I stayed up way too late last night watching the live coverage on The Weather Channel about the severe weather that was and still is hitting the southern states because I have a lot of extended family and friends who live in the South. And to those of you who've messaged me today to ask about my loved ones back home, thank you for checking in to make sure they are okay. I texted with my sister and one of my nieces around noon today, and they said it was a long and terrifying night last night but that they were all safe and sound. You might send some prayers toward all the folks down South again tonight, however, as another round of tornado-producing storms is taking place even as I type. Most of you know I'm terrified of storms, and the thought of my family and friends and their young kiddos going through what they did last night and possibly again tonight makes me ache for them. To my family and friends weathering the intense storms ... you all know who you are ... please know how much I love each and every one of you, and know I've been praying constantly for your safety.
Being glued to the coverage of the weather last night was different than my obsessive weather watching on Sunday ... last night wasn't about me and fearing for my own safety; last night was about caring about the safety of those whom I love. It struck me as I was texting back and forth with my sister earlier today how often it takes danger or illness or hardship or destruction or even death to make so many of us realize what matters most ... caring. I've come to the conclusion that it may well be impossible to care without loving or to love without caring. I know ... that's pretty deep, so I'll move on and just let you ponder on that for a while.
Tomorrow is the day I'm having surgery on my finger, so I may not be writing for at least a week or so until the stitches are removed and perhaps not until the splint comes off in two to three weeks. I mentioned in an earlier post that I was mulling over what I might do during the time I'm out of writing commission and I've got a few ideas, but I haven't really settled on anything just yet. So ... if you care what happens at The Tree House over the next couple of weeks ... if you care and want to send me your thoughts or wishes or rants or praise or criticism or whatever your heart desires to send, I'll do my best to publish them, providing, of course, that you keep it relatively clean. You can email me at terriedjohnson@gmail.com or send me a message on Facebook.
Before my finger goes under the knife, a couple of final thoughts about caring. Caring is way more than just mouthing the words, "I care." Caring is doing. Caring is stepping up and stepping in. Caring is being there no matter what. Caring is fighting for someone who's ready to give up. Caring is loving ... unconditionally, across the board, through good times and bad. To care without loving? To love without caring? Impossible, friends ... impossible indeed.
If you care ...
Tuesday, April 29, 2014
Sunday, April 27, 2014
Where's Noah When I Need Him?
It takes something extra special to cause me to get out of bed at 4:30 a.m. on a Saturday morning after a very busy week at work. Something super extra special enough that by 4:45 a.m. yesterday, I was out of bed, showered and dressed. When my phone dinged with a text message from Meghann at 5 a.m., I was sleepy but also very proud of myself for being ready a bit ahead of the time my daughter had told me she would arrive at my house. Meg, Barrett and I chatted for a few minutes, and after feeding both myself and my dogs, we walked a mile or so to the location where Meghann was running a half marathon. It was a beautiful morning, crisp and clear when the race began ... was being the key word there.
About halfway through the race, the sky grew dark with storm clouds ... yep ... I said storm clouds. Barrett and I quickly moved from the metal bleachers where we were sitting to a large tent held up by a network of metal poles. As the rain began to fall, rolling thunder and bright flashes of lightning filled the sky ... yep ... I was outside in a storm standing under a tent built of metal poles and cloth tarp. Barrett thought I was shivering because I was cold ... truth is I was flipping scared to death and that's why I was shaking. Meghann completed the race, hitting the goal she had set for herself on time. She was soaked to the skin and very tired, but she accomplished what she set out to do. And I ... I stood under a flipping tent during a big thunderstorm and didn't die. I must admit that I might have been almost as proud of myself as I was of my daughter yesterday ... almost.
Today has been one of those days that serves as a perfect example as to why I don't like spring weather. The weather guys have been prepping us all week for the storms that were predicted to hit today, and you all know that means I've been an anxious, nervous wreck. I will say, however, that I did at least feel a bit more prepared than I have in the past ... I did create my rendition of a storm fort last year under the shelves in my basement, you know. And last night, I spent a good part of the evening making sure I had everything I might need packed and ready to head to the basement should the weather get nasty. We had two rounds of storms today, but thankfully, the worst stuff that came my way was torrential rain, gusty winds and a little hail. We have, however, been under a tornado watch for a good part of the day that doesn't expire until 2 a.m. The weather guys are saying they think we're out of the woods for tonight, and this is one time I surely hope they're correct. There was a tornado very near to where Meghann and Barrett live, and I'm beyond thankful they are safe tonight.
It was the second round of storms that brought water into my basement and caused the creek across the street to flood the road leading to my house. I talked to Julie and Ollie as I cleaned up the water ... Julie and Ollie who were snuggled inside their kennel that was bungeed to the water pipes. Don't even think it ... there is nothing at all irrational about that ... not one single hint of my anxiety shifting into overdrive when I bungee the dogs' kennel to the pipes. And it was as I talked to my two dogs and assured them that the storm was almost over, I couldn't help but be struck by how profound my words were ... "The storm is almost over, babies ... it's almost over ... I promise. I'll keep you safe, pups ... the storm is almost over."
As we climbed the stairs together ... Julie, Ollie and I ... I thought again about what I had said just a few minutes before. And then I began to think about the storms that come along in life ... storms that often seem as though they will never end. Storms that bring with them torrential fears and problems and issues ... storms that threaten to drown us ... storms that threaten to destroy us ... storms that threaten to derail us on our path toward hope, healing and happiness. I wonder if old Noah spoke those words to his family ... "The storm is almost over." I wonder if he spoke them to himself ... I wonder if he spoke them to the animals ... I wonder if he spoke them to God.
Today would have been a good day to chat with old Noah for a bit ... to ask him how he held on to his faith through such a terrible storm ... to ask him how he kept believing when no one else did ... to ask him ... well ... there are a lot of questions I'd like to ask Noah ... a whole lot of questions, friends ... a whole, whole, whole lot of questions.
About halfway through the race, the sky grew dark with storm clouds ... yep ... I said storm clouds. Barrett and I quickly moved from the metal bleachers where we were sitting to a large tent held up by a network of metal poles. As the rain began to fall, rolling thunder and bright flashes of lightning filled the sky ... yep ... I was outside in a storm standing under a tent built of metal poles and cloth tarp. Barrett thought I was shivering because I was cold ... truth is I was flipping scared to death and that's why I was shaking. Meghann completed the race, hitting the goal she had set for herself on time. She was soaked to the skin and very tired, but she accomplished what she set out to do. And I ... I stood under a flipping tent during a big thunderstorm and didn't die. I must admit that I might have been almost as proud of myself as I was of my daughter yesterday ... almost.
Today has been one of those days that serves as a perfect example as to why I don't like spring weather. The weather guys have been prepping us all week for the storms that were predicted to hit today, and you all know that means I've been an anxious, nervous wreck. I will say, however, that I did at least feel a bit more prepared than I have in the past ... I did create my rendition of a storm fort last year under the shelves in my basement, you know. And last night, I spent a good part of the evening making sure I had everything I might need packed and ready to head to the basement should the weather get nasty. We had two rounds of storms today, but thankfully, the worst stuff that came my way was torrential rain, gusty winds and a little hail. We have, however, been under a tornado watch for a good part of the day that doesn't expire until 2 a.m. The weather guys are saying they think we're out of the woods for tonight, and this is one time I surely hope they're correct. There was a tornado very near to where Meghann and Barrett live, and I'm beyond thankful they are safe tonight.
It was the second round of storms that brought water into my basement and caused the creek across the street to flood the road leading to my house. I talked to Julie and Ollie as I cleaned up the water ... Julie and Ollie who were snuggled inside their kennel that was bungeed to the water pipes. Don't even think it ... there is nothing at all irrational about that ... not one single hint of my anxiety shifting into overdrive when I bungee the dogs' kennel to the pipes. And it was as I talked to my two dogs and assured them that the storm was almost over, I couldn't help but be struck by how profound my words were ... "The storm is almost over, babies ... it's almost over ... I promise. I'll keep you safe, pups ... the storm is almost over."
As we climbed the stairs together ... Julie, Ollie and I ... I thought again about what I had said just a few minutes before. And then I began to think about the storms that come along in life ... storms that often seem as though they will never end. Storms that bring with them torrential fears and problems and issues ... storms that threaten to drown us ... storms that threaten to destroy us ... storms that threaten to derail us on our path toward hope, healing and happiness. I wonder if old Noah spoke those words to his family ... "The storm is almost over." I wonder if he spoke them to himself ... I wonder if he spoke them to the animals ... I wonder if he spoke them to God.
Today would have been a good day to chat with old Noah for a bit ... to ask him how he held on to his faith through such a terrible storm ... to ask him how he kept believing when no one else did ... to ask him ... well ... there are a lot of questions I'd like to ask Noah ... a whole lot of questions, friends ... a whole, whole, whole lot of questions.
Friday, April 25, 2014
It's Not About the Beets
When I was a little kid, my mom and dad both worked full-time which meant I spent a significant amount of time with my three older siblings and their families ... yes, families ... I was born 15 years after Mom and Dad's first crop of kiddos. It goes without saying that spending a lot of time at my siblings' homes meant that I also ate more than a few meals with them. To be honest, I don't remember what most of those meals consisted of ... except the meal that involved the beets ... boy, do I remember that meal. One of my two sister-in-laws served beets for lunch one day ... I have no idea what else was on my plate that day, but I know beyond the shadow of any doubt there were beets. In fact, I remember there being a gigantic mountain of beets on my plate ... red, smelly, disgusting beets ... the biggest serving of beets in the history of the world.
As I'm sure you've gathered by now, I don't like beets ... I really, really, really don't like beets. I don't like them at all, and I never have. I truly believe my sister-in-law was on some sort of beet mission that day, because she was determined I was going to eat those beets. So determined that she told me I couldn't leave the table until I did so ... suffice it to say that by the time I finally choked down some of the beets, they were ice cold and it was dark outside. We laughed many times in later years about the atrocious day of the beets ... but it wasn't one bit funny to me or her that day ... not one tiny little bit funny at all.
If you've been reading along with me for even a short time, you've probably picked up on the fact that I love Converse shoes, suspenders and ties ... especially bow ties ... I really love bow ties. I've always loved that look, but with the exception of a few times in my youth, I didn't embrace the style I so loved because I was afraid of how others might judge me. It wasn't until a year and a half ago that I finally allowed myself to be ... well ... myself. I wish I could tell you that I've reached a point where I'm completely okay with being me ... you have no idea how much I wish I could tell you I'm completely okay, but it just wouldn't be true. But ... learning to love who we are and accept who we are and be who we are is a journey for all of us ... straight and gay alike ... in that quest, we are all the same, no matter what we look like on the outside.
