I See Dead People

A couple of weeks before I was scheduled to leave for Maine, my son Brad asked me if there was anything in particular I would like to see or do during my visit. I didn't even have to think twice about my answer as I quickly said, "I want to see a lighthouse." And when Brad told me there were at least two lighthouses just a few miles from where he and Shelby live, I was so excited I came dangerously close to peeing my pants. Over the next few days, Brad asked me several more times if I had any special requests on how I wanted to spend my time in Maine, and each time, my reply was the same ... "I want to see a lighthouse. Like a real lighthouse. Up close. Not from far away. I just want to see a lighthouse." The funny thing is ... I don't remember putting "see a lighthouse up close and personal" on my bucket list of items I absolutely had to see before I die. I have no clue as to why, but all of a sudden, the number one thing I wanted to do while I was in Maine was to see a lighthouse. In fact, my overwhelming desire to see one of the structures that has stood guard over ships and boats against the rocky coastline for centuries even trumped my desire to eat fresh lobster, and that, my friends, is saying a whole heck of a lot about how very badly I wanted to see a lighthouse.

Due to the super cold temps and the foot of snow that was on the ground when I first arrived, it was a couple of days before the weather allowed Brad and I to make the trek to the Owl's Head lighthouse that resides only a few miles from his house. As Brad drove along the coast toward our destination, he told me of the legend surrounding the particular beacon we were on our way to visit. It's a tale that sent shivers running up and down my spine ... a tale of lovers frozen in a block of ice, of a dog who could see the ships through the fog, of ghosts and spirits who refuse to leave their posts even several hundred years later. Brad told me of the loyal and faithful keepers of the light ... men who risked their very lives to protect the lives of sailors they would never meet. By the time we arrived at the lighthouse, I was more than just a little creeped out ... I mean, seriously ... my son spends a half-hour recounting tales of ghostly footprints that appear in the snow and of lifeless bodies ascending the long wooden staircase ... of course I was creeped out. You can bet your life that the hairs on the back of my neck were standing at attention as we carefully made our way up the wooded path that led to the Owl's Head lighthouse ... the sound of the ocean waves crashing against the rocks below muffled only by the pounding of my heart inside my chest. 

I hate to disappoint you, but I didn't encounter any ghosts or see any dead people on my lighthouse adventure with my son that day. I did, however, stand upon the same ground that the keepers of the light stood upon all those centuries ago. I did, however, climb the same stairs that were climbed by men and women who devoted their entire lives to saving the lives of others. I did, however, gaze across the same ocean that sailors sailed upon during the Revolutionary War. I did, however, spend one of the most incredible days of my life with my son ... I listened to his voice ... I marveled at his knowledge ... I appreciated his patience ... I respected his courage. I saw my son's heart that day, friends ... I saw his heart and I understood the bond between us as I never had before. I didn't see dead people that day ... I saw something way, way, way better. That day, I saw love. I saw love and the most haunted lighthouse in the U.S. ... on the same day. A mom couldn't wish for anything more, friends ... it just doesn't get any better than that ... it certainly doesn't get any better than that.

 

"For One Day ..."

I had originally planned tonight to write about a couple of the lighthouses my son Brad took me to see while I was visiting him and Shelby in Maine, but that topic will have to wait until my next post. Sharing my lighthouse adventures with you will have to wait because I feel compelled to share with you an email I received early this morning, the words of which have quickly seared themselves into my brain and burned themselves deeply within my heart. I'm choosing to let the message from the young man speak for itself with no personal commentary from me other than to say this ... I completely and fully understand how this young man feels because I feel it myself far too often.

And to you, the strong and courageous young man who wrote this note ... I'm begging you not to give up ... please don't ever give up, Wade ... please, please, please keep fighting and keep believing that you're loved and cherished by many for exactly who you are. The world needs you, young man, and you can and will make a difference. You want to know how I know that? Because you already are. You're already making a difference with the words of your note ... to me, yes, but also to the thousands of people who will read them tonight in this post. You're already teaching people to change the way they think and how they treat other people. You're already changing people's lives, Wade ... don't stop now, kiddo ... please don't stop now ... please, please, please don't stop now.

"Dear Terry,

My friend Stevens mom said I should send you up a message with something I wrote a few weeks ago when I was in the hospital from trying to kill myself for the third time. She's been reading your blog for a long time and she said I should send you this. I got a lots of clapping when the shrink made me read it to the people in the meetings I had to go to for while I was there. I'm 15 years old and I live in Arkansas. Here is what I wrote and I hope you like it. Stevens mom said to tell you its ok if you want to use it in your blog if you think its good enough and maybe it can help another kid like me. Thank you. From Wade.

For one day I wish I wasn't gay.

I wish for today I couldn't wake up and worry if I would get beat up again by the jocks at my school or my head get slammed up on my locker. I wish today none of the people where I work my part time job called me fag or queer or girlie boy. 

For one day I wish I wasn't gay.

I want to wake up today and be straight and like girls instead of boys and be normal like all the guys at school. I wish today that I could walk right up to a girl and ask would she go on a date with me and not feel like I'm fixing to be sick. 

For one day I wish I wasn't gay.

I wish for today that I didn't wake up and want to die because I think dying is easier than living for gay people. I wish I had a day where it doesn't feel like my Mom and Dad are ashamed of me and that I embarress my 2 brothers and 1 sister.

