And ... Action!

My acting debut took place during a Christmas program at Alpine Baptist Church when I was seven years old. I remember it well ... my Sunday School teacher slapped some wings on me and put gold garland in my hair, and I read the story about the birth of Jesus from the second chapter of Luke in the Bible. While I would like to somehow convince you that I was hand-selected for the role of an angel because that's how I behaved or because my face resembled that of a cherub, the truth is I was chosen to read the Scripture because I was the best reader out of all the kids. And let me tell you ... my performance that cold night in Tennessee was most definitely Oscar worthy, delivered with all the passion and drama a 7-year-old little girl could muster.

Today was one of those picture-perfect spring days in Kansas with temps in the upper 60s and a clear blue sky. Though Ollie and Julie usually wake me early on the weekends, this morning we all snoozed until around 8:30. After breakfast, I donned jeans, sweatshirt, ball cap and my new walking shoes and headed out for a much-needed long walk with Ollie. I've had a lot on my mind for the last couple of days, and there's really nothing like a long walk when I need to do some serious thinking. We got back home in time for me to play outside with Julie for a while and do some laundry before my appointment with my life-saving head doctor. Following my time with the good doc, I went for a drive ... a quiet, contemplative, half-hour drive to meet my son Brad and his friend Jason for a film shoot.

I love watching my son when he's behind the camera filming. He gets this look on his face ... a look that is part intensity, part concentration, part perfectionism and part pure love. Brad really and truly loves the artistry and beauty that is filmmaking, and I really and truly love watching him do what he loves to do. Today's project is one that Brad, Jason and I have been working together on for several months ... and nope, I can't tell you what it's about until Brad gives me the go-ahead to do so. I can, however, tell you this ... I love the way Brad's eyes light up when he talks about it, and I love that we are working on it together. I can also tell you one more thing ... it's going to be awesome, totally and completely awesome, when it's finished. 

Though my role in the film has been mainly behind the scenes for the last months, Brad asked me to step in front of the camera today ... actually, he told me I had to step in front of the camera today, but that's a whole different story for another day. I was super nervous as Brad and Jason finished setting up the shot and adjusting my microphone. After talking through what Brad had in mind for me to say, we started filming ... and filming ... and filming. All the filming wasn't because we were filming a ton of different scenes, mind you, but rather it was that I kept messing up. I stuttered ... I forgot the words ... I chewed my gum ... I coughed ... I looked the wrong way ... my eyes were too squinty in the sun ... my suspenders were crooked. I have no idea how many takes we shot before Brad said, "That's the one, Mom ... and that's a wrap." I have no idea what wrap he was actually talking about, but I do know that after he said it, we were done with the shoot.

Filming was fun, and it was great to catch up with what's going on in Jason's life ... but sitting across the table from Brad as we ate dinner together was the best part of my day. I sat across the table from my son ... I listened to him and I looked at him and I loved him. The best part of my day, friends ... the best part of my day.

"Damn those bumps."

Right off the bat tonight, let me say to those of you who are clucking your tongues and shaking your heads at me because there's a four-letter word in the title of my post this evening ... if that's all it takes for you to get your panties in a knot and be mad at me, then you probably shouldn't be reading my blog anyway. I don't mean to sound harsh ... and I sure hope you'll keep reading along with me ... but really ... sometimes I wonder why the people who get so worked up about some of my subject matter keep reading. Maybe there's some blog enforcer guy or gal I don't know about who's forcing those folks to read my posts. Or maybe some people simply like to look for something to complain about. I tend to think it's the latter of those two, and honestly, that makes me sad. So before you go all Dirty Harry on me and reach for your guns, allow me to suggest that you read the rest of tonight's post first and then if you still feel the need to shoot ... well ... in the words of the great Harry himself ... "Go ahead, make my day."

