Crimes of Silence

Whenever I'm feeling homesick for my roots and need a good dose of life back in the South, I spend a few minutes browsing through the online version of my old hometown newspaper. Reading about the happenings back in Chattanooga and seeing photos of various landmarks around town in some ways makes me feel as if I'm back home ... minus getting to see my family and old friends. Sometimes, however, the stories I read and the photos I view make me realize that my beloved hometown has undergone some big changes since I moved away more than 26 years ago ... changes in technology, architecture and population, of course, but also changes in the attitudes, beliefs and viewpoints of the people who live there. It shouldn't surprise me I guess, considering the fact that pretty much the entire world has experienced drastic changes in the last 26 plus years ... from economic to political to social issues and every other issue you can possibly imagine, things have changed. Or have they? Have they really?

A week or so ago, I read a story in my hometown newspaper about a young man who was raped by his teammates with a pool cue while they were out of town playing in a basketball tournament ... assaulted so viciously that he suffered devastating injuries to his colon and bladder. You can read the story for yourself by clicking here, but be prepared should you choose to do so ... it is a heart-wrenching story of broken trust, betrayal and violence that left me sobbing upon reading of the horror inflicted upon the young man by others whom he thought were his friends. Young men who claimed to be his teammates ... teammates ... obviously, those young men had no concept or understanding of the definition of the word teammate. Teammates? No, sir ... they were in no way teammates of the young man they brutally assaulted ... they were the farthest possible thing from being his teammates.

There are many reasons why I haven't been able to shake the story from my mind, but perhaps the greatest one is the fact that had the young man not been so severely injured there is the very real possibility that the crimes against him would have never been reported. Had his colon not been torn or his bladder ruptured, there exists the distinct possibility that the young man may very well have crawled back to his room to suffer in silence ... too ashamed and terrified to ever tell the truth about what had been done to him. Why, you ask? Why is it possible the young man would have been too ashamed and afraid to report the crime? Two coaches and the athletic director were charged because they knew ... they knew about the abuse, but they didn't report it. Read that again ... adults in positions of power knew about the abuse but said nothing ... they did nothing ... they knew about the abuse and did nothing to stop it. 

The more I've thought about this young man's story, the more I've come to the conclusion that those are the worst crimes of all, friends ... the crimes of silence that we commit against each other far more often than we are willing to admit. The crime of remaining silent when we see someone being mistreated or isolated or bullied or neglected or abused or wounded. The crime of remaining silent when we hear someone being condemned or shamed or belittled or denounced or insulted. The crime of remaining silent when we know someone is sad or lonely or depressed or morose or distant or dejected or unhappy. The sad but very real truth is that it's easier to remain silent ... it's easier to remain silent and not get involved ... it's easier to remain silent and think it's none of our business ... it's easier to remain silent and hope that someone else will step up to help ... it's easier to remain silent and believe we can't make a difference. 

Crimes of silence ... it's so much easier to remain silent, friends. It's so much easier to remain silent and not care. 

Why Didn't I?

It's been a little over six years since my doctor told me on a chilly October morning that I had diabetes. I distinctly remember trying to suck air into my lungs as I tried my best to focus on what she was telling me ... I felt like I had just been punched in the gut. It took me a while to figure things out, both physically and mentally, but eventually I got into a routine and began a whole new way of living. Since that day, I've lost a ton of weight ... I take medication every single day that helps my liver and pancreas to function properly ... I exercise and I eat right, and I keep tabs on my blood sugar throughout the day. My doctor tells me I deserve a gold medal for compliance and good behavior when it comes to managing and controlling my diabetes ... not exactly an award I had my sights set on receiving when I was in high school, but all things considered, I suppose it's a good one to have. It took a while, but eventually I managed to jump off the blood sugar roller coaster ride of drastic highs and extreme lows that I experienced in the months immediately following my diagnosis, and now my levels pretty much always stay well within the desirable range.

As much as it pains me to do so, I have to admit that I've grown a bit overconfident in the last couple of years in regard to my skill in maintaining my blood sugar level. So overconfident in fact that I haven't bought juice or candy in ... well ... I think it's been at least a couple of years since I've purchased juice or candy to have on hand in case my blood sugar suddenly dropped. I stopped buying those items because my blood sugar never drops anymore ... I can't remember the last time I passed out or shook like a leaf or yelled at whomever happened to be in the line of fire when my blood sugar took a dive below my uh-oh number of 80ish. Perhaps overconfident isn't a strong enough descriptor to fully identify my lackadaisical attitude ... perhaps it's more accurate to say that I had become downright prideful and cocky about how well I keep my blood sugar in check. And we all know what pride cometh before ... pride cometh right before a big old terrifying reminder that I'm really not the one in control at all.