For one day I wish I wasn't gay.

I want for day to know what it feels like to be the same as other guys and play football and be tough. I want to walk like a guy and do my hands like a guy and be like a real man.

For one day I wish I wasn't gay.

I want one whole day when people don't stare at me when I go shopping at the mall or eat in a restaurant or walk down the street. I want one whole entired day when I can believe in that God loves me and I'm not going to hell.

For one day I wish I wasn't gay.

I wish for today to look in the mirror and not hate the guy I see.

Out With the Old

If I didn't already believe that dogs have an understanding of the human mind that goes far beyond what many people give them credit for, my visit on the Sunday morning after I arrived in Maine to the place where my son's girlfriend Shelby works would have certainly cemented that truth to me. The bitter cold temperatures coupled with the 16 inches of snow that had fallen the day before dictated that we find indoor activities to occupy our day, so we loaded Max and Ollie into the car and went to visit the folks Shelby cares for in the dementia unit at the nursing home. It also happened to be Valentine's Day, so we made a quick stop by the local grocery store for Shelby to run in and purchase a couple of trays of cupcakes as a surprise for her residents. It only took walking in the door with Brad, Shelby and the hounds for me to realize that I was in for a special treat that morning ... a treat that had absolutely nothing at all to do with the cupcakes Shelby carried in her arms.

We were quickly greeted by one of Shelby's co-workers who literally almost swooned when she saw my little Oliver all decked out in his Christmas sweater and red service dog vest. Ollie's tail wagged with bionic speed as he struggled in my arms to get to the nice lady's face as she made kissing sounds to him and squealed, "I LOVE wiener dogs!!!" and then proceeded to tell me about her friends and family members who are fellow doxie lovers. That's something I've noticed when I'm out and about with Ollie, you know ... there are tons of people who simply adore wiener dogs, and a by-product of that adoration seems quite often to be the need to tell me about every wiener dog they've ever known. Weird, but true. It's probably just because Ollie is without question the most adorable wiener dog ever, but still ... it's weird how many people just go head-over-heels crazy when they meet him. But alas, once again I digress ... back to our adventure with the people we actually went to visit.

To say that the eyes of the residents danced with delight upon seeing Max the big chocolate Labrador and Ollie the little wiener would be perhaps the biggest understatement of all time. As Shelby busied herself with passing out the cupcakes, Brad and I made our way from table to table with the dogs as one resident after another reached out their hands to pet our two tail-wagging, kiss-bestowing hounds. My eyes filled with tears more than once as I watched my son interact with the residents, his voice gentle and kind as he patiently answered the same questions over and over again. I saw the smile in his eyes at the reactions of the residents each time he crossed the room to let them pet Max ... it was a new joy to those sweet folks each time because they didn't remember meeting Brad and Max only minutes before. I've always known my Brad has a compassionate and giving heart, but seeing him engaging with the elderly folks in the room that day caused me to recognize and appreciate that special tenderness that resides within the soul of my middle child in a whole new way. I'm not sure how long we stayed at the nursing home on that cold Sunday morning a week or so ago, but I know that the love I witnessed will be with me forever.

Maybe it's because my recent birthday nudged me over the line into the "over 55" age group, but I'm suddenly more and more cognizant of how much our society values the skills and abilities of youth and, by the same token, how much it devalues the wisdom and experience of age. From appearance to athleticism to technological savvy to basic intelligence, society unashamedly promotes the message of "younger is better." The problem with that mentality is that unless someone kicks the bucket at an early age, everyone eventually grows old ... and I'm willing to bet that those who are currently in the "younger is better" phase of their lives won't be at all happy to find themselves on the other side of the coin one day. There are definitely good things about getting older ... you get discounts at restaurants and at movie theaters ... and there are great things about getting older ... grandchildren and wearing whatever the hell you want to wear when you go to Walmart and it being okay because everyone thinks you're a crazy old person. But seriously ... growing old surely is not for sissies, my friends ... it surely, surely is not. 

Yesterday I was in a meeting at work when I looked around the room and realized that I was the only person there over the age of 40; in fact, there were only a couple of folks in the meeting who are over 30. And to make matters even worse, probably 80 percent of the people who were in the room are younger than my youngest child. I quickly went from believing my wisdom and life knowledge could be of benefit to the group to believing I had nothing of importance or meaning to offer the young folks sitting around the table with me. I quickly went from feeling like a hip, cool, gray-haired gal ... really cool spiky gray hair, I might add ... whose ideas, enthusiasm and love for the company could inspire and encourage the younger folks to pondering the very real possibility that they consider me to be archaic and are wishing I would just hurry up and retire already. I quickly went from feeling way too young to be old to feeling far too old to be young.

The truth is that I've been contemplating writing this post for a while now ... a post about how often older people are considered to be less worthy than the young in so many areas of life. Perhaps the most telling words in the previous paragraph are these ... "I quickly went" ... in my own mind, without any coercion, I quickly began to question my worth and doubt my abilities. No one shoved me down that path ... I quickly went there all on my own. The truth is that there probably are some young folks who do think I'm just an old fuddy-duddy and that I should get the heck out of their way, and there are some who really do value my opinions and actually enjoy spending time with me. The truth is that there are times when I'm the one who needs to be encouraged and inspired, and there are times when the young folks need me to cheer them on. The truth is that I'm not even half as cool or as wise as I want to believe I am, but I'm still not ready to give up on believing I am. There's another truth, too, though ... and it's a big one, at least for me it is anyway. The truth is that I want with everything in me to not only hope that I'm making a difference in the lives of at least a few of the young folks who are coming behind me, but to actually do it.