So here's the thing ... my point ... what I would like for you to take away from this evening's post. Some straight people (not all ... but some) have more than a few misconceptions about gay people, not the least of which has to do with clothing. Wearing Converse shoes and suspenders and ties does not ... let me repeat that ... does not mean I want to be a guy ... no way, no how, not ever do I want to be a guy. My style of clothing is just that ... my style ... it's what I feel most comfortable wearing. I'm not a transvestite, though that label has been cruelly hurled at me before ... along with many others, I might add. I won't list the definition of transvestite here, but there are some of you who should take the time to look it up and find out what it really means. Not liking to wear dresses or sparkly stuff or heels or carry a purse doesn't make me any less a woman ... and neither does being gay for that matter. Wearing Converse and ties and suspenders doesn't mean I want to be a guy ... it means I want to be me ... nothing more and nothing less ... just me.
Now ... what does my story about beets at the beginning of this post have to do with my style of dress? It didn't matter how long my sister-in-law made me sit at that table ... I could still be sitting at that table today ...I still don't like beets, and I will never like beets. And it doesn't matter that I don't like beets, or it shouldn't anyway ... really and truly, me not liking beets shouldn't matter to anyone (except maybe the people who sell beets to make their living, I suppose). And even more, me not liking beets has absolutely nothing to do with who I am ... absolutely nothing. I don't like beets ... so what? I like broccoli and squash instead ... so what? I don't like dresses and sparkly stuff ... so what? I love Converse shoes and suspenders and ties ... especially bow ties ... I really love bow ties ... so what?
Think about it, friends ... think about for a long, long time before you label someone ... it's not about the beets at all ... it's not about the beets at all.
As I'm sure you've gathered by now, I don't like beets ... I really, really, really don't like beets. I don't like them at all, and I never have. I truly believe my sister-in-law was on some sort of beet mission that day, because she was determined I was going to eat those beets. So determined that she told me I couldn't leave the table until I did so ... suffice it to say that by the time I finally choked down some of the beets, they were ice cold and it was dark outside. We laughed many times in later years about the atrocious day of the beets ... but it wasn't one bit funny to me or her that day ... not one tiny little bit funny at all.
If you've been reading along with me for even a short time, you've probably picked up on the fact that I love Converse shoes, suspenders and ties ... especially bow ties ... I really love bow ties. I've always loved that look, but with the exception of a few times in my youth, I didn't embrace the style I so loved because I was afraid of how others might judge me. It wasn't until a year and a half ago that I finally allowed myself to be ... well ... myself. I wish I could tell you that I've reached a point where I'm completely okay with being me ... you have no idea how much I wish I could tell you I'm completely okay, but it just wouldn't be true. But ... learning to love who we are and accept who we are and be who we are is a journey for all of us ... straight and gay alike ... in that quest, we are all the same, no matter what we look like on the outside.
So here's the thing ... my point ... what I would like for you to take away from this evening's post. Some straight people (not all ... but some) have more than a few misconceptions about gay people, not the least of which has to do with clothing. Wearing Converse shoes and suspenders and ties does not ... let me repeat that ... does not mean I want to be a guy ... no way, no how, not ever do I want to be a guy. My style of clothing is just that ... my style ... it's what I feel most comfortable wearing. I'm not a transvestite, though that label has been cruelly hurled at me before ... along with many others, I might add. I won't list the definition of transvestite here, but there are some of you who should take the time to look it up and find out what it really means. Not liking to wear dresses or sparkly stuff or heels or carry a purse doesn't make me any less a woman ... and neither does being gay for that matter. Wearing Converse and ties and suspenders doesn't mean I want to be a guy ... it means I want to be me ... nothing more and nothing less ... just me.
Now ... what does my story about beets at the beginning of this post have to do with my style of dress? It didn't matter how long my sister-in-law made me sit at that table ... I could still be sitting at that table today ...I still don't like beets, and I will never like beets. And it doesn't matter that I don't like beets, or it shouldn't anyway ... really and truly, me not liking beets shouldn't matter to anyone (except maybe the people who sell beets to make their living, I suppose). And even more, me not liking beets has absolutely nothing to do with who I am ... absolutely nothing. I don't like beets ... so what? I like broccoli and squash instead ... so what? I don't like dresses and sparkly stuff ... so what? I love Converse shoes and suspenders and ties ... especially bow ties ... I really love bow ties ... so what?
Think about it, friends ... think about for a long, long time before you label someone ... it's not about the beets at all ... it's not about the beets at all.
Wednesday, April 23, 2014
What's Say We Just Stop?
No intro story tonight ... it's late, I'm tired and the weather guys are saying thunder and lightning are going to wake me up at 3 a.m. OK ... that's not exactly what they said, but they did say thundershowers will be moving in during the night. But ... I have something I want to say before I call it a night.
There are few things that irritate me more than people who pretend to like me or are nice to my face and then talk about me behind my back. Not only does it irritate the heck out of me and hurt my feelings when someone does that to me, it's even worse when I see or hear people do it to others. And in the past couple of days, I've been on the receiving end of that sort of behavior, and I've seen others experience it as well. A couple of posts ago, I wrote these words, "... never ever underestimate the power of love, friends ... never ever underestimate the power of love." Unfortunately, tonight I feel compelled to write something different ... never ever underestimate the power of hate or jealousy or unkind words ... never ever underestimate that your words or actions may possibly leave an indelible mark of sadness upon the soul of another.
As Ollie and I walked this evening, it struck me how much better the world would be if we just stopped ... stopped fighting, stopped hating, stopped being jealous, stopped gossiping. What would happen if we just stopped pretending to care and really did care about other people? What would happen if we just stopped belittling others behind their backs and spoke only words of praise instead? What would happen if we just stopped thinking it's acceptable to speak harshly to or about others and made the commitment to demonstrate kindness and compassion to everyone?
Seriously, friends ... what's say we just stop being mean to each other? Really ... seriously ... truly ... honestly ... for gosh sake's ... what's say we just stop? I'll leave you with this thought ... what if the person you talked badly to or about today wasn't around tomorrow? How would you feel then? Would the anger or jealousy or back-stabbing or belittling or lying or judging or bullying or condescending tone be worth it then? What if the person wasn't around tomorrow? Would you feel good about what you had said and done then? Would you feel justified then? Would all the negative, hurtful, plain old mean stuff still feel right then? Really? Seriously? Truly? Honestly? There's not a single one of us who is guaranteed our next breath ... not a single one. Life is way, way, way too short to waste even a second being mean or hateful or vengeful to one another.
Really ... seriously ... truly ... honestly ... for gosh sake's, people ... what's say we just stop?
Tuesday, April 22, 2014
... and so we sat down ...
I'm sure I'm not the only person in the world who never paid much attention to the Boston Marathon (or in my case, any marathon) ... until last year. The Boston Marathon last year was the top news story around the world on the day of the race not because something wonderful happened that day but because many innocent people who were present became the targets of a senseless act of hate and violence. Yesterday, the news was once again filled with stories about the marathon in Boston ... stories of survival, courage and triumph. I read a lot of those stories last night, looked at a lot of photos from the race and watched several videos of the people who participated in the marathon. There was one video in particular, however, that grabbed my heart in a big way ... the video of a woman who lost both legs in the bombing. I wept as I watched her cross the finish line with the assistance of her sister and daughter. Talk about strength ... talk about courage ... talk about bravery ... wow ... just wow.
For the last month or so while I've been out on my Saturday walks with Ollie, there's been a fairly good-sized group of teenagers and their coaches participating in various events on or around the track at the high school. Several of the kids have waved at me from week to week as Ollie and I made our way down the sidewalk near the track, and I always waved back to them and smiled. The first week I saw the teens, I noticed they were kids with special needs. And with every passing week, I grew more and more impressed with the courage and bravery those kids were displaying at the track and field events in which they were participating. But what I saw last Saturday ... what I saw last Saturday left a mark on my heart that will never be erased.
Ollie and I were walking along and I was waving in return to the kids who were waving at me when I saw two of the teenagers coming toward the fence that separated me and my hound from the track. At first, I wasn't sure if they were supposed to be where they were and was immediately concerned for the safety of the boy and girl who seemed to be on a mission to reach me and my dog. I quickly scanned the track area to see if I could find an adult supervisor within earshot that I could enlist to help get the kids back to the group. By the time I spotted someone whom I thought could hear me, the two teenagers were at the fence.
"Hi!" shouted the teenage girl. "You have a hot dog dog!" she said, smiling broadly and giggling.
"Shhh!" whispered the young man, "That's not what Mr. Tom said we could say. Let me do the talking, Lisa. I'll say it and you listen."
Lisa nodded and clapped as she squealed, "Okay, okay, just say it already, Billy! Say it to the lady with the hot dog dog!"
Billy sort of huffed at Lisa, adjusted his ball cap, cleared his throat, puffed out his chest and said in a very loud voice, "We want your dog and you to come watch us race. Come sit and watch us race over there." Billy pointed to the track and said, "Please lady, please you and your dog come watch us race over there."
There are signs posted all along the fence that surrounds the track ... signs saying no pets are allowed in the track and field area. I looked at the two kids ... Billy smiling and nodding his head at me, and Lisa clapping and jumping up and down while saying, "Lady with the hot dog dog ... lady with the hot dog dog ... lady with the hot dog dog!" ... I looked at the two expectant teens, and I knew that the most important thing I could possibly do that day was to watch those kids race. Billy and Lisa walked along the fence on their side, shouting directions to Ollie and I as we walked on our side. When we reached the gate, I explained to Billy and Lisa that we would have to stand there and watch them because Ollie wasn't allowed inside the fence. It took some work to convince them that we would stay there and watch them, and Billy even made me promise we wouldn't leave.
Billy and Lisa made their way back down to the track hand in hand and talked to a man I assumed must be Mr. Tom, who turned and waved to me and gave me a thumbs-up. I noticed Billy and Lisa point toward Ollie and I several times as they talked to the other kids who were lining up to run. One of the coaches blew a whistle for the race to begin, and about half of the kids starting running while the other half led by Billy walked off the track and up the hill toward me and my by then barking his head off wiener dog.
"Uh-oh," I thought ... "This can't be good, Ollie. We've distracted them from the race ... we are so gonna get busted by some coaches we don't even know, buddy."
