So it's the night before Thanksgiving and I know you're probably expecting me to write one of my super-deep, thought-provoking, lesson-filled posts. You know ... one of those posts that inspires you to want to be a better person or go out and change the world or some other grand thing. But instead, I decided to give thanks for little kids who make me chuckle. Thanks to one of my pals at work for blessing me ... and I'm sure all of you as well ... with his daughter's simple three-step method for cooking a turkey.
How to Cook a Turkey by Kate
Step 1 - A six pound turkey at the farm will cost $5.55.
Step 2 - Stuff it with green beans and put it in the oven.
Step 3 - Set the oven at 60 degrees and cook for an hour or two.
Have a great Thanksgiving, friends ... and be truly thankful ... be truly, truly thankful. There are many tonight who are hungry ... many who are lonely ... many who are grieving ... many who are homeless ... many who are sick ... many who would give everything for just a taste of the life you have.
Be thankful ... be truly, truly thankful.
Wednesday, November 25, 2015
The Tyranny of the Urgent
If I had a nickel for every time I've had to go back to the grocery store a day or two after I was just there to get the things I forgot to purchase, I'd be filthy rich by now. Most of the time I just get mildly annoyed when that happens, but when I realized last night that I had to choice but to go to the store tonight ... suffice it to say I was more than mildly annoyed ... I was way more than mildly annoyed. I groaned when I pulled into the parking lot and saw all the cars ... I'm pretty sure everyone within a 50-mile radius of my house was at the grocery store tonight. When I finally found a parking place, I jumped out of my car and jogged ... yes, I jogged ... to the nearest entrance, grabbed one of those small plastic basket things and raced through the store grabbing the items I needed. And then I went to pay ... I simply cannot comprehend why in the world a grocery store would have only four cashiers working on one of the busiest grocery buying nights of the year. I stepped in line behind a young family, a mom and dad and their three children, and their full to overflowing shopping cart, gritting my teeth and steeling myself for a long wait.
"You look like you're in a hurry, and you only have a few things," the young mom said. "You go on ahead of us ... we're not in a big hurry tonight."
"Are you sure?" I asked skeptically. "I would really appreciate it, but are you sure?"
"Of course," the young woman said, smiling broadly. "You go right ahead ... we really are in no hurry."
Several years ago, a friend gave me a small book titled "The Tyranny of the Urgent." For some reason, that little book has been on my mind a lot lately, and I couldn't figure out why ... until tonight when I was jogging back to my car after leaving the grocery store. That small book has been on my mind so much recently because I've been allowing the seemingly urgent stuff of life make me forget the really important stuff of life. That's kind of a big deal, you know ... to allow the urgent, "this has to be done right this minute" stuff become a tyrannical ruler that diverts my focus from what really matters. The tyranny of the urgent keeps me from listening to the hearts of others like I should ... it keeps me from seeing the needs of others like I should ... it keeps me from loving others like I should. The tyranny of the urgent keeps me running when I should be standing still ... it keeps me from being the person I need to be, the person I want to be, the person I was created to be.
When it's all said and done, what really matters most to you? Who really matters most to you? Here's the thing, the really important thing you and I need to understand about the tyranny of the urgent ... there will always be stuff to do, things that seem to be so very urgent at the time ... but people ... the people you love won't always be there, friends.
"You look like you're in a hurry, and you only have a few things," the young mom said. "You go on ahead of us ... we're not in a big hurry tonight."
"Are you sure?" I asked skeptically. "I would really appreciate it, but are you sure?"
"Of course," the young woman said, smiling broadly. "You go right ahead ... we really are in no hurry."
Several years ago, a friend gave me a small book titled "The Tyranny of the Urgent." For some reason, that little book has been on my mind a lot lately, and I couldn't figure out why ... until tonight when I was jogging back to my car after leaving the grocery store. That small book has been on my mind so much recently because I've been allowing the seemingly urgent stuff of life make me forget the really important stuff of life. That's kind of a big deal, you know ... to allow the urgent, "this has to be done right this minute" stuff become a tyrannical ruler that diverts my focus from what really matters. The tyranny of the urgent keeps me from listening to the hearts of others like I should ... it keeps me from seeing the needs of others like I should ... it keeps me from loving others like I should. The tyranny of the urgent keeps me running when I should be standing still ... it keeps me from being the person I need to be, the person I want to be, the person I was created to be.
When it's all said and done, what really matters most to you? Who really matters most to you? Here's the thing, the really important thing you and I need to understand about the tyranny of the urgent ... there will always be stuff to do, things that seem to be so very urgent at the time ... but people ... the people you love won't always be there, friends.
"Never be so busy as not to think of others." --- Mother Teresa
Monday, November 23, 2015
So Not Cool
Most of my friends thought my first bicycle was atrociously ugly because it was turquoise. They didn't even notice the awesome multicolored streamer thingies in the ends of the handlebars, nor did they pay any attention to its gleaming white banana seat. Nope ... my friends didn't care that my bike had awesome reflectors, a rear-view mirror or a shiny bell. All they saw when they looked at my bike was that it was turquoise, and they thought turquoise was a disgusting color. Those kids teased me mercilessly about my bike the entire time I had it, so much so that I begged and pleaded and cried and pouted until my dad bought me a new red bike. Why red? Because all the cool kids at school rode red bicycles, and I really, really, really wanted to be one of the cool kids. I found out in a hurry, however, that not even an awesome red bike could make me fit in or be accepted by the cool kids.
A couple of weekends ago, Ollie and I were out for an afternoon walk when I noticed a group of girls sitting near the small playground just to the side of the trail. They looked to be about 12 or 13 years old, all wearing jeans, hoodies and sneakers. Had it not been for me accidentally overhearing what the girls were saying, I would have strolled past them and continued along on my walk. But I did overhear what the girls were saying ... I overheard, and I stopped dead in my tracks as I listened.
"She's not like us ... did you see what she was wearing today?"
"I can't believe she actually thinks she's cute."
"I heard her telling the loser bangers she's coming to the party on Saturday."
"That bitch be trippin' if she think she comin' to the party. Hell, no, she not."
"She's too stupid to even know why we hate her."
And the comment that pushed me over the edge?
"Yeah ... she's so gay."
