All Things Being Equal

Before you read my post this evening, there's something you should know ... I'm mad. Not mad like insane, although I suppose insane does apply to me more often than not, but mad like angry. While insanity is just a hop and a skip away for me on any given day, it's rare that I get genuinely, full-on mad about something or at someone. It takes a lot to make me mad ... a whole, whole lot, and it takes even more for me to get mad enough to actually voice, or write as the case may be, my mad. And since I flew off the handle and voiced my mad to a couple of my neighbors already, I figured I might as well go ahead and write about my mad, too ... why not, right? So, grab a cup of coffee and settle in if you think you're up to reading what I have to say ... actually, if you drink coffee this late it will keep you awake so maybe grab a glass of almond milk instead ... I sure as heck don't want to be responsible for causing you to lose any sleep tonight.

I drive a Subaru Legacy and I love it ... not as much as I loved my Jeep Wrangler, mind you, but I do love my Subie. Just like I've loved every one of the Subarus I've owned down through the years. And just so you know, when I bought my first Subaru Outback, I had no idea that Subaru was one of the first car companies to actively market to the LGBT community. I bought my Outback because I had three kids and all their gear to haul back and forth to a million events, and because Subarus are known for their durability and their all-wheel drive and safe handling on wet or snowy roads. Minus the kids and hauling gear around, I bought my Subaru Legacy for the same reasons ... period. Trust me ... I looked much gayer driving my Jeep Wrangler with the top down and my ball cap turned around backwards than I could ever hope to look driving my Subaru Legacy sedan, even with the sunroof open and Jennifer Knapp blaring on the radio.

After our walk earlier this evening, Ollie and I hopped into the car to run up to the pharmacy to pick up a couple of my meds ... by the way, I don't think it's necessarily a good thing that every single person who works in the pharmacy knows me by name and says, "Hi, Terrie! What's up? Where's Ollie?" whenever I come in. I left Ollie in the car tonight while I went inside the store because I had left his leash at home, and when I came out after getting my medications, I noticed there was a teenage boy standing next to my car peeking through the window. Thinking he must be looking at my adorable little wiener dog, when I got close enough so that he could hear me, I said, "He's a cutie, isn't he?" The boy smiled warmly as he said, "He sure is ... my sister drove a Forester for a while until our dad found out they are gay cars and made her sell it. But I still want a WRX when I move out even if they are gay." 

Lest you think I took a swing at the teenager right there in the middle of the CVS parking lot, I assure you I did not. Once I realized the kid didn't seem to notice or care that I was wearing basketball shorts and a ball cap or that I was holding a guy wallet in my hand, we ended up having quite a nice chat about cars. It was quite obvious to me that the boy didn't feel the same way his father did, and it wasn't what the kid said that made me mad ... what made me mad was realizing that his dad is one of many who are attempting to teach their children to hate. That's why I'm mad, and the more I've thought about it, the more angry and mad I've gotten. On the day when the Supreme Court began debating the constitutionality of same-sex marriages, I'm standing in a pharmacy parking lot in Johnson County, Kansas, talking to a 17-year-old kid whose father sold his sister's car after reading somewhere that LGBT folks are six times more likely to buy a Subaru than their heterosexual counterparts. I personally think the reason people in the LGBT community are more likely to purchase a Subaru is because they are smart enough to know that Subarus are great cars. In fact, if they're anything like me, my sexuality had absolutely nothing to do with me purchasing a Subaru and absolutely everything to do with quality, workmanship, gas mileage and butt warmers ... it had a whole heck of a lot to do with the butt warmers for sure.

So here's the thing ... and pay extra close attention to this part ... I don't drive a gay car and I don't gay park it in my gay garage. I don't put gay gas in it, and I don't take it to the gay car wash. I don't have a gay phone or a gay refrigerator or a gay desk. I don't read a gay Bible, and I don't love a gay God. The gel I put in my hair isn't gay, and I don't use gay soap when I take a shower. I don't drink gay tea or eat gay lunch. I'm not a gay mom or a gay Ghee or a gay sister or a gay aunt. I don't even wear gay clothes (though many of you will disagree with me on that one). I'm not a gay friend. I drive a car, and I park in my garage. I put gas in my car and I take it to the car wash. I have a phone and a refrigerator and a desk. I read the Bible, and I love God. I put hair gel in my hair each morning, and I shower with soap. I drink tea and I eat lunch. I am a mom, a Ghee, a sister, an aunt. I wear clothes. I'm a friend.

All things being equal ... sometimes I wonder if they ever will be, friends ... sometimes I wonder if they ever will be.

Quitters Sometimes Win

There are a lot of things I can't seem to remember these days ... important things like whether or not I turned off the stove or unplugged the iron or where I put my keys or what day of the week it is or whether I've eaten anything or if I've taken my medications. But I do remember in vivid detail playing softball when I was a teenager on a team that won three consecutive championships. I'm pretty darn sure that remembering important things like stoves and irons and car keys and days of the week and food and pills is way more important than remembering all those softball games from more than 30 years ago. Even so, I can't remember if I ate lunch today or where I tossed my keys when I got home tonight, but I remember what the dirt of the infield felt like on my cleats ... I remember the thud of the bat as it made contact with the ball ... I remember the pain of getting smacked in the neck by a hard-hit line drive ... I remember the smell of the oil on my glove. There's a lesson there, you know ... when I forget what's important and remember what's not ... there's a big lesson there, friends, a really big lesson there.

