All I Want for Christmas

When I was about six years old, my sister took me and her daughter to play Goony Golf on a Sunday afternoon. What began as just a fun outing playing miniature golf ended with my two front teeth floating down the little stream on hole 14, a big old gash in my lip and my sister telling me it was my fault for standing too closely behind her when she decided to take an Arnold Palmer kind of swing at the golf ball sitting on the ugly green felt beneath her feet. It's probably a good thing that I don't remember much after the steel club popped me in the mouth, except for the blood ... I do remember there was a lot of blood. Fortunately, there was no permanent damage to my face or mouth, but it took a good two years for my two permanent front to grow in. I made my sister feel bad as often as I possibly could for the golfing accident ... don't judge me ... I got a ton of great stuff from milking her guilt for all it was worth ... you bet I did. I personally lived the atrocious song "All I Want for Christmas is my Two Front Teeth," and I can promise you it wasn't much fun. Looking back on it now, what happened was really quite comical ... in a warped and twisted kind of way, of course.

You'll be happy to know that my permanent teeth did eventually grow in, and you'll be even happier to know that I still have them ... seriously ... that's a big deal when you get to be my age. I'm not sure why that particular childhood memory has been stuck in my head all day, but the more I've thought about it, the more I've come to realize how very much my wants for Christmas have changed. I can't lie and say there aren't any things I want ... of course there are still things I'd like to have. But I can honestly say that I want more than things is people ... what I really want for Christmas is to spend time with the people I love. I spent last weekend with my daughter and son-in-law ... I had Skype Christmas with Brad and Shelby a couple of nights ago ... and tomorrow, God willing, I'll be celebrating with Matt, Becca, Coraline and Amelie. I hugged everyone who'd let me at work before leaving for the holidays, and I chatted with some dear friends and wished them a merry Christmas and a blessed new year. That's all I want for Christmas, friends ... all I want for Christmas is time. Time to spend with the people I love and the people who, for reasons I'll never be able to comprehend, want to spend time with me.

Celebrate merrily and happy, friends, and tell me ... what's your "all I want for Christmas" wish?  

More Than You Know

The company I work for has grown a ton over the last couple of years, and that means only one thing for a downtown-ishly located business ... parking woes. Our company has always provided us with free parking ... very much appreciated, by the way ... so rather than ask the employees to pay for parking, the leadership decided to obtain some additional spots in a parking garage a couple of blocks away. In doing so, their dilemma shifted from there not being enough places to park close to our building to finding a way to fairly distribute the nearby spaces and those in the garage among the employees. After much deliberation, the leadership team came up with a rotation plan ... a person is assigned to one of the three lots for a set period of time after which he or she will be assigned to a different lot. Up until the most recent switching of the parking spots a couple of weeks ago, I've managed to avoid having to park in the garage because several of the young men offered to change places with me So guess where I've been parking following the latest shuffle? Yep ... I'm now hoofing it back and forth to the garage every morning and every evening, and so far, it's not been too bad. It's actually a decent little walk, just far enough that it gets my heart pumping and provides me with an extra bit of exercise for the day.

If you know me at all, you know my brain never stops churning; in fact, I have a really hard time getting to sleep because my mind ... well ... my mind seems to have a mind of its own. There's definitely an upside to having an overactive brain, though ... sometimes I actually come up with a significant thought now and again, and I'm pretty sure I had one last night as I walked to the parking garage after work in the chilly night air. I usually pass several people on my morning and evening jaunts to and from the garage, most of whom are well-dressed with satchels or bags on their shoulders, apparently on their way to or from work themselves. Some say hello or nod their heads in my direction, while others are obviously focused on one thing ... getting wherever it is they're going. Last night, I only passed a couple of people, but one of them caught my attention the minute I saw him. He caught my attention because he looked sad ... very, very sad. His shoulders were slumped and he was walking slowly, staring at the pavement beneath his feet. He looked to be in his late 20s to early 30s ... far too young to be encompassed by such sadness.

I've kicked myself for not speaking to the young man ever since I saw him last night ... I should have at least said hello to him and maybe even wished him a merry Christmas. You see ... I know that "I have no hope left" look ... I know that "I'm struggling to take one more step" posture ... I know that "I'm so terribly lonely" isolation. I should have said hello to the young man ... I should have said hello ... I should have stopped and said hello to the young man. The more I've thought about him today, the more I thought about some Christmas cards and notes I sent or gave to my family and friends. I thought about how many times I wrote the words, "I appreciate you more than you know," or "You mean more to me than you know," or "You help me more than you know" or "I miss you more than you know," or the one that really socked me right in the gut ... "I love you more than you know." It's the words "more than you know" that get to me ... it's those four words that have burned in my mind all day today ... it's those four words that have me kicking myself over and over and over again.

See here's the thing ... I should never ever not let people know how much I appreciate them or how much they mean to me or how much they help me or how much I miss them or how much I love them. I shouldn't wait until Christmas to tell people those things ... the people I love and care about should never ever be left wondering. They should never ever have to hear me say those four words ... more than you know ... because I should make sure they know every single moment of every single day just how very, very important they are to me. I don't believe in accidents or coincidences anymore, friends ... I believe without a trace of any doubt that I was meant to see that young man last night ... I believe our paths crossed, even if only for a brief moment, because I needed to see him. I needed to wonder if he's surrounded by "more than you know" people. I needed to contemplate the very real possibility that his sadness could have been diminished if someone told him how much he matters to them. I needed to see that young man last night because I need to change.

There's another side to "more than you know" ... there are people all around me who are dealing with so much more than I know. People who are struggling with depression or disease ... people whose marriages are in trouble ... people who are taking care of elderly parents ... people who've lost their jobs ... people who are having financial problems ... people whose children are ill ... people who are lonely ... people who are scared ... people who are struggling with so very much more than I know.

Think about it, friends ... more than you know.

No Peeking

I can't believe that Christmas is next week ... seriously ... how can it almost be Christmas already? I'm all too aware that time passes much more quickly as I grow older, but this year ... gosh ... where has this year gone? I looked at the calendar several times today thinking surely I was mistaken and that Christmas had to be at least a couple more weeks away. Nope ... Christmas is next week ... Christmas is next week ... Christmas is next week. Maybe if I say it often enough it will actually sink in ... Christmas is next week ... seriously ... how can it almost be Christmas already?

Had my daughter-in-law not texted me last night to ask if a cell phone case she ordered and had shipped to my house had arrived, I probably wouldn't have noticed the package on my front porch or the two others tucked inside the storm door. As I retrieved them and carried them inside the house, I thought about how my mom used to always open her gifts the moment they arrived in the mail ... there was no way on earth that Mom was waiting until Christmas morning to open her presents ... any gift that arrived in the mail was immediately fair game for her to open. And back when our family all lived in the same town, we all knew not to take Mom's presents to her house until Christmas Eve when our family got together to exchange gifts. Even if we hid them, Mom would find them ... I swear, my sweet little mom was like a hound dog when it came to presents ... she would find them, open them, wrap them back up and then do a darn good job at faking her surprise and delight on Christmas Eve. I'm smiling and crying at the same time as I type tonight ... I sure do miss my sneaky little old mom ... I surely, surely do.