That's the comment that made me gather Ollie up into my arms and walk over to where the girls were sitting. That's the comment that made me tell those little girls that what they were saying about the other girl was hurtful and rude and just plain old mean. That's the comment that made me tell those little girls that someday they would feel deeply sorry for the way they were treating the other girl. That's the comment that made me lecture those little girls about kindness and respect and acceptance and integrity. That's the comment that made my eyes fill with tears as I said, "Don't do it, girls ... don't treat her or anyone else that way just because they're different from you. You think you're being cool but you're really just being mean and hateful. How would you feel if the other kids hated you? How would you feel if you went to school tomorrow and found out she had killed herself? How would you feel then?"
The girls just sat and looked at me, and not one of them said a word. I'm sure they were just hoping the old psycho lady wasn't going to haul them off like Hansel and Gretel and try to bake them in my oven ... what a horrific fairy tale, by the way, I can't believe I actually read that story to my children when they were young. I turned to leave the group of girls, and as I did, I felt somewhat vindicated in my righteous anger and I told myself that one day those little girls would grow up and remember the crazy lady with the wiener dog in her arms ... that one day they would remember that short encounter near the trail when the gray-haired lady with the cute dog schooled them on the dangers of hate and the benefits of compassion.
Ollie and I walked for a long time that day ... we walked much longer than we normally walk ... a long, silent walk as a million thoughts filled my mind. As we turned onto our street, I said, "Well, buddy ... that's one of the more interesting walks we've had in a while." I've thought a ton about that little encounter and of the things I said to the girls, but I've also thought a lot about how so many adults are guilty of doing the very same thing those little girls were doing. The adult version of the scenario with the little girls can be so mean ... so hateful ... so wrong. I can't stress to all of you enough how important it is that we love, honor and respect one another. If you never remember anything else I've written or spoken, please remember this ... only love can change a person's heart, friends ... only love can change a person from the inside out.
Oh, and by the way ... I loved my turquoise bike ... you bet I did ... I loved that old turquoise bike a ton ... I surely, surely did. Until my friends told me I shouldn't ... until my friends told me it was ugly ... until my friends told me it was bad. Think about that ... for ... a ... very ... long ... time, friends ... a very, very, very long time indeed.
A couple of weekends ago, Ollie and I were out for an afternoon walk when I noticed a group of girls sitting near the small playground just to the side of the trail. They looked to be about 12 or 13 years old, all wearing jeans, hoodies and sneakers. Had it not been for me accidentally overhearing what the girls were saying, I would have strolled past them and continued along on my walk. But I did overhear what the girls were saying ... I overheard, and I stopped dead in my tracks as I listened.
"She's not like us ... did you see what she was wearing today?"
"I can't believe she actually thinks she's cute."
"I heard her telling the loser bangers she's coming to the party on Saturday."
"That bitch be trippin' if she think she comin' to the party. Hell, no, she not."
"She's too stupid to even know why we hate her."
And the comment that pushed me over the edge?
"Yeah ... she's so gay."
That's the comment that made me gather Ollie up into my arms and walk over to where the girls were sitting. That's the comment that made me tell those little girls that what they were saying about the other girl was hurtful and rude and just plain old mean. That's the comment that made me tell those little girls that someday they would feel deeply sorry for the way they were treating the other girl. That's the comment that made me lecture those little girls about kindness and respect and acceptance and integrity. That's the comment that made my eyes fill with tears as I said, "Don't do it, girls ... don't treat her or anyone else that way just because they're different from you. You think you're being cool but you're really just being mean and hateful. How would you feel if the other kids hated you? How would you feel if you went to school tomorrow and found out she had killed herself? How would you feel then?"
The girls just sat and looked at me, and not one of them said a word. I'm sure they were just hoping the old psycho lady wasn't going to haul them off like Hansel and Gretel and try to bake them in my oven ... what a horrific fairy tale, by the way, I can't believe I actually read that story to my children when they were young. I turned to leave the group of girls, and as I did, I felt somewhat vindicated in my righteous anger and I told myself that one day those little girls would grow up and remember the crazy lady with the wiener dog in her arms ... that one day they would remember that short encounter near the trail when the gray-haired lady with the cute dog schooled them on the dangers of hate and the benefits of compassion.
Ollie and I walked for a long time that day ... we walked much longer than we normally walk ... a long, silent walk as a million thoughts filled my mind. As we turned onto our street, I said, "Well, buddy ... that's one of the more interesting walks we've had in a while." I've thought a ton about that little encounter and of the things I said to the girls, but I've also thought a lot about how so many adults are guilty of doing the very same thing those little girls were doing. The adult version of the scenario with the little girls can be so mean ... so hateful ... so wrong. I can't stress to all of you enough how important it is that we love, honor and respect one another. If you never remember anything else I've written or spoken, please remember this ... only love can change a person's heart, friends ... only love can change a person from the inside out.
Oh, and by the way ... I loved my turquoise bike ... you bet I did ... I loved that old turquoise bike a ton ... I surely, surely did. Until my friends told me I shouldn't ... until my friends told me it was ugly ... until my friends told me it was bad. Think about that ... for ... a ... very ... long ... time, friends ... a very, very, very long time indeed.
Friday, November 20, 2015
A Different Kind of Closet
So you know how I usually begin my posts with a story that relates to my topic for the evening? Not tonight. In all my tossing and turning last night, I finally got out of bed and started reading emails ... emails from so many of you who read my post Looking for Me? a couple of nights ago. I read until I could read no more, tears pouring down my cheeks, truly humbled that you chose to share your own personal stories with me. As I read, I was struck by a recurring message that permeated so many of the notes ... a message that hits just a bit too close to home for me.
Sometimes it feels like a lifetime since I came crashing out of the closet a little more than three years ago, but then there are other times when it feels as though it was only yesterday that I made my sobbing, distraught, reluctant confession. That disparity of time bothers me a lot, you know ... that disparity of time that causes me to one moment feel as though the closet that once held me captive is nailed shut forever, but in the next moment causes me to feel as though I am forever destined to hide away inside a tiny room of shame and fear. But as is true of all the great journeys in life, each step I take serves to bring me ever closer to the goal of understanding and self-acceptance.