A few nights ago, a friend joined Ollie and I for our evening walk ... a friend I met on the trail just a few days after my little fat buddy wiener dog J.R. died. She's quite a few years younger than me ... seems like everyone I know these days is quite a few years younger than me. She's married to a really great guy, has two beautiful, amazing and talented children, and is truly one of the kindest, most caring people I've ever known. She lives one street over from me and she's the one who will lead the charge on digging me and my sweet dogs out of the basement should a tornado ever hit my house ... no really, she promised. We talk about all sorts of things when we walk together, and she has this wonderful gift of being able to get me to smile even on my darkest of days. She talks when I need to listen and she listens when I need to talk, and I'm so very blessed to call her my friend.

As we neared the end of our walk the other night, my friend began talking about her teenage daughter, saying, "I think my kid learned a big life lesson last week." She related the story of what had happened at her daughter's basketball game a few days earlier, telling me how angry her daughter was as they drove home after the game. After much prodding, her daughter finally told her that the coach had called her a loser ... yep, you read that right ... the adult coach called my friend's kid a loser because they were behind in the game. There's so much I could say about that jerk-face coach, but he's not worth my time nor the effort it would take to type out the choice words I have for him. It's my friend's kid who deserves the spotlight in my post this evening, not some arrogant, mean, condescending jerk.

After telling her mom what the coach had said to her, my friend's kid calmly said, "I'm quitting the team ... I'm quitting. I won't be treated that way, Mom ... he can't talk to me like that." As my friend went on to tell me that she and her daughter's father had discussed the situation and agreed they would support their daughter's decision, all I could say over and over again was, "Good for her and good for you guys." And as my friend and I said goodbye that evening and Ollie and I turned to make our way home, the tears I had been fighting to hold back spilled from my eyes, streamed down my cheeks and dripped onto the front of my shirt. I picked Ollie up and cradled him in my arms as I whispered into his furry little ear, "Good for her for standing up and saying no more, Ollie, and good for her parents for being behind her all the way. Good for them, Ollie, good for them."

Now here's the thing, friends ... there are some of you who are reading this post and you're fuming mad right now, and you're fussing and cussing and saying that kids shouldn't be allowed to quit a sports team just because a coach gets after them or calls them names. You're steaming mad at me for saying I agree with my friend's kid and I most definitely agree with her parents ... just go ahead and take your place in that big old long line with all the other people who are mad at me about something I've said or done or haven't said or done. But while you're stewing and fuming, think about this ... fast forward a few years and let's say my friend's kid is dating a boy who suddenly becomes verbally or even physically abusive to her ... should she quit seeing him? Would it be okay to quit then? What's that you say? That's different? Just how is that different? Really ... tell me just how that's different.

And one more thing since some of you are already mad at me anyway ... I think the world would be a much better place if more parents supported their kids the way my friend and her kid's dad supported their daughter ... a much, much, much better place. Yes, I've heard the phrase a gazillion times, too ... "Quitters never win, and winners never quit." I disagree ... quitters sometimes win in a big, big way ... sometimes quitters win in a bigger way than we ever dream possible.

Go get 'em, kiddo ... something tells me you're going to change the world ... something tells me you already are.

Can't Buy Me Love

So tell the truth ... when you read the title of this post, what was your first thought? The famous song recorded by The Beatles in 1964? The high school coming of age movie released in 1987 starring a young Patrick Dempsey and an even younger Amanda Peterson? Yet another whiny, feeling sorry for myself discourse listing all the miserable reasons why it appears I am destined to remain single for the rest of my life? Or ... remember ... we're telling the truth here ... did some of you think perhaps I had attempted to buy my way into someone's heart only to discover that even cold hard cash doesn't do me any good when it comes to love and romance? And for the record, I couldn't afford to attempt to buy the love of a stray dog right now much less that of another person, so no worries on me driving a DeLorean a la Richard Gere style in Pretty Woman being the hidden meaning behind the title for this evening's post.

I did something this morning I usually only do if I'm sick or so depressed that being asleep is far more bearable than being awake ... I woke up at 7:30, let my dogs outside to potty, fed them their breakfast and then promptly went back to bed, fell asleep and slept until almost noon. Despite the fact that my yard was a foot high, that I had three loads of laundry to fold, food to cook and a stack of clothes to iron, I fixed myself a protein shake and sat down on the couch and turned on the television, and that's where I remained for the next couple of hours. I remember my kids watching the movie "Can't Buy Me Love" when they were teenagers ... they were teenagers after all ... but there is absolutely no justifiable reason as to why I watched the last hour of the movie after I finally woke up today. But that's exactly what I did, and you know what? That crazy teenage movie had some big lessons in it for me ... some really, really big lessons indeed.

It's especially intriguing to me that those reminder lessons came to me the day after my daughter and son-in-law took me to see "Woman in Gold" ... a movie about an elderly Jewish survivor of the Holocaust who sues the Austrian government for the return of treasured artwork that was stolen from her family by the Nazis during World War II. As I sat in the theater watching the story unfold before me on the screen, my heart ached for the Jewish people ... for the terror forced upon them ... for the inhumane and despicable treatment they received ... for the agonizing knowledge that for most, death would be their only means of escape ... for the inexplicable judgment they suffered simply for being who they were.