I was struck with a thought last night as I placed the packages on my kitchen table ... a thought that eventually worked itself out to be rather profound. A lot of us are like Christmas gifts ... we're all decked out in beautiful wrapping paper and we spend a lifetime trying every way we can to keep anyone from getting a peek at what's beneath all the glittery ribbons and bows. Here's the thing about beautifully wrapped packages, friends ... sometimes what's inside is exactly what we expected it to be, and sometimes it's ... well ... sometimes it's far from it. The truth is that some of the most beautifully wrapped packages ... some of those beautiful packages that look so perfect on the outside are anything but on the inside.

We had a white elephant gift exchange at work today, which, by the way, I've never done in my entire life. I sat there watching my co-workers as they picked from the wrapped packages that lined the table at the front of the room, trying to determine which one might contain the greatest treasure. I was fascinated as the "stealing" of the gifts commenced ... as I saw the old saying "One man's trash is another man's treasure" come to life right before my eyes. And here's where the profound part comes in ... so very, very, very many times, the parts of us that we try to hide beneath the wrapping ... the parts that we think are trash ... those are the parts that others often find to be our greatest treasures. It's when we're open, honest, real and transparent ... it's when we admit that we aren't perfect and allow those close to us to have a peek at our struggles ... it's when we're vulnerable and trust that those we love will love us no matter what ... it's when we believe that what we deem as trash may very well indeed be the treasure that helps another to find their way.

Maybe my mom had the right idea all along ... perhaps we'd all be better off if we peeked into one another's souls every now and then ... perhaps we would, friends ... perhaps we would indeed.

Where's the Fire?

People who know me well know that I'm not much of a party person ... anymore ... I should say I'm not much of a party person anymore. There was a time when I enjoyed going to parties ... I enjoyed the interaction with all the people ... I enjoyed playing games and having fun ... and yes, I even enjoyed having a couple of beers or a gin and tonic or two. Even though there was always the fear that someone would learn the truth about my sexuality, I used to genuinely enjoy partying the night away with my friends. It's not the fear of being outed that causes my apprehension and trepidation in regard to parties these days ... it's the fear of judgment for being who I am and that confidence-robbing, self-esteem smashing beast of depression that cause me to shy away from parties and social interaction. Those two things together make for a mighty adversary when it comes to me getting my party on ... a mighty adversary indeed.

Friday night was the annual winter event for the company where I work, held in a swanky downtown club with cocktail attire being the dress code for the evening. Those two words alone ... cocktail attire ... were enough to push my panic button for sure ... I mean, come on ... do you think I own a party dress? Do you think I own any kind of dress? Seriously. But the party was also the retirement celebration for one of my all-time favorite guys ever ... not even those words ... cocktail attire ... could keep me home Friday night. Even had I been required to wear a dress ... thank God I wasn't ... not even having to wear a sequined dress would have kept me from being there to honor my friend. I wish I could say I walked into the swanky party feeling super confident in my black shiny shoes, red suspenders and Snoopy bow tie ... I can't say that, but I can say that I went to the party and that it was a good time and a good evening.

A good portion of the party was spent celebrating my friend's retirement ... speeches, videos, laughter and memories filled the room and brought tears to the eyes of quite a few of us. But it was something my retiring friend said during his speech that has seared itself into my mind ... something that has caused me to do a lot of soul-searching over the last couple of days. He was talking about things he was going to miss about our company when he made the statement ... the statement that is stuck in my brain.

"I'll miss Terrie's fire ... and you can interpret that however you want."

I chuckled along with everyone else, but I also knew down deep in my heart that my friend's comment carried with it far deeper meaning for me ... far, far deeper meaning. It takes work to keep a fire burning ... it takes tending and stoking and patience and commitment to keep a fire burning. It's much easier for a fire to burn out than it is for it to keep burning ... yep ... that fire I worked so hard to build can burn out in the blink of an eye if I don't do what's necessary to keep it going. Whether he meant them to or not, my friend's words have made me seriously consider the fire that is me ... the fire that is my heart, my soul, my spirit, my mind. His words made me truly think about what it really means to be warm and inviting and open. His words made me ponder the reality that the fireplace without the fire is a sad, empty, lonely, desolate place. The fireplace without the fire is just an empty shell ... an empty shell that sits waiting, hoping and longing for its beloved fire to return.

So where's the fire my friend was talking about? It's in me, friends ... the fire is in me.

We're Pals, Right?

One of the best parts about growing up on Ormand Drive in the little town of Red Bank, Tennessee, was that all the kids in the neighborhood got along pretty well ... most of the time ... remember those words "most of the time" ... I'll come back to them in a bit. The kids who lived on my street, the kids who lived on Paulmar and the kids who lived on Daytona ... we'd meet at the crossroads on my street since it was the one in between the other two, and we'd play all day long. We'd pack lunches and carry Army canteens filled with Koolaid ... there were no such things as Nalgene or Camelbak water bottles back then ... and we'd hang out together until the appointed time that our moms had told us we had to come home for dinner. 

Things were different back then, you know ... my friends and I weren't afraid of being molested or kidnapped or murdered or of someone stealing the coins we carried in our pockets. We didn't have cell phones or any way to contact our parents if anything happened and yet we played in the woods, waded in the creeks, rode our bikes to the bustling "downtown" part of Red Bank and even hitched rides with total strangers from time to time if we wanted to venture farther than our legs could pedal or our feet could walk. It was a good time and a good place to grow up ... yep, good old Red Bank, Tennessee in the '60s ... a really good time and a really good place to grow up in for sure.

For all the precious things my little granddaughter Coraline says to me ... and yes, everything she says to me is precious ... there's one thing she says that gets to me every single time. It's from one of her favorite books, The Lion King, and it's something Simba says to his father Mufasa. Coraline looks up at me and says, "Ghee? We're pals, right? And we'll always be together, right?" Yep ... chokes me up every single time she says those words, and I never ever tire of seeing those big beautiful blue eyes of hers peering into mine or hearing her angelic little voice as she says them. Maybe it's because of the innocence of her heart or maybe it's because of the pure and unconditional love she has for me, but my little Boo's declaration of us being pals and her insistence that we'll always be together reminds me every time of just how important it is to build honest and lasting relationships with the people I love and care about.