I was trying to assess possible escape options when Billy yelled, "Sit down and watch us with your dog ... take a load off. Sit down and watch us race." I was instantly relieved ... relieved that the coaches weren't upset with me and my over-the-top excited hound ... relieved that I had on sunglasses so the group of kids couldn't see the tears that flooded my eyes.
Billy will never know the huge impact the events of last Saturday had on me, friends ... he will never understand how important it was for me to watch him and his friends race. He had no way of knowing that I needed to see them run ... to witness firsthand the pure joy on their faces as they tried their hardest to accomplish the task set before them ... to hear their words of encouragement as they cheered one another on ... to watch them stumble and fall and help each other up time and time again ... never giving up, never quitting, never complaining. Yep, what I saw last Saturday left a mark on my heart that will never be erased.
... and so we sat down ...
For the last month or so while I've been out on my Saturday walks with Ollie, there's been a fairly good-sized group of teenagers and their coaches participating in various events on or around the track at the high school. Several of the kids have waved at me from week to week as Ollie and I made our way down the sidewalk near the track, and I always waved back to them and smiled. The first week I saw the teens, I noticed they were kids with special needs. And with every passing week, I grew more and more impressed with the courage and bravery those kids were displaying at the track and field events in which they were participating. But what I saw last Saturday ... what I saw last Saturday left a mark on my heart that will never be erased.
Ollie and I were walking along and I was waving in return to the kids who were waving at me when I saw two of the teenagers coming toward the fence that separated me and my hound from the track. At first, I wasn't sure if they were supposed to be where they were and was immediately concerned for the safety of the boy and girl who seemed to be on a mission to reach me and my dog. I quickly scanned the track area to see if I could find an adult supervisor within earshot that I could enlist to help get the kids back to the group. By the time I spotted someone whom I thought could hear me, the two teenagers were at the fence.
"Hi!" shouted the teenage girl. "You have a hot dog dog!" she said, smiling broadly and giggling.
"Shhh!" whispered the young man, "That's not what Mr. Tom said we could say. Let me do the talking, Lisa. I'll say it and you listen."
Lisa nodded and clapped as she squealed, "Okay, okay, just say it already, Billy! Say it to the lady with the hot dog dog!"
Billy sort of huffed at Lisa, adjusted his ball cap, cleared his throat, puffed out his chest and said in a very loud voice, "We want your dog and you to come watch us race. Come sit and watch us race over there." Billy pointed to the track and said, "Please lady, please you and your dog come watch us race over there."
There are signs posted all along the fence that surrounds the track ... signs saying no pets are allowed in the track and field area. I looked at the two kids ... Billy smiling and nodding his head at me, and Lisa clapping and jumping up and down while saying, "Lady with the hot dog dog ... lady with the hot dog dog ... lady with the hot dog dog!" ... I looked at the two expectant teens, and I knew that the most important thing I could possibly do that day was to watch those kids race. Billy and Lisa walked along the fence on their side, shouting directions to Ollie and I as we walked on our side. When we reached the gate, I explained to Billy and Lisa that we would have to stand there and watch them because Ollie wasn't allowed inside the fence. It took some work to convince them that we would stay there and watch them, and Billy even made me promise we wouldn't leave.
Billy and Lisa made their way back down to the track hand in hand and talked to a man I assumed must be Mr. Tom, who turned and waved to me and gave me a thumbs-up. I noticed Billy and Lisa point toward Ollie and I several times as they talked to the other kids who were lining up to run. One of the coaches blew a whistle for the race to begin, and about half of the kids starting running while the other half led by Billy walked off the track and up the hill toward me and my by then barking his head off wiener dog.
"Uh-oh," I thought ... "This can't be good, Ollie. We've distracted them from the race ... we are so gonna get busted by some coaches we don't even know, buddy."
I was trying to assess possible escape options when Billy yelled, "Sit down and watch us with your dog ... take a load off. Sit down and watch us race." I was instantly relieved ... relieved that the coaches weren't upset with me and my over-the-top excited hound ... relieved that I had on sunglasses so the group of kids couldn't see the tears that flooded my eyes.
Billy will never know the huge impact the events of last Saturday had on me, friends ... he will never understand how important it was for me to watch him and his friends race. He had no way of knowing that I needed to see them run ... to witness firsthand the pure joy on their faces as they tried their hardest to accomplish the task set before them ... to hear their words of encouragement as they cheered one another on ... to watch them stumble and fall and help each other up time and time again ... never giving up, never quitting, never complaining. Yep, what I saw last Saturday left a mark on my heart that will never be erased.
... and so we sat down ...
Sunday, April 20, 2014
The Love Basket
Last Easter, I was in Canada with my son Brad whom I coerced into traveling with me since I hadn't been on an airplane in more than 20 years because I had just a wee bit of an irrational fear about flying. The eight days we spent with Matt, Becca and C.J. passed way too quickly, but we managed to pack a lot of fun and a ton of memories into our short time together. C.J. was a little too young last year to quite get the whole Easter Bunny concept, but it didn't take her long at all to understand that the plastic eggs in the basket were filled with Cheerios, yogurt snacks and other special toddler goodies. I Skyped with her on Friday evening, and I can assure you she was much, much more excited about the upcoming Easter festivities this year than she was last year ... yep, this year, my sweet granddaughter had a completely different perspective and a much deeper level of anticipation and excitement for the surprises that Easter morning would bring.
It's not unusual for me to find myself fighting a case of the blues in the days leading up to a holiday weekend now, and some holidays seem to precipitate a bigger battle than others. I knew a couple of weeks ago that the sadness was trying to weasel its way into my mind, and I fought with all my might to keep it at bay. By the time last week came, however, I could tell my will to fight the all-too familiar creature was weakening with every passing day. It's odd to me that I used to be able to slap a smile on my face and pretend that everything was just fine and dandy no matter what I was feeling. I was a master at pretending to be someone I wasn't ... a master at not letting anyone see the real me ... a master at concealing my sadness and pain. Things have certainly changed over the last couple of years ... now the people closest to me know ... they know when I'm sad ... they know when I'm lonely ... they know when I'm happy ... they know when I'm excited ... they know when I'm afraid. Now the people closest to me know those things about me because they know me ... they know the real me ... they know my heart and who I really am.
One of the cool things our company does is to close the office early on the day before a holiday, usually at 3 p.m. Things began winding down early on Friday afternoon as folks headed out in anticipation of celebrating Easter with their families and friends. As I smiled and wished them a Happy Easter, my heart ached with the silent dread for what I knew would be a lonely weekend. (And before you ask why I'm not with my kids on Easter ... one kid lives in Canada, one kid is traveling for his job, and one kid is helping her pastor husband on the busiest church day of the year.) Since I was in Canada last Easter, this year is the first Easter in my life that I'm not actively involved in a church ... and when I say actively involved, I mean I used to be super actively involved. All week, my brain pounded with church memories of Easters gone by ... reading Scriptures on stage at Good Friday services ... participating in skits and dramas on Easter Sunday mornings ... sharing Easter lunches with my church friends and their families. Yep, I was a sad puppy on Good Friday afternoon for sure. I was walking back to my desk to pack up to leave when a friend called my name and motioned for me to come to the front desk to join her and another friend.
I should have known they were up to something from their huge smiles, but I was truly surprised when they said they had something for me. One of them reached under the desk, pulled out a metal Easter basket filled with plastic eggs and placed it before me. I did what every person in the world, young or old, does when presented with a basket of plastic eggs ... I picked one up and shook it to see if there was something inside. There didn't seem to be anything in the egg, and I was reaching to put it back in the basket when my friend said, "There are notes inside the eggs, Terrie ... notes from your friends here for you to open and read throughout the weekend when you're feeling lonely or sad." My other friend piped up and said, "Hopefully, you won't read them all in the next hour!" Tears filled my eyes as I hugged and thanked them, and wished them a Happy Easter ... then I dropped the basket off at my desk, ducked into the restroom and bawled like a baby.
Though my kids may find this hard to believe, I didn't open the first egg until after my evening walk with Ollie. I had already decided which one I would open first ... the biggest one, of course. The tears returned as I carefully unfolded the piece of paper and read the words written on it ...
I opened one more egg before I went to bed Friday night ... one egg chosen randomly by reaching into the basket, stirring the eggs around and lifting out a pink one. Chosen randomly ... hmmm ... the note was from my friend who was with me when I melted down in the conference room that day ... yes ... that day. Though it was tempting to open all the notes the first night, I didn't ... again, much to my children's surprise, I'm sure. I followed the instructions of my friends ... much to their surprise, I'm equally as sure ... and I've been opening the notes throughout the weekend whenever I need a smile. There's no possible way I can put into words the depth of my gratitude to you, my friends ... absolutely no words can convey how deeply your love and kindness has touched me.
You know what Easter is really all about? Easter is about love ... sacrificial, unconditional love ... love worth dying for ... love worth living for. Never underestimate the power of love ... whether that love is your kids calling or texting to say, "Happy Easter, Mom!" ... your granddaughter's sweet giggling as she excitedly jabbers about her Easter Bunny surprises ... handwritten notes of encouragement on pieces of paper tucked inside plastic eggs ... or the hope for eternity found within the empty tomb of our Savior ... never ever underestimate the power of love, friends ... never ever underestimate the power of love.
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It's not unusual for me to find myself fighting a case of the blues in the days leading up to a holiday weekend now, and some holidays seem to precipitate a bigger battle than others. I knew a couple of weeks ago that the sadness was trying to weasel its way into my mind, and I fought with all my might to keep it at bay. By the time last week came, however, I could tell my will to fight the all-too familiar creature was weakening with every passing day. It's odd to me that I used to be able to slap a smile on my face and pretend that everything was just fine and dandy no matter what I was feeling. I was a master at pretending to be someone I wasn't ... a master at not letting anyone see the real me ... a master at concealing my sadness and pain. Things have certainly changed over the last couple of years ... now the people closest to me know ... they know when I'm sad ... they know when I'm lonely ... they know when I'm happy ... they know when I'm excited ... they know when I'm afraid. Now the people closest to me know those things about me because they know me ... they know the real me ... they know my heart and who I really am.
