Not the Best You

It's never good to start a Wednesday thinking it's Saturday ... especially if thinking Wednesday is Saturday involves turning off my alarm and waking up 30 minutes before I needed to be in my car driving to work. I'm not talking hitting the snooze button a few times so I could sleep an extra 10-15 minutes ... nope ... I'm talking completely turning off the alarm because I thought today was Saturday and sleeping an extra hour. Honestly, I'm surprised I woke up when I did considering how much I tossed and turned during the night ... stuffy nose, bad dreams, snoring dogs, trains whistling, owls hooting ... suffice it to say it was one of those nights when I was awake more than I was asleep. So I say again ... I'm surprised I woke up when I did. Thank God for dogs who needed to pee, I suppose, or I probably would have slept until noon. Surprisingly, I wasn't a complete grump today ... at least I don't think I was anyway. Normally, a sleepless night plus a stress-filled morning turn me into a snippy, jerky ... well ... suffice it to say that's the perfect combo for making me not be the best me.

Today, one of my friends at work told me I had something in my teeth, and another friend fixed the twisted collar on my shirt. Neither of them told me I had a booger in my nose, so I'm assuming I was booger-free for the duration of the workday (which is always a good thing, by the way). Come on ... you know you've been there, too ... you've had one of those days when you had crap in your teeth or your fly was unzipped or you smelled bad or your clothes didn't match or you had a giant booger dangling from your nose or all kinds of other moments when you weren't on your game or looking your best. While it's embarrassing to be told that your toupee is crooked or you have dirt on the seat of your pants, thank God for friends who tell us those things, eh? Everyone should have at least one friend who won't hesitate to step up and tell you stuff like that ... everyone should have at least one friend who will look you in the eye and tell you when something's not right.

As you well know if you've been reading along with me for a while, sometimes I get in a funk ... and when I do, I'm not a very fun person to be around. I've learned that those funks are sometimes the result of circumstances or events, but sometimes they are painful reminders that depression is a nasty beast that can choose to rear its massively ugly head when I least expect it. And truth be told, when I'm in that place, it doesn't really matter what sent me there ... it just matters that I'm there. Most people know when I'm in funk land ... I stop talking ... I stop smiling ... I stop interacting pretty much altogether. My instinct is to crawl way down inside my cave and hunker down and hope it passes quickly. Want to know a secret? There are times when living in the cave feels so much safer than living outside in the jungle. Go ahead ... chew on that one for a bit ... it's deep.

Last week, a friend stepped up and told me some hard things about my cave ... she told me my cave didn't look good on me. Actually, she told me to stop feeling sorry for myself ... she told me that my moping around and not talking to anyone wasn't my best me. Yep, my friend looked me right in the eye and said, "This isn't your best you, Terrie ... this isn't who everyone counts on you to be. Not your best you, friend ... not your best you at all." I wish I could say that I walked away from that conversation happy that my friend said what she did, but that wouldn't be the truth. The truth is that her words stung and I was flat out ticked off at her for ... I was ticked off because she ... because she was dead-on right and I needed to hear every single word she said. I didn't sleep well that night either ... I didn't sleep well that night because I knew in the depths of my heart that my friend was totally and completely right.

Something tells me maybe tonight I'll sleep better ... and maybe tomorrow when I wake up, it will be Thursday and I'll be the best Terrie I can be all day long. 

  

So About That Hug

This summer in Kansas City has been unusually cool ... with the exception of some hot and humid days here and there, it's felt more like fall than summer. I've never been a big fan of hot weather, and I'm thoroughly enjoying the pleasant temps ... especially in the evenings when Oliver the wiener dog and I head out for our nightly walks. There's not much that would get me to turn around in the middle of one of those completely perfect evening walks and go back home, but when my son Matt called last night and said my granddaughter wanted me to read her bedtime story to her, I immediately said, "I'll be on Skype in 10 minutes." I'm pretty sure Ollie thought I was losing my mind as I tugged on his leash and informed him that we were done walking ... oh, come on ... everyone knows that granddaughter trumps wiener dog every single time. I love you to pieces, Ollie dog, but Coraline will always win ... sorry, little dude.

It's crazy how just the sight of her eyes lighting up when I appear on the screen can erase my troubles ... how the sound of her laughter can lift even the heaviest burden I'm carrying ... how hearing her say, "What you do today, Ghee?" can soothe my tired and weary mind. I'm pretty sure my heart will explode from all the love and cuteness when Amelie is old enough to join in ... Ghee times two will be doubly awesome. I love every minute I get to Skype with my little C.J., but I especially love it when she hugs and kisses the laptop. She makes these adorable hugs and kisses sounds ... sweetest ... thing ... ever ... well, sweetest thing ever next to being able to get those hugs and kisses in person. There is just something so endearing, so touching, so incredibly sweet about her hugging the laptop ... it melts my heart every single time she does it.

