She Made Me

On this date three years ago, I woke up, let the dogs out, took a shower, got dressed, ate breakfast and went to work just like I had on every other weekday for many, many years. When I settled in at my desk that morning, I was totally oblivious to the now undeniable perfection of the timing of the events that would take place in just a few short hours. Looking back, I am amazed at all of the things that had to be in complete harmony and alignment in order for God's plan to be carried out with such absolute and undeniable perfection. It's a plan that continues to unfold with each passing day ... a plan that is so much bigger than I or my friend who walked into the conference room with me on this day three years ago could have ever possibly foreseen ... a plan that will forever cause me to stand in awe of the enormity of its depth and its far-reaching implications ... a plan that brings me to my knees when I consider the might power of the One who set it into motion.

I won’t lie … it took me a while … okay, it took me a heck of a long time … to come to terms with the fact that coming out of the closet to a woman in leadership at our company was actually a good thing. For the life of me, I couldn’t wrap my mind around what had happened that day … perhaps I may never fully grasp the why or the how of everything that occurred. But I have come to understand this … an essential and life-changing part of God’s plan all along was to bring the most unlikely and unexpected friends to join me on the road He meant for me to travel. And there is not one shred of doubt in my mind that the friend who led me to the conference room that day … the friend who listened to Him long before she listened to me … is one of them. Since that fateful day, other friends have come into my life … friends to teach me, to grow me, to challenge me, to humble me, to push me, and yes, even to write blog posts with me.

Today's post will be the third in which I am joined by my two most-requested co-authors … it’s abundantly apparent from the onslaught of emails I’ve received for the last couple of months that it’s now an expected tradition for us to write a post together to mark the significance of this day. The undeniable perfection of this day … I can’t imagine a more meaningful, appropriate or perfect way to remember this day. I mentioned in our two previous collaborative posts that these two gals have impacted my life in so many incredible ways, and my respect for them as wives and mothers and leaders and friends grows deeper and stronger as time goes on. Their wisdom, loyalty, grace, love, generosity, commitment, positivity, compassion, determination, persistence and willingness to kick me in the butt when I need it or to tell me the truth when I don’t want to hear it … words simply can never express how deeply these two incredible women have and continue to impact my life. I’m honored to once again be part of the blending of our thoughts, hearts and words with the hope of helping just one person understand how much they matter.

Grab a cup of tea or coffee, or heck, live on the wild side and have a beer or a glass of wine, settle into your most comfy chair and read along with us as we share about women … women who helped make us the women we are today. Oh, and by the way, after you finish reading our post, we’d really love it if you’d share it with the women who’ve made a difference in your life. And Ellen … please share this post with Ellen, and tell her you’d really like for us to be on her show.

“A life is not important except in the impact it has on other lives.” --- Jackie Robinson

The most difficult part for me in writing this post has been choosing … so many women have played such important roles in making me who I am today that I’ve had a tough time choosing which of those special gals to write about. Of course my mom and my sister are at the top of the list … their love, guidance and support throughout the years (especially my downright despicable teenage years) was unconditional, steadfast and true. So many women over the years … so many women still today who impact my life in ways they may never know. But since this is a blog post and not an epic autobiography, I’ve made a difficult decision and chosen two very special women … one from my past and one from my present.

"When Terrie and I started talking about the topic for this year’s post, several women popped into my head instantly. These women have made such a difference in my life. They have taught me fight and grace. Love and honesty. Diligence and concession. Compromise and stubbornness. All of those, all in one. All for good. What these women have taught me is overall, to be good. To be kind. Not just to others, but to myself just as much."

"When presented with the topic of writing about the women who have most influenced me, without hesitation two lovely women come to mind. Actually, every day their impact on my life is felt and appreciated so I'm simply sharing what is in my heart and mind daily."

I first met her inside a classroom at Red Bank High School ... a classroom with weathered, worn and well-used chalkboards attached to its walls, and seemingly ancient wooden floors that creaked and moaned with every step I took. I was more than a bit intimidated by her height ... she was freakishly tall ... and I instantly assumed all the stories I had heard about her being an overbearing taskmaster were true. She had dark curly hair that always seemed to be in a state of disarray, as if she had just gotten out of bed or she thought hairbrushes were for the weak. She rushed into the classroom each day like a whirlwind ... always late, wearing her trademark dark brown lace-up Earth shoes, Levi's button fly jeans and blue or pink Oxford shirt, smelling of a mixture of cigarette smoke and fancy perfume. 

 "I thought of my mom first. Then my sister. My grandmothers. My friends (too many to name). My co-workers (way too many to name – so many have taught me so much, many without knowing). My bosses. My kids. My clients. A teacher who pushed me. A mentor who asked me to volunteer, to join a board."

"My mother's influence is usually most notable to people based upon our appearance. They often think we're sisters due to the striking resemblance. At times when looking at her childhood pictures I am startled by our outward similarities. And today as I've become an adult, I find myself unknowingly mimicking her mannerisms. But the similarities are mostly external; we are actually very different on the inside."

"Sometimes the smallest drops in the bucket make the biggest ripples." --- A.M. Hodgson

One of the most terrifying moments of my young life occurred on the day my teacher returned our second writing assignment, three weeks after the start of the term. In her stern, deep, gravelly voice, she announced in front of the entire class, “Teresa Dennard, remain in your seat when class is dismissed.” I’d heard plenty of rumors about what happened to kids she kept after class … detentions, extra homework, trips to the principal’s office, even being ordered to clean those disgusting chalkboards as penance for whatever wrong they had done. I was shaking like a leaf as she closed the door after the last student left the room, and my stomach leapt into my throat as she picked up my writing assignment from her desk and turned to face me. She scowled at my trembling, scrawny little body as she slowly grumbled, “I can’t figure you out, Dennard. You sit in my class like a scared rabbit and never make a sound and then you go and write something like this.” She shook my completed writing assignment at me and said, “Damn it, kid, you’re one hell of a writer.”

"And then I thought… WOW… (stay with me here) so many powerful women have no idea how much they have impacted my life. And so many more have no idea how much they can and do impact many lives. And once I started thinking about that, I couldn’t help but notice how women help women everywhere. I noticed the way a client dealt with a co-worker. How a friend talked to her daughter. I noticed the grocery store clerk, and how she dealt with a situation. The airline check-in person. The hotel staff where I just stayed."