I've been thinking a lot recently about what it means to be pals ... about what it means to be a good pal to my family and friends. And in doing so, I recalled something that happened many, many years ago ... something I haven't thought about for a very, very long time. If you had asked me when I was a kid about my neighborhood friends, I would have quickly told you that we were pals ... I wouldn't have hesitated for one moment to describe our relationship as that of being pals. Well ... except for that one girl ... that one girl I thought was my pal until she threw sand in my eyes. I believed her when she said it was an accident the first time she did it ... heck, I even believed her the next time and the next time and the next time and the next time she threw sand in my eyes. She would throw sand in my eyes and not talk to me for a week, and then she'd come back and act all nicey-nice to me for a while until she got me to relax and trust her again. And then ... yep, you guessed it ... then she'd throw sand in my eyes again. I wanted so desperately to believe she was my pal ... I wanted so desperately to believe she was my pal, my buddy, my friend. Until one day I had just had too much sand thrown into my eyes ... until one day I couldn't believe anymore and I had no choice but to walk away. For my own self-protection ... for my own sense of self-worth ... for my own inability to be hurt anymore ... I had no choice but to admit that she wasn't really my pal.

Now here's the thing ... with every fiber in my being, I want to be the best pal I can possibly be to my granddaughters Coraline and Amelie. I want to be the best pal I can possibly be to my children, to my family, to my friends. Pals are there when things are going great, and they are there when the world is caving in around you. Pals don't lie to you and they don't take you for granted. Pals look out for you and they want only the best for you. Pals treasure you and they share with you and they want to spend time with you. Pals don't give up on you and they always have your back. Pals protect you and they believe in you. Pals are interested in what's going on in your life and they take the time to ask ... and then they truly listen. Pals laugh with you and they cry with you. Pals care about what's important to you and they make sure you know they care. Pals remember your birthday and they know how old you are. Pals don't abandon you and they defend you no matter what. And ... pay attention to this part because it's super important ... pals ... not the fake pals but the real, true, honest pals ... never, never, never throw sand in your eyes ... never, never, never.

"Ghee? We're pals, right? And will always be together, right?" 

A Broken Hallelujah

For as far back as I can remember, I've always loved music. Sometimes I wonder just how many hours I spent in my mustard-colored bedroom listening to records on my old RCA record player. I kid you not ... my room was painted with what I now know was a most hideous mustard gold paint that very much resembled the color of baby diarrhea. Seriously, what the heck was my mom thinking when she chose that color for the walls of my room? It's no wonder my brain is so messed up ... spending years of your life staring at four walls of baby poop will do that to a gal. But there I go digressing again ... let's get back to my love of music. From the Partridge Family to Helen Reddy to Barbra Streisand to Bobby Sherman to Donny Osmond to John Denver to Elton John to Sonny and Cher to the Jackson Five to the Eagles to Simon and Garfunkel ... I spent a whole lot of time in my old ugly room listening to music and dreaming of being a rock star one day. And yes, Shirley Partridge was most definitely a rock star, and I may or may not have had a gigantic crush on her.

It wasn't really the music that kept me locked away in my room all those years ago, but rather the words that accompanied the music. As much as I've always longed to be a good singer, I'm just not. Rest assured that I'm a much better writer than I am a singer, and since I'm far removed from being a great writer, that should give you a slight indication as to how really bad of a singer I am. Though my vocal prowess is pretty darn close to that of a moose in heat, I do seem to have a knack for remembering the words of certain songs, even songs from all those years ago when I was but a girl. And not only do I remember the words to the songs, I remember how so many of those words helped me through some dark times in life ... how they brought me comfort when I was lonely ... how they made me smile when I was sad ... how they healed my heart when it was broken. There's a significant amount of irony in that, you know ... that it was the words that carried the true meaning for me, especially in light of the fact that the reading of words keeps food in my wiener dog's tummy and a roof over our heads, and the writing of words keeps me from going completely off the deep end.

One of my favorite songs of all time is "Hallelujah" by Leonard Cohen ... I could seriously listen to that song over and over for hours on end. A gazillion or so singers have sung the song down through the years, but without question one of the best renditions I've ever heard is the one delivered recently by Jordan Smith on the television show The Voice. I didn't actually see his performance on the show when it aired because ... well ... because I don't watch the show. I did, however, somehow stumble upon it during one of my "middle of the night and I can't sleep so I'll browse YouTube" moments a few nights ago. When this sort of nerdy-looking, slightly overweight, preppy young man began to sing, I couldn't believe my ears ... he has an amazing voice and he totally owned that song. I sat on my couch with tears rolling down my face as I watched the video over and over again ... a young man with dreams of becoming a professional singer ... a young man who felt as though he never really fit in ... a young man who'd been bullied and teased and made fun of his whole life was standing on a stage performing for millions of viewers, and he was absolutely killing it.

As I was out walking with Ollie this afternoon, I thought about Jordan Smith and I wondered why he chose that particular song ... I wondered if he chose it simply because he knew he could sing it well, or if perhaps it carried some sort of deeper meaning for him. I thought about some of the words in the song ... "Your faith was strong but you needed proof ... There's a blaze of light in every word, it doesn't matter which you heard, the holy or the broken Hallelujah." I thought about those words and their meaning, and I thought about the story from the Bible of King David. I thought about how powerful words are ... of how words can do so much good and of how they can cause so very much pain. I thought about brokenness ... about falling from grace ... about words and actions that can never be recalled or undone. I thought about how we so often cast stones and assign blame to others when we should be hurling those stones and assigning that blame to ourselves instead. I thought about forgiveness ... I thought about grace ... I thought about mercy.

It seems fitting to close this post with the final words of the song ... it seems fitting to remind myself that even when I'm broken, even when I'm hurting, even when I'm afraid I'll never find my way again ... even then ... even then ... even then, friends ... even then ... Hallelujah.

"I did my best, it wasn't much
I couldn't feel, so I tried to touch
I've told the truth, I didn't come to fool you
And even though it all went wrong 
I'll stand before the Lord of Song
With nothing on my tongue but Hallelujah

Hallelujah ... Hallelujah ... Hallelujah."

So Remember That One Time?

There's something about the holiday season that always makes me a bit nostalgic ... there's something that sends my mind and heart for more than a few strolls down memory lane when the date on the calendar signals that Thanksgiving is just around the corner. Now that I think about it, I think my memory journey actually begins more around Halloween than mid-November. A couple of days before the trick or treaters come knocking, my mind is filled with memories of times in my youth when I ... well, uh ... when I ... uh ... wait a minute ... is there a statute of limitations on egging houses, toilet-papering trees and smashing pumpkins? Real pumpkins, by the way ... not the band. Memories of my own three kiddos dressed in their costumes, racing from door to door in our former neighborhood on the hunt for more candy than they could or should eat in a lifetime. Memories of my mom reluctantly tossing candy into the Halloween bags of my friends, and yes, I do mean reluctantly in the truest sense of the word. Yep, it's that day at the end of October that starts the memory machine churning inside of me ... a machine that kicks into overdrive with the arrival of Thanksgiving and hangs around until the new year sufficiently and appropriately makes its debut.

