The Couch and H. H. H.

There are two couches that sit in the small family room of my house, one beneath the large window that looks out onto the front yard and one along the wall against the back of the room. The couches are leather, sort of a deep burgundy color ... and they are probably 10 years old. The cushions are currently swaddled in fleece blankets because the years of dogs climbing on them have pretty much shredded the leather on them. I've checked with several upholstery stores, and the truth is that it will cost more to recover or replace the cushions than it would to buy new couches. So I decided that for now, until my big old dog Julie departs this world, the couches will remain in my family room with their cushions swathed in fleece blankets. It's not like I have many visitors to my home, and the fleecy cushions don't bother me. In fact, I think it may be hard to adjust to new couches when that day comes ... in a way, those worn, old couches of mine mean home to me ... familiar, comfortable, safe ... home.

My daughter Meghann has been training for several months to run a marathon, her first marathon as a matter of fact. I was sort of surprised when Meg decided to begin distance running ... though she ran track in high school, she was always a sprinter. I've been able to stand with my son-in-law and cheer her on in 5k and 10k events, and on October 19, I'll stand with him again and anxiously wait for her to accomplish her goal and cross the finish line of her first marathon. I'm proud of Meghann for the determination and discipline she has demonstrated both mentally and physically as she's trained. I'm proud of her for setting such a high goal and not stopping until she tackles the challenge before her head-on with every ounce of strength she's got. I'm proud of her for having the courage and the stamina to run on ... to run on in the rain ... to run on in the heat ... to run on in the wind ... to run on in the cold ... to run and run and run and then run some more.

It was while I was watching Meg run a 10k in downtown Kansas City that I made a decision ... a decision I didn't tell her about until recently. A friend of mine is a marathoner, and one day she told me the reason she began running marathons was because her mother wanted the two of them to run together ... her mother who didn't begin running marathons until she was 50 years old. As I stood behind the ropes that lined the street where Meghann was running the 10k, I thought about my friend and her mom, and I thought about Meg and me. I thought about the miles my daughter and I have traveled together over the last 24 years ... some easily trodden downhill miles and some treacherously dangerous uphill ones, too. I thought about how much running has come to mean to her ... I thought about how much walking has come to me. And I decided ... I decided that I was going to do the Couch to 5k program and learn how to run with my daughter. I've never been a runner, and I'll never be the runner Meghann is, but perhaps next spring, I'll be good enough that we can run the Mother's Day 5k together. At least that's my goal anyway.

I've mentioned before that when Ollie and I walk when it's dark outside, we walk on the sidewalk that runs in front of two schools, one a junior high school and the other a senior high school. There's a sign in front of the junior high, one of those signs like churches have, you know ... the kind you write a message on with the black plastic letters. Since school started a few weeks ago, three words seem to have taken up permanent residence on the sign ... Hope Happens Here. I've passed that sign countless times and I've read those words each time, but they didn't really strike me until tonight when I was running with Ollie ... yep, that's right, I said running. Tonight, those words literally jumped off the sign and bolted into my mind ... Hope Happens Here ... Hope Happens Here ... Hope Happens Here. My mind immediately raced back to that cold February morning last year when hope was the absolute last thing that was happening as I sat at my kitchen table preparing to swallow a handful of pills and end my life. My mind raced back to that hot August morning last year when hope was the absolute last thing that was happening as I sat in a conference room at work with one of the leaders of the company sobbing as I told her the truth of who I am.

I stopped running and stared at the words on the lighted sign in front of me ... Hope Happens Here. I stopped running and stared at the words as tears flooded my eyes, spilled down my cheeks and smacked the concrete of the sidewalk beneath my feet. Hope Happens Here. I stopped running and dropped to my knees, scooped Ollie into my arms and buried my face in his fur. Hope Happens Here. I stopped running and told God how thankful I am for hope and how grateful I am to be alive. At my appointment with the life-saving head doctor on Saturday, I told her I wanted the turmoil and the ever-present struggle within me to be over ... I asked her to fix me, to flip a switch and make me be okay once and for all. And then tonight ... I was running. Tonight ... I read the sign. Tonight ... I understood the message.

If I want to be in the race, I have to first get off my couch and then learn how to run ... I have to learn how to run. I have to go through the process. I have to do the hard work. I have to practice ... and practice ... and practice. I can't rush through the process. I have to try ... and try ... and try. I have to learn how to run. I have to first get off my couch and then learn how to run.

Hope Happens Here ... Hope Happens Here ... Hope Happens Here. Right here. Right now. Hope Happens Here. That it does, my friends, that it does.

Thomas Goes to Amsterdam

If you would have told me a couple of years ago how much I would enjoy buying gifts for my granddaughter, I would have laughed in your face. And those of you who've been reading for a while know why ... I don't care much for shopping ... what an understatement, eh? Unless said shopping involves buying things for C.J. ... that kind of shopping I would happily and willingly do all day every day for the rest of my life. I have to admit that I'm not the greatest when it comes to shopping for clothes for her, but when it comes to toys ... now that's another matter altogether. I can't begin to tell you how much fun I had buying toys for her before they came to visit this summer ... heck, I even enjoyed buying her a purse (mainly because I could fill it up with toys and Goldfish crackers). For all the things I've purchased for my sweet C.J. since she entered the world a little over a year and a half ago, there's one small item she loves dearly ... one small item that carries with it a ton of meaning for me ... one small item that is quite probably making a certain guy in heaven smile, smile, smile.

Just like most kiddos, there are certain things that C.J. is particularly crazy over. For example, she adores the Cabbage Patch doll that her Aunt Meghann and Uncle Barrett sent her for Christmas, and she goes to sleep each night by listening to music played by a high-tech stuffed ... ummm ... I can't recall whether it's a dog or an octopus, but it's one of the two ... that her Uncle Brad and Aunt Shelby sent her. But more than any other thing, except maybe her blankie, C.J. loves trains and trucks, both the real ones and the toy ones in her growing collection. When they came to spend a couple of days at my house, we just happened to be outside when the garbage trucks rolled through my neighborhood ... I have never seen a kid so excited to see a garbage truck in my entire life. I found an old book of Matt's called The Truck Book that I gave to C.J. when they were here, and Matt and Becca tell me they think they must have read it to her a thousand or more times. 

I was thrilled when Matt and Becca said that I could buy C.J. her first little train set, even though it took me almost two hours to choose between the different engines, cars and tracks ... yes, I spent two hours shopping for one particular item ... hard to believe, eh? I finally settled on a Thomas the Train beginner set, with a battery-operated, blue and red Thomas engine. And C.J. absolutely loves her Thomas the Train set ... I'm pretty sure that means she has some of my dad in her. When she's old enough to understand, I'll tell her stories of when her great granddad used to take me to work with him and let me drive the trains. I'll tell her about the train sets I had when I was a little girl, and I'll tell her about riding the train to my granny's house in Kentucky. I'll tell her about the time I got to ride in the caboose with the conductor and help take up the tickets. I'll tell her how Daddy used to always say that the love for trains gets in your blood. I'll tell C.J. that I think maybe part of the reason she loves trains so much is because she is a descendant of one of the kindest, most honorable men who ever lived ... a man who worked on trains for more than 50 years.

Matt, Becca and C.J. returned to their home in Canada last night after spending a week in Amsterdam. Matt was invited to speak at a conference there, and he jumped at the opportunity to take his little family along to see part of the world they never had before. The flight from Calgary to Amsterdam was nine hours ... nine hours in an airplane with an almost 20-month-old baby, a very busy and active almost 20-month-old baby. Matt and Becca had chosen a flight that left in the evening, with the hope that C.J. would sleep during most of the flight. Nope. Wrong. Not a chance. Long story there for another time, but suffice it to say that my sweet granddaughter only slept a couple or so hours ... a couple or so hours during the time that everyone else on the plane was trying to sleep. The rest of C.J.'s time on the plane was spent playing with her Thomas the Train engine and reading The Truck Book ... that and stealing the hearts of all the flight attendants with her giant blue eyes and white blond hair. As I said, they arrived back home last night, tired but happy, and they had an amazing trip and made memories for their sweet little family that will last a lifetime.

