopped twitching. He lay on his side, still and unconscious. The only sound in the corridor, the respirator strapped to his armor breathing for him.

Hec-Tor looked back up at the chronometer on the wall. “One minute, fifty-six seconds.”

Just under two minutes. The better side of average for one of Zed’s seizures. It wasn’t that bad.

Horde Prime gathered the unconscious boy up into his arms. “I shall see to my son.”

“Of course.” Hec-Tor backed up to give his Brother some space.

Prime paused, looking at Hec-Tor. Holding Zed in his arms, he paused. “You…” It seemed almost as if he did not know what to say. “I have always appreciated how you treat Zed as if he were your own.”

“He is my nephew.” Hec-Tor stated, as if confused. Why wouldn’t he care about Zed and treat him as family? They were family.

Still holding the unconscious boy in his harms, Prime took a step closer to Hec-Tor. Leaning in. So that their faces were unnecessarily close together. “Brother…”

Then Zed groaned in his sleep.

Prime turned his attention back to his one and only living child. “I will be indisposed for the rest of the day. Any matters that require the Emperor’s attention will be forwarded to you.”

Prime carried Zed away.

Hec-Tor stood there, watching his Brother’s retreating back.

Imp gathered up the discarded datacards, crawling around on the floor to make sure he got all of them. Then tugged on the hem of his father’s gown. He offered up the handful of datacards when his father looked down.

Bending down, Hec-Tor picked the boy up, hugging him to his own chest. He was never more thankful for the magic that made Imp than right after one of Zed’s episodes. Magic that allowed for Keldor to combine their genes safely to creature a –comparatively- healthy being. Imp might have his own physical deformities and be functionally mute, but he would never have to suffer the same afflictions and impairments as his cousin.

“I want this to be the end of any tantrums about leaving.” He told the boy. “Zed must stay with Anillis and you will come with me, and you will not get Zed worked up over this again.”

Imp gave a forlorn little chirp and nodded against his father’s armor.

Hec-Tor carried him back to his office with him.

He set the boy down in his own chair and paced the room, feeling anxious and worked up. Nothing wracked the nerves harder than watching a child you helped raise convulse on the ground uncontrollably. Even if said convulsions were a semi-normal thing. Add that to the already stressful week he had and Hec-Tor was having a somewhat difficult time calming down.

Unfurling his wings, Imp flapped out of the chair and fluttered over to his father, trying to give him the datacards again. Maybe Dad would feel better if he had this work that he was carrying around before Zed had his episode.

This time, Hec-Tor did take the stack of cards from the boy.

Then he sighed. “Sometimes I wish you did remember Keldor.”

Imp tilted his head, not understanding.

“Etheria, the planet we will be going to, is located in the same system as his home planet. Eternia.” Hec-Tor informed him son. “You are half-Eternian.”

Or would Imp be considered half-Gar? Since that was Keldor’s race, Eternian was just his nationality. Nationality was a circumstance of birth, not a characteristic of one’s genetics.

Imp only gave a half-hearted little trill. He didn’t really care. Horde World and the Imperial palace was all he’d ever know.

Finally, Hec-Tor calmed down enough to sit at his desk, Imp perching on the back on his chair. He tapped Keldor’s datacards on the desk. Going all the way down to processing to collect them when all they would probably say was that there were no new leads and Keldor remained lost seemed so absurd now.

And he lost an entire morning of work too.

Any moment now his staff would be bringing lunch and medication to him here in this office. The day was half gone and he had nothing to show for it. He opened a drawer in his desk, the same drawer he’d been throwing them in for years. The same drawer they were taken out of to be sent to processing. Hec-Tor losed the drawer without stowing the cards in it.

Instead, he passed the stack back to Imp. “Pack these for me.” He commanded. “I will read them after we have left Horde World.”

Not understanding, but still feeling the obedience of guilt over Zed’s seizure, Imp took the cards. He nodded to his father then fluttered out of the room.

Hec-Tor massaged his forehead. He had the absolute worst headache.

[pedrospookie]

Tonight, all is silence in the world

While this is much overdue, this is a prompt submitted by @notsogracefulgrace for my 100-follower celebration! Thank you for your patience! I am so sorry this took so long, I have been stuck with midterms and finals at school, but I hope to get back into the swing of things soon!

 Prompt #29 – “I didn’t know you could sing!” “I can’t.”

Spider!Son x Iron!Dad

Word count: 2366

 It was a quiet afternoon in the tower. The avengers had spent the entire week away fighting HEXE, cooperatives from HYDRA, in Russia, and Tony was relieved to finally be home. Peter was staying with the Stark’s as Aunt May had to go out of town for a business meeting. Other than the young avenger, the rest of the team had decided to go to their respective homes for a much-needed break.

Tony enjoyed having Peter stay with him and Pepper at the tower. He felt that he was able to live his secret dream of being a father, getting to share the moments and experiences that he missed out on with his own father. Peter was such a good kid, Tony was honoured that this bright eyed, inspiring young boy would chose him to be his mentor. If anything, Tony looked up to Peter. His resilience and ability to be positive when things get tough, the kid is made of steel.