Last Tuesday evening after I got home from work, I ate dinner and headed out to take Ollie for a short walk ... I had work to do, so I didn't have time to walk as far or as long as I normally do. I had planned to walk for 30 minutes or so ... way, way less time than I usually walk ... and I was right on schedule as I turned onto the sidewalk for the short 5-minute walk home. The moment I stepped onto the sidewalk, however, I suddenly went from strolling along at my normal pace to feeling as though I was plodding through quicksand, breaking out in a cold sweat and becoming so nauseated I thought for sure I was going to throw up. And to make matters worse, Ollie the wiener dog began running back and forth in front of me, growling at me and tugging on my pants leg. I didn't realize it then, but now I know my little pup was trying to tell me he knew something was terribly wrong. I tugged on his leash and kept repeating the words, "Come on, Ollie ... we need to get home, buddy ... let's just get home, little guy ... help me get home."

I have no idea how I did it, but I managed to make it home, open the garage door, get into my kitchen and grab my testing kit. I peeled off my by then soaking wet sweatshirt, pricked my finger and waited for my reading to appear on the screen. For those of you who are unfamiliar with diabetes, a blood glucose reading of less than 70 is considered to be the point when things can get really serious really quickly. Everyone has different thresholds, of course, but to give you a frame of reference, I get the shakes when my blood sugar drops below 80 or so, and the very few times it's dropped to 65, I've passed out. When my reading finally popped up on the screen Tuesday night, I thought for sure my meter had malfunctioned. So I stuck my finger again and waited for the number to appear ... and again ... and again ... and again. I stuck myself six times in six different fingers and got within a point or two of the same reading each time ... 15. I'll spare you the details of what went on for the next hour or so, but suffice it to say that Ollie growled until he was hoarse and I ate enough peanut butter, yogurt, cheese and cashews to kill a horse. And yes, I've spoken with my doctor and have an appointment next week for testing and blood work ... she thinks the episode on Tuesday was most likely just a sign that it's time for a medication change. Not long after I was diagnosed, I read a quote from a fellow diabetic that has stuck with me all these years ... "Dealing with diabetes is like wrestling an octopus every single minute of your life" ... truer words were never spoken.

I'm willing to bet I know what some of you are thinking, and trust me, I've been thinking the same things myself ... in fact, I've been thinking those things nonstop since Tuesday evening. Why didn't I pass out while I was out walking? Why didn't I have a seizure right there on the sidewalk? Why didn't I realize my blood sugar was crashing? Why didn't I fall and crack my head open on the concrete? Why didn't I go into a diabetic coma after I made it home? Why didn't I ... insert very deep breath here ... why didn't I die Tuesday evening? And while those questions continue to haunt me even now several days later, there are some others that I think may continue to haunt me for a much, much longer time. Why didn't I immediately call 911 when I realized my meter was giving me the correct reading? Why didn't I call anyone and tell them I was in trouble? My phone was in my pocket ... why didn't I use it to call for help? After much thought and the deepest of pondering, I can only come up with one answer to all of those questions ... I don't know.

The truth of the matter is that I shouldn't be alive to type these words, friends ... people don't survive when their blood glucose level drops to 15 ... I should have died Tuesday evening. At the very least I should be lying in a hospital bed right now in an irreversible diabetic coma ... people slip into comas and never come out when their blood glucose level is 15. I most certainly shouldn't have been able to think clearly enough to test my blood sugar when I got home that evening, much less be able to eat enough food to get it back to a still too low but high enough to survive level. And yet, here I am ... typing away as if Tuesday evening never took place. Except for those questions, of course ... except for those damn questions that I simply cannot force out of my mind. There's no denying that Someone far greater than me has a reason for keeping me around for a while longer. I don't know why, but after what happened Tuesday evening, there's no denying that He has a reason.

Why didn't I? God only knows, friends ... only God truly knows.

What Would You Do?

I don't watch a lot of television, but every once in a while a show comes along that draws me in and causes me to settle in on my worn-out couch and watch. Most of the time, the shows that catch my attention are crime dramas ... I do love me some "Criminal Minds" and "Law and Order" for sure. But when I accidentally ran across the show "What Would You Do?" while I was channel surfing one evening, I was instantly hooked. The show reminds me a bit of the old "Candid Camera" but with a very interesting twist ... it enlists actors to stage various scenarios while hidden cameras capture the responses (or lack thereof, as the case may be) of unknowing people who are witness to the scene unfolding before them. I think the show is great for several reasons, not the least of which is that it makes me question what I would do if I were confronted with some of the same situations. And even more ... it makes me wonder whether or not I would be courageous enough or caring enough or sympathetic enough or bold enough to step up and do the right thing.

