A Chance to Love

In a little over two weeks, I'm getting on an airplane again and those of you who've been reading my posts for a while know that flying ranks right up there with thunderstorms in my list of irrational fears. And you might also recall that I flew for the first time in 24 years in April of this year when I went to Canada to visit my son and his family. And you might remember that my middle kiddo Bradley went with me on that trip ... Brad and some stiff anti-anxiety medication. Now that I think about it, Brad's probably the one who needed the meds for having to travel with me ... bless that boy's heart, he deserves an award of some sort for making that trip with me. This time, however, I'm traveling alone, and the closer it gets to the day for me to get on the airplane, the more frightened I'm becoming. Just typing those words causes my heart to pound, sweat to break out on my forehead and all the "what ifs" to start coursing through my mind.

What if I miss my connecting flight or there's a delay or ... oh, gosh ... oh, gosh ... oh, gosh ... what if there is a thunderstorm? What if I get sick and throw up on the plane? What if I pass out or my ears explode or the guy in the seat next to me is a serial killer? What if the pilot gets lost and we land in China instead of Canada? What if I leave my backpack in the bathroom and lose all my stuff? What if the customs guy says, "You shall not pass!!" and I have to live in the airport for a month like Tom Hanks in that movie? Those fears aren't irrational at all ... nope, nope, nope ... those are perfectly legitimate, normal, rational fears that all wise and seasoned airplane travelers have. I'm sure of it ... completely, totally, insanely sure of it. But ... but ... but ... there is a very special little girl who will be waiting for me at the end of my perilous journey ... a very special little girl who calls me Ghee ... a very special little girl who, unbeknownst to her, is helping me overcome some pretty huge fears in my life.

Fear is an emotion I know well, all too well ... and I'm not talking about my crazy irrational fears of flying or storms or grass. I've lived in fear for most of my life ... the fear of being unloved ... the fear of being judged ... the fear of being alone. I was afraid to be real ... so very afraid to let anyone see the real me. I was terrified to tell the truth about who I am ... terrified that if I ever came out of hiding, I would lose all the people I love most in this world. And honestly, some of those fears have proven to be valid ones, and the last year hasn't always been an easy road to travel. Someone in my office asked me last week if I ever regret breaking down and telling the truth, if I ever wish I would have found a way to stay in my closet and keep it locked forever. I would be lying if I said I haven't had days when I beat myself up and wonder where I would be today had I not come out. But there are far more days when I am grateful not to have to carry around the enormous weight of secrecy and deception any longer.

I still have fear ... sometimes I have a whole, whole, whole lot of fear. And I have days when my fear of being hated because of who I am is manifested through the words of others. But then I have days like today when people I feared would hate me the most contacted me to say they had known for years, that they loved me then, that they love me just the same now and that they will always love me. And as I listened to their messages on my phone and read the words in their emails, I was struck with the enormity of the lesson contained within them ... a lesson that grows even bigger the more I contemplate it. I was given another chance the day that my plan to commit suicide was interrupted ... another chance at life. When I allow my fear that people are going to hate me prevail and I choose to isolate myself from them, I'm not giving them a chance ... I'm not giving them a chance to love me, and that, my friends, is just plain old wrong.

In a little over two weeks, I'm getting on an airplane and flying to Canada to spend Christmas with my granddaughter. I'll be plenty afraid, but I'm getting on that plane, you bet I am. You see ... there's something I know better than anyone ... something I know to the very core of my being. I know that on a cold February morning in 2012, I was given a chance to try again ... to grab on with the smallest shred of strength I had left and try again. I was given a chance to be real ... a chance to be honest ... a chance to live. I was given a chance to try again ... to love my children and my family and my friends the way they deserve to be loved. I was given a chance to love a very special little girl who calls me Ghee and to give her a chance to love me.

Perhaps I'm not the only one who needs to overcome a fear or two, friends, and maybe, just maybe, I'm not the only one who needs to give other people a chance to love. 

My First Time

Honestly, I wrestled with what to title tonight's post ... I even conducted a survey of sorts among a few of my friends at work to ask what comes to mind for them when they hear the words "my first time." And without fail, every single one of them had one of two responses ... I'll leave it to you to guess what they were. Granted, I do work at an advertising agency filled with younger folks, but still ... every single one of them said the same thing. Knowing that many of your minds probably raced right down the same path as my co-workers did when you read tonight's title, I'm sorry to disappoint you ... this post isn't about THAT first time at all. It is, however, most definitely a first-time experience for me and for those of you who read along with me as well. Are you ready? Sitting down? Have a cold beer or a Diet Coke in your hand? Dog curled up beside you? Snuggled under a blanket? Excited for what you're about to read? Good, because I promise tonight's post is an extra special one.

So now about tonight's first-time experience ... I am extremely honored to introduce my first male guest blogger. That's right, friends, tonight's post is a first in the history of this blog ... all of my previous guest writers are gals, and tonight's guest scribe is a guy. I met this young man almost a year ago ... he's one of those fellows I liked the moment I met him. You know how sometimes you just sense that a person has a great heart and a kind soul? That's what I felt when I met my young friend. He's a fantastic writer, a loyal son, a devoted husband and a loving father. He's a great guy with a quick smile and and an even quicker wit ... and I'm blessed and humbled to call him friend. So, my deepest thanks to you, friend, for being willing to bare your soul and share your heart ... you are the best, young sir ... the absolute best.

"I grew up the tall, relatively smart, brown-haired, blue-eyed, pretty athletic first-born son of staunchly Catholic parents. My mom is the parish business manager and my father leads parish retreats, sponsors candidates in the Rite of Christian Initiation for Adults and is an usher at Sunday Mass.  We lived in a Catholic neighborhood. I attended Catholic elementary, middle and high schools, where I made a lot of close Catholic friends. I married a nice Catholic girl whom I’ve known since the fourth grade. We still live in the neighborhood, and she teaches at the school we attended together as kids. So does her mother – she’s been a pre-school teacher there for the last 29 years. Most of my oldest, closest friends, my entire extended family, all my in-laws and most of my neighbors are Catholic.