Last week, I had a conversation with someone in my office that I haven't been able to get off my mind ... a conversation I hope I never get off my mind. A gal with whom I haven't had a lot of interaction asked me if I remembered a day last year when I went around to every person's desk and gave them a hug. My reply was swift and intelligent ... "Ummm ... maybe ... I dunno ... why?" And then she said something that I'm pretty sure will forever change the way I see the people around me ... at least I hope it does anyway. 

"I was having a really bad day that day on many levels, one of the worst days of my life. I've wanted to tell you how much your hug meant to me ... it really did mean the world to me that day. I needed that hug more than you will ever know."

So my here's the thing for tonight ... hug someone tomorrow. Or maybe hug everyone tomorrow. Or maybe hug someone every day for the rest of your life. You never know what pain someone else is living with ... you never know whose heart is breaking ... you never know how powerful and affirming a hug can be unless you hug someone. Or lots of someones. Or lots and lots and lots and lots and lots of someones. You never know whose heart you may help to mend ... you never know ... you just never know.

So about that hug ...

Scarred for Life

When my son Brad was in his early teens, he had a barefoot encounter with a stack of landscaping rocks that Matt had placed in our garage until he had time to put them around a flower bed he had designed for our backyard. I won't share all the details of that evening other than to say that Brad sliced his foot on the rocks, almost fainted in the ER, got several stitches and was on crutches for a while. Brad's a lot like me when it comes to storytelling, so it didn't take long at all for him to dub the story of that night's calamity "The Legend of Scarfoot." I can't begin to remember how many times I told the story of old Scarfoot when I used to speak at women's events, but it was definitely one of the gals' favorites for sure. The weird thing is that every other foot injury Brad's had since the landscaping rock run-in has been on ... yep, you guessed it ... Scarfoot. In fact, when I saw Brad last weekend, he was wearing flip-flops and sporting a nasty-looking injured toenail on poor Scarfoot ... something about a basketball game and a metal post. I guess it's true that boys will always be boys, eh?

I've gotten a lot of messages over the last couple of weeks asking if my finger is all healed up from the surgery I had at the end of April ... thank you for your concern and good wishes. Most of the tingling and numbness on the underside of my finger has subsided, and I've got relatively good mobility. I say relatively because I still can't curl my finger in toward my palm all the way, and the surgeon says I may never get my full range of motion back. But ... I'll take the somewhat limited range of motion over what he told me would have happened if I didn't have the surgery all day long. The only pain I have now is on the scar, and it's still so tender that it brings tears to my eyes if I bump it on something. All in all, though, I'd say I've healed up pretty well, and I think having the surgery was the right thing to do.

In thinking I should answer your notes asking about my finger, it's made me think a great deal about scars ... truth is there isn't a day that goes by that the scar on my finger doesn't hurt. It's almost impossible not to have my index finger at least graze across something at some point during the course of my daily activities. And every single time it does, it flipping, stinking hurts and the pain makes me wince and tear up. Even though I know I will always have the scar, I hope that over time as my skin toughens up, the pain will subside. Over time ... over time ... over time ... my finger isn't the only part of me that's scarred ... it's not the only part of me that carries a forever reminder of the wound that caused a scar to form. I can only hope that over time those other scars will toughen up, too ... hope ... I can only hope.

Here's the thing ... I know from the messages you send me that some of you have some scars of your own ... painful scars that remind you every single day of the hurt that caused them to form. Scars caused by wounds so deep, you wonder if the pain will ever go away. My hope for you is that it will ... that all your scars will toughen up and the pain will subside ... that your hearts will heal.

“The best people all have some kind of scar.” --- Kiera Cass

From Out of Nowhere

I've seen a ton of critters over the four plus years I've been walking on my beloved trail, first with J.R. and now with Oliver ... two little wiener dogs who've trotted faithfully by my side through thick and thin ... seriously ... through thick and thin. But back to the critters ... fox, geese, muskrats, deer, hawks, fish, bobcats, frogs, snakes, beaver ... I've see a ton of critters out on the trail. But I've never seen anything like what I saw tonight ... never in my whole entire life have I seen what I saw tonight.

I was deep in thought as I walked this evening, head down, eyes glued to the pavement beneath my feet ... and when I say deep in thought, I do indeed mean deep, deep, deep in thought. Which is why when Ollie stopped in his tracks right in front of me, I stumbled and came dangerously close to doing a face-plant onto the asphalt. When I was finally able to regain my balance, I noticed that Ollie still had not moved and the fur on his back was standing straight up. I looked up to see what had caught his attention, thinking it was probably a big dog ... Ollie has little dog syndrome oozing out of his tiny wiener dog body, and he thinks he can take on any big dog he sees. It wasn't a dog ... it was an owl ... a big owl ... a huge owl sitting right in the middle of the trail with a squirming mouse in its beak. 