"The significance of my mother's influence has been the strength of her character as I watched her navigate life through many challenges and adversities. Because she was authentic and honest, I witnessed her many decisions and choices, some good, some not so good. I watched her dust herself off when she's fallen, change directions, try something new, quit, try again, marry, divorce, marry again, divorce again, risk, fight, sacrifice, and work hard. I learned how to be humble, resilient, and possess a strong work ethic. She didn't hide her mistakes or minimize, I was right there alongside her, given a front row seat to her honest journey. It has given me permission to take my own risks and change direction without fear of being judged. It has shown me how to be authentic."

That tall, Earth shoes-wearing, cigarette-smoking, bespectacled teacher spent countless hours over the next several years enlightening me on how to be a better writer … pushing me, challenging me, chastising me … always making me dig deeper and reach higher. But my stubborn, bull-headed, persistent former high school English teacher didn’t stop there … she kept in touch with me regularly until she passed away several years ago at the ripe old age of 91. And in what would be our final conversation, she was still pushing me, challenging me, chastising me … instructing me to write from my heart, to write words that would help others, to write with strength and courage and truth. My voice cracked with emotion that evening as I told her of the way she had impacted my life … as I thanked her not only for believing in me all those years ago, but for spending a lifetime teaching me to believe in myself.

"This last hotel where I stayed for work was amazing. The hotel wasn’t all that great, it wasn’t a 5-star venue, but the staff was AWESOME. I could tell that these women had each other’s backs. They were so nice, so helpful, so kind. But above that, I could tell they were in it together. They’ve been working there for years together (I’ve stayed there many times over the years). They have a working relationship where it’s clear that they count on each other. And my bet is that every day is not a dream. Every day, I bet they have at least one tired and cranky traveler walk into their lives. But they make decisions on how to get through it and they have each other’s backs. How great is that? They are truly impacting each other’s lives."

"My grandmother on the other hand, we're two peas in a pod. As my grandfather would say, I'm a model '33 replica, as he related most things to automobiles. My grandmother had the ability to understand my feelings when no one else did. She was the one who held me when I was sad or afraid. She was my safe place, my soft place to land, my home."

“If you think you're too small to have an impact, try going to bed with a mosquito.” --- Anita Roddick

“She’s an incredible speaker,” was my first thought regarding the unfamiliar woman who stood at the front of the main conference room in our office talking about why people behave the way they do. That thought was followed closely by my second thought … “Maybe I need to listen to what she’s saying.” And for once in my life, I was right … on both counts. This gal has done some really remarkable things in her short 40-something years of life … she’s climbed Mount Kilimanjaro, ran with the bulls in Spain, been an Ironman triathlete, spoken at national events where I can only dream of speaking, survived cancer, gathered a ton of medals for running 5Ks, 10Ks and marathons, AND she’s a wife, a stepmom, a daughter, a sister and a friend to many. She’s wise far beyond her years, and her heart beats with the passion of helping people figure out who they are and, even more, who they want to become.

"All of this observation got me thinking. Every day, every interaction, every comment, every smile (or not) is a chance to have a bit of impact (and I’m talking good impact now) on someone else’s life. It may not be huge. It may not result in you being named one of the people who made the biggest impact in someone’s life. It may not mean that you win an award. Or that you ever even hear from that person about the impact you’ve made. But you can make it. Every single day.

As I started thinking about it more and more, it reminded me of a book I read that talked about life encounters being a tapestry. Every person, every encounter is a part of this big tapestry of life. Some encounters are just that – a small encounter. Maybe that encounter is recorded as a small thread. Some encounters are years of impact. Some are large threads rolling through that tapestry. Some are bright and bold. Some are there to dominate the pattern. Some are there to fill in. Some are there to darken."

"I spent a great deal of time with my grandparents and Grandma tended to my emotional needs while my mother was busy forging a living for our survival. No matter my age, I could always call Grandma and she'd be there to listen and give support. Every birthday she was the early phone call before the day started to wish me happy birthday. She had a way of making you feel like you were the favorite. So much so, to this day I still believe it to be true."

The first personal conversation I had with her took place under somewhat unusual circumstances … she called me to the back of the room during an all-day office training event and asked me why I wasn’t participating in the exercise she had just assigned the group. My voice cracked and my eyes filled with tears as I struggled to offer up my whispered and hesitating reply. “I’ve already written my obituary … I was ready to check out last year.” The moment I uttered those words, I knew that our paths had crossed for a reason … that she was sent to help me become a better person … that I could learn much from her about what it means to truly live.

"So what if you got to choose your thread in others’ lives? Will yours be bold? Will it be bright? Will it be sparkly and hot pink (that’s for you, Terrie)? Or will it be subtle and equally awesome? Will it be dark and hurtful? Will it be critical and painful? Will it be kind and gentle? Will it be mean and judgmental?

The really cool part about this whole tapestry thought is that you get to choose how you impact others’ lives. You can wake up with a sparkly pink thread ready to go. Or maybe you bring an ugly brown, hurtful embroidery floss. Nothing against the color brown, but you know what I mean." 

"At my darkest times I have turned to Grandma for love and guidance. She has always been there. She believed in my dreams and encouraged me to pursue them without question. We laugh and cry together, take ice cream breaks or go on adventures together. We have kept each other's secrets and have jokes that only she and I know. Now as she is older, I am able to give to her what she gave to me when I was younger. It is my honor to care for her and watch over her as she did me all those years."

Since that day, I’ve grown to know her as so much more than the amazingly brave and intelligent woman who facilitates our awesome office training sessions or as the well-known and greatly sought-after speaker and life coach that she is … over the last couple of years, I’ve grown to know her as my friend. She challenges my way of thinking … urges me to forgive those who hurt me … pushes me out of my comfort zone … implores me to see the world not as it is but as it could be … inspires me to believe I can make a difference. The impact she has made and will continue to make on my life is immeasurable, and I can think of no better way to express my gratitude than to live … to value each moment and each person and each experience … to live authentically, honestly, compassionately and fearlessly … to never give up … to live.

"My advice is to choose wisely. Be the impact you want to be. Share a smile. Encourage growth. Push a friend to be the best she can be. Spend time with your grandparents. Ask your mom for more advice. Ask your co-workers how they’re doing – and listen. Create experiences for you and your friends. Be the impact you want to be. Choose some opportunities for big impact – and go for it. And then also choose everyday opportunities for everyday impact. I like to think of the wide stripes of color in a tapestry as the foundation, but the small, sparkly threads add up to make an amazing life design. Choose your thread and go make some impact!"

"Both of these women have been there for me, without hesitation or question, faithfully showing me unconditional love. They supported my far-fetched goals and have been my biggest cheerleaders. I am the woman, wife, and mother I am today because of their loving strength."