Memories have evolved into somewhat of an enigma to me in recent years ... puzzling, baffling, mysterious creatures that they are. There are times when I'm not at all surprised by my sudden recollections of various people, events or circumstances, while at other times I cannot begin to understand the why behind the arrival of those particular memories. There are times when I'm simply unable to attribute the unexpected entrance of certain memories into my consciousness to a specific time of year, season or ... well ... to anything really, while at other times I know exactly why they come roaring like a mighty lion into the deepest part of my being. Perhaps it's an age-related quandary ... the enigma that now defines so many of my memories ... or perhaps it is the maturation of wisdom and discernment that comes (or that should come anyway) with growing older. Whichever it may be, I find myself more and more perplexed with each passing day by the entire concept of the seemingly precise, almost fated, perhaps even predestined appearances of memories.

So, tell me ... do you remember that one time? I certainly do, friends ... I certainly remember that one time. That one time I lost someone I loved. That one time I received an unexpected gift. That one time I helped someone I didn't know. That one time I spoke too harshly. That one time I loved unconditionally. That one time I listened to someone who was hurting. That one time I cried for what felt like forever. That one time I believed in someone. That one time I trusted. That one time I spoke up for what's right. That one time ... that one time I put the needs of others ahead of my own ... that one time ... that one time I cared enough to take the time to listen ... that one time ... that one time I followed my heart ... that one time ... that one time ... that one time.

My hope, my prayer, my deepest desire is that I remember not just that one time, but that I remember all the times ... that I remember every single time ... the easy times, the hard times ... the great times, the not great times ... the times of love, the times of hate. I don't want to remember that one time, friends ... I want to remember all the times.

"Nothing is ever really lost to us as long as we remember it." --- L.M. Montgomery

How to Cook a Turkey

So it's the night before Thanksgiving and I know you're probably expecting me to write one of my super-deep, thought-provoking, lesson-filled posts. You know ... one of those posts that inspires you to want to be a better person or go out and change the world or some other grand thing. But instead, I decided to give thanks for little kids who make me chuckle. Thanks to one of my pals at work for blessing me ... and I'm sure all of you as well ... with his daughter's simple three-step method for cooking a turkey.

How to Cook a Turkey by Kate

Step 1 - A six pound turkey at the farm will cost $5.55.

Step 2 - Stuff it with green beans and put it in the oven.

Step 3 - Set the oven at 60 degrees and cook for an hour or two.

Have a great Thanksgiving, friends ... and be truly thankful ... be truly, truly thankful. There are many tonight who are hungry ... many who are lonely ... many who are grieving ... many who are homeless ... many who are sick ... many who would give everything for just a taste of the life you have.

Be thankful ... be truly, truly thankful.

The Tyranny of the Urgent

If I had a nickel for every time I've had to go back to the grocery store a day or two after I was just there to get the things I forgot to purchase, I'd be filthy rich by now. Most of the time I just get mildly annoyed when that happens, but when I realized last night that I had to choice but to go to the store tonight ... suffice it to say I was more than mildly annoyed ... I was way more than mildly annoyed. I groaned when I pulled into the parking lot and saw all the cars ... I'm pretty sure everyone within a 50-mile radius of my house was at the grocery store tonight. When I finally found a parking place, I jumped out of my car and jogged ... yes, I jogged ... to the nearest entrance, grabbed one of those small plastic basket things and raced through the store grabbing the items I needed. And then I went to pay ... I simply cannot comprehend why in the world a grocery store would have only four cashiers working on one of the busiest grocery buying nights of the year. I stepped in line behind a young family, a mom and dad and their three children, and their full to overflowing shopping cart, gritting my teeth and steeling myself for a long wait.

"You look like you're in a hurry, and you only have a few things," the young mom said. "You go on ahead of us ... we're not in a big hurry tonight." 

"Are you sure?" I asked skeptically. "I would really appreciate it, but are you sure?"

"Of course," the young woman said, smiling broadly. "You go right ahead ... we really are in no hurry."

Several years ago, a friend gave me a small book titled "The Tyranny of the Urgent." For some reason, that little book has been on my mind a lot lately, and I couldn't figure out why ... until tonight when I was jogging back to my car after leaving the grocery store. That small book has been on my mind so much recently because I've been allowing the seemingly urgent stuff of life make me forget the really important stuff of life. That's kind of a big deal, you know ... to allow the urgent, "this has to be done right this minute" stuff become a tyrannical ruler that diverts my focus from what really matters. The tyranny of the urgent keeps me from listening to the hearts of others like I should ... it keeps me from seeing the needs of others like I should ... it keeps me from loving others like I should. The tyranny of the urgent keeps me running when I should be standing still ... it keeps me from being the person I need to be, the person I want to be, the person I was created to be.

When it's all said and done, what really matters most to you? Who really matters most to you? Here's the thing, the really important thing you and I need to understand about the tyranny of the urgent ... there will always be stuff to do, things that seem to be so very urgent at the time ... but people ... the people you love won't always be there, friends.

"Never be so busy as not to think of others." --- Mother Teresa

So Not Cool

Most of my friends thought my first bicycle was atrociously ugly because it was turquoise. They didn't even notice the awesome multicolored streamer thingies in the ends of the handlebars, nor did they pay any attention to its gleaming white banana seat. Nope ... my friends didn't care that my bike had awesome reflectors, a rear-view mirror or a shiny bell. All they saw when they looked at my bike was that it was turquoise, and they thought turquoise was a disgusting color. Those kids teased me mercilessly about my bike the entire time I had it, so much so that I begged and pleaded and cried and pouted until my dad bought me a new red bike. Why red? Because all the cool kids at school rode red bicycles, and I really, really, really wanted to be one of the cool kids. I found out in a hurry, however, that not even an awesome red bike could make me fit in or be accepted by the cool kids.

A couple of weekends ago, Ollie and I were out for an afternoon walk when I noticed a group of girls sitting near the small playground just to the side of the trail. They looked to be about 12 or 13 years old, all wearing jeans, hoodies and sneakers. Had it not been for me accidentally overhearing what the girls were saying, I would have strolled past them and continued along on my walk. But I did overhear what the girls were saying ... I overheard, and I stopped dead in my tracks as I listened.

"She's not like us ... did you see what she was wearing today?"

"I can't believe she actually thinks she's cute."

"I heard her telling the loser bangers she's coming to the party on Saturday."

"That bitch be trippin' if she think she comin' to the party. Hell, no, she not."

"She's too stupid to even know why we hate her." 

And the comment that pushed me over the edge?

"Yeah ... she's so gay."

