In the more than 20 years I've lived in Kansas City, I've never been to a Kansas City Chiefs football game. My kids have been to games; my neighbors have been to games; my friends have been to games ... I think my ex-husband even went to a couple of games when we were married. In fact, I've only been inside of Arrowhead Stadium one time ... when I took Brad and Meghann there to hear Billy Graham speak on his last preaching tour across the U.S. That was my one and only visit to the stadium until today when our entire office headed to the home of the Chiefs for a day-long training event ... training for us, that is, not the football players. The session was held in the press room overlooking the massive field below, and I must admit that it was pretty awesome to gaze out the giant windows that lined both sides of the room.
Today's training concerned setting goals, and I just assumed that the information the speaker would be delivering would have to do with work-related issues. But when one of the owners of our company stood to introduce the gal leading the training, he said today's class had nothing to do with work at all but rather was intended for our own personal growth and development. My first thought was, "Well, that's pretty cool," which pretty quickly shifted to me thinking, "Wait a minute ... did he say personal growth? Uh-oh ... what does that mean?" By the time the speaker began to talk, my palms were sweating and my gut was churning with panic over what sort of exercises might be involved in the training. Tears quickly joined my sweating palms and rolling stomach when the speaker asked if anyone knew the story of Rick and Dick Hoyt. I can't even count how many times I have shown the video of the father and son team competing in a triathlon together ... how many, many times I used the video when I was a speaker at Christian women's events.
I've attended other training events led by today's speaker, and she is a truly gifted presenter. But today when she instructed us to participate in an activity that included writing our own obituary, I learned that she also has quite the ability to read people as well. While the other gals at my table began to write in the notebooks that had been provided for us, I placed my pen and notebook on the table in front of me. I didn't need to write my obituary ... I did that last year, and it's locked away with my will and other important papers. I was so deep in thought that I didn't notice that the speaker had left the front of the room and walked to our table until she was standing next to me saying, "Opting out of participating?" I looked up and said quietly, "I wrote mine already." She then asked me to join her at the back of the room ... nothing like being called out by the teacher for flunking the first assignment of the day. When we were far enough away that other people couldn't hear us, she looked deeply into my eyes and said, "Tough subject matter?" I nodded and without thinking said, "It hits pretty close to home ... I was really close to checking out last year." She didn't miss a beat as she said, "Of your own accord?" Those stupid tears popped back into my eyes as I nodded my head yet again. Her voice was laced with kindness and compassion as she told me to only participate in what I felt comfortable with during the session and asked if we could do lunch together soon. I nodded as I struggled to subdue my emotions and turned to go back to my table.
Tonight, my small notebook sits quietly on my kitchen table ... well, it's sitting there, but it's not being so very quiet ... it's actually screaming at me to pick it up and try again. I completed as many of the exercises as I could today, but there were more than a few that I simply couldn't do. As I sat there with the notebook before me and a pen in my hand, I kept thinking, "I'm a writer, for gosh sake's ... why can't I write a list of 20 things I'd like to accomplish?" And perhaps even more telling than my inability to complete that list was that when instructed to list things I have already accomplished in my life, this was my list ... Matt, Brad and Meghann. When she talked about writing a purpose statement and said the words, "This is why I'm here," my eyes filled with tears once again as I thought about something Brad has said repeatedly to me since we created the Ears Wide Open? video. "This is why you're here, Mom ... to be my mom and to tell your story so that it will help other people ... you were born for this."
The message the speaker delivered today about setting and reaching goals spoke to me on a very personal level. Each week, there is a goal set before me, an exercise to complete ... a means to the end of helping me learn to accept who I am. Some weeks, I embrace the challenge put before me with enthusiasm and gusto. Some weeks, not so much. And some weeks, my willingness and determination ebbs and flows from day to day. Today was definitely not a good day for me in attaining my weekly goal ... today, I failed miserably, which means there's no possible way I'll be able to meet my goal for the week. My goal that I was so certain on Monday I would not only achieve but surpass. I couldn't help but think as we drove away from the stadium that it probably wasn't an accident that our meeting was held in a building that overlooks a field where teams strive to reach a goal. The symbolism of today and the words of wisdom the speaker shared coursed through my heart and mind as I walked with Ollie in the cool night air ... symbolism I cannot ignore ... words I cannot dismiss ... goals and purposes and plans I cannot deny or delay any longer.
The speaker asked us to write our purpose statement on the last page of our notebooks and to begin with the words, "I am here to ..." Go ahead and ponder that for a while. I know I certainly am ... it's part of why my notebook is screaming at me. Yep, go ahead and ponder that for a good long while, friends ... a good long while indeed.
Thursday, October 3, 2013
Wednesday, October 2, 2013
To the High and Mighty
A few years ago, I was blessed to meet a young woman who continues to impress the heck out of me. She's a tiny gal ... in fact, next to her, I'm tall, and those of you who know me personally know that I'm pretty darned short. She's a wife, a mom of three little kiddos and a fabulous cook. She can plan, organize and put on an event like no one I've ever known. She has an incredible gift for hospitality and is always willing to open her home to anyone who needs a friend. She's loyal. She's honest. She's trustworthy. She's caring. She's compassionate. She's smart. She's kind. She's loving. Perhaps the best way to describe her is to say that she has a massively giant heart inside of her tiny little body ... a heart that most of us would do well to emulate.
I met this amazing gal at the church where we used to attend when we served together in women's ministry. Yep, I used to be on the women's ministry team, believe it or not. And write and perform skits with the drama team. And listen to the little kids say their Bible verses at Awana. And teach senior high Sunday school. And lead Bible studies. And teach a women's Sunday school class. Gosh, I was even asked to read the Christmas story from the Bible at the big candlelight Christmas Eve service one year. There are two huge truths about those statements that leap out at me as I type them by the way. I used to serve in all those ways at my church (key words being "used to") ... in fact, I served for many, many years in those ways at my church. And the other truth I couldn't help but acknowledge as I typed? I am the same person today as I was then, and I have the same heart today as I did then. I didn't do those things or serve in those ways as an attempt to try and hide who I am ... I served because that's what God called me to do. If the truth be told, that's what He calls every single one of us to do every single day of our lives ... to love and serve one another in His name.
Back to my amazing friend ... I received an email from her this morning asking if I had heard from a former friend, and I replied that I had not. My friend's reply was a mixture of sadness, disappointment and anger, and I could feel her pain for my still hurting heart through the words of her message. I answered and said I was certain the person has her reasons for not communicating with me, and I spoke the truth when I said how deeply that particular wound still hurts. A few minutes later, I received another email from my friend letting me know that she had "ranted" about the subject matter of our conversation on Facebook. I must admit, my first thought was, "Uh-oh. That's not good." But then I read what my sweet friend posted, and tonight when I got home from work, I also read the comments from others in response to her words.
Here's my friend's post:
I met this amazing gal at the church where we used to attend when we served together in women's ministry. Yep, I used to be on the women's ministry team, believe it or not. And write and perform skits with the drama team. And listen to the little kids say their Bible verses at Awana. And teach senior high Sunday school. And lead Bible studies. And teach a women's Sunday school class. Gosh, I was even asked to read the Christmas story from the Bible at the big candlelight Christmas Eve service one year. There are two huge truths about those statements that leap out at me as I type them by the way. I used to serve in all those ways at my church (key words being "used to") ... in fact, I served for many, many years in those ways at my church. And the other truth I couldn't help but acknowledge as I typed? I am the same person today as I was then, and I have the same heart today as I did then. I didn't do those things or serve in those ways as an attempt to try and hide who I am ... I served because that's what God called me to do. If the truth be told, that's what He calls every single one of us to do every single day of our lives ... to love and serve one another in His name.
Back to my amazing friend ... I received an email from her this morning asking if I had heard from a former friend, and I replied that I had not. My friend's reply was a mixture of sadness, disappointment and anger, and I could feel her pain for my still hurting heart through the words of her message. I answered and said I was certain the person has her reasons for not communicating with me, and I spoke the truth when I said how deeply that particular wound still hurts. A few minutes later, I received another email from my friend letting me know that she had "ranted" about the subject matter of our conversation on Facebook. I must admit, my first thought was, "Uh-oh. That's not good." But then I read what my sweet friend posted, and tonight when I got home from work, I also read the comments from others in response to her words.