If you've been reading along with me for the last couple or so years, you may recall that I've been fairly adamant about not using my blog as a platform to speak out either for or against whomever or whatever may be at the center of the controversial topic of the time. My primary goal for my posts has always been that they would serve to help all of you in some way. Whether that help comes in the form of causing you to chuckle a bit now and again (or maybe even let loose a hearty guffaw from time to time) or making a tear or two flow down your cheeks or reminding you that you're not alone in whatever struggle you may be facing or hounding you to be kind to each other or ... just breathe, Terrie, just breathe ... whether that help comes in the form of sharing my own "stuff," my hope and my most fervent desire is that my posts help others rather than hurt them. If I haven't learned one other thing over the last few years, I most definitely have learned that words, whether written or spoken, have power, positive and negative alike, far beyond what I previously thought they could ever possibly have. I say all of that because I want you to know that I take writing this blog very seriously. When I do speak out, I do so only after much thought and prayer ... again ... I take writing this blog and the impact that my words may have on others very seriously.

A couple of days ago, someone forwarded me the link to an interview that aired on January 19th on Focus on the Family's radio program. The featured guest for the show that day was Franklin Graham, son of the well-respected and much-admired evangelist Billy Graham. Before I go any further, let me say that I think Billy Graham is truly one of the greatest Christians of all time. From the beginning of his ministry, his message was one of God's love for all people ... all people, period. Billy Graham didn't preach hate, he preached love. I wish I could say the same for his son Franklin, but I just can't. I so wish I could respect and admire Franklin Graham the way I do his father, but I can't ... and the following excerpt from the transcript of his recent Focus on the Family interview is a perfect example of why.

"We have allowed the enemy to come into our churches. I was talking to some Christians and they were talking about how they invited these gay children to come into their home and to come into the church and that they were wanting to influence them. And I thought to myself, they're not going to influence those kids. Those kids are going to influence those parents' children.

"What happens is we think we can fight by smiling and being real nice and loving. We have to understand who the enemy is and what he wants -- he wants to devour our homes. He wants to devour this nation.

"We have to be so careful who we let our kids hang out with. We have to be so careful who we let into the churches. You have immoral people that get into the churches and it begins to affect the others in the church and it is dangerous."

Perhaps Reverend Graham can tell me just where in the Bible it says, "Be careful who you let into your church," because I can't find chapter and verse where that mandate is recorded. Perhaps he can tell me where in the Bible it says, "Thou shalt not invite gay children to come into your church." Or perhaps this Scripture might be easier for him to locate ... "Church is for the righteous only, no immoral folks allowed." Perhaps Reverend Graham and I are reading from different Bibles, because the Bible I read is filled with examples of Jesus reaching out to the outcasts of society. The Bible I read teaches me of a Jesus who chose to eat dinner with the most hated people in all the land. The Bible I read tells me Jesus told the religious leaders that they were like whitewashed tombs ... all painted up on the outside but rotten to the core on the inside. The Bible I read shows me a Jesus who humbly knelt before His disciples and washed the dirt from their feet. The Bible I read doesn't tell me of a Jesus who spewed hate ... the Bible I read tells me of a Jesus who taught, "A new command I give you: Love one another. As I have loved you, so you must love one another. By this everyone will know that you are my disciples, if you love one another." --- John 13:34-35

What would you do, Reverend Graham, if one of those gay children was your beloved son or daughter? What would you do if one was your precious grandchild? Would you remove them from your home? Would you ban them from your church? Or would you love them the way Jesus loves? What would you do, Reverend Graham? 

What would you do?

Do More Gooder

Without question, some of the best conversations I've had in life have been with little kids ... 3- to 4-year-old little kids in particular. It's like they spend those first couple or so years of their lives listening to what everyone else has to say and then when they hit three or four, they are ready to tell anyone who will listen what's going on inside their little minds. Back before Christmas, I spent an evening with an adorable 3 1/2-year-old little boy ... who talked nonstop until he fell asleep while I was reading him a bedtime story. That little guy said some really funny things that evening, but I think perhaps the one that tickled me the most was when he climbed into my lap and innocently said, "You smell wike cheese. Cheese is my bestest food ... I weally wike cheese." I'm not sure if my little friend was trying to tell me he liked me or if he just wanted a piece of cheese ... either way, his declaration of my cheesy body aroma has given me more than a few hearty chuckles.