One of the cool things our company does is to close the office early on the day before a holiday, usually at 3 p.m. Things began winding down early on Friday afternoon as folks headed out in anticipation of celebrating Easter with their families and friends. As I smiled and wished them a Happy Easter, my heart ached with the silent dread for what I knew would be a lonely weekend. (And before you ask why I'm not with my kids on Easter ... one kid lives in Canada, one kid is traveling for his job, and one kid is helping her pastor husband on the busiest church day of the year.) Since I was in Canada last Easter, this year is the first Easter in my life that I'm not actively involved in a church ... and when I say actively involved, I mean I used to be super actively involved. All week, my brain pounded with church memories of Easters gone by ... reading Scriptures on stage at Good Friday services ... participating in skits and dramas on Easter Sunday mornings ... sharing Easter lunches with my church friends and their families. Yep, I was a sad puppy on Good Friday afternoon for sure. I was walking back to my desk to pack up to leave when a friend called my name and motioned for me to come to the front desk to join her and another friend.
I should have known they were up to something from their huge smiles, but I was truly surprised when they said they had something for me. One of them reached under the desk, pulled out a metal Easter basket filled with plastic eggs and placed it before me. I did what every person in the world, young or old, does when presented with a basket of plastic eggs ... I picked one up and shook it to see if there was something inside. There didn't seem to be anything in the egg, and I was reaching to put it back in the basket when my friend said, "There are notes inside the eggs, Terrie ... notes from your friends here for you to open and read throughout the weekend when you're feeling lonely or sad." My other friend piped up and said, "Hopefully, you won't read them all in the next hour!" Tears filled my eyes as I hugged and thanked them, and wished them a Happy Easter ... then I dropped the basket off at my desk, ducked into the restroom and bawled like a baby.
Though my kids may find this hard to believe, I didn't open the first egg until after my evening walk with Ollie. I had already decided which one I would open first ... the biggest one, of course. The tears returned as I carefully unfolded the piece of paper and read the words written on it ...
I opened one more egg before I went to bed Friday night ... one egg chosen randomly by reaching into the basket, stirring the eggs around and lifting out a pink one. Chosen randomly ... hmmm ... the note was from my friend who was with me when I melted down in the conference room that day ... yes ... that day. Though it was tempting to open all the notes the first night, I didn't ... again, much to my children's surprise, I'm sure. I followed the instructions of my friends ... much to their surprise, I'm equally as sure ... and I've been opening the notes throughout the weekend whenever I need a smile. There's no possible way I can put into words the depth of my gratitude to you, my friends ... absolutely no words can convey how deeply your love and kindness has touched me.
You know what Easter is really all about? Easter is about love ... sacrificial, unconditional love ... love worth dying for ... love worth living for. Never underestimate the power of love ... whether that love is your kids calling or texting to say, "Happy Easter, Mom!" ... your granddaughter's sweet giggling as she excitedly jabbers about her Easter Bunny surprises ... handwritten notes of encouragement on pieces of paper tucked inside plastic eggs ... or the hope for eternity found within the empty tomb of our Savior ... never ever underestimate the power of love, friends ... never ever underestimate the power of love.
Friday, April 18, 2014
My Spot
To answer the question I've been asked a gazillion times this week because I haven't been posting ... yes, I'm still alive and my lack of writing isn't because I had the surgery on my finger. That's happening April 30, and I'm not sure what I'll do should I not be able to type for a while ... maybe I'll try to write ahead (probably not happening), maybe I'll beg for guest bloggers (pretty please with sugar-free jello and Cool Whip on top) or maybe I'll repost my top 10 (or 20 if my hand hurts a lot) posts from over the years. As to why I haven't written this week ... I'll just say it's been a cruddy week and leave it at that.
During the eleven and a half years I've worked at SHS, I've probably moved from one desk to another at least a dozen times. Some of those moves were in our previous building, but most of them have taken place in the building we are in currently. Some of the spots where I was asked to sit were wonderful, while some were ... well ... less than conducive for me to be able to maintain the level of concentration required to be accurate in my editing. Most editors will quickly agree that the two most important things that are necessary to good performance are light and quiet. It's difficult to edit technical documents with super small legal copy if the place where you sit doesn't have any natural lighting, and it's even harder to edit to the best of your ability if your desk happens to be in a noisy area. Yep, I've had some SHS workplace homes that were not so great, and I've had some that were pretty cool.
It was a little more than a year ago when I moved into the space I now occupy ... a space that's rather unique in that it's not attached to another work station. Most of the cubicles are in pods, meaning the desks within each grouping share walls with the other desks in the same pod. While I can turn around in my chair and interact with the folks who sit near me, my work station isn't connected to theirs. There's a large window to the right of my desk ... a window that not only provides the perfect amount of light for me as I edit but also enables my three very special plants that sit atop the bookcases directly beneath it to thrive. It's pretty quiet where I sit, too ... quiet enough that I have no trouble concentrating when I'm reading about cow stomachs and horse poop.
But there's something else about where I sit at work ... something extra special that has absolutely nothing at all to do with editing and everything in the universe to do with my heart. Even on my worst days ... the dark days or the lonely days or the sad days ... the days when everything in me wants to give up ... the days when I feel so unworthy or so ashamed ... even on those really tough days, there's something extra special about my little spot ... something calming, something soothing, something truly remarkable as it wraps me in a blanket of peacefulness.
Before I left the office today, I did what I do every day ... I checked to make sure I wasn't leaving anything behind and that the fan below and the lights above my desk were off. And then I did what I do every Friday ... I stood and read a bunch of the quotes that are pinned to my quote post next to my desk. Several new quotes were attached to the post this week ... some that people told me they were adding, and some that were attached to the post unbeknownst to me. I read quotes about bravery and courage, quotes about strength and determination, quotes about loyalty and friendship, quotes about patience and endurance. I glanced at the framed, signed note cards that hang on the wall, and I whispered a prayer of gratitude for the people who are being helped by the messages contained upon those cards. And as I slipped my arms into the straps of my backpack and got ready to leave, I said aloud, "Take care of yourself, spot ... see you on Monday ... thanks for always being here for me."
I was deep in thought as I pulled into my garage, deep thoughts that have been coursing through my mind all week. And as Julie and Ollie happily greeted me, tears filled my eyes as I realized I have a spot with those two hounds. I have a spot with my amazing kids (all six of them). I have a spot with my sweet granddaughter. I have a spot with my friends. I even have a spot with my life-saving head doctor. But most of all, I have a spot with God.
My spot ... we all need one, you know ... we all need a spot ... indeed we do, friends ... indeed we do.
During the eleven and a half years I've worked at SHS, I've probably moved from one desk to another at least a dozen times. Some of those moves were in our previous building, but most of them have taken place in the building we are in currently. Some of the spots where I was asked to sit were wonderful, while some were ... well ... less than conducive for me to be able to maintain the level of concentration required to be accurate in my editing. Most editors will quickly agree that the two most important things that are necessary to good performance are light and quiet. It's difficult to edit technical documents with super small legal copy if the place where you sit doesn't have any natural lighting, and it's even harder to edit to the best of your ability if your desk happens to be in a noisy area. Yep, I've had some SHS workplace homes that were not so great, and I've had some that were pretty cool.
It was a little more than a year ago when I moved into the space I now occupy ... a space that's rather unique in that it's not attached to another work station. Most of the cubicles are in pods, meaning the desks within each grouping share walls with the other desks in the same pod. While I can turn around in my chair and interact with the folks who sit near me, my work station isn't connected to theirs. There's a large window to the right of my desk ... a window that not only provides the perfect amount of light for me as I edit but also enables my three very special plants that sit atop the bookcases directly beneath it to thrive. It's pretty quiet where I sit, too ... quiet enough that I have no trouble concentrating when I'm reading about cow stomachs and horse poop.
But there's something else about where I sit at work ... something extra special that has absolutely nothing at all to do with editing and everything in the universe to do with my heart. Even on my worst days ... the dark days or the lonely days or the sad days ... the days when everything in me wants to give up ... the days when I feel so unworthy or so ashamed ... even on those really tough days, there's something extra special about my little spot ... something calming, something soothing, something truly remarkable as it wraps me in a blanket of peacefulness.
Before I left the office today, I did what I do every day ... I checked to make sure I wasn't leaving anything behind and that the fan below and the lights above my desk were off. And then I did what I do every Friday ... I stood and read a bunch of the quotes that are pinned to my quote post next to my desk. Several new quotes were attached to the post this week ... some that people told me they were adding, and some that were attached to the post unbeknownst to me. I read quotes about bravery and courage, quotes about strength and determination, quotes about loyalty and friendship, quotes about patience and endurance. I glanced at the framed, signed note cards that hang on the wall, and I whispered a prayer of gratitude for the people who are being helped by the messages contained upon those cards. And as I slipped my arms into the straps of my backpack and got ready to leave, I said aloud, "Take care of yourself, spot ... see you on Monday ... thanks for always being here for me."
I was deep in thought as I pulled into my garage, deep thoughts that have been coursing through my mind all week. And as Julie and Ollie happily greeted me, tears filled my eyes as I realized I have a spot with those two hounds. I have a spot with my amazing kids (all six of them). I have a spot with my sweet granddaughter. I have a spot with my friends. I even have a spot with my life-saving head doctor. But most of all, I have a spot with God.
My spot ... we all need one, you know ... we all need a spot ... indeed we do, friends ... indeed we do.
Monday, April 14, 2014
What Love Looks Like
I've never been the kind of gal who spends hours in front of the mirror primping ... just give me enough time to throw some gel in my hair and slap on a little foundation and blush, and I'm ready to go. Some people, however, both female and male alike, spend hours and hours in full-blown primping mode making sure they look their absolute best before they leave the house. I'm not saying that primping is a bad thing, and I'm certain some folks would say I would be well-served to spend more time doing just that. There are also those who would say that my lack of concern regarding primping goes hand-in-hand with the smoldering sense of guilt and shame that has been with me for as far back as I can remember. Perhaps there is some truth to that avenue of thinking ... perhaps I don't primp because down deep inside I don't feel worthy. But maybe there's no deep psychological meaning at all when it comes to my non-primpiness ... maybe it simply means that more often than not I'm running late and don't have time to stand and look at myself in front of the mirror. Maybe that's a question for my life-saving head doctor to answer, eh?
Even though we'd all like to believe that we aren't judged based on how we look, the truth is that we are all on the receiving end of that type of appraisal by others and the even more humbling truth is that we all size other people up based on how they look as well. Sometimes I wonder what the world would be like if there were no mirrors ... if the only knowledge we received about how we look was based solely upon the mirrors in the eyes of those who see us. That's a terrifying prospect for many people, you know ... to be forced to see their reflection only through the eyes of others. Even if we are critical of what we see in the mirror or judge ourselves harshly or feel unworthy and ashamed ... even then, we consider it easier or better or less frightening to see what we look like for ourselves than to trust the eyes or hearts or lips of another.