Matt called me early this morning to ask if I wanted to Skype with C.J. ... for as brilliant as my son is, he can't seem to understand that I ALWAYS want to Skype with C.J. There's absolutely no need to ask me if I want to talk to my baby girl ... he could simply call and say "Skype now," and unless I wasn't at home, I'd be on my computer faster than a fly can spit. Even before she could see me on the screen this morning (there was an issue with the camera on their computer, so there was a delay), I could hear her sweet little voice saying, Hi, Ghee! Hi, Ghee! Hi, Ghee!" And you know what? There isn't a sweeter sound on this earth to me than that sweet baby saying her chosen name for me ... not a single sound. I've said it before, but I'm saying it again ... I don't know how grandparents with grandchildren who live far away survive if they don't have the capability to Skype. Words will never be able to convey to you what it does to my heart to see her little face light up when she sees me on the screen ... to know that she knows who I am and recognizes my voice ... to understand that she loves me. It's more than that, you know ... it's understanding and believing that my sweet granddaughter loves me unconditionally for one reason and one reason only. C.J. loves me because I'm her Ghee ... nothing more, nothing less ... I'm her Ghee and I always will be.

So Thomas the Train, Matt, Becca and C.J. went to Amsterdam, and now they are back safe and sound in their home in the far north. Here's to many more adventures ahead for you sweet girl ... for you and Thomas the Train, and your mom and dad, too. And here's a great big giant hug and kiss from Ghee to you ... sleep well, baby ... sleep well, and know how much I love you ... how very much indeed.   

Cracked

First I should probably tell you that this post has been rolling around in my brain for months, most of the summer actually. I'm not sure exactly what that means, to have a post in my mind for so long and then to recognize that the night has arrived for me to write it. Maybe it means I'm a slow learner and it took me this long to understand the meaning I'm supposed to glean from it. Or maybe it means that sometimes thoughts and ideas are better when they ferment for a while ... like a good wine that gets better over time. At least I hope that's the case anyway ... that I can adequately convey what I have been and still am learning. One thing I am certain of, however, is that the more I learn, the more I realize how much more I need to learn.

I have two basic routes I follow when Oliver and I walk each evening, and the one we follow is generally determined by the weather and how light or dark it is when we begin our nightly stroll. If it's bright and sunny, we walk along the trail that winds through the woods ... the trail that is made of black asphalt. If it's already dark or near dusk, Ollie and I walk on the sidewalk that runs alongside a main road with plenty of street lamps to light our way ... the sidewalk that is made of gray concrete. Though the trail route curves along the creek while the sidewalk route is perfectly straight, they take about the same amount of time for me and my little pooch to walk. In regard to distance, the sidewalk route is actually longer, almost a mile longer to be exact. I think the reason Ollie and I are able to walk the extra distance of the sidewalk route in the same time as we do the trail route is because there's no one else on the sidewalk to distract my little wiener dog's attention from the task at hand ... or at paw as the case may be I suppose.

For as different as my two walking routes are, there is one big thing they have in common ... they both have lots of cracks. I first noticed that the cracks were becoming more significant late last year, and I thought it was probably due to the lack of rain causing the ground beneath the concrete and the asphalt to settle. But it's only been since early this summer that I noticed something else ... something big ... something that causes me to wonder and ponder and contemplate every time I walk. The big thing? Grass. No, really ... I'm serious ... grass. See here's the thing ... the cracks in the sidewalk have grass growing in them, and the cracks in the trail don't. Believe me when I tell you that I have being trying to figure out why for months, and I still don't the answer. I've thought about it a lot ... a whole, whole, whole lot ... and I still don't know why grass grows in the concrete cracks and not in the asphalt ones.

As I stepped over the grass protruding from the cracks in the sidewalk tonight when I was walking with Ollie, a thought burst into my mind and lodged itself in my heart. "Maybe the difference is what's inside, Ollie buddy ... maybe the reason the grass grows in the cracks of the concrete and not the asphalt has something to do with the chemical makeup of the materials. Or maybe it's because the asphalt is thicker than the concrete. Or maybe I'm never going to figure this out, little dog." The more I thought about it, the more I began to think about life, and the more I began to think about life, the more I began to think about the cracks that come along from time to time ... cracks of sadness, cracks of illness, cracks of lost relationships, cracks of death, cracks of so many of the hard things in life. But then I thought ... just like the grass that grows through the cracks in the concrete of the sidewalk, I grow through the cracks in life. It's not when my heart is all put together that I grow the most ... it's when the sidewalk of my heart is cracked that the green of the grass breaks through and begins to grow and grow and grow.

You can bet I will never see those cracks on the trail or sidewalk the same way again, friends ... you can bet I never will. 

Unfinished Business

My little mom would have been 94 years old a couple of days ago, and yes, memories of past birthday celebrations have been swirling in my mind all week. Even before Mom moved to Kansas City, I began making a list of questions I wanted to be sure to ask her one day ... a list of questions that resides in a folder deep within my heart ... a list of questions that remain unanswered because I never made the time to ask her ... a list of questions I continue to add to with the hope that I will one day be able to ask them of Mom in heaven. During the six weeks Mom lived in Kansas City, we talked a lot ... perhaps more than we ever had, or perhaps the conversations we had simply meant more to me than they ever had before. Something that struck me then and still strikes me now was how often Mom talked about things she had left undone in her life ... projects she didn't finish, conversations she didn't have, places she didn't go. And when Mom talked about the undone things in her life, a sadness would wash across the wrinkled skin of her face and cloud her hazel-colored eyes as she said, "Take it from me ... you need to say what needs to be said and do what needs to be done before it's too late ... once you leave this world, you ain't gonna be able to take care of any unfinished business then."

Things have been a bit stressful at work for the last couple of weeks ... nothing bad, just a super busy time for all of our clients and everyone is swamped. I know folks are stressed when one of them comes to my desk late in the afternoon and says, "Can I please have a hug? I really need a Terrie hug." I immediately stood up and wrapped my young friend up in a gigantic Mama T long and lasting hug ... of course I did, good grief, of course I did. About a half-hour later, I went upstairs to return some work to one of the project managers and after placing the job jacket in her chair, I made a snap decision. I decided that the people in my office needed something to lift their spirits today ... something to make them smile ... something to let them know they are more than just appreciated by me, they are loved. I began making my way from desk to desk proclaiming today as National Hug Terrie Day and hugged my co-workers. And you know what happened? People began coming to me before I would get to their desks saying, "Are you giving out hugs? I could sure use a Terrie hug today in a big way." Remember the post I wrote a while back about how many hugs you need for survival, emotional stability and personal growth? Well, suffice it to say that I had to have made some gigantic leaps in all three categories today because I lost count of all the hugs I gave and got in return today. And you know what? It was pretty freaking cool to see the joy my National Hug Terrie Day idea brought to my friends in the office ... pretty, pretty, pretty freaking cool.

As I drove home this evening, I thought about a day last February ... a Friday when I went around to each person in my office and hugged them before I left that day. They didn't know what I was doing that day, friends ... I was saying goodbye ... I was saying goodbye forever. I couldn't help but recognize as the tears began to flow from my eyes that the hugs I gave today were so very different from the hugs I gave on that cold Friday in February. Sometimes people write to me and tell me I shouldn't talk about that weekend ... the weekend I intended to end my life ... but I think they are wrong. I think I need to remember that weekend and the moments and the feelings and the pain and the hiding and the dishonesty that led me there. I think I need to talk about that weekend because speaking out about what almost was may help someone else to choose to live rather than die. I think I need to write about that weekend so that I never forget how close I came with the hope that I never return there again. 

