There's just
something extra special about the times when one of my kiddos stops by
to visit me unexpectedly, especially now that they are all adults. I'm
not sure I can even put into words why those visits mean so much to me
or why they evoke such different emotions than when our time together is
scheduled and planned out in advance. What I can say, however, is that
last Friday when my son Brad dropped by my office for a few minutes
after returning some camera equipment he had rented to a shop just down the street from our building ... when Brad dropped in unexpectedly to see me that day, it was
like medicine for my soul. I heard him talking with my friend Hilary at
the front desk, and I walked up behind him and wrapped my arms around
him and rested my head on his back. He reached up and placed his hands
over mine on his chest and held them as he talked, and it was one of
those sweet and tender moments between a mother and her all-grown-up
little boy ... one of those moments that couldn't have come at a better
time, a time when I needed so desperately to be able to wrap my arms
around my son and draw strength from the steady, unwavering
assurance of his love.
If you know Brad at all, you know that he's an outspoken fellow ... a young man who speaks his mind openly and freely about the things in life he's passionate about (think back to my previous posts about what our family lovingly refers to as "Brad rants"). There's no subject too tough for Brad, and he's especially fearless when it comes to speaking out about injustice or the unfair treatment of certain groups of people in society. While I sometimes disagree with my middle kiddo's approach, I truly admire Brad's willingness to stand up for his convictions no matter what repercussions may come his way. I can always count on Brad not to mince words, not to try and sugar coat or gloss over the hard stuff, and not to back down when things get uncomfortable. But I can also always count on Brad to love me unconditionally, to be ready in the blink of an eye to fight anyone who mistreats me and to defend my integrity and character against those who would judge or condemn me. I can always count on Brad to give it to me straight ... good stuff, bad stuff and all the stuff in between. Granted, now and again, what he has to say may be difficult for me to hear, but Brad always gives it to me straight.
Last week when I took a few days off from blogging, I mentioned that I needed some time to think and contemplate some decisions I need to make. In the course of that thinking time, I thought a lot about what I write in this blog ... the things I write about in my posts and the words I use or don't use. I thought about people who have suggested that I not write about certain subjects and those who suggest that I write more about certain subjects. I thought about how words can promote healing and acceptance, or how they can incite anger and hate. I thought about the words I write in this blog and the words I say when I speak. I thought about words that are hard and words that are easy. I thought a ton about how and what and when and why I write this blog, and I made a decision ... well, a decision I've been pondering for quite a while that some recent conversations caused me to realize I must address. So here's my decision ... I will write from my heart or I will stop writing. Period. That means there will be times when I will write about views or beliefs or opinions that will make some of you angry. It means I will write about things I believe to be true and honest and real. And that means sometimes my choice of topics will make some of you angry. But again, here's my decision ... I will write from my heart or I will stop writing. Period.
Now having said that, I'd like to leave you with something straight from my heart tonight ... yep, I'm going to pull a Bradley and just give it to you straight. I've learned some big lessons about the power of words over the last year ... now that's an understatement for sure, eh? And a whole lot of those lessons revolve around one small three-letter word ... you know the one I'm talking about, that one word. Three times today, I heard different people use that one word in a certain way ... a way I've heard that one word used a gazillion times ... a way that wounds me every time I hear it. Three times today, I heard the following statement ... "That's so gay." Things aren't gay ... people are. And things don't have feelings, friends ... but people surely do.
Tuesday, November 12, 2013
Monday, November 11, 2013
Are You a Boy or a Girl?
I'd be willing to bet that every single one of you can empathize with the following statement (and those of you who say you don't probably aren't telling the truth) ... for as far back as I can remember, there was at least one thing I didn't like about my body. Quite possibly one of those universally true statements, right? I could list so many things about my body I haven't liked down through the years ... but there's this one in particular, one that I truly hated and despised and was extremely self-conscious about. My neck used to be covered in dangly, ugly mole things called skin tags. No, really ... once the doctor removed 76 of them during one visit ... ummm, yep, that wasn't much fun. For years, I would go to the doctor and endure the pain of her snipping off the gross little pieces of skin, but they would always return and in even greater numbers than were there before. At least they did until I was diagnosed with diabetes a few years ago and got my blood sugar under control. I guess those pesky, ugly skin tags had a lot to do with the high levels of sugar in my body. The last time I had them removed was ... well ... it was the last time I had to have them removed because they never returned.