Some of you may recall a post I penned back in January titled "The Bump" in which I talked about a bump that had appeared on my left index finger that was painful enough to cause me to ask my doctor about it. If you didn't catch that post and you'd like to get the details of the bump and my subsequent visit to the doctor, you can read it by clicking here. Turns out my achy finger bump is a bone spur accompanied by a ganglion cyst ... what a disgusting word, by the way, "ganglion" ... that's one of those words that makes me want to throw up even just typing it. I spent an hour and a half on Tuesday morning listening to a hand surgeon explain to me that neither the spur nor the cyst would go away on their own. No matter how many times I asked him if there was any way they might just disappear, he kept saying, "No," accompanied by the following words ... "They will just grow bigger and become more painful over time." Certainly not the answer I kept hoping for, I can assure you.

As the doctor explained what he would do to remove the conjoined pair of despicable finger invaders, my stomach got queasy and I broke out in a cold sweat. I'll spare you the details of the "procedure," but I'll be given a local anesthetic and be awake while a man I've only met once carves away at my appendage. I'll have five to seven stitches and have to wear a finger splint for three weeks ... should I actually choose to have the surgery. Yep, I have a choice as to whether or not I have the surgery ... I can have it now, or I can have it later. Quite frankly, I don't like either choice not even one little bit ... nope, nope, nope I surely don't. As I drove to work following my appointment, I found myself wondering how I would button my shirt or pants, how I would take a shower and gel my hair, how I would put my earrings in, or how I would type. By the time I got to work, I had convinced myself that I will be rendered completely helpless if I have to wear a finger splint for three weeks ... completely and totally helpless.

I've written countless times about the fact that I often have to be presented with a lesson over and over again before I finally get just what it is I'm supposed to learn. Today I was emailing with a friend and in the course of our conversation, I mentioned how thankful I am for her friendship and for her being willing to walk the journey with me. It's probably not a coincidence that I bumped my finger just as I opened her email and began to read ... I'm not sure whether the tears that filled my eyes were from the pain in my finger or the touching truth within her words. 

"It is a journey. And for those who think the bumps in the road are too much, they haven’t figured out that that IS the journey. The bumps make it more fun (and hard, and challenging, and exciting, and rewarding). Damn those bumps."

A little over an hour later I was in a meeting and a guy said, "There will be bumps in the road ... you can be sure of that." I know ... I've got goosebumps, too ... jeez ... gooseBUMPS ... I get it ... I get it already ... I get it. I've been mulling over the words in my friend's email ever since I read them this afternoon, and I've realized tonight that I've been looking at the bumps in the road (or on my finger, as the case may be) the wrong way. I understand how right my friend is ... it's the bumps in the road that make life life. It's the bumps in the road that challenge me ... it's getting over or around those bumps that gives me courage, builds my strength and provides me with the deepest fulfillment. It's the bumps in the road that make me a better person ... it's the bumps in the road that make me. 

Damn those bumps, friends ... damn those bumps indeed.

One Fidget Two Fidget Red Fidget Blue Fidget

I'd be willing to bet that most of you who are parents have said the following words to your child or children multiple times, especially when they were little guys and gals ... "Stop fidgeting!" And I'd also be willing to bet that many of those admonitions occurred while you were attending church with said child or children or out to dinner with your boss and his or her family or at a fancy theater production. Kids just seem to have a hard time being still period, but their moving around certainly seems to rise to a totally different level when it's important that they not fidget. The truth is it's not only children who fidget when they are in situations they find uncomfortable, there are plenty of adults who do the very same thing.

One of my friends often says she hopes she never has to spend time with a head doctor because she's afraid of what the doc might discover once he or she started poking around in her brain. I always smile when she tells me that ... yep, yep, yep, I do indeed. If you would have told me a couple of years ago I was going to spend a significant amount of time under the care of a head doctor, I would have told you that you were the one who was in need of some serious therapy and counseling. To say that I've learned a few things along the way during my sessions with the good doctor would be the greatest understatement in the history of the world. From the moment I set foot in her office, I started learning and to tell you even a pinch of what that learning involves would take a very long time. Sometimes learning means acknowledging things I already know but am too afraid or too stubborn or too proud to admit ... okay, fine ... lots of times that's what learning means for me. But then there are times when my life-saving head doctor brings something to my attention that I really didn't know or recognize or understand ... like, oh, say, fidgeting.

