Swiper, No Swiping!

My granddaughter, C.J., along with tons of other little kids, loves Dora the Explorer. I knew little to nothing about Dora and her television show before I went to Canada in December. And honestly, after watching an episode or two with C.J., I couldn't help but wonder how and why the show became so popular and gained such an enormous following among young kids. Sorry to offend any of you avid Dora fans, but I just wasn't abundantly impressed. I, did, however, find it quite hilarious when my granddaughter would shout, "Swiper, no swiping!" to Andy and Chloe the wiener dogs whenever they would snatch food or toys from her hands.

For those of you who don't know, Swiper is the main antagonist on the Dora show, a sneaky orange fox who tries to steal key items from Dora that help her on her adventures. To prevent Swiper from succeeding in his thievery attempts, Dora must say the words, "Swiper, no swiping!" three times. If Dora thwarts Swiper (which she usually does), he slinks away snapping his fingers while saying, "Oh, man!" But sometimes Swiper manages to steal the item before Dora has a chance to say the words, to which Swiper gloatingly says, "You're too late! You'll never find it now!" Obviously, I know more about Dora the Explorer now than I previously did, proving there's pretty much nothing I won't do for my sweet little C.J. ... heck, I watched Dora for gosh sake's ... that's big, people ... big enough to land me a spot in the "Greatest Ghee of All Time" book for sure.

I've been thinking a lot about old mister Swiper for the last few days ... about how hard he tries to snatch away the items Dora needs as she travels along on her journey. I've been thinking about how most of the time, Dora triumphs over Swiper ... most of the time she wins, but old Swiper never gives up ... he keeps coming back, and he tries his best to swipe the things Dora needs in order to survive. It wasn't until I was driving home from work tonight that I understood why Dora and Swiper have been stuck in my brain or why I was meant to become acquainted with the animated characters in the first place. Two months after my trip to Canada, I finally get the lesson I'm supposed to learn ... a great big huge lesson from Dora the Explorer and Swiper the sneaky fox.

As much as I can't believe I'm about to type these words ... I am Dora and my Swiper is depression. Just like Dora, my Swiper sneaks up on me and tries to steal the things I need to survive on my journey. Most of the time (at least for the last year or so anyway), I triumph over my Swiper ... most of the time. But every now and again, my Swiper manages to creep in ... even when I'm shouting with all the strength and might within me, "Swiper, no swiping!" And when my Swiper wins, it's not pretty ... it's not pretty at all. See, here's the thing ... when my Swiper wins, I start believing I'm worthless and useless and meaningless and purposeless and loveless and every other "-less" word in the dictionary. When my Swiper wins, he snatches away my energy, my smile, my voice, my heart.

My Swiper won today ... as much as I hate to admit it, my Swiper has won quite a few days lately and he's stolen more than his share of what I need for the adventure of life. But ... but ... but ... I am Dora. I am Dora, and as for you, Swiper ... I'm not too late, and I will find what I'm looking for ... I promise.

"Swiper, no swiping! Swiper, no swiping! Swiper, no swiping!"

Broad Shoulders

Ready for another confession? I have broad shoulders. Yep, I do. Remember when my friend and I went shopping for something for me to wear to our holiday party a year or so ago? We had already selected several pairs of pants for me to try on ... correction ... she had already selected several pairs of pants for me to try on. She then asked what size jacket I wore, and when I told her, she said, "Really? Nuh-uh. Really? But you wear a much smaller size in pants. Really?" I squelched my initial impulse to say, "Are you saying my top half is fat?" and instead explained to her that I have broad shoulders. In fact, most of my jackets are rather loose in the waist because I have to get a bigger size to fit my shoulders. Now before you form a picture of me in your mind that resembles a giant upside-down triangle, let me assure you that's not the case. Well ... at least I don't think that's the case anyway. I will admit, however, that within my little family, I am often told I have no butt ... I believe the term "piddle butt" may have been tossed out from time to time when referring to my lack of ... ummm ... my lack of rear-endedness. What I lack in butt, though, I more than make up for in shoulders ... I do indeed have broad shoulders. Not like huge football player-size broad, mind you, just normal-size broad. Yep, seriously, I have no butt and broad shoulders ... now that I think about it, I suppose that's sort of like getting two confessions for the price of one, eh?

