The Different Day Today Could Have Been

There is one thing every parent of every teenage driver never wants to receive ... a phone call telling them their child has been in an accident. Actually, it doesn't matter how young or how old your kid is, as a parent you never want to get that call. I do think, however, that parental worries rise to an entirely different level when a teenager receives his or her driver's license and slides in behind the wheel of a car with no adult supervision. At least that was true for me when each of my three kiddos began driving on their own. I would lay awake at night listening for the sound of the garage door opening, unable to sleep until I knew they were home safely.

Thank God, I didn't get too many of those "Ms. Johnson, Matt (or Brad or Meghann) has been in an accident," phone calls when my kids were teenagers. And double triple quadruple thank God, only one of those calls contained the words, "She is being transported by ambulance to the hospital, and you should meet her there." I'll never ever forget that call ... "It's a blizzard out here, ma'am ... your daughter lost control of her car due to the hazardous road conditions ... her car struck the blade of a parked snowplow ... we are working to get her out of the car now") ... oh yeah, you can bet the last penny you have I'll never ever forget that call. It's not the details of the accident that the officer gave me that night that are burned into my brain, however ... it's the feeling of complete and utter terror that instantly swept through me that will remain with me forever ... the heart-stopping terror that only a parent whose child is in danger can understand.

Friday evening, my son Brad was driving through an intersection when another driver sped through a red light and slammed into the driver's side of Brad's Jeep. The guy didn't have his headlights on and he hit Brad's car so hard ... never mind ... I don't even want to think about how hard the guy must have hit Brad to cause both the driver and passenger airbags in Brad's Jeep to deploy and to shatter every window in his own car. What I do want to think about is that other than some scrapes and bruises, an achy knee and hamstring, and a good pop on the head from the airbag, Brad is okay ... shaken up from such a traumatic experience, but otherwise okay. Let me say that again ... Brad is okay ... Brad is okay ... Brad is okay ... those are the sweetest words to me today, friends ... Brad is okay.

I couldn't help but think about my children today ... about how very much I love them and how devastated I would be if something happened to one of them. My mind drifted back through experiences we've shared together down through the years, both good and not so good alike. I thought about the laughter and the tears and the love and the sorrow and the life that we've done together. I thought a lot about Brad today ... I thought about him insisting that we turn off all the lights and read Edgar Allen Poe by candlelight on Halloween ... I thought about his permed hair phase ... I thought about how he used to put pacies on each corner of his blanket ... I thought about him taking Mom to get her toenails cut ... I thought about his birth ... I thought about the way he held his hands when he slept ... I thought about his passion for making movies ... I thought about how much he loves Shelby ... I thought about him showing up with Max the dog ... I thought about the ever-present ball cap on his head ... I thought about the school plays he was in ... I thought about the words he spoke to our sweet Ann as she lay in a coma in ICU ... I thought about the Brad rants ... I thought about how empty my life would be without him.

I took Ollie for a walk late this evening, and on our way back home, I decided to stop at the creek for a bit. I stood watching the water tumble over the rocks and it wasn't long until the tears were tumbling from my eyes. Tears of gratitude that Brad is okay ... tears of thankfulness that my children and grandchildren are happy and healthy and alive ... tears of realization that today would have been a very different day had Brad been seriously injured or worse in the accident on Friday. Today would have been a day for a entirely different kind of tears, friends ... I shudder to think of the tears that would have come ... I shudder to think of the pain that would have come ... I shudder to think of the different day today could have been.

There's only one way to close tonight's post and that's by sharing the words Brad posted to his Facebook page following the accident ... and by the way, Braddie bear, I agree with every word you wrote. I'm so happy you're okay, Brad ... I love you forever and always, buddy.

"When you have a profoundly traumatic moment that rattles your brain, they are often followed by a peaceful sense of clarity. I love all of you guys, and you should take a moment right now to tell your friends and family you love them. Tomorrow is never guaranteed, and you're never prepared for the unthinkable."

A Boy and His Chair

There's an extra wiener in my house this week ... I'm granddog sitting my daughter and son-in-law's little doxie dog Peanut while they're in Canada visiting Matt, Becca and the girls. Ollie looks like a tank compared to Peanut ... he's a stocky tween-sized fellow, and she's the tiniest little long-haired wiener dog I've ever seen. A few years ago, I bought one of those double leash thingies thinking I might be able to walk Julie and J.R. together ... bad idea, by the way, but it works like a charm for walking Ollie and Peanut together. 

It's not often that you see two wiener dogs sharing one leash, so we've garnered quite a bit of attention over the last few days as we've walked together on the trail. There have been tons of remarks like, "Oh, they're so adorable!" or "Look at those wiener dogs walking together!" or "They're so cute!" or "Can I pet them?" While it's been fun to witness the joy Ollie and Peanut have brought to so many people, I must admit that by the time we were almost home last night I was more than a little irritated because I felt that I had stopped for people to see the dogs so many times that I hadn't really gotten a good walk.

I was grumbling about my multi-stop walk as we neared the playground ... "Dogs, we might as well have just stayed home tonight because we did more stopping than walking." And of course, right in the middle of my grumbling, I hear a little kid's voice shouting, "Hey! Hey! Can I see your dogs?" I looked toward the playground to the left of the trail and saw him, and the minute I did, I knew ... I knew there was nothing more important ... there was nothing that mattered more ... there was nothing more worthy of my time than to say, "You sure can, buddy ... you sure can." 