That's the comment that made me gather Ollie up into my arms and walk over to where the girls were sitting. That's the comment that made me tell those little girls that what they were saying about the other girl was hurtful and rude and just plain old mean. That's the comment that made me tell those little girls that someday they would feel deeply sorry for the way they were treating the other girl. That's the comment that made me lecture those little girls about kindness and respect and acceptance and integrity. That's the comment that made my eyes fill with tears as I said, "Don't do it, girls ... don't treat her or anyone else that way just because they're different from you. You think you're being cool but you're really just being mean and hateful. How would you feel if the other kids hated you? How would you feel if you went to school tomorrow and found out she had killed herself? How would you feel then?"

The girls just sat and looked at me, and not one of them said a word. I'm sure they were just hoping the old psycho lady wasn't going to haul them off like Hansel and Gretel and try to bake them in my oven ... what a horrific fairy tale, by the way, I can't believe I actually read that story to my children when they were young. I turned to leave the group of girls, and as I did, I felt somewhat vindicated in my righteous anger and I told myself that one day those little girls would grow up and remember the crazy lady with the wiener dog in her arms ... that one day they would remember that short encounter near the trail when the gray-haired lady with the cute dog schooled them on the dangers of hate and the benefits of compassion.

Ollie and I walked for a long time that day ... we walked much longer than we normally walk ... a long, silent walk as a million thoughts filled my mind. As we turned onto our street, I said, "Well, buddy ... that's one of the more interesting walks we've had in a while." I've thought a ton about that little encounter and of the things I said to the girls, but I've also thought a lot about how so many adults are guilty of doing the very same thing those little girls were doing. The adult version of the scenario with the little girls can be so mean ... so hateful ... so wrong. I can't stress to all of you enough how important it is that we love, honor and respect one another. If you never remember anything else I've written or spoken, please remember this ... only love can change a person's heart, friends ... only love can change a person from the inside out.

Oh, and by the way ... I loved my turquoise bike ... you bet I did ... I loved that old turquoise bike a ton ... I surely, surely did. Until my friends told me I shouldn't ... until my friends told me it was ugly ... until my friends told me it was bad. Think about that ... for ... a ... very ... long ... time, friends ... a very, very, very long time indeed.

A Different Kind of Closet

So you know how I usually begin my posts with a story that relates to my topic for the evening? Not tonight. In all my tossing and turning last night, I finally got out of bed and started reading emails ... emails from so many of you who read my post Looking for Me? a couple of nights ago. I read until I could read no more, tears pouring down my cheeks, truly humbled that you chose to share your own personal stories with me. As I read, I was struck by a recurring message that permeated so many of the notes ... a message that hits just a bit too close to home for me.

Sometimes it feels like a lifetime since I came crashing out of the closet a little more than three years ago, but then there are other times when it feels as though it was only yesterday that I made my sobbing, distraught, reluctant confession. That disparity of time bothers me a lot, you know ... that disparity of time that causes me to one moment feel as though the closet that once held me captive is nailed shut forever, but in the next moment causes me to feel as though I am forever destined to hide away inside a tiny room of shame and fear. But as is true of all the great journeys in life, each step I take serves to bring me ever closer to the goal of understanding and self-acceptance.

I was surprised by how many people used the word closet in their notes to me about my previous post ... but they weren't talking about the closet of sexuality. People wrote about how they hide inside the closet because they suffer from depression, pretending to be happy while they hope and pray that no one discovers their secret. Though much progress has been made in recent years in the distribution of information to aid in gaining greater understanding about depression and other mental health issues, there remains a huge stigma surrounding any type of malfunction or chemical imbalance within the brain. The truth is that people want the people they interact with to be happy, or at least they want them to pretend to be happy. See, here's the thing ... that's really not all that different from a straight person asking a gay person to pretend be straight. I know, I know ... that's pretty doggone deep, so feel free to stew on it for a bit.

There are a lot of people living in the closet, a lot of people trying to hide something about themselves that they believe will cause them to be rejected or unloved or judged by others. Maybe it's an illness that keeps someone locked away in a closet, or maybe it's their sexuality or a bad marriage or substance abuse or jealousy or the fear of failure. We lock ourselves away because there is something about us that we think is unacceptable, unworthy, unwanted. We lock ourselves in a closet because we believe we don't deserve to be out in the light of day.

Closets aren't made to hold people, they're made to hold clothes. Closets aren't meant to be a place where people live in fear, afraid to show others their true and honest selves. Closets are not at all made to hold people, friends ... closets are made to hold clothes. 

Looking for Me?

The changes in him were almost undetectable at first ... a slight shuffle when he walked, minor declines in his ability to perform routine tasks, ever-so-subtle personality changes, slight confusion regarding locations or times, a forgotten word now and again ... changes that were easily attributable to the normal aging process. My family desperately clung to the quickly fading hope that he was just getting older and slowing down a bit, but eventually the devastating diagnosis came ...  my dad had Alzheimer's disease. For the next nine years, we watched helplessly as the man we knew as Daddy ... the man with the twinkling brown eyes, quick smile and hilarious sense of humor ... disappeared before our very eyes. 

My children and I lived in Florida for most of the time during Daddy's illness, coming home once or twice a year for a far-too-short week-long visit. For many years I spent most of those visits gazing into my dad's eyes, holding his weathered hands in mine, hoping for just a brief glimpse of the man he once was. I spent years looking for my dad ... for the Daddy I knew him to be ... the Daddy I so wanted him to be once again. I distinctly remember the day I gave up all hope of ever seeing him again ... it was the day he looked up at me with the empty, blank stare that had stolen away the twinkle in his eyes ... it was the day he looked into my eyes and whispered, "Who are you?" That was the moment when I realized that the man who knew me better than anyone else ever could was no longer there ... that was the day I stopped looking for the dad I used to know and began the heartbreaking journey toward accepting and loving the dad he had become.

Over the last three years or so, I've tried my best to be open, honest, real and transparent as I've shared my struggle with depression, and I've done so in the hope that my story might help even just one person in the midst of their own fight. I've said over and over again that depression is a vicious and nasty beast, and I know beyond any doubt that were it not for the help of my life-saving head doctor and the cocktail of antidepressants I take each day, I wouldn't be alive today. I could write a gazillion posts about all the lousy things that accompany living with depression ... whoa ... just typing those words, living with depression, is kind of a big deal to me, you know. Depression came so very close to killing me three years ago, friends ... I think it's a pretty big freaking deal that today I can say I'm living with depression.

For as difficult as a day in the life of dealing with the medically documented chemical imbalance that now resides within my brain can be, without question the worst of the worst are those days when I feel like I'm losing the real me ... the happy, lighthearted, joke-cracking, story-telling me ... the days when I stare blankly into the eyes of my mind and ask, "Who are you?" Or perhaps the more accurate question for me isn't "Who are you?" but rather "Where are you?" You see, unlike my dad or countless other people who were or currently are imprisoned by the hopelessness of Alzheimer's disease, I know who I am and even more important, I know who I want to be. Trust me, friends, I'm truly the only one who knows who I am, and I most certainly am the only one who knows who I want to be.