So you could say that being Catholic has always been central to who I am. As a kid, I attended Mass every Sunday, I could recite Hail Marys and Our Fathers at breakneck pace, and knowing when to sit, stand, kneel and respond with “Lord, hear our prayer” was as automatic and instinctual as blinking. But my favorite part of being Catholic was always the Rite of Reconciliation, or, as laymen call it, confession. For those of you who don’t know, here’s how confession works:

You show up to church for a special evening service, usually around Christmas or Easter, you get in a pew, you kneel and you pray. Silently. Then, after an appropriate amount of time, you get up, approach one of the several priests stationed around the church, kneel before him, and he asks you to share your sins. So you fess up. Every time you hit your sister or sassed your parents or told so and so at school to go kick rocks while you were out on the playground. It doesn’t matter if they hit you first or didn’t let you go out to play after dinner or “started it.” You fess up, Father O’Malley forgives you and gives you a penance to complete (usually a few Hail Marys or a Rosary), and then, almost magically, you walk out of church feeling lighter. Happier. Better. Like a weight has been lifted that you never realized was there.

Yeah, I always loved confession. And if you ask my family, friends and acquaintances, they’ll tell you I still do. But that’s not exactly the case.

Unbeknownst to most of the people in my life, I walked away from Catholicism and ceased to believe in the existence of God several years ago.

Now let me be clear. This was not a particularly hard thing for me to do, erm, internally – when my mind ceases to understand or believe something, it’s always been very easy for my heart to follow. But socially? That’s a little bit tricky. Turns out, it’s often harder for others to embrace your changing views, values, politics and priorities than it is for you to embrace them yourself. So most everybody except for my wife and closest friends don’t have to, because I’ve never told them.

So now, I live with that secret. It’s usually not a big deal, but it’s always present. Something to occupy my mind and tug at my conscience. And, in order to maintain some of the long-time relationships I’ve come to value, I carry that emotional weight with me every day, all the time, over every beer with old friends, family dinner or fish fry in the Parish basement. You see now why I miss confession.

Which brings me back to this blog. In many ways, Terrie’s writings are her way of doing reconciliation with herself. And reading what she has to say about her personal transformation, and seeing her become more and more at peace with herself, gives me a little piece of that weightless feeling I was talking about. It makes me happy, and even a little bit jealous, to see someone I consider a friend reconcile with herself. Because I know that in truth, there’s a discrepancy between my own outward and inward self as well.

So what does this all mean for you? Well, if you’re reading this, you know Terrie, and you read the first paragraph of this post. She is a woman, I am a man. She is old enough to be a grandma, I am barely old enough to be a father. She is short, I am tall. My hair is brown, wavy and parted to the side, and hers is short and very, very spiky. We grew up in different places with different traditions, religions and experiences. On the surface, Terrie and I are not the same. Not even close. But no matter what we look like or where we come from, we all carry a little weight on our shoulders that the people in our lives can make heavier or help us shoulder – and some of us aren’t brave enough to show that weight to the world like Terrie has been.

A pretty famous comedian named Bill Hicks once said that '(Life is) just a ride. And we can change it any time we want. It’s only a choice. No effort, no work, no job, no savings of money. Just a simple choice, right now, between fear and love. The eyes of fear want you to put bigger locks on your doors, buy guns, close yourself off. The eyes of love instead see all of us as one.'

I try every day to choose love. To be kind, to humor, to understand and to accept those around me, in the hopes that I might help them shoulder their burden in whatever way I can. And on behalf of everyone from your family to the kid at Starbucks who makes your latte to me, the guy baring himself to you via a friend’s blog, I implore you to do the same."

The Only Way Out

It's odd to me how the memories of certain events from my youth have come storming back into my mind over the last year or so. Some of those memories are of happy and good times, others ... well ... let's just say that others don't reside in the land of all things warm and fuzzy. Take the time I got lost in the woods on a camping trip with some friends for example ... the very thought of that day causes my palms to sweat and my head to spin. I remember the fear that enveloped me when I realized that I had lost my way, that I was off the path, that nothing looked familiar to me, that none of my friends were nearby ... a fear that went all the way to the core of my being. Looking back, I'm not sure which was worse, knowing that I was lost or fearing that I wouldn't find my way out of the woods before the light of the afternoon became the dark of the night. Obviously since I'm sitting on my couch with two sleepy doggies and I'm typing this post, I found my way out of the woods that day ... it took me a while and several tries, but I eventually found my way back to the camp and my friends.

I will readily admit that before I found myself smack dab in the middle of it, I knew little to nothing about depression. Today, however, I know the meaning of terms such as major depressive disorder and clinical depression, and I understand more about the neurotransmitters serotonin, norepinephrine and dopamine than I ever wanted to. I'm well acquainted with the stigma that accompanies depression and how isolating the illness can be. I completely get it when people with depression say they feel lost and alone and unable to find their way out of the darkness that surrounds them. The most important thing I've learned about depression over the last couple of years is this ... that to stop fighting the daily battle against it is not an option. It's a pretty simple choice really ... either I fight or I give up. It's the choice between hope and despair ... if I stand up and fight, I have the hope of happiness and freedom ... if I lie down and quit, I lose everything, and I do mean everything, that matters most.

The holiday season is often a tough time for many reasons ... family celebrations following the loss of a loved one, the financial pressure that may accompany gift-giving, tensions or disagreements between family members, being separated from family and friends by long distances ... the holiday season can be difficult for many, many folks, and not just for folks who struggle with depression. With Thanksgiving knocking on the door, I thought it would be a good time to remind you of the signs and symptoms of depression which I'll list at the end of this post. Remember that people with depression are all around you ... keep your eyes and your hearts open, and pay attention to the signs and the warning signals that someone may be considering suicide. And remember this most of all ... step up and step in ... better to risk making someone angry than to attend their funeral. 