Here's my friend's post:
"It's when a person needs support most AND it's also the hardest time to love and support the person."
"We love to shoot our own wounded in the name of Christianity."
"I love your heart! Big Time!! Your post is so true and SO very timely today...Thanks for reminding us to follow and be a light...not cast darkness in an already dark world. Love you!"
When I read my friend's post today, a lump formed in my throat and tears filled my eyes. My heart swelled with admiration for her courage and bravery in speaking out against rejecting people we are commanded to love ... wait ... aren't we who call ourselves Christians commanded to love all people the same way Christ loves us? The God I love (the God who has loved me since before He knit me together in my mother's womb, by the way, and continues to love me even now) ... I believe with all my heart and soul that He is a God whose heart is deeply grieved by the way we treat one another. Trust me, I isolate and condemn and judge and beat myself up plenty, and I have for a very, very, very long time. Being punched in the gut when I'm already lower than a snake's belly in a wagon rut by those who claim to care about me only serves to make the tough times so much tougher. Having said that, I know there are some folks who think people like me deserve to be hated and shunned and abandoned. There are some who think pretty highly of themselves and believe they have a monopoly on truth. My old dad used to say, "It's not the lowly of the world you need to run from, Sam ... it's the ones who think they're high and mighty ... the ones that think they're holier than the rest of us sinners. One day they'll find out that in God's eyes, ain't a one of us any better than another." You know what I think? I think my dad was a really smart man ... a really, really, really smart man.
So here's to my friends who aren't afraid to speak out against injustice and to call out those who don't practice what they preach. Here's to my friends who fearlessly stand beside me, around me and with me. Here's to my friends who devotedly stay ... and stay ... and stay ... even when so many others have left. Here's to my friends who continue to teach me every single day what real compassion looks like ... what real faithfulness acts like ... what real love feels like. Here's to you, Shasty ... I want to be just like you when I grow up, my friend ... I do indeed.
Tuesday, October 1, 2013
The Kiss
First, for those of you who are reading tonight thinking I have another confession to make or that you're in for some spicy romantic drama of some sort, sorry to disappoint you but that's not what this post is about. Tonight's post has nothing to do with any kind of controversial topic or lifestyle or behavior or anything even remotely related to dating or romantic love in any way. Again, sorry to disappoint you if you were perhaps hoping for a little dirt this evening. Tonight's post is about one thing and one thing only ... love. In fact, to be completely honest, it sort of ticks me off a bit that so many people are now so over-the-top interested in whether or not I'm seeing anyone. Before I posted my New Year's Day entry, nobody really gave a rip whether or not I was dating or if I was lonely or if I ever thought I would be in a relationship again. And honestly, I think that just plain old sucks ... and speaks volumes about the judgment we so quickly level against those who are "different."
Growing up in the South meant a lot of things, one being that it was bad manners to greet or say goodbye to family and friends without giving them a hug or a kiss on the cheek or, if you were extremely well-mannered, both. To this day, when I go home to Tennessee, that's the way we greet and part ... well, that coupled with a hearty, "Hey!" to say hello and "You gone?" to say goodbye. Even after living in the Midwest for more than 20 years, my natural instinct when I say hello or goodbye to my family and friends is to hug and kiss them ... I don't because that's not the way it's done here, but I think that way of greeting and saying goodbye will forever feel natural to me.
I find it more than interesting that though my children weren't raised in the South, somewhere along the line they learned a lot of Southern traditions as they were growing up. It's not like we spent a ton of time in Tennessee over the years ... other than week-long trips back there once a year, my kiddos weren't around their Southern relatives long enough to pick up a lot of the customs that growing up Southern teaches someone. And yet, as I said, somewhere along the line they got it ... especially when it comes to the hugging and kissing way for greetings and goodbyes ... they totally and completely got it.
I've noticed something about my kids over the last couple of years ... something big, at least to me it's big anyway. My kids no longer simply hug me when they say hello or goodbye, they kiss me as well. I've got to tell you, friends, it's pretty flipping sweet when they do it, too. So sweet, in fact, that it's sort of like a gift to me from them ... an undeserved gift, for sure, but one that means so very much to me. I don't remember that my children kissed me as much before as they do now, and as I thought about that this afternoon, I thought about my mom and how I kissed her more as she and I grew older. Perhaps my children have learned, as I did, that there are no guarantees we will be together for another day. Perhaps they have come to understand that our lives can change in the blink of an eye. Perhaps they have developed a deep desire for making sure I know they love me. The truth is that the whys don't matter ... what matters is that my children feel comfortable in expressing their love for me in such a meaningful and tangible manner.
The kiss ... maybe that's what we all should do when we say hello or goodbye to someone we love. Think about it ... maybe, just maybe, we should learn a lesson or two from my family and friends in the South. Maybe we should learn a lesson or two from my kids. See, here's the thing ... those kinds of hugs and those types of kisses aren't about the hugs and kisses at all ... they are about respect and honor. They are about a pure and honest love that is forever faithful and true.
So, go ahead ... pucker up and kiss someone tomorrow ... it may just be the best thing you do all day, it may just be indeed.
Growing up in the South meant a lot of things, one being that it was bad manners to greet or say goodbye to family and friends without giving them a hug or a kiss on the cheek or, if you were extremely well-mannered, both. To this day, when I go home to Tennessee, that's the way we greet and part ... well, that coupled with a hearty, "Hey!" to say hello and "You gone?" to say goodbye. Even after living in the Midwest for more than 20 years, my natural instinct when I say hello or goodbye to my family and friends is to hug and kiss them ... I don't because that's not the way it's done here, but I think that way of greeting and saying goodbye will forever feel natural to me.
I find it more than interesting that though my children weren't raised in the South, somewhere along the line they learned a lot of Southern traditions as they were growing up. It's not like we spent a ton of time in Tennessee over the years ... other than week-long trips back there once a year, my kiddos weren't around their Southern relatives long enough to pick up a lot of the customs that growing up Southern teaches someone. And yet, as I said, somewhere along the line they got it ... especially when it comes to the hugging and kissing way for greetings and goodbyes ... they totally and completely got it.
I've noticed something about my kids over the last couple of years ... something big, at least to me it's big anyway. My kids no longer simply hug me when they say hello or goodbye, they kiss me as well. I've got to tell you, friends, it's pretty flipping sweet when they do it, too. So sweet, in fact, that it's sort of like a gift to me from them ... an undeserved gift, for sure, but one that means so very much to me. I don't remember that my children kissed me as much before as they do now, and as I thought about that this afternoon, I thought about my mom and how I kissed her more as she and I grew older. Perhaps my children have learned, as I did, that there are no guarantees we will be together for another day. Perhaps they have come to understand that our lives can change in the blink of an eye. Perhaps they have developed a deep desire for making sure I know they love me. The truth is that the whys don't matter ... what matters is that my children feel comfortable in expressing their love for me in such a meaningful and tangible manner.
The kiss ... maybe that's what we all should do when we say hello or goodbye to someone we love. Think about it ... maybe, just maybe, we should learn a lesson or two from my family and friends in the South. Maybe we should learn a lesson or two from my kids. See, here's the thing ... those kinds of hugs and those types of kisses aren't about the hugs and kisses at all ... they are about respect and honor. They are about a pure and honest love that is forever faithful and true.
So, go ahead ... pucker up and kiss someone tomorrow ... it may just be the best thing you do all day, it may just be indeed.
Monday, September 30, 2013
The Couch and H. H. H.
There are two couches that sit in the small family room of my house, one beneath the large window that looks out onto the front yard and one along the wall against the back of the room. The couches are leather, sort of a deep burgundy color ... and they are probably 10 years old. The cushions are currently swaddled in fleece blankets because the years of dogs climbing on them have pretty much shredded the leather on them. I've checked with several upholstery stores, and the truth is that it will cost more to recover or replace the cushions than it would to buy new couches. So I decided that for now, until my big old dog Julie departs this world, the couches will remain in my family room with their cushions swathed in fleece blankets. It's not like I have many visitors to my home, and the fleecy cushions don't bother me. In fact, I think it may be hard to adjust to new couches when that day comes ... in a way, those worn, old couches of mine mean home to me ... familiar, comfortable, safe ... home.