You know what makes talking to little kids so wonderful, right? It's their honesty, their pure hearts and their innocent minds. It's knowing that they have no hidden agendas or ulterior motives. It's not having to wonder where you stand with them. If little kids don't like you, they tell you they don't like you. If you try to weasel out of a promise you made to them, they remind you that you said the "p" word ... and then you feel so guilty you end up buying them 50 ice cream cones instead of the one you originally promised you'd buy them. (Note: There's a big giant lesson there about being true to your word.) And if you are totally sucking when you're playing a memory game with them, they tell you that you need to "Do more gooder, Ghee." Yep, when I was in Canada over Christmas, my almost 4-year-old granddaughter told me more than once that I needed to "do more gooder." And you know what? She was absolutely right.

The more I've thought about my little Coraline's intruction, the more I've thought about all the areas in my life where I need to "do more gooder." I need to do more gooder listening ... I need to do more gooder helping ... I need to do more gooder caring ... I need to do more gooder loving ... I need to do more gooder giving ... I need to do more gooder being there when my family and friends need me. I need to do more gooder in so very many things, friends ... and I'm willing to bet my last penny that I'm not the only one who does.

Think about it ... what if every single one of us lived every single moment of our lives trying to do more gooder in everything we say and do. If we did, I think the world would be a much better place. Think about it ... think about it and then get out there ... get out there and do more gooder with every breath you take. Do more gooder ... I think those are words to live by, my friends ... I think they are indeed.

More Fiery Feet, Please

I've always been fascinated by firewalkers ... you know who I mean, those people who can walk across a bed of hot coals without burning their feet. Though I've read a great deal about the physics of how it can be done, there aren't enough scientists in the universe to convince me that it's perfectly safe to take a stroll through a bunch of burning rocks. Nope ... not happening ... never in a million years. That's one of those things that I'm more than content to watch others participate in ... one of those things I will never do unless I'm forced to do it. I alternate between having tremendous respect for folks who are brave enough to quite literally put their feet in the fire and thinking they are seriously off their rockers. But no matter which line of thinking is occupying my mind, I love, love, love to watch those guys and gals tiptoe through the fire ... yep I surely do.

If you've been reading along with me over the last year or so, you may recall that a little over a year ago I moved to a different desk after joining a newly created team at the company where I work. Moving to the third floor was difficult for me for many reasons, not the least of which was that it meant I was no longer on the same floor as my beloved office fireplace. My lack of proximity to the fireplace combined with an increased workload and adjusting to the dynamics of the new team pretty much nixed my fire-building last winter. It's so true that you don't realize how much something means to you until it's gone, and it's even more true that sometimes the only way you learn to appreciate the depth of that meaning is by losing it ... sad, but oh so very, very true. 

A couple of months ago when the chill of winter began to fill the air, I couldn't help but think about how soon it would be cold enough to have a fire in the fireplace ... and I couldn't help but be sad that I wouldn't be the person building them. Or at least I thought I wouldn't be that person anyway ... but I soon learned that couldn't be farther from the truth; in fact, I was kind of ... ummm ... I was sort of ... ummm ... well, let's just suffice it to say that my feet were held to the fire in regard to me resuming my master fire building responsibilities. As much as I hate to admit it, my feet needed to be singed a little ... my feet needed to be held to the fire to force me to truly appreciate the warmth that fire provided, not only to me but to others as well. Yep, you read that right ... me building the fires isn't just good for me, it's good for other people, too.

I wish I could tell you that it only took a week or so of building the fires again for me to thank the person who held my feet to the fire, but the truth is that I finally offered up that long overdue thank you to the person just yesterday. And ever since the words came out of my mouth, I've been thinking about why they were so hard for me to say. Saying thank you for holding my feet to the fire was hard to do because it forced me to admit that the other person was right and I was wrong ... not usually the most fun thing to do, you know. There's something else that's been on my mind since yesterday, too; in fact, I'm not at all sure that it's not going to stay on my mind for a very long time. I can't stop thinking about all the other areas in my life where I need some serious foot singeing ... but that's another post for another time.

So here's the thing ... there's always a thing with me, right? Some people might say that making someone else's feet burn a bit isn't a good thing to do, but I must disagree. Remember those fire walkers I mentioned? The more those brave souls ... oh, that's good ... souls ... soles ... feet ... get it? Think about it ... the more those folks walk across those burning coals, the stronger their feet become. I don't know about you, but I want my feet to be strong, and lots and lots of times the only way for them to get strong is for someone to hold them really darn close to the fire. You learn a lot when your feet are burning, friends ... you learn more than you ever thought you could when your feet are held dangerously close to the fire ... more than you ever thought you could indeed. 