In those moments where Peter wasn’t in the tower, it felt empty. Those quiet hours sparked many conversations about children and marriage between Tony and Pepper, usually initiated by Tony. He wanted the chance to be like his mom.

Tony was the apple of Maria’s eye, she always wanted the best for his son. She knew that her husband was absent as a parent and she made sure to make it up to the boy as much as she could. Tony remembered how his mother would attend every little league game, cheering loudly from the stands with slices of watermelon sitting on her lap for the boys to enjoy after their game, or how she would secretly teach Tony how to play the piano and read him Shakespeare when Howard was away. Tony also remembered all the times that she would stand in front of him and absorb the verbal and physical abuse from Howard, in an attempt to salvage whatever pieces remained of Tony’s childhood.

Tony wanted the chance to take away all of Peter’s pain, the way his mother had done so for him. He knew that Aunt May was more than capable of taking care of Peter, however, Tony knew firsthand what it was like to grow up without a father figure. At the very least, he wanted Peter to have that positive male presence in his life. Tony always worried about stepping on Aunt May’s toes as he never wanted to make her feel that he was trying to replace Ben. That was the last thing Tony wanted, Ben was Peter’s ‘father’ and there was no way Tony could ever be as pure and good as Ben. It wasn’t fair to Peter as circumstances ripped away not one, but two fathers from him before their time. It wasn’t a horrible situation like the one Tony grew up in, Peter had had a loving and nurturing father figure in his life.

“Tony, I’m stepping out for a while. I believe Peter is in his room doing school work.” Pepper interrupts Tony’s thought, leaning down to press a kiss on his cheek.  “Maybe we could make pizza tonight, as a family?” She adds, a smile growing on her face. Pepper loved Peter, but what she loved more was the smile that grew on Tony’s face whenever the boy would run in and show him the A he got on a science project or ask about girls. Pepper wished she could grant Tony’s wish to be a father. They had been trying for a while, but the doctors had said that due to their age, it will be difficult to conceive.

“I think that sounds great, Pep.” Tony replies, looking up into his fiancée’s eyes.

“I’ll get everything we need, including gluten-free crust!”

“Really?...Do we have to have gluten-free crust? It’s pizza for god’s sake-“

“Anthony, what did the doctor say! Low-carb helps with insulin resistance, which regulates hormones-“

“Which helps with making babies. Fine, fine, fine.” Tony chuckles, pressing another kiss onto Pepper’s lips before she walks out of the lab and into the elevator.

The silence of the tower drove Tony mad. With all the thoughts roaming through his mind and lack of work to do, he found himself walking by his piano.

This beautiful Steinway, that was once his mother’s, sat in his parlor growing dusty over the years. Tony couldn’t remember the last time when he had the chance to play. The last few years had been a whirlwind, but perhaps falling in love with music again was the relief that he needed. Now that the arc reactor was gone, and he had his health again, he needed to find ways to relax and be at peace. The earth was once again whole after the defeat of Thanos and Tony’s therapist had suggested that he find a hobby that doesn’t involve mechanics and science. Something relaxing, creative and something that would open him up emotionally. Tony’s therapist had labelled him “emotionally constipated” in their last session, scoring a laugh from both Tony and Pepper as the therapist had hit the nail on the head.

Tony lifted the heavy, quilted cover off the piano and dusted off the cover, the shiny black hue of the piano starting to regain its beauty. Tony’s worn hands gently lifted the keyboard cover before he softly blew the remaining dust off the ivory keys.

He sat at the piano, hands hovering over the keys, unsure as to what to play, unsure as to what they remembered how to play. Tony gently pressed the keys, leaning into the stiff ivory. He couldn’t remember what the name of this melody was or who wrote it, but his hands had remembered as if it were an old friend.

“Mozart.” Tony breathes softly, a smile spreading on his cheeks as he remembers the piece his mother taught him as a child.  The adrenaline rush that Tony used to gain from playing had start to return, he kept asking himself why he had stopped playing all those years ago.

After reacquainting his hands to the keys, he started to play a classic favourite of his. Unlike his usual rock and roll, his hand started to play Jungleland by Bruce Springsteen. A song that brought Tony back to his wild, teenage years running through the streets of New York. Carefree, responsibility and adulthood on the horizon, full of young love, lust and rebellion.

His rough voice slowly joined his hands, and before Tony knew it he was captivated by the song. It felt as if he was on stage with the Boss himself, reliving the glory days before his world turned upside down. A world where all these horrible things hadn’t happened, a world where he was young and free, and his mom still had his back. A world where his mother was still alive and able to hold him and tell him that everything was going to be okay.

“I didn’t know you could sing!” a quiet voice mutters in shock, pulling Tony away from his daydream. His hands abruptly stop, banging on the keys to provoke a clashing sound.