Out with the old? Not just yet, friends ... not just yet.

Well That's Not Good

My favorite storytellers in the world are little kids, partly because they're too young to fully understand the concept of time. To them, five hours is pretty much the same as five days ... they can't quite determine whether they should say yesterday or tomorrow when telling a story, and "I was there for 20 hundred minutes" could very well mean 20 seconds. I love how fast they talk when they're telling me about something that excites them and how wide their eyes open when describing something incredible they've seen or heard or done. There's nothing funnier than when they get ahead of themselves in their recounting of a story ... it's like being in a bounce house with a herd of kangaroos. I adore the look on my oldest granddaughter's face when she's in full-blown storytelling mode and I suddenly interrupt her and ask her to start from the beginning ... I call it the "Ghee are you kidding me? I just told you 11 hundred parts of the story and you want me to start over?" look. And when I try to explain the concept and importance of chronological order when it comes to telling a story ... well, suffice it to say that I rarely win her over to my way of thinking.

As I mentioned in last night's post, I have a ton of stories to share about my trip to Maine last week ... so many that I'm having a hard time choosing what to write about first. But on my way to work this morning, I decided that I should take my own advice that I give to Coraline and start at the beginning. At least that's where I'm starting tonight anyway ... I very well may change my mind tomorrow, but then again, I may not. I contemplated beginning this part of my Maine story by filling you in on the craziness of the night before I left or perhaps starting with my arrival at the KC airport in the wee hours of the morning. But that part of the story is neither exciting nor comical, so I've opted to begin with the adventure that was my first flight ... my shortish flight from Kansas City to Washington, D.C., that felt more like 20 hundred hours than the 3 hours it actually was.

Anyone who knows me knows that flying is not my favorite thing in the world to do, but I will say that I've gotten much, much, much better than I was 4 years ago when I got on a plane for the first time in 24 years. Oh, don't worry ... I still get plenty worked up, but now my panic revolves more around the actual trip itself (different airports, changing planes, delayed flights ... that sort of stuff) than my very much still there fear of flying. But as I settled into my seat near the back of the plane on the morning of February 13, I was actually feeling pretty good ... other than worrying like a banshee about being able to find my way to my next plane once we landed in D.C., of course. With my Sea-Band anti-nausea motion sickness bands snugly on each wrist and my faithful wiener dog Ollie cuddled in my lap, I pulled out the book I had brought along and began to read as the plane coasted down the runway in preparation for takeoff ... which, by the way, was the smoothest takeoff I've experienced thus far in all my travels. I remember thinking after the first hour or so in the air what a smooth and relaxing flight it was ... so smooth and relaxing that I read for a while, dozed for a while and chatted with the gentleman in the seat next to me for a while.

Thankfully, we were only about a half-hour out of Washington, D.C., when that smooth and relaxing flight suddenly went in a whole different direction. The pilot asked everyone to return to their seats and buckle up (including the flight attendants ... yeah, that's not unnerving at all when the pilot tells the flight attendants to sit down and buckle up) because we were heading into some rough air. Within a couple of minutes, the plane was rocking and shaking from side to side, and I was holding on to Ollie for dear life. I tried desperately to remember how I was supposed to breathe my way through an anxiety attack as I broke into a cold sweat and a sudden intense nausea washed through my gut. I must have looked like I was about to pass out ... and for a minute or two, I thought I might ... because the guy sitting next to me patted my knee and said, "Hang in there ... we'll be on the ground soon." I managed a muffled "Okay," and reached for the bag ... yes, THAT bag ... tucked in the flap on the seat in front of me.

Other than when the tornado sirens sound, I'm sure I've never been as panicked as I was when I opened the small paper bag and saw that it had a hole the size of a golf ball in the bottom of it. "Well that's not good," I mumbled ... "Well that's not good at all." I'm equally as sure that I've never appreciated the kindness of a stranger more than I did that day when the gentleman next to me quickly handed me the bag from the seatback in front of him. Obviously since I'm alive and well and penning tonight's post, the plane didn't crash and I survived the terrible turbulence ... abundantly embarrassed and humiliated for sure, but I survived. I even managed to walk off the plane under my own power and find my way to the nearest restroom to douse my face with cold water. Oh, and Ollie? He slept through most of the turbulence, but he was one unhappy wiener when I ... well ... when I ... lost my cookies in the small paper bag.

I know I'm probably the only person on the planet who would look for a deep, meaningful lesson within my puking in a bag on a plane ordeal, but you know me ... I'm always looking for that deep, meaningful lesson, hidden though it may be, and sometimes, if I'm really lucky, I actually find more than one. My barfing experience on the plane was about much more than recognizing that I should never ever sit in the back of a plane ... that experience was about being humbled ... it was about understanding that there are things in life I simply cannot control ... it was about admitting that there are times when I need to ask for help ... it was about finding the courage to climb onto another plane ... it was about drawing upon every ounce of strength within me and holding on as tightly as I can when the turbulence comes (not if it comes, but when it comes) ... it was about finding another bag when mine has a hole in it ... it was about knowing that the captain was doing everything he could to keep me and everyone else on the plane safe ... it was about not quitting. Puking into the small paper bag on the plane was about trusting ... it was about hoping ... it was about believing. And it was about doing all those things especially when I'm right smack dab in the middle of a great big old giant patch of rough air.