Message in a Bottle

When I accidentally knocked a large butcher knife off the kitchen counter and sliced the top of my foot open, I went to the ER to get it stitched up. When I got smacked in the eye by a softball on a line drive to second base, I went to the doctor to make sure there was no permanent damage. When I tore my rotator cuff, I went to physical therapy to regain the strength in my arm. When I got dehydrated because of a nasty stomach virus, I went to the hospital for IV fluids. And when I was diagnosed with diabetes, I took the medication that would help my body to process insulin correctly. I didn't try to stitch up my own sliced foot or see inside my own blackened eye or regain the strength in my own weak arm or rehydrate my own fluid-depleted body or heal my own broken pancreas. You know why I didn't try to do any of those things? I didn't try because I knew I couldn't fix what was wrong with me on my own. Hold onto that last thought ... I'll come back to it in a bit.

When I lost interest in things I had once enjoyed, I told myself my interests were just changing. When I struggled to get out of bed every day, I told myself I was just tired. When I sat alone in the dark crying until I could barely breathe, I told myself I was just having a bad day. When I didn't leave my house except to go to work, I told myself I just needed a break from the busyness of life. When I distanced myself from the people I love most in the world, I told myself I just needed some time alone. When I was never hungry, I told myself I was just in a rut because of my diabetic diet. When my mind was filled with thoughts of suicide, I told myself I was just going through a rough patch. What I didn't tell myself was that there was something wrong inside my brain. You know why I didn't tell myself that? I didn't tell myself that because I truly believed that if there was something wrong with me, I could fix it on my own.

I get a lot of messages from people asking me ... no, they aren't asking me, they're begging me ... to help them find their way out of the pit of depression. I get even more messages from people begging me to tell them how to help someone they love who is battling depression or some other type of mental illness. I don't know the folks who write to me, but my heart aches for them nonetheless. But when I see that pain firsthand in someone I know and love ... when I see that struggle against the mind being played out in self-destructive behavior in someone I care for deeply ... when I see depression and mental illness threatening to destroy the life of a young person who's the age of my own children ... when I see that, I want to do whatever I can possibly do to help them find their way out of the darkness.

Over the last few days, I've been humbled and blessed to be included in various conversations among the family members of a young man who has tried on several occasions to end his life. This young man has without question one of the sweetest, kindest, most gentle and loving hearts of anyone I've ever known. I watched one evening as he offered what little he had to a beggar on the street ... this kid has a giant heart that is filled to overflowing with love for everyone he meets. As kind and loving as his heart may be, this young man has struggled against bipolar disorder for most of his young life, and my guess is that he may very well have other as yet undiagnosed mental issues as well, though I'm sure if he were sitting here in my living room this evening, he would tell you that he's "just fine." He's not with me tonight, however ... he's in a hospital where he is hopefully getting the help and care he so desperately needs.

Remember that thought in my opening paragraph that I asked you to hold onto? See here's the thing, friends ... when I'm physically injured or ill, I go to the doctor and ask for help. That's a no-brainer to me ... if I'm sick or hurt, I want to feel better. I don't hesitate to trot to the doctor's office and say, "There's something wrong with me, and I need you to help me get well." But when my mind is sick or injured, I dig my heels into the dirt like a stubborn mule and refuse to even admit that I'm ill. I had to be dragged ... kicking and screaming all the way, I might add ... to a mental health professional when I was quite literally within 10 minutes of swallowing a handful of pills and ending my life before I would wake up and understand that my brain was ill and that I needed help. Read that part again ... I seek out help when I'm physically ill, but when my mind is sick, I try everything to convince myself and everyone else that I'm "just fine."

So why did I title tonight's post "Message in a Bottle"? Because I take my pills every single day, friends ... every single day for the last three years, I've seen a message in a bottle. Actually, it's not just one bottle that holds the same message for me but more like 20 or so. It's a message I can't ever forget ... it's a message I absolutely must remember every moment of every day for the rest of my life. The message has just a few short words, but they're important ones ... really, really, really important ones indeed. You might even say they are words to live by ... hmmmm ... words to live by ... I think those words deserve a post all their own. Yep, I do ... I surely, surely do.

Ghee, Come On!

There are several things I can always be sure of when I visit my oldest son and his family in Canada ... my granddaughter Coraline (and I'm sure Amelie when she's older) and I will go to Bulk Barn to buy snacks ... we'll spend a morning or afternoon together at Chapters (the bookstore) ... I'll drink a cup of decaf coffee each evening after the girls go to bed ... Matt will introduce me to a television series I haven't seen before and get me hooked ... my two little grandgals will make me laugh until I cry ... Becca and I will have lots of heart-to-heart chats ... and I'll come home with a plethora of adorable kid stories to share.