There are so many things I could say about my encounter last night with the little boy ... so many lessons and truths contained within the short time I was with him. Instead, I'm going to let the sweet little guy tell you himself ... you can find your own lessons and glean your own truths. 

"What's their names?"

("This is Oliver and this is Peanut.")

"Oh. Hello, Oliver and Peanut. Can I touch the big one? Is he nice? The big one is Oliver."

("You sure can pet him, and he's very nice.")

"Can you put him in my lap so I can hold him? He won't bite me, will he?"

("Sure I can put him in your lap, and no he won't bite you. He might try to kiss you, though.")

"Mom, can you see I'm holding Oliver and he is kissing me?"

("That means he likes you. What's your name?")

"Davey. My name is Davey and this is Oliver sitting on my lap and now can Peanut sit on my lap with Oliver?"

("She sure can ... here you go. Look at you, Davey ... you have two dogs on your lap!")

"Do you know I have muscular dystrophy? And did you know this is my new chair?"

("I didn't know that ... that's a pretty awesome chair you've got there.")

"It's my legs ... this chair is my legs so I can walk over here and hold Oliver and Peanut."

("I sure am glad we got to meet you tonight, Davey ... we need to be heading home now.")

"Not yet. Not until you give me a hug. That's the rule. You can't go until you hug me."

Last night, I knelt down and hugged a little boy in a wheelchair ... a little boy I'd never met. There were tears in my eyes as I said goodbye. There were tears in the eyes of his mother as she thanked me for stopping. She thanked me for stopping ... sweet little Davey's mom had tears in her eyes as she said, "Thank you for stopping and talking to Davey." Ears wide open, friends ... ears wide open.

Bringing Back the Bow

It's a well-known fact within my family that I don't enjoy wrapping gifts ... not Christmas gifts, not birthday gifts, not anniversary gifts, not baby gifts, not retirement gifts, not graduation gifts ... you get the picture ... I don't enjoy wrapping any kind of gift. One of the happiest moments in my life was when gift bags became an accepted means of delivering a gift ... seriously ... the person who invented gift bags has my undying appreciation and respect forever and ever and ever. My sister, on the other hand, doesn't simply enjoy wrapping gifts ... oh, no, no, no ... every single gift she wraps is a work of art, a masterpiece, an inspired creation from the hands of the greatest gift-wrapper of all time. Sis tried to teach me the intricate process of tying bows once when I was a younger ... suffice it to say my "tying of the bow" training was a truly traumatic event for the both of us. I probably don't need to tell you that another one of the happiest moments in my life was when I learned that I could purchase bows with the stuff on the back that allowed me to stick the bow on the gift ... well ... after I figured out how to take the paper thingie off, that is.

Several weeks ago as I was leaving the office, a couple of young men I work with commented that I hadn't worn a bow tie, or any kind of tie for that matter, or my suspenders to work for a very long time. I blinked back tears when they asked me why I had stopped sporting my trademark ties and suspenders. I mumbled one of my go-to answers I generally give when I don't want to answer a question ... "I don't know, I just did." As if knowing the young men had noticed my months-long departure from my usual choice in clothing wasn't enough to cause me to well up with emotion, they might as well have reached inside my heart and flipped the "cry gallons of tears now" switch with each of their replies. 

"Well, you need to bring them back, Terrie ... you need to bring back the bow ties. I miss bow tie Terrie. I love bow tie Terrie."

"Agreed. We'll start a bring back the bow tie Terrie campaign! Bow tie Terrie is so much fun ... bow tie Terrie is awesome, and I miss her, too."

I'm not sure how I managed to make it to my car that evening before the torrent of tears burst from my eyes, and I'm even more unsure as to how I held them in when the young men hugged and high-fived me as I squeaked out a whispered goodbye. 

I can't even begin to tell you how much I've thought about the words of those two young men since that day ... in fact, I'm pretty sure their words will hang around with me for a very, very, very long time. There was a reason I stopped wearing my ties and suspenders ... a personal reason I've chosen not to share, so I'm asking that you please respect my decision and don't ask because I'll never tell you. I will, however, tell you this ... when I stopped wearing my ties and suspenders, I was lower than a snake's belly in a wagon rut. But here's the thing ... I knew how miserable I was when I sadly put my ties and suspenders back in the closet ... I knew how much I missed them, but I never once thought that other people might miss them as well ... I never once thought that my lack of ties and suspenders wearing could make other people sad, too. I'm still working through the stuff that caused me to abandon my wicked sense of style for a time, but I think I'm getting there ... over the last couple of weeks, I've worn ties and suspenders, not every day, but some days.

Oh, and by the way, before you write in to say that the young men who told me they missed my ties and suspenders weren't really talking about my ties and suspenders that day ... I know. While my ties and suspenders really are quite awesome and adorable (especially when I do the power clashing thing or wear Converse with dress pants ... I really do need to get on Ellen's show ... geez), those aren't really what the young men miss. The young men miss the real me ... they miss the me I become when I am the real me. They miss the Terrie who makes them smile ... they miss the Terrie who cares about them ... they miss the Terrie who lives behind the bow ties and the suspenders ... they miss the open, honest, real and transparent Terrie ... they miss the real me ... and so do I, friends ... so do I.