I was surprised by how many people used the word closet in their notes to me about my previous post ... but they weren't talking about the closet of sexuality. People wrote about how they hide inside the closet because they suffer from depression, pretending to be happy while they hope and pray that no one discovers their secret. Though much progress has been made in recent years in the distribution of information to aid in gaining greater understanding about depression and other mental health issues, there remains a huge stigma surrounding any type of malfunction or chemical imbalance within the brain. The truth is that people want the people they interact with to be happy, or at least they want them to pretend to be happy. See, here's the thing ... that's really not all that different from a straight person asking a gay person to pretend be straight. I know, I know ... that's pretty doggone deep, so feel free to stew on it for a bit.
There are a lot of people living in the closet, a lot of people trying to hide something about themselves that they believe will cause them to be rejected or unloved or judged by others. Maybe it's an illness that keeps someone locked away in a closet, or maybe it's their sexuality or a bad marriage or substance abuse or jealousy or the fear of failure. We lock ourselves away because there is something about us that we think is unacceptable, unworthy, unwanted. We lock ourselves in a closet because we believe we don't deserve to be out in the light of day.
Closets aren't made to hold people, they're made to hold clothes. Closets aren't meant to be a place where people live in fear, afraid to show others their true and honest selves. Closets are not at all made to hold people, friends ... closets are made to hold clothes.
Sometimes it feels like a lifetime since I came crashing out of the closet a little more than three years ago, but then there are other times when it feels as though it was only yesterday that I made my sobbing, distraught, reluctant confession. That disparity of time bothers me a lot, you know ... that disparity of time that causes me to one moment feel as though the closet that once held me captive is nailed shut forever, but in the next moment causes me to feel as though I am forever destined to hide away inside a tiny room of shame and fear. But as is true of all the great journeys in life, each step I take serves to bring me ever closer to the goal of understanding and self-acceptance.
I was surprised by how many people used the word closet in their notes to me about my previous post ... but they weren't talking about the closet of sexuality. People wrote about how they hide inside the closet because they suffer from depression, pretending to be happy while they hope and pray that no one discovers their secret. Though much progress has been made in recent years in the distribution of information to aid in gaining greater understanding about depression and other mental health issues, there remains a huge stigma surrounding any type of malfunction or chemical imbalance within the brain. The truth is that people want the people they interact with to be happy, or at least they want them to pretend to be happy. See, here's the thing ... that's really not all that different from a straight person asking a gay person to pretend be straight. I know, I know ... that's pretty doggone deep, so feel free to stew on it for a bit.
There are a lot of people living in the closet, a lot of people trying to hide something about themselves that they believe will cause them to be rejected or unloved or judged by others. Maybe it's an illness that keeps someone locked away in a closet, or maybe it's their sexuality or a bad marriage or substance abuse or jealousy or the fear of failure. We lock ourselves away because there is something about us that we think is unacceptable, unworthy, unwanted. We lock ourselves in a closet because we believe we don't deserve to be out in the light of day.
Closets aren't made to hold people, they're made to hold clothes. Closets aren't meant to be a place where people live in fear, afraid to show others their true and honest selves. Closets are not at all made to hold people, friends ... closets are made to hold clothes.
Wednesday, November 18, 2015
Looking for Me?
The changes in him were almost undetectable at first ... a slight shuffle when he walked, minor declines in his ability to perform routine tasks, ever-so-subtle personality changes, slight confusion regarding locations or times, a forgotten word now and again ... changes that were easily attributable to the normal aging process. My family desperately clung to the quickly fading hope that he was just getting older and slowing down a bit, but eventually the devastating diagnosis came ... my dad had Alzheimer's disease. For the next nine years, we watched helplessly as the man we knew as Daddy ... the man with the twinkling brown eyes, quick smile and hilarious sense of humor ... disappeared before our very eyes.
My children and I lived in Florida for most of the time during Daddy's illness, coming home once or twice a year for a far-too-short week-long visit. For many years I spent most of those visits gazing into my dad's eyes, holding his weathered hands in mine, hoping for just a brief glimpse of the man he once was. I spent years looking for my dad ... for the Daddy I knew him to be ... the Daddy I so wanted him to be once again. I distinctly remember the day I gave up all hope of ever seeing him again ... it was the day he looked up at me with the empty, blank stare that had stolen away the twinkle in his eyes ... it was the day he looked into my eyes and whispered, "Who are you?" That was the moment when I realized that the man who knew me better than anyone else ever could was no longer there ... that was the day I stopped looking for the dad I used to know and began the heartbreaking journey toward accepting and loving the dad he had become.
Over the last three years or so, I've tried my best to be open, honest, real and transparent as I've shared my struggle with depression, and I've done so in the hope that my story might help even just one person in the midst of their own fight. I've said over and over again that depression is a vicious and nasty beast, and I know beyond any doubt that were it not for the help of my life-saving head doctor and the cocktail of antidepressants I take each day, I wouldn't be alive today. I could write a gazillion posts about all the lousy things that accompany living with depression ... whoa ... just typing those words, living with depression, is kind of a big deal to me, you know. Depression came so very close to killing me three years ago, friends ... I think it's a pretty big freaking deal that today I can say I'm living with depression.
For as difficult as a day in the life of dealing with the medically documented chemical imbalance that now resides within my brain can be, without question the worst of the worst are those days when I feel like I'm losing the real me ... the happy, lighthearted, joke-cracking, story-telling me ... the days when I stare blankly into the eyes of my mind and ask, "Who are you?" Or perhaps the more accurate question for me isn't "Who are you?" but rather "Where are you?" You see, unlike my dad or countless other people who were or currently are imprisoned by the hopelessness of Alzheimer's disease, I know who I am and even more important, I know who I want to be. Trust me, friends, I'm truly the only one who knows who I am, and I most certainly am the only one who knows who I want to be.
Sometimes I wonder if my dad was aware of what was happening to him ... I wonder if he was still in there somewhere during those times when I sat looking into his eyes ... hoping, praying, wishing for a glimpse of the man I knew he really and truly was. I can make myself crazy with that kind of thinking, you know ... wondering if Daddy was shouting on the inside, "Looking for me? I'm right here! Don't stop looking, Sam ... I'm here ... I'm here ... I'm here." I've had several people tell me recently that I haven't been myself for quite a while, and that they need me to be me. Today I was goofing around at work and my friend Micah took a photo of me and I posted it on Facebook. Another friend left a two-word comment on my photo that spoke volumes to me ... two little words that contained within them a powerful, powerful message that I've been unable to get out of my mind all day. She said, "She's back." Just go ahead and think on that for a while, maybe a really good long while ... I know I'll be thinking about it for a long, long time to come.