A couple of nights after I arrived for my most recent visit to the northland, Matt and Bec invited me to go with them to a fancy dinner party at the home of one of Matt's colleagues from the university. After shedding our winter gear, we all congregated in the living area to the side of the kitchen to chat and drink wine before dinner ... well ... that's what the adults moved to the beautiful sunken living room to do. My two grandgals, on the other hand, saw the living room as a paradise filled to overflowing with all sorts of things beckoning them to new heights of exploration and adventure.

While Coraline was completely enamored with the multitude of "don't touch" items such as figurines and glassware, Amelie immediately zeroed in on something entirely different ... the two small steps that gave the living room its sunken quality. That's right ... all little miss Amelie wanted to do was go up and down those steps, and nothing was going to stand in her way. Well, nothing other than the fact that she doesn't know how to navigate stairs just yet ... her lack of previous stair-stepping experience threw a wrench into her plan until, however, she quickly came up with an altogether brilliant solution to her dilemma. She is, after all, a genius just like her sister ... of course she is.

Looking up at me with her beautiful blue eyes sparkling and a mischievous little grin crossing her face, Amelie adamantly declared, "Ghee, come on!" Unsure that I had correctly heard what my youngest granddaughter had said, I asked, "What did you say, baby girl?" to which she even more adamantly declared once again, "Ghee, come on!" To further assure that I understood what she wanted me to do, Amelie then walked over, took my hand and pulled me toward the stairs. I'm sure you can surmise how I spent a good part of the rest of the evening ... yep ... I spent most of the evening being summoned to "come on" by the most adorable little 17-month-old gal to be her partner in disobedience. I'm pretty sure it was Amelie's super cuteness that kept both of us from getting in hot water with her parents that evening.

It only took that one act of getting me to help my granddaughter go up and down the two steps leading into the sunken living room for little Amelie to figure out that if she wanted to do something she wasn't supposed to do, all she had to do was say the magic words, "Ghee, come on!" to enlist my help in the commission of her crimes. Don't worry ... I didn't help her do anything dangerous or life-threatening ... for the most part anyway. I did, however, become her immediate go-to person when she wanted extra crackers before bedtime or to jump on the bed or splash all the water out of the tub or pull everything out of the cabinets or ... ummm ... or ummm ... or ummm ... other stuff like that ... yeah, that's right ... other stuff like that. Funny, now that I think about it, I don't think Amelie ever said, "Ghee, come on!" when she intended to do something she was supposed to do or that she knew her mom and dad would have given her permission to do. Nope ... that little rascal only played her "Ghee, come on!" card when it was something she knew she wasn't supposed to do.

I've thought a lot about those words over the last couple of weeks, those "come on" words. I've thought about how many times I let someone lead me into doing things I know I'm not supposed to be doing ... how many times I know better and yet I do it anyway ... how many times I follow when I should be leading instead. There's a great big old mountain of truth in those words, my friends ... a great big old mountain of truth indeed. Do some mulling over those words tonight ... do some heavy-duty, in-depth pondering and throw in a big batch of good old-fashioned thinking about those words. 

"Ghee, come on!"

Unwashable

I'm quite certain I'm not the only 50-something gal who earned my reading chops voraciously consuming the stories of a certain young female sleuth named Nancy Drew. Sometimes I wonder just how many hours I spent curled up under the covers in my bed with a flashlight long after I was supposed to be asleep reading every Nancy Drew book I could get my hands on. I vividly recall losing myself in the daring and often frightening adventures of the young detective as she solved mystery after mystery, catching more than her share of bad guys along the way. From The Secret of the Old Clock to The Bungalow Mystery to The Message in the Hollow Oak to The Phantom of Pine Hill to The Secret in the Old Attic to The Haunted Showboat and many others as well, those books became my refuge and the place where I could dream of one day being part of something bigger. Looking back, there's no doubt in my mind that young Nancy Drew played a huge role in developing my love for reading and even more ... even so very much more ... my love for writing as well.

A few months ago, I had the idea to start a book club in the office where I work, and I was excited when several people responded to my initial email asking if anyone was interested in joining the club. Since reading and editing is my job each day, I don't read for pleasure as much as I used to and I thought forming a book club would serve two purposes ... it would encourage me to read more outside of work, and it would help the participants get to know each other better outside of our daily work functions. We've just finished reading our third selection and are scheduled to meet tomorrow over lunch to discuss the book When I Found You by Catherine Ryan Hyde. I chose the book rather randomly, mainly because the author also wrote Pay It Forward, a book that has inspired thousands and perhaps even millions of people to perform random acts of generosity for others. When I Found You is most certainly another book that is sure to cause its readers to look outside of themselves and consider the importance of commitment, the necessity of loyalty and the rewards of unconditional love.