“I can’t.” Tony looks over his shoulder to see Peter standing there with a pencil behind his ear and a science book in his hand. “What do you need, Pete?” Tony asks, his tone changing once he realized that it was the curious boy who had snuck up on him. “Remind me to bubble wrap the place that way you don’t sneak up on me!” Tony chuckles.

“Uh, I had a couple of questions I could use a second opinion on…plus I heard you playing and wanted to see if it was a recording or…”

“Oh, uh that was nothing. Just trying to listen to my therapist.” Tony brushes off the boy, “how about those questions?”

The two were sat at the kitchen table talking about chemistry, Tony working his way through a problem to show Peter that you can sometimes skip steps in the process.

“Uh, Mr. Stark? What was that song you were playing?”

“Kid, drop it. It was nothing.” Tony mutters, embarrassed that he had been caught by the boy.

“It just sounded super familiar, like I’ve heard it before.” Peter add quietly, his hand reaching to rub the back of his neck.

“Jungleland. Bruce Springsteen.” Tony sighs as he looks up at the boy. He could see something flash before Peter’s brown eyes before the boy looked back down at his homework, shaking his head in the process.

“Uncle Ben used to love Bruce Springsteen. He’d play this one album over and over again in the car. That’s probably where I heard it.” Peter half smiles while looking at Tony.

Tony felt bad for being so short with him.  Peter was truly just being inquisitive, trying to get to know Tony and he had refused to let the boy in. The absolute opposite of what his therapist had suggested, even worse, it was something his father used to do to him.

“Yeah? Do you know what his favourite song was?” Tony smiles, closing the textbook that was on the table.

“Uh, I think it was Rosalita. He said it reminded him of Aunt May.” Peter chirps, a grin pulling at his cheeks at the mention of his aunt.

“That’s a good one. Why don’t I show you my music collection? I have a feeling you might like it.”

Peter’s face lit up like Christmas morning. Tony felt good for once, he felt that he had done something right. As the two boys walked to Tony’s study, Peter had started rambling about the story of how May and Ben met and why Rosalita was important. Peter’s enthusiasm brought a smile to Tony’s face, hoping that the boy would continue to open up and tell him about his life before the Avengers.

“Pizza time!” Pepper hollers from the kitchen, finely chopping vegetables on the marble countertop. She had returned from her afternoon of appointments and errands and had started prepping the toppings immediately, as she figured that Peter would probably be starving.

Peter’s head slowly peeked around the corner, looking into the kitchen where Pepper was chopping. Tony waltzed up behind the boy and pushed him gently into the kitchen.

The three had a blast making their own pizza’s, creating different silly faces out of toppings.

Once they were cooked, Tony and Peter set the table and they all sat down for the meal together.

“How was your afternoon, Pepper?” Peter asks softly, taking a much anticipated bite of his pizza.

“Oh, it was lovely. Got to see an old friend for coffee, stopped in at the doctors, got groceries-“

“You went to the doctor?” Tony asked in a concerned tone, slowly sipping at his drink, refusing to break his gaze on Pepper.

“Yes, I did. I have good news.” She smiles, pulling a paper out from her back pocket. “He said we can start hormones next week. We have to go pick up all the medication tomorrow.”

“What does that mean?” Tony replies, staring into Pepper’s soul, his gaze sending a flutter in her chest.

“Uhm, yeah…What does that mean?” Peter adds quietly, slouching in his seat trying to conceal his embarrassment.

“It means that we are good to go for our first round of IVF. We can start the process, Tony!”

“Wait- What!? Does this-“

“Yes! Tony, this time next year we could have a baby in our arm!” Pepper mentions calmly, a smile growing on her face. Tony looked at her, eyes wide and in complete awe. Peter bounced between looking at Tony’s aghast face and Pepper’s sly smile.

“Wow, congrats you two!” Peter peps, interrupting the pregnant silence at the table. A grin forms on Tony’s lips as he starts to laugh in absolute disbelief. His dream was finally going to come true if everything went well with this round of IVF. Pepper stood up and squeezed Tony on his shoulders, pressing her lips to his cheek. Before walking into the kitchen, she ruffles Peter’s hair.

“You know, Pete. If you hadn’t come into our lives, we never would have wanted kids.” Pepper mentions from the kitchen, emerging with a salad that she had forgotten to place on the table.

“Really?” “Of course, Pete. We consider you to be family.” Tony smiles, a big bite of pizza filling his mouth.

“Well, I consider you two to be like parents. Of course, Aunt May is number one, but you’re like the cool step parents that my friends have. The ones who go to all their soccer games and happily co-parent without bickering about legalities and-“

“You’re adorable, Peter.” Pepper smiles, sitting between the two boys. “I’d come to your soccer games any day.”

“But I don’t play soccer.” Peter says in a confused tone, his mouth hovering over a bite of pizza.

“Pete, it was a metaphor. We know you don’t play soccer.” Tony sighs, staring at the confused boy.

“Oh.” The boy breathes, a blush growing on his cheeks as he slowly understands the joke.