Every single one of us have our own bow ties and suspenders, you know ... we all have things we're afraid to wear, and I'm not talking about clothes. We're afraid to wear a loving heart or a humble soul or a compassionate mind or a gentle spirit because we're terrified that others will say we're weak or inadequate or not good enough. We try so hard to put up a front, to pretend to be the person we think everyone wants or expects or demands us to be that we don't see that there really are people who miss the real us. We don't see the people who miss the person we become when we become who we really are ... the bow tie-wearing, suspenders-hitching, Converse-stepping, hair-spiking people we really are.

Tomorrow I'm wearing my orange and blue plaid bow tie a friend gave me for my birthday last year ... the bow tie I couldn't see until I unwrapped the gift. Yep ... that's deep ... go ahead and ponder on it a bit while you decide which tie you're wearing tomorrow. 

Terrie's Top 10

I'm pretty sure most people know by now that last Wednesday night was David Letterman's farewell to his highly successful run as a late-night television show host. Unless you live under a rock or never watch television or don't have Internet access, you know who David Letterman is and you know that he's had one of the most successful late-night television shows in ... well ... in ever. And you also know that his retirement is a really big deal ... a really, really, really big deal. I, along with millions of other folks, loved Mr. Letterman's Top 10 Lists ... seriously ... being an obsessive list maker myself, I loved the Late Show Top 10 Lists.

What I really wanted to title tonight's post was "The Top 10 Things Straight Women Don't Say to Me," but I chickened out. Except that since I told you anyway, that's kind of the same thing as actually using that for my title this evening ... but I didn't because I was worried about offending someone, or a lot of someones as the case may be, but then again I probably just did anyway so I should have just used it for my title in the first place. That's right, sisters and brothers out there in blog land ... this editor can write run-on sentences with the best of them. If you choose to read to the end of tonight's post, maybe I'll tell you what prompted my creation of this particular Top 10 List or maybe I won't. If you choose not to read to the end ... well, then I suppose you choose not to read to the end of tonight's post. Either way, I hope you've at least smiled once as you've been reading, and I hope, should you choose to continue reading, you'll smile a time or two again before you're done.

So without further ado, I present to you my list of "The Top 10 Things Straight Women Don't Say to Me" ... uh-oh ... "Terrie's Top 10" ... I mean "Terrie's Top 10" ... sheesh.

10. You braid my hair and I'll braid yours, okay?

9.   Where did you get those shoes? I want a pair!

8.   Want to join me for a mani-pedi over lunch?

7.   Check out that guy ... he is smoking hot!

6.   Can I borrow your black pencil skirt to wear to the party?

5.   Could you help me zip my dress, please?

4.   Girls night out! Male strippers, here we come!

3.   I can't wait for you to meet my brother ... I just know it's going to be love at first sight!

2.   We can save money if we share a hotel room.

1.   I almost wore that same outfit today!

Since I already take full and total responsibility for anything and everything I do or say that could even remotely upset, hurt or offend someone else, I'd rather not add keeping you awake for days as you try to guess what I might possibly say in response to "The Top 10 Things Straight Women Don't Say to Me" should a straight woman ever say one of them to me ... yeah, right ... like that's ever gonna happen. But because of my overwhelming desire for all of you not to be encumbered by your tremendous need to know what's going on inside my more often than not very scattered and jumbled brain, I feel compelled to save you both the time and the effort that wading through my extremely brilliant ... uh, I mean abundantly cluttered ... mind would require. Hey ... I'm getting really good at this run-on sentence thing, eh?

You want me to do what to your hair? And no one messes with my hair, thank you very much. My Converse shoes or my wingtips? I bite my nails and you don't even want to think about what my toes look like. What guy? Where? You want to wear a skirt made out of black pencils? That doesn't sound very practical to me. Oh, I'll be more than happy to help you zip your dress, Beautiful. Male strippers? Ewwwwww. I'd rather meet your sister. Sharing a hotel room? Not happening ... ever. Seriously? You almost wore a bow tie and suspenders today?

So was my reason for writing tonight's post simply my desire to elicit a smile or two from at least a few of you? Yes and no. Yes, I want you to smile and maybe even laugh a little, and I want to be able to smile and laugh at myself, too ... God knows I need to do that way more often than I do these days. But no, I'm not joking about there being things straight women say to one another that they don't say to me, and I'm certainly not joking when I remind you that one of the most used tools to mask a hurting heart or a wounded spirit is humor ... go ahead and think on that one for a really good long while ... a really, really, really good long while.

Hmmm ... I think it's time to work on my next Top 10 List ... "The Top 10 Things I Need to Do to Be Sensitive to the Feelings of Those Who Are Different From Me." Yep, I think it's time to get going on that list ... indeed I do, friends ... indeed I do.
  

Don't Rush Me

One of the first things I notice when I travel back home to Tennessee is the difference in the pace of life there as compared to here in Kansas City. Maybe it's just that I've grown accustomed to the always in a hurry, gotta meet the deadline world of advertising, but I don't really think so. I think a lot of folks in the Midwest, or in Kansas City at least, adopt a more "tackle everything at breakneck speed" attitude toward life than their Southern neighbors do. And before anyone writes me a scathing email about that statement, I'm not saying either approach to life ... fast-paced or laid-back ... is better or worse than the other. All I'm saying is there's a difference ... a difference that is abundantly noticeable to me when I return to the city where I spent the first 20 plus years of my life.