Someone in my office asked me today what I would write were I to know that it would be the last post I would ever pen for this blog. I told them I'd have to think about that for a bit, but tonight I think I know at least some of the words I would write. I would say treasure the people you love for the precious gifts they are. I would say tell those people often how much you love them ... tell them really often. I would say hug them ... a lot. I would say let the little things go and focus on the things that matter ... things like laughter and honesty and compassion and faithfulness. I would say be kind to one another ... carry one another's burdens ... be there for one another no matter what ... love one another unconditionally.

That's the only real way out, you know ... to fearlessly and faithfully and formidably love one another. Step up and step in, friends ... step up and step in, and love your hearts out.

Signs and symptoms of depression:

• Withdrawing from family and friends.
• Feeling hopeless.
• Feeling helpless.
• Feeling strong anger or rage.
• Feeling trapped -- like there is no way out of a situation.
• Experiencing dramatic mood changes.
• Appearing depressed or sad most of the time.
• Talking about death or dying.  
• Abusing drugs or alcohol.
• Exhibiting a change in personality.
• Acting impulsively or recklessly.
• Losing interest in most activities.
• Experiencing a change in sleeping habits.
• Experiencing a change in eating habits.
• Performing poorly at work or in school.
• Giving away prized possessions.
• Writing a will. 
• Feeling excessive guilt or shame.

This Year, I Went Looking ... With My Ears Wide Open

On November 30, 2012, I posted an entry to this blog titled "Ears Wide Open." A post in which I penned some words that had been sent to me by a friend via instant message the day before ... words I recognized as being profound when I read them ... words I understood contained within them deep meaning and importance ... words I realized I needed to pay attention to and remember. The truth is ... I didn't even begin to know how those words would change my life ... I had absolutely no idea how life-changing those words were that day or how life-changing they would forever be.  

"Don't ignore those signs. You keep listening. With ears wide open. I know that's not the saying. But it is today. Ears wide open."

Each year, our company gives all of the employees a ham at Thanksgiving, and today was ham day. And as has been the case every year, there are some folks who choose to donate their hams to people who are less fortunate. I can't recall how it came to be that I became the person who delivers the donated hams each year, but I do know this ... I am humbled and blessed and honored to do so. Most years, I took the hams to a local homeless mission or a facility for abused and neglected children. Yep, I would pull up to the mission or the youth facility in my nice car where an employee from the organization would meet me and take the hams. A couple of times, I went inside and met some of the residents, but more often than not, I never got to see the faces of the children and adults the hams would be feeding. Until last year ... until the day after my friend told me I needed to listen. With my ears wide open. Until last year ... until the evening I listened and stopped my car. Until last year ... until I stood on a street in the bad part of town giving away the hams. Until last year ... until I saw their faces ... until I smelled their stench ... until I hugged them tightly. Until last year ... until I listened with my ears wide open.

Last year, I stumbled upon the families who needed to receive the hams ... I stumbled upon them because I was in a hurry to get to the mission and traffic was heavy. Only a few months earlier, I would have never considered driving through the neighborhood I did ... in fact, I would have been terrified to drive there in the daylight much less after dark. Yet today, I believe that I was meant to drive down that street on a dark and cold night last year ... you can bet your last dime I believe I was meant to drive down that street. But this year ... this year, I went looking for another street like the one from last year. This year, I went looking ... unafraid ... undaunted in my mission ... unwilling to stop until I found where I needed to be. And the minute I saw him ... the kid without a coat in a short-sleeved shirt on a cold, dark night ... that's when I knew I had found the place. That's when I heard Him whisper ... "Ears wide open, Terrie ... ears wide open."

His name is Antoine, and he lives with his 91-year-old grandmother in a run-down house off of Troost in Kansas City. He took my hand as we walked from house to house giving away the hams, telling me which families needed food the most. I gave him the sweatshirt and ball cap I had in my car, along with a blanket and some snacks I always have with me in case my blood sugar plummets. He told me that he lives with his grandmother because his mother died when he was four years old. He hugged me tightly as I handed him the last ham from the trunk of my car, and I could feel the outline of the bones in his back as he clung to me and said, "Thank you, Terrie ... thank you and them people at your job." And then he looked up at me with his coal-black eyes and said, "You believe in God, Terrie?" I blinked back the tears as I said, "Yes, buddy, I do." Without missing a beat, young Antoine said, "Me, too." And with that calm and tender acknowledgement of Who led me to him tonight, Antoine turned and waved at me as he climbed up the rickety stairs to his home ... carrying a giant ham in his arms and whistling.

Last year, I didn't want to see ... last year, I didn't want to listen ... last year, I didn't want to live. This year, I went looking ... this year, I went looking ... with my ears wide open.


 

Do You Know Who I Am?

Over the last couple of days, two of my co-workers have talked to me about their family members who have Alzheimer's disease, and as they spoke, memories of my dad flooded my mind. Before he was officially diagnosed with Alzheimer's disease, Daddy often said the following words ... "I don't care what happens to my body, but I pray every day that I don't ever lose my mind." That's one of those big life things I will never understand, you know ... why the very thing that Daddy feared the most is exactly what ended up happening to him. I don't understand why a man as loving as my dad was ... why a man as good as my dad was ... why a man as kind as my dad was ... why a man as faithful as my dad was ... I don't understand why God didn't answer Daddy's prayer to let him keep his sanity. I remember wondering if Daddy knew what was happening to him, if he knew he was losing his ability to think or reason or understand. I wondered that a lot ... I wondered a whole lot if Daddy knew that he was losing himself and thinking that if he did, how terrified he must have been and how alone he must have felt. I will never forget the first time Daddy no longer had a twinkle in his eyes when he saw me ... the first time he didn't recognize me. But even more, I will never ever forget the first time Daddy looked at me with a deep, dark emptiness in his eyes and asked, "Do you know who I am? Who am I?" It was really, really hard when my sweet dad no longer knew the people he loved so dearly, but it was gut-wrenching when he no longer knew himself.