“How about you go pick a movie after dinner for all of us to watch?” Pepper states, passing the salad across the table to Tony.

“Sure!”

Tony looked endearingly at his wife. How could he be so lucky to have Pepper in his life, supporting him in all his shenanigans. Tony was so grateful for Peter, as well. As much as the boy could irritate him and make him crazy, he loved the kid. Tony couldn’t picture life without Peter these days. It was because of him, that Tony felt whole again. Tony felt that life was finally starting to settle and he was finally becoming the man his mother had always hoped he’d become.

 taglist: @loki-in-hogwarts @spiderlingsweb

[glassceilingbreakers]

THE RADICAL POSSIBILITY OF THE WOMEN’S MARCH

On Saturday, a constellation of woman-centered, anti-Trump protest lit up across all seven continents. (A group on an expedition ship in Antarctica adopted the unofficial slogan “Penguins for Peace.”) At the center of the action was the Women’s March on Washington, which drew an estimated half a million participants. There were men and women of all origins and orientations, a teeming parade of pink hats and protest signs that brightened against a pale silver fog blanketing the sky. There were sensible moms and crust punks, bros in Patagonia and toddlers on shoulders. A group of Gen Xers from Pittsburgh kept yelling, “Go Steelers!” A great-grandmother leaned on a walker, ambling gamely down the National Mall with clouds of cotton in her ears.

Before Saturday, there had been some fuss about the conceptual nature of a “women’s march.” Inside the movement, some women worried that other women would be given unfair priority; outside of it, some men sulked, apparently desiring to be addressed directly at all times. But it made sense to organize the first major post-Inauguration protest march around women, who are almost fifty-one per cent of the American population, who have been maligned and attacked by the new President, and who make up a group within which every other vulnerable population exists. The Women’s March protesters took an obvious, gentle pleasure in sharing space with people of divergent interests and appearances. There must have been a thousand shared apple slices at the demonstration, and, remarkably, not a single arrest by D.C. police. (At a Black Lives Matter demonstration, you probably would have seen many police officers, but on Saturday the presence of law enforcement felt minimal, which likely helped to keep the protest as peaceful as it was.)

There was, naturally, some raunch at the march against the pussy-grabbing President: one young woman, for instance, wore a fully articulated stuffed vulva on her back, complete with a plush clitoris and the label “Can’t Touch This.” But the heavy presence of first-time protesters insured a certain softness. A nine-year-old girl with hair the color of gingerbread carried a sign that read, “I’m a Kid and This Cannot Be My Future.” Her name was Frankie, and she thought the protest was “just sort of amazing—all these people, from all around the world, coming together to help women.” A few feet away from her stood Betsy and Nancy, resplendent in Rosie the Riveter gear. They were on either side of age sixty, and had taken an eleven-hour bus the previous day from the small town of Canton, in upstate New York. A D.C. church had welcomed their delegation of Unitarians; it was Betsy and Nancy’s first protest, too. “Trump is the antithesis of everything I believe in,” Betsy said. “Wilderness, women’s freedom, public schools.”

Someone who’d been looking at Twitter announced that Gloria Steinem was speaking—then Scarlett Johansson, then Janelle Monáe. There was a long procession of A-list speakers, but no one anywhere near me could hear or see them. It wasn’t noon yet, but the crowd was already large beyond reckoning, and there was no loudspeaker system or signage to suggest where else people might go.

So I wandered the mall, taking a running sign taxonomy. There were the signs that announced the carrier’s identity: “Fornicating Homosexual Abortionist,” “Now You’ve Gone and Pissed Off Grandma,” “Proud Louisiana Liberal—Send Help!” (Plenty of people carried torches for others: white and Asian women holding Black Lives Matter signs, men with signs about reproductive rights.) Others roasted Donald Trump lightheartedly: “The Devil Wears Bronzer,” “Urine For a Long Four Years.” Some were as frank as possible: “I’m Too Worried to Be Funny,” “I Can’t Believe I Left the Soviet Union for This Shit.” There were pleas for police accountability and grace toward immigrants; innumerable signs protested Trump’s Cabinet, his unreleased tax returns, his “Access Hollywood” gloating descriptions of sexual assault. Coat-hanger cutouts were everywhere.

In an area bounded by port-a-potties, a group of protesters clustered under the trees. Four women in their late fifties carried signs for the United Steelworkers; they worked in paper mills in New England. “We’re afraid of losing everything the labor movement stands for,” Wanda, fifty-five, with dark skin and shoulder-length twists, said. “Benefits, safety, health. Wages going up for everyone, not just people in the union.”

Marilyn, sixty-seven, wore a pastel sweater. She was from York, Pennsylvania. She told me that she’d been depressed since the election. “But you have to stand up for what you believe in! I was teargassed in Dupont Circle protesting the Vietnam War!” Her husband, Keith, who’s active in the climate-change movement, carried a sign that said, “I’m Marching for My Grandchildren.” Around the message, there were nine names, written in colorful lettering, for kids aged eight months to ten.