I quietly leaned over and lifted my by then growling Oliver into my arms ... heck yes, I was scared ... the biggest owl in the history of the universe was perched on the trail in front of me with a live mouse hanging out of its mouth ... of course I was flipping, sticking, shaking all over scared. I didn't know what to do ... I've never had an owl with its dinner in its mouth block my way  on the path before ... so I just stood there with my hand clamped over Ollie's snout as I whispered, "No barking, Ollie, no barking ... please no barking." Thank goodness, he actually listened to me and didn't bark ... but he did whine, and he whined so loudly that the owl stood up, got a running start, extended its enormous wings and lifted into the air with ease and grace.

It would be nice if that were the end of the story ... but it's not. Remember the mouse the owl had in its mouth? Well ... part of Mr. Mouse came out of Mr. Eagle's mouth as he took off and it hit with a splat on the trail in front of me and Ollie ... and it was disgustingly gross. I was gagging as Ollie tried his best to get out of my arms ... there was no way on earth I was letting him escape until we were well beyond what was left of poor Mr. Mouse. 

I'm sure there's some reason and some inspirational lesson as to why Ollie and I met up with Mr. Owl and Mr. Mouse tonight ... maybe it's to remind me that we all run into the biggest owl in the history of the universe at some point on the journey of life, and that it's up to us to figure out how to get around it. Maybe it's to remind me that there are times when I need to be still and just wait it out. Maybe it's to remind me that it's a heck of a lot better to be the owl than the mouse. Maybe I'm dead bone tired tonight and it means nothing ... but then again ... maybe it means a whole, whole, whole lot more than I know. Maybe it does indeed.

I Get It

One of the best ideas I ever had was getting two copies of each book I buy for my granddaughter ... one I send to her, and one I keep for myself so that we can read together when we Skype. I've purchased several books for the two of us, but hands-down my favorites are the Kohl's Cares books. All the proceeds from the books go to kids' charities, and they are nice hardback books that only cost $5 each. There are also stuffed characters available for purchase that go along with the books, and though my son insists that C.J. has too many "stuffies" ... well ... suffice it to say that I, on the other hand, believe a little girl can never have too many stuffies. Last Saturday, I went to Kohl's to buy a couple of books for C.J. to add to her special "after her baby sister arrives" gift I've been working on for the last couple of weeks.

The store was busy, as it is most Saturdays, and the line to check out was pretty long. I was in no hurry, so it didn't bother me to wait ... truth be told, sometimes I'm grateful for long waits at a store on the weekends because it's at least a little less time I spend sitting home alone. There were 15 or so people in line ahead of me, including the three women directly in front of me who looked to be about my age. They were laughing and talking about the great bargains they had found, where they were going for lunch and what movie they would see afterwards ... it was obvious that they were friends out for a day of fun together. I wasn't eavesdropping, by the way ... they were loud and boisterous, and everyone waiting in line could hear their conversation. It was easy to pick up on the respect they had for one another, and I stood behind them quite impressed at how kind they were to each other, thinking they must be really awesome gals ... until the woman in front of me dropped one of the items she was holding. She didn't realize the garment had slipped from her hand, so I stooped over and picked it up, tapped her on the shoulder and said, "Excuse me ... you dropped this." She turned and took the item from my outstretched hand and immediately turned back to her friends ... she didn't say thank you ... she didn't say oops ... she didn't say one word ... she just took the shirt and resumed talking to her friends.

I think one of the toughest things in life is feeling invisible or unworthy, and I spent the next 10 minutes while I waited in line last Saturday feeling just that way. It's crazy, I know ... those women were total strangers, and yet in one split second, they managed to cause those feelings to sweep over me like warm, gooey syrup on hot, fluffy pancakes. I'm sure it didn't help that the week before I had seen some people who used to be a huge part of my life ... people who wouldn't even look at me or say hello. I'm also sure it didn't help that someone told me about some not so nice comments some people made about me ... people whom I thought actually liked me. I'm equally as sure it didn't help that I was called out last week concerning my level of respect for someone I never intended to be disrespectful toward in any way. And I'm sure as well that ... oh, never mind ... I get it and I'm sure you do as well.