Looking for me? I'm right here! Please don't stop looking ... I promise I'm right here. I'm here ... I'm here ... I'm here. Please don't stop looking, friends ... please don't ever stop looking.
My children and I lived in Florida for most of the time during Daddy's illness, coming home once or twice a year for a far-too-short week-long visit. For many years I spent most of those visits gazing into my dad's eyes, holding his weathered hands in mine, hoping for just a brief glimpse of the man he once was. I spent years looking for my dad ... for the Daddy I knew him to be ... the Daddy I so wanted him to be once again. I distinctly remember the day I gave up all hope of ever seeing him again ... it was the day he looked up at me with the empty, blank stare that had stolen away the twinkle in his eyes ... it was the day he looked into my eyes and whispered, "Who are you?" That was the moment when I realized that the man who knew me better than anyone else ever could was no longer there ... that was the day I stopped looking for the dad I used to know and began the heartbreaking journey toward accepting and loving the dad he had become.
Over the last three years or so, I've tried my best to be open, honest, real and transparent as I've shared my struggle with depression, and I've done so in the hope that my story might help even just one person in the midst of their own fight. I've said over and over again that depression is a vicious and nasty beast, and I know beyond any doubt that were it not for the help of my life-saving head doctor and the cocktail of antidepressants I take each day, I wouldn't be alive today. I could write a gazillion posts about all the lousy things that accompany living with depression ... whoa ... just typing those words, living with depression, is kind of a big deal to me, you know. Depression came so very close to killing me three years ago, friends ... I think it's a pretty big freaking deal that today I can say I'm living with depression.
For as difficult as a day in the life of dealing with the medically documented chemical imbalance that now resides within my brain can be, without question the worst of the worst are those days when I feel like I'm losing the real me ... the happy, lighthearted, joke-cracking, story-telling me ... the days when I stare blankly into the eyes of my mind and ask, "Who are you?" Or perhaps the more accurate question for me isn't "Who are you?" but rather "Where are you?" You see, unlike my dad or countless other people who were or currently are imprisoned by the hopelessness of Alzheimer's disease, I know who I am and even more important, I know who I want to be. Trust me, friends, I'm truly the only one who knows who I am, and I most certainly am the only one who knows who I want to be.
Sometimes I wonder if my dad was aware of what was happening to him ... I wonder if he was still in there somewhere during those times when I sat looking into his eyes ... hoping, praying, wishing for a glimpse of the man I knew he really and truly was. I can make myself crazy with that kind of thinking, you know ... wondering if Daddy was shouting on the inside, "Looking for me? I'm right here! Don't stop looking, Sam ... I'm here ... I'm here ... I'm here." I've had several people tell me recently that I haven't been myself for quite a while, and that they need me to be me. Today I was goofing around at work and my friend Micah took a photo of me and I posted it on Facebook. Another friend left a two-word comment on my photo that spoke volumes to me ... two little words that contained within them a powerful, powerful message that I've been unable to get out of my mind all day. She said, "She's back." Just go ahead and think on that for a while, maybe a really good long while ... I know I'll be thinking about it for a long, long time to come.
Looking for me? I'm right here! Please don't stop looking ... I promise I'm right here. I'm here ... I'm here ... I'm here. Please don't stop looking, friends ... please don't ever stop looking.
Monday, November 16, 2015
Now I Lay Me
"They were innocents."
I've read or heard that statement countless times since the attacks in Paris last Friday evening. And it's a statement that quite literally strikes fear in the hearts and minds of people all across the world. The people who were targeted on Friday evening weren't soldiers or political adversaries or spies. They were innocent people out for the evening ... eating dinner at a cafe, attending a concert, watching a soccer game. They were daughters and sons and mothers and fathers and brothers and sisters and granddaughters and grandsons and aunts and uncles and nieces and nephews, and friends. They were innocents ... they were innocent people out for a Friday evening of fun. They hugged and kissed their loved ones, said goodbye and headed out for what should have been an evening filled with fun and laughter. What should have been a night of happiness and laughter and joy instead became a night of terror and pain and death.
"Today, we are all French."
I first heard that statement from an emotional reporter as the news began to break about the terrorist attacks in France, and I've heard it repeated by others many times over the last few days. There has been a tremendous outpouring of support and sympathy for the people of France from all around the world, due in large part to the fact that the victims were innocents. I also believe that most people are now even more keenly aware that if such an act of violence can occur in Paris, it can occur in any other city as well. But from that awareness, and to a certain extent the fear that accompanies it, has arisen a unity ... a commonality ... a shared determination to stand alongside the French people ... a recognition that today, we are indeed all French.
"You never think it will happen to you."
One of the most poignant and touching pieces I've read concerning the Paris attacks was written by a young woman who was present at the concert that evening. She recounted with heart-wrenching detail the horrific events that occurred, painting a very vivid and clearly devastating picture of the massacre that took place right before her eyes. It was the way she closed her essay that moved me most, as she wrote about those whom she loved ... as she conveyed her unwavering faith in the basic goodness of mankind ... as she charged everyone of us who read her words to be better people. It seems fitting to close my post this evening with the closing lines of the young woman's story.
"As I lay down in the blood of strangers and waiting for my bullet to end my mere 22 years. I envisioned every fact that I have ever loved and whispered I love you. Over and Over again. Reflecting on the highlights of my life. Wishing that those I love knew just how much, wishing that they knew that no matter what happened to me, to keep believing in the good in people. To not let those men win. Last night, the lives of many were forever changed and it is up to us to be better people. To live lives that the innocent victims of this tragedy dreamt about but sadly will now never be able to fulfill."
Be kind to one another, friends, and love with all your hearts. Not one of us is promised tomorrow ... not one of us is promised today ... not one of us is promised our next breath. Live well, dear ones ... live well.
I've read or heard that statement countless times since the attacks in Paris last Friday evening. And it's a statement that quite literally strikes fear in the hearts and minds of people all across the world. The people who were targeted on Friday evening weren't soldiers or political adversaries or spies. They were innocent people out for the evening ... eating dinner at a cafe, attending a concert, watching a soccer game. They were daughters and sons and mothers and fathers and brothers and sisters and granddaughters and grandsons and aunts and uncles and nieces and nephews, and friends. They were innocents ... they were innocent people out for a Friday evening of fun. They hugged and kissed their loved ones, said goodbye and headed out for what should have been an evening filled with fun and laughter. What should have been a night of happiness and laughter and joy instead became a night of terror and pain and death.