Now I'm sure you're wondering why in the world I would begin a post talking about the plethora of moles that used to be on my neck ... that's sort of a gross way to open an entry to my blog. Well, here's the thing ... people used to stare at the moles on my neck when they talked to me because they were ugly ... people used to tell me I needed to have them removed because they were ugly ... little kids used to say, "What are those things all over your neck?" And every single time someone stared or said something or questioned me about the skin tags, it hurt my feelings and made me even more self-conscious about them ... every single time. I remember one little boy on Matt's baseball team who was obsessed with the fact that my neck didn't look like other necks and if I had a nickel for every time that kid asked me if I had a disease or what was wrong with my neck, I'd be mega rich today.
There's been a video circulating on Facebook and other media channels for the last few days ... a video that a whole lot of people have forwarded to me along with a note telling me I needed to watch it. The clip is from a TED Talks presentation, and the speaker, Ash Beckham, is gay. She's got a great message about how we all have closets of some sort we hide in (it's not just gay folks who try to hide parts of who they are ... imagine that, eh?) and how living in any kind of closet is no way to live. But the part of the video that people seem to have latched onto is when she talks about how many times little kids ask her if she's a boy or a girl. She relates how angry that used to make her ... until one day she really saw the 4-year-old little girl who asked, "Are you a boy or a girl?" When she was able to see the child as just a kid ... a kid like every other kid ... her anger was replaced with patience and kindness and understanding.
To say that I can relate to so many things Ms. Beckham says in her speech would be an enormous understatement. I can relate to what she says about having hard conversations ... I've had more than a few of those over the last year or so of my life. I can relate to what she says about how some of those hard conversations ended up not being so hard after all. I can relate to what she says about being angry and remaining silent while I am really seething inside. I can relate to what she says about feeling safe in whatever closet you live in and how terrifyingly hard it is to open the door and take those first tentative steps out. I can relate to what she says about how keeping the truth about yourself a secret ... whether that truth is that you are bankrupt or you have cancer or you are divorcing your child's father or mother or that you are gay ... affects every part of both your mind and your body. And I can completely relate to the following poignant words from Ms. Beckham's speech ... "I was frozen by fear, curled up in the corner of my pitch-black closet clutching my gay grenade ... and moving one muscle was the scariest thing I've ever done."
I'm sure it wasn't random coincidence that the very next day after I watched Ms. Beckham's speech, something happened that made me acknowledge the hurt and anger I feel when the "boy or girl?" question is asked of me. Ollie and I had been for a long walk, and we were almost to my driveway when a little boy across the street hollered and asked if he and his friend could pet my dog. I saw his dad was working in their yard so I said, "Sure, but don't get in the street ... we'll come over there." I lifted my tired panting wiener dog into my arms and walked over and knelt down in front of the two little boys and told them Ollie's name. Without missing a beat, one of the boys said, "I thought you were a boy. You always wear a ball cap when you cut your grass and walk this Ollie and you have short hair. Are you a boy or a girl?" I took off my sunglasses and looked into the innocent blue eyes of the little boy and said, "I'm a girl, buddy ... I'm a girl who likes to wear ball caps." Again without missing a beat, the cute little guy with the curly blonde hair and pretty blue eyes said, "Oh. Is Ollie a wiener dog?" And in that moment I knew why all those people had sent me the video of Ms. Beckham's speech. They sent me the video because I needed to hear the truth contained within her words ... "We all have our own closets, and a closet is no place for anyone to live."
So to all the people who mistake me for a boy when I'm in line at Walmart wearing a ball cap and a sweatshirt that's three sizes too big ... or the lady who thought she was in the wrong restroom when she walked in and I was straightening my suspenders ... or the little kids who watch me mow my yard and walk my dog ... or all the other folks I've encountered over the years ... I'm a girl ... a girl who likes ball caps and Converse shoes and suspenders and button-down collared shirts and overalls and flannel shirts and cowboy boots. I love my short, spiky hair and I'd rather eat dog poop than wear a dress. But so much more ... so very much more ... I'm a girl who loves God and who knows that He loves me back. I'm a girl who loves her children and her granddaughter and her family and her friends and her dogs more than any of them will ever fully understand. I'm a girl who is loyal and dedicated and trustworthy and kind and compassionate and forgiving and gentle ... at least that's the girl I hope I am anyway. And that's the girl I hope I will always be.
Now I'm sure you're wondering why in the world I would begin a post talking about the plethora of moles that used to be on my neck ... that's sort of a gross way to open an entry to my blog. Well, here's the thing ... people used to stare at the moles on my neck when they talked to me because they were ugly ... people used to tell me I needed to have them removed because they were ugly ... little kids used to say, "What are those things all over your neck?" And every single time someone stared or said something or questioned me about the skin tags, it hurt my feelings and made me even more self-conscious about them ... every single time. I remember one little boy on Matt's baseball team who was obsessed with the fact that my neck didn't look like other necks and if I had a nickel for every time that kid asked me if I had a disease or what was wrong with my neck, I'd be mega rich today.