I decided as I was walking with Ollie this evening that I need to take Mom's advice to heart ... that I need to try my best not to leave this world with unfinished business in my life. I'm not talking about finances or work or stuff like that ... I'm talking about the unfinished business that really matters. Unfinished business like making sure that the people I love know how very much I love them ... seizing every opportunity to help someone ... listening to those who are hurting or overwhelmed or sad ... being the mom my wonderful children deserve to have ... feeding someone who is hungry ... expressing gratitude for the blessings I receive ... being a loyal and trusted friend at all times in every circumstance of life ... keeping my promises and honoring my word. Unfinished business like loving and laughing and living with every ounce of strength I have in every moment I have.

Even as I type those words, I know I've got some unfinished business ... I know there are things I've left undone, and things I need to do better. I know there are often times when I don't want to do what others know is for my own good ... times when I fail so very miserably at the tasks that are set before me. I know there are days when I have to fight the urge to leave the business of life unfinished ... times when it seems as though it's just too hard, and it's taking way too long. I know there are times when I despise the words, "You have a ways to go yet," ... times when I want to stomp my feet, dig in my heels and refuse to take another step.

But then ... then there are days like today ... days when I was able to bring even a moment of joy to a few someones along the way ... days when I helped to carry the burden of a friend ... days like today when I hugged and hugged and hugged. I was reminded yesterday of the brevity of life when a friend told me of the unexpected death from diabetes of a young man in his early 30s. Life is too short not to love, friends ... life is too short not to laugh, friends ... life is too short not to live, friends. Don't waste it ... don't leave the really important business of life unfinished. Don't let the tyranny of the urgent cause you to sacrifice what's real and deep and lasting ... people ... it's people who matter most of all. Take it from me ... you need to say what needs to be said and do what needs to be done before it's too late ... no unfinished business, friends, no unfinished business.

P.S. If you happened to miss out on National Hug Terrie Day today, I've thought long and hard about it and have decided to declare tomorrow National Hug Terrie Friday and next week National Hug Terrie Week. Just stop by my desk or snag me as I walk by and claim your hug. Or my hug. Or our hug. Awww heck ... just come get a hug if you need or want one. :)

The Case of the Super Sneaky Scary Shadow ... or Having the Crap Scared Out of Me While I Was Walking Tonight

First, I'm pretty sure tonight's post should win an award of some kind for the longest blog post title in the history of the world. Second, get ready for confession number ... oh, heck, I have no idea how many confessions I've made in my blog posts this year, but I've got another one. Ready? I've been kind of grumpy this week. I'm sure those of you who read my previous two posts are saying in unison, "Well, duh, Terrie." But since I've heard that confession is good for the soul, it's got to be good for me to recognize and confess my grumpiness. Hello, my name is Terrie, and I've been grumpy all week. I don't get grumpy often ... there's a huge difference, by the way, between being grumpy and being sad ... but this week, grumpy has been my middle, if not first, name. Now, having bared my soul once again concerning my state of mind and heart, on to what's behind my totally awesome longest blog post title in the history of the world.

Ollie and I had met a friend earlier in the evening to walk together with her dog, but I was restless and decided to make Mr. Oliver go for another walk with me ... a very dark walk long after the sun had set. We walked quite a long time in the cool night air, and it was as we turned off the sidewalk and stepped onto the short piece of the trail that leads us home when it happened. I was walking at a brisk pace when it caught my eye ... something moving just to the left of us on the trail. I obviously am not afraid to walk in the dark because I do it all the time, but I am, however, abundantly afraid of being chased through the darkness on the trail by some sort of wild and ravenous critter seeking out its dinnertime meal or late-night snack. Generally, Ollie lets me know if there is a creature nearby, but tonight, my faithful wiener dog failed to alert me to the dangerous animal that was threatening to tear us apart limb by limb.

It only took a moment or two for me to realize that the significantly sized, oddly shaped being was keeping pace with me and Ollie ... the faster I walked, the faster it walked, staying dead even with us with an unrelenting determination. Keeping my eyes glued to the shadowy figure, I scooped Ollie into my arms and decided that ... well ... I decided to flipping run!! As the now humongous, snarling ... hey, now, in my mind it was huge and snarling anyway ...  creature continued along in the same rhythm and pace as Ollie and I, my heart began to pound as my mind tried to figure out a way of escape for me and my little hound. Being the always rational, logical, clear-thinking woman I am, I was by then completely convinced that the hungry, drooling beast had to be a bear or a bobcat or a mountain lion or, the most likely of all ... a giant rabid moose with antlers as big as my car. And ... and ... and ... I felt like a complete fool as I glanced back to see where the creature was when I was stepping off the curb to cross the street and make a mad dash for home. That's when I finally realized just exactly what it was that was chasing us ... my one and only, terribly frightening shadow. Yep, it was my shadow ... that's the beast I was so terrified of, friends, my own little old shadow. But in my irrational defense ... the bill of my ball cap really did look a lot like antlers in my shadow. And when I figured out that it was my shadow, I laughed until tears rolled down my cheeks ... I laughed the rest of the way home, and I'm still chuckling as I sit on my couch typing this post.

I learned three lessons tonight from my close encounter with my super sneaky scary shadow ... 
1) Things aren't always what they appear to be, and often what I create in my own mind is terribly way far off the mark
2) It is stinking hard to run with a 15-pound wiener dog on your shoulder.
3) Sometimes you just to laugh ... nothing more, nothing less ... just let out a hardy and strong guffaw. It's really hard to be grumpy when you're laughing, you know.

I'll leave you with those pearls of wisdom to ponder for a while ... I'm pooped and heading to bed. One bit of advice before I hit the sack, though ... watch out for those super sneaky scary shadows because they will scare the crap out of you while you're out walking at night.

An Addendum to My Rant

Well, well, well ... I've gotten quite a lot of feedback concerning my previous post, and a ton of questions asking if I would share what pushed me over the edge and caused me to pen my "every single person deserves to be treated with respect and honor and dignity and kindness and appreciated simply for being who they are" rant. I'm asked many questions that I choose not to answer publicly in my blog, but tonight I feel as though I should attempt to give a bit of explanation as to what sparked my rant last night, my rant from my heart, by the way ... trust me when I say that my rant last night was very, very much from my heart.

I can't say that it was one specific action yesterday that caused me to pen the words that I did last night ... those words have been, as I wrote last night, gnawing at me for a while now. But, as is true with most of the times I've felt compelled to write about sensitive subjects, something or someone is the tipping point ... that one attitude or comment or glance or action that is the final straw, you know? And sometimes that attitude or comment or glance or action isn't directed to me but to someone else. In fact ... truth be told ... witnessing another person being treated poorly is far more likely to bring forth a rant from me than being mistreated myself. That's what happens when you spend your life believing you're a terrible person, you know ... you believe you're less than everyone else and deserve whatever lousy treatment you get, but you'll fight to the death to save another person who's being wronged.

So having said all of that ... rather than share what the tipping point was for me that prompted last night's rant, instead I'm going to leave you with this reminder ... every single person deserves to be treated with respect and honor and dignity and kindness and appreciated simply for being who they are. Period. Period. Period. It really doesn't matter what happened to precipitate my post last night, but it matters a whole heck of a lot that it made so many of you consider how you treat other people. At the end of the day when all is said and done, the only thing that really matters is the way we treat each other. Think about that the next time you behave in a way that makes another person feel like they are unworthy or invisible or not normal or unappreciated or a waste of your time or less than you in any way. Try putting yourself in that person's place for a couple of minutes and imagine how you would feel if you were treated the way you are treating them.