"Today, we are all French."
I first heard that statement from an emotional reporter as the news began to break about the terrorist attacks in France, and I've heard it repeated by others many times over the last few days. There has been a tremendous outpouring of support and sympathy for the people of France from all around the world, due in large part to the fact that the victims were innocents. I also believe that most people are now even more keenly aware that if such an act of violence can occur in Paris, it can occur in any other city as well. But from that awareness, and to a certain extent the fear that accompanies it, has arisen a unity ... a commonality ... a shared determination to stand alongside the French people ... a recognition that today, we are indeed all French.
"You never think it will happen to you."
One of the most poignant and touching pieces I've read concerning the Paris attacks was written by a young woman who was present at the concert that evening. She recounted with heart-wrenching detail the horrific events that occurred, painting a very vivid and clearly devastating picture of the massacre that took place right before her eyes. It was the way she closed her essay that moved me most, as she wrote about those whom she loved ... as she conveyed her unwavering faith in the basic goodness of mankind ... as she charged everyone of us who read her words to be better people. It seems fitting to close my post this evening with the closing lines of the young woman's story.
"As I lay down in the blood of strangers and waiting for my bullet to end my mere 22 years. I envisioned every fact that I have ever loved and whispered I love you. Over and Over again. Reflecting on the highlights of my life. Wishing that those I love knew just how much, wishing that they knew that no matter what happened to me, to keep believing in the good in people. To not let those men win. Last night, the lives of many were forever changed and it is up to us to be better people. To live lives that the innocent victims of this tragedy dreamt about but sadly will now never be able to fulfill."
Be kind to one another, friends, and love with all your hearts. Not one of us is promised tomorrow ... not one of us is promised today ... not one of us is promised our next breath. Live well, dear ones ... live well.
Tuesday, November 10, 2015
And God Sent a Dog
I should probably begin this post with a couple of disclaimers ... yep, I probably should ... so here goes. If you've never loved a dog as a member of your family, then you most likely won't get what I'm saying in this post. If you don't believe in God, then this post will most likely just piss you off. If the word piss offends you, then you're ... well ... you're pissed at me already. Should any of those statements/terms/conditions apply to you, you should probably skip tonight's post and check in again tomorrow. Oh, and by the way, everything in me is screaming for me to type these words regarding my previously listed disclaimers ... sorry, not sorry at ALL.
While the weather guys keep saying that the winter season is quickly approaching, I had a serious case of the doubts last Sunday when I was outside mowing my yard while wearing shorts and a t-shirt. It's not summertime hot here in KC by any means, but I've lived here long enough to know that Octobers can be bitterly cold and there can be a significant amount of snow in November. That's why when it's in the upper 50s and low 60s out here in the good old Midwest this time of year, you'll see tons of folks decked out in shorts, t-shirts and flip-flops. I know that some of my deep South pals are shaking in their winter snow boots just reading those words, by the way ... sorry, guys, but it's got to get below freezing out here before it's considered to be "cold." Unless, of course, it's in the upper 40s with a hefty dose of fierce Kansas winds ... that's flipping cold no matter where you live.
It was late last night when Ollie the wiener dog and I headed out for our walk ... it was late and it was chilly. Not chilly like I needed a coat over my long-sleeved t-shirt and Nike Therma-fit hoodie chilly, but chilly like I needed a long-sleeved t-shirt, my Nike Therma-fit hoodie, gloves and a stocking cap (that's a toboggan to my buddies back home) chilly. It was chilly enough that Ollie needed a sweater and windy enough that only one sweater would do ... his Christmas sweater with the hood. That crazy hound loves to wear sweaters, and he was more than a little excited when I grabbed his version of a hoodie off the hook in the garage. By the time we got to the end of our street, he was prancing like a show dog ... Christmas sweater with the hood pulled snugly over his ears, my Canada glow bracelet (another story for another time) clipped securely on his harness, tail wagging his body as he strutted and skipped down the road toward the trail.
Since it was late, we walked our winter route around the high school ... the same school where a week or so ago, I was deeply touched by the chalk-written quotes that lined the sidewalks. I've been working long hours for the last few weeks, including a long stint last weekend, and I needed a good long walk ... the kind of walk where I turn off my brain and just walk. Yeah, right ... like I can ever get my brain to turn off. We had only been walking a few minutes when Ollie stopped and turned and ran back to me, putting his paws on my legs and jumping up wanting me to hold him. Thinking maybe he had stepped on something and hurt his paw, I lifted him up into my arms and tried to turn him around so that I could check his feet. Ollie, however, was having none of that ... he squirmed and twisted and whined until he finally ended up with his little head tucked up against my neck and his front paws resting on my shoulders. Every time I tried to put him down, he fought like a little warrior to remain snuggled up against me ... and each time I let him stay, he wagged his tail and licked my face.
Ollie eventually decided he was ready to walk again, and we spent the next 45 minutes hoofing it in the chilly night air. It wasn't until we turned to make our way home that I suddenly realized Ollie's snuggle time earlier was about way more than my little wiener dog being cold or needing some extra attention. See here's the thing ... over the last couple of weeks, I've been asking God some pretty tough questions. Questions about patience ... wisdom ... loneliness ... compassion ... happiness ... trust ... fear ... understanding ... direction ... friendship ... identity ... sadness ... love ... and about a million or so other things as well. I stopped dead in my tracks on the sidewalk, looked down at Ollie looking back at me and realized something ... I realized something big. The truth is I've been pretty darn pissed off at God because He's not answering my questions ... actually, what I'm really pissed off at Him about is that He's not just fixing things for me ... that He's not just fixing me.
I bent over and scooped Ollie back up into my arms and kissed his furry little face as my tears began to flow. And in that moment I knew ... I knew that God sent my little wiener dog with the only answer I really need to know.
"Love never gives up.
Love cares more for others than for self.
Love doesn't want what it doesn't have.
Love doesn't strut,
Doesn't have a swelled head,
Doesn't force itself on others,
Isn't always 'me first,'
Doesn't fly off the handle,
Doesn't keep score of the sins of others,
Doesn't revel when others grovel,
Takes pleasure in the flowering of truth,
Puts up with anything,
Trusts God always,
Always looks for the best,
Never looks back,
But keeps going to the end.