My daughter Meghann has been training for several months to run a marathon, her first marathon as a matter of fact. I was sort of surprised when Meg decided to begin distance running ... though she ran track in high school, she was always a sprinter. I've been able to stand with my son-in-law and cheer her on in 5k and 10k events, and on October 19, I'll stand with him again and anxiously wait for her to accomplish her goal and cross the finish line of her first marathon. I'm proud of Meghann for the determination and discipline she has demonstrated both mentally and physically as she's trained. I'm proud of her for setting such a high goal and not stopping until she tackles the challenge before her head-on with every ounce of strength she's got. I'm proud of her for having the courage and the stamina to run on ... to run on in the rain ... to run on in the heat ... to run on in the wind ... to run on in the cold ... to run and run and run and then run some more.
It was while I was watching Meg run a 10k in downtown Kansas City that I made a decision ... a decision I didn't tell her about until recently. A friend of mine is a marathoner, and one day she told me the reason she began running marathons was because her mother wanted the two of them to run together ... her mother who didn't begin running marathons until she was 50 years old. As I stood behind the ropes that lined the street where Meghann was running the 10k, I thought about my friend and her mom, and I thought about Meg and me. I thought about the miles my daughter and I have traveled together over the last 24 years ... some easily trodden downhill miles and some treacherously dangerous uphill ones, too. I thought about how much running has come to mean to her ... I thought about how much walking has come to me. And I decided ... I decided that I was going to do the Couch to 5k program and learn how to run with my daughter. I've never been a runner, and I'll never be the runner Meghann is, but perhaps next spring, I'll be good enough that we can run the Mother's Day 5k together. At least that's my goal anyway.
I've mentioned before that when Ollie and I walk when it's dark outside, we walk on the sidewalk that runs in front of two schools, one a junior high school and the other a senior high school. There's a sign in front of the junior high, one of those signs like churches have, you know ... the kind you write a message on with the black plastic letters. Since school started a few weeks ago, three words seem to have taken up permanent residence on the sign ... Hope Happens Here. I've passed that sign countless times and I've read those words each time, but they didn't really strike me until tonight when I was running with Ollie ... yep, that's right, I said running. Tonight, those words literally jumped off the sign and bolted into my mind ... Hope Happens Here ... Hope Happens Here ... Hope Happens Here. My mind immediately raced back to that cold February morning last year when hope was the absolute last thing that was happening as I sat at my kitchen table preparing to swallow a handful of pills and end my life. My mind raced back to that hot August morning last year when hope was the absolute last thing that was happening as I sat in a conference room at work with one of the leaders of the company sobbing as I told her the truth of who I am.
I stopped running and stared at the words on the lighted sign in front of me ... Hope Happens Here. I stopped running and stared at the words as tears flooded my eyes, spilled down my cheeks and smacked the concrete of the sidewalk beneath my feet. Hope Happens Here. I stopped running and dropped to my knees, scooped Ollie into my arms and buried my face in his fur. Hope Happens Here. I stopped running and told God how thankful I am for hope and how grateful I am to be alive. At my appointment with the life-saving head doctor on Saturday, I told her I wanted the turmoil and the ever-present struggle within me to be over ... I asked her to fix me, to flip a switch and make me be okay once and for all. And then tonight ... I was running. Tonight ... I read the sign. Tonight ... I understood the message.
If I want to be in the race, I have to first get off my couch and then learn how to run ... I have to learn how to run. I have to go through the process. I have to do the hard work. I have to practice ... and practice ... and practice. I can't rush through the process. I have to try ... and try ... and try. I have to learn how to run. I have to first get off my couch and then learn how to run.
Hope Happens Here ... Hope Happens Here ... Hope Happens Here. Right here. Right now. Hope Happens Here. That it does, my friends, that it does.
My daughter Meghann has been training for several months to run a marathon, her first marathon as a matter of fact. I was sort of surprised when Meg decided to begin distance running ... though she ran track in high school, she was always a sprinter. I've been able to stand with my son-in-law and cheer her on in 5k and 10k events, and on October 19, I'll stand with him again and anxiously wait for her to accomplish her goal and cross the finish line of her first marathon. I'm proud of Meghann for the determination and discipline she has demonstrated both mentally and physically as she's trained. I'm proud of her for setting such a high goal and not stopping until she tackles the challenge before her head-on with every ounce of strength she's got. I'm proud of her for having the courage and the stamina to run on ... to run on in the rain ... to run on in the heat ... to run on in the wind ... to run on in the cold ... to run and run and run and then run some more.
It was while I was watching Meg run a 10k in downtown Kansas City that I made a decision ... a decision I didn't tell her about until recently. A friend of mine is a marathoner, and one day she told me the reason she began running marathons was because her mother wanted the two of them to run together ... her mother who didn't begin running marathons until she was 50 years old. As I stood behind the ropes that lined the street where Meghann was running the 10k, I thought about my friend and her mom, and I thought about Meg and me. I thought about the miles my daughter and I have traveled together over the last 24 years ... some easily trodden downhill miles and some treacherously dangerous uphill ones, too. I thought about how much running has come to mean to her ... I thought about how much walking has come to me. And I decided ... I decided that I was going to do the Couch to 5k program and learn how to run with my daughter. I've never been a runner, and I'll never be the runner Meghann is, but perhaps next spring, I'll be good enough that we can run the Mother's Day 5k together. At least that's my goal anyway.
I've mentioned before that when Ollie and I walk when it's dark outside, we walk on the sidewalk that runs in front of two schools, one a junior high school and the other a senior high school. There's a sign in front of the junior high, one of those signs like churches have, you know ... the kind you write a message on with the black plastic letters. Since school started a few weeks ago, three words seem to have taken up permanent residence on the sign ... Hope Happens Here. I've passed that sign countless times and I've read those words each time, but they didn't really strike me until tonight when I was running with Ollie ... yep, that's right, I said running. Tonight, those words literally jumped off the sign and bolted into my mind ... Hope Happens Here ... Hope Happens Here ... Hope Happens Here. My mind immediately raced back to that cold February morning last year when hope was the absolute last thing that was happening as I sat at my kitchen table preparing to swallow a handful of pills and end my life. My mind raced back to that hot August morning last year when hope was the absolute last thing that was happening as I sat in a conference room at work with one of the leaders of the company sobbing as I told her the truth of who I am.
I stopped running and stared at the words on the lighted sign in front of me ... Hope Happens Here. I stopped running and stared at the words as tears flooded my eyes, spilled down my cheeks and smacked the concrete of the sidewalk beneath my feet. Hope Happens Here. I stopped running and dropped to my knees, scooped Ollie into my arms and buried my face in his fur. Hope Happens Here. I stopped running and told God how thankful I am for hope and how grateful I am to be alive. At my appointment with the life-saving head doctor on Saturday, I told her I wanted the turmoil and the ever-present struggle within me to be over ... I asked her to fix me, to flip a switch and make me be okay once and for all. And then tonight ... I was running. Tonight ... I read the sign. Tonight ... I understood the message.
If I want to be in the race, I have to first get off my couch and then learn how to run ... I have to learn how to run. I have to go through the process. I have to do the hard work. I have to practice ... and practice ... and practice. I can't rush through the process. I have to try ... and try ... and try. I have to learn how to run. I have to first get off my couch and then learn how to run.
Hope Happens Here ... Hope Happens Here ... Hope Happens Here. Right here. Right now. Hope Happens Here. That it does, my friends, that it does.
Sunday, September 29, 2013
Thomas Goes to Amsterdam
If you would have told me a couple of years ago how much I would enjoy buying gifts for my granddaughter, I would have laughed in your face. And those of you who've been reading for a while know why ... I don't care much for shopping ... what an understatement, eh? Unless said shopping involves buying things for C.J. ... that kind of shopping I would happily and willingly do all day every day for the rest of my life. I have to admit that I'm not the greatest when it comes to shopping for clothes for her, but when it comes to toys ... now that's another matter altogether. I can't begin to tell you how much fun I had buying toys for her before they came to visit this summer ... heck, I even enjoyed buying her a purse (mainly because I could fill it up with toys and Goldfish crackers). For all the things I've purchased for my sweet C.J. since she entered the world a little over a year and a half ago, there's one small item she loves dearly ... one small item that carries with it a ton of meaning for me ... one small item that is quite probably making a certain guy in heaven smile, smile, smile.