Have a great evening, friends, and be kind to one another. Actually ... be kind to everyone ... those you love, those you meet, those you will never see again ... just be kind. 

"Not until trouble and heartache and sorrow came into my own life could I fully comprehend the words of Ian McLaren: 'Let us be kind, one to another, for most of us are fighting a hard battle.'" --- SCM



 
 
 


 

Move Over Brad ... It's My Turn to Rant

I've written previously about how my son Brad gets ... well ... rather passionate from time to time about certain subjects. And when it's something that he's especially worked up about, he often launches into what we in our family lovingly term "a Brad rant." Now lest you think otherwise, Brad isn't usually angry when he rants; in fact, more often than not, he isn't angry at all when he rants. What he is, however, is passionate about what he perceives to be an injustice or hate or blatant disregard of the importance of a certain matter or situation. And here's my disclaimer for tonight's post: I am going to rant, and I'm going to rant about something that has been gnawing away at me for a while. That's one of the differences between me and Brad, you see, he speaks his mind much more freely and quickly about certain things than I do. In sort of a gross analogy ... he pops the zit right away, and I let it fester. So ... if you don't want to read tonight's post, don't read it. If you do decide to read it, please know that I'm writing from my aching heart and not from a place of anger. OK ... maybe I'm a little bit angry ... I'll admit it. But I think this is one time that my anger is justified ... you bet I think it is.

When I was growing up, my parents taught me some basic tenants as to how I should treat other people ... tenants that I hope I taught my children as well ... tenants that I try to live out every single day ... at least I am now anyway. Let me list a few of them for you:

Don't be rude to anyone ... ever.
Listen when other people are talking.
Don't interrupt unless it's an emergency.
Be respectful to your elders ... be respectful to your juniors ... be respectful to everyone.
Be kind to everyone you meet.
Tell the truth even when it's difficult.
Make time to play and have fun.
Keep your promises.
Honor your word.
Be helpful whenever possible.
Go the extra mile without being asked or told to.
Always buy something from the kid who is selling stuff for his or her school.
Don't be judgmental.
Stand up for those who are weak.
Don't be a bully.
Say please and thank you.
Give good candy on Halloween.
Show appreciation for what others do.
Don't play favorites.
Never ever think you are better than anyone else.
Speak with kindness, and remember that you catch more flies with honey than vinegar.
And above all else ... love unconditionally.

I'm sure that each of you could add to my list, and there are more things I could place on it as well. In fact, perhaps my tenants list should be considered to be a work in progress ... one that I add to as I grow older and hopefully wiser on this journey of life. 

So what am I angry about, you ask? What do I feel the need to rant about? Well, here it is ... I struggle enough as it is to feel like I'm equal to everyone else ... I've struggled with feeling like I don't fit in my entire life. I honestly don't need any help or input from anyone on that issue, friends ... I don't need one ounce of help when it comes to being hard on myself. I know I'm not as smart as a lot of people. I know I'm not beautiful. I know I'm not a mover and shaker in the business world. I know I'm not rich. I know I don't know or understand anything about fashion. I know I'm not a leader in the community. I know I'm not as good or as pretty or as intelligent or as classy or as whatever trait you'd like to add as a ton of people ... I know all those things, and I've known them my whole life. And you know what else? I'm not the only person who has those thoughts or who struggles with feeling so very inadequate or so far below everyone else ... my guess is that some of you who are reading this post feel exactly the same way. And while I can't speak for those who share my never measuring up struggle, I can speak for myself when I write the following words. It only makes that struggle a million times worse when someone is condescending in their language to me ... when someone is blatantly rude to me ... when someone treats me with such disrespect that it causes me to weep ... when someone speaks badly about me and I overhear them.

I don't care who you are or what you do for a living or where you live or what church you go to or if you don't go to church at all or how you chew your food or what kind of clothes and shoes you wear or any of a plethora of other things ... every single person deserves to be treated with respect and honor and dignity and kindness and appreciated simply for being who they are. Period. Period. Period. Let me say that again in case you didn't get it the first time ... every single person deserves to be treated with respect and honor and dignity and kindness and appreciated simply for being who they are. No matter what. Period. Period. Period. You don't know and I don't know and no one knows what is going on in a person's life, and every single person deserves to be treated with respect and honor and dignity and kindness and appreciated simply for being who they are. And yes, I know I said that a lot ... if I had my way, those words would be tattooed on everyone as a permanent reminder of how our actions affect other people.

So what's the lesson I hope and pray I've learned? The lesson I hope and pray I always remember? I hope and pray that I have learned to never ever ever ever treat anyone as though they are less than me ... I hope and pray that I have learned to be kind to every single person I meet and even kinder to those I already know ... I hope and pray that I have learned to see others with a heart of respect and honor and love.

One Fine Day

The weather in Kansas City for the last few days has been as close to perfect as weather in Kansas City can be in the fall ... crisp chilly nights and cool clear days. In case I haven't said it like a gazillion times already, fall is absolutely my favorite season of the year. It was so beautiful here today, in fact, that Ollie the wiener dog and I took two long walks today ... one this morning and one this evening as well. The sun was setting as we walked along the sidewalk tonight, and I watched in wonder at the beauty of the sky above me. It was ... well ... it was complete perfection. I was struck by that realization as Ollie and I turned to head home, and I began to think about the good and perfect days in life ... I began to think about how those kinds of days have been so very elusive to me over the last couple of years. And then I thought about last Saturday when I drove to Meghann's, and we went to her favorite running store to buy shoes together. And I thought about last Sunday when I was Skyping with Matt, Becca and Coraline, and she escaped as they were getting her ready for bed and ran into another room and pooped on the floor. And I thought about yesterday and taking a road trip to Nebraska with Brad and his friend Jason. Those days were good days ... days that were filled with moments of perfection because they were filled with moments spent with the people I love most in this world.

While shopping for shoes with Meghann and my sweet granddaughter pooping on the floor deserve their own posts dedicated specifically to those events, tonight I want to touch on the adventure that took place yesterday. I say touch on the adventure because I am really tired tonight and desperately need to try and get some sleep before I go back to work tomorrow. My day yesterday began at 4:30 a.m. and ended around 1 a.m. this morning, so again I say, I'm really tired tonight and need to get to bed soon. But as is true for many writers, I also know that should I turn in without putting at least a couple of the thoughts that are pounding in my brain on paper (or computer as the case may be), I wouldn't be able to go to sleep anyway.

Brad, Jason and I are working together on a full-length documentary, and yesterday we drove to Omaha, Nebraska, to film an interview with the gentleman who is the subject of the film. Brad is ever the artist when it comes to his film projects, so after having lunch with our main character in the documentary, we all climbed into my car and drove an hour and a half into the country to the old, abandoned church where Brad had decided the filming should take place. Though I wasn't thrilled about spending more time in the car, Brad was completely correct in his choice for our shooting location ... the old church was the perfect, absolutely perfect, venue for the on-camera interview. And I must confess that I was more than a little overwhelmed by how powerfully moved I was by it all ... the church, the man, my son.

It's true that I've had some pretty cruddy days throughout the course of my life, but I've had a ton of really great days, too. And yesterday? Well, yesterday was one fine day, friends ... yesterday was one fine day indeed. 

Sound the Alarm

I'll bet I'm not the only one who remembers hotel wake-up calls, eh? Before the days of pagers or cell phones or complimentary alarm clocks in the rooms, there was the time-honored tradition of the wake-up call from the person working at the front desk. Yes, person at the desk ... not an automated, robotic voice or loud computer-generated tone in your ear but an unusually cheerful human voice saying, "Good morning! This is your requested wake-up call. It's 6:30 ... time to rise and shine!" OK ... maybe the person wasn't quite that chipper and friendly, but it was a real person on the phone calling to tell me it was time to get up. And to this day, every time I stay in a hotel I remember those personalized greetings that roused me from sleep and began my day. I know that technology is a great tool, and trust me, I rely heavily on it myself ... but sometimes I miss the personal touch, you know? Like a human voice on the phone in a hotel saying, "Good morning! It's time to get up!"