Love never dies." --- 1 Corinthians 13: 3-7 from The Message
Ollie and I are going for a walk now ... you bet we are. Because sometimes, you know ... sometimes God sends a dog ... sometimes He does indeed.
While the weather guys keep saying that the winter season is quickly approaching, I had a serious case of the doubts last Sunday when I was outside mowing my yard while wearing shorts and a t-shirt. It's not summertime hot here in KC by any means, but I've lived here long enough to know that Octobers can be bitterly cold and there can be a significant amount of snow in November. That's why when it's in the upper 50s and low 60s out here in the good old Midwest this time of year, you'll see tons of folks decked out in shorts, t-shirts and flip-flops. I know that some of my deep South pals are shaking in their winter snow boots just reading those words, by the way ... sorry, guys, but it's got to get below freezing out here before it's considered to be "cold." Unless, of course, it's in the upper 40s with a hefty dose of fierce Kansas winds ... that's flipping cold no matter where you live.
It was late last night when Ollie the wiener dog and I headed out for our walk ... it was late and it was chilly. Not chilly like I needed a coat over my long-sleeved t-shirt and Nike Therma-fit hoodie chilly, but chilly like I needed a long-sleeved t-shirt, my Nike Therma-fit hoodie, gloves and a stocking cap (that's a toboggan to my buddies back home) chilly. It was chilly enough that Ollie needed a sweater and windy enough that only one sweater would do ... his Christmas sweater with the hood. That crazy hound loves to wear sweaters, and he was more than a little excited when I grabbed his version of a hoodie off the hook in the garage. By the time we got to the end of our street, he was prancing like a show dog ... Christmas sweater with the hood pulled snugly over his ears, my Canada glow bracelet (another story for another time) clipped securely on his harness, tail wagging his body as he strutted and skipped down the road toward the trail.
Since it was late, we walked our winter route around the high school ... the same school where a week or so ago, I was deeply touched by the chalk-written quotes that lined the sidewalks. I've been working long hours for the last few weeks, including a long stint last weekend, and I needed a good long walk ... the kind of walk where I turn off my brain and just walk. Yeah, right ... like I can ever get my brain to turn off. We had only been walking a few minutes when Ollie stopped and turned and ran back to me, putting his paws on my legs and jumping up wanting me to hold him. Thinking maybe he had stepped on something and hurt his paw, I lifted him up into my arms and tried to turn him around so that I could check his feet. Ollie, however, was having none of that ... he squirmed and twisted and whined until he finally ended up with his little head tucked up against my neck and his front paws resting on my shoulders. Every time I tried to put him down, he fought like a little warrior to remain snuggled up against me ... and each time I let him stay, he wagged his tail and licked my face.
Ollie eventually decided he was ready to walk again, and we spent the next 45 minutes hoofing it in the chilly night air. It wasn't until we turned to make our way home that I suddenly realized Ollie's snuggle time earlier was about way more than my little wiener dog being cold or needing some extra attention. See here's the thing ... over the last couple of weeks, I've been asking God some pretty tough questions. Questions about patience ... wisdom ... loneliness ... compassion ... happiness ... trust ... fear ... understanding ... direction ... friendship ... identity ... sadness ... love ... and about a million or so other things as well. I stopped dead in my tracks on the sidewalk, looked down at Ollie looking back at me and realized something ... I realized something big. The truth is I've been pretty darn pissed off at God because He's not answering my questions ... actually, what I'm really pissed off at Him about is that He's not just fixing things for me ... that He's not just fixing me.
I bent over and scooped Ollie back up into my arms and kissed his furry little face as my tears began to flow. And in that moment I knew ... I knew that God sent my little wiener dog with the only answer I really need to know.
"Love never gives up.
Love cares more for others than for self.
Love doesn't want what it doesn't have.
Love doesn't strut,
Doesn't have a swelled head,
Doesn't force itself on others,
Isn't always 'me first,'
Doesn't fly off the handle,
Doesn't keep score of the sins of others,
Doesn't revel when others grovel,
Takes pleasure in the flowering of truth,
Puts up with anything,
Trusts God always,
Always looks for the best,
Never looks back,
But keeps going to the end.
Love never dies." --- 1 Corinthians 13: 3-7 from The Message
Ollie and I are going for a walk now ... you bet we are. Because sometimes, you know ... sometimes God sends a dog ... sometimes He does indeed.
Sunday, November 8, 2015
The Boys Next Door
It's hard to believe it's been almost 15 years since I packed up my three teenagers Matt, Brad and Meghann, our big Dalmatian dog Ali and everything we owned and moved into the little house that's now home to me and Ollie the wiener dog. There are a ton of memories packed inside the walls of this house, and thankfully, most of them are good ones that cause me to smile when I remember them. It's quiet in my little house tonight ... except for the sound of Ollie snoring as he snoozes behind my back. But I remember a time when three extra wonderful and special teenagers laughed until they cried ... when they sang along to music so loud that it shook the windows ... when they danced and twirled until they made themselves dizzy ... when they baked cookies and made grilled cheese sandwiches and ate until they couldn't eat one more bite. They're the ones who made this house a home, you know ... those three crazy, goofy, funny kiddos of mine are the goobers who made this house a home.
While most of my neighbors are long-time residents of our neighborhood, the house directly next door to me is a rental property. I've lost count over the years of how many different families have lived there ... some I got to know well, and some I didn't know at all. Even though some of the families didn't live in the house for very long, I always wondered what their stories were ... where they came from, where they were going, what their lives were like away from the rental house. I feel bad that I didn't get to know them all, especially because my gut tells me that some of those families probably really needed to know that someone cared about them. I should have made them cookies ... I should have gotten to know them ... I should have slowed down and taken the time to be a friend to them. Why? Not only because they may have needed to know me, but because I may have needed to know them.
The family who currently lives in the house next door has been there for about a year or so, a young Hispanic family along with their beautiful brindle boxer pup. While I'd like to tell you that I'm the one who introduced myself to the family and welcomed them to our neighborhood, it was the dad of the family who introduced himself to me first. We've chatted from time to time when we've been out working in our yards or when Ollie and I head out for our evening walks. He's a hard-working young man who loves his wife and children more than life itself. I often see him tossing a football or playing soccer with his two sons while carrying his little girl on his hip. The little girl looks to be about two years old, and the boys are in their early teens ... he has two sons and a daughter ... just like me.