Just like most kiddos, there are certain things that C.J. is particularly crazy over. For example, she adores the Cabbage Patch doll that her Aunt Meghann and Uncle Barrett sent her for Christmas, and she goes to sleep each night by listening to music played by a high-tech stuffed ... ummm ... I can't recall whether it's a dog or an octopus, but it's one of the two ... that her Uncle Brad and Aunt Shelby sent her. But more than any other thing, except maybe her blankie, C.J. loves trains and trucks, both the real ones and the toy ones in her growing collection. When they came to spend a couple of days at my house, we just happened to be outside when the garbage trucks rolled through my neighborhood ... I have never seen a kid so excited to see a garbage truck in my entire life. I found an old book of Matt's called The Truck Book that I gave to C.J. when they were here, and Matt and Becca tell me they think they must have read it to her a thousand or more times.
I was thrilled when Matt and Becca said that I could buy C.J. her first little train set, even though it took me almost two hours to choose between the different engines, cars and tracks ... yes, I spent two hours shopping for one particular item ... hard to believe, eh? I finally settled on a Thomas the Train beginner set, with a battery-operated, blue and red Thomas engine. And C.J. absolutely loves her Thomas the Train set ... I'm pretty sure that means she has some of my dad in her. When she's old enough to understand, I'll tell her stories of when her great granddad used to take me to work with him and let me drive the trains. I'll tell her about the train sets I had when I was a little girl, and I'll tell her about riding the train to my granny's house in Kentucky. I'll tell her about the time I got to ride in the caboose with the conductor and help take up the tickets. I'll tell her how Daddy used to always say that the love for trains gets in your blood. I'll tell C.J. that I think maybe part of the reason she loves trains so much is because she is a descendant of one of the kindest, most honorable men who ever lived ... a man who worked on trains for more than 50 years.
Matt, Becca and C.J. returned to their home in Canada last night after spending a week in Amsterdam. Matt was invited to speak at a conference there, and he jumped at the opportunity to take his little family along to see part of the world they never had before. The flight from Calgary to Amsterdam was nine hours ... nine hours in an airplane with an almost 20-month-old baby, a very busy and active almost 20-month-old baby. Matt and Becca had chosen a flight that left in the evening, with the hope that C.J. would sleep during most of the flight. Nope. Wrong. Not a chance. Long story there for another time, but suffice it to say that my sweet granddaughter only slept a couple or so hours ... a couple or so hours during the time that everyone else on the plane was trying to sleep. The rest of C.J.'s time on the plane was spent playing with her Thomas the Train engine and reading The Truck Book ... that and stealing the hearts of all the flight attendants with her giant blue eyes and white blond hair. As I said, they arrived back home last night, tired but happy, and they had an amazing trip and made memories for their sweet little family that will last a lifetime.
Matt called me early this morning to ask if I wanted to Skype with C.J. ... for as brilliant as my son is, he can't seem to understand that I ALWAYS want to Skype with C.J. There's absolutely no need to ask me if I want to talk to my baby girl ... he could simply call and say "Skype now," and unless I wasn't at home, I'd be on my computer faster than a fly can spit. Even before she could see me on the screen this morning (there was an issue with the camera on their computer, so there was a delay), I could hear her sweet little voice saying, Hi, Ghee! Hi, Ghee! Hi, Ghee!" And you know what? There isn't a sweeter sound on this earth to me than that sweet baby saying her chosen name for me ... not a single sound. I've said it before, but I'm saying it again ... I don't know how grandparents with grandchildren who live far away survive if they don't have the capability to Skype. Words will never be able to convey to you what it does to my heart to see her little face light up when she sees me on the screen ... to know that she knows who I am and recognizes my voice ... to understand that she loves me. It's more than that, you know ... it's understanding and believing that my sweet granddaughter loves me unconditionally for one reason and one reason only. C.J. loves me because I'm her Ghee ... nothing more, nothing less ... I'm her Ghee and I always will be.
So Thomas the Train, Matt, Becca and C.J. went to Amsterdam, and now they are back safe and sound in their home in the far north. Here's to many more adventures ahead for you sweet girl ... for you and Thomas the Train, and your mom and dad, too. And here's a great big giant hug and kiss from Ghee to you ... sleep well, baby ... sleep well, and know how much I love you ... how very much indeed.
Just like most kiddos, there are certain things that C.J. is particularly crazy over. For example, she adores the Cabbage Patch doll that her Aunt Meghann and Uncle Barrett sent her for Christmas, and she goes to sleep each night by listening to music played by a high-tech stuffed ... ummm ... I can't recall whether it's a dog or an octopus, but it's one of the two ... that her Uncle Brad and Aunt Shelby sent her. But more than any other thing, except maybe her blankie, C.J. loves trains and trucks, both the real ones and the toy ones in her growing collection. When they came to spend a couple of days at my house, we just happened to be outside when the garbage trucks rolled through my neighborhood ... I have never seen a kid so excited to see a garbage truck in my entire life. I found an old book of Matt's called The Truck Book that I gave to C.J. when they were here, and Matt and Becca tell me they think they must have read it to her a thousand or more times.
I was thrilled when Matt and Becca said that I could buy C.J. her first little train set, even though it took me almost two hours to choose between the different engines, cars and tracks ... yes, I spent two hours shopping for one particular item ... hard to believe, eh? I finally settled on a Thomas the Train beginner set, with a battery-operated, blue and red Thomas engine. And C.J. absolutely loves her Thomas the Train set ... I'm pretty sure that means she has some of my dad in her. When she's old enough to understand, I'll tell her stories of when her great granddad used to take me to work with him and let me drive the trains. I'll tell her about the train sets I had when I was a little girl, and I'll tell her about riding the train to my granny's house in Kentucky. I'll tell her about the time I got to ride in the caboose with the conductor and help take up the tickets. I'll tell her how Daddy used to always say that the love for trains gets in your blood. I'll tell C.J. that I think maybe part of the reason she loves trains so much is because she is a descendant of one of the kindest, most honorable men who ever lived ... a man who worked on trains for more than 50 years.
Matt, Becca and C.J. returned to their home in Canada last night after spending a week in Amsterdam. Matt was invited to speak at a conference there, and he jumped at the opportunity to take his little family along to see part of the world they never had before. The flight from Calgary to Amsterdam was nine hours ... nine hours in an airplane with an almost 20-month-old baby, a very busy and active almost 20-month-old baby. Matt and Becca had chosen a flight that left in the evening, with the hope that C.J. would sleep during most of the flight. Nope. Wrong. Not a chance. Long story there for another time, but suffice it to say that my sweet granddaughter only slept a couple or so hours ... a couple or so hours during the time that everyone else on the plane was trying to sleep. The rest of C.J.'s time on the plane was spent playing with her Thomas the Train engine and reading The Truck Book ... that and stealing the hearts of all the flight attendants with her giant blue eyes and white blond hair. As I said, they arrived back home last night, tired but happy, and they had an amazing trip and made memories for their sweet little family that will last a lifetime.
Matt called me early this morning to ask if I wanted to Skype with C.J. ... for as brilliant as my son is, he can't seem to understand that I ALWAYS want to Skype with C.J. There's absolutely no need to ask me if I want to talk to my baby girl ... he could simply call and say "Skype now," and unless I wasn't at home, I'd be on my computer faster than a fly can spit. Even before she could see me on the screen this morning (there was an issue with the camera on their computer, so there was a delay), I could hear her sweet little voice saying, Hi, Ghee! Hi, Ghee! Hi, Ghee!" And you know what? There isn't a sweeter sound on this earth to me than that sweet baby saying her chosen name for me ... not a single sound. I've said it before, but I'm saying it again ... I don't know how grandparents with grandchildren who live far away survive if they don't have the capability to Skype. Words will never be able to convey to you what it does to my heart to see her little face light up when she sees me on the screen ... to know that she knows who I am and recognizes my voice ... to understand that she loves me. It's more than that, you know ... it's understanding and believing that my sweet granddaughter loves me unconditionally for one reason and one reason only. C.J. loves me because I'm her Ghee ... nothing more, nothing less ... I'm her Ghee and I always will be.