It's true that our perception of things quite often shapes our reality ... sometimes my Midwestern friends get aggravated with me for my take my time Southern approach to life, while my Southern family and friends get equally as ticked off at me for my always in a hurry Midwestern take on life. I like to think of myself as a blend of sorts ... mostly Southern with definite flavors of Midwestern thrown in to spice things up a bit. I never get in a hurry when it comes to conversation, but I can be in and out of Walmart and on to my next task in a flash. There are times when I'm really thankful for my ability to function at a quick pace ... like when I have 50 editing projects that all have the same deadline. But there are also times when I'm especially thankful for my ability to push everything aside and slow down ... like when someone really needs to talk and they really need me to listen.

I read through a ton of emails over the weekend and while there were many that touched my heart, there was one in particular that I haven't been able to get out of my mind. It was written by a 64-year-old gentleman who lives in a small town in Vermont where he recently retired from a career in the medical field. In his note, Bill shared with me that he had lost his wife unexpectedly last Christmas when her car was struck head-on by a drunk driver ... such a sad, sad story of love and loss. But it was the following words that got to me ... the following words made the torrential rains that accompany springtime storms seem like light showers compared to the amount of tears I cried when I read them. 

"Lisa was again late in leaving for work that morning as she often was. Her lack of concern regarding arrival times and my obsessive preclusion to always arriving early had long been a source of contention between us and that morning was no exception. I remained quiet for as long as I could before blurting out my disdain for my wife's recurring tardiness in a stern and demanding tone. Rather than motivating her to pay closer attention to the time, my words had the opposite effect upon Lisa. She kissed me and calmly said 'Don't rush me Bill. You're always rushing me. Kiss me instead.' Three hours later two officers told me Lisa had been killed when her car was struck head-on by a drunk driver. The last words I heard my beloved wife say were 'Don't rush me.' I want all of those times back that I rushed Lisa. I want all of those rushed minutes back so I can tell her how sorry I am." 

I'm sure it wasn't a coincidence that I went outside to mow the lawn after I finished reading Bill's email ... I'm beginning to believe there's little to nothing that happens in life that's a coincidence, friends. The moment I pushed the lawnmower out of the garage, I saw the brilliant blossoms of the rose bush that resides next to my driveway ... the rose bush that my son Matt planted almost 14 years ago when we moved into our house. I stood there staring at the beautiful red roses as I remembered how Matt carefully chose the exact rose he wanted ... as I remembered how carefully he planted it in the ground ... as I remembered how carefully he nurtured it as it grew ... as I remembered how carefully he pruned it in the fall ... as I remembered how carefully he watched for it to display new growth each spring. The roses this year are more beautiful than they have ever been ... the leaves are greener, the branches are stronger, and the roses ... the roses have a deeper, richer, more vibrant color. Matt's rose bush is so much more beautiful now ... 14 years later ... it's more beautiful now than it's ever been before ... so much more beautiful and so very, very, very much more precious to me.

Bill closed his email to me by encouraging me not to rush anyone through anything ... he told me not to rush anyone ... he told me to especially not rush myself. This man I've never met, and more than likely never will, told me to remember that growth takes time, that love takes patience, that listening and caring and sharing and trusting can never ever be rushed. Bill's closing words were ... seriously, I promise his closing words were, "Terrie, don't rush through this life, it's the only one you have. Take your time to stop and smell the roses while you have them."

Don't rush me ... I'm smelling the roses.

The Shaving of the Pirates

In the almost 13 years that I've worked at SHS, I'd only been on one road trip with a co-worker and that was when my friend Hilary and I drove to Wichita for our former supervisor's retirement luncheon. Well, I'd only been on that one particular co-worker road trip until Tuesday when I joined four fellow employees and traveled to our home office to represent the Dovetail team at the quarterly meeting. The things one learns about one's co-workers while on a road trip can be quite ... ummm ... quite ... ummm ... enlightening. Things like who needs to stop every 50 miles to pee. Or who thinks the most delicious way to eat French fries is to dip them in ice cream. Or who is man enough not to be phased by more than seven hours of "girl talk." Or who buys a salty snack in a store filled with wall-to-wall candy. Our road trip adventure on Tuesday reminded me in many ways of the road trips I took with my children over the years ... I learned more about my kids in the hours we spent road tripping together than I ever did at home, and I learned more about my co-workers on our Tuesday jaunt down the highway than I ever have in the office.

As is true of many people who live in today's over-connected world of technology, those of us who weren't driving on Tuesday spent a significant amount of time checking our email, responding to text messages and of course, perusing Facebook. I was sitting in the back of the van, so when the two gals in front of me began discussing a news story they had seen on Facebook, one of them turned and handed me her phone so I could better understand what they were talking about. I quickly glanced at the headline, reading it as "Woman Crashes Car While Shaving Her Pirates" and immediately had a picture pop into my head of a little old lady crashing her car into the back of a truck while she was trying to shave the beard of the scraggly, eye patch-wearing pirate sitting next to her. 

Though it took a couple of minutes of listening to the additional commentary of my co-workers from the seats in front of me, I finally realized I must have misread the headline. The minute I read it again and realized what it really said (I'll help you out a little ... it didn't say "pirates"), the picture I had in my mind of a little old lady shaving a pirate as she drove down the highway was instantly replaced by an entirely different image. Neither the headline nor the new picture that's now stuck in my head involved pirates or little old ladies at all ... nope, nope, nope, not at all.