The two boys were shy when I first met them ... I'm pretty sure they haven't met a whole lot of gray-haired middle-aged gals in their short lives, so they were naturally a bit guarded in talking to me. They did, however, fall quickly in love with Ollie, and it wasn't long until they were waving and running over to pet my adorable little hound each time we headed down the street to go for a walk. It was fun for me to see the excitement in their eyes as they saw us approaching, and watching Ollie's tail wagging as fast as it could when he saw the boys always put a smile on my face. The boys are always polite and courteous to me ... always ... and they always ask if I've had a good day. Now remember, these two guys are young teenagers ... young teenagers with absolutely nothing to gain by being nice to the little old lady next door. And yet, every single time they see me, they always say one thing that lifts my spirits on even the darkest day.
"Hi, Terrie! It's so good to see you!"
One of these days, I'll tell the boys how much their greeting means to me, and I'll tell them how lucky I am that they are the boys next door. One of these days, I'll the boys how much better I think the world would be if we all felt that way about one another ... if we all could say, "It's so good to see you!" and really mean it. Think about it, friends ... really and truly think about the difference it could make to your families, your friends, your neighbors, your co-workers ... think about how much it could mean to them to hear you say those words. Think about how much it could mean to you to say them from your heart ... think about it ... really and truly think about it.
"It's so good to see you ... it's so very, very, very good to see you."
While most of my neighbors are long-time residents of our neighborhood, the house directly next door to me is a rental property. I've lost count over the years of how many different families have lived there ... some I got to know well, and some I didn't know at all. Even though some of the families didn't live in the house for very long, I always wondered what their stories were ... where they came from, where they were going, what their lives were like away from the rental house. I feel bad that I didn't get to know them all, especially because my gut tells me that some of those families probably really needed to know that someone cared about them. I should have made them cookies ... I should have gotten to know them ... I should have slowed down and taken the time to be a friend to them. Why? Not only because they may have needed to know me, but because I may have needed to know them.
The family who currently lives in the house next door has been there for about a year or so, a young Hispanic family along with their beautiful brindle boxer pup. While I'd like to tell you that I'm the one who introduced myself to the family and welcomed them to our neighborhood, it was the dad of the family who introduced himself to me first. We've chatted from time to time when we've been out working in our yards or when Ollie and I head out for our evening walks. He's a hard-working young man who loves his wife and children more than life itself. I often see him tossing a football or playing soccer with his two sons while carrying his little girl on his hip. The little girl looks to be about two years old, and the boys are in their early teens ... he has two sons and a daughter ... just like me.
The two boys were shy when I first met them ... I'm pretty sure they haven't met a whole lot of gray-haired middle-aged gals in their short lives, so they were naturally a bit guarded in talking to me. They did, however, fall quickly in love with Ollie, and it wasn't long until they were waving and running over to pet my adorable little hound each time we headed down the street to go for a walk. It was fun for me to see the excitement in their eyes as they saw us approaching, and watching Ollie's tail wagging as fast as it could when he saw the boys always put a smile on my face. The boys are always polite and courteous to me ... always ... and they always ask if I've had a good day. Now remember, these two guys are young teenagers ... young teenagers with absolutely nothing to gain by being nice to the little old lady next door. And yet, every single time they see me, they always say one thing that lifts my spirits on even the darkest day.
"Hi, Terrie! It's so good to see you!"
One of these days, I'll tell the boys how much their greeting means to me, and I'll tell them how lucky I am that they are the boys next door. One of these days, I'll the boys how much better I think the world would be if we all felt that way about one another ... if we all could say, "It's so good to see you!" and really mean it. Think about it, friends ... really and truly think about the difference it could make to your families, your friends, your neighbors, your co-workers ... think about how much it could mean to them to hear you say those words. Think about how much it could mean to you to say them from your heart ... think about it ... really and truly think about it.
"It's so good to see you ... it's so very, very, very good to see you."
Thursday, November 5, 2015
All Good Things
I'm sure most of you know that downtown Kansas City was the place to be on Tuesday afternoon. So much so that people were actually leaving their cars on the side of the interstate and hoofing it the rest of the way to Union Station. That's the place where the massive Kansas City Royals 2015 World Series parade culminated with a celebration ceremony honoring the players and coaches, while paying tribute to the loyalty of the, oh ... 800,000 or so fans who turned out for the festivities. I didn't attend the parade or the celebration, but I could hear the roar of the crowd through my office window and I was ... ummm ... blessed to be part of the enormous traffic jam that occurred following the event.
A couple of days later, it's difficult to determine if people are just exhausted from all the excitement of Tuesday's madness or if there's a touch of melancholy in the air ... a twinge of sadness because baseball season is over and the thirst for the boys in blue to bring home the crown has finally been quenched. I heard no chants of, "Let's go, Royals!" yesterday or today, and there were no sounds of honking horns or roaring crowds pulsing through my office window to interrupt the quietness of my workday. Rather than the sea of Royals shirts and caps that filled the city on Tuesday, yesterday and today found everyone dressed in their normal business or school attire. My rush hour commutes were back to their normal times, and there were no abandoned cars lining the sides of the interstate. As I drove home last night, I couldn't help but feel a little sad myself, and I'm not even really a baseball fan. The party had ended, the cheering had ceased and the crowds had disappeared. And as I drove home this evening, one phrase kept pounding in my head ... "All good things must come to an end."
If you've been reading along with me for any length of time at all, you won't be surprised that the first thing I did after I fed Ollie and ate some dinner myself was to hop on the Google to see what I could learn about the origin of that phrase. In doing so, I was the one who was surprised ... I never would have guessed that the phrase, or a version of it anyway, dates all the way back to 1374 and is attributed to Chaucer. The more I read about the phrase, the more curious I became ... not about the phrase itself, mind you, but about the reason so many of us accept it as an accurate depiction of the good things in life. And me being me, I became a bit obsessed with that thought and am now unable to remove it from my mind or scour it out of my heart.