I'm not a foot patter or a pencil tapper, but I am a fidgeter ... not all the time, mind you, but I am most definitely a fidgeter when I'm nervous or anxious. And the thing is, lots of times when I'm fidgeting, I'm actively trying not to fidget. Or I think I'm not fidgeting when in reality, I'm fidgeting all over the place. Like today, for example ... I was talking with a friend, and I was holding a tie in my hands. I strolled away from the conversation and thought smugly, "How about that? I didn't fidget one single time!" And then I walked into the restroom and looked in the mirror to tie my tie and realized I had been a fidgeting fool the entire time I was talking to my friend ... moving from side to side, shuffling my tie from hand to hand, looking away ... I was a fidgeting fool for sure ... sheesh.

There's probably some reason as to why I fidget in certain situations ... of course there is a reason ... there's always a reason. And here's the thing ... the really annoying and frustrating thing ... I know the flipping, stinking reason I fidget, and I can't seem to get past it. No, wait, let me rephrase that ... I haven't been able to get past it ... yet. The key word is yet ... I'm working on getting past it ... I'm working really, really, really hard on getting past it. If the only thing I ever learn from my head doctor is that "yet" is one of the most important and beautiful words in the English language ... well ... suffice it to say I believe with all my heart I've learned something of true worth and great value. It's about trying again and again and again ... it's about not giving up ... it's about believing in the process and God's ultimate plan ... it's about trusting in the journey and the amazing, loyal, steadfast people who are committed to walking the road with me.

One fidget two fidget red fidget blue fidget ... I will do it, yes I will ... I will do it standing still.

Once Upon a Mom

When my three children were little, I loved to dress them in matching outfits and they were flipping adorable. From navy and red sailor suits for the boys and a navy and green sailor dress for Megs to Christmas sweatshirts to purple and orange striped shirts and purple shorts ... stinking, flipping adorable I tell you. I will admit that every now and again I may possibly have been a tiny bit obsessive about how well my children's clothing was coordinated. There was that one Easter I spent several hours dying shirts and socks for Matt and Brad so they would perfectly match Meghann's lavender dress ... yep, I made my sons wear lavender shirts with white shorts, lavender knee socks and black and white saddle oxford shoes. Gosh ... no wonder my children refuse to forgive me for the matching outfit years ... sorry, kiddos.

It generally starts to hit me on Friday afternoons around 3:00 ... that's when the weekend blues start to sweep over me, and by the time I leave the office and head to my car, I'm often blinking back tears as I anticipate another weekend spent at home alone with Julie and Ollie. Don't get me wrong, I love my faithful canine buddies with all my heart, but let's face it ... they aren't too great when it comes to carrying on a conversation. And before you send me a bunch of messages about my loneliness being a result of the empty-nest syndrome, that's not where it comes from. Oh, I miss my kids from time to time, every parent of grown children does. But I am thrilled that my children all have their own lives and are active, healthy, happy adults. My weekend loneliness comes from losing the social circle I was part of for more than 20 years when I told the truth about who I am. But every once in a while, a weekend comes along like this one ... a weekend that reminds me that the people who matter most in the world to me are always close in my heart.

Yesterday, I drove to my daughter and son-in-law's house, picked up Meghann and she, Oliver the wiener dog and I traveled to Joplin to visit our favorite running/walking shoes store. After we purchased new shoes (mine are completely awesome!), we had lunch in a super cool local burger and hot dog joint, stopped at a couple more stores to pick up some workout clothes and got lost trying to find the interstate to take us back to Meg's (totally my fault). I got home around 7 p.m. ... just in time to get a call from my granddaughter asking me to Skype. We talked for about an hour ... actually, she ran and jumped and squealed and chased the dogs, and Matt, Becca and I kind of just watched her. She was a wound-up little girl last night for sure, but when it came time to say goodbye, she ran to the computer and stuck her little face to the screen to kiss me as she said, "Bye, Ghee ... I love you!" Sweetest words ever ... sweetest words ever. I was tired when I climbed into bed around 10 p.m. last night, so I'm surprised I woke up when my phone rang at 1:30 a.m. Though I couldn't tell you what we talked about, I do remember that it was Brad calling as he drove home from a very long day of filming. In fact, I'm pretty sure I may have gone back to sleep while we were talking because when I woke up this morning, my phone was on my pillow. I love that my boy knows he can call me at any hour of the day, by the way ... I love that he calls me when he's so excited to tell me about his latest adventure that he can't wait until morning. 