Needless to say, my co-workers had a big laugh when I told them what I initially thought the headline said, and we've chuckled about it several times since. And I'm pretty sure none of us will ever look at a razor or watch a pirate movie again without thinking about the poor little old lady who crashed her car while shaving her pirates. While my misreading of the headline provided chuckles on Tuesday and will quite probably continue to do so for years to come, it's also caused me to think a lot about something far more important than road trips and pirate shaving. You see, here's the thing ... the really important thing I learned on Tuesday ... I can't and don't know things about other people and they can't and don't know things about me unless we spend time together.

I know this will make some of you angry, but when I say spend time together, I'm not talking about email time or Facebook time or instant messaging time or texting time or talking on the phone time, and I'm most certainly not talking about trying to get information about each other from someone else time. I'm talking about spending the kind of time together that enables us to enjoy what I believe is the greatest gift God ever gave to us as humans created in His image ... deep, meaningful, enduring, honest, giving and trustworthy relationships with one another.

There's no way we can know what's going in each other's lives or who we really are or who makes us laugh (Ellen) or how we've been hurt or what we need to celebrate or what we're struggling with or whom we love or what our dreams are or who our celebrity crush is (Ellen) or how we've failed or what we believe in or what we're afraid of or how we're growing spiritually or what we've accomplished or what has scarred us or what keeps us awake at night or how best to cheer each other on or what our favorite food is or the person we most want to meet (Ellen) or what makes us cry or what we worry about or what we need to be held accountable for ... or countless other things we simply cannot know without spending time ... one-on-one, face-to-face, eyeball-to-eyeball, heart-to-heart time together.

Want to know what I think? Want to know what I really, really, really think? I think when I come to the end of my journey here on earth, it won't be the number of words I wrote or the deadlines I met or the housework I did or the clothes I wore or the places I went or the money I made that will matter ... I think what will matter are the pirates I shaved along the way. It will be the time spent together that will matter ... the memories we've made ... the sound of our laughter ... the warmth of our hugs ... the tears we've shared ... the celebrations we've had ... the burdens we've carried together ... it will be the time spent together on the trip of life that will matter most of all. Keep your eyes and your hearts and your ears wide open, and don't ever let yourself miss one single chance to shave a pirate, friends ... never, ever miss one single chance to shave a pirate.

A Good Person Before

It’s been a little more than two weeks since nearly 17 million folks watched the much-hyped 20/20 exclusive interview of Bruce Jenner by Diane Sawyer, and I'm sure the number of subsequent online views already have or will soon far surpass the astounding number of viewers who tuned in on April 24th. While I remember watching the Olympics ceremony on television in 1976 (the year before I graduated from high school, by the way) when Jenner set a new world record and won the gold medal for the decathlon, most of you younger folks know him from the reality TV series as the patriarch of the Kardashian clan. Think about that for a minute ... from the Olympics to the Kardashians, Bruce Jenner has lived a large part of his life in the public eye ... all while trying to keep the biggest secret in his life … well … while trying to keep his secret a secret.

I must admit I was surprised by the overwhelmingly positive response to Jenner’s revelation that he is a transgender female ... let’s face it ... there’s still a lot of hate out there in the world. I watched the interview the night it aired, and I cried like a baby. A few nights ago I watched it again online, and I cried just as much then as I did the first time. I want so desperately to believe the emotions I felt as I listened to Jenner tell his story are the same emotions most people felt as they watched the interview ... sadness, hurt and sympathy for a man who has spent a lifetime trying not to be who he is. I wept as this person, this icon of American culture, talked about feeling there was something wrong with him at a young age ... as he talked about the overwhelming fear and the nights spent on his knees begging God to fix him ... as he talked about not wanting to hurt his children or his family ... as he talked about trying to be the man he was expected to be. When Ms. Sawyer asked what he saw when he looked at videos or pictures of himself as he received the Olympic gold medal, Jenner quietly said, “I see the pain in my eyes.”

Before I’m slaughtered with emails saying that I’m promoting “the agenda” or encouraging “the lifestyle,” please let me tell you why I decided to write this post. Those of you who know me personally and those of you who’ve been reading along with me know how much I love to wear ties and suspenders and shiny wingtip shoes. You know I’ve struggled with my sexuality to the point that trying to continue living the lie and denying who I am quite literally almost killed me. What you don’t know is that a couple of days after Jenner’s interview aired, two different people asked me if I was “like him” … and one of those people went so far as to ask me if I planned on transitioning someday. What you don’t know is how many times over the course of the last three-ish years I’ve been asked if I’m transgender or a transvestite or a cross-dresser. What you certainly don’t know and can’t or won’t ever know is the hurt and pain those questions invoke when you ask them of me or anyone who identifies as LGBTQ.

I’m writing this post to ask you as nicely as I can to stop ... please just stop. Get online and read until you understand the differences ... talk to someone who is gay or lesbian and tell them you are seeking to understand ... spend some time with a person who is transgender and attempt to understand the difficulties they face every single day of their lives. If you haven’t already, watch Jenner’s interview, and if you have already watched it, watch it again. And then try to understand … try to be compassionate … try to sympathize … try not to judge or condemn. And by the way, I’m not transgender, a transvestite or a cross-dresser, and I’m certainly not transitioning in the future because there’s nothing for me to transition from or to.