Near them, a man with gray hair and crooked teeth held a sign that said, “Try Grabbing These Pussies, Motherfucker!” His name was Martin, and he was seventy-four. “Look at this turnout,” he said. “At the antiwar protests in the last decade, there were so many old farts like me. This is something else—like being in the sixties again.” On cue, a man wearing a poncho and a sign that said “Criminalize Toxic Masculinity” breezed by us, smoking weed.

The march itself was supposed to begin at 1 p.m., and the crowd packed in close, awaiting orders. A midday lull set in, and lasted for more than an hour. Cell-phone service flickered in and out; people hummed “This Land Is Your Land” and checked the Women’s March Twitter account for instructions. A chant kept erupting and dying: “Let’s march now! Let’s march now!” The news arrived first from the Associated Press: the enormous crowd had choked the planned route to a standstill.

I went over to talk to a tough-looking man wearing mirrored aviators and a bucket hat. He carried an American-flag sign that said, “Protest Is Patriotic.” His hot-pink shirt read, “Walked Point in Vietnam to Defend Democracy in 1970, Walked the Mall in Washington to Defend Democracy in 2017.” It was his first-ever protest. “The thing I’m here for is that a lot of people have died for the right to do what we have done today,” he said. At that, a sudden crush of people yanked me backward into the crowd.

The mass was herding itself across the Mall, toward Pennsylvania Avenue and the White House. Women kept yelling out things that felt overly symbolic: “Can someone just please give us some instructions? Can someone just tell us what to do?” As the crowd crept past the Trump International Hotel, booing loudly, the most gleefully disrespectful chants of the day broke out on repeat: “We need a leader, not a creepy tweeter” and “He’s orange, he’s gross, he lost the popular vote.” A woman named Edythe from Detroit yelled, “We tried going high, baby, but we’ll get dirty if we have to!” A mother tossed her giggling baby in the air, and a woman behind me said what I was thinking: that she couldn’t look at the whole mass of people without tears welling behind her eyes.

Beneath the thrill of the broad-minded demonstration, there was a nagging thought that I couldn’t shake, and that some protesters made a point of noting: if a majority of white women had not voted for Trump in November, he would not currently be President—and millions of people would not be protesting. There’s a corollary to this that also tugged at me: if Trump weren’t President—if we had, on Friday, inaugurated President Hillary Clinton—how many of the white women who protested on Saturday would feel as if there weren’t much about America that needed protesting at all?

The radical possibility of the Women’s March, the hope that hasn’t been squashed, is a broad alignment of straight, middle-class white women with all the people who were glad to stand beside them and march: the black and queer and disabled women, the minimum-wage workers and undocumented immigrants, all the people whose rights to self-determination are constantly under threat. The crowds on Saturday were so enormous, so radiant with love and dissent, that this larger coming together seemed possible. As Trump’s Administration proves itself unkind to all but the wealthy, perhaps there is a coalition ready to speak their hearts, to listen, to welcome anyone in.

[kristinchieko]

Grandma Chieko

Dear Karis,

Yesterday Grandma Chieko passed away. She was your great grandma. (She’s why you’re named Karis Chieko and why I’m Kristin Chieko!)

We were able to see her last Saturday, March 4th. She was sleeping peacefully. You kissed her and hugged her and said bye bye before we left. She wasn’t able to respond, but a good friend told me that when people grow old and start to get sick, the last thing to go is their hearing. So I’m sure she heard you. And probably felt you, too -- you were kind of climbing all over her. :)

I want to tell you a few things about Grandma Chieko, since you didn’t really get a chance to know her.

She used to babysit Auntie Alyss and me. I looked forward to the days when she picked me up for school, because I knew the afternoon would be filled with fun and FREEDOM. :) She’d pick us up in her fancy black Mazda with the smooth leather seats and the new car smell (it was fancy to me because her car before that was a little rectangular-shaped grey car with fabric seats, I think), and I remember being so proud to walk up to it and have all the other kids who were waiting see me pull its shiny silver door handles and get in. 

The first stop was the grocery store! Your auntie and I would grab all the snacks we’d see in commercials that our mom and dad never let us get: Honey Buns and Slim Jims and Ding Dongs and Cocoa Puffs, frozen pancakes and Fruit Loops and these little turkey sausages that were packaged like string cheese (the name had the word fingers in it, I think... Eek.) Sometimes she took us to the Japanese market, and we’d go to town there, too. We especially loved these buttery little animal biscuits (I still get excited when I see a box of them today) and those giant Cheetos-like sticks... and I think just the thrill of picking out something cool looking without having any idea what was inside, since most labels were in Japanese. 