I mean, think about it ... really and truly think about it ... why do we say that? Why do we say that all good things must come to an end? There isn't a centuries-old saying we repeat that says, "Some good things might possibly have to come to an end sometime like a million years from now." Nope, there's not one of those sayings ... but there is one that states emphatically that every single good thing must come to an end. You want to know what I think? Actually, you probably don't, but this is my blog and that means I'm going to tell you anyway ... so there. I think that centuries-old phrase is crap ... yep ... I think it's a big old honking pile of doo-doo. I most certainly don't think all good things must come to an end ... things like the love I have for my children and my granddaughters ... things like friendships that last a lifetime ... things like having a caring and giving heart ... things like the memories I have of my parents or my brother Jerry ... things like compassion ... things like integrity ... things like honor ... things like faith ... things like loyalty ... things like respect ... things like love.
All good things must come to an end? Not true. In fact, I think just the opposite is true ... all good things must not come to an end, friends ... all good things most certainly must not ever come to an end.
If you've been reading along with me for any length of time at all, you won't be surprised that the first thing I did after I fed Ollie and ate some dinner myself was to hop on the Google to see what I could learn about the origin of that phrase. In doing so, I was the one who was surprised ... I never would have guessed that the phrase, or a version of it anyway, dates all the way back to 1374 and is attributed to Chaucer. The more I read about the phrase, the more curious I became ... not about the phrase itself, mind you, but about the reason so many of us accept it as an accurate depiction of the good things in life. And me being me, I became a bit obsessed with that thought and am now unable to remove it from my mind or scour it out of my heart.
I mean, think about it ... really and truly think about it ... why do we say that? Why do we say that all good things must come to an end? There isn't a centuries-old saying we repeat that says, "Some good things might possibly have to come to an end sometime like a million years from now." Nope, there's not one of those sayings ... but there is one that states emphatically that every single good thing must come to an end. You want to know what I think? Actually, you probably don't, but this is my blog and that means I'm going to tell you anyway ... so there. I think that centuries-old phrase is crap ... yep ... I think it's a big old honking pile of doo-doo. I most certainly don't think all good things must come to an end ... things like the love I have for my children and my granddaughters ... things like friendships that last a lifetime ... things like having a caring and giving heart ... things like the memories I have of my parents or my brother Jerry ... things like compassion ... things like integrity ... things like honor ... things like faith ... things like loyalty ... things like respect ... things like love.
All good things must come to an end? Not true. In fact, I think just the opposite is true ... all good things must not come to an end, friends ... all good things most certainly must not ever come to an end.
Monday, November 2, 2015
Why They Won
Even though I'm not a huge baseball fan, I must admit that I've gotten caught up in World Series fever here in KC over the last couple of weeks. There are lots of things about this year's Kansas City Royals team that impress me, not the least of which is how much they care about each other both on and off the field. I listened with tears in my eyes as the players used words like "family" and "brothers" when they talked about their fellow teammates in interviews. As I watched their celebration last night after winning the Series, I decided I'd post a blog tonight about the personal connection that's so evident among the Royals players. But then I read my friend Jenne's post on Facebook today, and asked her if she'd be my guest blogger tonight. Because what she wrote is perfect. Because what she wrote is about so much more than a baseball team, friends ... so very, very much more.
"I'm an emotional gal. It's not surprising that I cried last night watching the Royals do what they promised and bring home "that trophy with all the little flags on it." But as I go through today I keep wondering, why? Why does it affect me so much? I'm not the only one, of course. Fellow fans, former doubters, announcers, heck, all of baseball it seems, can see there is something special about this team. My opinion? I think it might just come down to one word. Love.
Deep down we all want to believe love matters. That it doesn't just enhance relationships, but that it changes things. In big, big ways. We all have skills. We all have talents. And we all have gaps in our skills and limits to our talents. Somewhere deep in our hearts we are searching for something to bridge that gap. That something is love.
When we were watching the Royals, we weren't just watching skilled technicians. We were watching men who cared about each other, who had each other's backs. Who relied on love to fill the gaps. We weren't watching the third baseman throw to first, we were watching Moose throw to Hoz and we'd watch after the play to see the finger point across the diamond. We never watched "the catcher," we watched our beloved Salvy. LoCain, BenZie, Esco - we know them, we know their families, we care about them because they care about each other. We know the special hand gestures of players - sky points, hat tips, vroom vroom motions - and we love the. During games, we'd mimic those gestures maybe never noticing that when a base was stolen, a play executed, a run scored, the gestures were never for us, the fans. They were motioned toward the dugout. They were for each other.
We all want to believe character matters. We see it quoted on classroom chalkboards and conference room walls. We want to think if we fall down, get behind, lose traction, that something will pull us up. We love this team not just because they are great ball players, but because they are great friends. And they make the little person inside of us believe that love really does matter. Is there a place for love in big league play? Among the sweat and fight and money and competition? One gal's opinion: I think the Royals proved that there is.
Love really does win.
Well done, boys. Now come on home."
"I'm an emotional gal. It's not surprising that I cried last night watching the Royals do what they promised and bring home "that trophy with all the little flags on it." But as I go through today I keep wondering, why? Why does it affect me so much? I'm not the only one, of course. Fellow fans, former doubters, announcers, heck, all of baseball it seems, can see there is something special about this team. My opinion? I think it might just come down to one word. Love.
Deep down we all want to believe love matters. That it doesn't just enhance relationships, but that it changes things. In big, big ways. We all have skills. We all have talents. And we all have gaps in our skills and limits to our talents. Somewhere deep in our hearts we are searching for something to bridge that gap. That something is love.
When we were watching the Royals, we weren't just watching skilled technicians. We were watching men who cared about each other, who had each other's backs. Who relied on love to fill the gaps. We weren't watching the third baseman throw to first, we were watching Moose throw to Hoz and we'd watch after the play to see the finger point across the diamond. We never watched "the catcher," we watched our beloved Salvy. LoCain, BenZie, Esco - we know them, we know their families, we care about them because they care about each other. We know the special hand gestures of players - sky points, hat tips, vroom vroom motions - and we love the. During games, we'd mimic those gestures maybe never noticing that when a base was stolen, a play executed, a run scored, the gestures were never for us, the fans. They were motioned toward the dugout. They were for each other.
We all want to believe character matters. We see it quoted on classroom chalkboards and conference room walls. We want to think if we fall down, get behind, lose traction, that something will pull us up. We love this team not just because they are great ball players, but because they are great friends. And they make the little person inside of us believe that love really does matter. Is there a place for love in big league play? Among the sweat and fight and money and competition? One gal's opinion: I think the Royals proved that there is.
Love really does win.
Well done, boys. Now come on home."
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