Sometimes I wonder if my dad was aware of what was happening to him ... I wonder if he was still in there somewhere during those times when I sat looking into his eyes ... hoping, praying, wishing for a glimpse of the man I knew he really and truly was. I can make myself crazy with that kind of thinking, you know ... wondering if Daddy was shouting on the inside, "Looking for me? I'm right here! Don't stop looking, Sam ... I'm here ... I'm here ... I'm here." I've had several people tell me recently that I haven't been myself for quite a while, and that they need me to be me. Today I was goofing around at work and my friend Micah took a photo of me and I posted it on Facebook. Another friend left a two-word comment on my photo that spoke volumes to me ... two little words that contained within them a powerful, powerful message that I've been unable to get out of my mind all day. She said, "She's back." Just go ahead and think on that for a while, maybe a really good long while ... I know I'll be thinking about it for a long, long time to come.

Looking for me? I'm right here! Please don't stop looking ... I promise I'm right here. I'm here ... I'm here ... I'm here. Please don't stop looking, friends ... please don't ever stop looking.

Now I Lay Me

"They were innocents."

I've read or heard that statement countless times since the attacks in Paris last Friday evening. And it's a statement that quite literally strikes fear in the hearts and minds of people all across the world. The people who were targeted on Friday evening weren't soldiers or political adversaries or spies. They were innocent people out for the evening ... eating dinner at a cafe, attending a concert, watching a soccer game. They were daughters and sons and mothers and fathers and brothers and sisters and granddaughters and grandsons and aunts and uncles and nieces and nephews, and friends. They were innocents ... they were innocent people out for a Friday evening of fun. They hugged and kissed their loved ones, said goodbye and headed out for what should have been an evening filled with fun and laughter. What should have been a night of happiness and laughter and joy instead became a night of terror and pain and death.

"Today, we are all French."

I first heard that statement from an emotional reporter as the news began to break about the terrorist attacks in France, and I've heard it repeated by others many times over the last few days. There has been a tremendous outpouring of support and sympathy for the people of France from all around the world, due in large part to the fact that the victims were innocents. I also believe that most people are now even more keenly aware that if such an act of violence can occur in Paris, it can occur in any other city as well. But from that awareness, and to a certain extent the fear that accompanies it, has arisen a unity ... a commonality ... a shared determination to stand alongside the French people ... a recognition that today, we are indeed all French.

"You never think it will happen to you."

One of the most poignant and touching pieces I've read concerning the Paris attacks was written by a young woman who was present at the concert that evening. She recounted with heart-wrenching detail the horrific events that occurred, painting a very vivid and clearly devastating picture of the massacre that took place right before her eyes. It was the way she closed her essay that moved me most, as she wrote about those whom she loved ... as she conveyed her unwavering faith in the basic goodness of mankind ... as she charged everyone of us who read her words to be better people. It seems fitting to close my post this evening with the closing lines of the young woman's story.

"As I lay down in the blood of strangers and waiting for my bullet to end my mere 22 years. I envisioned every fact that I have ever loved and whispered I love you. Over and Over again. Reflecting on the highlights of my life. Wishing that those I love knew just how much, wishing that they knew that no matter what happened to me, to keep believing in the good in people. To not let those men win. Last night, the lives of many were forever changed and it is up to us to be better people. To live lives that the innocent victims of this tragedy dreamt about but sadly will now never be able to fulfill."

Be kind to one another, friends, and love with all your hearts. Not one of us is promised tomorrow ... not one of us is promised today ... not one of us is promised our next breath. Live well, dear ones ... live well.


   

And God Sent a Dog

I should probably begin this post with a couple of disclaimers ... yep, I probably should ... so here goes. If you've never loved a dog as a member of your family, then you most likely won't get what I'm saying in this post. If you don't believe in God, then this post will most likely just piss you off. If the word piss offends you, then you're ... well ... you're pissed at me already. Should any of those statements/terms/conditions apply to you, you should probably skip tonight's post and check in again tomorrow. Oh, and by the way, everything in me is screaming for me to type these words regarding my previously listed disclaimers ... sorry, not sorry at ALL.

While the weather guys keep saying that the winter season is quickly approaching, I had a serious case of the doubts last Sunday when I was outside mowing my yard while wearing shorts and a t-shirt. It's not summertime hot here in KC by any means, but I've lived here long enough to know that Octobers can be bitterly cold and there can be a significant amount of snow in November. That's why when it's in the upper 50s and low 60s out here in the good old Midwest this time of year, you'll see tons of folks decked out in shorts, t-shirts and flip-flops. I know that some of my deep South pals are shaking in their winter snow boots just reading those words, by the way ... sorry, guys, but it's got to get below freezing out here before it's considered to be "cold." Unless, of course, it's in the upper 40s with a hefty dose of fierce Kansas winds ... that's flipping cold no matter where you live.

It was late last night when Ollie the wiener dog and I headed out for our walk ... it was late and it was chilly. Not chilly like I needed a coat over my long-sleeved t-shirt and Nike Therma-fit hoodie chilly, but chilly like I needed a long-sleeved t-shirt, my Nike Therma-fit hoodie, gloves and a stocking cap (that's a toboggan to my buddies back home) chilly. It was chilly enough that Ollie needed a sweater and windy enough that only one sweater would do ... his Christmas sweater with the hood. That crazy hound loves to wear sweaters, and he was more than a little excited when I grabbed his version of a hoodie off the hook in the garage. By the time we got to the end of our street, he was prancing like a show dog ... Christmas sweater with the hood pulled snugly over his ears, my Canada glow bracelet (another story for another time) clipped securely on his harness, tail wagging his body as he strutted and skipped down the road toward the trail. 

Since it was late, we walked our winter route around the high school ... the same school where a week or so ago, I was deeply touched by the chalk-written quotes that lined the sidewalks. I've been working long hours for the last few weeks, including a long stint last weekend, and I needed a good long walk ... the kind of walk where I turn off my brain and just walk. Yeah, right ... like I can ever get my brain to turn off. We had only been walking a few minutes when Ollie stopped and turned and ran back to me, putting his paws on my legs and jumping up wanting me to hold him. Thinking maybe he had stepped on something and hurt his paw, I lifted him up into my arms and tried to turn him around so that I could check his feet. Ollie, however, was having none of that ... he squirmed and twisted and whined until he finally ended up with his little head tucked up against my neck and his front paws resting on my shoulders. Every time I tried to put him down, he fought like a little warrior to remain snuggled up against me ... and each time I let him stay, he wagged his tail and licked my face.