I've been thinking a lot over the last week or so about what it means to have broad shoulders ... about what it means to have broad shoulders emotionally. And in my thinking about the meaning and importance of having emotionally broad shoulders, I've also thought about all the times I've said to someone who was hurting, "I'm here if you need me ... if you need to talk, I've got broad shoulders." I've said those words to those who were grieving the loss of a loved one ... I've said those words to people whose marriages were in trouble ... I've said those words to people who've lost their jobs ... I've said those words to people who were sick or dying. I've said those words to my children. I've said those words to my family. I've said those words to my friends. I said those words last week. I said those words over the weekend. I said those words today. And people listen to those words ... they listen to those words and they believe those words because they trust me to help shoulder whatever load they are carrying that is weighing them down.

As I mentioned in my previous post, I've been sort of down in the dumps for the last several days. Perhaps it's because I spent so much time in the deep dark dungeon of depression not all that long ago, but it scares the living daylights out of me now when that all too familiar sadness begins creeping in on me. Early this afternoon, I was sitting at my desk re-reading an email a friend sent to me on Friday (Friday was an exceptionally rough day for me in the sadness arena) when one of my co-workers walked up and asked if he could talk to me. It only took a few moments for me to realize that the young man needed someone with broad shoulders ... he needed someone with broad shoulders, a listening ear and a caring heart. And as soon as that thought filled my mind, another came flooding in all around it ... the young man needed me. My friend didn't need some random broad shoulders or listening ear or caring heart ... the young man needed my shoulders, my ear, my heart. In that moment, it didn't matter if I was sad or moody or grumpy or distant or too quiet ... in that moment, that young man needed me. Sad or happy or anything in between ... that young man needed me.

I think I'll close tonight with some of the words from my friend's Friday email, but I want to ask that you replace my name with yours. Why? Because we all need to be reminded now and again that we are needed ... every single one of us needs to be reminded that we are needed. And treasured. And valued. And missed. And appreciated. And ... well ... you get the picture. 

I've never really cared much for my physical broad shoulders, you know ... but tonight ... tonight, I'm so very thankful that my emotional shoulders are as broad as those whom I love and care for need them to be. Heck ... I may even be thankful for my piddle butt ... nah, probably not.

"Do what you need to do to get yourself back. You have to. You impact a lot of lives, Terrie. A lot of lives here. A lot of people count on you to be you. Please be you. We need you." 

I Should Have Known Better

Following an early doctor's appointment this morning, I went to the grocery store. I went to the grocery store like I do most Saturday mornings. I don't like going to the grocery store, but if I want to keep breathing I have to eat. And if I have to eat, I have two choices ... go the grocery store to buy food or eat out for every meal. Since I can't afford to eat out all the time and I have no desire to frequent restaurants alone, I go to the grocery store. I went to the grocery store this morning like I do most Saturday mornings in the winter months ... dressed in jeans, a thermal shirt, black and white Converse shoes, and a ball cap. And as often happens when I go to the grocery store on Saturday mornings, at least one or two little kids say hi or wave to me when I pass them in the aisles. There may be a lot of adults who don't like me, but little kids flipping love me for some reason. But this morning ... this morning, there was this one little girl ... a little girl with blonde hair and blue eyes who looked to be about the age of my granddaughter C.J.

Each time I passed her and her dad, the little girl would giggle and reach her arms toward me, causing me to smile and wish I were in Canada shopping with C.J. I was focused on reading the label on a container of mustard when I felt two little arms grab my leg, and I looked down to see two big blue eyes beneath a crown of blonde hair looking up at me. The little girl giggled as she raised her hands and said, "Hold Gamma," causing tears to immediately spring to my eyes. I said, "Where's your daddy, little one?" certain he must be nearby. As much as I love kids, even I'm not stupid enough to pick up a child I don't know in the middle of the grocery store. Even if she did call me Gamma. Even I'm not that stupid ... sheesh. I turned and looked down the aisle in both directions and suddenly realized the little girl's dad was nowhere in sight. I patted her on the head and said again, "Where's your daddy, honey?" This time, she raised her hands, stomped her little feet, stuck out her bottom lip and yelped, "Hold Gamma!!!" I stood there wondering what to do ... wondering how in the world this kid escaped from her dad ... wondering where in the world he was ... wondering why in the heck the little girl had latched onto me. And then ... then she puckered up and started to cry. And I reached down and lifted her into my arms and said, "It's okay, baby ... let's go find your daddy." 