Sometimes I wonder if God gets as tired and frustrated with me as I do ... if sometimes He would like to just slap me or shake me and scream, "When will you ever learn, child???" I think perhaps He must have been thinking that today for sure because obviously He wants me to learn a lesson ... a lesson I haven't quite figured out yet, but I do know that it's got something to do with alarms. How do I know that, you ask? Because this morning, my alarm didn't go off like it was supposed to ... my alarm on the clock radio that has rested by my bed for more than 20 years didn't beep. It didn't beep because it's broken ... well, the alarm part is broken, the radio works just fine. There's nothing like waking up an hour late to get my day off to a lovely start, and I've thought about my clock radio all day long. About how many years we've spent together ... how reliable it has been ... how much I've trusted it ... how it had never failed me until today.

I bought a new watch a while back ... a watch with three alarms on it that would beep to remind me to take my meds at certain times throughout the day. All it took was a week or so of either taking the wrong medication at the wrong time or forgetting to take it altogether to make me acknowledge that I needed some sort of alarm system. I tried using the alarm on my phone, but I have to keep my phone on vibrate when I'm at work and I don't always have my phone with me. Hence the idea of a watch with a multiple alarm system ... and it has worked like a charm, with the only drawback being that the beep is sort of loud and I'm sure my co-workers tire of hearing it every day. Having the alarms on my watch has been great until today when they didn't beep. The alarms didn't beep because they're broken ... and before you ask, of course I went to the store to see if my $25 Timex multiple-alarm watch needed a battery. It wasn't the battery ... my watch is broken. I'm not exactly sure how late I was with my medication today or if I even took it all like I'm supposed to, and I realized as I drove to Target this evening to buy a new watch how much I've come to rely on the alarms on my watch ... how much I trust them ... how they had not failed me until today.

The bad news is that I couldn't find an alarm clock for my dresser that was to my liking, so I'll have to count on my phone to wake me tomorrow morning. The good news is that I did, however, find a watch ... a watch with six alarms rather than three. It's bigger and heavier than my old watch so it will take a little time (pun intended) for me to get used to it. As I walked with Ollie on our trail this evening, I couldn't help but notice the extra weight on my left wrist. And when we came to the wooden bridge and Ollie did his little barking running game across the slatted structure, I started thinking about old things breaking and new things replacing them. "Is that the lesson?" I questioned aloud as my hound and I neared the end of the bridge. "Am I supposed to learn something about broken things being made new, God? Am I supposed to learn a lesson about reliability? Or trust? Or change? Or alarms? Or reminders? Or wake-up calls? Or what, God??? What's the lesson? What's the message? I know You have one ... You always do, but this time I really, really, really don't get it."

So here's the thing ... I think maybe you guys should write in and tell me what you think the lesson might be. Maybe it's not a lesson for me after all ... maybe it's one for you. Or both of us. Or maybe it's just some broken alarms and nothing more ... yeah, right. 



 

The Sign

There's a lot of road construction going on in Kansas City, and honestly, it's a pain in the butt, especially for those of us who live south of the city and work downtown. The exit I normally take to get to my office is closed, along with several other exits as well. Did I mention that the road construction in KC is a real pain in the butt right now? Because my normal exit is closed, I have to get off of the interstate sooner than I normally would and make my way down a side street with several traffic lights. And almost every morning at a certain one of those lights, there is someone standing on the side of the street holding a sign. Sometimes, I see the same person for several mornings in a row, and other times, there is a different person holding a different sign each day. While the faces on the side of the street may change and the wording on the signs may differ, the message always remains the same ... the person holding the sign is asking for help. Whether that plea for help involves asking for money or food or a job or water or clothing or shoes, the message is always the same ... the person holding the sign is asking for help.

I'm not quite sure why, but the sign-bearing person I saw yesterday morning has gotten inside my heart and caused me to contemplate the commonality of humanity more than I ever have before. I can't remember what the young man was wearing or what he looked like ... but I think I may forever remember the words on the wrinkled cardboard sign he quietly held close to his chest. "Please pray for my sister. She's 12 and she has cancer. Her name is Callie. Thank you." I watched as several drivers extended their arms from their cars and tried to give the young man money. I watched as he shook his head from side to side and pointed to his handwritten sign, and mouthed the words, "Just pray for Callie." I can only hope that every single person who saw the young man and his sign yesterday has spent the last two days lifting little Callie up in prayer.

As I said, seeing the young man with his sign yesterday morning has caused me to contemplate the commonality of humanity ... that brief encounter has served to make me look at the people around me in a different manner, to wonder what their signs would say should they choose to share their pain, their suffering, their wounds with the world. I found myself gazing more deeply into the eyes of people I talk with each day ... wondering if they are secretly hurting, silently grieving or quietly aching while they put a smile on their faces and try desperately to appear strong. I found myself asking them how they really are, and even more important, I found myself truly listening to their answers. I found myself caring more ... loving more ... helping more. I found myself wanting to look at the world through their eyes ... wanting to carry their burdens ... wanting to feel their hearts. I found myself wondering more and more what their signs might say. And I found myself praying ... praying for the boy with the sign yesterday ... praying for his sister Callie ... praying for all the people whose signs aren't held before them but reside unshown deep within their hearts and souls. I found myself wondering what might happen if I took the time to see the signs ... to read the signs ... all the signs ... written and unwritten alike.


"My father had a stroke last night."

"My girlfriend left me for another guy, and my heart is broken."

"I have an eating disorder, and I haven't eaten a real meal in three days." 

"My neighbor sexually abused my 8-year-old daughter."

"My husband filed for divorce yesterday."

"Mom can't remember my name, and she doesn't recognize my children anymore."

"My brother is in jail and I'm afraid if they find out, I'll lose my job."

"I don't think anyone would notice if I died."

"I haven't slept in six days."

"I need help."

Slow down. Pay attention. Look into their eyes. Listen. Take the time. Make the time. Slow down. Pay attention. Look into their eyes. Listen. Take the time. Make the time. Slow down. Pay attention. Look into their eyes. Listen. Take the time. Make the time. 

Read the sign.

Read the sign.

Read the sign.

Read the sign.

Read the sign.



 

My Biggest Fan

When I was a young teen, I dreamed of becoming a famous writer when I grew up ... a mystery writer to be precise. I spent hours and hours and hours reading various series of books that chronicled the adventures of young sleuths such as Robin Kane, Meg and the Hardy Boys. More often than not, I could be found reading long beyond the time I had been instructed to go to bed, tucked in the little cubby between my bed and the wall with a flashlight to illuminate the words of the stories I loved so much. While I loved all of the mysteries and related to so many of the characters, far and away my favorite was the one and only Nancy Drew. Back then, I dreamed of becoming a famous writer like Carolyn Keene ... and then when I was in college, I learned that Carolyn Keene wasn't even a real person, but rather a group of writers who shared in the authorship of the Nancy Drew series. I was bummed when I found out ... of course I was ... all those years I had dreamed of becoming a famous writer like ... well ... like a writer who didn't even really exist.

All those years ago when I dreamed of being a famous writer one day, or being part of a famous band like The Partridge Family (don't even think about dissing The Partridge Family), I never thought about the down side of fame ... I just wanted to write books and have lots of people read them or sing songs and have lots of people listen to them. I never thought about the down side of fame because I was too young to even begin to comprehend all of the negative ramifications that come with being a public figure. It wasn't until I was an adult traveling around speaking for various groups that I began to get a glimpse of what it would be like to be famous ... not that I ever was famous, not by any means ... but I did become fairly well-known on the Christian speaking circuit. I learned the hard way not to give out my email address to just anyone and that listing my phone number on my website wasn't a smart idea. Getting 500 emails from someone in one day or receiving a phone call in the middle of the night every night for several weeks was not a lot of fun ... I came to understand that there is a huge difference between being a normal fan and being an insane person.