Here's the thing ... whether we’re family or friends or co-workers or strangers on the street, we all have an impact on one another when we care. The women who’ve helped to make me who I am today all have one thing in common … they cared and listened and noticed and loved. I could write a million posts and never even scratch the tip of the iceberg regarding all the women who’ve impacted my life. I don’t know about you, friends, but that’s the woman I want to be … that’s the impact I want to have … that’s the legacy I want to leave behind ... the legacy of caring and listening and noticing and loving.

"The purpose of life is not to be happy. It is to be useful, to be honorable, to be compassionate, to have it make some difference that you have lived and lived well." --- Ralph Waldo Emerson

Music to My Ears

A couple of weeks after she was born, my little granddaughter Amelie went from being an angelic baby who slept a ton and rarely cried to screaming almost nonstop day and night ... and I do mean screaming. I'm not talking normal baby crying, mind you ... I'm talking blood-curdling, eardrum piercing, gut-wrenching, heart-breaking screaming. It wasn't that I didn't believe my son and daughter-in-law when they kept telling me how bad Amelie's screaming was or how many times she threw up ... it turned out that she had a bad reflux issue ... but I did wonder if perhaps they were exaggerating a bit because they were simply exhausted. It only took a few minutes after I arrived at their house to meet my newest granddaughter for me to realize that Matt and Becca were absolutely telling the truth ... I had never heard a baby scream like poor little Amelie. It also only took a few minutes for me to feel as helpless as my kiddos ... no matter what I did or how I held her, that baby screamed and screamed and screamed.

I think it was the second or third day I was there when I accidentally happened upon the one thing that seemed to help soothe my sweet little granddaughter. I was swaying her back and forth, back and forth, back and forth ... her little head on my shoulder and my hand under his little butt. I have no idea why, but I began to sing to her ... "I will pat your bumpkin, bumpkin; I will pat your bumpkin, baby girl." Don't judge now ... I never said I was a songwriter. For as terrible of a singer as I am ... for reasons completely beyond any logical rhyme or reason, that sweet baby girl found my crazy made-up songs and my lousy singing voice to be calming and soothing. Which is totally weird because my dogs howl and hide when I sing to them ... must be that Ghee/grandgirl bond I suppose.

So why am I sharing that story with you? To make a point, of course ... there's something just plain old magical about the power of music. It's so magical, in fact, that my awesome friend Jim just launched his new blog, Between The Notes. Check it out and then if you're so inclined, share it with your friends. You can trust me when I say that Jim's a great writer, he knows more about music than anyone I know and he's super cool. Oh yeah ... and he donated one of his kidneys to his brother ... how could you not want to read a blog written by a guy with one kidney?

http://betweenthenotesblog.tumblr.com/

May I Please Be Excused?

As I thought about my subject matter for this evening's post, I realized it's been quite a while since I began a post with the words, "Tonight's post comes with a disclaimer," ... and honestly, I'm not sure if that's a good thing or a bad thing. I suppose, like most everything else in life, it's a matter of perspective. My posts that begin with a disclaimer are certainly among the most real and raw that I write, and there are those who would argue that writing from that place of realness and rawness is when I do my best writing. There are others, however, who cringe when they click on one of my posts and see a disclaimer at the beginning ... they don't want real and raw, they want light and entertaining. Which brings me back to my original contemplation as to whether it's a good thing or a bad thing that it's been a while since I began a post with a disclaimer. Perhaps that's the place where I should begin this evening's post ... from the place of contemplating whether or not my words this evening should come with a disclaimer. Perhaps that's a decision that can and should be made only by you.

It always freaks me out a little ... or a lot ... when I've been rolling a post over in my mind for a while and the very same day that I finally decide I'm brave enough to write it, I am bombarded with situations and conversations that make me wonder if everyone around me is reading my mind. Like today when I heard someone say, "I'll take whatever I can get because I just want to be a part of his life," or an ad I saw that said, "Today is the day of no more excuses," or an email that said, "I'm the one who always calls her, if I didn't, we would never talk," or a friend who told me, "I love him to a fault." And when my friend said those words ... "I love him to a fault," that's when my freak-out mode went into overdrive. Want to know why? Because I've been thinking about a title for tonight's post for a couple of weeks and had narrowed it down to two choices ... yep, "To a Fault" was one of those two. If that doesn't give you goosebumps, I don't know what will.

I've come to realize something about myself over the last month or so, or maybe some of the stuff my life-saving head doctor has been trying to get me to understand finally sunk in. One of those truths about myself is this: I am too loyal and too trusting, and more often than not, that makes me very gullible and naive. I know that's considered to be a bad thing these days ... being loyal and trusting to a fault ... and maybe it is. In all honesty, believing in people is way, way easier for me than entertaining the very remote possibility that the people I care about may not feel the same way toward me. In fact, that's so painful for me that instead of admitting it is more likely a reality rather than a possibility, I excuse people over and over and over again for taking advantage of my trust and for taking my loyalty for granted. I make excuses for them ... not reasons ... excuses. I make excuses for them when what I should do is accept the reality of what is ... I should stop making excuses for them, and I should start believing that I deserve better. So much easier written than done, my friends ... so much easier written than done.

So about the disclaimer ... I suppose I've stepped on a few toes tonight and maybe made you think about some things that make you uncomfortable. May I please be excused? No, I don't want to be excused ... I want to be me, and I want me being me to be good enough. I want to keep believing in people ... I want to keep trusting people ... I want to be loyal and committed and honest and true. I don't want to be excused at all, friends ... I don't want to be excused at all.

Once Upon a Poem

There are some things about social media that ... well ... there are some things about it that just plain old suck. Sorry to those of you who despise the word suck, but sometimes it really is the perfect word to describe how really lousy something is. When people use social media to bully, shame or humiliate other people, that sucks big time. Or when they use it to bash people who believe differently than they do about anything and everything you could possibly imagine ... like the folks who believe that people who eat margarine are bringing about the downfall of traditionally accepted societal norms ... or the margarine-eaters who believe that weirdos like me who consume real butter are most certainly the cause of global warming, anarchy and the soon coming end of the world as we know it. Yep, the bullying and bashing, and the people who do either of those, most definitely rank at the top of my things about social media that just plain old suck list for sure.

But there are some totally awesome things about social media as well ... things that make you feel all warm and cozy inside ... things that make you believe you really can climb that mountain ... things that make you let loose with a good old deep belly laugh. Perhaps one of the best things the explosion of social media has brought to old folks like me is that it's provided us with a relatively easy way to contact friends and family members with whom we've lost touch over the years ... just a few days ago, I received a friend request from a gal I went to kindergarten with more than 50 years ago. There's simply no denying the coolness factor in reestablishing old friendships from the past and catching up on the widely varied paths our lives have taken. And, in the spirit of being open, honest, real and transparent, there's also no denying something else ... it gives my often nearly nonexistent self-esteem a boost to know that not only do my friends from long ago remember me, they take the time and make the effort to contact me.