This morning, Ollie and I went for a long walk, and as I stepped along in my awesome new shoes, I thought a lot about yesterday. It's always extra special when I'm blessed with a day that I get to interact with all three of my children ... that doesn't happen very often. And as I thought about each one of them ... as I thought about driving and shopping with Meghann, Skyping with Matt and drifting off to sleep as Brad chattered ... I acknowledged the goodness of yesterday and how very lucky I am to have children who love me. Children who love me still ... children who love me still.

Once upon a mom ... a mom named Terrie ... once upon a mom named Terrie who is abundantly blessed to have the greatest children in all the land. 

Really. Seriously. Love Thy Neighbor.

I'm well aware that many of you will laugh out loud as you utter the words "Yeah, right," when you read my next sentence. I don't have a lot to say tonight. My doctor changed the dosage on one of my meds a few days ago, and it always takes my body a while to adjust so I'm feeling a little on the puny side this evening. But I do have something on my heart that I need to write ... puny or not puny ... something I must write or I know my already aching head will simply explode.

Most of you know the significance of my Love Thy Neighbor shirt ... gosh, I never would have thought the words on a shirt could play such a huge part in my life. Most of you also know that over the last couple of weeks I've been reminded in a big way of the fragility and brevity of life with two of my friends losing members of their family. You don't know, however, that one of my friends at work is in intensive care tonight fighting a serious illness. You don't know that one of my close friends is dealing with the heartache of divorce or that another is feeling overwhelmed with the busyness of her life. And just as you don't know the things I or my friends are struggling with, I don't know what you or the ones you love are struggling with either. But I do know this ... we need to love each other, friends ... we need to love each other.

This afternoon I sat in a small circle of friends in my office as one of them gave us an update on the condition of our friend who is in ICU. Several of us blinked back tears as we listened, and all of us discussed how we could best help our friend's family. Poignant moments those were, but it was the silence that descended upon our little group ... it was in the silence that we all acknowledged the need to appreciate one another more, to be kinder to one another, to hug more often ... it was in the silence that we all understood that we need to love each other more. 

Life is so very short, friends, and not one of us is guaranteed a tomorrow. Really. Seriously. Love thy neighbor. Love thy family. Love thy friends. And make sure they know you love them ... really ... seriously ... love thy neighbor.

Holy Hooters!

So I have two friends ... actually, I hope I have more than two friends ... but I have two friends who have been friends with each other since they were in first grade. They are the kind of friends who can finish each other's sentences, who each know the other's favorite food, drink, color ... heck, they even know each other's favorite brand and flavor of toothpaste. These two gals have so much in common, I'd swear they must be twins that were separated at birth. There is, however, one huge difference between them ... one thing they are completely divided on ... owls. Yep, it's true ... my two friends almost come to blows at times over owls.

One friend has an infatuation with owls that borders on insanity. Everything in her house is owl-related, from her kitchen decor to the sheets on her bed to the soap in her shower. She is owl crazy ... like lock her up and throw away the key crazy over owls. The other friend, however, doesn't just not care much for owls, she is totally and completely, over-the-top terrified of owls, both real and pretend ones. She breaks out in a cold sweat and her cheeks turn bright red when she even hears the word "owl." So how is it they've remained friends for all these years? Simple ... their friendship means more to them than their differing views about owls, so they find a way to make it work. Though I don't see them ever sharing a room in the nursing home some day, I do know that their friendship will last as long as they live.