Last night I was invited to attend my son Brad's girlfriend's senior voice recital at the university where she attends. Though I knew Shelby is majoring in music therapy, and though she and Brad have been dating for quite a long time, I was completely blown away from the moment she opened her mouth to sing. I had never heard her sing before last night ... holy, holy cow ... that little gal has an incredibly beautiful voice. I was already nervous because I knew I would be meeting Shelby's parents for the first time last night, and as fate would have it, right around the time I needed to leave, the weather guys issued a severe thunderstorm warning. We all know that stormy weather and I make for a bad combination even when I'm hunkered in the basement in my makeshift storm fort with my dogs in their kennels and the kennels bungeed to the water pipes. Hearing the beep beep beep of the weather alert on the TV combined with knowing that it was almost time for me to get in my car and drive 45 minutes straight into the oncoming storm ... not good, not good at all. I was glued to the radar and praying with everything in me that the storm would blow through quickly when my power went out ... un-flipping believable. Not only could I not see how I looked as I tried to finish getting dressed, I couldn't see the radar to track the storm ... again I say, not good, not good at all. By the time I climbed into my car, my heart was pounding so hard, I was certain it would explode. But ... I drove through the thunder and lightning ... I drove through the pouring rain ... I drove through the fierce wind ... I drove through the storm because my love for Shelby was stronger than my fear.
Driving home in the darkness last night, I smiled as I recalled the look in Brad's eyes when Shelby walked onto the stage ... and as I thought about Brad and Shelby, I found myself thinking about what love looks like. It looks like my son last night ... buying flowers, candy and Diet Coke to give to Shelby after her performance. It looks like my daughter Meghann working side-by-side with my son-in-law in the church he pastors. It looks like my son Matt wiping my granddaughter's face after she eats. It looks like Shelby blowing Brad a kiss across a crowded room. It looks like Barrett taking care of Meghann when she's sick. It looks like Becca resting her head on Matt's shoulder as they watch a movie. It looks like my little C.J. saying, "Hi, Ghee, hi!" when we Skype. It looks like friends encouraging one another during difficult times. It looks like the elderly couple holding hands in the grocery store. It looks like the young girl rescuing a lonely dog from a shelter. It looks like the man helping a teenager change a flat tire. It looks like the neighbor shoveling snow for a single mom.
What love looks like ... love looks like all of us, friends ... love looks like every single one of us if we only take the time to see. Every now and again, it can even look a little bit like me ... driving on a highway in the storm ... it can even look a little bit like me.
Saturday, April 12, 2014
Let's Hear It for the Boys
Before I get into my subject matter for this evening's post, many of you have emailed to ask what I decided in regard to having surgery on my finger. Thank you for your concern, and a special thank you to those of you who made me laugh out loud ... some of your suggested natural remedies for removing bone spurs were pretty darned funny. I think my favorite was the one that involved rubbing a live frog on my finger while I jumped up and down and counted to 100. Ummm ... never ever gonna happen, friend ... never, never, never ever gonna happen. My children are all in agreement that I should go ahead and have the surgery, so I'm scheduled for the end of April. I probably won't be able to do much writing for a few days afterwards ... unless of course I try Brad's suggestion and tape a popsicle stick on end of the splint to enable me to type. I'm pretty sure that wouldn't work so well, but you never know until you try, right?
I made an important decision last year when the company I work for won the Sonic account and new employees began to join our ranks ... I decided to be myself. I've mentioned in previous posts that I'm responsible for helping new employees fill out their paperwork and making them feel welcome as they settle in with our company. But what I hope I really do during those orientation sessions with the new folks is to let them know they have a friend in me right from the start. To many of the younger gals and guys (and some of the older ones as well), I'm sort of the office mom ... they come to me to put band-aids on their ouchies (both physical and emotional, by the way) ... they come to me to console them in their grief ... they come to me to check their foreheads to see if they feel feverish ... they come to me to ask my advice on ... well ... just about everything you can possibly imagine. Though my co-workers think I'm helping them, they are the ones who are helping me ... they help me every time they need me, every time they hug me, every time they accept me.
I've written previously about the framed set of note cards that hangs on the wall by my desk ... handwritten note cards that were used in the Ears Wide Open? video. It's not unusual for new employees to ask me about the white signed note cards that rest starkly against a black background surrounded by a black frame ... it's an awesomely cool wall hanging that is worthy of explanation. Sometimes I shy away from a direct answer concerning the framed piece, telling the person that I'll tell them about it another day. But there are also times when I simply write the name of the video on a post-it note and say, "Watch this, and then if you don't hate me, come back and we'll chat." So far, every one of them has come back ... every single one of them has come back.
Last week, two young men who joined our company over the last couple of months watched our video at separate times in separate places. One of the young men came to me on Thursday and the other on Friday ... tears in their eyes as they wrapped their strong arms around me and told me ... well ... they told me lots of things. They blinked back tears as they asked, "How could anyone ever hate you, Terrie?" And at the end of each conversation, the boys hugged me again and told me they were really glad I'm still around. They did something else, too ... each one of the young men thanked me ... yep ... both of those boys thanked me. They said, "Thank you for being you, Terrie." Those boys had no idea how much I wanted to shout, "No, no, no!! Thank you ... thank you for being you ... thank you for being awesome you!"
Let's hear it for the boys, friends ... let's hear it for the boys.
I made an important decision last year when the company I work for won the Sonic account and new employees began to join our ranks ... I decided to be myself. I've mentioned in previous posts that I'm responsible for helping new employees fill out their paperwork and making them feel welcome as they settle in with our company. But what I hope I really do during those orientation sessions with the new folks is to let them know they have a friend in me right from the start. To many of the younger gals and guys (and some of the older ones as well), I'm sort of the office mom ... they come to me to put band-aids on their ouchies (both physical and emotional, by the way) ... they come to me to console them in their grief ... they come to me to check their foreheads to see if they feel feverish ... they come to me to ask my advice on ... well ... just about everything you can possibly imagine. Though my co-workers think I'm helping them, they are the ones who are helping me ... they help me every time they need me, every time they hug me, every time they accept me.
I've written previously about the framed set of note cards that hangs on the wall by my desk ... handwritten note cards that were used in the Ears Wide Open? video. It's not unusual for new employees to ask me about the white signed note cards that rest starkly against a black background surrounded by a black frame ... it's an awesomely cool wall hanging that is worthy of explanation. Sometimes I shy away from a direct answer concerning the framed piece, telling the person that I'll tell them about it another day. But there are also times when I simply write the name of the video on a post-it note and say, "Watch this, and then if you don't hate me, come back and we'll chat." So far, every one of them has come back ... every single one of them has come back.
Last week, two young men who joined our company over the last couple of months watched our video at separate times in separate places. One of the young men came to me on Thursday and the other on Friday ... tears in their eyes as they wrapped their strong arms around me and told me ... well ... they told me lots of things. They blinked back tears as they asked, "How could anyone ever hate you, Terrie?" And at the end of each conversation, the boys hugged me again and told me they were really glad I'm still around. They did something else, too ... each one of the young men thanked me ... yep ... both of those boys thanked me. They said, "Thank you for being you, Terrie." Those boys had no idea how much I wanted to shout, "No, no, no!! Thank you ... thank you for being you ... thank you for being awesome you!"
Let's hear it for the boys, friends ... let's hear it for the boys.
Wednesday, April 9, 2014
The Post You Probably Shouldn't Read
First, I should tell you that tonight's post is going to be a venting session for me, and there are some of you who probably should stop reading right now and come back tomorrow or the next day when I've cooled off and am back to my sweet, kind, tug-on-the-heartstrings kind of writer you like to hear from because that's not the kind of writing you'll be reading this evening. It's your choice, but consider yourself warned ... this may be a post you probably shouldn't read. I'm pretty sure a lot of gay people will agree with much of what I have to say tonight and will, in fact, applaud me for speaking from my heart. I'm also pretty sure a lot of straight people will totally disagree with much of what I have to say tonight, and will, in fact, judge me even more harshly than they already have. So be it on both counts ... I have a few things I need to say ... a few things I need to set straight ... pun totally and completely intended, by the way.
I've encountered a lot of folks since I came out of the closet who believe some things to be true about me that ... well ... that just aren't true. When I tell a woman she has on a pretty dress or that she looks good in a certain color, it's got no more to do with my sexuality than it does when I tell a man I like his shirt or that his beard makes him look dapper. Saying or thinking that a woman is kind or humble or compassionate or sweet has nothing to do my sexuality ... people don't think it's about my sexuality if I say or think those same things about a man. Being gay does not mean that I'm attracted to every woman I meet or every woman I already know, just like being straight doesn't mean that a person is attracted to every person of the opposite sex they meet or already know. I don't get why some folks think that gay people are automatically attracted to every person in the universe who is of their same sex. It doesn't work that way for straight people, and it doesn't work that way for gay people either.
And a side note to the straight women who believe that because I'm gay I must have a thing for you ... sorry, but sometimes I wonder if you gals need to focus more on your own sexuality rather than mine. Trust me ... I can hug you as my friend ... I can tell you you're beautiful as my friend ... I can even say I love you as my friend ... and only as my friend. And if you think I can't ... or if me doing or saying those things is an issue for you ... again I say, maybe you need to take a long, hard look at who you are rather than who I am.
Here's the thing ... the thing we all need to have seared into our hearts and carved into our minds ... we wound each other by judging and assuming and jumping to unfair conclusions, and it needs to stop. I know firsthand how painful and deep those wounds can be, friends ... it needs to stop... it just needs to stop.
"For this is the message you heard from the beginning: We should love one another." 1 John 3:11
Tuesday, April 8, 2014
Seeing Sparkles
So I've got another confession to make ... a confession that may alienate me from some of you forever, but sometimes a gal's just gotta do what a gal's gotta do. These days, I try really hard not to say I hate anything, and I can promise you that you'll never hear me say I hate another person. My perception and understanding of the word hate has certainly changed over the last couple of years ... I will never again frivolously speak or write the word hate ... never again. I say that so that you will truly appreciate how deep my emotion runs on the rare occasion that I actually say I hate something. Which leads me to my confession ... I hate glitter. I hate glitter so much that I would place it in the category of one of the worst items ever invented. It's not only because it's sparkly and shiny and ... well ... glittery ... though that is reason enough in my book to hate the very sight of it. The huge reason I hate glitter? Because once glitter is in my car or my house or near my clothes or on my dogs (don't ask), it never ever goes away. You think it's gone ... you think you've cleaned away all the glitter, but it's just lying in wait to make its presence known. Years after you think it's gone, it's still there ... you never know when it will rear its sparkly, shiny, glittery head. Yep, I really do hate glitter.