Since I was basically out of food in my house today, I had no choice but to force myself to go to the grocery store. I'm pretty sure it's not a good indicator as to the level of my disdain for shopping when I even dread having to shop for groceries .. I just really, really, really don't like to shop. But as much as I hate to shop, I do like to eat, so I donned three shirts, long underwear, jeans, wool socks, coat, scarf, gloves and hiking boots and headed to the store. I didn't even think about it being the weekend before Thanksgiving ... until I pulled into the parking lot and saw the million or so cars parked there. "Uggghhh," I said aloud as I searched for an empty spot in the lot. "Uggghhh, uggghhh, uggghhh." The inside of the grocery store wasn't much better than the parking lot, with the aisles filled with people as they searched for the perfect foods for the upcoming holiday. I had decided upon entering the packed store that I would only buy what I absolutely needed to survive for the next few days along with the ingredients for the homemade Southern-style banana pudding I'm taking to work on Tuesday for our annual Stretch Your Stomach Thanksgiving event. Yep, that was my plan ... grab only the bare essentials and get the heck out of the store as fast as I possibly could. What was not part of my plan, however, was the shopping cart traffic jam I encountered in every single aisle ... sheesh.

After an hour and 20 minutes of maneuvering through the throngs of green bean casserole, sweet potato, turkey and gravy shoppers, I finally had the items I needed and headed for the checkout only to groan when I saw the long lines of people waiting to pay. I think there's a universal character flaw among those of us who hate to shop ... we can't admit that it's probably going to take the same amount of time to check out no matter which line we choose to stand in. No, no, no ... we have to walk back and forth trying to find the shortest line only to return to the one we should have gotten in to start with. So after perusing the checkout lines at least three or four times, I got in line and counted to see how many people were actually ahead of me ... 11 ... yep, there were 11 people ahead of me in line ... uggghhh. Though I told myself at least a dozen times that I wasn't going to check my watch again to see how my time was passing as I waited, I kept checking and checking and checking ... 28 minutes later, there was finally only one person in front of me.

I waited for the groceries of the customer before me to slide forward on the conveyor belt, reached for the plastic separator thingie that alerts the cashier that he or she has reached the end of that customer's groceries and that those that follow belong to the next person. I had about half of the items from my cart placed on the squeaking black belt when I noticed that the cashier had stopped scanning the items of the woman ahead of me. "Oh, great," I thought. "This is just great." And that's when it happened ... just as I was losing my cool and wishing I had never come to the store, I overheard the exchange between the cashier and the customer.

"I'm so sorry, maam ... my manager will be here as quickly as possible to correct the problem," said the young man working at the register. 

"That's not acceptable," said the woman in a stern voice accompanied by an even sterner scowl on her face. "I am already running behind schedule, and that is not acceptable. I will pay for what you have scanned, and I will never return here to shop again."

The young cashier spoke in a soft voice as he tried to explain to the irate woman who looked to be around my age that he couldn't finish the transaction until the manager came and entered a code that would allow him to do so. I was impressed with his calm manner and respectful tone as he spoke ... he was polite and professional despite the woman's obvious and vocal disapproval.

"Perhaps you did not hear me, young man," said the woman loud enough for half the store to hear her. "Perhaps you do not know to whom you are speaking. Do you know who I am? Why of course you don't ... how would someone in such a lowly position possibly know who I am?"

The young man glanced sheepishly at those of us waiting in line, obviously embarrassed by the woman's harsh words and condescending attitude. I heard the man in line behind me say, "That manager better show up fast, or this could get really ugly." 

Now normally in that type of situation, I would do one of two things ... look down at the floor and pray that the stinking manager would hurry up already, or I would try to catch the cashier's eye and give him my most convincing "Dude, you didn't do anything wrong," look, and then give my most heartfelt "Lay off the kid, lady," stare to the rude and unkind woman. Those of you who know me know that I generally run as fast as I can to avoid any type of confrontation. But today for some reason, I guess I'd reached my limit ... I walked to the front of my cart as the woman waved her finger at the now noticeably nervous young cashier and shouted once again, "I asked you a question ... do you know who I am? I can buy and sell you, boy ... how dare you treat me this way? Do you know who I am?"

"I know who you are right now ... right now, you're a jerk. He didn't do anything wrong; it's a glitch with the computer, and you need to calm down," I said as I stared directly into the woman's seething eyes. "He's just a kid trying to do his job, and you're acting like a jerk. Leave him alone, and wait for the manager to get here to fix the problem or leave. Either way, you owe this kid an apology." And I must admit ... even though I was terrified that the woman was going to punch me in the face ... it felt good ... it felt really good to stand up for the young man. No, wait, that's not right ... it didn't feel good ... it felt right. It felt totally and completely right to tell that rude, hateful woman to stop being mean to the young man ... it felt so very, very, very right to speak up and call her out on her actions. And for the record, I have no idea who she is ... obviously, she thinks she's someone pretty influential or important. I have no idea who she is, but more important ... I couldn't care less how much money she has or if she drives an expensive car or lives in a mansion or is a socialite or a powerful businesswoman or anything else. It doesn't matter one bit if she is any or all of those things ... today at the grocery store, she was nothing more than a bully beating up on a young kid with her scathing words.

The manager finally arrived a few minutes after the woman had stormed out leaving her groceries behind, and he typed in the required code to rectify the computer problem within a matter of seconds. I was contemplating whether I should mention to him what had transpired when the gentleman in line behind me said, "That's one fine employee you have there, sir ... very respectful and he's doing a great job." I seconded what the man had said, and the young cashier smiled from ear to ear as his manager patted him on the back and said, "That's what I like to hear, Brandon ... keep up the good work!"