By the time we reached the end of the aisle, the little girl was laughing, patting my cheeks, pulling my glasses and hat off, as she chanted, "Hi, Gamma, hi, Gamma, hi, Gamma!!" And just as I turned the corner on my way to customer service, thinking that's where I would go if I lost my kid, I heard the voice of a man shouting his daughter's name and asking if anyone had seen his little girl. I could hear him, but I couldn't see him, so I did the only thing I could think of to do ... I yelled as loudly as I could and said, "She's right here ... she's safe ... we're by the apples!!!" Though I'd like to say I never lost one of my own children, I did ... more than once, actually ... and I well remember the terrifying sense of panic when I realized they were missing and the overwhelming feeling of relief when I found them. As the dad came running up, tears streaming down his face, he wrapped his arms around both me and his daughter, as he said, "Oh, God ... oh, God ... oh, God ... thank you ... thank you ... thank you. God bless you, lady ... God bless you."

As the once terrified and now relieved father gathered his little girl into his arms, he explained to me that his daughter Kate is an escape artist, a climber and faster than lightning. I smiled as I assured the young man that it had happened to the best of us as parents, telling him each one of my three had gotten away from me when they were little. Kate giggled and again said, "Hi, Gamma!" as she reached her hand toward my cap. I laughed and said, "She reminds me of my little granddaughter who lives in Canada, and I guess I must look like her Gamma." The father's shoulders drooped as he said quietly, "You do look like her Gamma ... my mom ... she died a couple of months ago. Kate saw her every day ... she was her only grandmother." I hugged the young man as he thanked me again for rescuing his little girl ... and then he said something else ... something he could have never known would impact me the way it did. He said, "I should have known better  ... I should have known better. She's unbuckled the belt and climbed out of the cart so many times. I should have known better than to turn my head even for a minute. I'm the world's worst dad ... I should have known better. I'm just so grateful it was someone as kind as you who found her."

Those words have been pounding in my brain ever since the young man spoke them ... I should have known better ... I should have known better ... I should have known better. How many times I've said those very words to myself ... how many stupid things I've done in my lifetime ... how many times I've failed miserably as a daughter, a sister, an aunt, a mother, a grandmother, a friend ... how many, many, many times I should have known better. I can so relate to what the young father felt this morning ... the last few days have been difficult ones for me. Days when I feel like I should have known better ... days when I feel like I've lost what is most precious to me ... days when I feel like I've failed those who love me and depend on me ... days when I feel like I should have known better, done better, been better, loved better, lived better. 

But then this morning ... this morning ... this morning ... but then this morning happened. A little girl lost ... a young, frantic father. I didn't find little Kate in the grocery story this morning, friends ... she found me.

He Was Holding a Gun

As most of you know, I did a lot of confessing in this blog last year ... so much so that I officially deemed last year The Year of the Confession for me. I realized last night that it's almost the middle of the second month of 2014, and I haven't confessed a single thing to you this year ... well, nothing of substance anyway. And though what I'm about to tell you isn't life-changing for me, what follows in my post this evening certainly is ... and my hope is that it will be for you as well.

So what's my first confession of the year? I've never shot a gun. Nope ... not once in my entire life have I shot a gun. If I shot a gun when I was young, I don't remember doing so and I think that's something I would remember. My dad wasn't a hunter, but he did have a shotgun that rested on a gun rack that hung over the closet door in the basement of our house. I remember that shotgun very well, but I don't remember Daddy ever shooting it. I don't remember ever asking Daddy to teach me how to shoot his shotgun, or any gun for that matter, which is odd to me considering how much I loved to play army and cops and robbers when I was young. I don't know why I've never shot a gun ... I've held guns and looked at guns and pretended to shoot a gun, but I've never shot one. Nope ... not once in my entire life have I shot a gun.