Ollie eventually decided he was ready to walk again, and we spent the next 45 minutes hoofing it in the chilly night air. It wasn't until we turned to make our way home that I suddenly realized Ollie's snuggle time earlier was about way more than my little wiener dog being cold or needing some extra attention. See here's the thing ... over the last couple of weeks, I've been asking God some pretty tough questions. Questions about patience ... wisdom ... loneliness ... compassion ... happiness ... trust ... fear ... understanding ... direction ... friendship ... identity ... sadness ... love ... and about a million or so other things as well. I stopped dead in my tracks on the sidewalk, looked down at Ollie looking back at me and realized something ... I realized something big. The truth is I've been pretty darn pissed off at God because He's not answering my questions ... actually, what I'm really pissed off at Him about is that He's not just fixing things for me ... that He's not just fixing me.

I bent over and scooped Ollie back up into my arms and kissed his furry little face as my tears began to flow. And in that moment I knew ... I knew that God sent my little wiener dog with the only answer I really need to know.

"Love never gives up.
Love cares more for others than for self.
Love doesn't want what it doesn't have.
Love doesn't strut,
Doesn't have a swelled head,
Doesn't force itself on others,
Isn't always 'me first,'
Doesn't fly off the handle,
Doesn't keep score of the sins of others,
Doesn't revel when others grovel,
Takes pleasure in the flowering of truth,
Puts up with anything, 
Trusts God always,
Always looks for the best,
Never looks back,
But keeps going to the end.

Love never dies." --- 1 Corinthians 13: 3-7 from The Message

Ollie and I are going for a walk now ... you bet we are. Because sometimes, you know ... sometimes God sends a dog ... sometimes He does indeed.

The Boys Next Door

It's hard to believe it's been almost 15 years since I packed up my three teenagers Matt, Brad and Meghann, our big Dalmatian dog Ali and everything we owned and moved into the little house that's now home to me and Ollie the wiener dog. There are a ton of memories packed inside the walls of this house, and thankfully, most of them are good ones that cause me to smile when I remember them. It's quiet in my little house tonight ... except for the sound of Ollie snoring as he snoozes behind my back. But I remember a time when three extra wonderful and special teenagers laughed until they cried ... when they sang along to music so loud that it shook the windows ... when they danced and twirled until they made themselves dizzy ... when they baked cookies and made grilled cheese sandwiches and ate until they couldn't eat one more bite. They're the ones who made this house a home, you know ... those three crazy, goofy, funny kiddos of mine are the goobers who made this house a home.

While most of my neighbors are long-time residents of our neighborhood, the house directly next door to me is a rental property. I've lost count over the years of how many different families have lived there ... some I got to know well, and some I didn't know at all. Even though some of the families didn't live in the house for very long, I always wondered what their stories were ... where they came from, where they were going, what their lives were like away from the rental house. I feel bad that I didn't get to know them all, especially because my gut tells me that some of those families probably really needed to know that someone cared about them. I should have made them cookies ... I should have gotten to know them ... I should have slowed down and taken the time to be a friend to them. Why? Not only because they may have needed to know me, but because I may have needed to know them.

The family who currently lives in the house next door has been there for about a year or so, a young Hispanic family along with their beautiful brindle boxer pup. While I'd like to tell you that I'm the one who introduced myself to the family and welcomed them to our neighborhood, it was the dad of the family who introduced himself to me first. We've chatted from time to time when we've been out working in our yards or when Ollie and I head out for our evening walks. He's a hard-working young man who loves his wife and children more than life itself. I often see him tossing a football or playing soccer with his two sons while carrying his little girl on his hip. The little girl looks to be about two years old, and the boys are in their early teens ... he has two sons and a daughter ... just like me.

The two boys were shy when I first met them ... I'm pretty sure they haven't met a whole lot of gray-haired middle-aged gals in their short lives, so they were naturally a bit guarded in talking to me. They did, however, fall quickly in love with Ollie, and it wasn't long until they were waving and running over to pet my adorable little hound each time we headed down the street to go for a walk. It was fun for me to see the excitement in their eyes as they saw us approaching, and watching Ollie's tail wagging as fast as it could when he saw the boys always put a smile on my face. The boys are always polite and courteous to me ... always ... and they always ask if I've had a good day. Now remember, these two guys are young teenagers ... young teenagers with absolutely nothing to gain by being nice to the little old lady next door. And yet, every single time they see me, they always say one thing that lifts my spirits on even the darkest day.

"Hi, Terrie! It's so good to see you!"

One of these days, I'll tell the boys how much their greeting means to me, and I'll tell them how lucky I am that they are the boys next door. One of these days, I'll the boys how much better I think the world would be if we all felt that way about one another ... if we all could say, "It's so good to see you!" and really mean it. Think about it, friends ... really and truly think about the difference it could make to your families, your friends, your neighbors, your co-workers ... think about how much it could mean to them to hear you say those words. Think about how much it could mean to you to say them from your heart ... think about it ... really and truly think about it.

"It's so good to see you ... it's so very, very, very good to see you."

All Good Things

I'm sure most of you know that downtown Kansas City was the place to be on Tuesday afternoon. So much so that people were actually leaving their cars on the side of the interstate and hoofing it the rest of the way to Union Station. That's the place where the massive Kansas City Royals 2015 World Series parade culminated with a celebration ceremony honoring the players and coaches, while paying tribute to the loyalty of the, oh ... 800,000 or so fans who turned out for the festivities. I didn't attend the parade or the celebration, but I could hear the roar of the crowd through my office window and I was ... ummm ... blessed to be part of the enormous traffic jam that occurred following the event.

A couple of days later, it's difficult to determine if people are just exhausted from all the excitement of Tuesday's madness or if there's a touch of melancholy in the air ... a twinge of sadness because baseball season is over and the thirst for the boys in blue to bring home the crown has finally been quenched. I heard no chants of, "Let's go, Royals!" yesterday or today, and there were no sounds of honking horns or roaring crowds pulsing through my office window to interrupt the quietness of my workday. Rather than the sea of Royals shirts and caps that filled the city on Tuesday, yesterday and today found everyone dressed in their normal business or school attire. My rush hour commutes were back to their normal times, and there were no abandoned cars lining the sides of the interstate. As I drove home last night, I couldn't help but feel a little sad myself, and I'm not even really a baseball fan. The party had ended, the cheering had ceased and the crowds had disappeared. And as I drove home this evening, one phrase kept pounding in my head ... "All good things must come to an end."

If you've been reading along with me for any length of time at all, you won't be surprised that the first thing I did after I fed Ollie and ate some dinner myself was to hop on the Google to see what I could learn about the origin of that phrase. In doing so, I was the one who was surprised ... I never would have guessed that the phrase, or a version of it anyway, dates all the way back to 1374 and is attributed to Chaucer. The more I read about the phrase, the more curious I became ... not about the phrase itself, mind you, but about the reason so many of us accept it as an accurate depiction of the good things in life. And me being me, I became a bit obsessed with that thought and am now unable to remove it from my mind or scour it out of my heart. 