As I was mowing the lawn today, it struck me that it doesn't matter whether it's high school kids or church members or co-workers or leaders of countries ... nothing good ever comes from labels or categories or exclusivity or judgment ... absolutely nothing good. Young people end their lives every day because they feel like they don't fit in. Churches split because they can't agree on the "correct" interpretation of Scripture. Employees leave their jobs because they feel excluded or they don't receive a promotion. And leaders of countries? That's a can of worms I'm too tired and too smart to even begin to open tonight.

So here's the thing, friends ... it's time to stop. I believe with all my heart that we are all the same in God's eyes ... every single one of us is the same in His eyes. No groups, no cliques, no labels, no divisions, no hate, no rankings, no categories ... I believe with all my heart that we are all the same in His eyes. And you know what else I believe with all my heart? I believe He wants us to look at one another the same way ... no groups, no cliques, no labels, no divisions, no hate, no rankings, no categories. Go ahead and ponder that for a while ... maybe even ponder that one for a good long while.

Oh and for the record, you don't buy love ... you give it away.

Trucks Have Feelings, Too

Perhaps one of the most exciting events in a teenager's life is that magical day when they receive their driver's license. It's like they're handed the keys to the kingdom of freedom and independence ... they have finally arrived in the faraway land of adulthood, and they flipping can't wait to hop in the car and go careening down the road of life. I find it so interesting that the event many teenagers consider to be the greatest they've experienced in their lives up to that point is the one rite of passage that most parents dread and try to delay as long as they possibly can. I'm totally sure I'm not the only one who remembers taking the driving test all those years ago ... I'm also relatively sure I'm the only person on earth who had to take that test in a lime green pickup truck. That's right ... my dad make me take the driving part of the test in his truck ... his disgustingly ugly lime green pickup truck. It would have been way too easy to let me drive Mom's sporty little Honda Accord to the testing facility ... no, no ... Daddy insisted I drive the truck we are referred to as "The Vomit Green Special."

One of the guys who lives in the rental house next door to me drives a pickup truck, and he always parks the truck on the street in front of his house facing toward the trail where Ollie and I go for walks. That means I see the back of the truck as we are heading out for our walk and I see the front of the truck as we head back home. I can't begin to tell you what make or model the truck is nor can I tell you exactly what color it is ... the best I can come up with is it's a big truck and it's a dark color. I've walked back and forth past that truck tons of times ... I should know what kind of truck it is and I should most certainly know what color it is, but I don't know either of those things. You know why I don't know those very basic facts about the truck? Because the only thing I see every time I pass that truck is the license plate ... out of all the things I could and should notice about that truck, all I see is the license plate. And the reason I see that license plate and nothing else is because it's a personalized tag ... a personalized tag that has haunted me since the first time I saw it. There's only one word on the plate and it's a real word, not one of those combination letters and numbers deals that takes a rocket scientist to decipher what it means.

Tonight when Ollie and I turned the corner and headed up our street, I once again saw the truck with its license plate staring back at me. I stopped and stared at the plate, and that's when it hit me ... what if people had to wear license plates? Not an actual license plate but some sort of identifier ... a visible and tangible method of identifying how we are feeling or what we are thinking. What if the person sitting next to you on the bus had a personalized license plate around their neck that said "AFRAID"? What if a cashier at Walmart had one that said "BROKEN"? What if an elderly man at the doctor's office had a plate that said "DYING"? What if a person in your office was wearing a license plate that said "OUTSIDER"? What if a friend's plate said "UNTRUSTWORTHY"? I wonder if we would treat each other differently ... I wonder if we would take better care of each other? I wonder if we would listen more ... honor more ... respect more ... give more ... love more? I wonder if we would be less judgmental ... less gossipy ... less hateful ... less jealous ... less petty? I wonder if we would finally get it ... if we would finally learn ... if we would finally understand?

The license plate on my neighbor's truck is a daily reminder to me ... it reminds me to look deeper into the eyes of the person who's talking to me ... it reminds me to pray for all the lonely people in the world ... it reminds me to pay attention to what isn't said (maybe even more than what is) ... it reminds me that every single person has feelings and emotions that need to be seen and heard ... it reminds me that we're all trucks in one way or another and that trucks have feelings, too.

Pay attention to the people around you and take a long, hard look at their license plate ... remember that trucks have feelings, too ... every make, every model, every color, every size ... trucks have feelings, too, friends ... trucks have feelings, too.

Oh Girl. Do You See?

Every once in a while, things happen that make me feel as though I'm living in an episode of The Twilight Zone ... like over the last week and a half or so due to several completely random and totally unexpected encounters with my past. This surreal, almost creepy, chain of events began with my nephew Charlie sending me a photo of my dad and I together that I'd never seen before. I look to be about 3 years old in the picture, and when I posted it on Facebook, I was inundated with messages saying how much my granddaughter Coraline looks like me at that age. That's so weird because when I saw the picture, it reminded me of my granddaughter Amelie. Either way, bless their little hearts, I certainly hope they outgrow any resemblance they have to me as they get older. But back to the photo ... I cried like a baby when I first saw it ... okay ... I cry every single time I look at it. My nephew didn't know when he sent it to me that I'd never seen the picture ... he didn't know that he was giving me such an incredible gift. I don't know that I remember anything from when I was 3 years old, but that old black and white photo sure paints a picture for me ... a picture that makes me long to know the story behind it.