Last weekend I took Ollie for two walks, one on Saturday when it was sunny outside and one on Sunday when it was cloudy. As seems to be the new normal for me now, I noticed something that I've never noticed before even though I've probably walked a thousand miles on the very same stretch of sidewalk. Perhaps it was the angle of the sun on Saturday or the intensity of its rays, or perhaps I've just never paid attention before ... or perhaps ... perhaps I was meant to notice what I noticed at exactly the time I was meant to notice it. The why doesn't really matter, I suppose ... what matters is the huge lesson contained within the surface below my feet, which were clad in my awesome new walking shoes, by the way. For some reason I may never know or understand, I looked down at the concrete that comprised the sidewalk and saw for the first time ... sparkles ... tons and tons and tons of sparkles. It looked as if glitter had been mixed in with the concrete ... shiny, silver, sparkling glitter that gleamed in an almost royal manner in the early morning sunlight.
"I hate glitter," I said to Ollie as we marched on. "Why would anyone want glitter in concrete?"
As I mentioned, Sunday was one of those gray, cloudy days that makes me want to snuggle into my bed and not leave the house. OK ... OK ... me wanting to hibernate last Sunday really had nothing at all to do with the weather and everything to do with my state of mind. Ollie being Ollie, however, pawed and whined and tried to lick my face until I caved in and got dressed, and took him for a walk. We had been walking for a half-hour or so when I again looked at the sidewalk where we were walking and immediately noticed that the sparkles were gone.
"Where the heck did the glitter go, Oliver? Where the heck did it go?" I asked my canine hoofing buddy as he looked up at me as I stopped to stare at the sparkle-less concrete. "You can't just unglitter concrete, wiener dog ... where did it disappear to?"
The questions had no more than left my lips when I suddenly understood the intense meaning, the incredible truth, the overwhelming lesson I was meant to glean from the gray and lifeless cement upon which we walked. The sparkles didn't go anywhere ... the glitter that had shone so vividly the day before beneath the light of the sun was still there. Every single sparkle I had seen the day before was still within the concrete ... the sparkles were still there waiting for the sun to shine again and reveal their beauty once again ... the sparkles weren't gone at all, they were merely covered by the grayness of the day. I realized something else as I walked along the sidewalk last night ... the glitter in the concrete doesn't sparkle in the darkness of night either ... the sparkles only shine and shimmer in the light of the sun. As Ollie and I made our way home in the dark last night, I knew that I would never look at that sidewalk the same way again ... never ever.
See, here's the thing ... I'm the concrete ... I'm the flipping concrete, friends. I need to remember that I've got glitter inside of me ... I need to remember that even in the darkest of nights or on the grayest of days, the sparkles are still there. The sparkles are always there ... all they need is a little bit of sunlight to make them shine. And you know what I believe? I believe we should be the sunlight for each other ... we should help each other find our glitter ... we should applaud the sparkles we see in each other. Maybe, just maybe, we'd all sparkle a little brighter ... a little longer ... a little greater if we'd be the sunlight for each other.
Hmmm ... maybe glitter isn't such a bad thing after all. Sparkle on, friends ... sparkle on.
Last weekend I took Ollie for two walks, one on Saturday when it was sunny outside and one on Sunday when it was cloudy. As seems to be the new normal for me now, I noticed something that I've never noticed before even though I've probably walked a thousand miles on the very same stretch of sidewalk. Perhaps it was the angle of the sun on Saturday or the intensity of its rays, or perhaps I've just never paid attention before ... or perhaps ... perhaps I was meant to notice what I noticed at exactly the time I was meant to notice it. The why doesn't really matter, I suppose ... what matters is the huge lesson contained within the surface below my feet, which were clad in my awesome new walking shoes, by the way. For some reason I may never know or understand, I looked down at the concrete that comprised the sidewalk and saw for the first time ... sparkles ... tons and tons and tons of sparkles. It looked as if glitter had been mixed in with the concrete ... shiny, silver, sparkling glitter that gleamed in an almost royal manner in the early morning sunlight.
"I hate glitter," I said to Ollie as we marched on. "Why would anyone want glitter in concrete?"
As I mentioned, Sunday was one of those gray, cloudy days that makes me want to snuggle into my bed and not leave the house. OK ... OK ... me wanting to hibernate last Sunday really had nothing at all to do with the weather and everything to do with my state of mind. Ollie being Ollie, however, pawed and whined and tried to lick my face until I caved in and got dressed, and took him for a walk. We had been walking for a half-hour or so when I again looked at the sidewalk where we were walking and immediately noticed that the sparkles were gone.
"Where the heck did the glitter go, Oliver? Where the heck did it go?" I asked my canine hoofing buddy as he looked up at me as I stopped to stare at the sparkle-less concrete. "You can't just unglitter concrete, wiener dog ... where did it disappear to?"
The questions had no more than left my lips when I suddenly understood the intense meaning, the incredible truth, the overwhelming lesson I was meant to glean from the gray and lifeless cement upon which we walked. The sparkles didn't go anywhere ... the glitter that had shone so vividly the day before beneath the light of the sun was still there. Every single sparkle I had seen the day before was still within the concrete ... the sparkles were still there waiting for the sun to shine again and reveal their beauty once again ... the sparkles weren't gone at all, they were merely covered by the grayness of the day. I realized something else as I walked along the sidewalk last night ... the glitter in the concrete doesn't sparkle in the darkness of night either ... the sparkles only shine and shimmer in the light of the sun. As Ollie and I made our way home in the dark last night, I knew that I would never look at that sidewalk the same way again ... never ever.
See, here's the thing ... I'm the concrete ... I'm the flipping concrete, friends. I need to remember that I've got glitter inside of me ... I need to remember that even in the darkest of nights or on the grayest of days, the sparkles are still there. The sparkles are always there ... all they need is a little bit of sunlight to make them shine. And you know what I believe? I believe we should be the sunlight for each other ... we should help each other find our glitter ... we should applaud the sparkles we see in each other. Maybe, just maybe, we'd all sparkle a little brighter ... a little longer ... a little greater if we'd be the sunlight for each other.
Hmmm ... maybe glitter isn't such a bad thing after all. Sparkle on, friends ... sparkle on.
Monday, April 7, 2014
Would They Even Notice?
As a general rule, I think I'm pretty good about being aware of what's going on around me ... well, except for that tree I often smack into out on the walking trail, and that totally doesn't count because it's a thing and not a person. I'm talking about paying attention and being observant to what's going on around me when it comes to people, not trees that obviously jump out in front of me when I'm walking. People like the elderly lady at the grocery store who was so very frail. Or the little kid on the playground who was crying. Or the server at the restaurant who was so helpful and nice. Or the homeless man who was lying on the street corner. Or my friend who was fighting back tears. Or the jogger who was running past my office window. Or the guy who was cleaning the windows of the building next door. Or my children ... my children when they smile ... my children when they cry ... my children when they laugh ... my children when they hurt ... my children when they sing. Or my granddaughter ... my granddaughter when she dances ... my granddaughter when she disobeys ... my granddaughter when she pouts ... my granddaughter when she giggles.
Last Friday evening, I spent several hours trying to make a dent in reading through some of the mountain of emails and Facebook messages I receive each week. I still get my fair share of hate mail, so I have to spread out my reading ... sometimes I'm able to chalk up the unkind words to people having nothing better to do than send me mean messages, but there are other times when the unkind words totally bring me down. Thankfully, I also receive a ton of positive and encouraging messages, and those are the ones I try to focus on rather the negative and judgmental ones. But there's another category of emails and messages ... the ones from people who are hurting ... the ones from people who are searching ... the ones from people who are looking for answers to life's most difficult questions. Those are the words that haunt me, that make me understand, at least in part, why I'm still here. I read one of those notes late on Friday night ... one that has caused me to pray I notice ... to hope with every fiber of my being that I always notice.
"Every morning I go to the same coffee shop. I've been going there for 7 years. Every morning I wonder if they would even notice if I suddenly stopped coming in. Every day I go to the same job. I've been working there for 23 years. Every day I wonder if they would even notice if I didn't come to work. Every Sunday I go to the same church. I've been going there for 16 years. Every Sunday I wonder if they would even notice if I didn't come back. Every evening I wave to the same neighbor when I go to the mailbox. I've been waving to her for 6 years. Every evening I wonder if she would even notice if I wasn't there to wave.
I saw your video. I wonder if you ever felt the way I do. Did you ever wonder if anyone would even notice if you died? Did you ever wonder if it would even make a difference to anyone if you were gone? Did you ever wonder those things? Did you ever wonder if they would even notice you weren't there?"
There was no name on the note and when I attempted to respond to the email, I received a "message undeliverable" reply. I've obviously struggled with whether or not to write about the anonymous author, since I read the note on Friday and today is Monday. But I can't get the words the person wrote out of my head, nor can I remove the sense of pain deep within my soul for not only the writer but for all the hundreds of thousands of others who are asking the same question. I can't not answer the questions the person asked of me ... I must answer the questions ... I must. Yes, I felt the same way ... I wondered if anyone would notice if I died. The truth is there are times even now when that question tries desperately to worm its way into my mind and taunt me. There was a time when not only did I wonder if anyone would notice if I were gone, I thought they would be better off without me. Yep ... I actually believed I would be doing them a favor by ridding them of my misery.
Someone reminded me a few days ago of what a dark time that was for me ... it was darker than dark ... way, way darker than dark ... I thought I would never see the light again. But my friend also reminded me of something else ... something that caused me to weep the first time she told me. People noticed my darkness. People noticed my sadness. People noticed my pain. People noticed because they cared. While I thought I was doing such a good job of hiding the torment within my soul ... people noticed. Do I still wonder if I matter? Sometimes. Do I still wonder if I make a difference? Sometimes. Do I still wonder if they would notice if I wasn't around anymore? Sometimes. Do I ask those questions every moment of every day like I did when I was drowning in the darkness? No. No. No, I don't. That's the thing, you know ... I'm so much better than I was before ... that's what I hold on to ... that's what I keep tucked deep within my heart and soul ... I'm so much better than I was before.