I mean, think about it ... really and truly think about it ... why do we say that? Why do we say that all good things must come to an end? There isn't a centuries-old saying we repeat that says, "Some good things might possibly have to come to an end sometime like a million years from now." Nope, there's not one of those sayings ... but there is one that states emphatically that every single good thing must come to an end. You want to know what I think? Actually, you probably don't, but this is my blog and that means I'm going to tell you anyway ... so there. I think that centuries-old phrase is crap ... yep ... I think it's a big old honking pile of doo-doo. I most certainly don't think all good things must come to an end ... things like the love I have for my children and my granddaughters ... things like friendships that last a lifetime ... things like having a caring and giving heart ... things like the memories I have of my parents or my brother Jerry ... things like compassion ... things like integrity ... things like honor ... things like faith ... things like loyalty ... things like respect ... things like love.

All good things must come to an end? Not true. In fact, I think just the opposite is true ... all good things must not come to an end, friends ... all good things most certainly must not ever come to an end.

Why They Won

Even though I'm not a huge baseball fan, I must admit that I've gotten caught up in World Series fever here in KC over the last couple of weeks. There are lots of things about this year's Kansas City Royals team that impress me, not the least of which is how much they care about each other both on and off the field. I listened with tears in my eyes as the players used words like "family" and "brothers" when they talked about their fellow teammates in interviews. As I watched their celebration last night after winning the Series, I decided I'd post a blog tonight about the personal connection that's so evident among the Royals players. But then I read my friend Jenne's post on Facebook today, and asked her if she'd be my guest blogger tonight. Because what she wrote is perfect. Because what she wrote is about so much more than a baseball team, friends ... so very, very much more.

"I'm an emotional gal. It's not surprising that I cried last night watching the Royals do what they promised and bring home "that trophy with all the little flags on it." But as I go through today I keep wondering, why? Why does it affect me so much? I'm not the only one, of course. Fellow fans, former doubters, announcers, heck, all of baseball it seems, can see there is something special about this team. My opinion? I think it might just come down to one word. Love.

Deep down we all want to believe love matters. That it doesn't just enhance relationships, but that it changes things. In big, big ways. We all have skills. We all have talents. And we all have gaps in our skills and limits to our talents. Somewhere deep in our hearts we are searching for something to bridge that gap. That something is love.

When we were watching the Royals, we weren't just watching skilled technicians. We were watching men who cared about each other, who had each other's backs. Who relied on love to fill the gaps. We weren't watching the third baseman throw to first, we were watching Moose throw to Hoz and we'd watch after the play to see the finger point across the diamond. We never watched "the catcher," we watched our beloved Salvy. LoCain, BenZie, Esco - we know them, we know their families, we care about them because they care about each other. We know the special hand gestures of players - sky points, hat tips, vroom vroom motions - and we love the. During games, we'd mimic those gestures maybe never noticing that when a base was stolen, a play executed, a run scored, the gestures were never for us, the fans. They were motioned toward the dugout. They were for each other.

We all want to believe character matters. We see it quoted on classroom chalkboards and conference room walls. We want to think if we fall down, get behind, lose traction, that something will pull us up. We love this team not just because they are great ball players, but because they are great friends. And they make the little person inside of us believe that love really does matter. Is there a place for love in big league play? Among the sweat and fight and money and competition? One gal's opinion: I think the Royals proved that there is.

Love really does win.

Well done, boys. Now come on home."

The Writing on the Walks

By the time I got home from work last night, the sun was already low on the horizon and the dark of the night was beginning to edge its way into the sky. I changed clothes, gulped down a couple of bites of peanut butter, grabbed Ollie and headed out for a walk. Looking at the fading sun, I decided to go ahead and walk on the trail, hoping that the dark wouldn't come too soon. I'm not sure that Ollie likes it when I'm in "Hurry up, Ollie, it's getting dark" mode ... it sure seems like he walks slower when I say those words. We had only walked about 15 minutes when the darkness tumbled in around us, so we turned and headed back toward home.

Yesterday was a long day, and I was mentally, emotionally and physically worn out when I got home. So much so that when we reached our street after our brief little walk, all I wanted to do was go home, eat some yogurt and go to bed. Ollie, however, made it abundantly clear that he wasn't finished walking by firmly planting himself on the sidewalk and refusing to move.

"I know I should keep walking, Ollie," I said to my determined little wiener dog. "But I've had a hard day, buddy, and I just want to go home and pull the covers over my head for a while."

I tugged on Ollie's leash, but he wouldn't budge. He just sat there looking up at me with his beautiful brown eyes, wagging his cute little tail and letting me know that he fully intended for us to keep on walking.

"Okay, buddy, we'll walk some more, but not far ... deal?"

I thought Ollie's tail was going to wag right off his butt as he jumped up and ran ahead of me ... this time he was the one tugging me along as I held onto his leash. We walked along the sidewalk on our usual "after it gets too dark to walk on the trail" route, and I smiled as Ollie knowingly trotted onto the drive that leads to the high school. Normally, we would walk around to the back parking lot at the school, but like I said, I was tired last night so I steered Ollie to the sidewalk that wraps around the front of the school. As we stepped up onto the sidewalk, I noticed some writing on the concrete surface beneath my feet. It caught my attention because it was a quote ... a quote that included the words, "pint-sized Godzilla" which immediately made me think of my granddaughter Amelie because the nickname her father has so graciously bestowed upon her is "Baby Zilla." I pulled out my phone and took a photo of the chalky quote so that I could send it to my daughter-in-law, and as the camera flashed, I noticed there was another quote a few feet farther along the sidewalk ... and then another and another and another and another.

I'm not sure how long Ollie and I spent on the sidewalk last night as I walked along reading the quotes and snapping pictures of them, but I do know that I bawled like a baby the entire time. Some of the quotes were funny ... some were silly ... some were sad ... some were soul-searchingly deep ... some made no sense to me at all. I cried because the quotes made me think about my old quote post at work ... I cried because some of the quotes hit very close to home for me ... I cried because I thought about the students who had written them and wondered why they chose the particular quotes that they did. When Ollie and I finally headed toward home, I knew it wasn't an accident that we ended up walking that way last night ... it was no accident at all. You see, it's raining tonight ... the rain is washing all the chalky quotes away. The quotes that must have been placed on the concrete walk yesterday since they weren't smudged or worn ... on the night that Ollie wasn't finished walking ... on the night I randomly chose to walk in front of the school rather than behind it ... on the night before the rain came and washed them all away. As surely as I'm typing this post, I was meant to walk that exact path last night and I was meant to see those quotes.

Maybe ... just maybe ... some of you are meant to see them, too.