I read a comment a few days ago from a conservative pastor in California who said, “I don’t know how anyone could watch Bruce Jenner’s interview and not feel genuine compassion and respect for him as a person.” I agree with that pastor, and I also agree with one of the doctors who spoke during Jenner’s interview ... “If a person is a good person before he or she transitions, the person will be a good person after they transition as well.” That’s why I’m writing this post, friends ... to beg you to understand that a person’s heart, a person’s faith, a person’s love for God and their fellow man has absolutely nothing whatsoever to do with his or her sexuality or gender. Believe it or not, when someone comes out and says that he or she is lesbian, gay, bisexual, transgender or questioning, telling the truth doesn’t suddenly change them from being a good person to being a bad person. In fact, I would argue that just the opposite is true … that coming out as one’s true self serves only to make a good person a better person. It's like the way silver and gold are purified … they have to go through the refiner’s fire before they can become the precious metals they are meant to be.

"I hope we can save some lives here." --- Bruce Jenner

I hope so, too, Bruce ... I really and truly hope so, too.

The Gift of Time

When my mom called me a little more than 10 years ago to let me know she had decided to sell her house and move to Kansas City, one of my thoughts was that I was going to get to be with her on Mother's Day for the first time in many, many, many years. Living so far away and having children living at home meant that our trips back to Tennessee had to be scheduled when my kiddos were out of school, usually during the summer or over Thanksgiving or Christmas break. I well remember that Mother's Day with Mom the year she moved here because it was one of those "as close to perfect as it gets" days. Little did I know that Mother's Day was to be the last one I would have with Mom ... thank God that for perhaps the only time in my life, I got it right that day. I know I got Mom a Mother's Day gift that year, but for the life of me I can't remember what it was. What I can remember is the time we spent together that day ... laughing, talking, napping ... Mom fell asleep sitting next to me on the couch that day, her head resting on my shoulder as she slept. Yep ... that was definitely one of those "as close to perfect as it gets" days ... you bet it was.

My children have always been extra wonderful to me on Mother's Day ... from serving me breakfast in bed to taking me to movies to working for days in the yard to getting me flowers to sending me on scavenger hunts in search of my gift ... my kiddos have always made me feel not only loved but also cherished on Mother's Day. But this year ... this year, my kiddos gave me the best gift of all ... this year, they gave me the gift of time. There's nothing in the world that makes me happier than spending time with my children, and that's exactly what Brad and Shelby and Meghann and Barrett gave me this year ... they gave me time with them. Both yesterday and today have been filled with various incredibly fun activities, but so much more ... so very, very, very much more ... yesterday and today have been filled with time and love. Even though Matt, Becca and the girls were on the final day of their Germany adventure, they made the time to contact me and let me know how much they love and miss me.

Trust me, friends ... the gift of time is the best gift you can give ... the very, very, very best gift you can ever give. 

Happy Mother's Day, moms.

Thank God for Benedryl Cream

It wasn't until many years after I had moved away from my hometown in Tennessee that I learned I had spent the first 26 years of my life living in the allergy capital of the United States. The crazy thing about that is I never had allergies when I lived there or during my two-year stint in Florida either. No chronic ear infections ... no constantly plugged sinuses ... no never-ending itchy eyes and sore throat ... none of that when I lived right in the middle of pollen central. It wasn't until I moved to Kansas that I began having allergy issues ... not just in the springtime, by the way, because having aching ears, a snotty nose and red eyes just in the spring just isn't enough ... no ... I want to have all of those lovely symptoms in the fall as well. And the summer. And sometimes in the winter, too. Oh, well ... what fun would life be without a few challenges along the way, eh?

Over the last couple of weeks, my big dog Julie has been exhibiting some pretty significant signs of what appears to be anxiety ... so much so that I'm thinking she needs some doggie Xanax or a shot or two of Jack Daniels to help her chill out a bit. She's over-the-top clingy to me when I'm home, as in she wants all 80 pounds of her dog body to be as close to me as possible all ... the ... time. If you know me at all, you know how much I love my dogs and it's hard for me to admit that it's very likely that Julie's sudden anxiety and behavior issues are due in large part to the fact that she's getting old. Julie's never had any concept of personal space ... my kids would say that's my fault and that I've let her be the boss of me instead of me being the boss of her (to which I say pish-posh) ... but her current behavior is far and beyond the normal no concept of personal space Julie we all know and love.

While I'm patient with my big old dog wanting and needing to be in my lap while I'm sitting on the couch or sleep on my back in bed at night, I'm not at all happy or long-suffering with her most recent behavior. As much as I love her and as much as I'm trying to be understanding, pawing my arm until it bleeds isn't scoring old Julie any love points ... and especially not today. I woke up this morning to a very itchy left forearm ... a forearm so itchy that at one point at work today, the only tiny shred of relief I found was to hold my arm under running water. We have a pretty decent supply of first aid items at the office, but, much to my dismay, I discovered today that anti-itch cream isn't one of them. I also discovered, again much to my dismay, that my co-workers do not keep tubes of Benedryl cream at their desks either. Suffice it to say that the first thing I did when I got home from work was grab the Benedryl cream out of the cabinet and coat my arm with the magical white paste ... and I do mean coat ... I'm pretty sure I used half the tube in my attempt to drive the itch demons away. I've never been so happy to see a tube of medicated lotion in my entire life, and I breathed a sigh of relief as the miracle-working medication did exactly what it was made to do ... make my flipping arm stop itching.