"Well that's not good ... that's not good at all."

Or is it?

Terrie at 56

Surely at least a few of you remember a television show from the '70s called "James at 15," and surely at least a few of you loved the show as much as I did. When I watch episodes from the series now via the marvelous creation that is YouTube, I can't help but wonder just why I was so enamored by the show ... but then again, I wonder that about a lot of the shows I watched when I was young. But as a teenager "James at 15" quickly became fodder for a dream that has stayed with me throughout the years. The premise for the show revolved around the feelings and emotions of James, a 15-year-old boy whose father chose to move their family from Oregon to Massachusetts. Each week, the series would chronicle the adventures of James as he learned to manage life in the big city of Boston. I remember curling up in my black beanbag chair as I vicariously experienced New England through James ... that's where my dream to see the Northeast with my own eyes first began.

When my son Brad told me last summer that he was moving to Maine, my feelings sloshed back and forth between sadness to see him go so far away to happiness for him getting such a great opportunity to ... well ... to jealousy that he was moving to the very place I'd always dreamed of living in. It was less than a week after he moved that Brad called me and said, "Mom, you have to come up here while I'm living here ... you won't believe how beautiful it is here." I promised my son I'd start saving my pennies and try to get there, but Brad decided he'd make sure I came to visit him and his girlfriend Shelby. Yep ... my sweet son bought me a plane ticket for my Christmas and birthday gift, and Ollie and I returned last night from spending a most wonderful week in a quaint little town just off the coast of Maine. The best way I can describe my time there is to say it really was a dream come true; in fact, it was everything I dreamed it would be and more. I spent the week surrounded by more natural beauty than I've ever seen with two of the people I love most in this world ... it just doesn't get any better.

I've got plenty of stories about my trip to share with you in my next few posts, but for tonight, I'm exhausted and need a good night's sleep before I head back to work tomorrow. In the meantime, don't stop dreaming, friends ... don't ever, ever, ever stop dreaming.

It's That You Love

There are a lot of people who get pretty darned worked up about Valentine's Day ... some people love it, and some people hate it. It makes some people feel like kings or queens for a day, while it ranks as the most depressing day of the year for others. For me personally, I think I've always been rather indifferent about Cupid Day ... I think it's fine for people who think it's a big deal to make a big deal out of it, and I think it's equally fine for those who think it's a made-up holiday to benefit greeting card companies and florists to refuse to participate in any way. I just hope that I demonstrate love to the people I care about every single day in big ways and little ways and all the ways in between ... if for no other reason than tomorrow is never guaranteed.

Last week, one of my co-workers sent an email out to our office that contained the link to a video that makes me want to go out and buy a dozen roses ... and then go for a train ride. Watch it, and remember it's not who you love, it's that you love.

Click here and happy love the people you love day every day.

Save the Sappiness

I'm pretty sure I've cried more tears over the last four or so years than I had cried throughout my entire life up to that point. Though some people would attribute my relatively newfound propensity for tears to my daily battle with depression, I must beg to differ. Please don't misunderstand me, I'm quite certain that depression plays a role in my now more frequent liquid expression of emotion, but I don't believe it is worthy of receiving all the blame. Before I get a million emails chiding me for making that statement or accusing me of downplaying the way that depression can wreck someone's life, please allow me to repeat myself ... I don't believe my struggle with depression is solely to blame for the undeniable fact that I cry more than I used to. Sorry, but I just don't think it's the only reason ... nope, I just don't. In fact, I have come to realize that it's something much more sinister, much more disturbing, much more alarmingly uncontrollable than depression working against me, friends. It's not easy to admit, and though I know I will be judged harshly by many, I can no longer deny the truth ... I have developed a serious case of sappiness. That's right ... my name is Terrie, and I'm a sap.

It's interesting, isn't it, that I feel the need to apologize for being sappy? That my sappiness is something I often feel the need to hide, to guard lest it escape and wreak havoc on everyone I interact with? That admitting I'm sappy makes me feel weak and vulnerable and dumb and naive? That our society rewards its tough, intense, "less emotion, more drive" members while it discredits the sappy, the emotional, the feeling ones as less than or without merit? I find that more than interesting, friends ... I find it sad. Maybe I do find extraordinary meaning in the little things I experience each day too often ... maybe I do see life lessons in things that others consider to be simple or routine or mundane too much ... maybe I do discover truth and encouragement in conversations with those whom I love too many times. And maybe I do share that part of my heart with others through the words I speak and the stories I write with an extra heaping of sappy smeared all over the top like jam on toast. Maybe I do all of those things ... and maybe, just maybe my sappiness isn't such a bad thing.