So Thomas the Train, Matt, Becca and C.J. went to Amsterdam, and now they are back safe and sound in their home in the far north. Here's to many more adventures ahead for you sweet girl ... for you and Thomas the Train, and your mom and dad, too. And here's a great big giant hug and kiss from Ghee to you ... sleep well, baby ... sleep well, and know how much I love you ... how very much indeed.
Saturday, September 28, 2013
Cracked
First I should probably tell you that this post has been rolling around in my brain for months, most of the summer actually. I'm not sure exactly what that means, to have a post in my mind for so long and then to recognize that the night has arrived for me to write it. Maybe it means I'm a slow learner and it took me this long to understand the meaning I'm supposed to glean from it. Or maybe it means that sometimes thoughts and ideas are better when they ferment for a while ... like a good wine that gets better over time. At least I hope that's the case anyway ... that I can adequately convey what I have been and still am learning. One thing I am certain of, however, is that the more I learn, the more I realize how much more I need to learn.
I have two basic routes I follow when Oliver and I walk each evening, and the one we follow is generally determined by the weather and how light or dark it is when we begin our nightly stroll. If it's bright and sunny, we walk along the trail that winds through the woods ... the trail that is made of black asphalt. If it's already dark or near dusk, Ollie and I walk on the sidewalk that runs alongside a main road with plenty of street lamps to light our way ... the sidewalk that is made of gray concrete. Though the trail route curves along the creek while the sidewalk route is perfectly straight, they take about the same amount of time for me and my little pooch to walk. In regard to distance, the sidewalk route is actually longer, almost a mile longer to be exact. I think the reason Ollie and I are able to walk the extra distance of the sidewalk route in the same time as we do the trail route is because there's no one else on the sidewalk to distract my little wiener dog's attention from the task at hand ... or at paw as the case may be I suppose.
For as different as my two walking routes are, there is one big thing they have in common ... they both have lots of cracks. I first noticed that the cracks were becoming more significant late last year, and I thought it was probably due to the lack of rain causing the ground beneath the concrete and the asphalt to settle. But it's only been since early this summer that I noticed something else ... something big ... something that causes me to wonder and ponder and contemplate every time I walk. The big thing? Grass. No, really ... I'm serious ... grass. See here's the thing ... the cracks in the sidewalk have grass growing in them, and the cracks in the trail don't. Believe me when I tell you that I have being trying to figure out why for months, and I still don't the answer. I've thought about it a lot ... a whole, whole, whole lot ... and I still don't know why grass grows in the concrete cracks and not in the asphalt ones.
As I stepped over the grass protruding from the cracks in the sidewalk tonight when I was walking with Ollie, a thought burst into my mind and lodged itself in my heart. "Maybe the difference is what's inside, Ollie buddy ... maybe the reason the grass grows in the cracks of the concrete and not the asphalt has something to do with the chemical makeup of the materials. Or maybe it's because the asphalt is thicker than the concrete. Or maybe I'm never going to figure this out, little dog." The more I thought about it, the more I began to think about life, and the more I began to think about life, the more I began to think about the cracks that come along from time to time ... cracks of sadness, cracks of illness, cracks of lost relationships, cracks of death, cracks of so many of the hard things in life. But then I thought ... just like the grass that grows through the cracks in the concrete of the sidewalk, I grow through the cracks in life. It's not when my heart is all put together that I grow the most ... it's when the sidewalk of my heart is cracked that the green of the grass breaks through and begins to grow and grow and grow.
You can bet I will never see those cracks on the trail or sidewalk the same way again, friends ... you can bet I never will.
I have two basic routes I follow when Oliver and I walk each evening, and the one we follow is generally determined by the weather and how light or dark it is when we begin our nightly stroll. If it's bright and sunny, we walk along the trail that winds through the woods ... the trail that is made of black asphalt. If it's already dark or near dusk, Ollie and I walk on the sidewalk that runs alongside a main road with plenty of street lamps to light our way ... the sidewalk that is made of gray concrete. Though the trail route curves along the creek while the sidewalk route is perfectly straight, they take about the same amount of time for me and my little pooch to walk. In regard to distance, the sidewalk route is actually longer, almost a mile longer to be exact. I think the reason Ollie and I are able to walk the extra distance of the sidewalk route in the same time as we do the trail route is because there's no one else on the sidewalk to distract my little wiener dog's attention from the task at hand ... or at paw as the case may be I suppose.
For as different as my two walking routes are, there is one big thing they have in common ... they both have lots of cracks. I first noticed that the cracks were becoming more significant late last year, and I thought it was probably due to the lack of rain causing the ground beneath the concrete and the asphalt to settle. But it's only been since early this summer that I noticed something else ... something big ... something that causes me to wonder and ponder and contemplate every time I walk. The big thing? Grass. No, really ... I'm serious ... grass. See here's the thing ... the cracks in the sidewalk have grass growing in them, and the cracks in the trail don't. Believe me when I tell you that I have being trying to figure out why for months, and I still don't the answer. I've thought about it a lot ... a whole, whole, whole lot ... and I still don't know why grass grows in the concrete cracks and not in the asphalt ones.
As I stepped over the grass protruding from the cracks in the sidewalk tonight when I was walking with Ollie, a thought burst into my mind and lodged itself in my heart. "Maybe the difference is what's inside, Ollie buddy ... maybe the reason the grass grows in the cracks of the concrete and not the asphalt has something to do with the chemical makeup of the materials. Or maybe it's because the asphalt is thicker than the concrete. Or maybe I'm never going to figure this out, little dog." The more I thought about it, the more I began to think about life, and the more I began to think about life, the more I began to think about the cracks that come along from time to time ... cracks of sadness, cracks of illness, cracks of lost relationships, cracks of death, cracks of so many of the hard things in life. But then I thought ... just like the grass that grows through the cracks in the concrete of the sidewalk, I grow through the cracks in life. It's not when my heart is all put together that I grow the most ... it's when the sidewalk of my heart is cracked that the green of the grass breaks through and begins to grow and grow and grow.
You can bet I will never see those cracks on the trail or sidewalk the same way again, friends ... you can bet I never will.
Thursday, September 26, 2013
Unfinished Business
My little mom would have been 94 years old a couple of days ago, and yes, memories of past birthday celebrations have been swirling in my mind all week. Even before Mom moved to Kansas City, I began making a list of questions I wanted to be sure to ask her one day ... a list of questions that resides in a folder deep within my heart ... a list of questions that remain unanswered because I never made the time to ask her ... a list of questions I continue to add to with the hope that I will one day be able to ask them of Mom in heaven. During the six weeks Mom lived in Kansas City, we talked a lot ... perhaps more than we ever had, or perhaps the conversations we had simply meant more to me than they ever had before. Something that struck me then and still strikes me now was how often Mom talked about things she had left undone in her life ... projects she didn't finish, conversations she didn't have, places she didn't go. And when Mom talked about the undone things in her life, a sadness would wash across the wrinkled skin of her face and cloud her hazel-colored eyes as she said, "Take it from me ... you need to say what needs to be said and do what needs to be done before it's too late ... once you leave this world, you ain't gonna be able to take care of any unfinished business then."
Things have been a bit stressful at work for the last couple of weeks ... nothing bad, just a super busy time for all of our clients and everyone is swamped. I know folks are stressed when one of them comes to my desk late in the afternoon and says, "Can I please have a hug? I really need a Terrie hug." I immediately stood up and wrapped my young friend up in a gigantic Mama T long and lasting hug ... of course I did, good grief, of course I did. About a half-hour later, I went upstairs to return some work to one of the project managers and after placing the job jacket in her chair, I made a snap decision. I decided that the people in my office needed something to lift their spirits today ... something to make them smile ... something to let them know they are more than just appreciated by me, they are loved. I began making my way from desk to desk proclaiming today as National Hug Terrie Day and hugged my co-workers. And you know what happened? People began coming to me before I would get to their desks saying, "Are you giving out hugs? I could sure use a Terrie hug today in a big way." Remember the post I wrote a while back about how many hugs you need for survival, emotional stability and personal growth? Well, suffice it to say that I had to have made some gigantic leaps in all three categories today because I lost count of all the hugs I gave and got in return today. And you know what? It was pretty freaking cool to see the joy my National Hug Terrie Day idea brought to my friends in the office ... pretty, pretty, pretty freaking cool.