Needless to say, I've thought a whole lot about the encounter this morning, and there's a lesson that has marched its way into my heart as the day has worn on. So many times in my life I, just like my dad when he was sick, have forgotten who I am. But there have also been times in my life when I, just like the condescending woman in the store today, have thought I was so much more important that I truly am. I've been like the young cashier, too ... just trying to do the best I can while being attacked by someone who believes they have the right and the justification to do so.

Think about it, friends ... do you know who I am? Do you know who you are? You know what I think? I think God knows who all of us are ... yep, I do indeed. Think about that for a while ... think about that for a good long while ... I know I surely am.


 

The Beautiful People

I'm not beautiful. There ... I've said it. I am not, nor have I ever been, beautiful. I don't think I'm ugly ... I've been told I'm kind of cute for a 50-something gray-haired gal, especially when I'm wearing suspenders, Converse shoes and a bow tie. I'm cute, but I'm not beautiful. I have friends, both male and female friends, who are truly beautiful ... I'm not talking pretty ... I'm talking they could be on the cover of a magazine beautiful. And there have been times in my life when I would have given everything I owned to be beautiful ... times when I truly believed that if I were just beautiful, that would fix me and make all my problems disappear. I'm older and a little wiser now, and I've come to understand that what my old dad told me so many years ago really was true. When I was complaining or whining about not being beautiful, Daddy would always say, "Being beautiful on the outside ain't what's important, Sam ... it's being beautiful right here that counts, being beautiful in your heart is what matters most of all." 

Over the last few days, I've been thinking a lot about beauty ... what it is, what it means, what it looks like. Several random encounters with people I barely know have caused me to recall Daddy's words about the importance of inward beauty rather than outward beauty. And today, I came to a conclusion ... my dad was right ... it really is the beauty of a person's heart that matters most of all. And the more I pondered the truth about heart beauty vs. physical beauty, the more I thought about the events of recent days and the people within those events. And the more I've thought about those particular people and the beauty they radiate, the more I thought about just who the beautiful people really are and what they truly look like. And the more I thought about it, the more I realized that I know more than just a few incredibly beautiful people ... people whose hearts glow with the beauty of unconditional love and compassion and kindness and forgiveness and loyalty and commitment and dedication and understanding and truth.

As I drove home from work this evening, I couldn't help but think about how badly I used to want to be beautiful and about how I thought I was past those days. The truth is ... I still want to be beautiful. I want to look in the mirror and see a beautiful me looking back ... a beautiful heart me looking back. I do want to beautiful ... I want to be one of the beautiful people ... I want to be one of the most beautiful people. I want to be one of the beautiful people ... on the inside ... where it matters most of all.

I Naked

People often ask me what was the hardest thing about being a single parent to my three children, and my answer is always the same. The hardest thing was when my kids were sick ... it didn't matter if it was one, two or all three of them under the weather, it broke my heart to see my kids not feeling well. And it was even harder when they were babies and couldn't tell me what was hurting them ... I remember well how helpless I felt and how I would wish that I could take the illness and the pain for them. I remember the fear that would wrap its tentacles around my heart when my children were sick, a fear deeper than any I had ever known before. I remember their warm little bodies snuggled against my chest as I held them close and rocked them, praying that God would make them well. Yep ... without a doubt the hardest thing about being a single mom was when my precious kiddos were sick.

I haven't felt well today ... I woke up with a headache and a queasy stomach, and by early afternoon, all I wanted to do was go home and climb into my cozy bed with Julie and Ollie and sleep for a week or two. Work is more than a bit hectic right now, and I know that my physical yuckiness today is quite probably more related to stress than illness. But I also know that I couldn't wait to get home and shed my jeans, button-down collared shirt and v-neck sweater, pull on my favorite baggy sweat pants and oversized hoodie, and stretch out on my couch for a while. I made myself eat a little dinner since I hadn't eaten much at all today, and I was trying to talk myself into at least taking Ollie around the block for a quick walk when my phone rang.

Since my granddaughter C.J. was born, I have to admit that when I see Matt and Becca's name pop up on the screen of my phone, I find myself hoping that they are calling to ask if I'd like to Skype. Please don't misunderstand me ... it's not that I don't want to talk to my son and daughter-in-law, of course I want to talk to them. I love, love, love talking to all of my adult children, and there are days when I live to hear their voices on the phone. But there is something super extra special about Skyping with C.J. ... seeing her sweet face, watching her run from room to room through their house, hearing her giggle, listening to all the new words she's learning. She changes each time I see her now ... she's growing so fast, so very fast, and honestly, I don't think I could stand it if I couldn't interact with her via Skype ... I really don't think I could stand it. C.J. has been sick off and on for the last month or so with bad colds and a nasty stomach virus, so our time on Skype has been rather limited. I had emailed Matt and Becca yesterday to see how my baby girl was feeling, so when I saw it was them calling this evening, I assumed they were calling to let me know how she was. But when I clicked on the call, it wasn't my son or daughter-in-law's voice I heard but C.J. instead.

"Ghee! I naked!" she shouted into the phone. 

"Well, hi, baby girl!" I replied.

"Ghee! I naked!" she repeated.

C.J. has an incredible vocabulary to only be 21 months old (remember ... she is a genius), but as is true with most toddlers, there are times when it's difficult to understand just exactly what it is she's trying to say. So after her telling me several times that she was naked, Becca finally chimed in said, "She's telling you she's naked." I laughed and so did C.J. as I asked her if she wanted to Skype after she got her jambos on, and a few minutes later, her blue eyes, blonde hair and smiling little face appeared on the screen of my computer. It amazes me how even just a few minutes with her can wash away my troubles, soothe my aching gut and eliminate my stress. She really is medicine for my soul ... that baby girl really, really, really is medicine for my soul in a big way.