While society as a whole may think that being sappy is a bad thing, I've discovered something I consider to be really, really, really important over the last few years as I've journeyed down the path of becoming an open, honest, real and transparent sap extraordinaire. I've discovered that there are more people than you know who ... people who would never in a million years admit it to be true ... there are tons of people in the world who actually need a sap in their lives. They may act all tough on the outside and proclaim that they detest sappiness in all its forms, but if you watch them carefully and hear them thoughtfully ... if you keep your eyes and ears wide open ... you'll see past their tears and you'll hear their hearts. There's not a doubt in my mind that if you simply watch long enough and listen hard enough, you'll see and hear how much they long for some sappiness to filter through to them.

Yep, that's right ... I'm a full-blown, hard-core sap and something tells me that's not going to all of a sudden disappear. Maybe, just maybe, I should embrace my inner sappiness ... maybe being a story-telling, finding the biggest of meaning in the smallest of things, tear-shedding, lesson-learning sap is exactly who I'm supposed to be. Maybe it is, friends ... maybe it is indeed.

Let's Talk About Lipstick

Perhaps I'm the only person who over-analyzes a few things once in a while ... okay, okay, maybe I over-analyze pretty much everything all the flipping time. But my gut tells me I'm probably not alone in my tendency to obsessively contemplate and over-analyze, and if the past is an indicator of the future, at least a few of you will write to me to confirm that my gut is indeed telling me the truth. Now having established the fact that I'm an over-thinking, over-analyzing, over-contemplating weirdo, let's talk about lipstick ... yes, I said lipstick. But you'll have to read my entire post if you wish to learn why I've spent the last 30 hours or so of my life focusing my obsessive, over-the-top analytical, contemplative thinking skills on lipstick ... yes, I said lipstick.

If you know me at all, you know that I'm always asking why ... I want to know why things happen a certain way or why people say the things they do or why coffee tastes better in Canada or why owls are so creepy or why a splinter in my finger can hurt more than giving birth or any of the million other why thoughts that run through my mind every day. Sometimes those why thoughts dance in and out of my brain faster than a cheetah can run ... but then there are those other times ... those times when something happens or someone says something that sparks a why question I just cannot get rid of no matter how hard I try. There's another thing you know if you know me at all ... you know that it's not at all unusual for me to seek out some elusive pearl of wisdom in the whys that won't go away. I'm always looking for the lesson ... searching for the truth ... hunting for the insight that so often can only be found when I'm right smack dab in the middle of a why. Which leads me back to lipstick ... yes, I said lipstick.

Why? Why is lipstick such a big freaking deal to some women? Who decided way back when that lipstick was an indicator of femininity or beauty? Was there a decree issued or a proclamation made stating that wearing lipstick is a must for all girly girls? For that matter, why do women wear makeup or panty hose or paint their nails or curl their hair or shave their pits or pluck their eyebrows? And one of the most haunting whys of all to me ... why is a woman who doesn't do or wear any of those things considered to be less of a woman? Why are we as women so quick to hand down judgment based on such a truly inconsequential thing as whether or not we wear lipstick? Why am I so guilty and ashamed to admit that I do exactly that every single day? I'm ashamed to say that I'm guilty of stereotyping women who wear lipstick and dresses and sparkly stuff as being girly girls or prissy princesses or worst of all ... straight or gay. I've been on the receiving end of that type of labeling far too many times to count ... I know how unfair it is and how deeply those labels can hurt, and potentially even destroy, someone's life, and yet I'm guilty of doing exactly the same thing. 

Yesterday at work I was in the kitchen chatting with a friend as she filled her water bottle. She was wiping the straw part of the bottle with a towel, and as she did, she said, "Gross." I noticed the tip of the straw was smeared with something reddish in color, and I said, "Lipstick?" to which my friend replied, "Yes!" And to which I promptly remarked in return, "That's something you'll never see on any of my water bottles because I'm ..." My friend didn't hesitate for even a millisecond as she said, "Because you're what? Gay? There are plenty of gay women who wear lipstick ... don't be so stereotypical!" Me being me, of course I quickly tried to cover my fail by saying, "I know that ... that's why they're called lipstick lesbians." I couldn't begin to tell you what the rest of our conversation was after that exchange ... my brain was already way down the path of "I just slapped a label on myself ... I defined myself as being less than a 'real' woman because I don't wear lipstick."

So, gal pals ... let's talk about lipstick. Let's talk about the way we see each other and the ways in which we label and judge each other. Let's talk about getting past all the societal expectations and definitions of what being a woman really does look like. Let's talk about loving each other simply for who we are as individuals and not for what we wear or don't wear. Let's talk about our differences in a good way ... in a way that leads not only to acceptance but to respect and value and admiration as well. 

Let's talk about lipstick, gals ... let's talk a whole lot about lipstick.

Never Enough

There was a time in my life when I used to spend a great deal of time dreaming about having enough money to buy anything I wanted ... a gigantic house, a red Ferrari, a fancy boat and all kinds of other frivolous and unnecessary items. As much as I hate to admit it, a large part of why I used to dream so much about being richer than dirt was because I thought being rich would make me happy, or at the very least, a heck of a lot happier than I was. I thought if I just had enough money, all of my problems would somehow magically disappear or that I could find a way to buy my way out of them. In typing those words, I can't help but recall the mantra of one of my college professors ... "Money may not buy happiness, but it sure can rent it for a hell of a long time." He was a really great professor, but he was wrong about money being able to rent happiness ... if I haven't learned anything during the most recent years of my life, I've learned that happiness isn't for sale or rent. It's a treasure for sure, but not one you can buy, rent, bargain for, swap, procure or obtain by any other monetary or financial method known to mankind.