A couple of days after the 50-something-year-old photo of Daddy and I arrived via email, I received a friend request on Facebook from someone I haven't heard from in ... well, honestly, I'm not sure how long it's been since I heard from this lady. I do know, however, that I haven't seen her in person for close to 40 years. I recognized her name the minute I clicked on the request ... she was my piano teacher, and her husband was the pastor of the little Baptist church we attended when I was growing up. My mind flooded with memories as I accepted her request and began looking at the photos on her page ... I remember babysitting her sons ... geez, I really am old. She sent me a lengthy message filling me in on the events of her life over the past years, some happy and some sad. I can't even begin to tell you how much this dear woman influenced me as a teenager ... she was wise beyond her years, kind to a fault, loving and compassionate to everyone she met, and one heck of a great musician. I was beyond shocked to hear from her after all these years ... it's crazy, but in a way, her reaching out to me couldn't have come at a better time. I'm not sure why, but it sort of feels like coming home ... I can't explain it or rationalize it or understand it, but it really does feel like coming home.

Last Thursday was one of "those" days for me ... just a cruddy day all the way around from the time I opened my eyes that morning until I climbed into bed that night. By the time 5:30 rolled around, all I wanted to do was go home, gulp down some dinner and take Ollie the wiener dog for a long walk. Considering the cruddiness of my day up to that point, it shouldn't have surprised me at all that there were three accidents on the interstate on my drive home which caused bumper-to-bumper traffic for my entire commute ... lovely, just lovely. It was almost two hours later when Ollie and I finally headed out to walk, and by then my mood was even worse than it had been when I woke up. I was deep in thought as I stepped on the second wooden bridge Ollie and I cross as we walk on the trail, and I thought I heard someone call my name. I looked in both directions and didn't see anyone, so I tugged on Ollie's leash and said, "Well, that's just great, Ollie boy ... now I'm hearing voices."

I was about halfway across the bridge when I most definitely heard someone shout, "Terrie!! I'm down here ... I'm in the creek!" I peered over the railing and saw two teenage girls wading in the water, and one of them was waving furiously at me. I didn't recognize either of the girls, so I shouted down to the one who was waving, "Who are you?" She was already out of the creek and running up the hill toward me when she told me who she was ... and I was already fighting back the tears as she wrapped her arms around me and hugged me tightly. It's been more than two years since I've seen her ... two long years of hurt and regret because I didn't get to say goodbye to her or the other kids at church ... two long years of wondering what she and the others had been told was the reason for my departure ... two long years of missing my young friend and her family. It was good to see her again, but it was hard at the same time ... I loved that kiddo like one of my own children, and words can't begin to communicate how much I miss her.

The photo of my dad and I generated a lot of comments and messages when I posted it on Facebook, including one from my friend Jenne. My eyes immediately filled with tears when I read her words, but it wasn't until I received the unexpected friend request and had the random encounter with my young friend that I understood just how deep and meaningful Jenne's comment really was.

"Oh girl. Do you see? You are loved."

When I looked at that old photo of Daddy and me, the first thing I noticed was the serious expression on my 3-year-old face. When Jenne looked at that old photo, she saw the love in Daddy's eyes as he looked at me and the love in his hands as he held me safely in his arms. I looked at that photo and wondered what thoughts were going through my mind ... Jenne looked at that photo and marveled at the love that was flowing through my dad's heart. 

"Oh girl. Do you see? You are loved."

When I clicked on the friend request from the pastor's wife from my teenage years, my first thought was, "She doesn't know about me ... she wouldn't have sent me a friend request if she knew about me." I have no idea if she knows, but I do know this ... at some point in my life, she loved me. For her to want to reconnect with me means she was thinking of me ... it means she remembers me ... it means there was a time when she loved me as if I were part of her own family ... it means she once loved me enough to search for me and reach out to me after all these years.

"Oh girl. Do you see? You are loved."

When my young friend told me who she was and hugged me tightly, the first thought that exploded into my mind was, "Does she know? What did they tell her when I left? Will she judge me? Does she hate me?" The first thing she said last Thursday evening when she wrapped her arms around my neck was, "I miss you so much, Terrie." There was a time when that sweet kiddo was like my shadow ... there was a time when she was like one of my own children ... there was a time when she loved me to pieces. For her to call out my name ... for her to hug me again and again ... for her to listen as I apologized for not telling her goodbye ... for her to want to talk to me ... there was indeed a time when that precious little girl loved me.

There's not a doubt in my mind that Jenne's comment was about so much more than the decades-old photo of my dad and I ... not one single tiny shred of doubt in my mind, friends ... not one.

"Oh girl. Do you see? You are loved."

You Do Not Talk About Fight Club

One of the things I don’t like about flying … yes, I said “one of the things” because there are many things that contribute to my severe aversion of being in an airplane … one of the things I really, really, really don’t like is when my ears feel as though they are going to explode (or implode as the case may be). I hate, hate, hate that feeling … that feeling of pressure inside my head that simply will not go away no matter how many times I swallow or yawn or how hard I chomp my gum or how much water I drink. Side note … drinking all that water in an attempt to get my ears to stop hurting only serves to make me need to pee and I absolutely, positively, adamantly, without the tiniest shred of any doubt refuse to pee on an airplane and I’m pretty sure I would let my colon explode before I would poop on an airplane … seriously … where does that pee and poop go anyway? Wait … how did I go from ear pain to peeing and pooping on an airplane? Oh … drinking water to get my ears to depressurize … trust me, I’m scared of the way my brain works, too. So back to my aching ears on a plane thing … I really do hate it, and you know why? Because it hurts, of course … duh … but another big part of why I hate it is because there’s not one darn thing I can do to change it. It hurts like heck and I am completely and totally helpless in making it stop.