As I drove home this evening, I thought about a day last February ... a Friday when I went around to each person in my office and hugged them before I left that day. They didn't know what I was doing that day, friends ... I was saying goodbye ... I was saying goodbye forever. I couldn't help but recognize as the tears began to flow from my eyes that the hugs I gave today were so very different from the hugs I gave on that cold Friday in February. Sometimes people write to me and tell me I shouldn't talk about that weekend ... the weekend I intended to end my life ... but I think they are wrong. I think I need to remember that weekend and the moments and the feelings and the pain and the hiding and the dishonesty that led me there. I think I need to talk about that weekend because speaking out about what almost was may help someone else to choose to live rather than die. I think I need to write about that weekend so that I never forget how close I came with the hope that I never return there again.
I decided as I was walking with Ollie this evening that I need to take Mom's advice to heart ... that I need to try my best not to leave this world with unfinished business in my life. I'm not talking about finances or work or stuff like that ... I'm talking about the unfinished business that really matters. Unfinished business like making sure that the people I love know how very much I love them ... seizing every opportunity to help someone ... listening to those who are hurting or overwhelmed or sad ... being the mom my wonderful children deserve to have ... feeding someone who is hungry ... expressing gratitude for the blessings I receive ... being a loyal and trusted friend at all times in every circumstance of life ... keeping my promises and honoring my word. Unfinished business like loving and laughing and living with every ounce of strength I have in every moment I have.
Even as I type those words, I know I've got some unfinished business ... I know there are things I've left undone, and things I need to do better. I know there are often times when I don't want to do what others know is for my own good ... times when I fail so very miserably at the tasks that are set before me. I know there are days when I have to fight the urge to leave the business of life unfinished ... times when it seems as though it's just too hard, and it's taking way too long. I know there are times when I despise the words, "You have a ways to go yet," ... times when I want to stomp my feet, dig in my heels and refuse to take another step.
But then ... then there are days like today ... days when I was able to bring even a moment of joy to a few someones along the way ... days when I helped to carry the burden of a friend ... days like today when I hugged and hugged and hugged. I was reminded yesterday of the brevity of life when a friend told me of the unexpected death from diabetes of a young man in his early 30s. Life is too short not to love, friends ... life is too short not to laugh, friends ... life is too short not to live, friends. Don't waste it ... don't leave the really important business of life unfinished. Don't let the tyranny of the urgent cause you to sacrifice what's real and deep and lasting ... people ... it's people who matter most of all. Take it from me ... you need to say what needs to be said and do what needs to be done before it's too late ... no unfinished business, friends, no unfinished business.
P.S. If you happened to miss out on National Hug Terrie Day today, I've thought long and hard about it and have decided to declare tomorrow National Hug Terrie Friday and next week National Hug Terrie Week. Just stop by my desk or snag me as I walk by and claim your hug. Or my hug. Or our hug. Awww heck ... just come get a hug if you need or want one. :)
Things have been a bit stressful at work for the last couple of weeks ... nothing bad, just a super busy time for all of our clients and everyone is swamped. I know folks are stressed when one of them comes to my desk late in the afternoon and says, "Can I please have a hug? I really need a Terrie hug." I immediately stood up and wrapped my young friend up in a gigantic Mama T long and lasting hug ... of course I did, good grief, of course I did. About a half-hour later, I went upstairs to return some work to one of the project managers and after placing the job jacket in her chair, I made a snap decision. I decided that the people in my office needed something to lift their spirits today ... something to make them smile ... something to let them know they are more than just appreciated by me, they are loved. I began making my way from desk to desk proclaiming today as National Hug Terrie Day and hugged my co-workers. And you know what happened? People began coming to me before I would get to their desks saying, "Are you giving out hugs? I could sure use a Terrie hug today in a big way." Remember the post I wrote a while back about how many hugs you need for survival, emotional stability and personal growth? Well, suffice it to say that I had to have made some gigantic leaps in all three categories today because I lost count of all the hugs I gave and got in return today. And you know what? It was pretty freaking cool to see the joy my National Hug Terrie Day idea brought to my friends in the office ... pretty, pretty, pretty freaking cool.
As I drove home this evening, I thought about a day last February ... a Friday when I went around to each person in my office and hugged them before I left that day. They didn't know what I was doing that day, friends ... I was saying goodbye ... I was saying goodbye forever. I couldn't help but recognize as the tears began to flow from my eyes that the hugs I gave today were so very different from the hugs I gave on that cold Friday in February. Sometimes people write to me and tell me I shouldn't talk about that weekend ... the weekend I intended to end my life ... but I think they are wrong. I think I need to remember that weekend and the moments and the feelings and the pain and the hiding and the dishonesty that led me there. I think I need to talk about that weekend because speaking out about what almost was may help someone else to choose to live rather than die. I think I need to write about that weekend so that I never forget how close I came with the hope that I never return there again.
I decided as I was walking with Ollie this evening that I need to take Mom's advice to heart ... that I need to try my best not to leave this world with unfinished business in my life. I'm not talking about finances or work or stuff like that ... I'm talking about the unfinished business that really matters. Unfinished business like making sure that the people I love know how very much I love them ... seizing every opportunity to help someone ... listening to those who are hurting or overwhelmed or sad ... being the mom my wonderful children deserve to have ... feeding someone who is hungry ... expressing gratitude for the blessings I receive ... being a loyal and trusted friend at all times in every circumstance of life ... keeping my promises and honoring my word. Unfinished business like loving and laughing and living with every ounce of strength I have in every moment I have.
Even as I type those words, I know I've got some unfinished business ... I know there are things I've left undone, and things I need to do better. I know there are often times when I don't want to do what others know is for my own good ... times when I fail so very miserably at the tasks that are set before me. I know there are days when I have to fight the urge to leave the business of life unfinished ... times when it seems as though it's just too hard, and it's taking way too long. I know there are times when I despise the words, "You have a ways to go yet," ... times when I want to stomp my feet, dig in my heels and refuse to take another step.
But then ... then there are days like today ... days when I was able to bring even a moment of joy to a few someones along the way ... days when I helped to carry the burden of a friend ... days like today when I hugged and hugged and hugged. I was reminded yesterday of the brevity of life when a friend told me of the unexpected death from diabetes of a young man in his early 30s. Life is too short not to love, friends ... life is too short not to laugh, friends ... life is too short not to live, friends. Don't waste it ... don't leave the really important business of life unfinished. Don't let the tyranny of the urgent cause you to sacrifice what's real and deep and lasting ... people ... it's people who matter most of all. Take it from me ... you need to say what needs to be said and do what needs to be done before it's too late ... no unfinished business, friends, no unfinished business.
P.S. If you happened to miss out on National Hug Terrie Day today, I've thought long and hard about it and have decided to declare tomorrow National Hug Terrie Friday and next week National Hug Terrie Week. Just stop by my desk or snag me as I walk by and claim your hug. Or my hug. Or our hug. Awww heck ... just come get a hug if you need or want one. :)
Wednesday, September 25, 2013
The Case of the Super Sneaky Scary Shadow ... or Having the Crap Scared Out of Me While I Was Walking Tonight
First, I'm pretty sure tonight's post should win an award of some kind for the longest blog post title in the history of the world. Second, get ready for confession number ... oh, heck, I have no idea how many confessions I've made in my blog posts this year, but I've got another one. Ready? I've been kind of grumpy this week. I'm sure those of you who read my previous two posts are saying in unison, "Well, duh, Terrie." But since I've heard that confession is good for the soul, it's got to be good for me to recognize and confess my grumpiness. Hello, my name is Terrie, and I've been grumpy all week. I don't get grumpy often ... there's a huge difference, by the way, between being grumpy and being sad ... but this week, grumpy has been my middle, if not first, name. Now, having bared my soul once again concerning my state of mind and heart, on to what's behind my totally awesome longest blog post title in the history of the world.
Ollie and I had met a friend earlier in the evening to walk together with her dog, but I was restless and decided to make Mr. Oliver go for another walk with me ... a very dark walk long after the sun had set. We walked quite a long time in the cool night air, and it was as we turned off the sidewalk and stepped onto the short piece of the trail that leads us home when it happened. I was walking at a brisk pace when it caught my eye ... something moving just to the left of us on the trail. I obviously am not afraid to walk in the dark because I do it all the time, but I am, however, abundantly afraid of being chased through the darkness on the trail by some sort of wild and ravenous critter seeking out its dinnertime meal or late-night snack. Generally, Ollie lets me know if there is a creature nearby, but tonight, my faithful wiener dog failed to alert me to the dangerous animal that was threatening to tear us apart limb by limb.