A couple of months ago, I received a friend request from a woman who had a tremendous impact on me during my teenage years, and quite honestly, I was super surprised to hear from her. Want to know why? Because I was an obnoxious brat when I was a teenager ... I know that's hard for most of you to believe, but it's true. Though I gave her every reason in the world not to be, this woman was overwhelmingly patient with me during those years ... from piano lessons to boy troubles to school complaints, she was always patient, kind and understanding. I remember her asking me a ton of questions, but even more important, I remember her actually listening to my answers and truly caring about what I had to say. Needless to say, I accepted this dear lady's friend request immediately, and I've so enjoyed chatting with her over the last few weeks. And get this ... she still actually listens and truly cares about what I have to say.

I don't think I really realized just how far back my love of rhyming poetry went until a week or so ago when I opened an envelope I received in the mail from my old friend. Inside was a poem I had written for her and her husband and two sons when they moved away to another city ... a long, rhyming poem carefully scribed onto white paper with a blue ink fountain pen. Hot tears coursed down my cheeks as I read the words I had placed on the paper so many years ago ... words of love and friendship and gratitude. I finished reading the poem and shifted my attention to the note my friend had included with the poem ... yep, I was crying like a baby.

"You had a way with words even as a teenager."

See here's the thing ... my friend kept that poem for more than 40 years. Let me say that again ... my friend kept the poem written by this formerly obnoxious teenager for more than 40 years. Maybe it's not to you, but that's a big deal to me. And it's a big deal to me because it means that my poem meant something ... that my words meant enough for her to hang on to it for all those years. That's really, really cool ... that she kept the poem I wrote tucked away in her house for more than 40 years ... but what's so much more awesome than keeping my poem is that she kept me tucked away in her heart for all those years ... that she didn't forget me ... that I still matter enough to her for her to want to be my friend. With the simple act of sending the poem and the note to me, my friend let me know that she's still listening and that she still cares. 

One simple act of kindness and encouragement ... once upon a poem, friends ... once upon a poem indeed.

But I'm Supposed to be the Teacher

The evening my son and daughter-in-law told me they were pregnant with my first grandchild, I think I did a pretty decent job of hiding the true emotion behind all the tears I shed at the table in the restaurant. It wasn't love for my kids or excitement about being a grandma that fueled my tears that night ... it was anger. You see, I went to dinner with all my kids that evening to say goodbye ... they wouldn't have known that's what I was doing because I had convinced myself that we would have a great evening filled with love and laughter and memory-making. I wanted their last memory of me to be when I hugged and kissed them goodbye ... I wanted the last words they heard me speak to be, "I love you and I'm so proud of you." 

It turned out that I did hug all of my children and tell them how much I loved them and how proud I was of them that night when we parted, but it was under much different circumstances than I had imagined. I'll never forget my hour-long drive home that evening ... I knew my plan for the coming weekend would have to wait until after the baby came because ... well ... because it wouldn't be fair to Matt for me to off myself while he was expecting his first child. Seriously? What mother in her right mind would ever think it would be okay to kill herself at any time in her child's life? The key words in that question are, of course, in her right mind ... I was far away from being in my right mind back then, friends ... far, far, far away from being anywhere even remotely close to being in my right mind.

Though some would argue that I shouldn't, I think about that night pretty often. I think about that night and the morning five months later when I sat at my kitchen table with the pills in my hand. I think it's important for me to recognize how far I've come since then ... to own the devastating and life-altering ripple effects my decision would have caused for my sweet family, not only for my beloved children but for my precious granddaughters as well. If anything, remembering those times makes me appreciate every moment I have with them so much more ... the memories of that deep and horrible darkness makes me so very much more thankful for the light.

There's no denying that there's been a special bond between me and my oldest granddaughter Coraline from early on ... she more than anyone in those early days helped me to find the will to live again. The first time her beautiful blue eyes lit up when she recognized me ... the first time she giggled when I tickled her toes ... the first time she called me Ghee ... the first time she said, "Ghee, we're pals, wight? And we'll always be togedder, wight?" ... that's when I knew beyond the shadow of any doubt why my plan was interrupted. The first time I met her baby sister Amelie ... the first time I held her for hours because of her tummy troubles ... the first time I patted her little butt while I sang, "I will pat your bumpkin, bumpkin, bumpkin ... I will pat your bumpkin all night long" ... the first time she reached for me when I arrived at the airport ... that's when I knew beyond the shadow of any doubt why I am still here.

Last night when I was taking the dogs for a walk, my phone signaled the arrival of a message and I was surprised to see that it was from Matt. Just a tiny digression here ... I love the What's App Chat app for my phone. Not only can I now text back and forth with my Canadians free of charge, we can send pictures and voice messages as well ... use the Google and check it out because it's totally awesome. Now back to the message from last night ... it was a voice message from Coraline saying, "Ghee, can you pwease read The Family Book to me tonight?" I quickly voice messaged her back telling her I was out walking the dogs and asked if I could read to her when I got home and received an even quicker reply of her sweet little voice saying, "Yes, Ghee!" Max and Ollie may never want to go for a walk with me again ... suffice it to say that I hustled them along on the trail way faster than they wanted to go.

Coraline was tucked in her bed with The Family Book in hand when the screen came on, and I thought for sure my heart was going to burst. When we finished reading, she asked if we could read another book ... Boo always asks if we can read another book ... but when Matt said we could, she changed her mind and said she wanted me to read to her in two more nights. I told her I would read to her whenever she wanted and that all she has to do is message me, and I'll stop whatever I'm doing and read to her. The look on her face was priceless when I said, "Coraline, listen to me, baby girl ... you can call or message me anytime you want to ... OK? Whenever you want to read, you just let me know and I'll read to you ... dealio?" Her face lit up as she said, "Dealio, Ghee, dealio, Ghee, dealio, Ghee!!"

I used to dream about all the things I would teach my grandchildren one day ... I'm supposed to be the teacher, you know. I couldn't have been more wrong, friends ... I couldn't have been more wrong. It's my grandgirls who are teaching me ... about commitment and keeping my promises and being there and listening. Coraline and Amelie have taught me more about making time for the people I love and care about than anyone else ever has. They've taught me that the most important thing I can ever do for others ... my family, my friends, my co-workers, my neighbors, the homeless guys under the bridge ... the most important thing I can ever possibly do for the people I care about is to be there.