Then we’d go back to her house – to me, this magical playland of possibilities (and to Alyss, a treasure trove of hidden candies… she was always getting into Grandma’s cabinets and drawers and finding her secret stash of honey candies and other goodies). She had this big, grassy backyard with a tall, starry-leafed tree growing in the middle; a little gated-off garden was on the far end and on the opposite end of the yard was a patio with wind chimes and this strange little corner that fascinated me but creeped me out at the same time, with its serious stone statue surrounded by big, poke-y plants. We had a lot of adventures in this backyard. Alyss and I used to peek into the neighbors’ backyards (on both sides) and make up stories about them – I can’t even remember what’s real and what’s not anymore; we once found kittens hidden between the wall and the back fence and wanted to adopt them but were scared off by the mom; Grandma’s little rose/vegetable/fruit garden was a magical Secret Garden, a place I was not supposed to be in, like the one in the movie. I imagine my dad and Uncle Kenny must’ve had a lot of fun there, too, when they were younger – I remember that the big tree shooting out of the center of the yard was flat on top, I was told because one of them threw a baseball at it when it was still short and flimsy and took off the top. =/

 Then there was the house – the T.V. room with the orange leather couches where we’d watch all the Nickelodeon we wanted (but would stop when Are You Afraid of the Dark came on) and eat meals on T.V. trays; the long dining table with the glass bowl of plastic fruit that I can only remember sitting at when she had parties (its primary use was as a fort, cave, or whatever else we wanted it to be in the moment).

 The next room over was the living room – always spotless with Grandma’s Japanese flower arrangements on a table in the corner, heavy books with images of Japan and nature on the coffee table, and my shiny brown Wurlitzer piano that proudly displayed family photos… all of which eventually came down over the years as marriages ended and families changed. Oh, and there was the old T.V. hooked up to the Super Nintendo on the table by the window. :) By day, this was our play room. By night, this was the backstage area where we’d plan little skits and magic shows before throwing open the “curtains” (the floor-to-ceiling, folding wooden doors that separated the living room from the T.V. room) and performing whatever masterpiece we’d planned for our audience.

 As you exited the living room and headed toward the long hallway, the front door would be the your left and the kitchen to your right. We didn’t hang out much in the kitchen, though Grandma did. She loved to cook, I think. Well, she loved to eat and loved hosting parties, and everyone who came over talked about how great her food was, so I’m pretty sure she liked cooking. She made all kinds of food – mostly Japanese but she had this one dish, Tamale Pie (which I remember as ground beef with corn, topped with a “crust” of cornbread), that she made often enough for us to remember and still laugh about now (why did she make Tamale pie when there were all these other dishes she made that were so much better?) My favorites were okonomiyaki and sukiyaki, and salmon, too – until I got that bone lodged in my tonsils and had to go to the ER. She used to make sukiyaki for my birthday (except for that one year when she made it for someone else’s birthday instead… still trying to get over it), and taught me how to make okonomiyaki once, years later when I was older and her memory first started to fade. I wrote everything down and saved all the packaging so I’d remember which brands to use, but ironically, or maybe just unfortunately, I forgot what I did with it.

At the end of the kitchen was her little dining room with a small oval table, which is where I can picture her sitting most of the time, when it wasn’t covered with platters of tempura and sushi and all the other izakaya dishes she would make (I don’t even know if I’m using that word right – just trying to be fancy). This was the table where she taught me origami – how to fold a cup, a crane, an Iris flower. This is where she told me that once I learned how to use chopsticks, she’d take me to Japan (I didn’t make it to Japan until 2012 – I brought her back a scarf, but the disease had already started taking over by then. When I visited her the next day, she had no memory of my visit and the scarf was never found again). And maybe I’m just imagining it happening there, but I can remember her teaching me “Head, Shoulders, Knees, and Toes” in Japanese at that little dining room table (”Atama, kata, hiza, ashi”). I ended up teaching everyone at day care and we performed it at some Christmas event. 

I passed on the origami skills she taught me, too -- back then, and even recently as a teacher in the jails. One of my students said to himself, chuckling, “I went from robbing banks to folding cranes. I never thought I could use my hands to make something like this.” I ended up leading a schoolwide Thousand Cranes art project that involved students and teachers in the jails and community sites (one of the sergeants even made a crane, too). Collectively at our individual sites, we shared the meaning of a thousand cranes in Japanese culture, taught our students to make them, and strung them together to create a beautiful Thousand Cranes tree display at the 2015 L.A. Art Show. I wish she could have seen it.

To the left of the kitchen was her washer and dryer room, both appliances always running. (I’m just realizing my Grandma was so clean!) This led to her bathroom, with that tub which she’d fill pretty high with hot hot water for our baths. I always complained at first but remember spending hours there. Well, maybe more like half an hour. Long enough for my fingers to get white and wrinkly.

Then was her bedroom – a big bed against the wall, a shrine of some sort against the window with a picture of Grandpa, her husband, and incense. Against the left wall was her desk. It had this hutch on it with a little door, probably the size of a photograph, that became the subject for a lot of my pretend games.