I won't spoil the story for you in case you choose to read the book ... which you most definitely should, by the way ... but I do want to share one of the many inspirational themes present in the story. The book tells the story of a man who finds a newborn baby boy abandoned in the woods while he's hunting ... actually, it's the man's dog who first discovers the baby and leads the man to the barely breathing infant. Again, I'm not going to spoil the book for you ... suffice it to say that the story unfolds in a way that I didn't expect it to, and it offers up many much-appreciated life lessons along the way. But it was the following handful of words spoken by the gentleman who found the baby that stuck to me like glue throughout the wide-ranging gamut of emotions I experienced as I read ... it was the following words that left an imprint on my heart in a big way. Powerful words of commitment and determination if ever I've heard any ... words that the man honored through both words and actions every single day. 

"I will never wash my hands of you."

Those words jumped off the page at me, but not for the reason you might expect. Those words jumped off the page at me because I've heard variations of them from people in my own life over the years ... from people who have lived up to those words and people who have not. That's a tough promise to make, you know ... to promise someone that you will never give up on them ... to promise you'll never let them give up on themselves. Making that kind of promise requires a depth of character and a level of integrity that many people sadly do not possess. Saying the words is easy ... it's living them out that's hard. Living them out means you honor your word and you keep your promise ... it means when things get tough, you don't run away ... it means caring about someone enough to do what you'll say you'll do ... forever. Some of the deepest sorrow I've felt and some of the greatest hurt I've experienced in life came from people who said, "I will never wash my hands of you" ... and then they did just that. But by the same token, some of the greatest joy and some of the most humbling moments in my life have come from people whom I've given every reason in the world to wash their hands of me a gazillion times over ... but they didn't. And you know what? I'm here today because they didn't.

Think about it, friends ... think about the person who needs you to say those words to them ... think about the person who needs to know you will always be there ... think about the person whose life you may save ... think about it a long, long, long time.

"I will never wash my hands of you." 

Everybody Poops

Lest you think I'm about to plagiarize the popular children's book by Taro Gomi, which by the way is actually titled "Everyone Poops," I can assure you I am not. First, I would never steal the words of another writer and second, this post is not really about poop at all. Well, maybe it's a little bit about poop, but not as much as the "Everyone Poops" book ... that whole stinking book is about poop ... pun totally intended by the way.

When my daughter-in-law told me I wouldn't believe how much food my littlest granddaughter consumes on a daily basis, I must admit that I thought she was probably exaggerating a bit. But then I spent the last week and a half in Canada ... trust me, my daughter-in-law was not exaggerating in the least. Yep, my littlest grandgal can pack in some food for sure, and she's pretty willing to try just about anything. I looked on in awe as she ate a ton of Thai curry cashews at a party one night, and I saw her down an entire container of blueberries, or "Bees" as she calls them, on more than one occasion. Maybe she's making up for lost time ... sweet little Amelie had more than her share of tummy troubles during the first few months of her life. 

Though it goes without saying, I'm going to say it anyway ... of course I am ... what goes in must come out, and if a lot goes in, then there's a lot that has to come out. I have a whole new level of respect for my son and daughter-in-law when it comes to diaper changing ... suffice it to say that they change a crapload of poopy diapers, and I do mean crapload. It's hard to believe that adorable little girl can poop so many times in one day, but again, what goes in must come out and there's a lot of food going into that tiny body.

I'm sure you're wondering why in the world I would write a post about how often my youngest granddaughter poops, so please allow me to explain. I always try to help out with the girls when I'm in Canada, and part of that helping out means changes at least a few diapers. It was a couple of days before I left when I was changing an extra stinky poopy diaper that a thought popped into my mind ... a thought that I think is worth sharing.

Wouldn't it be awesome if the poop in our lives could be gotten rid of as easily as changing a baby's diaper? The fact is that everybody poops ... the problem is that some people poop way more than others. They poop so much anger or hatred or jealousy or judgment or dishonesty or, or, or ... with no thought or concern as to how their mountains of crap may affect those around them. But you know what? Eventually, and probably sooner than they expect, the stench of their crap will give them away. See here's the thing ... it didn't take long at all for everyone in the house to know that my precious grandgal had poop in her diaper. Even if we asked her if she had pooped and she said no, we all knew she had because we could smell it. The terrible smell wafting from her diaper told the truth every single time.