To be there ... to be here ... to be alive. I'm not the teacher at all, friends ... I'm the one who needs to learn.

I Win, You Win, We All Win

Maybe it's just part of growing older, but recently it seems like I've been thinking a great deal not about the things I have done in my life but rather the things I haven't. Now before you pepper me with messages telling me I'm seeing the glass of my life as half empty instead of half full, please allow me to assure you that I'm not being negative. Unless, I suppose, if beginning to feel that time is slipping away from me is being negative ... well, then, in that case I guess I am. With every passing day, I'm becoming more and more aware of the ticking clock that is life, and perhaps that's why all of a sudden I'm recognizing that there's a whole bunch of things I haven't done yet. Big things like seeing Alaska or being on the Ellen Show, yes, but little things, too, like winning a prize in a raffle. It may seem stupid, but last night when I won not one but two prizes in a raffle drawing, it instantly became a really big deal to me that I had lived almost 56 years without ever winning a raffle. Such a big deal, in fact, that it's catapulted my pondering of all the things I haven't done to an entirely different level ... now my brain is even more consumed with thoughts of all the things I haven't done.

I rarely go out on the weekends because ... well ... because honestly, it's not much fun to go out alone. Last night, however, I actually accepted an invitation from a friend to attend a charity Bingo event at a bar downtown. One of my walking buddies joined us, and we had quite a good time laughing, eating and playing Bingo together will all the other folks in the packed-out bar. Last night's event was to benefit "Unleashed," an animal rescue organization here in KC, and benefit they did ... more than $3,000 was raised through Bingo, raffle ticket sales and donations to help abused and unwanted animals find loving homes. I must confess to the tears that formed as I thought about my own sweet rescue dogs that became such huge parts of my family ... Ali the dalmatian Lab ... Julie the yellow Lab ... J.R. the doxie ... and of course, my precious little Ollie the wiener. I think there's just something extra special about rescue dogs ... I think they appreciate more because they've had less, and I think they love so deeply because they've suffered so much hurt.

As I sat in the bar with my friends last night, I couldn't help but notice the wide-ranging variety of the people around me. From the servers to the hostesses to the folks running the fundraiser to the people seated at the tables, I was keenly aware of how very different we all were. From the group of gals having a lively bachelorette party to the single guy at the table behind us to the drag queen calling the Bingo numbers to the two middle-aged couples sitting just in front us to our openly gay server to the eight older women having a birthday celebration ... there was no denying the diversity within the restaurant last night. I couldn't help but recognize the differences between me and my friends ... both are straight, one who's in her mid-40s and married with children still at home, the other is in her mid-60s, divorced with two adult children and preparing to retire. And then there's me ... well, yeah ... then there's me.

I woke up this morning with a thought pounding in my head that I haven't been able to shake all day ... I don't know that many of my straight female friends (and most of them are, by the way ... straight, that is) would be comfortable or willing to give up a Saturday night to go to a gay bar to participate in a fundraiser for an animal rescue organization. Not because my straight friends don't love animals, because they do. Not because they don't donate both time and money to helping animal rescue organizations, because they do. And not because they don't love me, because they do. The truth is that many straight women are just plain old uncomfortable going to a gay bar with a gay woman because they're afraid people will think they are gay, too. Funny, I never worry that people will think I'm straight when I go to a straight bar or restaurant with my straight friends ... hmmm ... maybe I should, but I don't. Part of what makes my two friends I went with last night so very special to me is that not only were they not the least bit uncomfortable with where we were, they weren't the least bit uncomfortable with me. Heck, I think they even had a lot of fun, especially when they both won prizes in the raffle as well.

Here's the thing, friends ... I didn't do anything differently last night than I would have done had the Unleashed fundraiser been held at any other bar in town. I played Bingo and ate dinner and bought raffle tickets and laughed and talked with my friends and drank one Michelob Ultra beer. Well, I guess I did win two totally awesome gift basket prizes, but other than that, I was the same Terrie at the bar last night as I am anywhere else. I didn't get drunk or pick up a hot gal or anything even remotely wild or crazy or ... heaven forbid ... gay. The very worst thing I did last night was overtip our cute and chatty male server ... and by the way, I always overtip servers because I remember how hard my three kiddos worked when they waited tables. I don't give a horse's patootie whether they are gay or straight, servers have a stinking hard job and they have to deal with a lot of jerky people.

You know what I've realized today? Winning the raffle prizes wasn't really all that big of a deal ... okay, maybe it was kind of a little bit of a big deal ... it's knowing that my friends care about me and love me enough to be willing to step out of their own comfort zone ... it's knowing they want me to be happy ... it's knowing they don't judge me ... it's knowing they take time out of their own busy lives to be a part of mine ... that's what's a really, really, really big deal. You see, friends ... the best prize any of us can win is love ... I win, you win, we all win when we choose to love each other. Yep, yep ... we surely, surely do.

Holy, Holey, Wholly

It always surprises me how many people take the time to write to me after they read my posts, and it surprises me even more how many of those people ask me the following question ... "Where do you get the ideas for your posts?" In fact, I'm more surprised by the number of people who write in and ask me that question than I am by the number of people who write in and ask me about my relationship status. And by the way, I find it more than interesting that those relationship status questions are usually followed up with some variation of one of these two statements: "Love is love and I want you to meet the woman of your dreams and fall in love," or "You are going to burn in hell for all eternity because you're gay." Yep, I find that very, very, very interesting indeed. Sheesh ... there I go digressing again ... sorry about that ... back to the often-asked question about where I get the ideas for my posts. 

My answer to that question is simple ... everywhere. I get the ideas for my posts everywhere as long as I take the time to make sure I do one very important thing ... listen. It really is that simple ... the ideas are everywhere if I just listen. Take tonight's post, for example ... I didn't plan on writing tonight. But then a conversation at the end of the day with a friend at work took a completely random turn ... and there was the idea for tonight's post. And if I had any doubt that the idea was to be tonight's post, it disappeared when I said aloud, "I just had an idea for a blog post ... holy, holey ..." and my friend began spelling the words and we both said at the same time, "Wholly." When the ideas happen along like that, it always gives me goosebumps and has me looking around for God himself to pop into the room at any moment. Actually ... it's those times when I know for sure that He's already there.