When my children were young, I would say, "Stop, look and listen ... be careful little feet. Stop, look and listen before you cross the street." Reminding my kiddos to stop, look and listen was my way of trying to protect them and keep them safe ... my way of letting them know I was paying attention and noticing if they were in danger ... my way of telling them how very important they were to me. I realize now that it's not just children who need those reminders ... we all do ... every single one of us, friends. No one should ever have to wonder ... "Would they even notice?"
Stop, look and listen, and tell them that you care. Stop, look and listen, and notice they are there.
Last Friday evening, I spent several hours trying to make a dent in reading through some of the mountain of emails and Facebook messages I receive each week. I still get my fair share of hate mail, so I have to spread out my reading ... sometimes I'm able to chalk up the unkind words to people having nothing better to do than send me mean messages, but there are other times when the unkind words totally bring me down. Thankfully, I also receive a ton of positive and encouraging messages, and those are the ones I try to focus on rather the negative and judgmental ones. But there's another category of emails and messages ... the ones from people who are hurting ... the ones from people who are searching ... the ones from people who are looking for answers to life's most difficult questions. Those are the words that haunt me, that make me understand, at least in part, why I'm still here. I read one of those notes late on Friday night ... one that has caused me to pray I notice ... to hope with every fiber of my being that I always notice.
"Every morning I go to the same coffee shop. I've been going there for 7 years. Every morning I wonder if they would even notice if I suddenly stopped coming in. Every day I go to the same job. I've been working there for 23 years. Every day I wonder if they would even notice if I didn't come to work. Every Sunday I go to the same church. I've been going there for 16 years. Every Sunday I wonder if they would even notice if I didn't come back. Every evening I wave to the same neighbor when I go to the mailbox. I've been waving to her for 6 years. Every evening I wonder if she would even notice if I wasn't there to wave.
I saw your video. I wonder if you ever felt the way I do. Did you ever wonder if anyone would even notice if you died? Did you ever wonder if it would even make a difference to anyone if you were gone? Did you ever wonder those things? Did you ever wonder if they would even notice you weren't there?"
There was no name on the note and when I attempted to respond to the email, I received a "message undeliverable" reply. I've obviously struggled with whether or not to write about the anonymous author, since I read the note on Friday and today is Monday. But I can't get the words the person wrote out of my head, nor can I remove the sense of pain deep within my soul for not only the writer but for all the hundreds of thousands of others who are asking the same question. I can't not answer the questions the person asked of me ... I must answer the questions ... I must. Yes, I felt the same way ... I wondered if anyone would notice if I died. The truth is there are times even now when that question tries desperately to worm its way into my mind and taunt me. There was a time when not only did I wonder if anyone would notice if I were gone, I thought they would be better off without me. Yep ... I actually believed I would be doing them a favor by ridding them of my misery.
Someone reminded me a few days ago of what a dark time that was for me ... it was darker than dark ... way, way darker than dark ... I thought I would never see the light again. But my friend also reminded me of something else ... something that caused me to weep the first time she told me. People noticed my darkness. People noticed my sadness. People noticed my pain. People noticed because they cared. While I thought I was doing such a good job of hiding the torment within my soul ... people noticed. Do I still wonder if I matter? Sometimes. Do I still wonder if I make a difference? Sometimes. Do I still wonder if they would notice if I wasn't around anymore? Sometimes. Do I ask those questions every moment of every day like I did when I was drowning in the darkness? No. No. No, I don't. That's the thing, you know ... I'm so much better than I was before ... that's what I hold on to ... that's what I keep tucked deep within my heart and soul ... I'm so much better than I was before.
When my children were young, I would say, "Stop, look and listen ... be careful little feet. Stop, look and listen before you cross the street." Reminding my kiddos to stop, look and listen was my way of trying to protect them and keep them safe ... my way of letting them know I was paying attention and noticing if they were in danger ... my way of telling them how very important they were to me. I realize now that it's not just children who need those reminders ... we all do ... every single one of us, friends. No one should ever have to wonder ... "Would they even notice?"
Stop, look and listen, and tell them that you care. Stop, look and listen, and notice they are there.
Saturday, April 5, 2014
And ... Action!
My acting debut took place during a Christmas program at Alpine Baptist Church when I was seven years old. I remember it well ... my Sunday School teacher slapped some wings on me and put gold garland in my hair, and I read the story about the birth of Jesus from the second chapter of Luke in the Bible. While I would like to somehow convince you that I was hand-selected for the role of an angel because that's how I behaved or because my face resembled that of a cherub, the truth is I was chosen to read the Scripture because I was the best reader out of all the kids. And let me tell you ... my performance that cold night in Tennessee was most definitely Oscar worthy, delivered with all the passion and drama a 7-year-old little girl could muster.
Today was one of those picture-perfect spring days in Kansas with temps in the upper 60s and a clear blue sky. Though Ollie and Julie usually wake me early on the weekends, this morning we all snoozed until around 8:30. After breakfast, I donned jeans, sweatshirt, ball cap and my new walking shoes and headed out for a much-needed long walk with Ollie. I've had a lot on my mind for the last couple of days, and there's really nothing like a long walk when I need to do some serious thinking. We got back home in time for me to play outside with Julie for a while and do some laundry before my appointment with my life-saving head doctor. Following my time with the good doc, I went for a drive ... a quiet, contemplative, half-hour drive to meet my son Brad and his friend Jason for a film shoot.
I love watching my son when he's behind the camera filming. He gets this look on his face ... a look that is part intensity, part concentration, part perfectionism and part pure love. Brad really and truly loves the artistry and beauty that is filmmaking, and I really and truly love watching him do what he loves to do. Today's project is one that Brad, Jason and I have been working together on for several months ... and nope, I can't tell you what it's about until Brad gives me the go-ahead to do so. I can, however, tell you this ... I love the way Brad's eyes light up when he talks about it, and I love that we are working on it together. I can also tell you one more thing ... it's going to be awesome, totally and completely awesome, when it's finished.
Though my role in the film has been mainly behind the scenes for the last months, Brad asked me to step in front of the camera today ... actually, he told me I had to step in front of the camera today, but that's a whole different story for another day. I was super nervous as Brad and Jason finished setting up the shot and adjusting my microphone. After talking through what Brad had in mind for me to say, we started filming ... and filming ... and filming. All the filming wasn't because we were filming a ton of different scenes, mind you, but rather it was that I kept messing up. I stuttered ... I forgot the words ... I chewed my gum ... I coughed ... I looked the wrong way ... my eyes were too squinty in the sun ... my suspenders were crooked. I have no idea how many takes we shot before Brad said, "That's the one, Mom ... and that's a wrap." I have no idea what wrap he was actually talking about, but I do know that after he said it, we were done with the shoot.
Filming was fun, and it was great to catch up with what's going on in Jason's life ... but sitting across the table from Brad as we ate dinner together was the best part of my day. I sat across the table from my son ... I listened to him and I looked at him and I loved him. The best part of my day, friends ... the best part of my day.
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Today was one of those picture-perfect spring days in Kansas with temps in the upper 60s and a clear blue sky. Though Ollie and Julie usually wake me early on the weekends, this morning we all snoozed until around 8:30. After breakfast, I donned jeans, sweatshirt, ball cap and my new walking shoes and headed out for a much-needed long walk with Ollie. I've had a lot on my mind for the last couple of days, and there's really nothing like a long walk when I need to do some serious thinking. We got back home in time for me to play outside with Julie for a while and do some laundry before my appointment with my life-saving head doctor. Following my time with the good doc, I went for a drive ... a quiet, contemplative, half-hour drive to meet my son Brad and his friend Jason for a film shoot.
I love watching my son when he's behind the camera filming. He gets this look on his face ... a look that is part intensity, part concentration, part perfectionism and part pure love. Brad really and truly loves the artistry and beauty that is filmmaking, and I really and truly love watching him do what he loves to do. Today's project is one that Brad, Jason and I have been working together on for several months ... and nope, I can't tell you what it's about until Brad gives me the go-ahead to do so. I can, however, tell you this ... I love the way Brad's eyes light up when he talks about it, and I love that we are working on it together. I can also tell you one more thing ... it's going to be awesome, totally and completely awesome, when it's finished.
Though my role in the film has been mainly behind the scenes for the last months, Brad asked me to step in front of the camera today ... actually, he told me I had to step in front of the camera today, but that's a whole different story for another day. I was super nervous as Brad and Jason finished setting up the shot and adjusting my microphone. After talking through what Brad had in mind for me to say, we started filming ... and filming ... and filming. All the filming wasn't because we were filming a ton of different scenes, mind you, but rather it was that I kept messing up. I stuttered ... I forgot the words ... I chewed my gum ... I coughed ... I looked the wrong way ... my eyes were too squinty in the sun ... my suspenders were crooked. I have no idea how many takes we shot before Brad said, "That's the one, Mom ... and that's a wrap." I have no idea what wrap he was actually talking about, but I do know that after he said it, we were done with the shoot.
Filming was fun, and it was great to catch up with what's going on in Jason's life ... but sitting across the table from Brad as we ate dinner together was the best part of my day. I sat across the table from my son ... I listened to him and I looked at him and I loved him. The best part of my day, friends ... the best part of my day.
Thursday, April 3, 2014
"Damn those bumps."
Right off the bat tonight, let me say to those of you who are clucking your tongues and shaking your heads at me because there's a four-letter word in the title of my post this evening ... if that's all it takes for you to get your panties in a knot and be mad at me, then you probably shouldn't be reading my blog anyway. I don't mean to sound harsh ... and I sure hope you'll keep reading along with me ... but really ... sometimes I wonder why the people who get so worked up about some of my subject matter keep reading. Maybe there's some blog enforcer guy or gal I don't know about who's forcing those folks to read my posts. Or maybe some people simply like to look for something to complain about. I tend to think it's the latter of those two, and honestly, that makes me sad. So before you go all Dirty Harry on me and reach for your guns, allow me to suggest that you read the rest of tonight's post first and then if you still feel the need to shoot ... well ... in the words of the great Harry himself ... "Go ahead, make my day."
Some of you may recall a post I penned back in January titled "The Bump" in which I talked about a bump that had appeared on my left index finger that was painful enough to cause me to ask my doctor about it. If you didn't catch that post and you'd like to get the details of the bump and my subsequent visit to the doctor, you can read it by clicking here. Turns out my achy finger bump is a bone spur accompanied by a ganglion cyst ... what a disgusting word, by the way, "ganglion" ... that's one of those words that makes me want to throw up even just typing it. I spent an hour and a half on Tuesday morning listening to a hand surgeon explain to me that neither the spur nor the cyst would go away on their own. No matter how many times I asked him if there was any way they might just disappear, he kept saying, "No," accompanied by the following words ... "They will just grow bigger and become more painful over time." Certainly not the answer I kept hoping for, I can assure you.
