All I Want for Christmas

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

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

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

More Than You Know

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

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

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

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

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

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

No Peeking

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

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

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

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

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

Where's the Fire?

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

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

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

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

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

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

We're Pals, Right?

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

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

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

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

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

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

A Broken Hallelujah

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

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

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

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

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

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

Hallelujah ... Hallelujah ... Hallelujah."

So Remember That One Time?

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

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

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

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

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