I get it. I get it that someone can be talking to me and someone better walks up and it's like I'm not even there anymore ... I get it. I get it that a group of women who are talking about sewing or makeup or pedicures or fancy clothes don't include me in the conversation ... I get it. I get it that people talk about the way I walk or dress or wear my hair ... I get it. I get it that I miss people who don't miss me ... I get it. I get it that I'm not the kind of friend people want to invite over for dinner on a Saturday night ... I get it. I get it that people talk about me and say mean things about me behind my back ... I get it. I get it that I don't fit in at a girls night out gathering ... I get it. I get it that a lot of folks are really good at pretending to love me when they actually don't ... I get it. But just because I get it ... just because I've come to accept the reality of what is ... just because I get it doesn't make it hurt any less, and it doesn't make me feel any less invisible or unworthy.

I'm closing tonight's post with a photo someone sent to me today ... a really powerful photo. Remember, friends ... words can heal or words can hurt ... the choice is up to you. And remember this, too ... sometimes saying nothing can do the very same thing.

I get it ... do you?

The Story of the Three Trees

Once upon a time there were three trees. One tree was short ... one tree was tall ... one tree was medium size. One tree had large dark green leaves ... one tree had small reddish leaves ... one tree had slender pointy brown leaves. One tree grew deep within the forest ... one tree grew next to a lake ... one tree grew in a yard behind a house. Though each of the trees began as small saplings, they grew in different places under different circumstances. Each tree received differing amounts of water and sunlight. Each tree endured differing degrees of heat and cold. Each tree was different from the other, but each tree was still a tree.

The trees didn't fight over which one was the best tree or which one was the smartest tree or which one was the prettiest tree. The trees considered themselves blessed to be trees. The trees didn't look at each other and say, "If the fire comes, you're toast." The trees didn't go to each other and murmur, "You're growing the wrong way." The trees didn't stare at each other and grumble, "Your leaves aren't even leaves."  The trees didn't hate ... the trees didn't gossip ... the trees didn't attack ... the trees didn't scorn ... the trees didn't judge. The trees were trees together ... each one different, but each tree still a tree.

We humans would do well to learn from the three trees ... we would do well to be the three trees. Be kind to each other, friends ... there are many things in life we cannot choose, but we can always choose to be kind. The next time you're tempted to toss a match on someone, think about the three trees and choose to be kind instead. Remember ... one match can burn the mightiest of trees.

Once upon a time, there were three trees. Each tree was different from the other, but each tree was still a tree. The trees were trees together ... each one different, but each tree still a tree.

Kiss the Girls

I'm sure many of you who are around my age remember the television cartoon The Jetsons ... pretty certain that most of us who grew up in the 60s will forever remember that show. George, Jane, Judy and Elroy ... the absolute most awesomely cool space age family ever. They lived in Orbit City and had a robot maid named Rosie who took care of all their household chores. And Astro the dog ... man, I loved Astro the dog when I was a kid. George worked for Spacely Space Sprockets, and he commuted to work in a flying saucer-like aero car while the family zipped from place to place in these totally awesome tube contraptions. Yep, the Jetson family had it going on, especially when it came to travel ... they could go wherever they wanted in the blink of an eye. 

I can honestly say I haven't often wished for some sort of space age mode of travel, or better yet, to be able to teleport to a different location. But yesterday and today ... yesterday and today, the only place I wanted to be was in Canada and I would have given anything to be able to jump on board a spaceship or yell, "Beam me up, Scotty," and be magically transported to my son and daughter-in-law's house. Oh, there are tons and tons of days when I wish I could be with my little C.J. ... I miss her so much it stinking flipping hurts. But yesterday was an extra special day in C.J.'s life ... in all of our lives ... yesterday, C.J.'s baby sister was born, weighing in at 7 lbs 9 oz. She made her grand entrance in the afternoon, and tonight she and Becca are home and doing well. When I spoke with Matt last night, he sounded tired and excited ... the proud father of two beautiful, healthy little girls.

I would have loved to have seen C.J.'s face when she met her baby sister for the first time ... I'm sure it was a precious and special moment. I can't wait until we Skype in a few days ... I'm sure she will tell me all about it, and I'm looking forward to actually "seeing" my new granddaughter. Matt sent me a couple of pictures last night, and she looks a lot like C.J. did when she was born ... lots of dark hair and chubby little chipmunk cheeks. Yep, I'd give anything for a spaceship right about now ... I want to hold her and rock her and cuddle her and smell her little baby smell and look into her big blue eyes. I want to meet my new granddaughter and tell her how much I love her already.

C.J.'s middle name is Queen ... the middle name of Becca's great grandmother. When my son told me the meaning of C.J.'s baby sister's middle name, tears filled my eyes and emotion washed through my heart. Her name is Amelie Malou ... my mom's name was Mary Louise ... Malou. Mom would have been tickled pink ... she would have been tickled pink. And even more, she would have been so proud of the adults my children have become ... she would have been so very proud of them.

So Matt and Becca ... rest well, kiddos, and know that I love you with all my heart and wish I was there with you. Kiss the girls for me ... kiss those beautiful little girls and tell them their Ghee loves them to the moon and back.