I’ve been thinking a lot over the course of the last couple of days about hurt and helplessness … about which of the two is the most difficult for me to deal with … and I’ve come to the astute and profound conclusion that I really don’t much like either one of them. And … I’d be willing to bet there are a ton of you who feel exactly the same way. During the course of my thinking, I’ve decided that perhaps the two are entwined, braided together like a thick, heavy rope. I think it may well be impossible for hurt to survive without feeling at least a little helpless … I mean really … who would hurt or allow themselves to be hurt if they felt they had the power to stop it? And I think it’s impossible to feel helpless and not have it be accompanied by hurt … it hurts both emotionally and physically when people feel helpless to help themselves or someone else. At least that’s true for me anyway … when I’m hurt, more often than not, I feel helpless, and when I feel helpless, it just plain old hurts to know there’s nothing I can do to make it go away.

Last Saturday night, I was channel surfing in an attempt to find something that would hold my attention for more than five minutes … don’t judge me … it was one of those nights when I needed a distraction from another weekend at home alone. I came across a movie I haven’t seen in a really long time, a movie I remember watching with my sons … “Fight Club” starring Edward Norton and Brad Pitt. The film certainly wouldn’t make it into my all-time favorite movies list because it’s too violent for my taste, but I will say that the storyline is quite intriguing to me … intriguing enough that I sat on my couch until the wee hours watching the entire movie. Even though I’ve seen the movie several times, I was especially struck in my most recent viewing by the reveal near the end of the film. The character played by Pitt, Tyler Durden, existed only within the mind of Norton’s character, whose name remains a mystery throughout the film. Durden was nothing more than an insomnia-induced attempt by Norton’s character to fight back … to not be helpless … to push through the hurt … to win.

If you’ve been reading along with me for a while, you know I’m not a fighter … I usually do one of two things when it comes to confrontation … run like the wind or get my butt kicked. Actually, now that I think about it, there are lots of times when I try my best to run and I still end up getting my butt kicked. I do everything I possibly can to avoid fighting with anyone, but I beat the living crap out of myself every day. I have my own personal Fight Club going on inside my mind all the time … seriously … all the flipping time. I’m not good enough, am I? I’ll never measure up, will I? I’m not smart enough, am I? I can’t help anyone, can I? I’m not worthy of being loved, am I? I don’t deserve to be happy, do I? I’ll never fit in, will I? And just like Norton’s character being the only one who gets hurt in his self-inflicted Fight Club in the movie, the only person who gets hurt in my own personal Fight Club is me. And here’s the thing, friends … if I spend all my time and energy fighting against myself, there’s not much left in me when I need to stand up and fight for the people and things that matter most. If I’m focused on my own personal Fight Club, I don’t see or hear or understand the truth … I can’t help others if I’m only fighting myself.

There’s only one way to close tonight’s post … of course there is only one way, friends … of course there is indeed.

Rules of Fight Club:

1st Rule: You do not talk about Fight Club.
2nd Rule: You DO NOT talk about Fight Club.
3rd Rule: If someone says "stop," goes limp or taps out, the fight is over.
4th Rule: Only two guys to a fight.
5th Rule: One fight at a time.
6th Rule: No shirts, no shoes.
7th Rule: Fights will go on as long as they have to.
8th Rule: If this is your first night at Fight Club, you HAVE to fight.

Let Them Eat Cake

Last night I read a bunch of emails, and because of what many of those emails said, I feel this evening's post needs a disclaimer ... a whole lot of you are going to disagree with some or most or all of what you're about to read. And guess what? Not only will I not be upset with you for disagreeing with me, you have the right to do so. In fact, you have the right to choose not to ever read another word I write if that's what you want to do. I don't say that to be mean or harsh in any way, I'm simply stating the truth ... you don't have to read what I write if you don't want to read it ... you have the choice to read or not read, it's completely up to you. Now, on to my subject for the evening ... those emails I read last night.

I'm always amazed by the number of emails I receive asking me to weigh in on particular social or religious issues ... as if my opinion makes any difference whatsoever in regard to the eventual outcomes regarding those issues. You credit me as having the ability to sway public opinion ... seriously, have you read my blog? Last night I wrote about my wiener dog barking when he poops in our yard. Trust me when I say I have no more ability to change the way people think or act than I do to make Ollie stop barking when he poops. Do I hope my words help a few folks in some way? Of course I do. Do I sometimes voice my opinion on certain issues? Sure I do, especially when I get angry over injustice or lack of compassion or the absence of common human decency and respect for our fellowman. Are there tons of things I don't write about for fear of offending someone or the repercussions that may come my way if I do? You better believe it ... I get enough hate mail as it is for the things I do write. And for the record, when I do wade in and voice my opinion on some of the more heated topics, it's not without having pondered and mulled over and contemplated every single word I write.

Unless you live off the grid in the middle of the desert under a gigantic rock, you probably know that a lot of people are really upset about the religious freedom bill that was passed in Indiana a couple of weeks ago. I read a lot of emails last night telling me I needed to write a post blasting Christian retailers who believe they have the right to refuse to provide services or sell products to folks who are gay because of their religious convictions. I read a lot of emails last night telling me I needed to write a post blasting people in the LGBT community who believe they are being discriminated against. I read a lot of emails last night telling me I needed to write a post in which I choose a side ... a post in which I take a stand ... a post in which I condemn one or the other, Christians or gays. Sorry to disappoint a lot of you, but I respectfully decline.