I haven't been able to get C.J.'s words tonight out of my mind ... "Ghee! I naked!" ... and I can't help but realize there's a big lesson in them for me. Most little kids love to run naked at one certain time of the day ... the time after Mom or Dad takes off their clothes to get them ready for bed. I remember all three of my kids squealing with delight as they ran as fast as their little feet would go, naked little butts and fat little tummies jiggling in their clothesless minutes of freedom ... no shame, no guilt, no fear ... just pure unmitigated joy in being innocent and real and free as little kids are supposed to be. As I've thought about C.J.'s naked proclamation, I couldn't help but think how much time I spend covering up my true self. I throw a shirt on over my anger, and I pull pants on over my guilt. I stuff my shame into the thickest socks I own, and pray there are no holes that will reveal it. I slide a sweater over my shirt to hide my tears, and I top it off with a hat to seal in my fear. I wear all those clothes because I don't want anyone to see what's underneath them ... the real me, the me no one sees except God. I work hard to keep my heart and my soul dressed, covered, hidden ... they are dressed and covered and hidden when they should be naked ... when they should be naked indeed.

"Ghee! I naked!!" Good for you, baby girl ... good for you.


 


 

... because I don't always ...

I often wonder what triggers certain memories to pop into my brain seemingly out of nowhere and decide to linger for a while. Like a particular memory of my mom that came charging into my mind yesterday that I just can't seem to shake today. Had there been a cake in my house yesterday that was covered in rich creamy vanilla icing, perhaps the memory's appearance would make more sense to me. I can assure you, however, that there was no cake in my humble abode yesterday ... there has been no cake in my humble abode for several years ... there will be no cake in my humble abode in the future. But though cakeless I may be (actually, it's the icing I love, not the cake), that did not prevent me from recalling one of the more severe reprimands I received from Mom when I was a kid. She had made two cakes ... one for a church function and one to take to Mrs. Morris, an elderly woman we often visited with on Sunday afternoons. Two cakes covered in rich creamy vanilla icing sitting on the kitchen counter taunting me all morning ... until I caved in to the temptation, took a spoon from the drawer and scraped a huge glob of icing off of one of the cakes and ate it. And then I ate another spoonful from the second cake. And then I may or may not have eaten a lot of the delicious icing off of both cakes. Looking back now ... I totally deserved Mom's wrath that day ... I totally and completely deserved the punishment I received. If the truth be told, I deserved a greater punishment than I received ... seriously ... what in the world was I thinking? Like Mom wouldn't notice that most of the icing on her homemade cakes was gone ... seriously ... what was I thinking?

What I remember most about that day ... other than how awesomely amazing the vanilla icing tasted ... was what Mom said when she walked into the kitchen and caught me red-handed (or vanilla icing-covered spoon-handed, I suppose). 

"Lord, help! What have you gone and done to them cakes? You should be ashamed of yourself, eating all the icing off them cakes. You should be ashamed." 

As I've thought about Mom's words from my icing-swiping escapade, the more I've come to understand just how far-reaching and all-encompassing those words are for me ... "you should be ashamed." I've spent my entire life being ashamed ... my entire life. Though I wish desperately that it weren't true, being ashamed of who I am is an ever-present fight ... a fight that I often fear I may never win. As I was driving home from work this evening, I realized something ... something that is really big to me and maybe it will be to some of you as well. Mom was right ... I should be ashamed. I should be ashamed, but not for the reason many of you are thinking. I should be ashamed ... and perhaps I'm not the only one.

I should be ashamed ...

... because I don't always do the right thing.

... because I don't always feel blessed.

... because I don't always love unconditionally.

... because I don't always demonstrate compassion.

... because I don't always make the correct decisions.

... because I don't always go the extra mile.

... because I don't always help the weak.

... because I don't always see the needs of others.

... because I don't always forgive quickly.

... because I don't always choose wisely.

... because I don't always give to those less fortunate.

... because I don't always believe.

... because I don't always trust.

... because I don't always have faith.

... because I don't always listen.

... because I don't always hear.

I should be ashamed ... not because of who I am, friends, but because I don't always.

I'm Not Waiting

It's been super windy here in KC for the last couple of days, so windy, in fact, that Ollie the wiener dog had a tough time making his way on our walk this morning, partly because his ears were flapping so furiously and he kept stopping and shaking his head in what I call "the wiener dog helicopter shake." I call it that because the noise his ears make when he shakes reminds me of a helicopter. I know, I know ... I'm crazier than a loon, as my mom used to say. Back to the wind ... I put off walking yesterday for several hours, hoping that the gusty winds would calm down a bit. I finally decided in the afternoon that Ollie and I should go ahead and brave the howling beast and head out for our walk. Dry, crunchy leaves blew all around us as we reached the end of my street and waited for a couple of cars to pass so that we could walk across the main road and get on the trail. Ollie would take a few tentative steps, stop and do the wiener dog helicopter shake and look up at me as if to say, "Really? Seriously? You are really going to make me walk in this ferocious wind? We should go back home and wait a while ... let's wait until it's not so windy." But despite his tugging on the leash and trying to turn around ... despite his adorably cute sad face ... despite his ears being turned inside out by the blustery gale, I dragged him along as I said, "Come on, buddy, come on. I'm not waiting for the wind to stop for us to walk. Let's go little furry friend ... I've waited all day, and I'm not waiting any longer."

I've been blessed during my years in the advertising business to have worked with a whole lot of really great people, and I'm even more blessed that quite a few of those awesome folks keep in touch with me on a regular basis. Just this afternoon, I had lunch with a former co-worker who lives in Wichita, her 13-year-old daughter and her friend. My friend Ele is truly an amazing person, and I'm pretty sure bringing her daughter Chase and Chase's friend Grace to a big concert here in KC tonight earned her a serious spot in the mom of the year competition. I don't remember Ele and I being super close friends when she worked at SHS, but she has become a solid rock of support and encouragement to me during the last year, and I count her as one of my dearest friends. She doesn't hesitate to kick my butt when I need it, and she challenges me to do more, be more, love more, care more. We ate at my favorite Thai joint across the street from my office, and then I gave the girls a tour of where I work. I also gave them M&Ms, which I'm thinking must have helped me out in the coolness department. It was so very good to see Ele today, and I'm thankful that she cares enough about me to have included me in their special day.