Another thing most of you know is that my first confession last year was kind of big ... gosh ... that's an understatement if ever there was one, eh? That confession completely changed my life ... again, an understatement for sure. Some of the changes that ensued were expected ones ... difficult and at times hurtful changes, but ones that I anticipated would follow me telling the truth about who I am. I knew there would be rough waters ahead ... waters that would threaten to pull me under and suck out the last breath within me. But I also knew if I wanted to survive, I had no choice but to be fully, completely, gut-wrenchingly honest ... honest with God, honest with myself, honest with those whom I love, honest with all of you. Yes, that honesty has come with a price ... but it has also come with a peace as well.

I would be lying if I said I've never once doubted my decision to go public with the truth ... boy, would I be lying if I said that. But ... but ... but ... for as much as I knew there would be tough consequences to my public truth telling, I hoped that perhaps sharing my struggle would help just one other person keep living and keep trying and keep fighting for one more day. Today, friends ... today, I know I made the right choice ... today, I know Someone far bigger than me led me to write that post on New Year's Day and to produce the Ears Wide Open? video. I know that today because last night I received an email from the mother of a 16-year-old boy named Joshua.

Though Joshua's mother gave me permission to print her message in my post this evening, I've decided not to do so ... maybe someday I will, but not today. I do, however, want to close tonight with two lines from her note ... two life-changing lines. As you read them, my prayer is that you'll understand what I've come to understand over the last year. We all have stories to tell ... confessions to make ... stories and confessions that could possibly change the lives of people you may never know. Be real, friends ... take the chance ... pay the price ... find the peace ... there are so very many Joshuas in the world who need you. 

"I didn’t know how desperate Joshua was until January 3rd when I came home from work to find him alone in his room. He was holding a gun in his hand and he was shaking and sobbing."

On January 3, 2014, Joshua was holding a gun. On February 12, 2014, Joshua is alive and getting better with every passing day. 

Got Time?

One year when my kids were teenagers, all three of them asked for watches for Christmas. And they all asked for the same brand of watch ... Fossil ... yep, Matt, Brad and Meghann each asked for a Fossil watch for Christmas that year. Matt and Meghann wanted the standard kind of watches; in fact, I'm pretty sure both of them asked for silver watches with blue faces. But Brad ... Brad wanted a silver pocket watch. Of course Brad wanted a pocket watch ... he's always had his own unique sense of style. I'm pretty sure my middle kiddo wore nothing but black t-shirts that were emblazoned with different band logos for oh ... maybe a decade or so. And there were the orange Puma sneakers ... I'm not even going to attempt to guess how many years Brad wore those orange shoes. And the ever-present ball cap. Of course Brad wanted a different type of watch, and a pocket watch most definitely fit his teenage-years style in a big way.

I found Brad's pocket watch a few days ago when I was cleaning out one of my dresser drawers, and I cried like a baby when I removed it from the little cloth bag where it's rested for so many years. Yep, that's right ... a silver pocket watch in a little cloth bag caused me to dissolve into tears as I sat on the corner of my bed listening to the sound it made as I opened and closed it. Now you know and I know it wasn't the watch itself that made me cry ... it was the race down memory lane ... it was memories of days when my house was filled with all the noise that accompanies a bunch of teenagers ... it was understanding that the true passage of time could never be measured by the silver pocket watch I held in my hand. Obviously, since Brad's pocket watch still resides at my house rather than his, the day eventually came when Brad no longer carried it and a cell phone became his timekeeper of choice instead.

When I'm fighting a case of the blues like I have been for the last several days, it's almost as if time comes to a standstill ... it feels as though time is stuck right alongside me. And when I feel stuck ... when time feels stuck ... my natural instinct is to crawl into my cave until both my heart and time start moving again. This afternoon, one of my young friends at work sent me a message that said, "You okay over there?" to which I replied, "Yeah ... why?" I didn't expect the response I received, and tears filled my eyes when I read his words. "You're hiding out at your desk with your headphones on and you're not talking to anyone. And you were that way on Friday too. And you didn't blog on the weekend. You're our heart and our compass here, Terrie. We notice when you aren't okay because we love you. You may think you can cover it up when you're sad, but you can't hide from me friend."