There's been a video circulating on Facebook and other media channels for the last few days ... a video that a whole lot of people have forwarded to me along with a note telling me I needed to watch it. The clip is from a TED Talks presentation, and the speaker, Ash Beckham, is gay. She's got a great message about how we all have closets of some sort we hide in (it's not just gay folks who try to hide parts of who they are ... imagine that, eh?) and how living in any kind of closet is no way to live. But the part of the video that people seem to have latched onto is when she talks about how many times little kids ask her if she's a boy or a girl. She relates how angry that used to make her ... until one day she really saw the 4-year-old little girl who asked, "Are you a boy or a girl?" When she was able to see the child as just a kid ... a kid like every other kid ... her anger was replaced with patience and kindness and understanding.
To say that I can relate to so many things Ms. Beckham says in her speech would be an enormous understatement. I can relate to what she says about having hard conversations ... I've had more than a few of those over the last year or so of my life. I can relate to what she says about how some of those hard conversations ended up not being so hard after all. I can relate to what she says about being angry and remaining silent while I am really seething inside. I can relate to what she says about feeling safe in whatever closet you live in and how terrifyingly hard it is to open the door and take those first tentative steps out. I can relate to what she says about how keeping the truth about yourself a secret ... whether that truth is that you are bankrupt or you have cancer or you are divorcing your child's father or mother or that you are gay ... affects every part of both your mind and your body. And I can completely relate to the following poignant words from Ms. Beckham's speech ... "I was frozen by fear, curled up in the corner of my pitch-black closet clutching my gay grenade ... and moving one muscle was the scariest thing I've ever done."
I'm sure it wasn't random coincidence that the very next day after I watched Ms. Beckham's speech, something happened that made me acknowledge the hurt and anger I feel when the "boy or girl?" question is asked of me. Ollie and I had been for a long walk, and we were almost to my driveway when a little boy across the street hollered and asked if he and his friend could pet my dog. I saw his dad was working in their yard so I said, "Sure, but don't get in the street ... we'll come over there." I lifted my tired panting wiener dog into my arms and walked over and knelt down in front of the two little boys and told them Ollie's name. Without missing a beat, one of the boys said, "I thought you were a boy. You always wear a ball cap when you cut your grass and walk this Ollie and you have short hair. Are you a boy or a girl?" I took off my sunglasses and looked into the innocent blue eyes of the little boy and said, "I'm a girl, buddy ... I'm a girl who likes to wear ball caps." Again without missing a beat, the cute little guy with the curly blonde hair and pretty blue eyes said, "Oh. Is Ollie a wiener dog?" And in that moment I knew why all those people had sent me the video of Ms. Beckham's speech. They sent me the video because I needed to hear the truth contained within her words ... "We all have our own closets, and a closet is no place for anyone to live."
So to all the people who mistake me for a boy when I'm in line at Walmart wearing a ball cap and a sweatshirt that's three sizes too big ... or the lady who thought she was in the wrong restroom when she walked in and I was straightening my suspenders ... or the little kids who watch me mow my yard and walk my dog ... or all the other folks I've encountered over the years ... I'm a girl ... a girl who likes ball caps and Converse shoes and suspenders and button-down collared shirts and overalls and flannel shirts and cowboy boots. I love my short, spiky hair and I'd rather eat dog poop than wear a dress. But so much more ... so very much more ... I'm a girl who loves God and who knows that He loves me back. I'm a girl who loves her children and her granddaughter and her family and her friends and her dogs more than any of them will ever fully understand. I'm a girl who is loyal and dedicated and trustworthy and kind and compassionate and forgiving and gentle ... at least that's the girl I hope I am anyway. And that's the girl I hope I will always be.
Saturday, November 9, 2013
He's Found That Lovin' Feeling
I'm probably not the only person in the world who automatically thinks of the movie Top Gun whenever I hear the song "You've Lost That Lovin' Feeling." I suppose it would be more accurate to say that I automatically have the picture in my mind of Maverick and Goose and all the other navy pilots joining in singing the song in an effort to help Mav, a.k.a. Tom Cruise, put the moves on Charlie Blackwood, whom he learns the next day holds a Ph.D. in astrophysics and is serving as an instructor at the Naval Fighter Weapons School known as Top Gun. Despite his best attempts to win the affections of the beautiful Dr. Blackwood, young Maverick finds himself rejected and alone in the women's restroom ... still looking quite handsome and dapper in his white naval uniform, but rejected and alone nonetheless.