I've got something I need to get off my chest this evening ... I have a problem with hooters. Actually it's two hooters in particular that are causing my anguish ...yep, that's what I said ... two hooters are totally driving me crazy. I think about them when I'm awake, and I dream about them when I'm sleeping. They beckon to me late at night, and they taunt me first thing in the morning. No matter how hard I try, I can't seem to get those two hooters out of my head. I don't remember when they first became such a daily distraction for me, but it sure feels like it's been a long, long time. I also don't know how many times I've tried to get a glimpse of the two hooters, but I do know I've tried to see them on multiple occasions. People keep telling me it will happen when I least expect it ... and tonight ... tonight, it happened. Tonight, I saw them in all their glory, and they were more beautiful than I ever dreamed they would be. In fact, I'm pretty sure my mouth dropped open as I stood gazing at the two gorgeous medium-sized hooters ... they were simply amazing.

I can't help but wonder as I sit on my couch typing ... how is it that something as beautiful as the two owls who live in the tree next to my bedroom window can also be so incredibly annoying? Those two owls hoot all night long. No. Really. They start hooting before the sun goes down, they hoot all night and they hoot long after the sun comes up. They hoot all the flipping, stinking time. And they don't hoot quietly either. The two owls hoot a lot, and they hoot loudly ... but they are stunningly beautiful as they perch regally in the tree. And tonight as I stood watching them, it struck me that it was almost as if they were standing guard ... watching over me somehow ... urging me to look past the noise they make and see their beauty instead. As I turned and began to walk away from the tree, tears filled my eyes as I whispered a prayer ... a prayer thanking God for the owls ... a prayer asking for forgiveness for hearing only the noise rather than the song.

There's a big old gigantic lesson in those two beautiful hooters, friends ... look closely and listen wisely. Oh, and to those of you who thought this post was going to be about boobs ... not in a million years!

Know Joe

A couple of months ago, I read something that touched my heart ... so much so that I saved it to read again ... so much so that I saved it because I wanted to be sure I read it again and again ... so much so that I emailed the person who wrote it and asked his permission to reprint it in my post tonight. 

"He was a young man, in his early 20s, I think. He was walking along the beach with a metal detector. 'What are you hoping to find?' I asked the tanned, slender figure with the sun-bleached blonde hair. 'Treasure,' he replied, 'I'm hoping to find buried treasure.' My eyes followed him as he slowly moved along the sand in search of the treasure he was certain lay beneath his feet. Buried treasure, I mused, closing my eyes as emotion tore through my heart like a fire-breathing dragon that threatened to destroy me. Only three weeks prior, I had carried the casket of my friend Michael and placed it atop his final resting place. Three days before, Michael committed suicide. The farewell note he placed on his bedside table was crumpled, worn and folded, causing me to wonder how long it had been in his possession. I went back to Michael's grave a couple of days ago, and I wept as I read the words that were inscribed on the stone that stood guarding over my friend.
 

'A true treasure lies buried here. Treasured son. Treasured friend. Rest in peace, beloved Michael.' 

Buried treasure, I mused once again, tears blurring my vision as I looked into the blue sky above me. 'Michael,' I whispered softly. 'I'm so sorry I never told you what a treasure you were.'" --- Silas W. 

Those words speak to me ... they spoke to me the first time I read them, and they speak to me still. Too many people for whom I care deeply have lost loved ones in recent days ... seeing their grief and feeling their pain has caused me once again to contemplate how fleeting and fragile life can truly be. And in that contemplation, I've decided to begin a new tradition here on The Tree House ... treasure sharing. 