I Almost Missed Her

If you've been reading my blog for more than a day or two, you've probably picked up on my deep love for my children and my granddaughter Coraline (or as I generally refer to her in my posts, C.J.). I write often about my kiddos and even more often about Coraline ... sorry, kids, but she is my only grandchild. Well, for a few more days anyway ... we're all on baby watch in a big way as we await the impending arrival of Coraline's new sister. In fact, in a few minutes, I'll be Skyping with C.J. ... just in case the baby comes this weekend ... you see, if I don't get to Skype with her every week, I am not a happy Ghee.

Waiting for my newest granddaughter to be born has made me think an awful lot about the days and weeks leading up to Coraline's birth ... days that were anything but happy ones for me. You see, the announcement that my oldest son and daughter-in-law were expecting their first child threw a wrench into my plan to take my life ... I couldn't do that to my son when he was so overjoyed to become a father. Just further proof of the depth of my depression and irrational thinking back then ... a parent should never ever be able to do that to her children under any circumstances ... never, never ever. I sobbed like crazy the night they told our family they were pregnant ... but my tears were far, far, far from being tears of joy.

I spent the months leading up to Coraline's birth making videos for her ... for her birthdays, graduation, first date, wedding day, the birth of her own children, days when she was sad, days when she was frightened, days when she was sick. More than anything, I wanted her to know that I loved her and that I was sorry I wouldn't be part of her life as she grew up. I wanted her to know that I waited until I could meet her before I checked out. As the day drew closer for her to be born, I finalized my plans and got my affairs in order. And then I waited.

I went to see C.J. the day after she was born ... I cried the entire way there and back in the car, and most of the time I was at the hospital meeting my granddaughter for the first time. I whispered in her perfect little ear and told her I loved her ... I told her how beautiful she was ... I told her how sorry I was ... I told her I hoped she wouldn't believe all the bad things she would hear about me. When it was time to leave, I kissed my sweet Coraline gently on her soft little cheek and said goodbye ... only she and I knew I was saying goodbye forever.

There have been a million thoughts coursing through my mind for the last few days ... memories of that day and the days that followed ... sitting at my kitchen table with the pills in my hand ... being interrupted ... seeing my doctor ... agreeing to take the antidepressants ... going to the head doctor for the first time. But the thought that has overwhelmingly settled within me ... the thought that has taken up residence deep in my mind ... the thought that has seared itself into the deepest part of my heart and soul ... I ... almost ... missed ... her. I almost missed her laughter ... I almost missed her hugs ... I almost missed her "Hi, Ghee, hi!" and her "I wuv you, Ghee!" ... I almost missed seeing her crawl ... I almost missed the videos of her first steps, her first words, her first Christmas ... I almost missed the light in her eyes when she saw me at the airport ... I ... almost ... missed ... her.

My phone just rang ... and I heard the sweetest little voice ... "Ghee, you ready a Skype now?" I sure am, baby girl ... I sure, sure am.

House Rules

For those of you who are keeping track, my second granddaughter is due to arrive any day now. Well, technically her official due date is July 24, but all of us who are parents know that babies are born when babies are ready to be born ... dates really mean very little to them when they decide it's time to make their entrance into the world. When my daughter-in-law called Monday to let me know the results of her sonogram, she said, "There's a chubby, squished little girl in there!" When I asked what my granddaughter C.J. thinks about the baby and if she's asking a lot of questions about her new sibling's upcoming arrival, Becca said, "She has pretend conversations with her ... she likes to tell her about the house rules a lot. Guess she wants to make sure her baby sister knows what's what before she gets here." I closed my eyes and pictured my little Boo in her room with her dolls and stuffed animals saying, "OK, baby sister, et's talk about da house rules and you need a be a good wistener." Gosh ... I miss that kiddo so, so, so much.

As Becca talked about the various house rules that C.J. is "play telling" her soon-to-arrive baby sister, I was struck by the overwhelming recognition that the rules according to my sweet granddaughter are a great reminder of what should be some of the very basic rules of my own house. Not my little house with the Goldilocks deck that sits upon a corner lot in Kansas rules, but my house of life rules ... C.J.'s house rules translate so very well into what should be my rules for how I live each day.

Like going to bed on time ... 

When I'm exhausted physically, it makes it a heck of a lot shorter walk to emotional and mental exhaustion as well. Problems or tasks that seem impossible to overcome or accomplish are multiplied by a billion when I'm tired. I've gotten into the bad habit of staying up too late ... I'm not sure why, but my "aloneness" seems to rise to a whole new level when it's time to go to bed ... maybe because that's when the stillness of my house seems super extra still and the quietness becomes deafening. I need to go to bed on time ... I need to rest my body, my mind and my spirit. 