It's long been known that there is a power that exists within an image captured on film, a power that far exceeds that of the written or spoken word ... hence the old adage "A picture is worth a thousand words" still holds true today. As I was researching the origin of that phrase ... it dates back to the early 20th century, by the way ... I ran across an addition to the original statement that really spoke to me in a big way.
"A picture is worth a thousand words, but a truly remarkable picture that captures the reality of human existence takes your breath away and leaves you speechless."
As I thought about what types of pictures would fit into that definition ... the definition that would qualify them as truly remarkable images of human existence ... I realized that those pictures are the ones that have been seared into my memory and branded onto my heart. Those pictures are the ones that have caused me to weep ... those are the ones that have touched the very core of my being ... those are the ones that have made me long to be a better person ... to care more, to love more, to do more. Even though I don't know the people in those pictures, they have become a part of me ... they have changed me because of their humanity, because of their existence, because of who they are. The people in the pictures that capture the reality of human existence take my breath away and leave me speechless for one reason and one reason only ... because they are real.
Unless you live under a rock, I'm sure you saw the pictures of Pope Francis that spread like wildfire across most of the worldwide media outlets yesterday. And I'm just as sure that there are probably thousands upon thousands of pictures of the Pope that were taken prior to the ones that surfaced yesterday ... thousands of pictures that most of us never even glanced at when they popped up in our newsfeeds. But the minute I saw the pictures yesterday ... they took my breath away ... they left me speechless ... they caused tears to course down my face. I'm not Catholic, and to be honest, I've never quite understood the role of the Pope in the Catholic church ... no offense meant in any way to those of you who are Catholic, by the way ... I was raised Protestant, and there's no equivalent to the Pope in my faith, no one man who is the head of the church whom everyone looks up to and reveres the way they do the Pope. You know what, though? It doesn't matter at all what I understand or don't understand about the fellow who is the leader of the Catholic church ... the pictures yesterday of that particular man in the white robes and the man he touched rocked the entire world. And those pictures rocked the entire world for one reason and one reason only ... because of the unmitigated honesty and realness of the people in them.
From everything I've read about the encounter that was captured through the camera lens between Pope Francis and the severely disfigured man who approached him to ask for prayer, the story is authentic, the man is real, and the Pope's response to him was immediate and unplanned. To a man that most people would consider hideous, frightening and perhaps even dangerous, Pope Francis offered up a prayer and a blessing. He embraced the man ... the Pope ... the leader of the Catholic church placed his hand on the boils that covered the man's face, pulled him close to his chest and kissed his forehead. I choose to believe that in that moment ... the moment when Pope Francis looked up and saw the man as he made his way to him ... I choose to believe that there was no thought given to cameras or media or anything other than reaching out to a man who must certainly be weary and worn from the trials and tribulations of life. I choose to believe that in that moment there was no Pope and no crowd of people watching ... I choose to believe that in that moment there was simply compassion and mercy and grace extended from one human soul to another ... I choose to believe that in that moment there was the love of God flowing from the hearts of two men on very different journeys in life ... I choose to believe that in that moment the world saw the true meaning of kindness and the incredible power of a simple touch.
I'm pretty sure I won't be able to get the pictures of Pope Francis and the ailing man out of my mind for a long time, and more important, I hope I never get them out of my heart. I've thought and thought and thought about the man, and I am certain that some of those thoughts will continue to haunt me ... perhaps they will haunt me forever. I wonder how long it's been since someone touched the man's face, dried his tears, held his hand ... I wonder. I wonder if he lives alone, if he stays hidden away from others, if he is ashamed of his appearance, if he is afraid for what lies ahead. I wonder how he found the courage to walk among the crowd and make his way to the Pope. I wonder if he knows that in doing so ... in being brave enough to allow the world to see him as he truly is ... I wonder if he knows how many people he has touched. I wonder if he knows how deeply he has touched me.
Every single one of us would do well to sear not just the pictures of Pope Francis touching the sick and wounded man into our minds, but to sear the truth and the meaning contained within them deeply into our hearts and souls. We would do well to learn that love, compassion, tenderness, acceptance and grace should transcend any and all boundaries we as humans place between one person and another. We would do well to practice mercy ... we would do well to demonstrate forgiveness ... we would do well to be unafraid of reaching out and touching the faces of those who are suffering ... we would do well to find that loving feeling ... that loving feeling found by a Pope and a sick man amidst the sea of humanity ... that loving feeling found when we open our hearts and embrace one another without judgment or condemnation ... we would do well to find that loving feeling ... we would do well, friends ... we would do well, friends ... we really would do well to find that loving feeling so many of us have lost.