Back when I used to do a lot of speaking for Christian women's groups, I tried really, really, really hard to live up to the words of Leviticus 20:26 ... "You must be holy because I, the LORD, am holy. I have set you apart from all other people to be my very own." I was pretty good at it, too ... that whole trying to be holy thing ... because I managed to convince a whole lot of people for a very long time that I was as holy as holy could be. Curiously, the dictionary defines holy as "one who is respected for living a very religious life" ... not a clean life or a pure life or an honest life or a trustworthy life or a sacrificial life, but instead a very religious life. That was me alright ... I was the epitome of the dictionary definition of holy. I was respected and looked up to and honored for living a very religious life. Yep, back then I was most definitely holy and I was damn proud of it, too. Read that sentence again ... there's something way off in those words ... way, way, way off the mark of what I believe God really meant when He said, "You must be holy."

The truth is that I was holey back then ... I was holey for sure, but I was most definitely not holy. All those people thought I was so godly and good, but I knew the truth. I knew that I was riddled with the holes of guilt and shame and despair and fear ... I knew how holey I was. I knew how desperately important it was that not another person on earth could even know the truth about me. I was constantly fighting what seemed to be a never-ending battle to keep the truth of who I was from leaking out. Believe me, it took a ton of energy to try to keep all those holes in my life hidden away ... a ton and then some. My heart gets really heavy when I think about all the pretending ... my soul aches when I think about all the people I managed to convince, and there are so many times when I would give everything I own if I could meet each one of them face to face just one more time and tell them how very sorry I am. Holy? I never was. Holey? From the top of my head to the bottom of my feet for as far back as I can remember, I was as holey as holey could be.

I've come to understand over the last few years that I will never really be holy ... it doesn't matter how hard I try, only God is truly I've also come to understand that the last thing I ever want to be filled with all those holes again. I want to strive with all my might to be open, honest, real and transparent in everything I say and do. Never ever do I want the kind of false holiness I pretended for all those years to have, and never never ever do I want to be holey again. What I do want to be is wholly, to strive with every breath I breathe to be wholly ... wholly focused on helping others ... wholly present when I am with the ones I love ... wholly dependable when someone is hurting ... wholly accessible when someone needs a listening ear ... wholly aware of the burdens of others ... wholly loving and caring and compassionate to everyone I know and to everyone I meet. I was thinking as I drove home after work this evening ... with all my heart, I want to be wholly ... with all my heart, I want to be wholly.

Holy, holey, wholly, friends ... holy, holey, wholly indeed.

Squirrel!

There's a reason why I rarely allow my wiener dog Oliver to venture out into our back yard without being on a leash, even though the yard is fenced in. Some of you may remember that my sweet little hound has an evil streak in him when it comes to rabbits ... he kills them. Well ... except for the half dozen or so three-legged rabbits hopping around Olathe who almost managed to scurry under the fence before the speeding wiener dog caught up with them. Now before those of you who are rabbit lovers bombard me with hate-filled messages for Ollie dog, let me assure you that I am completely diligent in making sure that my furry little pal doesn't ever kill or maim any more cottontails for as long as he lives. It's odd, you know, that during his serial rabbit killing spree Ollie didn't kill any squirrels, especially considering there have always been way more squirrels than rabbits in my back yard. Oh, he did his fair share of chasing the squirrels, mind you, but he never caught one, maybe because squirrels can climb trees and rabbits can't ... or maybe Ollie just doesn't like squirrels the way he does rabbits ... who could possibly know what's going on in his little wiener dog brain?

Remember a couple of posts ago when I said I don't dream as much as I used to when I sleep? Maybe just to prove myself wrong, last night I had a doozie of a dream ... about, of all things, a squirrel. Sounds about right for my crazy brain ... I don't dream for weeks and then when I do, I dream about a squirrel. Seriously? I couldn't have dreamed about hiking in the mountains of Colorado or winning the lottery or laying on a beach in a tropical paradise or being on The Ellen Show or getting hit on by a gorgeous babe? No, no, no ... I have to dream about a squirrel ... a squirrel ... I have to dream about a squirrel.

But wait, it gets even weirder ... I dreamed I was at my son Matt's house in Canada with my son Brad's friend Roy. In my dream, we were all sitting in the living room chatting when a squirrel came out of nowhere and jumped on my back and began pawing at my head. Of course I was screaming like a banshee as Roy tried desperately to chase the critter off of me while Matt laughed hysterically and snapped pictures with his phone. The harder Roy tried to remove the offending critter, the harder Matt laughed and the deeper the squirrel dug its claws into the skin beneath my gray spiky hair, all while I screamed more and more loudly out of sheer and utter terror. No, really, I was terrified ... come on now ... who wouldn't be terrified if they had a squirrel digging around on the top of their head?

When I finally awakened from my "squirrel from hell" nightmare, I was drenched in sweat, panting like a race horse and scared to death that there was a squirrel in my bedroom. I'm abundantly certain that those of you who are counselors, therapists or head doctors are having a field day right now as you analyze my squirrel dream but you can put your minds at ease ... I've already figured it out all by myself. In the fantastic Pixar movie Up, Dug the talking dog has a serious focusing problem if he sees a squirrel ... no matter what he's doing or should be doing, whenever he sees a squirrel he shouts, "Squirrel!" and is off and running, completely distracted and drawn away from his task at hand. That's the meaning behind my squirrel dream ... I lose my focus every time one of those danged squirrels comes along and I'm immediately distracted from what I am or should be doing.

It's not the little gray or brown furry creatures that scurry along the fence in my back yard that distract me, friends ... it's not those cute little guys that draw my attention away from what's most important in life. I'm not talking about the animals with tails that look to be too big for their bodies ... I'm talking about a whole different kind of squirrel. It's the squirrels of loneliness or isolation or insecurity or jealousy or guilt or shame or hurt or pain that distract me ... those are the not-so-little beasts that send me off in a completely different direction and steal precious time away from listening and caring and paying attention to the people I love. Those are the not-so-little creatures that turn my focus inward rather than outward ... it's when I get distracted by those kinds of squirrels that I go running into the night and lose my way.

You know what I think? I think maybe I need to stop looking at the squirrels and start looking at the people. I think I need to stop getting distracted by all the little things and start focusing on all the big things ... go ahead ... ponder on that for a while ... go ahead and ponder on that for a good long while. friends. My guess is I'm not the only one shouting "Squirrel!"   
  

I Know Exactly How You Feel

Sometimes I wonder just how many people I've seen or passed or followed or acknowledged or talked to since I started walking on the trail across the street from my house back in the late summer of 2009. Countless times I've wished I would've kept a journal of all the people and animals I've encountered from the moment my little J.R. and I waddled across the street and first stepped onto the trail together. Even as I type those words, I can't help but think about the differences between my walks with J.R. back then and my walks with Ollie now, and I can't help but be overwhelmed by the emotions those thoughts bring. So very much has changed in my life over the last six years ... physically, emotionally, mentally and spiritually ... so very, very, very much has changed.