Like being a good listener ... 

Being a good listener means something different to me than to my granddaughter ... for C.J., being a good listener is more about following instructions while for me, it's more about following my heart. It's easy to get caught up in the busyness of life and fail to take the time to listen when someone needs to talk. I need to listen more to the sadness in people's eyes or the droop of their shoulders or even their silence ... because being a good listener means so much more than listening to the words people say. Being a good listener means paying extra close attention to all the unspoken words ... because more often than not, those are the words that matter most of all. 

Like not kicking dogs or biting people ...

This rule is the one that really, really, really struck me ... in a big, huge, gigantically enormous way. I know I don't ever physically kick my dogs .. gosh, I would never do that ... but this rule made me think about the times I tell my dogs to get back or quit licking or get down or move over or stop pawing me. It made me think about how the harshness or impatience in my voice probably makes my sweet hounds feel as though they've been kicked in the gut. And while I've never bitten anyone with my teeth, I've certainly chewed plenty of people up with my words of criticism or anger or bitterness.

I could go on and on with my list of C.J.'s deeply meaningful house rules ... maybe I'll pen a House Rules, Part 2 post one of these days. Here's the thing about rules ... whether they are for toddlers like C.J. or Ghees like me, rules are ultimately about respect. A few days ago, someone called me out for being disrespectful toward someone for whom I actually have the utmost respect ... and it made me stop in my tracks and think long and hard about a lot of stuff. About who I am ... about who other people think I am ... about who I want to be.

It seems fitting to end this post with one more house rule from my way wiser than me granddaughter ... when I do something wrong, say I'm sorry. I'm sorry ... and if you give me another chance (though I totally don't deserve it), I promise I will never be disrespectful again ... never, never ever again.

P.S. Looks like her baby sister may be getting ready to join C.J. before long ... Becca had lots of contractions last night. 

The Art of Loving Well

There are some things in life I will never understand no matter how hard I try. Things I can't make any sense out of, that I can find no reason for, that beg the resounding question of "Why?" Like war or famine or disease or hate ... or the death of a child.

This afternoon, I attended a Celebration of Life memorial service for a little girl ... a beautiful, smart, caring little 9-year-old girl. When I used to help out with the kids in Awana on Wednesday nights at church, the little girl was one of my favorites. Every week, she would give me a hug and ask me if she could say her Bible verses to me, and eyes would beam as she recited the passages. I've thought about her and all those kids from church so very many times over the last year and a half since I left. I've wished so many times that I would have had the guts to go back one more time and tell all those kiddos goodbye ... to tell them how much they meant to me ... to tell them I loved them.

The large auditorium was filled to overflowing with those who came to honor the little girl and stand in support and encouragement for her devastated and grieving family. The service was truly a tribute to the young girl and her passion for living life to the fullest every single day. Her favorite songs, movies she had made, slide shows ... she had such an infectious spirit and a wisdom far beyond her years. I don't think there was a dry eye in the building when her dad walked onto the stage and began to speak at the end of the service ... I can't imagine the courage it took for him to stand before all those people and allow them to see his wounded and grieving heart. 

From the moment I heard the news about the little girl's death, I knew I wanted to attend her memorial service. I wrestled over the last few days with whether or not I should go, knowing I would most likely see people from my former church ... some of whom I knew would think I shouldn't be there. But in my heart, I knew it was the right thing to do ... it was right for me to go and honor the little girl who blessed me over and over again. Some of my former church mates immediately embraced me when they saw me and said they miss me. Some spoke to me only if I spoke to them first. Some ignored me and some even turned away from me. But I didn't go for any of them ... I went to pay my respects to a sweet girl and her family ... and I'm glad I went ... I'm very glad I went.

I walked out of the church this afternoon with one overriding thought ... that little girl taught more people than she ever realized about what real love is, and she'll continue to teach people she will never meet this side of heaven. You see, that little kiddo understood what so many of us never comprehend ... that what matters most in this life, no matter how short or long it may be, is that we love one another. That precious little girl mastered it in just nine years, you know ... she mastered the art of loving well, and we would all do well to learn from her.

Rest in peace, little one ... rest in sweet, sweet peace ... you touched my heart and the hearts of everyone who knew you.

Putting Myself in Time-out

Before I get into my post for this evening, I'd like to thank all of you who contributed to our Kickstarter campaign for "Not My Father's Son." Unfortunately, we didn't meet our goal of $55,000 so now we're moving on to Plan B ... we don't exactly know what Plan B is just yet, but we know we have a Plan B because we KNOW we WILL make this film. For those of you who haven't followed the campaign, we raised a little more than $20,000 in 35 days. But again, unfortunately, the way Kickstarter works is if you don't reach your goal amount, you get nothing. The second thing I need to let you know before I move on to my subject for tonight is that I'm exhausted ... physically, mentally and emotionally exhausted. While the last 35 days have been incredibly fun and rewarding on many levels, some of those days have been pretty stressful as well. But you know what? That's just the way life is ... some days are awesomely fun and you want to run dancing through the streets, and some days make you just want to crawl under a rock and hide. So having said thank you and informed you that I'm pooped, on to the heart of my post.