It's long been known that there is a power that exists within an image captured on film, a power that far exceeds that of the written or spoken word ... hence the old adage "A picture is worth a thousand words" still holds true today. As I was researching the origin of that phrase ... it dates back to the early 20th century, by the way ... I ran across an addition to the original statement that really spoke to me in a big way.
"A picture is worth a thousand words, but a truly remarkable picture that captures the reality of human existence takes your breath away and leaves you speechless."
As I thought about what types of pictures would fit into that definition ... the definition that would qualify them as truly remarkable images of human existence ... I realized that those pictures are the ones that have been seared into my memory and branded onto my heart. Those pictures are the ones that have caused me to weep ... those are the ones that have touched the very core of my being ... those are the ones that have made me long to be a better person ... to care more, to love more, to do more. Even though I don't know the people in those pictures, they have become a part of me ... they have changed me because of their humanity, because of their existence, because of who they are. The people in the pictures that capture the reality of human existence take my breath away and leave me speechless for one reason and one reason only ... because they are real.
Unless you live under a rock, I'm sure you saw the pictures of Pope Francis that spread like wildfire across most of the worldwide media outlets yesterday. And I'm just as sure that there are probably thousands upon thousands of pictures of the Pope that were taken prior to the ones that surfaced yesterday ... thousands of pictures that most of us never even glanced at when they popped up in our newsfeeds. But the minute I saw the pictures yesterday ... they took my breath away ... they left me speechless ... they caused tears to course down my face. I'm not Catholic, and to be honest, I've never quite understood the role of the Pope in the Catholic church ... no offense meant in any way to those of you who are Catholic, by the way ... I was raised Protestant, and there's no equivalent to the Pope in my faith, no one man who is the head of the church whom everyone looks up to and reveres the way they do the Pope. You know what, though? It doesn't matter at all what I understand or don't understand about the fellow who is the leader of the Catholic church ... the pictures yesterday of that particular man in the white robes and the man he touched rocked the entire world. And those pictures rocked the entire world for one reason and one reason only ... because of the unmitigated honesty and realness of the people in them.
From everything I've read about the encounter that was captured through the camera lens between Pope Francis and the severely disfigured man who approached him to ask for prayer, the story is authentic, the man is real, and the Pope's response to him was immediate and unplanned. To a man that most people would consider hideous, frightening and perhaps even dangerous, Pope Francis offered up a prayer and a blessing. He embraced the man ... the Pope ... the leader of the Catholic church placed his hand on the boils that covered the man's face, pulled him close to his chest and kissed his forehead. I choose to believe that in that moment ... the moment when Pope Francis looked up and saw the man as he made his way to him ... I choose to believe that there was no thought given to cameras or media or anything other than reaching out to a man who must certainly be weary and worn from the trials and tribulations of life. I choose to believe that in that moment there was no Pope and no crowd of people watching ... I choose to believe that in that moment there was simply compassion and mercy and grace extended from one human soul to another ... I choose to believe that in that moment there was the love of God flowing from the hearts of two men on very different journeys in life ... I choose to believe that in that moment the world saw the true meaning of kindness and the incredible power of a simple touch.I'm pretty sure I won't be able to get the pictures of Pope Francis and the ailing man out of my mind for a long time, and more important, I hope I never get them out of my heart. I've thought and thought and thought about the man, and I am certain that some of those thoughts will continue to haunt me ... perhaps they will haunt me forever. I wonder how long it's been since someone touched the man's face, dried his tears, held his hand ... I wonder. I wonder if he lives alone, if he stays hidden away from others, if he is ashamed of his appearance, if he is afraid for what lies ahead. I wonder how he found the courage to walk among the crowd and make his way to the Pope. I wonder if he knows that in doing so ... in being brave enough to allow the world to see him as he truly is ... I wonder if he knows how many people he has touched. I wonder if he knows how deeply he has touched me.
Every single one of us would do well to sear not just the pictures of Pope Francis touching the sick and wounded man into our minds, but to sear the truth and the meaning contained within them deeply into our hearts and souls. We would do well to learn that love, compassion, tenderness, acceptance and grace should transcend any and all boundaries we as humans place between one person and another. We would do well to practice mercy ... we would do well to demonstrate forgiveness ... we would do well to be unafraid of reaching out and touching the faces of those who are suffering ... we would do well to find that loving feeling ... that loving feeling found by a Pope and a sick man amidst the sea of humanity ... that loving feeling found when we open our hearts and embrace one another without judgment or condemnation ... we would do well to find that loving feeling ... we would do well, friends ... we would do well, friends ... we really would do well to find that loving feeling so many of us have lost.