I first met Joe at a quarterly meeting in our office, and I must confess that my first thought was, "Gosh, he's really tall." Granted, probably 90 percent of the people on the planet are taller than me, but Joe is a really tall guy. I must also confess that my next thought was, "His hair is even whiter than mine." Nothing superficial or shallow at all about me, eh? (And by the way, I can promise you that I've completely caught up with Joe in the white hair department.) Before you think me oblivious to anything other than Joe's height or hair color the first time I met him, let me assure you that it was his knowledge and quick wit that made the most lasting impression upon me that day. I had heard stories about how brilliant he was, but it wasn't until I heard him speak at the meeting that I was able to fully comprehend the scope of his wisdom. My interaction with Joe was limited since he was based in the Wichita office, but he was always kind and polite to me whenever I saw him. He retired a few years ago, and he now spends his time traveling the world with his lovely wife and being a grandpa. Well, traveling, being a grandpa and brewing what I've been told is just about the best darned beer on earth.

Joe is one of those "I kind of sort of knew him but not really" people in my life. You know what I mean ... I knew he was a great guy and that he was known in the advertising world as having one of the most creative minds of all time. I didn't know anything about his family or his life away from SHS, other than he liked music and had like a million CDs. I knew stuff about Joe, but I didn't know Joe ... until a little over a year ago. It was the day we released our video Ears Wide Open? ... I still have the message Joe sent me that day. To say that his words touched my soul would be a gigantic understatement ... I cried like a baby when I read them. He apologized for not having seen my sadness and asked me to promise to call him should I ever feel myself returning to the darkness that came so close to devouring me. And then he sent me a friend request on Facebook ... that's when I knew it was official ... that's when I knew we really were friends.

Over the last year, I've learned a lot about Joe that I never knew before. I've learned that he has a fantastic sense of humor and can write limericks that make me laugh like crazy. I've learned that he adores his wife and that his family means everything to him. I've learned that his brilliance goes far beyond the ad biz and that his heart is filled to overflowing with kindness and compassion for others. See, here's the thing ... Joe didn't have to reach out to me after he saw our video, but he did. He doesn't have to continue to encourage and support me, but he does. He doesn't have to read my often rambling writings filled with ellipses galore, but he does. He doesn't even have to like my Facebook statuses, but he does.

I'm so very thankful for your friendship, Joe ... knowing you makes me a better person. You're a true treasure, my friend ... a true treasure indeed.

There Comes a Point

Those of you who've been reading along with me for a while know I'm big on the lessons I learn as I journey through life ... lessons that come along in many different ways at many different times. And you also know that it often takes several times of being presented those lessons for me to really get what it is I'm supposed to learn. But then there are other times when a lesson is so real that I understand immediately just how powerful is the truth contained within it. Today was one of those times ... one of those times when the realness of the lesson was unmistakable.

I've known a lot of families in my lifetime that I would consider to have strong relationships, but today I spent time with a family who gives love and loyalty a whole new meaning. I met them for lunch ... there were 20 or so of them gathered around the two long tables at the restaurant. There were little kids and grandparents and aunts and uncles and cousins and brothers and sisters and parents and husbands and wives, and they welcomed me in as part of their family. The group wasn't gathered for lunch today to celebrate a birthday or a wedding or a graduation, but rather to share a meal before they attended the funeral service for a much-loved member of their family. The young man they were honoring today was the son of two of the most wonderful people I've ever known. He was also a father, a brother, a nephew, an uncle and a cousin ... he was a man of joy and compassion, and he will be deeply missed by all who knew him. As I sat at the table with my dear friend and her family, I sensed the sadness within each of them ... I could see it in their eyes and feel it with every beat of their hearts. But there was something else at that table besides sadness today ... there was a bond of love between them like few I've ever seen.

Sitting on the pew in the chapel waiting for the service to begin, I looked at the large photo of my friends' son standing on a table at the front of the room. I watched as the pews began to fill with people, so many people that chairs were brought in and placed along the walls. I've said many times that we are family at the company I work for ... I blinked back tears as I saw two of the original founders of our company, a retired managing partner, members of the leadership team from our Kansas City office, current and former employees from the Wichita office as they all made their way into the chapel. I saw people I haven't seen for several years and people I see every day. I saw friends and co-workers of the young man who passed away and friends of his family. I listened as the minister spoke words of hope and comfort to those who are grieving, and the tears I had been fighting all day to contain flooded my eyes and coursed down my cheeks as the song "Daddy's Hands" echoed through the room.