Last night, I had dinner with another former co-worker, Vicki, and her husband Mike. Vicki is one of those people I felt an instant connection with from the moment I met her, and she and Mike are truly some of the most genuine people I've ever known. Much like Ele, Vicki is an ever-faithful source of support and encouragement to me, and she's been there for me through some of my darkest times. As we sat at the table in the restaurant chatting about various things and catching up on what's going on in our children's lives, I couldn't help but smile at the ease and warmth of the conversation. One of Vicki's many responsibilities in her current position at the company where she works is that of planning and coordinating large community-wide events that feature well-known speakers. The most recent event was on Friday, and the featured speaker was the highest ranking firefighter who survived the collapse of tower two in the World Trade Center disaster on 9/11. I spoke the words "I can't even imagine" over and over as Vicki recounted the man's story of being buried beneath the rubble along with three of his fellow firefighters when the tower fell. But it was when she told me what the man's mantra for life is now that emotion welled deep within me and I knew that there was a huge lesson within the gentleman's words that I was meant to hear.

Many people would have been filled with bitterness or anger if they had lost so many friends as the firefighter did or witnessed such devastation, but instead he told the crowd on Friday that he cherishes every moment of every day in a way that he never did before. He looks for the good in all situations, and he vocalized his appreciation for those good things when he discovers them. He told the crowd that he doesn't wait any longer until he has enough money or enough time or enough anything ... he recognizes how quickly life can be over, and he's not waiting to enjoy and appreciate every single moment, every single experience, every single person ... he lives each day as if it could be his last. He's not waiting anymore ... he's not waiting to live every single moment to the fullest.

It's so easy to get tangled up in the stuff of everyday life ... stuff that demands my attention and my time. It's so easy to let the tyranny of the urgent overtake me, stress me out, consume me. Let me say that again ... it's so easy to let the tyranny of the urgent cause me to miss what's really important in life ... really important stuff like someone who needs a shoulder to cry on or an ear to hear their pain or a heart to love them unconditionally. It's so easy to let the tyranny of the urgent tell me to wait ... to wait before I reach out ... to wait before I listen ... to wait before I love. It's so easy to let the tyranny of the urgent make me wait, to wait so long that I miss what is most important of all ... people.

I think it's time I stop waiting and start walking ... I do indeed.

The Mauling

It's surprising to me how many emails and messages I received following my post yesterday. And as is generally the case following a post that could be considered to be somewhat controversial, some words in those messages were encouraging and supportive and some were not. That's not what surprised me, the volume of emails or the kind and unkind commentary ... what surprised me was how many of you wrote to ask me if I had forgotten what yesterday was or why I didn't mention the significance of the day in my post. Let me assure you that I will never ever forget what happened on November 14, 2010 ... in fact, it's hard for me to believe that it has been three years since J.R. passed away, and there is hardly a day that passes that I don't think of him. I'm sure those of you who are dog owners will understand ... for as much as I love and adore my current canine companions Julie and Oliver, my J.R. will forever hold an extra special place in my heart. As to why I didn't mention him in last night's post, I simply felt the need to remember J.R. alone yesterday ... to pay tribute to his memory in the solitude of my own mind. It touches me deeply, though, that so many of you remembered my little fat buddy yesterday ... it means so much to know that you remembered.

Yesterday was a crazy busy day at work, so much so that I had to bring home a huge marketing plan to edit last night. The plan is for our animal health client ... think lots of chemical names, technical jargon and scientific references. I was up really late working on it, or really early I suppose since it was the wee hours of the morning when I finally finished working and crawled into bed with my doggies. I'm not sure how many times I hit the snooze button when my alarm sounded at 6 a.m., but I am sure that I did not want to get out of the warm and cozy cocoon of my bed. I don't know how they know, but Julie and Ollie seem to always know when I finally wake and am getting ready to get up for the day. And usually, when their supersonic canine senses tell them that I'm moments away from putting my feet on the floor next to my bed, they jump down, tails wagging, anxious to go outside.

Perhaps it's because they sensed how overwhelmingly tired I was or picked up on my emotions this morning, because Julie and Oliver did something they rarely do. Instead of jumping out of bed, both of them ... my 75-pound Julie and my 16-pound Oliver decided to climb on top of me instead. And not only did they climb on top of me, they started playing and wrestling and ... well ... they sort of mauled me. They were both pawing me, rolling all over me and trying desperately to sneak in wet dog kisses on my face. There's nothing quite like beginning my day by having two very rambunctious hound dogs maul me on a morning when I'm overly tired, sleepy and grumpy, and all I want to do is roll over and go back to sleep. For all my trying to get them to stop this morning ... to get Julie and Ollie to get off of me and jump out of bed ... my two sweet furry friends weren't having any part of it. The harder I tried to get them to stop, the more their tails wagged and their wrestling escalated until it happened ... I began to laugh ... and laugh ... and laugh.

I finally managed to get out of bed, and Julie and Ollie followed my example and jumped off the bed onto the floor and we went about our normal morning routine. It didn't strike me until late this afternoon that there was a lesson in getting mauled by my two hound dogs this morning. There are times when I feel mauled ... mauled by words, mauled by actions, mauled by thoughts. There are times when I feel as though the entire world is sitting on my chest ... pawing me, rolling all over me, mauling me, and not in a good or playful way like my dogs sometimes do. There are times when I just feel mauled ... stepped on, beaten up, trampled, pinned under a weight I cannot escape. But ... but ... but ... it's during those times that I need to remember ... perhaps it's during those times that I most need to remember to look for the love and the lesson and the laughter.

I'm going to bed, and should God choose to let me wake in the morning ... bring on the mauling ... bring it, Julie and Ollie ... bring it indeed.

"And You Have No Choice."