Here's the thing ... maybe my forearm was itching so badly today because my skin is dry ... highly, highly doubtful since every inch of skin I have is terribly dry right now. Maybe it was itching because it's been a long and stressful week. Maybe it was itching because it's preparing itself for battle when the zombie invasion occurs. While those are all rational, realistic explanations for my itchiness, I think it's more likely ... much more likely ... that Julie must have had something on her paw that has caused my arm to itch. All I know is that the greatest medical creation ever is Benedryl cream ... seriously ... the greatest medical wonder in the history of mankind. I fully intend to slather up my arm again before I go to bed and hope and pray that whatever caused my itch will go away while I sleep. Hmmm ... I wonder if there's a Benedryl cream that would take away the itch in my heart ... the scratch in my mind ... the irritation in my soul.

Thank God for Benedryl cream ... thank you, thank you, thank you, God, for Benedryl cream. 

I'm Sorry I'm Not Sorry

Though they probably would never admit to it, I'm more than sure that each one of my three children at one time or another in their childhood years offered up at least a couple of insincere apologies to one or both of their siblings. More often than not, those apologies happened for one reason and one reason only ... I made my kids say they were sorry for something they had said or done. For as sure as I am that there were times when my three kiddos didn't really mean those words, I'm even more sure that as soon as they thought I couldn't hear them, they followed up their insincere "I'm sorry" statement with a much truer one ... "I'm not sorry." As I was walking with Ollie this evening, I remembered a time I heard Brad say "I'm not sorry" to Meghann when he thought I had left the room. When I scolded my even back then opinionated little boy, he looked up at me and said, "I'm sorry I'm not sorry, Mom, but I'm really not sorry." 

I've been thinking a lot over the last couple of weeks about apologies ... actually, I've been thinking a lot about how many times I goof up and do or say something I shouldn't have and how often I say, "I'm sorry." Trust me, I have to say those words way more than I wish I did. It struck me a few minutes ago that while I know I will always have to say "I'm sorry" because I know I will always do or say something stupid that requires me to apologize, there are a whole bunch of things for which I'm really and truly not sorry. And as soon as that realization made its way into my currently less than remarkable brain, I knew that's what I'd be writing about tonight, and I'm sorry I'm not sorry about it ... I'm not sorry even one little bit.

I'm not sorry for eating sugar-free ice cream for dinner tonight.

I'm not sorry for wearing my furry slippers when I went to Walmart last weekend.
I'm not sorry for making lists with my friend (you know who you are).

I'm not sorry for caring so much.

I'm not sorry for caring so much about the people I work with every day.

I'm not sorry for caring so much about how people treat one another.

I'm not sorry for caring so much about how I treat other people.

I'm not sorry for caring so much about people.
I'm not sorry for caring so much about you.

I'm not sorry for liking ties and suspenders and Converse shoes.

I'm not sorry for peeing behind a boulder on the side of the road in Colorado.

I'm not sorry for letting my dogs sleep in bed with me every night.

I'm not sorry for loving my children and grandchildren more than I've ever loved anyone.

I'm not sorry for loving my parents and siblings and nieces and nephews.

I'm not sorry for loving my friends.

I'm not sorry for loving the homeless people who live under the bridge.

I'm not sorry for loving people.

I'm not sorry for loving you.

I'm not sorry for not liking roller coasters.
I'm not sorry for making a vow to never eat beets.
I'm not sorry for wanting to listen and talk and laugh and cry with the people I care about.
I'm not sorry for wanting to know what's going on with the people who matter to me.
I'm not sorry for wanting those people to know what's going on with me.
I'm not sorry for hugging. 
I'm not sorry for sometimes sleeping with no clothes on.
I'm not sorry for drinking almond milk straight from the carton.
I'm not sorry for missing my family.
I'm not sorry for missing my friends.
I'm not sorry for missing you.
I'm not sorry for wanting you to miss me, too.
I'm not sorry I'm open.
I'm not sorry I'm honest.
I'm not sorry I'm real.
I'm not sorry I'm transparent.
I'm not sorry I'm me. 

I'm sorry I'm not sorry, but I'm really not, friends ... I'm really and truly not sorry. 

How Many Times?

It's probably pretty safe to assume that most of you know I am completely smitten with my two little Canadian granddaughters, Coraline and Amelie. Just in case you don't know or you've forgotten, they are both beautiful little geniuses and I adore them ... adore, adore, adore them. Without question, the thing I look forward to most each week is our Skype time together. Even though I'd much rather be with them in person, I don't think I could live without seeing their little faces and hearing their little voices, and I'm so very, very thankful for the technology that allows me to do so. Matt and his little family are in Germany for a couple of weeks because he's speaking at a conference there at the end of the week, and today they surprised me with an unexpected Skype session during lunch ... hands-down the best part of my entire day for sure.

A few weeks ago following an extra sweet "Can we wead anudder book, Ghee?" Skype session with Coraline, Matt announced that it was Coraline's bedtime and she needed to tell me goodnight. She had a serious look on her face as she leaned into the screen and adamantly instructed me as to the proper sleeping attire for nighttime. I had no idea as I nodded my head and agreed to abide by her quite hilarious bedtime clothing rules just how serious my little blonde-haired granddaughter really was until the next time I talked with her.

"Ghee, did you amember what I telled you about nighttime?" she asked seriously.

"Oh, baby girl, I'm sorry ... I forgot and wore the wrong thing last night, but I'll remember tonight ... promise," I replied sincerely. 

"Ghee!! How many times I have a tell you?" she said in her best parental-sounding voice, making me wonder if perhaps she's been asked that question a time or two in her three short years of life.