What I will do, however, is tell you about an experience I had last Saturday. I went to the post office to mail a package, and I was wearing jeans and a dress shirt ... no tie, but I did have on suspenders and Converse shoes. I waited in line until the next available post office employee motioned for me to come to the counter. The employee looked to be in her early 40s ... well-groomed with light brown hair, manicured nails, fancy earrings and dark red lipstick. She barely glanced at me when I placed my package on the counter in front of her as she said, "What can I do for you today, sir?" It's not like that's the first time I've been called sir, and most of the time I just let it go. But last week was a hard week on the being okay with who I am front, and I calmly but firmly said, "I'm a maam, not a sir." The young woman then looked up from weighing my package, gave me one of those up and down looks and said, "Oh ... well you look like a man the way you're dressed and with your hair." Even though I wanted to say so much more ... so very, very much more ... I lowered my head and said quietly, "Well, I'm not." Her only reply was a condescending shake of her head as she told me how much my postage was ... she offered no apology, no thank you, no "Have a nice day." I paid and ducked out the door before the tears I had been trying desperately to blink back began coursing down my cheeks.

So to those of you who wrote to me, here's what I have to say ... I know. I know what it is to have faith in God, because I do. I know what it is to have strong family values, because I do. I know what it is to fight for what you believe in, because I do. But you know what else I know? I know what it is to not be the same as other women, because I'm not. I know what it is to not fit in, because I don't. I know what it is to be different, because I am. I know what it is to be shunned, because I have been.

Want to know what I want? Want to know what I really, really, really want? I want to wake up tomorrow and have people care more about each other's hearts than they do about each other's wallets. I want to wake up tomorrow and have people care more about love than hate. I want to wake up tomorrow and have people care more about each other's spirits than they do each other's clothes. I want to wake up tomorrow and have people care more about the millions of starving children than they do about buying or selling wedding cakes. I want to wake up tomorrow and have you be you and me be me and that be good enough.

I never liked cake anyway. So there.



  

The Barking Pooper

If you clicked on my blog tonight with the hope of reading a well thought out, soulfully written post filled with wisdom and life lessons ... wait a sec ... you do realize you're reading my blog, right? While I may have written a post or two here and there that may have come close to meeting those lofty expectations ... and I would like to hope the possibility exists that I may write another one or two in my lifetime ... I feel the need to assure you that tonight's post is most definitely not one of them. Nope, tonight's post isn't about anything substantial or wise or astounding or insightful ... tonight's post is about a certain wiener dog named Oliver.

For those of you who don't know Ollie's story, his last stop before taking up residence with Julie and me was in prison. That's right ... my sweet little wiener dog is an ex-con. I wish I could in good conscience tell you that Mr. Oliver was arrested for robbing a bank or impersonating Lassie or being a dapper international jewel thief, but alas those would all be untrue and I wouldn't be able to live with myself if I didn't tell you the truth. While it is true that Ollie did time in the big house, his stay in the pen was due to a marvelous group of people who rescued him from a very abusive house. And yes, house is the correct word ... there is no way on earth I will ever call the place Ollie was rescued from a home. A home is a place where love lives, not a building where a horrible person thinks it's okay to put a little dog's face into the fire and burn him. No way, no how will I ever call that despicable place a home. The folks from Safe Harbor Prison Dogs quite literally saved my little Ollie boy's life ... he was one sick and injured wiener dog when they rescued him and placed him in the care of a prisoner who nursed him back to health. Once the dogs in the prison program get well, Safe Harbor helps them find good and loving homes ... not houses, but homes.

I have no idea if Ollie's odd pooping behavior was something he picked up during his time in prison or if it's something he has done since birth. I do know, however, that I've had lots of dogs over the years and I've never had one that barked when he or she pooped. Until Oliver, that is ... that crazy dog barks when he poops like he's making some sort of grand declaration to the world that he's the best pooper in all the land. But get this ... Ollie barks when he poops in our yard but not when we're out walking. In fact, not only does he not bark if he poops away from our house, he seems completely oblivious to anything or anyone around him. Reason would dictate that it would be just the opposite, right? Reason and logic would say that Ollie wouldn't bark in his own territory at his own home, but rather when he's in an unfamiliar area. Oliver Chance Johnson, however, cares little to nothing about logic and reason, and he happily continues to bark when he poops ... but only when he poops at home.

Now I know what some of you are thinking ... you're thinking, "Come on, Terrie, we know you've got some fantastic gem of wisdom for us ... some awesome life lesson you've learned from Ollie's barking pooping behavior." Well ... here's the thing ... ummm ... well ... here's the thing ... nope, I got nothing ... absolutely nothing. Except the star of tonight's post sleeping next to me on the couch ... snoring ... and quite probably dreaming of robbing banks or impersonating famous television dogs or pulling off the biggest jewel heist of all time. And barking when he poops ... I'm sure he's dreaming of barking when he poops. But only when he poops at home ... only when he poops at home.

The Jerk in the Silver Volvo

Every morning and every evening for the past month, I've been asking myself the same question as I drive to and from work ... why in the world would city officials think it's even remotely reasonable or rational to close half the lanes of one of the most heavily traveled interstates during rush hour for several months? I mean seriously ... Kansas City is considered to be a pretty major city, and there are a whole bunch of major cities that somehow manage to rig up lights and do most of their road construction at night to minimize the impact on morning and evening commuters. Since the lane closures began a couple of weeks ago, my drive time into work has almost doubled ... I can only imagine how long it will be if we get stormy weather this week like the weather guys are predicting. Stormy weather ... uggghhh ... I really don't like stormy weather, and I really, really, really don't like driving in heavy traffic in stormy weather. But I digress ... back to my topic for this evening ... the jerk in the silver Volvo.