I've thought all evening about my young friend and how kind it was of him to take the time to send such a sweet and caring message to me. Time ... taking the time ... that young man took the time today to express his concern for me ... to tell me I'm loved ... to notice that I've been off my game for the last few days. The more I've thought this evening about the young man's message, the more I've come to realize something. It's the people in my life who take the time that make me want to strive to be a better person. The people who take the time to care ... to love ... to encourage ... to call me out ... to listen ... to speak ... to help ... those people make me want to be a person who takes the time for others. The young man's message today reminded me of how important it is not to let the tyranny of the urgent get in the way of taking the time to care about my fellow man.

Maybe I'll get a new battery for Brad's silver pocket watch ... maybe I'll carry it in my own pocket ... maybe I will, friends ... maybe I will indeed.

They Came to Make Me Smile

Today was one of those days ... you know what I mean ... one of "those" days. I woke up late (I'm pretty sure that one of my dogs kept hitting the snooze button on the alarm) ... I picked up the wrong bottle and washed my hair in dog shampoo (it made my hair extra soft, though, because it's oatmeal shampoo) ... I dropped two eggs on the floor (I hate cleaning up raw eggs) ... I couldn't find my keys (they were in the fridge ... don't ask) ... and I realized when I was halfway to work that my socks didn't match (that's what I get for not putting my laundry away and digging through the basket of socks in the dark). Add to all of those fantastic morning events the fact that I was lower than a snake's belly in a wagon rut emotionally, and ... well ... I'm sure you get the picture. I had already had one of those days before I ever left my house, so it shouldn't come as a shock to you or me or anyone in the universe that I got teary several times at work today. Nah ... teary isn't the right word ... I flat out cried more than once ... trust me when I say today was one of those days.

Even though I tried my best not to, I got sadder and sadder as the day wore on, and by the time late afternoon rolled around, all I wanted to do was go home and go to bed. I was sitting at my desk praying for five o'clock to arrive when someone tapped me on the shoulder and said, "Hi, Terrie!" I turned to see two smiling faces ... smiling faces that immediately caused me to smile as well when I stood and hugged the two kids who were obviously quite pleased with themselves for surprising me. Work tends to slow down a bit late in the day on Fridays, so after the kids stocked up on candy (all the kids who visit our office know I'm the keeper of the candy), we spent the next 45 minutes playing basketball on my little Nerf goal. While I'd like to believe it's my cool spiky hair and sparkling personality that make all my co-workers' children flock to my desk when they visit our office, I'm pretty sure it has more to do with the fact that I have candy AND a Nerf basketball goal.

For a few minutes, I thought I might actually stand a chance of winning our game of PIG until the young man made an incredible trick shot off the wall and swooshed the basket. He quickly became the grand champion when his sister and I failed to make the same impossible shot ... the shot that he went on to make again and again as his sister caught it on film. While both kids had awe-inspiring shooting skills, what completely captivated me as we tossed the ball toward the goal was the way the young siblings interacted with one another. The way they spoke to one another with kindness and respect ... the way they cheered one another on ... the way they laughed and smiled and had fun together. It warmed my heart to see the love those kids have for one another ... it warmed my heart in a big way. And just so you know, they treated me with kindness and respect as well ... without question, they are two of the most polite, kind and respectful kids ever.

You'll never convince me that my friend's kids coming to our office today was an accident ... not in a million years will you convince me that those kids showing up was an accident or a coincidence or a fluke or random in any way. Those kids came to the office today on a mission they had no idea they were sent to accomplish ... they came to make me smile. I believe God knew my heart was hurting today, and I believe He knew how desperately I needed to smile. I believe He knew, and I believe He sent two kids with happy giggles and open hearts to ease my pain and make me smile.

So thank you again, my friend, for sharing your awesome kids with me today ... you're doing it right with them ... so very, very right. You're teaching them to love unconditionally ... to care about other people ... to be kind and accepting ... you're teaching them the things that matter most in life. And thank you to my two favorite Nerf basketball buds ... you guys thought you were coming to our office to hang out with your mom ... but you came on a mission ... you guys came to our office on a mission to make me smile. Mission accomplished, kiddos ... mission accomplished.