My dad used to always say, "The more you have, the more you want," usually when I was whining or complaining about him refusing to buy me something I "needed" because all my friends had it. And he usually followed up that statement with a kind and gentle lecture about the folly of trying to measure my own personal worth by what I or other people had or didn't have. But Daddy being Daddy, there was always a deeper truth ... a much deeper truth that he wanted to teach me. He pretty much always went straight from telling me that having lots of money or lots of things wouldn't make me happy to explaining to me about the danger of getting sucked into feeling that I never had enough ... and even more important, the gut-wrenching hurt that would surely ensue if I fell into the pit of feeling that I could never be enough. I've thought a great deal over the years about the lessons my dad taught me in my younger years, and I've come to believe that God gave Daddy an extra large dose of wisdom when it came to the most important parts of life ... parts like love and respect and honor and courage and integrity and compassion and honesty ... you know ... those for sure,  beyond the shadow of any doubt, really and truly most important parts of life. Little did Daddy know ... or perhaps he did know and that was the point ... that some of those lessons would come to mean more to me as an adult than they ever did when I was a kid.

In the spirit of being open, honest, real and transparent, I have a confession to make. I've been struggling for the last week or so with the wily old "never enough" monster. Actually, a more accurate appellation for the beast that pounces on me more often than I'm willing to admit would be the "never (fill in the blank with the most applicable adjective that describes how I'm feeling at a particular point in time) enough" monster. I know there are many of you who also wrestle with this sneaky, creep up on you just when you least expect it to beast because you write and tell me about your own battles with it. Sometimes I think that's the most frightening part of the creature, you know ... that everything can be going great and I can be feeling pretty good about myself, and then whammo ... out of nowhere, the esteem-crushing creature is right there screaming into my mind that I will never be enough no matter how hard I try.

You know what's crazy, friends ... what's totally and absolutely crazy? It's way too easy not only to listen to the monster, but to believe what it's saying ... that I'll never be good enough or smart enough or pretty enough or cool enough or sophisticated enough or a gazillion or so other never enoughs. The never enough creature doesn't stop there, though ... oh, no ... once it's managed to propel me down the path of those never enoughs, then it really steps things up and goes straight for my heart. The beast gets me right where it wants me and that's when it tells me I'll never be a loving enough mom ... a playful enough Ghee ... a giving enough sister or aunt or cousin ... a loyal enough friend ... a hard-working enough employee ... a kind or compassionate or listening or trustworthy enough human being. BUT ... BUT ... BUT ... if I keep trying ... if I keep breathing ... if I keep living ... if I continue to surround myself with people who truly love and appreciate and believe in me, then the never enough monster eventually has no choice but to admit defeat and move on.

My dad was right, you know ... he was so very, very right. I shouldn't ever listen to the soul-snatching, mind-mistreating, heart-hacking never enough monster. Perhaps instead, I should take a cue from my sweet granddaughter whenever the creature rears its ugly head and say, "No thank you ... I have plenty." Perhaps I should ... perhaps you should ... perhaps we all should ... perhaps we should indeed.

The Mess is the Message

There's no denying that my dear old mom had a way with words ... heck, it was sort of like she invented her own language that only the people who knew her well could understand. From "twigging up her hair" to "tighter than Dick's hatband" to "ain't bigger than a bar of soap" to "cuter than a bug's ear," the way Mom put words together was certainly the source of many smiles in our family. One of my all-time favorites, though, was Mom's description of when things were a mess. She'd crinkle up her nose and get a certain look in her eye as she said, "Lord, help! Look at what a gomb this is!" And heaven forbid that you were the one who was the cause of said gomb ... by the way, it's pronounced like "bomb" ... because then you were on the receiving end of "Lord, help! Have mercy on my soul and body! You've done gone and gombed everything up!" Trust me, I always lived in fear and dread of that particular pronouncement from Mom when it was directed to me. I don't remember one single time when her saying those words ended up being a good thing for me ... not one single time do I recall Mom's use of the word gomb having a favorable outcome for me.

Over the past couple of days, I've visited with several people who are dealing with some really tough issues in their lives ... really, really, really tough issues. I'm talking big stuff here, my friends ... physical stuff, mental and emotional stuff, relationship stuff ... you know, the really big stuff in life that can rattle you all the way down to the core of your being. As I listened to them share their stories, one thought kept running through my mind ... geez, what an awful mess. Or as my dear Mom would have said, "What a gomb ... what a great big old gigantic gomb." That thought was quickly followed by another ... how quickly life can change ... in the blink of an eye or the snap of a finger or the draw of a breath, my life, your life, anyone's life can change forever. Life can so quickly go from being neat and tidy to being all messed up before people even know what hit them.

I'm always amazed by how strong people can be when life is at its messiest. Bob Marley once said, "You never know how strong you are until being strong is your only choice." Truer words were never spoken ... none of us know how powerful our inner strength truly is until we face adversity. Some of the strongest people I've ever known are people who are right smack dab in the middle of life stuff that would leave many of us reeling. People who somehow find the strength to see beyond the mess they find themselves in. People who even in the midst of their own darkest night manage to summon forth the courage to become beacons of hope to all the rest of us. I'm blown away by those people ... while I'm busy wallowing in the depths of despair when my life's a mess, those folks are busy searching for the meaning in the mess their life has become.