In the 20 or so years that I've been commuting back and forth to downtown KC, I don't think I've ever seen such a display of road rage as I did this morning on my way to work. A young woman driving a black Mercedes started to change lanes and didn't (or more likely couldn't) see the silver Volvo in the lane she was attempting to merge into. The guy driving the Volvo honked the car's horn to signal his presence (as he should have), and the young woman quickly maneuvered her car away from his and back into her original lane. No big deal, right? It's happened to all of us ... you check your mirror, turn on your blinker and start to change lanes only to discover you're about to hit another car which was obviously hidden in your blind spot. Heck, I did it just last week ... twice. I breathed a sigh of relief this morning for the two drivers as they avoided the possible collision ... I even said out loud in my car, "Whew ... thank goodness that guy honked and the woman corrected her mistake." But within seconds, I watched a scene unfold that made me wish I was brave enough to run the jerk in the silver Volvo off the road myself. 

I couldn't believe my eyes as for the next 20 minutes, the jerky Volvo guy cut in and out in front of the gal in the Mercedes ... swerving extremely close to her car each time and laying on the horn with his left hand while he extended the middle finger of his right hand toward the by then obviously unnerved young woman. A couple of times, I thought for sure the Volvo jerk was going to hit the Mercedes woman, and several times, I thought for sure he was going to cause an accident among the cars around him. My blood boiled as I watched this stupid jerk not only endanger his own life but the young woman's and all the rest of us who were driving nearby. I'm sure I wasn't alone in cheering when the jerk and his silver Volvo finally exited from the interstate, and I'm equally as sure I wasn't alone in wishing I could give the young woman a hug and tell her she didn't deserve what that guy did. We all make mistakes, and the jerk in the Volvo could surely use some serious lessons in compassion and forgiveness.

The truth is that I haven't been able to stop thinking about what I witnessed this morning on my drive into work, and tonight I think I know why ... I know what it feels like to be the woman in the Mercedes. There have been countless times in my life when I've checked my mirror, turned on my blinker and started to change lanes only to discover I had no idea of the danger that was lurking right beside me. Unfortunately, I've experienced a few jerks in silver Volvos over the years ... people who are just plain old mean and rude ... people who choose to humiliate rather than show compassion ... people who demonstrate hate instead of love and forgiveness. But here's the thing ... the really big thing I've learned ... the only thing that jerks in silver Volvos do is hurt the people around them. That guy this morning accomplished only one thing ... he accomplished being a jerk in a silver Volvo who bullied the young woman in the Mercedes.

Think about how that young woman must have felt following her interaction with the jerk in the silver Volvo. But even more ... so much more ... think about how she would have felt if the jerk in the silver Volvo would have slowed down and been kind enough to let her into his lane. Think about it, friends ... really, really, really think about it.

Remember Where You Came From

This morning as I was Skyping with my granddaughters, I couldn't help but think about the Easter when their dad was about Coraline's age. Up until we moved away from Tennessee, it was tradition to spend part of Easter Sunday at Mom and Dad's where the little kids in the family would hunt for the Easter eggs the adults had hidden outside if the weather was nice or inside if it was rainy or cold. I can still remember the little sailor suit Matt was wearing that year ... sorry, Mattie, but you were so flipping adorable in that little red, white and blue outfit with your white sailor hat perched on top of your white-blonde hair ... so completely flipping adorable. The main reason I remember that particular Easter so well is because my niece Sharon didn't boil her kids' eggs before they colored them and ... well ... suffice it to say that little kids dressed in their Easter best roughly grabbing said eggs out of their hiding places and tossing them into their Easter baskets didn't exactly have the greatest outcome. We sure didn't realize it at the time when our kids were covered in raw egg goo, but Sharon's uncooked Easter eggs that year have become somewhat of a legend in our family ... a legend that's accompanied by abundant laughter and fond memories each time we mention it.

When I moved from Tennessee almost 28 years ago, the last thing my dad said to me before I climbed into the mini-van with my kids was, "Sam, always remember where you came from ... and know you can always come back home." I've been thinking a lot lately about Daddy's advice to me that day and how I never fully understood what he meant until he was gone. All those years ago when he said those words to me, I thought he was telling me to remember the place I came from but I was wrong. Daddy wasn't telling me to remember the place I came from, he was telling me to remember the people ... he was telling me to always remember the people who had loved me since the day I was born. Daddy was telling me to always remember my family ... he was telling me to remember my heritage.

Though I've never spent much time researching my ancestors, my nephew Charlie has traced our family tree back to King Charlemagne. Yep, that's right ... I'm descended from royalty, and I'm thinking that means there's surely a castle with my name on it just waiting on me somewhere to come and stake my claim. Yeah, right. Kings and castles and fire-breathing dragons aside (in my world, fire-breathing dragons and castles go together), I was totally mesmerized listening to Charlie on Friday evening as he shared the information he had gathered on our family. But here's the thing ... it wasn't finding out the stuff about having royal ancestors or learning that we had family members who fought in the Revolutionary War or even that one guy was saddled with the name Jehue ... none of those fascinating pieces of information are the reason for me writing tonight's post. It's not who my ancestors were that gives me pause ... it's the perfection of the plan that created where I came from that totally and completely blows my mind. It's all the things that had to work in perfect harmony ... all the people who had to be in the right place at the right time ... all the love that had to exist ... it's knowing that my very existence is no accident, no coincidence, no random occurrence but rather a part of God's infinitely perfect plan.