This is the entry I had planned to post last night. And just so you know, one of the first things I did when I got to the office this morning was to go find the young man I wrote about last night. I found him and told him how sorry I am that I didn't ever notice the pain in his eyes until yesterday. I found him and told him that I will be there for him should he need to talk again. I found him and told him I care about him and that I'll do whatever I can to help him bring some light into the currently very dark and lonely place that is his heart. And he hugged me. Hard. And he thanked me. A lot. And he smiled ... he smiled at me.

Now on to tonight's post ...  

One of the things I learned after my son Matt grew old enough to make certain decisions for himself was that giving him more than a couple of choices was never a good thing. For example, if I asked, "Would you like cereal or eggs or pancakes or toast or bacon for breakfast?" Matt's reply was usually, "No." Or if I placed four shirts on his bed for him to choose from, he would inevitably go to his closet and get a different one or refuse to get dressed altogether. We had more than one or two tangles when it came to choices, my little blonde-haired, blue-eyed boy and I, until I finally figured out that if I only gave my son two items from which to choose, it usually made the process easier ... usually being the key word. I don't know if Matt learned any giant life lessons from that time in his life ... I didn't realize until just a few days ago the enormity of the truth that I needed to absorb all those years ago. 

Choice is a fascinating concept, you know, especially when you think about the things we can or cannot, or do or do not choose. The truth is that sometimes I have a choice and sometimes I don't ... sometimes I have a say in the way things go or the way they turn out or the way they take place, and there are other times when I quite simply have no choice. Take this morning, for example ... I chose to get out of bed, take a shower and eat breakfast. I chose to wear jeans, a gray and white striped sweater, and gray Converse shoes. I chose to go to work, and then I chose to come home and feed my dogs. I willfully and deliberately chose all of those things. But ... I didn't choose for my eyes to be blue today, or any other day since the day I was born for that matter. I didn't choose to be short when I woke up this morning instead of tall. I didn't choose for my feet to be small or my chin to be pointy or my skin to be white. I didn't willfully or deliberately choose any of those things. The absolutely inarguable truth is that sometimes I have a choice and sometimes I don't.

Last Friday, I received a note from a friend with the following words ... "You can do this. You will do this. And you have no choice." Throughout the last year I've thought about, talked about, dreamed about, written about, tossed and turned about, prayed about, listened about, cried about, wondered about, asked about and worried about the concept of "choice" in regard to certain things about myself ... oh, yeah, I've done all of those things a whole, whole, whole, whole, whole lot over the last year or so. And for all my thinking, talking, dreaming, writing, tossing and turning, praying, listening, crying, wondering, asking and worrying, it took a short little note from a friend to help me truly understand and fully comprehend that truth from all those years ago when I offered up choices to my young son Mattie. It took a little note to cause me to know to the very core of my soul ... I can't go back to the life of pretense I once lived ... I have no choice but to be real ... I have no choice but to be me. 

So, thank you, my friend, for reminding me of who I am and what I must do. I can do this. I will do this. And I have no choice.

That Everyone Whom You Will Meet On This Day ...

I had planned to post a different entry this evening, but something happened that made me decide that post should wait until tomorrow. Near the end of my day at work, one of my young co-workers messaged me and asked if I could meet with him for a few minutes. I said sure and walked upstairs to the conference room ... yes, that conference room. He was already in the room waiting for me, and as I closed the door behind me, he jumped up from the chair he was precariously perched upon and hugged me as tears flowed down his cheeks and onto the shoulder of my sweater. I'm not sure how long we stood there, the young man trembling as he cried and me wondering what I should say or what I should do, while at the same time knowing that I just needed to be there for him ... just be there for him.

When he eventually stepped back and crumbled into the chair behind him, I couldn't help but think that he must be close to the age of my children. His hands were shaking as he tried to wipe the tears from his eyes, only to have them quickly fill again and spill down his face. I sat down and scooted close to him, wishing I could take the pain from his young eyes and somehow ease his troubled heart. My mind raced from one question to another as I tried to figure out what could possibly be causing such emotion in him, yet I somehow knew that I needed to remain silent and wait until the young man was ready to talk. And when he finally did speak ... I was completely unprepared for the words he said.

"I'm sorry, Terrie. I'm so sorry. I miss my mom so much. You're like everybody's mom here. I miss my mom, Terrie. I miss her so much."

I think I said something really profound like, "Oh, honey, don't be sorry. You go ahead and cry all you need to," feeling my own tears spring to my eyes and threaten to overflow the tiny dams of the eyelids that tentatively kept them contained. He didn't tell me any details about his mother, and I didn't ask ... I don't know if she lives far away or if she is still living or if they had a fight or if ... or if ... or if. He didn't need to reveal details to me ... he did, however, need a mom's shoulder to cry on, a mom's heart to feel his sorrow, a mom's voice to assure him of his worth and value to so many.

Needless to say, the young man has been on my heart all evening and I'm sure he'll be there for a long while to come. As I drove home in the darkness in bumper-to-bumper traffic, I said aloud to the silence of my car, "There's something about that conference room ... something really special about that room." I thought about last year when I sat in that same room sobbing until I could barely breathe ... oh, you bet I thought about the kindness that was extended to me in that room that day ... you bet I did. Tears filled my eyes once more as I realized all over again the magnitude, the sheer magnitude, of God's divine plan and purpose when He orchestrated the events of that day. And today ... today He gave me the enormous blessing of paying it forward ... of sitting in the same place and paying forward the kindness that was extended to me. 

I think the best way to close this post is by sharing some words from a video project called "Happiness Revealed" by Louie Schwartzberg. The following words are those of an elderly gentleman sharing his thoughts about blessings and gratitude ... I hope his words touch your heart the way they touched mine. 

"And so I wish you that you will open your heart to all these blessings, and let them flow through you, that everyone whom you will meet on this day will be blessed by you, just by your eyes, by your smile, by your touch, just by your presence. Let the gratefulness overflow into blessing all around you, and then it will really be a good day."