It only took a moment or two for me to realize that the significantly sized, oddly shaped being was keeping pace with me and Ollie ... the faster I walked, the faster it walked, staying dead even with us with an unrelenting determination. Keeping my eyes glued to the shadowy figure, I scooped Ollie into my arms and decided that ... well ... I decided to flipping run!! As the now humongous, snarling ... hey, now, in my mind it was huge and snarling anyway ... creature continued along in the same rhythm and pace as Ollie and I, my heart began to pound as my mind tried to figure out a way of escape for me and my little hound. Being the always rational, logical, clear-thinking woman I am, I was by then completely convinced that the hungry, drooling beast had to be a bear or a bobcat or a mountain lion or, the most likely of all ... a giant rabid moose with antlers as big as my car. And ... and ... and ... I felt like a complete fool as I glanced back to see where the creature was when I was stepping off the curb to cross the street and make a mad dash for home. That's when I finally realized just exactly what it was that was chasing us ... my one and only, terribly frightening shadow. Yep, it was my shadow ... that's the beast I was so terrified of, friends, my own little old shadow. But in my irrational defense ... the bill of my ball cap really did look a lot like antlers in my shadow. And when I figured out that it was my shadow, I laughed until tears rolled down my cheeks ... I laughed the rest of the way home, and I'm still chuckling as I sit on my couch typing this post.
I learned three lessons tonight from my close encounter with my super sneaky scary shadow ...
1) Things aren't always what they appear to be, and often what I create in my own mind is terribly way far off the mark
2) It is stinking hard to run with a 15-pound wiener dog on your shoulder.
3) Sometimes you just to laugh ... nothing more, nothing less ... just let out a hardy and strong guffaw. It's really hard to be grumpy when you're laughing, you know.
I'll leave you with those pearls of wisdom to ponder for a while ... I'm pooped and heading to bed. One bit of advice before I hit the sack, though ... watch out for those super sneaky scary shadows because they will scare the crap out of you while you're out walking at night.
Ollie and I had met a friend earlier in the evening to walk together with her dog, but I was restless and decided to make Mr. Oliver go for another walk with me ... a very dark walk long after the sun had set. We walked quite a long time in the cool night air, and it was as we turned off the sidewalk and stepped onto the short piece of the trail that leads us home when it happened. I was walking at a brisk pace when it caught my eye ... something moving just to the left of us on the trail. I obviously am not afraid to walk in the dark because I do it all the time, but I am, however, abundantly afraid of being chased through the darkness on the trail by some sort of wild and ravenous critter seeking out its dinnertime meal or late-night snack. Generally, Ollie lets me know if there is a creature nearby, but tonight, my faithful wiener dog failed to alert me to the dangerous animal that was threatening to tear us apart limb by limb.
It only took a moment or two for me to realize that the significantly sized, oddly shaped being was keeping pace with me and Ollie ... the faster I walked, the faster it walked, staying dead even with us with an unrelenting determination. Keeping my eyes glued to the shadowy figure, I scooped Ollie into my arms and decided that ... well ... I decided to flipping run!! As the now humongous, snarling ... hey, now, in my mind it was huge and snarling anyway ... creature continued along in the same rhythm and pace as Ollie and I, my heart began to pound as my mind tried to figure out a way of escape for me and my little hound. Being the always rational, logical, clear-thinking woman I am, I was by then completely convinced that the hungry, drooling beast had to be a bear or a bobcat or a mountain lion or, the most likely of all ... a giant rabid moose with antlers as big as my car. And ... and ... and ... I felt like a complete fool as I glanced back to see where the creature was when I was stepping off the curb to cross the street and make a mad dash for home. That's when I finally realized just exactly what it was that was chasing us ... my one and only, terribly frightening shadow. Yep, it was my shadow ... that's the beast I was so terrified of, friends, my own little old shadow. But in my irrational defense ... the bill of my ball cap really did look a lot like antlers in my shadow. And when I figured out that it was my shadow, I laughed until tears rolled down my cheeks ... I laughed the rest of the way home, and I'm still chuckling as I sit on my couch typing this post.
I learned three lessons tonight from my close encounter with my super sneaky scary shadow ...
1) Things aren't always what they appear to be, and often what I create in my own mind is terribly way far off the mark
2) It is stinking hard to run with a 15-pound wiener dog on your shoulder.
3) Sometimes you just to laugh ... nothing more, nothing less ... just let out a hardy and strong guffaw. It's really hard to be grumpy when you're laughing, you know.
I'll leave you with those pearls of wisdom to ponder for a while ... I'm pooped and heading to bed. One bit of advice before I hit the sack, though ... watch out for those super sneaky scary shadows because they will scare the crap out of you while you're out walking at night.
Tuesday, September 24, 2013
An Addendum to My Rant
Well, well, well ... I've gotten quite a lot of feedback concerning my previous post, and a ton of questions asking if I would share what pushed me over the edge and caused me to pen my "every single person deserves to be treated with respect and honor and dignity and kindness and appreciated simply for being who they are" rant. I'm asked many questions that I choose not to answer publicly in my blog, but tonight I feel as though I should attempt to give a bit of explanation as to what sparked my rant last night, my rant from my heart, by the way ... trust me when I say that my rant last night was very, very much from my heart.
I can't say that it was one specific action yesterday that caused me to pen the words that I did last night ... those words have been, as I wrote last night, gnawing at me for a while now. But, as is true with most of the times I've felt compelled to write about sensitive subjects, something or someone is the tipping point ... that one attitude or comment or glance or action that is the final straw, you know? And sometimes that attitude or comment or glance or action isn't directed to me but to someone else. In fact ... truth be told ... witnessing another person being treated poorly is far more likely to bring forth a rant from me than being mistreated myself. That's what happens when you spend your life believing you're a terrible person, you know ... you believe you're less than everyone else and deserve whatever lousy treatment you get, but you'll fight to the death to save another person who's being wronged.
So having said all of that ... rather than share what the tipping point was for me that prompted last night's rant, instead I'm going to leave you with this reminder ... every single person deserves to be treated with respect and honor and dignity and kindness and appreciated simply for being who they are. Period. Period. Period. It really doesn't matter what happened to precipitate my post last night, but it matters a whole heck of a lot that it made so many of you consider how you treat other people. At the end of the day when all is said and done, the only thing that really matters is the way we treat each other. Think about that the next time you behave in a way that makes another person feel like they are unworthy or invisible or not normal or unappreciated or a waste of your time or less than you in any way. Try putting yourself in that person's place for a couple of minutes and imagine how you would feel if you were treated the way you are treating them.
Have a great evening, friends, and be kind to one another. Actually ... be kind to everyone ... those you love, those you meet, those you will never see again ... just be kind.
"Not until trouble and heartache and sorrow came into my own life could I fully comprehend the words of Ian McLaren: 'Let us be kind, one to another, for most of us are fighting a hard battle.'" --- SCM
I can't say that it was one specific action yesterday that caused me to pen the words that I did last night ... those words have been, as I wrote last night, gnawing at me for a while now. But, as is true with most of the times I've felt compelled to write about sensitive subjects, something or someone is the tipping point ... that one attitude or comment or glance or action that is the final straw, you know? And sometimes that attitude or comment or glance or action isn't directed to me but to someone else. In fact ... truth be told ... witnessing another person being treated poorly is far more likely to bring forth a rant from me than being mistreated myself. That's what happens when you spend your life believing you're a terrible person, you know ... you believe you're less than everyone else and deserve whatever lousy treatment you get, but you'll fight to the death to save another person who's being wronged.
So having said all of that ... rather than share what the tipping point was for me that prompted last night's rant, instead I'm going to leave you with this reminder ... every single person deserves to be treated with respect and honor and dignity and kindness and appreciated simply for being who they are. Period. Period. Period. It really doesn't matter what happened to precipitate my post last night, but it matters a whole heck of a lot that it made so many of you consider how you treat other people. At the end of the day when all is said and done, the only thing that really matters is the way we treat each other. Think about that the next time you behave in a way that makes another person feel like they are unworthy or invisible or not normal or unappreciated or a waste of your time or less than you in any way. Try putting yourself in that person's place for a couple of minutes and imagine how you would feel if you were treated the way you are treating them.