As the doctor explained what he would do to remove the conjoined pair of despicable finger invaders, my stomach got queasy and I broke out in a cold sweat. I'll spare you the details of the "procedure," but I'll be given a local anesthetic and be awake while a man I've only met once carves away at my appendage. I'll have five to seven stitches and have to wear a finger splint for three weeks ... should I actually choose to have the surgery. Yep, I have a choice as to whether or not I have the surgery ... I can have it now, or I can have it later. Quite frankly, I don't like either choice not even one little bit ... nope, nope, nope I surely don't. As I drove to work following my appointment, I found myself wondering how I would button my shirt or pants, how I would take a shower and gel my hair, how I would put my earrings in, or how I would type. By the time I got to work, I had convinced myself that I will be rendered completely helpless if I have to wear a finger splint for three weeks ... completely and totally helpless.
I've written countless times about the fact that I often have to be presented with a lesson over and over again before I finally get just what it is I'm supposed to learn. Today I was emailing with a friend and in the course of our conversation, I mentioned how thankful I am for her friendship and for her being willing to walk the journey with me. It's probably not a coincidence that I bumped my finger just as I opened her email and began to read ... I'm not sure whether the tears that filled my eyes were from the pain in my finger or the touching truth within her words.
"It is a journey. And for those who think the bumps in the road are too much, they haven’t figured out that that IS the journey. The bumps make it more fun (and hard, and challenging, and exciting, and rewarding). Damn those bumps."
A little over an hour later I was in a meeting and a guy said, "There will be bumps in the road ... you can be sure of that." I know ... I've got goosebumps, too ... jeez ... gooseBUMPS ... I get it ... I get it already ... I get it. I've been mulling over the words in my friend's email ever since I read them this afternoon, and I've realized tonight that I've been looking at the bumps in the road (or on my finger, as the case may be) the wrong way. I understand how right my friend is ... it's the bumps in the road that make life life. It's the bumps in the road that challenge me ... it's getting over or around those bumps that gives me courage, builds my strength and provides me with the deepest fulfillment. It's the bumps in the road that make me a better person ... it's the bumps in the road that make me.
Damn those bumps, friends ... damn those bumps indeed.
Some of you may recall a post I penned back in January titled "The Bump" in which I talked about a bump that had appeared on my left index finger that was painful enough to cause me to ask my doctor about it. If you didn't catch that post and you'd like to get the details of the bump and my subsequent visit to the doctor, you can read it by clicking here. Turns out my achy finger bump is a bone spur accompanied by a ganglion cyst ... what a disgusting word, by the way, "ganglion" ... that's one of those words that makes me want to throw up even just typing it. I spent an hour and a half on Tuesday morning listening to a hand surgeon explain to me that neither the spur nor the cyst would go away on their own. No matter how many times I asked him if there was any way they might just disappear, he kept saying, "No," accompanied by the following words ... "They will just grow bigger and become more painful over time." Certainly not the answer I kept hoping for, I can assure you.
As the doctor explained what he would do to remove the conjoined pair of despicable finger invaders, my stomach got queasy and I broke out in a cold sweat. I'll spare you the details of the "procedure," but I'll be given a local anesthetic and be awake while a man I've only met once carves away at my appendage. I'll have five to seven stitches and have to wear a finger splint for three weeks ... should I actually choose to have the surgery. Yep, I have a choice as to whether or not I have the surgery ... I can have it now, or I can have it later. Quite frankly, I don't like either choice not even one little bit ... nope, nope, nope I surely don't. As I drove to work following my appointment, I found myself wondering how I would button my shirt or pants, how I would take a shower and gel my hair, how I would put my earrings in, or how I would type. By the time I got to work, I had convinced myself that I will be rendered completely helpless if I have to wear a finger splint for three weeks ... completely and totally helpless.
I've written countless times about the fact that I often have to be presented with a lesson over and over again before I finally get just what it is I'm supposed to learn. Today I was emailing with a friend and in the course of our conversation, I mentioned how thankful I am for her friendship and for her being willing to walk the journey with me. It's probably not a coincidence that I bumped my finger just as I opened her email and began to read ... I'm not sure whether the tears that filled my eyes were from the pain in my finger or the touching truth within her words.
"It is a journey. And for those who think the bumps in the road are too much, they haven’t figured out that that IS the journey. The bumps make it more fun (and hard, and challenging, and exciting, and rewarding). Damn those bumps."
A little over an hour later I was in a meeting and a guy said, "There will be bumps in the road ... you can be sure of that." I know ... I've got goosebumps, too ... jeez ... gooseBUMPS ... I get it ... I get it already ... I get it. I've been mulling over the words in my friend's email ever since I read them this afternoon, and I've realized tonight that I've been looking at the bumps in the road (or on my finger, as the case may be) the wrong way. I understand how right my friend is ... it's the bumps in the road that make life life. It's the bumps in the road that challenge me ... it's getting over or around those bumps that gives me courage, builds my strength and provides me with the deepest fulfillment. It's the bumps in the road that make me a better person ... it's the bumps in the road that make me.
Damn those bumps, friends ... damn those bumps indeed.
Tuesday, April 1, 2014
One Fidget Two Fidget Red Fidget Blue Fidget
I'd be willing to bet that most of you who are parents have said the following words to your child or children multiple times, especially when they were little guys and gals ... "Stop fidgeting!" And I'd also be willing to bet that many of those admonitions occurred while you were attending church with said child or children or out to dinner with your boss and his or her family or at a fancy theater production. Kids just seem to have a hard time being still period, but their moving around certainly seems to rise to a totally different level when it's important that they not fidget. The truth is it's not only children who fidget when they are in situations they find uncomfortable, there are plenty of adults who do the very same thing.
One of my friends often says she hopes she never has to spend time with a head doctor because she's afraid of what the doc might discover once he or she started poking around in her brain. I always smile when she tells me that ... yep, yep, yep, I do indeed. If you would have told me a couple of years ago I was going to spend a significant amount of time under the care of a head doctor, I would have told you that you were the one who was in need of some serious therapy and counseling. To say that I've learned a few things along the way during my sessions with the good doctor would be the greatest understatement in the history of the world. From the moment I set foot in her office, I started learning and to tell you even a pinch of what that learning involves would take a very long time. Sometimes learning means acknowledging things I already know but am too afraid or too stubborn or too proud to admit ... okay, fine ... lots of times that's what learning means for me. But then there are times when my life-saving head doctor brings something to my attention that I really didn't know or recognize or understand ... like, oh, say, fidgeting.
I'm not a foot patter or a pencil tapper, but I am a fidgeter ... not all the time, mind you, but I am most definitely a fidgeter when I'm nervous or anxious. And the thing is, lots of times when I'm fidgeting, I'm actively trying not to fidget. Or I think I'm not fidgeting when in reality, I'm fidgeting all over the place. Like today, for example ... I was talking with a friend, and I was holding a tie in my hands. I strolled away from the conversation and thought smugly, "How about that? I didn't fidget one single time!" And then I walked into the restroom and looked in the mirror to tie my tie and realized I had been a fidgeting fool the entire time I was talking to my friend ... moving from side to side, shuffling my tie from hand to hand, looking away ... I was a fidgeting fool for sure ... sheesh.
There's probably some reason as to why I fidget in certain situations ... of course there is a reason ... there's always a reason. And here's the thing ... the really annoying and frustrating thing ... I know the flipping, stinking reason I fidget, and I can't seem to get past it. No, wait, let me rephrase that ... I haven't been able to get past it ... yet. The key word is yet ... I'm working on getting past it ... I'm working really, really, really hard on getting past it. If the only thing I ever learn from my head doctor is that "yet" is one of the most important and beautiful words in the English language ... well ... suffice it to say I believe with all my heart I've learned something of true worth and great value. It's about trying again and again and again ... it's about not giving up ... it's about believing in the process and God's ultimate plan ... it's about trusting in the journey and the amazing, loyal, steadfast people who are committed to walking the road with me.
One fidget two fidget red fidget blue fidget ... I will do it, yes I will ... I will do it standing still.
One of my friends often says she hopes she never has to spend time with a head doctor because she's afraid of what the doc might discover once he or she started poking around in her brain. I always smile when she tells me that ... yep, yep, yep, I do indeed. If you would have told me a couple of years ago I was going to spend a significant amount of time under the care of a head doctor, I would have told you that you were the one who was in need of some serious therapy and counseling. To say that I've learned a few things along the way during my sessions with the good doctor would be the greatest understatement in the history of the world. From the moment I set foot in her office, I started learning and to tell you even a pinch of what that learning involves would take a very long time. Sometimes learning means acknowledging things I already know but am too afraid or too stubborn or too proud to admit ... okay, fine ... lots of times that's what learning means for me. But then there are times when my life-saving head doctor brings something to my attention that I really didn't know or recognize or understand ... like, oh, say, fidgeting.
I'm not a foot patter or a pencil tapper, but I am a fidgeter ... not all the time, mind you, but I am most definitely a fidgeter when I'm nervous or anxious. And the thing is, lots of times when I'm fidgeting, I'm actively trying not to fidget. Or I think I'm not fidgeting when in reality, I'm fidgeting all over the place. Like today, for example ... I was talking with a friend, and I was holding a tie in my hands. I strolled away from the conversation and thought smugly, "How about that? I didn't fidget one single time!" And then I walked into the restroom and looked in the mirror to tie my tie and realized I had been a fidgeting fool the entire time I was talking to my friend ... moving from side to side, shuffling my tie from hand to hand, looking away ... I was a fidgeting fool for sure ... sheesh.
There's probably some reason as to why I fidget in certain situations ... of course there is a reason ... there's always a reason. And here's the thing ... the really annoying and frustrating thing ... I know the flipping, stinking reason I fidget, and I can't seem to get past it. No, wait, let me rephrase that ... I haven't been able to get past it ... yet. The key word is yet ... I'm working on getting past it ... I'm working really, really, really hard on getting past it. If the only thing I ever learn from my head doctor is that "yet" is one of the most important and beautiful words in the English language ... well ... suffice it to say I believe with all my heart I've learned something of true worth and great value. It's about trying again and again and again ... it's about not giving up ... it's about believing in the process and God's ultimate plan ... it's about trusting in the journey and the amazing, loyal, steadfast people who are committed to walking the road with me.
One fidget two fidget red fidget blue fidget ... I will do it, yes I will ... I will do it standing still.
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