Long Division

It may surprise you to know that when I first started college, I decided to major in pre-pharmacy. I didn't make that decision because I really wanted to be a pharmacist ... I made that decision because I knew I would make way more money as a pharmacist than I would as a writer or editor. I was able to convince my mind that was the right path for me to follow, but I was never able to convince my heart. My love for language and the written word eventually won out ... well ... kinda, sorta ... coming dangerously close to flunking every math and statistics class I took may have had more than a little teeny bit to do with me eventually admitting that pharmacy school was definitely not the place for me. I still remember the day I officially changed my major from pre-pharmacy to English and Spanish ... I remember feeling as though a huge weight had been lifted from my shoulders.

Being stuck in my house for the last couple of days has made me more than a little stir-crazy  which is really weird since I spend most of my time away from work alone in my house. There's just a difference in knowing I can leave if I decide to and being trapped until the snow plows clear my streets. Which they finally did late today, so I'll be able to escape tomorrow and go to work. While I'm thankful for the technology that allowed me to work at home for the last two days and while my dog friends Julie and Ollie have done their best to keep me from feeling overwhelmingly lonely, I know myself well enough to know that it's time for me to have a bit of human contact.

One of the projects I worked on today contained a bunch of numbers and statistics I had to check for accuracy, and a couple of the calculations required that I add up a column of numbers and divide that answer by the answer I had gotten from another set of numbers. Because I don't trust myself when it comes to anything mathematical, even though I got the same answer that was on the document, the first time I completed the calculations, I added and divided those numbers three times just to be certain I hadn't made a mistake. As I finished up the project and emailed it back to the gal at work who had sent it to me, I was struck with a thought about division ... I was struck with a really important thought about division.

It's so very easy to let the little things in life become big things ... big things that divide and separate us into parts and pieces of what should be a whole. When we should remain as one, too often we divide, split and separate. Division can cause a ton of damage and wreak untold havoc ... in a marriage, in a family, in a church, in a workplace. When we allow ourselves to become divided ... well ... there's a reason the following words have been around for centuries ... a deep and meaningful and lasting reason. "Together we stand, divided we fall." Don't let the little things become big things ... look for the common denominator rather than the dividing factor. Throw the idea of division out the window, and stand together ... stand together beside one another and behind one another. Look for the good within the hearts of others, and let them see the good in yours. Life's short ... too short for long division, friends ... way too short for long division.

Bread, Milk and Eggs

The things I've learned on Facebook are simply amazing. No, really ... I'm serious, and I know you agree with me. Would you know there are like 27 million ways to cook the perfect pizza had you not read 27 million status updates sharing the one true way to cook the perfect pizza? Of course you wouldn't, and neither would I. It's a crying shame that I don't eat pizza anymore since I now know 27 million ways to cook a supremely perfect one. A crying, crying shame. Especially on a snow day like today, eh? Oh, but wait ... the perfect pizza isn't what obviously every single human on the face of the planet knows is the only food to consume in order to survive a snow day without starving to death. And how do we as a people know what that food is? How do I ... a gray-haired gal sitting on the couch at my house in the middle of Kansas during a snowstorm that many people must believe with all their hearts is going to trap us in our homes for at least the next 60 days ... how do I know what is the only life-saving food during a snow entrapment? I read it on Facebook this morning.

I understand the perfunctory trek to the grocery store when the weather guys say the white stuff is going to fall from the sky ... I get that we all have to eat to survive. In fact, I went to the grocery store over the weekend to buy food ... like I do most every weekend. I bought flank steak, chicken, broccoli, sugar-free Cool Whip, peanut butter, salad, spaghetti squash, blackberries ... and oh, yeah, I bought milk and eggs, too. What I didn't buy, however, was bread ... I didn't buy bread because I don't eat bread because of the carbs and sugar it contains. My non-consumption of bread hasn't been an issue in the last four and a half years until I woke up this morning to see the snow falling and then to read on Facebook that I'm obviously going to kick the bucket in my snow-blanketed house because I don't have bread to make French toast. That's right ... everyone on the planet who is trapped in a snowstorm for more than 15 minutes must eat French toast in order to survive. That's why when the weather guys mention the possibility of snow in their forecasts, everyone flocks to the grocery store to buy bread, milk and eggs ... the three necessary ingredients for the one and only magical food that will enable them to outlast the wintry weather.