 Outside of her room was the hallway I mentioned earlier, which led back to the living room. To the right of Grandma’s room was Alyss’ and my bedroom. There were two twin beds covered with these gold/brown comforter covers. A big closet where finally, my grandma had a little bit of mess (I think our Halloween costumes and other things we didn’t use any more were stored there, too). Along the right wall was a long, wooden dresser topped with an antique gold framed vanity tray and a matching gold lipstick holder. I don’t think we spent much time in this room, except to grab our Barbies or Polly Pocket toys and head to the living room to play. I can’t remember much about it except that I loved that dresser area and vanity. It all looked so grand – it made me feel like a princess. A few years ago (or maybe last year?), Alyss and I had to go with my dad to Grandma’s house at Leisure World. She was no longer living there since she was in a memory care home, and they were getting ready to sell the place and everything in it, so my dad told us to take whatever we wanted. I remember seeing the gold vanity tray sitting on that same dresser. But I didn’t take it, maybe because I felt so weird about what we were doing. I wish I had, though. A thrifty estate-sale shopper probably took it home for five dollars.

The other two rooms down the hall were Auntie Alice’s and the second bathroom. She used to play with us, and take us out and buy us things, when she was there.

Outside the front door was a broad, gravel driveway, and a little bit of a front lawn. I remember not being allowed to play there. I never understood why until I got older, when I learned that Grandma didn’t live in the safest neighborhood. Only then did I notice the bars on the windows and the potholes in the streets, the overgrown front yards without sidewalks and the shortage of street lighting. It didn’t matter, though. Grandma’s house is one of the places I can remember feeling the most safe and comfortable growing up.

You know what’s weird – I meant to describe your great grandma to you, but I ended up describing her house. Not sure how that happened, sorry. I guess I didn’t want to forget any part of her, since I feel like it’s already happening. Sometimes when I’m reminded of things she used to do or say, I have a hard time picturing it, even believing it, because the person she was these past 5-6 years was not fully Grandma.

 Grandma had something called Dementia. It’s not something you can catch or prevent, as far as we know now. It’s a brain disease and one symptom of it is memory loss. It’s a sneaky one, because it starts taking away parts of a person’s life when their physical health and everything else seems just fine. Experiences and skills that person has acquired disappear without warning – it’s so gradual and mixed in with normal forgetfulness. And before you realize it, the person you once knew is gone, replaced by a shell of a human being who doesn’t know you, doesn’t know who she is, and is just existing, no longer living. And you didn’t even get to say goodbye.

 I’m trying to have faith, though, that in her last few weeks, she did experience life. Because we finally started asking God specifically for that, and there were others who were praying for Grandma, too.

 You see Karis, I’ve been praying for Grandma pretty much every morning for maybe 8 or 9 years now -- my prayer to God was that she would “give her life to You and follow You.” I wanted this because I know that whenever anybody chooses to do this, they start to live life more fully. It’s very freeing because you realize that there’s someone (Jesus) who knows all the darkest parts of you and still loves you the same, doesn’t look at you differently, and doesn’t want you to live in guilt about it. And he has the authority to tell you you don’t have to worry about the past anymore because of what happened at the cross. It’s like if you were way way in debt and then Jesus came up to you and was like, “Hey, I just paid all your bills. In fact, I bought the debt collectors out. They no longer have the right to come after you any more, even if you fall into debt again, which you can’t, because you would just owe me now and I’m not keeping track of anything.” Wouldn’t that be awesome?

Well that’s the reality for people who go to Jesus and say, “I need you! I feel like I’m drowning without you. I believe that you paid with your life so that I could be free. I believe all my sins are forgiven because of what you did on the cross, even if it does sound a little crazy. I don’t understand everything about you but I do know one thing – you are good, and I want to trust you. So I will devote the rest of my life to learning to trust you, because I know that’s the only way to live my life out fully, and be the person I was created to be.” All our debt – our mistakes, flaws, failures, deepest darkest secrets – we don’t have to live our lives focusing on these things, letting them define who they are and what we do next. We’ve handed it all over to Jesus, and he’s taken it and thrown it away. And even if as we’re telling Jesus these things, we’re imprisoned in a cell or imprisoned in a body, we can still live in freedom. Freedom can be experienced anywhere.

So this is what I wanted for Grandma (and our other family members who don’t know God, who I’ve been praying for daily along with her). And not just for her to live fully here on Earth, despite her state, but for her to continue living in Heaven, after her body died. In Heaven, God “will wipe every tear from their eyes. There will be no more death or mourning or crying or pain, for the old order of things has passed away.” In Heaven, God makes everything new (Revelation 21:4-5).

 When we first visited Grandma after she was put on oxygen and could no longer get out of bed, I started to make my prayers for her more specific. I asked for God to communicate with her through her dreams and through her spirit. For him to make himself real to her supernaturally. That even though she was unable to communicate with us, that God’s spirit would somehow translate my words and get them to her spirit. And that in the days she had left, that she would be spending them with him.  

 At one point while I was with her and praying for her, holding her hand, she started to move her hand very rapidly back and forth. It was the only movement we’d seen from her in the few hours we’d been with her that day, and it was right after I had asked God to come be with her and make himself real to her, as I was asking that anything blocking her from accepting him would go away.

