‘Goodness’ goes by many names

Too long into adulthood, I was unfamiliar with the vulnerability of being sad — having found various ways to numb disappointment in my formative years. I remember the first time a piercing sadness found me without the dubious chemical aids of my adolescence. On a summer day in Petersburg, my godparents had come through our Southeast Alaska town on their tugboat. It was often years between our visits. I couldn’t leave work and I missed their afternoon stop. I processed the emotion like a groping savant, announcing to my husband, “So, this is what it’s like to be sad? This feels bad.”

As a kid, their home in Juneau was a retreat for me when extracurricular or medical needs required travel away from home, usually by ferry. Once, as an older teen, I flew via small commuter plane. Hours into that flight, the pilot found the weather too hostile, turned around and went back to Juneau. Exhausted and a bit lonely, I called my godparents from an airport pay phone. Upon reflection, I more fully appreciate the generosity of retrieving the houseguest whom you just bid farewell hours before for another night of spontaneous hospitality.

That generosity remains a reliable theme throughout my life, shifting to meet many needs. Linda, my godmother, has been encouraging voracious reading with thoughtful gifts for more than 30 years. She even continued into the next generation, helping to ensure they all enjoy “We’re Going on A Bear Hunt” and “Goodnight Moon” as much as I enjoyed the Cricket magazine subscription she sent for almost a dozen years.

Her husband Ed offered good-natured hazing when I fled college, dropping out to shack up with a biker with a heart of gold. When my 19-year old tumult next produced a wedding invitation (different guy, thanks be to God), they were there. Along with their three golden-haired daughters — each equal parts tough and lovely — who all came during a busy tug season and wished us well. They gave us a teakettle in New England Blue, a gift for which we probably never wrote to properly thank them.

Their family is strong in everyday ways: navigating Alaska’s Inside Passage together since the 1970s, milling the logs of their remote cabin by hand, tending to engines, flowers, dogs and children with exquisite detail, and generally seeming tireless to those of us who find strength in their example. We’re still sharing milestones, with the birth of their first granddaughter, Liv, bringing a recent visit. Providentially, I had my own goddaughter along as Linda and I snuck out to espresso and the playground in the crisp sunshine. My godmother gently prods me to get the kids out of their car seats and into fresh air, laughs at my jokes and asks about our cousins. Over the past 10 years, she has taught our girls to make peanut butter sandwiches and play the accordion. During our trip to see Cassandra, her daughter and my oldest friend, she checked to be sure we had good walking shoes and didn’t miss the miniatures exhibit at the Art Institute of Chicago.

As life marches on, I sometimes ponder the role of godparents, outside of religious heritage or sponsorship. Jewish custom doesn’t require them, and faiths as noble as the Salvation Army and Quakers don’t even baptize. What is it we’re agreeing to, or asking of someone, with this honorary name? Sociologists say that the higher number of non-relative adults who invest in a child’s life, the more protective buffer that child will have as they grow. And that makes sense — with each potential achievement or disaster, we sense that our village is impacted. Somebody notices. Our parents’ expectations for us, rather than trying to ruin our good time, are mirrored by benevolent faces.

It’s a formal acknowledgement of walking the tough road of raising children together, and my mom and dad chose well. So well, in fact, that I sometimes take the bond for granted, like it would’ve grown similarly without the title attached. But that’s not for me to declare. Goodness is a noun who goes by many names: mentor, teacher, companion, advocate, and guardian. I’ll hazard that the grace imparted by God’s name means something. Add to that supernatural light, salt of the earth folks like these, and the storms of life feel temporary.

For the record — thank you to my own parents, for the persistent gift of godparents. And thank you, Ed and Linda, for that teakettle.

Tiffany Borges is a grateful wife and mother who writes from downtown Wasilla. She believes in good nail polish, print newspapers and landline telephones.