Traveling back to Kansas City following the service, I was quiet and deep in thought as the miles rolled by. I was keenly aware of the lesson placed before me today ... the importance, the meaning, the depth, the absolute necessity to never forget it. You see, in the end, it doesn't matter how much money you make or whether or not you wear designer clothes or what kind of car you drive or where you work or how many important people you know. In the end, all that matters is what I saw around the table at lunch today. In the end, all that matters is what I witnessed in the chapel this afternoon. In the end, all that matters is that we love each other. In the end, all that matters is that we are there for each other ... whether the sun is shining brightly or the darkness is deeper than it's ever been.

There comes a point ... there comes a point when the lesson is so undeniably real ... so overwhelmingly powerful ... so incredibly true ... there comes a point when the lesson changes you forever, friends. There comes a point when you are forever changed.

Peas and Potatoes

One of my favorite vegetables is green peas ... yep, I totally love green peas. I don't eat them very often anymore because they are higher in carbs than many other veggies, but when I do I'm in green pea heaven. I'm not sure how old I was when I first heard my mom use the expression, "Just like two peas in a pod," but I do remember her saying it a lot. Mom used the words to describe anything that seemed to her to be the same, but most of the time when she said, "Just like two peas in a pod," Mom was referring to people rather than things. And more often than not, there was a hidden meaning reflected by Mom's tone of voice ... and that meaning wasn't usually a nice or positive one. Her "two peas in a pod" comment generally meant that the two people she was referring to weren't speaking, dressing or behaving in a way that met with Mom's approval. Mom sure was an opinionated gal, and we disagreed way more than we agreed. In fact, now that I think about it, Mom and I were as different as any two people could ever be ... we were never two peas in a pod, that's for sure.

Over the last couple of days, I've been blown away by the incredible response to my post about the passing of Fred Phelps. The number of views and comments and messages has continued to climb higher and higher, with the current number of views being four times that of my most read post of all time, Not One More Mile. As I've read through many of the notes I've received, it's made me think a lot about peas, pods and principles. No, seriously ... it's made me really contemplate and do a ton of deep thinking about the similarities and differences that exist within all of us. Some folks subscribe to certain beliefs or theologies or doctrines, but even within those groups of people, there are varying degrees of interpretation that lead to certain differences. Even among those who don't believe in the existence of God or a higher power or master of the universe, there are some who classify themselves as atheists, some as agnostics and some as secular humanists. And before you pepper me with messages defending your reason for believing whatever you believe or bashing me for believing what I believe ... I'm not debating and if you choose to do so regarding this post, you're completely missing my point this evening.

I remember the day I realized that Mom's statement about certain people being "just like two peas in a pod" had a very distinct flaw ... a flaw that took me years and years to notice. It was a summer afternoon when I was in my mid-20s. Mom and I were sitting on a porch at the back of her house, and we were shelling peas. Mom was talking about someone ... Mom was always talking about someone, by the way ... and she said, "I knew better than to trust that woman ... her and that other one are just like two peas in a pod. Ain't neither one of 'em can be trusted. Two peas in a pod, I tell ya." The moment the words came out of her mouth, I looked at all the peas in the bowl that was perched on my lap and saw that not one of the plethora of peas before me was exactly like any other one ... not a single solitary pea was just like any other single solitary pea. It was in that moment that I understood ... there are no two peas in a pod that are the same. Not one pod has two peas that are exactly alike ... not one.

There were a lot of peas in the bowl that day that looked similar to one another at first glance. It was when I took the time to study them as individual peas rather than a group of peas that I first began to understand the truth ... every single pea in the universe is different from every other pea in the universe. But when you put all those peas together and cook them with a little garlic and butter, it doesn't matter that there are differences between them ... they just taste flipping good. And if you take all those different peas and mix them into a big old bowl of mashed potatoes ... well ... suffice it to say that in my book, there ain't nothing on this earth that tastes any better than mashed potatoes and green peas all mixed in together. And you know something else? Green peas and potatoes are as different as night and day ... different tastes, different textures, different nutritional values ... but when you put them together, they combine to create something pretty darned wonderful.