One of the gals I chatted with yesterday said something so profound ... words so intensely and overwhelmingly profound that they seared my soul ... words so intensely and overwhelmingly profound that they branded my heart ... words so intensely and overwhelmingly profound that they pierced my mind. It's my sweet young friend's words I leave you with tonight ... words that deserve your attention ... words that deserve your pondering ... words that deserve your believing.

"The mess is the message, Terrie. There are things I'm supposed to learn from all this mess and then I'm supposed to help other people. I can't have empathy for other people who are going through this without going through it myself. The mess is the message, Terrie ... the mess is the message."

Every Single Morning

One of the things I love about visiting my son Matt and daughter-in-law Becca is that they include me in everything they do, which means I've come to know quite a few of their friends in the almost four years since they moved to Canada. From dinner in the homes of their friends to cookouts at Matt and Bec's to story time at the library to a picnic at the playground to dance class to a plethora of other events, it's been super fun to meet and get to know the Canadians who have become extended family to my kids and grandkids. It's especially fun for me to see Coraline (and Amelie, too, when she's a little older) interacting with her little girlfriends. It doesn't matter if they've only been apart for one day, they go crazy when they see each other ... hugging and holding hands and skipping along ... so very happy to be reunited once again. Every single time I witness those scenes between Coraline and her friends, I'm reminded of my own gal friends I've been blessed to know over the years ... and yes, I do mean blessed.

I've known my friend Debbie for more than 25 years ... we first met at a women's Bible study after I moved to Kansas, and we hit it off right from the start. Debbie's originally from Kentucky, so there was the instant Southern connection between us ... we both know and understand Southern vocabulary and what Southern hospitality is all about. We not only know how to cook fried okra and grits, we know how to eat them, too, and we fully understand that there's nothing more sinful than sitting outside on a warm Sunday afternoon eating blackberry cobbler smothered in vanilla ice cream. We've shared the devastating heartache of losing parents and the joy of watching our children grow up, get married and begin lives of their own. We've laughed together until we cried, and we've cried together until we laughed. When more than a few people from my former church decided they could no longer be friends with me after I came out, Debbie decided she could.

If you've been reading along with me for a long time you may recall that when I was first diagnosed with diabetes, I had a ton of trouble getting my blood sugar regulated. I hit the deck more times than I can remember ... not quite sure how I didn't break a bone or two or crack my head open during those crashes, but fortunately I managed to always come out pretty much unscathed. My blood sugar bouncing around like a kangaroo back then caused more than a few people to worry that I'd go to bed one night and not wake up the next morning. But it was my friend Debbie who took it upon herself to call me every single morning to make sure I was awake, had eaten breakfast, taken my meds and checked my blood sugar. It was Debbie who called me every single morning to check in with me and make sure I was okay ... not just for a few days or even a few weeks, friends ... Debbie called to check on me every single morning for at least a couple or three years. No one asked her to go the extra mile to call me each morning to make sure I hadn't slipped into a diabetic coma and died in my sleep. Debbie made those morning calls for one reason and one reason only ... she called me every single morning because she is my friend.

Over the last couple of weeks, Debbie's been dealing with some serious health issues of her own ... she's had two surgeries on her heart in less than a week and has spent several days in ICU. Needless to say, talking with her on the phone hasn't been an option, but her husband and I have been texting like crazy as he keeps me updated on her condition. I actually shouted out loud when I got a text from him this afternoon telling me she had been moved out of ICU into a private room in the cardiac care wing at the hospital, and I am chomping at the bit to get to see her in person. I've been so very worried about my sweet friend, and I am over the moon happy to know that she's finally improving and on the road to recovery.

In writing about Debbie's faithfulness to call me every morning for all those years, I can't help but think about a verse from the book of Lamentations in the Bible, and it seems only fitting to close tonight's post with those words. Keep on feeling better dear friend ... can't wait to see you back on your feet swigging some sweet tea and chowing down on a big bowl of grits!

"The Lord's lovingkindnesses indeed never cease, for His compassions never fail. They are new every morning; great is thy faithfulness." --- Lamentations 3:22-23

2,103,840 Minutes ... and Counting

I've been working on this post for several days, and I was planning to post it tomorrow. But then I got a text this afternoon telling me that one of my dearest friends was admitted to ICU. Earlier this week, another dear friend stood with her family and watched her father pass away following a sudden and massive stroke. Last weekend, I took a home-cooked meal to some parents who've been spending night and day in the hospital with their 16-year-old daughter who is fighting a rare form of cancer. I'm not waiting until tomorrow to post ... I'm posting this tonight because none of us are guaranteed tomorrow, dear friends, not a single one of us is guaranteed tomorrow.