Don't get me wrong, there are some really awesome things that go along with being famous (or having a brush with fame like I did) ... things like receiving some incredible notes from people telling me how touched they were from my messages when I spoke, getting a free piece of pie in a diner in a small town in southern Kansas because the owner's wife recognized me from a previous speaking engagement, getting to go first in line for food or scoring the best hotel room in town. I've had fans send me some pretty amazing gifts down through the years ... gifts that make me think of the giver each time I see them. I've had fans message me to tell me they were praying for me ... prayers that seemed to always come at a time when I needed them most. I've had fans invite me to attend their children's weddings, and sometimes even their own weddings as well ... invitations that always meant so very much to me.

I've been thinking a lot about the whole being famous thing and about being someone's fan because of a comment I received on my last blog post ... the post in which I talked about being in a funk last week and how much I was dreading the upcoming weekend. It's funny how much one comment can mean to me sometimes ... how much one comment can alter my perspective and change the way I view the world around me, sometimes in a good way and sometimes not so much. The comment on Friday's post was a simple one, simple but packed with so very much power ... enough power to make me know and acknowledge once again that there are some things in life that matter and some that don't.

"When you're in a funk, you should Skype with your biggest fan. Love you Ghee."

I can't even begin to tell you how those words made me feel when I read them ... words written by my sweet daughter-in-law on behalf of my precious little granddaughter. Tears rolled down my cheeks as I read those awesome words over and over again ... "your biggest fan ... love you Ghee." And in that moment I knew ... I don't care about being a famous writer or a famous speaker anymore, and the only fans I care about having are my children and C.J.

So, Boo, if your mommie is reading this tonight, I hope she'll read this part to you tomorrow ... and the next day ... and the day after that ... and the day after that ... and every day until you're old enough to read it yourself. I'm so glad that you love me, baby girl ... I worried a lot about that before you were born, you know ... whether you would love me or not. I'm so thankful that your mom and dad make time for us to Skype every week and that when you are old enough, they will let you call me and Skype with me as much as you want to. Your mom says you're my biggest fan, C.J., and I want to tell you a secret ... I'm your biggest fan, too. I love you so much, little one ... so, so much. Oh, and one more thing ... I love that your name for me is Ghee ... hearing you say my name and seeing your smiling face every week is medicine for my soul, baby ... sweet medicine for my soul indeed.

Remind Me Again

This morning, I met some of my co-workers at 6:30 so that we could stand in the street and sell magazines ... magazines to promote the Kansas City Chiefs home opener on Sunday, with the profits going to the Ronald McDonald House. Though getting up at 4:45 wasn't much fun, spending an hour and a half chatting with a gal who works with the Chiefs charity initiatives was a great deal of fun. But you know what was the most fun about this morning? Being a part of something, being included, being asked to help out, being wanted and needed and appreciated.

I remember when I used to love weekends ... back when they were filled with kids and friends and church activities. Now, almost every weekend, come Friday afternoons, I get what I've come to refer to as my "here comes another weekend of trying to find something to do so that I don't go off the deep end funk." I feel it coming on Fridays, usually around 4:00 when I know it's getting close to time to leave work and head home. Home ... I also remember when I used to love home ... back when it was really a home and not just the place where me and my dogs reside. Since January, I've gotten a ton of messages about my "lifestyle" ... my lifestyle ... really? I go to work and I come home to my dogs. My lifestyle? Really? Seriously? Honestly, there are lots of times when I'd like to punch a few of those people right in the face ... call me a jerk if you'd like (I've been called a heck of a lot worse, believe me), but that old saying about never knowing what another person's life is like until you walk a mile in their shoes is so incredibly, incredibly, incredibly true.

Now I know many of you are thinking I should just get out and make new friends or find a church or join a book club or or or ... and yes, life-saving head doctor, you're included in that "many of you" comment. One would think for as outgoing and social as I've always been, those things would come easily to me ... and one would be wrong. I don't exactly know when or how it happened, but somewhere along the road of the last couple of years, going places alone and trying to find where I fit has become next to impossible. The truth is that a lot of weekends, I have to make myself get out of bed ... well, actually Julie and Ollie make me get out of bed. I know full well if I didn't have to get up and take care of the two of them, most weekends would find me sleeping the hours away until Monday arrived. I've said many times over the last couple of years that having to get up and go to work each day has helped to keep me breathing ... of that I have not one shred of doubt.

Obviously, I'm a big funk tonight ... some weekends are just harder than others. This weekend last year, I was speaking to a large group of women at a Christian camp. It was a bittersweet time for me because I knew deep in my heart that it was only a matter of time before the truth about who I am began to leak out. I knew that everything in my life was about to change ... I knew that was possibly the last time I would stand before a Christian women's group to speak ... I knew there was a very real possibility that the friend who had traveled with me to sing for the weekend would feel the need to distance herself and her family from me. Maybe that's part of why I'm in such a funk tonight ... why the funk started earlier this week than it normally does ... perhaps it's because all of those things I feared would happen did. 

So ... because I'd much rather write from a positive place than a negative one, unless some overwhelmingly amazing idea comes to me or something incredibly fantastic happens over the weekend, I think I'll sign off for a couple of days and see if I can pull a Peter Pan and find my happy place. I've quoted the lyrics to the following song in a previous post (maybe even in a couple of posts) but today is one of those days when I need to read them again ... to hear them again ... to believe them again. Today is one of those days when I need to be reminded again of who I am ... of Whose I am. 

"When I lose my way,
And I forget my name
Remind me who I am
In the mirror all I see
Is who I don't wanna be
Remind me who I am

In the loneliest places
When I can't remember what grace is

Tell me, once again
Who I am to You, who I am to You
Tell me, lest I forget
Who I am to You, that I belong to You
To You

When my heart is like a stone,
And I'm running far from home
Remind me who I am
When I can't receive Your love
Afraid I'll never be enough
Remind me who I am

If I'm Your beloved, can You help me believe it

Tell me, once again
Who I am to you, who I am to You
Tell me, lest I forget
Who I am to you, that I belong to You
To You

I'm the one You love, I'm the one You love
That will be enough, I'm the one You love

Tell me, once again
Who I am to you, who I am to You
Tell me, lest I forget
Who I am to you, that I belong to You

Tell me, once again
Who I am to You, who I am to You
Tell me, lest I forget
Who I am to You, that I belong to You
To You"

---Jason Gray

You Gotta Read the Constructions

Right up front tonight, I have a confession to make ... and before you get all excited and think that it's another life-altering one, let me assure you that it's not. It is, however, a confession ... an admission ... a recognition ... a truth-telling, if you will. I am one of those people ... people who think they can assemble items without reading the instructions. My philosophy about putting things together has always been that it takes too much time to read and follow the printed directions. I can feel some of you shaking your heads and thinking that it's the other way around ... and I'll go ahead and say it, you would be completely correct. My desire to hurry through assembling things ... putting all the pieces together ... building something strong that will endure any abuse that comes its way ... my desire to rush through the process often caused me to have to start over and try again. I learned my lesson, however, many years ago when my son Matt was a little boy ... a little boy who had been patiently waiting for me to assemble a toy he had received on Christmas morning. After several attempts on my part and quite a long passage of time, Mattie finally lost his cool and not very calmly screamed, "You gotta read the constructions, Mommie!!! Just read the constructions!!" To this day in our family when something requires assembly, one of us will chuckle and say, "You gotta read the constructions!!!"