When Daddy told me to always remember where I came from, he was telling me to remember to be humble ... to remember to be kind ... to remember to be loving ... to remember to be caring ... to remember to be loyal ... to remember to be faithful. Daddy wasn't telling me to remember the place I came from, he was telling me to remember the people ... the people who came before me, the people who are with me now, the people who are yet to be.

"Sam, always remember where you came from ... and know you can always come back home."

Just Like Atticus and Elmore

You could search the world over and never find two men more different than my dad and his good friend Elmore. From the color of their skin to the way they ate their food, Daddy and Elmore were as different as any two men could be. A lot of folks said theirs was a friendship that would never last ... people would shake their heads and whisper beneath their breath, "What is Atticus thinking? He can't be friends with Elmore ... those two are as different as night and day." Now I know what you're thinking ... you're thinking people said those things because Daddy was white and Elmore was black, but you're wrong. Even though my dad was born and raised in the deep South, I honestly believe Daddy never cared about the color of a person's skin ... I believe Daddy only cared about the color of a person's heart.

The people who criticized the friendship between my dad and Elmore did so not because of the difference in their skin color, but because of the difference in pretty much everything else about them. They both worked at the railroad, but they had very different jobs. They both went to church, but Daddy was Baptist and Elmore was Lutheran. Daddy was a Chevy man, but Elmore loved his Fords. Elmore was terrified of water, and Daddy loved to swim. Elmore came from a wealthy family, while Daddy's family was dirt poor. Elmore had a college degree, and Daddy dropped out of school in the 8th grade to help take care of his family after his mother died. You get the picture ... my dear old Daddy and his good friend Elmore came from two different worlds ... worlds that would say theirs was a friendship that would never last. Daddy and Elmore's friendship happened unexpectedly when Elmore was going through a tough time and Daddy was there to help him out. Though many thought the friendship that was forged between my dad and Elmore didn't make sense or even that it should have never existed, the truth is the two of them were friends for decades ... yep ... my dad Atticus and his buddy Elmore were faithful friends until the day my sweet Daddy drew his final breath.

Remember the friend who hauled me into the conference room a couple of years ago when I had my now infamous coming out breakdown? Well ... the two of us remind me a lot of my dad and Elmore, minus the differing skin colors. Ali and I come from different backgrounds, and we've had different life experiences. I'm a lot older than her ... my kids are grown and one has kids of his own, and she has two teenagers at home (bless her heart). She's married, and I'm not. Ali is positive, upbeat and ready to take on the world, and I'm more like Eeyore than Pooh these days ... more likely to want to pull the covers over my head and escape when things get hard. We work for the same company, but we have very different jobs. I love my little Subaru, and Ali is crazy about her big SUV. I grew up in the Baptist church, and Ali was raised in the Episcopal church. She is girly and loves glitter and sparkles and foo fooey stuff, and I'm Converse, bow ties and suspenders all the way (or jeans, flannel shirts and hiking boots depending on the occasion). Ali has more marathon medals than I have teeth (no, really, I'm serious), and I'm most definitely a walker and not a runner. Ali is as straight as an arrow, and I'm ... well ... I'm not. You get the picture ... we come from two different worlds ... worlds that would say ours is a friendship that will never last ... a friendship that doesn't make sense ... a friendship many would say should have never existed. Just like Daddy and Elmore, ours is a friendship that happened unexpectedly ... a friendship that began because Ali was there to help me out (no pun intended, by the way) ... a friendship I can only hope will endure the test of time.

Last week, a young gal in my office sent me an email in which she spoke about my friendship with Ali, and it was her words that inspired me to write tonight's post. She began her note by saying, "Terrie, I've been at SHS for almost two years and I've thought many times about sending you this email and then decided I shouldn't. But something happened today that pushed me over the edge on writing you and I hope it's ok that I am." Needless to say, I was intrigued ... are you kidding me? Of course, I was intrigued and wanted to read her email as fast as I possibly could to find out what in the world this sweet kid could have to say to me that had caused her to have such trepidation about sending me a note.

"Like I said, I've been here almost two years and I heard the story about how you and Ali became friends after I'd been here a couple months. I think it's awesome you and her are such good friends and it sets a great example for everyone else that works here. I don't mean this in a bad way that your job is less or you as a person are less in any way but it's awesome that someone like Ali in leadership is friends with someone like you that isn't.

I don't have any real friends at SHS and I get concerned about not fitting in sometimes. That's what makes you and Ali's friendship so inspiring is that you and her are so different and it doesn't matter. You're awesome Terrie and I'm really happy you decided to live. I don't get to talk to you anymore and I miss hearing your Coraline stories and seeing you smile. You have been so nice to me ever since my first day here and it means so much to me. Thank you for reading this and have fun walking your wiener dog!"

After I stopped crying, I replied to the young gal's sweet email and told her I'd be honored if she would consider allowing me to be her friend. I thanked her for lifting my spirits and reminding me that maybe ... just maybe ... being different isn't such a bad thing after all. Maybe ... just maybe ... it's time to understand that the differences between us can serve to make us better people ... if we let them.

Just like Atticus and Elmore ... I think I'm okay with that ... I think I really am okay with that.