On February 4, 2016 at 10:34 a.m., I will have been alive 2,103,840 minutes, give or take a few seconds, longer than I intended to be back on February 4, 2012. That's the day I was sitting at my kitchen table ready to swallow the cocktail of drugs I'd been carrying around in my backpack for far longer than I want you to know. That's the day I made a special breakfast for myself and my two dogs Julie and Ollie, and we ate together sitting on the living room floor. That's the day I texted my three children and told them it was a good day and to never forget how much I loved them. That's the day I carefully arranged the letters on the table ... the letters I had written to several people who were very special to me so they would be easily seen. That's the day I opened the shoe box that held the videos I had made for my children and my granddaughter and carefully added the final one I had filmed that morning. That's the day I was interrupted and my plan was derailed. That's the day I lived when what I really wanted to do was die.

When I look back over the last four years ... so many terrifying, difficult, unfathomable and remarkable things have taken place that to share even a small portion of them would surely take up the remainder of the minutes I have left to live. Those times and those things mean so much to me, but it's the people who matter most of all ... it's the people who have joined me on my journey ... I am both humbled and honored to have you with me. My dear children who prove to me with every passing day that their unconditional love for me runs true and deep. My precious granddaughters whose loving and adoring hearts remind me every single moment that I matter to them. My compassionate extended family who accept me and love me just as I am. My sweet friends ... friends who never stop believing in me ... friends who refuse to give up on me and adamantly demand that I not give up on myself ... friends who challenge me to keep on growing, learning, trying, breathing ... friends who pick me up and carry me when I feel like I can't take one more step ... friends who love me most when I deserve it least ... friends who encourage me and support me and push me to be the best me I can be. My doctors K and T who fight for me and take care of me and trust me and tell me the truth and teach me to be open, honest, real and transparent.

Tomorrow will be 4 years ... 4 years ... 48 months ... 1,461 days ... 35,064 hours ... 2,103,840 minutes since that fateful day. It really doesn't matter how I measure the time, my friends ... all that matters is that I keep on counting. All that matters is that I keep on living.

2,103,840 minutes ... and counting.

The Road Ahead

Today is my oldest granddaughter's fourth birthday ... how in the world can she already be four years old? It seems like only yesterday that my son Matt called super early on this morning four years ago to tell me they were at the hospital and that Becca was in full-blown labor. It seems like only yesterday that I sat at my desk at work and waited anxiously for him to call again. It seems like only yesterday when he finally called to tell me that our precious Coraline Queen had finally arrived via emergency C-section. It seems like only yesterday that I held her in my arms for the first time and kissed her tiny face. Four years old today ... my little pal is four years old today ... gosh.

I was thinking this morning as I drove to work about a conversation I had with Matt when they came back to Kansas to visit a couple of years ago. Becca's parents had invited me over for dinner at their house so that I could spend some extra time with Coraline. Matt and I spent the last hour of my visit in an upstairs bedroom playing with Coraline ... just me, my son and my little granddaughter. We laughed and giggled right along with Coraline as she jumped on the bed and said, "More tickle!" over and over and over again. Though he would never admit it, Matt's eyes glistened with emotion as he listened to me read "Go Dog Go" to my little Boo as she cuddled in my arms. My eyes were teary as well when at one point Matt softly said, "Isn't she wonderful, Mom? Isn't she just the best thing ever?" When it was Coraline's bedtime, we tucked her in together ... just me, my son and my little granddaughter. After saying my goodbyes and thank yous to Becca and her folks, Matt walked me to my car ... and I will never ever forget the words that were spoken between us that night ... never, never ever.

I was overcome with emotion when Matt hugged me and thanked me for coming to see him and Becca and Coraline, and I pulled back and looked deeply into his blue eyes.

"Mattie," I said, my voice cracking and wobbling. "Mattie ... when she's old enough to understand, I want you to tell her about the time we just spent together. In case I'm not around that long ... when she's old enough to understand, please promise me you'll tell her about this special night. Promise me you'll help her to know how very much I love her, honey. Promise me, okay?"

Matt didn't hesitate for even one second as he uttered his response to my request ... his reply was quick and steady and firm.

"You tell her yourself, Mom," he said quickly. "You tell her yourself about tonight, Mom. You hang around for a long, long time and tell her yourself."

I didn't even make it out of the neighborhood that night before I had to pull over because I was crying so hard, I couldn't see the road ahead of me.

Four years ago on this day, I had no way of knowing how very much my life would change. Back then, I was engulfed in a darkness so deep that not only could I not see the road ahead of me, I was certain there was no more road to travel. I was so certain the road ahead of me was ending that I said goodbye to my newborn granddaughter on the very same day I met her. 

Here's the thing, friends ... I still can't see the road ahead of me, I can't look ahead and see what life has in store for me down the road. I can try my best to plan ahead or try to map out my journey, but the truth is I really have no idea of what the road ahead will be. What I do know is that there will be times when the road leads me to places filled with love and happiness and times when it leads me to places that fill me with dread and fear. There will be times when the road ahead is lined with people who want to jump in the car and ride with me and times when no one is there. There will be times when the road is smooth and easy and times when the road is rough and filled with potholes.

I may not be able to see the road ahead of me, friends, but I can try with everything in me to believe there is a road ahead of me. And there's one more thing I can do ... I can hope I get the chance to honor Matt's request of me that night standing by the side of my car ... I can hope I get to tell my little Coraline in person someday about the magical night when it was just her, her daddy and Ghee.

Happy birthday, baby girl ... thank you for showing me the road was still there ... love you forever and always.