When one of my co-workers asked me this morning if I was OK, I told her that I was fine, just a bit off my game today. We all have days like that ... days when you find yourself sort of wandering, days when your compass is off kilter, days when you feel as though you've lost your sense of direction. When I have a day like that ... like today ... I find myself wishing I had an owner's manual or a set of instructions, something to tell me not only how to put myself together but how long it will take for me to do so. I find myself wishing that the process wasn't such a process, that I could hurry up and be done, that I had some sort of guarantee that the final product was going to be something strong and lasting and sturdy and real and durable and ... good. I wish I knew that if I follow the instructions and complete the process that the product of me is going to be one that is good.

I know God really does have to work hard to get my attention sometimes and break through my thick skull with the truth He has for me. But then there are other times when He just dumps those lessons right in my heart in a way that I simply cannot deny that it is Him. Such was the case late this afternoon when I began reading some copy for one of our healthcare clients ... excellent copy about making healthy changes, about determination, about diligence, about perseverance, about promises ... copy about the importance, the enormous importance, of the process. My eyes filled with tears as I read, knowing that I was meant to read those words today. As I reached for a tissue, an incoming email popped up on my screen ... a very random, totally unexpected email. An email that reminded me in a big way that I do have an owner's manual and instructions direct from the manufacturer. An email that reminded me that it's up to me to read them ... to hear them ... to listen to them with my ears wide open. An email that reminded me that it's about the process ... the process of submission and obedience and willingness to follow directions. An email that reminded me that sometimes God makes me weak in order to make me stronger. An email that reminded me that it's when I am so very weak that He is made so very strong.

"You gotta read the constructions, Mommie ... just read the constructions." 

James 1:2-4 --- "Consider it a sheer gift, friends, when tests and challenges come at you from all sides. You know that under pressure, your faith-life is forced into the open and shows its true colors. So don’t try to get out of anything prematurely. Let it do its work so you become mature and well developed, not deficient in any way."

    

Worth Dying For?

There are certain conversations I've been a part of over the last 53 plus years of my life that I will always remember. Conversations with my children ... conversations with my parents ... conversations with my siblings ... conversations with my nieces and nephews ... conversations with friends ... conversations with my doctors ... even conversations with strangers like Russell. Some of those conversations were happy, lighthearted and fun, while others were sad, difficult and tear-filled. Some were about subjects so wonderfully joyful that they bring a smile to my face even now as I recall them, and some involved discussing things so devastatingly painful that I physically hurt and my eyes fill with tears when I remember them. But I've come to realize something about all of those conversations, both the easy and the hard ... what all of those conversations mean is that the people involved have done life together.

Today is World Suicide Prevention Day, and this year's theme is "Stigma: A Major Barrier for Suicide Prevention." When I first read those words, I thought, "Stigma? I don't get it." But then I read ... and I read some more ... and then I got it. I got it big time, because I have felt it, believed it, lived it, and still wrestle with it today. The meaning of the theme and the stigma it's referring to isn't suicide itself ... it's the stigma that accompanies depression. It's the stigma that comes with seeking treatment. It's the stigma that comes with being labeled as having a mental illness. It's the stigma that comes with taking antidepressant medication. It's the stigma that comes ... from being different ... from not being "normal."

I read a Facebook post this afternoon that gave me chills because it was as if the person was inside of my brain writing the words. She spoke of having multiple plans to end her life ... of trying to reach out to others and no one being able to understand her pain ... of the guilt and shame of knowing that she should be grateful for her great life and had no reason to be sad ... of the overwhelming fear and isolation that came seemingly from nowhere and almost destroyed her. But it was when she spoke about there being no magic way to escape the pain and agony that is depression ... it was one sentence that charged off the screen and screamed its way into my entire being. "It's a process and it's hard work." Truer words have never been written, friends.

As He often does when He wants me to fully take in the message He is trying to get my stubborn and often weary mind to comprehend, God made sure that I had plenty of time on my drive home this evening to think about those powerful words. "It's a process and it's hard work. It's a process and it's hard work. It's a process and it's hard work. It's a process and it's hard work." I must have said those words out loud in my car 500 times as I sat for over an hour and a half in traffic that was at a standstill due to a multi-car accident. I thought about all the times I've heard those words ... "It's a process and it's hard work" ... from so many people over the last year and a half. People who lift me up when I stumble ... people who cheer me on when I make progress ... people who challenge me to stay strong through the process ... people who love me ... people who walk by my side ... people who stay ... people who want me to live.

Not long after our video posted, I received a message from a gal I worked with more than 12 years ago. A gal who has endured more than her share of hard times in life. A gal whom I had the blessing of baptizing many years ago. A gal who has been fighting a rare form of cancer for the last couple of years ... fighting for her life. You can bet my conversation with her that evening is one I will forever remember, and it seems only fitting to close with some of her words this evening. But before I close ... here's the link to the International Association for Suicide Prevention. Check it out ... there's a ton of helpful information on the site. And if you know people who are struggling with depression, step up and step in ... better to risk their anger than to attend their funerals.

"Oh, my dearest Terrie, don't you ever, ever go to that place again. You are too loved, too cherished by so many whose hearts would be forever broken. If you ever feel the darkness is threatening to overtake you again I want you to think about this. At the time you were wanting to die, I was fighting to live. Don't you ever, sweet friend. Don't you ever."

What's That You Say?

My dad used to tell me that I needed to listen when other people talked to me. More specifically, Daddy used to say the following words to me quite often ... "Sam, listen to me when I'm talking to you." In a nice way, of course ... well, except for the times that I was being a brat and he might have been just a slight bit ticked off at me (and rightfully so, I might add). Looking back, I wish I would have listened a lot more to my dad ... I wish I would have listened a whole, whole, whole lot more to what Daddy had to say. I wish I would have realized how important those conversations with him really were ... I wish I would have appreciated and understood the enormous wisdom that my dad was trying so hard to impart to me.

My collaborative post on August 30, "Not One More Mile" has generated a ton ... and I do mean a ton ... of messages and emails addressing various components of the post. In fact, there are still a ton of messages and emails coming in concerning that particular blog entry. I've been reading as many of them as I can, and I've shared several of the comments with the two awesome gals who graciously contributed to the post. With their permission, tonight I'm going to share a few of those comments (unedited, by the way) with you as well ... comments that I hope will touch you as much as they have the three of us.

"My mom sent me this to read at collage. I’m not a good reader or writer so collage is hard for me but I keep going to classes and study as much as I could. Mom wanted me to read your storys because my brother john was gay and killed himself two years ago when he was 16 and 2 months old. I have had a lot of troubles with him doing that because I think it was my fault because I made fun of him when he told me he was gay. I think the lady who heard you say you are gay did say lots of good things. I should have not made fun of my little brother and just tried to love him and not care what the other jocks said about John. I wish he didn’t die and I could tell him I love him every day. You are a smart writer and I hope this makes sense. Love, Thomas”

“Though you didn't mention the identity of the second guest poster, I believe I may possess an educated guess. Obviously someone of high intelligence and well-educated, possessing rich insight into the darkness of depression and the inherent danger that accompanies a lack of honesty regarding one's inner self. Complete genius to include the description of authenticity and the in-depth explanation of disconnection from the true self.”

“My supervisor sent along your blog posting for me to read today. He came to my desk later and gave me the number for our employee assistance program and asked me to call and speak with someone there. I called and I’ll be meeting with a counselor next week. Thank you to you and your friends who wrote with you. The honesty of the three of you and the concern from my supervisor convinced me that I can’t do this without help.”

"I wish I had a friend like your friend who was with you last year. Somebody to listen to me and really care like she did for you. What you said about getting up that day and staring at the mirror and thinking how long could you pretend is how I feel and what I do every day. I'm 57 years old and I don't think people at my work would care if I didn't show up one day. I sometimes think they know there's something bothering me but none of them ever ask and more and more no one tries to talk to me. I really do wish I had a friend like yours."