Last night when I was Skyping with my granddaughter, she had to spend a few minutes in time-out ... hard to believe she could ever misbehave, I know. But alas, she was playing a wee bit too rough with her dad and managed to conk him on the head with a bucket and plant her teeth pretty firmly on his arm. I'm relatively certain that both instances must have been accidental in nature ... she is perfect after all ... but her dad didn't exactly see it that way. I think that's the hardest part of being a grandparent, by the way ... hearing them wail and seeing them shed real tears when they get punished for their actions. But ... I know beyond the shadow of any doubt that Matt and Becca adore my precious granddaughter, and they are wonderful parents ... parents who love their daughter enough to teach her how to behave appropriately. What I'm sure was only a matter of minutes each time little miss C.J. got scooped up into Matt's arms and hauled into the house for time-out seemed like hours as I waited for her to return and continue Skyping with me.

This morning, Brad and I spent an hour or so with some amazing folks at a local radio station ... I'm sure many of you who live in the Kansas City area are familiar with Afentra, Danny and Mark from 96.5 The Buzz. We had participated in a phone interview with Afentra when we first launched our Kickstarter campaign, and she invited us to join her in the studio today in a final push to try to reach our goal. I had never met Afentra or her team in person, and to be honest, I was more than a little nervous as I paced in the lobby waiting for Brad to arrive. My fears were immediately put to rest when we walked into the studio ... Afentra greeted us with hugs, and Danny and Mark let us know right from the start that they are completely behind us all the way. At some point during the interview, Afentra commented that many people have become desensitized to the trademark signs and the vitriolic hatred that defines Westboro Baptist Church. I surprised myself when I spoke up and said that for me personally, each time I see the signs, the words emblazoned upon them cut me like a knife.

I've been pretty down in the dumps today ... okay, for the last couple of days ... and I decided on my way home from work this evening that I need to put myself in a time-out. I'm not putting myself in time-out because I've misbehaved, mind you ... though I'm abundantly aware there are many people who think my very existence is the very worst form of misbehaving ... but because ... well ... just because sometimes a gal just needs a short time-out from all the ... well ... suffice it to say that I'm putting myself in time-out for a few days. To those of you who worry when I don't blog ... please don't ... I just need to take a break and recharge my batteries.

You know ... both times last night when Coraline returned after her time-outs, she was smiling and happy. Even though she left in tears, she came back smiling. Sometimes, friends ... sometimes a time-out is just exactly what we need.

Dear Westboro Baptist Church

My name is Terrie Johnson, and I am one of the co-directors of the documentary "Not My Father's Son" ... you know ... the film that tells Nate's story. I know you're aware of the documentary because you were kind enough to tweet about it last night. Please bear with me as I have a few things I'd like to say this evening.

Over the last year or so, I've read volumes of information regarding your church and your former pastor Fred Phelps, and I offer my sincere condolences to each of you following his passing. I first learned about Westboro after I moved to Kansas, and more specifically, it was when you folks protested at Matthew Shepard's funeral. I grew up in the deep South in a pretty conservative faith myself, but you guys make some of the most virulent hell, fire and brimstone preachers and churches I've ever known seem like fluffy cotton candy on a hot summer day. In fact, I can't think of any other church in the country that is as outspoken and determined as you guys are. I guess I sort of thought (or desperately hoped) that perhaps when Fred passed, maybe you guys would soften up a little, but instead it seems as though you're stepping up your game.

I'm assuming that many of you have read what my son Brad wrote on the Kickstarter page about why we want to tell Nate's story, which means you know I'm one of those people you believe God hates and that I'm headed straight for hell. The purpose of my letter isn't to engage in a theological debate, as I'm certain that would not prove to be beneficial for anyone. I'm writing because I hope you'll get at least a small glimpse into the heart of one of the people you condemn. 

I was 10 years old when I realized that I was different from other girls, and I spent the next four decades of my life trying not to be. I spent hours and hours and hours on my knees begging God to change me, to fix me, to make me be attracted to guys rather than girls. I worked tirelessly in the church, believing that my involvement in the Lord's work would cure me. It wasn't until I came within minutes of taking my own life that I began the journey toward becoming the woman God really created me to be. I am the daughter of two strong and loving Christian parents. I am the blessed and cherished mother of three incredibly gifted, talented and caring young adult children. I am the adoring and doting grandmother of a precious little girl, as I will also be to her sister on the way. I am a devoted and loving sister to my two older siblings. I am a loyal and steadfast friend to many, both young and old alike. I know that God loves me and that He created me ... just as He loves you and just as He created you. Just as He loves and created every single person who has ever lived.