A couple of nights ago, I happened upon a Facebook post that had me sitting on my couch bawling my eyes out as I read it. It was a letter written to an overweight woman whom the author sees running at a track each day ... a letter from the author recounting her utmost respect and admiration for the courage and determination the woman displays each time she steps onto the track. As I read the author's words describing the overweight runner's downcast eyes, lumbering gait, labored breathing and sweat-soaked clothing, I thought to myself, "If I could talk to the overweight gal ... if I could talk to her, I'd say, 'I know exactly how you feel.'" That's what I would say to her because it's true ... it's true because not all that long ago, I was her. I went from bawling to sobbing when I read the words from the author to the worman, "You are awesome ... you're a hero to me ... you are a true inspiration ... I bow to you."

I know exactly how the overweight runner feels because I was so ashamed of my large body that I couldn't look the athletic, muscle-toned, slender people on the trail in the eye. I know exactly how she feels because my belly jiggled more than Santa's when I took a step. I know exactly how she feels because I huffed and puffed like a dragon after walking a whopping 10 minutes. I know exactly how she feels because not all that long ago, I was her. Though I won't tell you how much I weighed when J.R. and I began our walking journey together, I will tell you this ... the day I stepped onto the trail with my little wiener dog, I wore a size 22 in pants (and even those were snug) and an XXL in shirts (okay, sometimes I had to buy a 3XL). Today ... right this minute as I type ... I'm sitting on my couch in a size 8 pair of shorts and a medium t-shirt. I really am half the woman I used to be ... in a good way I think, though I'm sure there are those who might say otherwise.

As so often happens, it turns out that random Facebook post I stumbled upon a couple of nights ago wasn't at all random for me ... it turns out there was a much bigger lesson in that post for me than the empathy I felt for the overweight gal who was the subject of the anonymous note ... a much, much, much bigger lesson for me. Here's the thing ... I had a really lousy day on Friday. It wasn't my work or my job that made my day lousy, though I did have a butt load of projects to complete by the end of the day. It wasn't my still aching ear, pounding headache, queasy stomach and chesty cough that made my day lousy, though I am more than ready for the creeping crud that's been hanging around inside my body for the last two weeks to go away. It wasn't even my traffic-filled forever long commute that made my day lousy. In fact, I'm not going to tell you the specific events that made my day so lousy, but I will tell you this ... on Friday, I felt exactly the way I did when I was the fat girl on the trail. I felt embarrassed, unworthy, ashamed, irrelevant, alone, ugly and even stupid. Oh, and by the way, every single one of those feelings had absolutely nothing at all to do with my body or my weight ... every single one of them had absolutely everything to do with my heart.

It wasn't until last night that I got it ... that I understood why I had "happened" upon the Facebook post of the note to the overweight gal and what the bigger lesson was for me. Reading that post wasn't really to remind me how I felt in those early days as I struggled to lose weight, to exercise, to become a healthier, better me ... that's not really what it was about at all. Reading that post was to remind me that I know exactly how a lot of you feel ... the hated, the rejected, the ignored, the hurt, the lonely, the different, the sick, the depressed, the weary ... I know exactly how you feel because I have been you ... I know exactly how you feel because there are some days, like Friday, when I am still you. Reading that post last week wasn't for last week at all ... reading that post last week was for Friday and yesterday and today and all the days still ahead. 

It takes hard work, determination, persistence, sweat and pain to lose the physical pounds I carry on my body, but it takes so much, much more to lose the weight I carry in my heart. I have to keep walking, even when it's hard. I have to keep eating the right foods, even when all I want to eat is a massive bowl of mashed potatoes and gravy followed by a gigantic turtle cheesecake. I have to keep treating others with kindness and compassion and love and respect and appreciation, even when I don't receive the same treatment in return. Why? Because I know exactly how you feel if I don't.

Let's try something together ... let's be kind to each other without fail ... let's speak and act toward one another with respect and compassion and understanding not just sometimes, but all the time. That's the lesson, you know ... that's why I randomly happened upon the note from the anonymous author to the overweight runner ... to remind me to persevere and never give up ... to remind me to encourage those who are walking or running beside me ... to remind me to feel what's inside the hearts of others ... to remind me to look for ways to help and not harm ... to remind me to keep my eyes ever open for the ones who are struggling to find their way ... to remind me of the power of love.

Where's All Your Stuff?

I'm not sure if it's a medication thing or an age thing or a brain on overload thing ... now that I think about it, maybe it's all of those things combined ... but I don't dream as much as I used to when I sleep. I used to have incredibly vivid and complex dreams almost every night, but over the last six months or so, I've noticed a huge decrease in the number of dreams I have and, quite frankly, it sort of has me a bit worried. Not the kind of freaked out, over-the-top worried I get when the tornado sirens go off or I convince myself that the cracks under my gas furnace in the basement are going to make my house explode. Seriously? My somewhat irrational concern over my current lack of dreaming when I'm asleep doesn't even begin to come close to my completely rational and justifiable anxiety over tornado sirens and basement cracks ... but alas, once again I digress. Though I don't dream anywhere nearly as much as I used to, I still remember the dreams I do have. That's generally a good thing, you know, remembering my dreams, except when they freak me out in a weird twilight zone kind of way. 

One of the many things I miss about the place where I used to sit at work is getting to see my co-workers' kids when they come to visit their moms or dads. My spot wasn't far from the front door and one of the first things the kids would do was run to my desk and give me a hug. If I wasn't up against a tight deadline, I would always take a few minutes to play a little Nerf basketball with them or have a quick Nerf sword battle or just sit and chat. And of course, I always, always, always gave them candy ... that's why they liked me so much, you know, because I was the keeper of the candy. Since I now sit upstairs at the opposite end of the building from the front door, I don't get to see the kids much anymore and I miss that ... I miss seeing those kiddos a whole lot.

I was sitting at my desk today when I heard giggles from behind me ... there's just nothing on earth like the excitement in a kid's eyes when they are happy to see someone, and those two little girls were beaming from ear to ear as they wrapped their arms around me and hugged me tightly. I'm not sure who was the happiest ... me, the girls or their dad. There were more hugs when it was time for the girls to leave along with promises that I would come to their house soon and spend some time with them. It wasn't too long after those two little gals left that I was surprised by another set of sisters ... the daughters of another co-worker came running up to my desk with the same gleam of excitement in their eyes as the sisters I had seen earlier. Once again, there were hugs and high-fives and giggling and laughing and maybe, just maybe, even a tiny bit of rough-housing. There were smiles all around ... from me to the girls to their mom ... lots of smiles and lots of love. I've been really missing my granddaughters since I came back from Canada, not that I don't always miss them, but it's really been intense this week for some reason. Seeing those kids today helped my heart way more than their parents could possibly know ... there's nothing on earth better than kids ... absolutely nothing at all better on earth than the sweetness, innocence and honesty of little kids.