"The writing about authenticity and disconnecting with yourself was great. That person nailed it when he/she talked about how trying to keep your secret was exhausting and overwhelming so much that it was killing you. Been there myself, still there sometimes but every day is a little better I think. My advice to people reading this is to don't be to proud to ask someone for help when you need it. And to other people to pay attention to the signs and get in the person's face. It's better to piss someone off than to go to their funeral."

“Just when I thought you had written the best words you could ever write, you have the fantastic idea for this collaborative post!! You need to write another book and soon! Way to hit a homerun!!”

“Love that the friend who heard you speak your truth last year is still a part of your ongoing story and truth telling today! All of us can learn from her about commitment and dedication. What a world it would be if we were all as kind as she is. She talked about her pre-teen children and teaching them about kindness and that gives me hope for future generations! Much love to you from Australia Terrie!"

"Can't begin to tell you what this post meant to me and my husband. The portion about authenticity and separating from yourself was just what we needed to read. Our daughter told us six months ago that she is gay. I'm sorry to say that we were not accepting of her and haven't heard from her since. A friend sent your blog to me and asked me and my husband to read it. I'm glad we did. Thank you to the three of you for your honesty and bravery."

And I simply couldn't resist including this one:

"So I heard you want to be on The Ellen Show. I think this post could get you there if we all flood her website with it and start a facebook campaign Get Terrie on Ellen. She likes that kind of thing and twitter.”

A Wicked Sense of Style

There are roughly 7 billion people in the world ... that's a whole, whole, whole lot of people, eh? And when I think about the grandiose enormity of that number, I have a difficult time wrapping my mind around the fact that no two of that staggering number of people are the same. Not even identical twins are exactly the same ... though in appearance, it may be difficult, if not almost impossible, to tell them apart, their personalities will vary in at least some small ways. Think about that for a minute, our personalities ... the part of us that makes us really us ... is different than the personality of any other person on the planet. And one of the ways our differing personalities often find expression is through our clothing ... what we wear and how we wear it speaks to our own uniqueness and inner being, if you will ... an outward statement of the inward personality that it reflects.

Take my three children, for example ... from the time Matt was old enough to have an opinion about what he wore, his choices on clothing always gravitated to the more preppy, Gap-like clothing. In his teenage years, there was nothing on earth that pleased him more than a shopping spree to Abercrombie & Fitch ... I wonder how many hours we spent in that store over the years ... hmmm ... hours of clothes shopping ... the things a loving parent does for her children, eh? My daughter-in-law sent me a photo last week of Matt holding C.J. as he prepared to head off to teach his first class for this semester at the university. He and my beautiful granddaughter could have easily been posing for a special father/daughter edition of GQ magazine ... C.J. decked out in a navy polka dot dress, looking like the world's most beautiful genius baby ... oh, wait, she is the world's most beautiful genius baby. Her daddy, Dr. Mattie, was sporting black dress pants, a crisp lime green shirt and plaid tie, looking quite handsome, intelligent and professorial. It shouldn't have surprised me that Matt chose a career as a professor ... that boy has always rocked the shirt and tie look for sure.

When Meghann was a little girl, she loved everything sparkly ... dresses, shoes, jewelry, hair bows ... you name it, and if it sparkled or glittered, my little girl loved it. In her teenage years, Meg became sort of an enigma to me in the clothing department ... there were times when she would have it no other way but to wear girly, frilly dresses and shoes, but then there were other times when she wore sweats and flip-flops for almost every occasion. And the thing is that Meghann is one of those gals who is just truly beautiful ... no matter what she wears, she is a gorgeous young woman with mesmerizing blue eyes, flowing blonde hair and a figure to die for. I've often told her that she could wear a potato sack and make it look like a million dollar fancy gown. Speaking of gowns ... I will never forget when I accompanied my daughter as she tried on wedding gowns. For those of you who are moms with daughters who will one day get married, I have a word of advice for you ... nothing in your lifetime will prepare you for the moment you first see your daughter in a wedding gown ... absolutely nothing. I've thought a great deal about Meghann's style when it comes to clothing, and as I prepared to write this post, it struck me that Meghann is comfortable in a wide range of apparel, from sweat pants to sparkly dresses, because it's my daughter who makes the clothes look good and not the other way around.

And then there's Bradley ... yes, and then there's Bradley. When he was a little guy, Brad liked to dress in costumes and pretend to be different characters ... I've written about that before, stating that I think Brad's beginnings as a filmmaker can easily be traced back to his days of throwing himself into various roles through dress-up and make-believe. As he became a teenager, thankfully Brad outgrew wearing costumes ... unless, of course, you count dressing up as a pirate or a greaser in high school musicals ... and began to embrace a style that is ... well ... a style that all his own. Brad's choice of attire consists of three main items: jeans (or shorts in the summer), a t-shirt with some sort of logo on the front (or long-sleeve waffle shirts in the winter) and a ball cap (seasons don't matter with ball caps, by the way, they work year-round) and I suppose his ever-present sneakers (or flip-flops in the summer) would be the fourth key ingredient to Brad's look. He only buys new clothes or shoes when he absolutely has to ... for example, he had this pair of orange Puma sneakers that he wore for more than 10 years (thank you, Shelby, for convincing him they just had to go!). Brad might disagree, but when I look at him, I see a guy who cares way more about the way the art he is crafting is presented than he does about what the artist behind the camera is wearing. And I just so happen to think that's a pretty darned cool thing ... yep, I surely do.

Brad and I have been working for the last several months on a special project together, and last night we attended a banquet to capture some footage of one of the key characters in the film. I couldn't help but chuckle when I arrived at Brad's house to pick him up, and he came outside to greet me wearing ... yep ... shorts, a t-shirt, ball cap and sneakers. I, on the other hand, had on black dress pants, a purple shirt and snazzy bow tie, and of course, suspenders and my black shiny shoes. I'm sure the folks in the restaurant where we ate dinner thought we were quite the odd-looking duo and wondered what in the world we were doing. At the banquet, when the gentleman we were filming introduced me, he made some very kind remarks that brought tears to my eyes. But when he said that I have "a wonderful spirit and a wicked sense of style," I couldn't help but laugh out loud. Me ... the gal who almost has a heart attack when I know I have to attend a fancy function because I stress over what to wear. Me ... the gal who begged a friend to go shopping with me to buy clothes for the office Christmas party last year. Me ... the gal who is so not confident in putting outfits together that I often take options with me to work so that other people can tell me what works and what doesn't. Yep ... me ... that gal ... he said I've got a wicked sense of style. 

While I chuckled at his words about my style, the gentleman said some other words later in the evening that burned themselves into my mind and I am certain they will never leave. My eyes filled with tears as he spoke about how close I came to taking my life last year and he said, "The thought of Brad Johnson receiving a call last year telling him his precious mother was dead haunts me." Driving home in the dark late last night after dropping Brad off at his house, I said aloud in my dark and quiet car ... "I never thought back then about those words ... those phone calls to my kids. I thought they would be better off without me ... that coping with my death would be easier for them somehow than overcoming the shame and embarrassment they would feel if I told the truth about who I am. I never thought back then about the phone calls to my kids."

I was so proud of my son last night ... proud of his heart, proud of his passion for his work, proud of his determination to pursue his dream ... I was so very proud of his unconditional love for me. Words are simply futile sometimes ... there are none that are sufficient to express how grateful I am to be alive today ... how blessed I am to have such amazingly awesome children who love me. They love me ... they love the real me ... with my wicked sense of style and everything else that makes me who I am. And my deepest hope, strongest desire and most fervent prayer is that they know ... that they know with every fiber in their being ... how very, very much I love them.