Thursday, November 7, 2013
Ember Me This
It's been cold in Kansas City for the last couple of days. Cold enough that the grass in my yard was covered with a thick layer of frost that crunched under Julie and Ollie's feet when I took them outside this morning. Cold enough that I turned up the heat a few degrees in my house when I got home from work last night. Cold enough that I could see my breath as I exhaled when Ollie and I were walking in the dark of the evening. Cold enough that the few hours I slept last night found me snuggled into my favorite flannel jammies. Cold enough that I broke out my winter coat, gloves and scarf for the walk from my car through the parking lot to the door of the building where I work. Cold enough that the people in my office were clamoring for me to build a fire in the fireplace before I even reached my desk. It hasn't been bitterly cold, mind you, but it has been cold enough ... cold enough ... it has been cold enough.
I used to love the winter, back when my small frame was covered with a hundred more pounds of insulation than it has now. I'm sure there were times back then when I would get cold, but it was never like the cold I feel now. When I get cold now, it almost feels as if someone has injected ice water into my veins. I often feel as though the coldness has taken up residence deep inside my bones, and it's almost impossible for me to get warm once I get cold. I can put on multiple layers of clothing, wrap myself in heated blankets, burrow in my bed with my dogs added into the mix of clothing and blankets, and still be cold. There's only one thing I've found that will warm me during those times when the cold I feel is so very, very, very cold, and that's taking a really long, really hot shower. The only thing is that if I don't layer up again the minute I step out of the steaming water, the bone-chilling cold returns in full force ... and more often than not, that cold ... the cold that returns ... is far deeper and much harder to rid myself of than its freezing predecessor.
I'm not sure how many fires I've built in various fireplaces down through the years ... at the least, I'm sure the number would be well into the hundreds. As is true in so many things in my life these days, it seems that some of the most profoundly important lessons I need to learn appear in the midst of an act or task I've performed countless times. Such was the case today ... such was the case today when I finally understood ... when I finally got it ... when I finally paid attention to the truth that had been right in front of my eyes for years and years and years. A truth that will challenge me in ways I've never been challenged before. A truth that will change me and cause me to become a better person. A truth that will charge its way into the crevices of my heart and soul and beckon me to remember that there is a plan and a purpose for every single season of my life.
Every now and again, one of my co-workers will toss a log onto the fire should it threaten to burn out. But as I've written about in previous posts, keeping the fire burning throughout the day is generally my job because everyone in our office knows that tending to the fire is something I truly love to do. For the most part, I keep the fire roaring, especially on really, really cold or snowy days. Sometimes, however, I get so busy that I forget to check on the fire and by the time I remember to make sure it's still burning, I find only slightly glowing embers surrounded by ashes rather than brightly colored flames leaping from a stack of wood. It was just after lunch when I walked to the fireplace that stands so regally at the end of a large open area on our main floor and saw only a few embers that held just a trace of orange. I walked behind the fireplace to the cubby where we keep the firewood and grabbed a couple of pieces and placed them on the metal grate on top of the few measly embers.
"I'll just have to build another fire," I thought as I placed two more pieces of wood atop the others. "There's nothing left here to cause the fire to burn again ... there's not enough fire left ... it's too close to being out ... it won't burn again ... it's too far gone to burn again." And almost as soon as the thought formed in my mind, I watched in amazement as the wood I had placed over the embers began to burn ... no, that's not correct ... I watched in amazement as the new wood began to blaze with flames that were even stronger and brighter than they had been when I first built the fire this morning. Tears filled my eyes as I stood gazing at the giant flames ... I stood in wonder looking at the fire I thought was gone ... the fire I thought had burned out ... the fire I thought could never be rekindled. I stood in wonder looking on as the fire that I thought was dead now burned with such ferocity and intensity, flames leaping higher and higher as the wood that fueled their existence popped and cracked and sizzled like firecrackers on the fourth of July.
The last few days have been difficult ones for me ... days filled with questions whose answers continue to elude me ... days filled with doubts that cause me to feel as though I have failed at what matters most ... days filled with issues I can no longer deny ... days filled with decisions I have no choice but to make ... days filled with a permeating cold that tediously and tirelessly worked to consume me. And as I stood in front of the popping, crackling, sizzling, flaming, burning wood today, I knew ... I knew ... I knew ... I knew my fire has almost burned out. I knew the events of the last couple of weeks have taken a toll on my heart and have exacted a great price from my soul. I knew that where once a blazing fire had roared, now only a few smoldering, barely glowing embers remained. As I watched the almost burned-out fire in the fireplace erupt with new life, I knew ... I knew ... I knew ... I knew what it meant ... I knew what God was telling me ... I knew what I must do.