Go ahead, friends ... think on it for a while. And be sure to wash your hands after you use the restroom ... cleanliness is next to godliness, you know ... think on that one, too ... mull that one over for a good long time.

Everybody poops ... they most certainly do.

Don't Be Scared, Ghee

Though I didn't believe it when I was young, I certainly believe it now ... the older I get, the more quickly time goes by. Yesterday as I was sitting in my son Matt's family room watching a kid's cartoon called Masha and the Bear with my oldest granddaughter, I found myself wondering how in the world my son can possibly be old enough to have children of his own. It seems like only yesterday that I was sitting in my living room watching Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles with him as a little boy, and now he's the father of his own two precious little girls. Seriously ... where did all those years go? For that matter, where did just the last year go? How can it already be the first day of another new year? Will this year fly by even faster than the years that have already come and gone? Hmmm ... seems to me there's a lesson for me in those questions ... a big gigantic lesson about paying attention to the important moments of life ... the moments that make life worth living ... the moments that matter most of all ... the moments spent with those whom I love and who love me in return.

One thing I can pretty much count on to be true each time I visit Canada in the winter is that there will be snow ... lots and lots of snow. While it hasn't snowed at all since I arrived this time, there was already quite a bit of snow on the ground when I got here and the temperatures have been plenty cold enough to make sure it sticks around for a good long while. There's another thing I can always count on when I'm in Canada during the winter ... those crazy Canadians keep right on going no matter how cold it is outside or how much white stuff is on the ground or falling from the sky. People walk their dogs ... which, by the way, I totally don't understand because Ollie will barely run outside to potty and then his feet freeze so I have to go out and carry him back inside. But I digress ... it's quite apparent that Canadians actually embrace and enjoy participating in various wintertime outdoor activities from ice skating to hockey to skiing to sledding ... hearty folks, those Canadians are ... hearty folks for sure.

It didn't take long at all for my son and daughter-in-law to understand that winter lasts a heck of a long time in Canada, and they, too, quickly learned to embrace and enjoy all the different wintertime activities. They figured out how many layers of clothing they need to wear, which kind of wool socks and boots best protect their feet ... gloves, hats, snow pants, scarves, long underwear ... more winter gear than I've ever seen in my life, but all necessary not only to survive the cold Canadian winters but to thrive while doing so. They bundle up my granddaughters and take them on all sorts of winter adventures ... and when this old Ghee visits, they graciously let me tag along. Sometimes, they even talk me into participating ... like a couple of days ago when I climbed on a sled with my granddaughter Coraline.

While I'd like to tell you that we were on a ginormous sledding hill that only the bravest and strongest sledders would even attempt to tackle, the truth is the hill we were sledding on was more of a bump than a hill. It's the perfect size for younger kids ... and Ghees who may or may not have a slightly irrational fear of sledding. My daughter-in-law asked me several times if I wanted to take a turn sledding down the huge hill with Coraline, and I politely refused, saying that I'd stay at the bottom of the hill and make sure Boo didn't crash into a tree. But then ... then following one of her multiple sled rides down the hill, Coraline looked up at me with those gorgeous blue eyes of hers and said, "Don't be scared, Ghee ... come sled with me ... it's not scary at all." I don't even have to tell you the rest of the story ... of course I climbed to the top of the snow mountain ... yes, I do mean mountain ... and flew down the hill with Boo on her sled, laughing and yelping all the way. And then I did it again, and the next time we head to the hill for sledding, I'll do it again then, too. You know why? Because my love for Coraline is stronger than my fear of hurling down a mountain in the snow ... OK, OK, a tiny little hill ... on a small round piece of plastic.

I can't help but wonder what this new year will bring ... I wonder if there will be more happiness than sorrow ... more love than hate ... more progress than regression. I wonder what the new year will bring for those I love and care about, and I wonder what the new year will bring for me. The people who know me best know that it's a super short hop for me to turn wondering about what's ahead into worrying about what's ahead and worrying about what's ahead into full-blown, trauma-inducing, semi-paralyzing fear about what the new year may hold. There's something else I can't help but wonder, friends ... I can't help but wonder if my little Coraline's words at the sledding hill were about way, way more than riding down a hill on a sled. I wonder if they are words I should carry with me into the new year ... words to remind me not to be afraid ... words to remind me that sometimes the things I'm most afraid of are the very things that might just bring me the greatest joy.

"Don't be scared, Ghee ... come sled with me ... it's not scary at all."

Here's to a happy and healthy new year, friends ... treasure every single moment.