While I've had more than a few chuckles regarding both Coraline's instructions and her subsequent chastisement for her forgetful Ghee, I realized last week there was something much greater than amusement I was meant to learn from that particular interaction with my sweet granddaughter. Her question, "Ghee, how many times I have a tell you?" ... that one question packs a seriously powerful punch for me. I've been told a couple of times in my life ... okay, maybe a few more than a couple ... that I can be a bit stubborn on occasion. I maintain, however, that one woman's stubbornness is another woman's determination and persistence ... so I say I'm determined and persistent, not stubborn. But then there's Coraline's question ... my granddaughter's question smacks me right in the face and tries its best to make me understand ... to make me see ... to make me hear the truth that is often so obviously clear to everyone else but me.

I could list a million "How many times I have a tell you?" moments in my life ... moments when I needed to pay attention but I didn't ... moments when I didn't listen like I should have because I didn't want to know or see or hear the truth ... moments when I turned a deaf ear to the reality of what was happening all around me because it was too painful to accept. And you know what? I'll bet there are a whole bunch of you nodding your heads and wiping your eyes because you've got a great big stack of "How many times I have a tell you?" moments of your very own.

"Ghee!! How many times I have a tell you?" 

The Tribe Has Spoken

Though I don't watch it anymore, there was a time in my life when I spent countless hours watching "Survivor" ... don't judge me ... I watched it because from the very first episode, my son Brad was totally and completely smitten with that show, and he somehow managed to suck me right in with him. Actually, I know exactly how Brad convinced me to watch "Survivor" with him for all those years while he stilled lived at home ... I watched it because I love my son and I loved watching my son watch that crazy show. Brad's fascination for "Survivor" was fueled by the "outwit, outplay, outlast" mantra for the show ... those three words pretty much describe my middle child's personality and outlook on life, and he's proven himself many times in his young life to be the ultimate survivor.

While Brad was all about the outwitting, outplaying, outlasting part of the "Survivor" television series, my focus was always on the closing part of each episode when the tribe members who had lost the challenge made their way to Tribal Council. I was always saddened by the folks who were so giddy with the thrill of voting one of their tribe-mates off the show that they could hardly contain their excitement. Sometimes their obvious glee stemmed from feeling safe ... from knowing they weren't being voted off and believing they remained an important part of the tribe. But then there were the other times ... the times that always made me cringe ... the times when it was abundantly clear the tribe members' jubilation concerning the upcoming vote was because they simply didn't like the person or they thought he or she wasn't working hard enough or making a big enough contribution to the tribe. I can somewhat understand and even relate on some level to the self-preservation instinct, I suppose, but the other? Just suffice it to say I would never ever win "Survivor" ... I'd be the one gathering everyone around the fire saying "Let's roast marshmallows and have a nice long chat and get to know one another."

I'm willing to bet my last penny that most (if not all) of you have at some point in your life experienced similar emotions as the people who were voted off of "Survivor." I'd be willing to bet my last penny that most (if not all) of you have gone through times when you were left out or excluded or shunned or even banned from being part of a tribe ... a sports team, a club, a church, a school, a neighborhood, a workplace, a group of friends or sadly ... for more people than you realize ... their own families. I think for as much as it hurts not to be chosen or included from the inception of a tribe ... come on, you can't tell me you don't remember what it felt like to be the last kid picked for the kickball team at recess ... for as much as that kind of "unchosen-ness" hurts, it hurts a gazillion times more to believe you're an integral and valued part of a tribe only to find yourself standing at Tribal Council having your torch snuffed out as Jeff Probst says, "Bring me your torch ... the tribe has spoken. It's time for you to go." And understanding the truth that it was your own tribe-mates who deliberately chose to exile you ... well ... that pain is worse than rubbing a lifetime's worth of salt into a deep, deep, deep wound.

Last night, I sat on my couch for a few hours reading emails, and as usual, some were kind and encouraging while others were ... ummm ... not kind and encouraging. As is often the case, I happened upon an email from someone whose words completely ripped my heart to shreds. I don't know if the person who sent the email is old or young, rich or poor, male or female, straight, gay or transgender. What I do know is that I have something to tell you, Mr. or Ms. Sender ... your words have melted me ... they have consumed me ... they have wrapped themselves around my heart and buried themselves deep within my soul. Please know you're not alone ... please know you are more than worthy ... please know you are so much more than good enough ... please know there is nothing wrong with you ... please know you are not to blame.

"I'm always on the outside looking in. I don't think I'm a bad person and I try to be a good friend but I'm not good enough. They don't ever pick me. My whole life they never pick me. Some times I think I should give up and go away and not try with them anymore. There must be something wrong with me or something I've done. I wish they would include me but they don't. I wish they would want to talk to me but they don't. I know its because I'm not good enough. I don't know why I keep thinking things will change or be different. I'm ready to give up."

I think we would all do well to do some long and hard soul searching before we head off to our next Tribal Council ... we would all do well to search the very deepest parts of our hearts and take responsibility for the choices we make ... we would all do well to consider the power we have, the power to hurt and destroy, the power to love and encourage. Think about whose torch you may be snuffing out ... think about whose feelings you may be hurting ... think about whose soul you may be wounding ... think about whose heart you may be breaking. Think about how you would feel if it were you ... if you were the one being left out, excluded, shunned or banned ... think about that for a long time, friends ... think about that for a very, very, very long time. 

"Bring me your torch ... the tribe has spoken. It's time for you to go."