To those of you who've written to me over the last several days and asked whether I plan to continue writing this blog, I want to give you the most honest answer I can. That's one of the tough decisions I've been wrestling with this week ... and that's one of the decisions I've actually been able to make. I know there are those who disagree with what I write from time to time (or most of the time), but I also know that I can't not write from my heart. That's where the decision part comes in ... do I write from a place of believing that my words may help others who can relate to both my joys and my struggles? Or do I not write from a place of fearing that my words may cause hurt or pain to those who have differing views? For now, I feel that I must continue writing ... I feel that I am called to continue writing. I feel that to do anything less would be cowardice in its truest form, and even more, it would be running away from what I know deep in my heart I am meant to do.
Sorry for the length of tonight's post, but ember me this ... my fire is trying desperately to get rekindled ... my fire is trying its best to embrace the glow of the embers that remain ... my fire is trying with all its might to erupt with new life and burn brightly once again. Ember me this, friends ... ember me this.
I used to love the winter, back when my small frame was covered with a hundred more pounds of insulation than it has now. I'm sure there were times back then when I would get cold, but it was never like the cold I feel now. When I get cold now, it almost feels as if someone has injected ice water into my veins. I often feel as though the coldness has taken up residence deep inside my bones, and it's almost impossible for me to get warm once I get cold. I can put on multiple layers of clothing, wrap myself in heated blankets, burrow in my bed with my dogs added into the mix of clothing and blankets, and still be cold. There's only one thing I've found that will warm me during those times when the cold I feel is so very, very, very cold, and that's taking a really long, really hot shower. The only thing is that if I don't layer up again the minute I step out of the steaming water, the bone-chilling cold returns in full force ... and more often than not, that cold ... the cold that returns ... is far deeper and much harder to rid myself of than its freezing predecessor.
I'm not sure how many fires I've built in various fireplaces down through the years ... at the least, I'm sure the number would be well into the hundreds. As is true in so many things in my life these days, it seems that some of the most profoundly important lessons I need to learn appear in the midst of an act or task I've performed countless times. Such was the case today ... such was the case today when I finally understood ... when I finally got it ... when I finally paid attention to the truth that had been right in front of my eyes for years and years and years. A truth that will challenge me in ways I've never been challenged before. A truth that will change me and cause me to become a better person. A truth that will charge its way into the crevices of my heart and soul and beckon me to remember that there is a plan and a purpose for every single season of my life.
Every now and again, one of my co-workers will toss a log onto the fire should it threaten to burn out. But as I've written about in previous posts, keeping the fire burning throughout the day is generally my job because everyone in our office knows that tending to the fire is something I truly love to do. For the most part, I keep the fire roaring, especially on really, really cold or snowy days. Sometimes, however, I get so busy that I forget to check on the fire and by the time I remember to make sure it's still burning, I find only slightly glowing embers surrounded by ashes rather than brightly colored flames leaping from a stack of wood. It was just after lunch when I walked to the fireplace that stands so regally at the end of a large open area on our main floor and saw only a few embers that held just a trace of orange. I walked behind the fireplace to the cubby where we keep the firewood and grabbed a couple of pieces and placed them on the metal grate on top of the few measly embers.
"I'll just have to build another fire," I thought as I placed two more pieces of wood atop the others. "There's nothing left here to cause the fire to burn again ... there's not enough fire left ... it's too close to being out ... it won't burn again ... it's too far gone to burn again." And almost as soon as the thought formed in my mind, I watched in amazement as the wood I had placed over the embers began to burn ... no, that's not correct ... I watched in amazement as the new wood began to blaze with flames that were even stronger and brighter than they had been when I first built the fire this morning. Tears filled my eyes as I stood gazing at the giant flames ... I stood in wonder looking at the fire I thought was gone ... the fire I thought had burned out ... the fire I thought could never be rekindled. I stood in wonder looking on as the fire that I thought was dead now burned with such ferocity and intensity, flames leaping higher and higher as the wood that fueled their existence popped and cracked and sizzled like firecrackers on the fourth of July.