My favorite story in the Bible is found in John 8:1-11, the story of the woman caught in the act of adultery. There are lots of reasons why I love this story, not the least of which is the overwhelming and immense love Jesus demonstrated toward the woman whom the religious leaders wanted to stone to death. I often think of the woman's story when I see photos of your church as you protest various events ... when I see your signs, I can't help but think of the stones the men held as they tossed the woman onto the ground before Jesus. I can't help but think about how Jesus responded ... about how he urged those among the men without sin to cast the first stone ... about how when confronted with their own sin, they ran away ... about how He assured the woman she would receive no condemnation from Him.

This morning, I sat on my couch and wept as I looked through hundreds of photos of your children carrying signs bearing the trademark slogans of Westboro Baptist Church ... your innocent little children ... your children holding the signs in their small hands ... signs that look and feel a whole lot like stones. From my heart to yours, Westboro folks ... it's time to lay down the signs and drop the stones ... it's way past time to lay down the signs and drop the stones.  

"But when they persisted in asking Him, He straightened up, and said to them, 'He who is without sin among you, let him be the first to throw a stone at her. Again He stooped down and wrote on the ground. When they heard it, they began to go out one by one, beginning with the older ones, and He was left alone, and the woman, where she was, in the center of the court. Straightening up, Jesus said to her, 'Woman, where are they? Did no one condemn you?' She said, 'No one, Lord.' And Jesus said, 'I don't condemn you either. Go. From now on sin no more.'" John 8:7-11

Turkey Legs, Tater Blossoms and Diet Root Beer

It's been a long time since I've experienced small-town USA ... but today, I did just that, and it was awesome. I sat under a towering tree and watched a parade. I ate a gigantic turkey leg and watched my daughter and son-in-law eat a deep-fried tater blossom. I drank two gigantic mugs of the best diet root beer I've ever tasted. I listened to two guys play guitars and sing songs I remember from my high school years. I talked to a real live horse whisperer who invited me to come ride one of his horses in the fall. It was a good day ... a really, really good day filled with laughter and love and fun.

Happy 4th of July!

No Strings Attached

Every once in a while, a memory from my childhood comes crashing into my brain seemingly from nowhere ... nothing really happens to spark the memory, and yet all of a sudden there it is. And it seems that those "no rhyme or reason" memories are often the ones that carry the biggest lessons for me ... almost as if they've been locked away in some secret vault until it's time for me to learn what they have to teach me. Take yesterday, for example ... I was sitting at my desk editing some animal health print ads when a certain Sunday evening memory from when I was a kid came rushing into my mind.

It was one of those Sunday evenings when I was really sick ... sick enough that my dad let me stay home from church. I had to have a temperature of like 150 degrees or be puking my guts out for Daddy to let me miss church. The rule in our house was if the church doors were open for any type of service or event, I was expected to be in attendance. While I can't recall what ailed me that Sunday evening, I do recall in vivid detail the movie I watched on the Wonderful World of Disney ... Pinocchio ... and I remember even more clearly the puppet nightmares that haunted my dreams for a very, very long time afterwards. In fact, I'm still more than a little creeped out when I see a marionette ... yep, you can add that to my list of irrational fears ... I'm afraid of marionette puppets.

I have no idea what caused the memory of my decades ago Sunday night encounter with Pinocchio to pop into my head yesterday, but it's certainly made me do a lot of thinking about a lot of different things. Like how we get all tangled up in the strings of life and end up in a crumpled, worthless heap on the floor. Like how sometimes we try to control each other. Like how some of us are marionettes and some of us are puppeteers. Like love. I've thought a whole, whole, whole lot about love ... unconditional love ... love with no strings attached.

This afternoon, I was reminded once again of the brevity of life as several people messaged me to tell me of the death of one of our high school classmates ... a brave and courageous woman who lost her fight against pancreatic cancer. Life is so very, very short, friends ... whether we live but a few moments or 100 years ... life is so very short and so very precious. It's time ... it's way past time ... that we cut the strings, that we do away with the buts and ifs when it comes to loving each other. Love should never have qualifications or parameters or conditions ... love should never be contingent on skin color or religious beliefs or sexuality. The words "I love you," should never be followed by the words "but" or "if" ... love should be love ... nothing more, nothing less ... love should be love with no strings attached.

My classmate's maiden name was Love ... the name we all knew her by when we were in school ... her maiden name was Love. We should all be so blessed, my friends ... we should all be so blessed to have our names be Love.