 Reason still tempts me to believe that this was simply a reflex – it’s not like she’s never moved her hand like that before. But she was completely still with all the other touch she was getting and words she was hearing before. Plus, your dad had asked God to give us a sign that she was responding. So I’m trying to hold on to that as a sign that God’s spirit was with hers.

 There’s also the story in the Bible, Luke 5:18-26 (The Message version):

 18-20 Some men arrived carrying a paraplegic on a stretcher. They were looking for a way to get into the house and set him before Jesus. When they couldn’t find a way in because of the crowd, they went up on the roof, removed some tiles, and let him down in the middle of everyone, right in front of Jesus. Impressed by their bold belief, he said, “Friend, I forgive your sins.” 21 That set the religion scholars and Pharisees buzzing. “Who does he think he is? That’s blasphemous talk! God and only God can forgive sins.” 22-26 Jesus knew exactly what they were thinking and said, “Why all this gossipy whispering? Which is simpler: to say ‘I forgive your sins,’ or to say ‘Get up and start walking’? Well, just so it’s clear that I’m the Son of Man and authorized to do either, or both…” He now spoke directly to the paraplegic: “Get up. Take your bedroll and go home.” Without a moment’s hesitation, he did it—got up, took his blanket, and left for home, giving glory to God all the way. The people rubbed their eyes, incredulous—and then also gave glory to God. Awestruck, they said, “We’ve never seen anything like that!”

 Your dad and Grandma J pointed out a few things about this story. One – Jesus forgave the paraplegic man’s sins because he was impressed by the bold belief of the man’s friends. The man himself did not ask for forgiveness. But Jesus forgave him anyway, because of the faith of the man’s friends. Second – the paraplegic man did choose to come to Jesus. He did not come to him himself – even if he wanted to, he couldn’t have. He came to Jesus because his friends literally carried him there. Third – Jesus says that he has the authority to forgive sins, meaning that he can forgive sins for whoever and wherever he likes! In Luke 23, he forgives a man who was crucified beside him, who probably caused a lot of pain for people throughout his life and only becomes a believer in the last hours of his life. The man says to him, "Jesus, remember me when You come in Your kingdom!" And Jesus said to him, "Truly I say to you, today you shall be with me in Paradise." And in James 4, Jesus says, “There is only one Lawgiver and Judge, the one who is able to save and destroy. But you—who are you to judge your neighbor?”

 And I’m reminded of another passage in the Bible, in Matthew 25. It’s a vision of what happens when people die and come before Jesus in heaven:

34-36 “Then the King will say to those on his right, ‘Enter, you who are blessed by my Father! Take what’s coming to you in this kingdom. It’s been ready for you since the world’s foundation. And here’s why:

 I was hungry and you fed me,

I was thirsty and you gave me a drink,

I was homeless and you gave me a room,

I was shivering and you gave me clothes,

I was sick and you stopped to visit,

I was in prison and you came to me.’

 37-40 “Then those ‘sheep’ are going to say, ‘Master, what are you talking about? When did we ever see you hungry and feed you, thirsty and give you a drink? And when did we ever see you sick or in prison and come to you?’ Then the King will say, ‘I’m telling the solemn truth: Whenever you did one of these things to someone overlooked or ignored, that was me—you did it to me.’

 I’m still learning and hoping that what I’m saying to you is not off, but to me, these Bible verses tell me that Grandma is in Heaven. First of all, I, God’s daughter, asked him for it. At least 2,920 times. And it says in Matthew 7 that our Father in heaven gives good gifts to those who ask him. Second, like the paraplegic man, Grandma had a lot of things going against her that made her unable to go to Jesus on her own – her upbringing and culture, the language barrier, and then the dementia. But also like the man, she had a group of believers who were trying to carry her to Jesus with our prayers. There were at least fifteen of us. Fifteen of God’s children asking their father in heaven for something. And third, Grandma fed, clothed, provided a home, and cared for someone who was overlooked and ignored – her daughter. When everyone else wanted to give up on Auntie Alice, and when Grandma had the opportunity to free herself from taking care of her and go to the Keiro retirement home with her friends, she chose instead to move to Leisure World – a home far from her community with which she was so heavily involved, but the only one that would allow her to bring my aunt along with her. Those years at Leisure World I know were not easy for her – they were isolating and full of conflict, external but probably internal as well. But she refused to leave her daughter, despite the pain it caused her.

So with this, plus Jesus’ authority to forgive sins in unconventional situations, the way he has shown to be moved by compassion and great faith to make miracles happen, and God’s great love for us and mercy on us… isn’t it reasonable to believe Grandma Chieko is with him now?

Perfect and beautiful and free, doing all the things she used to do – laughing and dancing and doing random goofy things… maybe even getting her hair done, hosting parties and hanging out with friends, cooking and arranging flowers… if people still do those things in heaven. But definitely celebrating.

Jesus, have mercy on my Grandma Chieko. I believe she was with you during her last days. Please tell her I say hi.