Kids are way smarter than we adults often realize they are, and they pay way more attention to things than we think they do. One of the little girls who paid me a visit today made a very special Christmas picture for me last year and today when she walked into my very barren cubicle, the first thing she said was, "Where's the picture I made you?" I told her it was at home on my refrigerator (which is true, by the way), but I could tell she was wondering why I don't have all the drawings from my little kid friends tacked up around my desk like I did in my old spot. The two little girls who visited me later in the afternoon were more direct in their reaction to the lack of personalization and fun stuff at my current location, especially the younger kiddo as she matter of factly asked, "Where's all your stuff?" 

That sweet kiddo's words have pounded in my head ever since they left her little lips and now they're pounding in my heart ... where's all my stuff? I could write an encyclopedia full of the deep psychological meaning and subsequent angst that accompanies that question but I've decided instead to just leave you with that question this evening ... where's all my stuff? Where's yours?

P.S. Last night I dreamed about my space at work ... weird, eh?

Everyone Needs One

For all of my strange habits and odd quirks, I will openly admit that the amount of angst I suffer over choosing clothes to wear when I have to ride on an airplane catapults my over-the-top weirdness to a whole new level. I fret over what I'm going to wear on a flight for weeks before I actually have to board the aircraft ... no, really, I'm serious ... I get almost as worked up about the clothes I wear on an airplane ride as I do about thunderstorms. As is generally true with most of my behavior that some may label as unusual, there are several reasons for my air travel clothing obsession, a few of which are listed below (not necessarily in order of importance).

1) If the plane crashes, I want to be appropriately dressed when the news crews show up even if I am ... well ... you know ... pushing up daisies.

2) I have a thing about texture (of course I do), so it's important that what I wear on the plane doesn't irritate my skin. The last thing I need is for my clothes to make me more anxious than I already am when I have to fly.

3) I refuse to give up hope that Ellen will be seated next to me, and I need to look sharp. Stop laughing ... it could happen.

4) You know how everyone stares at you when you're walking down that tiny aisle trying to find your seat? Enough said on that one.

A couple of weeks before I left for my most recent trip to Canada, I bought a pair of super comfy, lightweight, cream-colored khaki pants thinking they would be great to wear on the plane ... and they were. I was stinking proud of myself that morning when I stepped into the pants that felt and looked as though they were straight from heaven. I tucked in my navy blue button-down shirt, threaded my brown belt through the belt loops, slipped on my blue Converse shoes, stood in front of my mirror and said out loud, "Hey, everybody! Look how good I look!" (That's a line from the movie Anchorman, just in case you didn't know.) Max and Ollie didn't appear to be nearly as impressed with my look that morning as I was, but I certainly had one of those rare moments when I was more than pleased with how I looked in my clothes.

My flights that day were great, mostly because I was travelling with my son Brad, but I also like to think they were great because I was feeling so good about my chosen attire. I was thrilled to see my daughter-in-law and my two little grandgals when Brad and I walked through the doors at the Edmonton airport ... there's no feeling in the world like the feeling I get when I see Coraline and Amelie's eyes light up when they first see me. I never knew I could feel as loved as I do when those girls jump into my arms ... there is absolutely nothing on earth like feeling their little arms wrap around my neck as they squeal and giggle with excitement that their Ghee is there for a visit. My infatuation with my more than satisfactory choice in clothing that day melted away in an instant. It wasn't until we were on our way home from the airport that little miss Coraline brought my clothing ... and my perspective about it ... sharply into focus. 

I was sitting in the back seat in between the girls' car seats when my genius granddaughter said, "Ghee, why are you wearing dat shirt?" I laughed as I said, "What's wrong with my shirt, baby girl ... do you not like it?" Coraline shook her head and said adamantly, "No, Ghee, I don't wike it." I chuckled again at the insistence of my 3-year-old granddaughter's dislike of my navy blue shirt and asked her why she didn't like it. "Because I like purple and pink shirts, Ghee." And then as quickly as she had announced her shirt color preference, my sweet little pal switched gears and began to tell me all about the giant-sized jar of peanut butter she and her mom had purchased at Costco for me to eat while I was at her house. That's the greatest thing of all about kids, you know ... they are honest and they don't hesitate to express their feelings about everything. But you know what else is super great about Coraline? She knows she can tell me anything ... at three years old, she already knows that there's nothing she can ever say or do that will change my love for her and that anything she says is always safe with me. And you better believe I will do everything in my power to make sure her baby sister knows that as well.

Ever since my ugly shirt conversation with Coraline (and my "Ghee, your toots stink" or "Ghee, why is your hair not prickly under your hat? You're apposed to have prickly hair" or "You're my best Ghee ever" or "Ghee, sometimes I get scared in my room"  or "Ghee, I love you so much" conversations), I've been thinking a lot about how important those kinds of relationships really are ... relationships that are open and honest and real and transparent ... relationships where judgment is nonexistent ... relationships that are built on a solid foundation of trust. I've come to learn over the years, especially over the last few years, that there are people you can trust and people ... well ... people you can't. I've also come to learn that we all need people we can trust to keep our most heartfelt, most life-altering, most secret confessions ... people with whom we can confidently share the good, the bad, the funny, the sorrowful, the wild and crazy, the humbling, the awesome, the embarrassing and everything else in between, and know beyond the shadow of any doubt that we are safe in doing so. 

Last week as I chatted with one of my best guy friends about stuff I wouldn't feel comfortable chatting about with anyone else on the planet, I realized how very blessed I am. I know I can tell him anything ... and I do mean anything. My life is so much richer because he is my friend, and I wouldn't trade our friendship for anything in the world. I laughed out loud in my car that evening on my way home when I recalled our earlier conversation ... I laughed out loud and I thanked God for giving me such an incredible gift as my friend. As I pulled into my driveway, I was struck with a thought ... everyone needs one ... everyone needs one person in their life like my awesome guy friend. Everyone needs one, and everyone should be one. Everyone needs a Coraline to tell them the truth, and everyone needs a Ghee to tell the truth to ... yep, yep ... everyone needs one, and everyone should be one.

Everyone needs one ... everyone should be one ... that's worth some serious mulling over, friends ... some really serious mulling over indeed.