Have a great evening, friends, and be kind to one another. Actually ... be kind to everyone ... those you love, those you meet, those you will never see again ... just be kind.
"Not until trouble and heartache and sorrow came into my own life could I fully comprehend the words of Ian McLaren: 'Let us be kind, one to another, for most of us are fighting a hard battle.'" --- SCM
Monday, September 23, 2013
Move Over Brad ... It's My Turn to Rant
I've written previously about how my son Brad gets ... well ... rather passionate from time to time about certain subjects. And when it's something that he's especially worked up about, he often launches into what we in our family lovingly term "a Brad rant." Now lest you think otherwise, Brad isn't usually angry when he rants; in fact, more often than not, he isn't angry at all when he rants. What he is, however, is passionate about what he perceives to be an injustice or hate or blatant disregard of the importance of a certain matter or situation. And here's my disclaimer for tonight's post: I am going to rant, and I'm going to rant about something that has been gnawing away at me for a while. That's one of the differences between me and Brad, you see, he speaks his mind much more freely and quickly about certain things than I do. In sort of a gross analogy ... he pops the zit right away, and I let it fester. So ... if you don't want to read tonight's post, don't read it. If you do decide to read it, please know that I'm writing from my aching heart and not from a place of anger. OK ... maybe I'm a little bit angry ... I'll admit it. But I think this is one time that my anger is justified ... you bet I think it is.
When I was growing up, my parents taught me some basic tenants as to how I should treat other people ... tenants that I hope I taught my children as well ... tenants that I try to live out every single day ... at least I am now anyway. Let me list a few of them for you:
Don't be rude to anyone ... ever.
Listen when other people are talking.
Don't interrupt unless it's an emergency.
Be respectful to your elders ... be respectful to your juniors ... be respectful to everyone.
Be kind to everyone you meet.
Tell the truth even when it's difficult.
Make time to play and have fun.
Keep your promises.
Honor your word.
Be helpful whenever possible.
Go the extra mile without being asked or told to.
Always buy something from the kid who is selling stuff for his or her school.
Don't be judgmental.
Stand up for those who are weak.
Don't be a bully.
Say please and thank you.
Give good candy on Halloween.
Show appreciation for what others do.
Don't play favorites.
Never ever think you are better than anyone else.
Speak with kindness, and remember that you catch more flies with honey than vinegar.
And above all else ... love unconditionally.
I'm sure that each of you could add to my list, and there are more things I could place on it as well. In fact, perhaps my tenants list should be considered to be a work in progress ... one that I add to as I grow older and hopefully wiser on this journey of life.
So what am I angry about, you ask? What do I feel the need to rant about? Well, here it is ... I struggle enough as it is to feel like I'm equal to everyone else ... I've struggled with feeling like I don't fit in my entire life. I honestly don't need any help or input from anyone on that issue, friends ... I don't need one ounce of help when it comes to being hard on myself. I know I'm not as smart as a lot of people. I know I'm not beautiful. I know I'm not a mover and shaker in the business world. I know I'm not rich. I know I don't know or understand anything about fashion. I know I'm not a leader in the community. I know I'm not as good or as pretty or as intelligent or as classy or as whatever trait you'd like to add as a ton of people ... I know all those things, and I've known them my whole life. And you know what else? I'm not the only person who has those thoughts or who struggles with feeling so very inadequate or so far below everyone else ... my guess is that some of you who are reading this post feel exactly the same way. And while I can't speak for those who share my never measuring up struggle, I can speak for myself when I write the following words. It only makes that struggle a million times worse when someone is condescending in their language to me ... when someone is blatantly rude to me ... when someone treats me with such disrespect that it causes me to weep ... when someone speaks badly about me and I overhear them.
I don't care who you are or what you do for a living or where you live or what church you go to or if you don't go to church at all or how you chew your food or what kind of clothes and shoes you wear or any of a plethora of other things ... every single person deserves to be treated with respect and honor and dignity and kindness and appreciated simply for being who they are. Period. Period. Period. Let me say that again in case you didn't get it the first time ... every single person deserves to be treated with respect and honor and dignity and kindness and appreciated simply for being who they are. No matter what. Period. Period. Period. You don't know and I don't know and no one knows what is going on in a person's life, and every single person deserves to be treated with respect and honor and dignity and kindness and appreciated simply for being who they are. And yes, I know I said that a lot ... if I had my way, those words would be tattooed on everyone as a permanent reminder of how our actions affect other people.
So what's the lesson I hope and pray I've learned? The lesson I hope and pray I always remember? I hope and pray that I have learned to never ever ever ever treat anyone as though they are less than me ... I hope and pray that I have learned to be kind to every single person I meet and even kinder to those I already know ... I hope and pray that I have learned to see others with a heart of respect and honor and love.
When I was growing up, my parents taught me some basic tenants as to how I should treat other people ... tenants that I hope I taught my children as well ... tenants that I try to live out every single day ... at least I am now anyway. Let me list a few of them for you:
Don't be rude to anyone ... ever.
Listen when other people are talking.
Don't interrupt unless it's an emergency.
Be respectful to your elders ... be respectful to your juniors ... be respectful to everyone.
Be kind to everyone you meet.
Tell the truth even when it's difficult.
Make time to play and have fun.
Keep your promises.
Honor your word.
Be helpful whenever possible.
Go the extra mile without being asked or told to.
Always buy something from the kid who is selling stuff for his or her school.
Don't be judgmental.
Stand up for those who are weak.
Don't be a bully.
Say please and thank you.
Give good candy on Halloween.
Show appreciation for what others do.
Don't play favorites.
Never ever think you are better than anyone else.
Speak with kindness, and remember that you catch more flies with honey than vinegar.
And above all else ... love unconditionally.
I'm sure that each of you could add to my list, and there are more things I could place on it as well. In fact, perhaps my tenants list should be considered to be a work in progress ... one that I add to as I grow older and hopefully wiser on this journey of life.
So what am I angry about, you ask? What do I feel the need to rant about? Well, here it is ... I struggle enough as it is to feel like I'm equal to everyone else ... I've struggled with feeling like I don't fit in my entire life. I honestly don't need any help or input from anyone on that issue, friends ... I don't need one ounce of help when it comes to being hard on myself. I know I'm not as smart as a lot of people. I know I'm not beautiful. I know I'm not a mover and shaker in the business world. I know I'm not rich. I know I don't know or understand anything about fashion. I know I'm not a leader in the community. I know I'm not as good or as pretty or as intelligent or as classy or as whatever trait you'd like to add as a ton of people ... I know all those things, and I've known them my whole life. And you know what else? I'm not the only person who has those thoughts or who struggles with feeling so very inadequate or so far below everyone else ... my guess is that some of you who are reading this post feel exactly the same way. And while I can't speak for those who share my never measuring up struggle, I can speak for myself when I write the following words. It only makes that struggle a million times worse when someone is condescending in their language to me ... when someone is blatantly rude to me ... when someone treats me with such disrespect that it causes me to weep ... when someone speaks badly about me and I overhear them.
I don't care who you are or what you do for a living or where you live or what church you go to or if you don't go to church at all or how you chew your food or what kind of clothes and shoes you wear or any of a plethora of other things ... every single person deserves to be treated with respect and honor and dignity and kindness and appreciated simply for being who they are. Period. Period. Period. Let me say that again in case you didn't get it the first time ... every single person deserves to be treated with respect and honor and dignity and kindness and appreciated simply for being who they are. No matter what. Period. Period. Period. You don't know and I don't know and no one knows what is going on in a person's life, and every single person deserves to be treated with respect and honor and dignity and kindness and appreciated simply for being who they are. And yes, I know I said that a lot ... if I had my way, those words would be tattooed on everyone as a permanent reminder of how our actions affect other people.
So what's the lesson I hope and pray I've learned? The lesson I hope and pray I always remember? I hope and pray that I have learned to never ever ever ever treat anyone as though they are less than me ... I hope and pray that I have learned to be kind to every single person I meet and even kinder to those I already know ... I hope and pray that I have learned to see others with a heart of respect and honor and love.
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