Here's the thing ... I'm pretty sure the peas don't sit around in the pod and say to each other, "You're not as good of a pea as I am because you aren't perfectly round." And I'm equally as certain the mashed potatoes don't rise up in protest against the peas when they want to join them. And neither should we, friends ... neither should we. It's time we stop throwing stones and shooting fiery arrows at one another. It's time to become peas and potatoes ... each one different in our own way but so very good when we're mixed together. With butter. And garlic. And salt. And pepper. And cheese. And any other different ingredient that makes something good even better. 

Without Fred Phelps

I've lived in Kansas for 25 years, and though the standard Dorothy and Toto and yellow brick road comments still rank number one for those of us who reside here, second on the list of commentary I receive from folks who live in other states is the question, "So do you know Fred Phelps, that crazy preacher in Topeka? You ever met him?" That always struck me as ironic ... the two things Kansas seems to be most well-known for are a children's movie and a self-appointed preacher of a really small church, followed closely by sunflowers, which, in my opinion, are by far the best of those three things. No, seriously ... you haven't seen beauty until you've driven through western Kansas when there are miles and miles of fields displaying sunflowers in full bloom. Seriously. Beautiful. But I digress ... back to the point of my post this evening.

Sometimes it's difficult to believe that Fred Phelps didn't really become a public figure until a little over 15 years ago when he gathered together the members of his small church and staged a protest at the funeral of a young man named Matthew Shepard. For those of you who don't know who Matthew was, he was beaten, tied to a fence post and left to die in rural Wyoming allegedly because he was gay. It was the sign-wielding Fred Phelps and the people from the Westboro Baptist Church who protested at Matthew's funeral that caused old Fred to gain notoriety around the world as the preacher who hated homosexuals. And over the years, Fred somehow found a way to twist his already warped theology even more, directing his unique brand of hate and condemnation toward an ever-growing variety of people and organizations. 

I'm sure most of you have heard by now that Mr. Phelps passed away last night, and I'm sure many of you have also read, as I have, the enormous litany of commentary concerning his ex-communication from the very church he founded, speculative reasons for why he was booted out and calls to protest his funeral. But for all the words I've read over the last few days about Fred Phelps (and I've read a ton, trust me) it was a quote from Judy Shepard, Matthew's mother, republished from an interview she gave several years ago, that pierced the very depths of my soul. When she was asked for her thoughts about Mr. Phelps, she replied, "Oh, we love Freddy. If it wasn't for him, there would be no Matthew Shepard." Interesting insight from a mother about the man who stood holding signs of hate and condemnation on the day she was burying her son ... interesting insight indeed. But stop and think about it ... hundreds of young men and women, both straight and gay, are murdered every day. Fred Phelps and his decision to protest her son's funeral caused Matthew Shepard to never be forgotten. Sometimes I wonder if Fred ever wished he would have done it differently ... Dennis and Judy Shepard went on to create the Matthew Shepard Foundation, an organization that helps millions of people within the LGBT community throughout the world.  

As I've read and thought about the death of Mr. Phelps today, my heart has been with my dear friend Nate. Though he escaped from his father's reign of terror and hate many, many years ago, I know that the news of Fred's passing has stirred up a great deal of emotion for Nate and other members of his family who chose to separate themselves from Westboro Baptist Church and the teachings of Fred Phelps. I can't help but think again about the words of Judy Shepard, and in doing so I'm keenly aware of another truth ... without Fred Phelps, there would also be no Nate. It's easy for me to imagine a world without people who teach and preach and espouse the kind of hate that Mr. Phelps preached, but I can't begin to imagine a world without people like Nate ... people who are loving and kind and compassionate ... people who demonstrate courage and bravery to fight against hate ... people who refuse to give up until justice prevails.

So to you, my dear friend Nate ... my heart is with you tonight as you grieve the loss of your father. And to you, Fred ... I hope that wherever you are, you finally understand that in the end ... in the end, the most important thing is love.