Truthfully? I felt a little stupid this morning when I read that important and potentially life-saving information about French toast. All these years, I've wondered why people were overwhelmed with the borderline insane need to purchase bread, milk and eggs when snow is on the horizon. I always wondered why those three items seemed to be the universally necessary food items to have on hand just in case you were to get stuck in your house for a couple of days. I mean, really ... if I could eat anything in the world I wanted while I was cooped up inside because of a snowstorm, it would be cheesecake or popcorn or mac and cheese or a loaded baked potato or chips and dip or a multitude of other foods. Trust me ... bread, milk and eggs wouldn't be at the top of my list of things to buy if I knew I might have to spend a couple of days inside. But now ... now I know why people fight one another for bread, milk and eggs before a storm hits. Now, thanks to Facebook, I know that French toast is humanity's lifeline in every snow or ice crisis known to man.

So I know you're wondering what deep and meaningful lesson lies within my discovery of the importance of French toast and snow days, and actually, I've got four. One ... I'm sure I only survived my snowy day in the house today by the grace of God since I didn't have bread to make French toast. Two ... God's shown me a ton of grace here lately, so I think I'd better try to find some low-carb, sugar-free bread before it snows again on Saturday. Three ... don't believe everything you read on Facebook ... duh. Four ... don't buy bread, milk and eggs because everyone else tells you they are what you need to make it through the storm. Yep ... go ahead and ponder on that last one ... it's pretty darn deep ... and so is the snow.

Say It Isn't So

For all of the wild behavior I engaged in my high school and college years ... and there was a lot of wild behavior, trust me ... I never got involved with drugs. I had friends who took drugs, lots of drugs, and the really nasty ones at that. And some of those friends ... well, some of those friends are no longer alive because their addiction to drugs eventually killed them. I remember one friend in particular ... such a beautiful, intelligent, talented girl whose life was consumed, torn apart and eventually taken by her addiction to cocaine. She had so much promise ... such a bright future ... so much to offer not only to those of us who knew her personally but to the entire world as well. I'm sure she didn't think she would become an addict the first time she snorted the white powder on the mirror at a party ... I'm sure she kept telling herself she could quit anytime she wanted to ... I'm sure she didn't plan to die on the bathroom floor in a rundown apartment building. I heard that several years before her death she had gone to rehab and had been clean and sober for a while. But the demon of addiction returned ... the demon returned and claimed the life of my friend.

When I saw the news yesterday about the death of Philip Seymour Hoffman, I was deeply saddened as were millions of people around the world. He was without question one of my favorite actors of all time ... an actor who made his craft seem effortless and the characters he portrayed believable and real. As I scrolled through several of the breaking news stories on the Web, I hoped the news was a hoax or a rumor. But as more and more accounts and details began to emerge, I realized that it was indeed true ... Philip Seymour Hoffman had been found dead in his apartment, and that the suspected cause of death was a drug overdose. Another beautiful, intelligent, talented person whose life was consumed, torn apart and eventually taken by addiction ... another life claimed by the demon of addiction.

There's been a steady stream of media attention and commentary surrounding Mr. Hoffman's unexpected passing, and I know that many people have little to no sympathy for someone who dies as the result of a suspected drug overdose. It hurt my heart last night when I read the following words ... "He chose to stick that needle in his arm, and he got what he deserved." Please don't misunderstand me ... I've seen far too many lives destroyed by the effects of drug abuse, and I am in no way condoning, justifying or encouraging the acceptance of drug use. What I am doing is telling you that it hurts my heart to witness such a lack of compassion within those words ... where is the compassion for Mr. Hoffman's three young children, other family members and friends who are grieving the loss of their father, brother, son, nephew, cousin and friend? Where is the compassion for so many others who have family members or friends or co-workers who are fighting their own demons of addiction? Where is the compassion for those in our lives whom the demon is haunting, torturing, consuming and threatening to destroy? Really ... seriously ... honestly ... where is the compassion, friends ... where is the compassion?

A friend posted the following words on Facebook today, words that seem to me the most fitting way to end this evening's post ... words that cause me to remember that things are not always what they seem ... that many are fighting demons of their own ... that I need to always, always, always have both my eyes and ears open ... that I need to remain steadfast, to stay, to help, to love, to listen.

"Another loss of talent & more importantly, a human life, to an all-too-familiar demon. Look out for your friends & family people. If you suspect they are fighting a horrible war, don't walk away from the scary stuff. Give them your support."

What's the Point?

Watching the news reports and reading the Facebook updates of my family and friends concerning the havoc caused by the wicked winter weather in the deep South gave me a whole new appreciation for the salt truck in front of me and the flat roads beneath me as I drove home from work last night. It took me more than two hours to get home because of the treacherous road conditions created by an afternoon of freezing mist, and by the time I slid into my garage, I was more than thankful the owners of our company had sent us home early. Both shoulders of the southbound interstate I was traveling on were filled with cars and trucks that had spun around on the icy road and were facing oncoming traffic ... in all the years I've lived in Kansas City, I've never seen so many vehicles stuck on the shoulder of the highway. Most people here in the Midwest have a healthy respect for winter weather and drive slowly and cautiously when the roads are slick. I say most people because there are always those few who drive too fast and end up causing accidents ... or sitting on the side of the interstate facing oncoming traffic. I always wonder why people do that, you know ... drive too fast when the road conditions are bad ... I always wonder what the point is in driving too fast on snowy or icy roads. What's the point of risking your own life and the lives of others .... wouldn't it be better to take your time and drive slowly when the weather is cruddy? Seriously ... what really is the point?

That question ... that what's the point question ... is one that continues to haunt me from time to time. Not in regard to the idiots who drive too fast on slick roads, but in regard to ... well, perhaps I should back up a bit and explain. In just a few days, it will be two years since I sat at my kitchen table with a handful of pills ready to end my life ... two years since so many of my days were filled with a consuming desire to die. In some ways, that day feels like a lifetime ago while in others, it feels as though it were just yesterday. I spent a lot of time back then asking myself what the point of living was ... I well remember staring into the mirror each morning and asking the weary, sad, worn face before me, "What's the point, Terrie? What's the point of going on? What's the point of trying anymore? What's the point of living another day?" The day my answer to those questions became, "There is no point, Terrie ... no point at all," ... that's the day I came within minutes of checking out of this life for good.

While I wish I could tell you that question ... that what's the point question ... has never entered my mind again since that fateful day, I can't. The truth is that it remained just underneath the surface for many, many months following what I will forever believe was a divine interruption on that cold day in February two years ago. The truth is that every now and again, that question rears its ugly head even now ... not as often and it generally leaves pretty quickly, but the truth remains that I still have times when I question the point of my existence. It's frustrating beyond belief to me the way the question seems often to come from nowhere ... no rhyme, no reason, no event to spark my descent into its nasty grasp upon my mind. I mentioned to my life-saving head doctor last week that the question had been knocking at my door off and on for a couple of weeks ... a comment that resulted in a writing assignment I've been unable to complete. Not being able to complete the writing assignment has nothing at all to do with time, by the way, but everything in the universe to do with the subject matter the good doc requested I write about.

Even though there are days when I struggle to find the answer to that question ... that what's the point question ... today isn't one of them. Today is my granddaughter's second birthday ... yep, my sweet C.J. is two years old today. I miss her terribly and would give anything to be in Canada today to kiss her rosy little cheeks and wish her a happy birthday in person, but I'll have to settle for sending her 2-year-old birthday wishes along to her via Skype instead. Two years old ... can she really be two years old? In some ways, the day she was born feels like a lifetime ago while in others, it feels as though it were just yesterday. Two years ago, my granddaughter took her first breath, cried her first tear, saw her first light ... and today ... today, I'm her Ghee and she's my buddy. C.J. wasn't the only one who began the journey of life two years ago, you know ... her Ghee did, too.

So ... what really is the point? Love ... love is the point ... the only real and lasting point ... the only point that truly matters ... the point of going on, the point of trying again and again and again, the point of living ... the point, my friends, is love.