The last few days have been difficult ones for me ... days filled with questions whose answers continue to elude me ... days filled with doubts that cause me to feel as though I have failed at what matters most ... days filled with issues I can no longer deny ... days filled with decisions I have no choice but to make ... days filled with a permeating cold that tediously and tirelessly worked to consume me. And as I stood in front of the popping, crackling, sizzling, flaming, burning wood today, I knew ... I knew ... I knew ... I knew my fire has almost burned out. I knew the events of the last couple of weeks have taken a toll on my heart and have exacted a great price from my soul. I knew that where once a blazing fire had roared, now only a few smoldering, barely glowing embers remained. As I watched the almost burned-out fire in the fireplace erupt with new life, I knew ... I knew ... I knew ... I knew what it meant ... I knew what God was telling me ... I knew what I must do.
To those of you who've written to me over the last several days and asked whether I plan to continue writing this blog, I want to give you the most honest answer I can. That's one of the tough decisions I've been wrestling with this week ... and that's one of the decisions I've actually been able to make. I know there are those who disagree with what I write from time to time (or most of the time), but I also know that I can't not write from my heart. That's where the decision part comes in ... do I write from a place of believing that my words may help others who can relate to both my joys and my struggles? Or do I not write from a place of fearing that my words may cause hurt or pain to those who have differing views? For now, I feel that I must continue writing ... I feel that I am called to continue writing. I feel that to do anything less would be cowardice in its truest form, and even more, it would be running away from what I know deep in my heart I am meant to do.
Sorry for the length of tonight's post, but ember me this ... my fire is trying desperately to get rekindled ... my fire is trying its best to embrace the glow of the embers that remain ... my fire is trying with all its might to erupt with new life and burn brightly once again. Ember me this, friends ... ember me this.
Sunday, November 3, 2013
Dear Heart
There are some days I will never forget, and the day my dad had open heart surgery is one of them. He was in Nashville, and I was in Chattanooga. Only two hours away by car, but it felt like a million miles separated us that day. I talked to Daddy the night before on the phone, and I told him I loved him. He said he was scared, and I told him that everything was going to be OK. He told me to tell Matt that he loved him, and I told him he could tell him when he got home. Daddy was crying, and so was I. Daddy was scared, and so was I. I knew there were things he wanted to tell me, and he knew there were things I wanted to tell him. But there wasn't enough time that night because the surgery was early the next morning. Daddy said goodbye, and I told him I would see him soon.
I didn't sleep much that night, and I learned later that Daddy didn't either. I spent a lot of time that night praying for him, and I learned later that he spent a lot of time that night praying for Mom and me and Sis and Tommy. Sis called to tell me when Daddy went into surgery, and I prayed all day. I prayed for his heart to keep beating. I prayed for his heart to stay strong. I prayed for his doctor's hands to be steady. I prayed for my son to have the chance to know his grandfather's heart. I prayed for Daddy to live. I prayed that God wouldn't take him because of who I was. I prayed for his heart to keep beating. I prayed for his heart to stay strong. I prayed for my Daddy to live. And he did.
My heart is heavy tonight ... it's been heavy for a while. As I walked with Ollie today in the late afternoon, the blustery wind cut through my sweatshirt like a knife. The clouds that covered the sky were gray, and the air was cold. It was when I whispered, "My heart hurts, God ... my heart hurts," that I began to think about the day of Daddy's heart surgery. And I remembered Daddy saying he needed to have a talk with his heart. And I thought about what I prayed that day. And I thought about having a talk with my own heart and what I would say.
Dear Heart,
I know you're hurting. A lot. And I know you've been hurting for a while. I know you feel like the pain will never end. But it will. You need to believe me. It will. You and I are in this together and I know the hurting will end one day. You've hurt before, and you kept beating. You've ached before, and you stayed strong. The Doctor's hands are steady. C.J. needs to know the real you. I know you're hurting. I know you will get better. I know you're tired. I know you will get rested. Keep beating. Stay strong. Live."
(I'm taking a break from writing for at least a couple of days, friends, and maybe a little longer. I need some time to think about some things and make some decisions. Take care of one another and be kind to each other. See you soon.)
I didn't sleep much that night, and I learned later that Daddy didn't either. I spent a lot of time that night praying for him, and I learned later that he spent a lot of time that night praying for Mom and me and Sis and Tommy. Sis called to tell me when Daddy went into surgery, and I prayed all day. I prayed for his heart to keep beating. I prayed for his heart to stay strong. I prayed for his doctor's hands to be steady. I prayed for my son to have the chance to know his grandfather's heart. I prayed for Daddy to live. I prayed that God wouldn't take him because of who I was. I prayed for his heart to keep beating. I prayed for his heart to stay strong. I prayed for my Daddy to live. And he did.
My heart is heavy tonight ... it's been heavy for a while. As I walked with Ollie today in the late afternoon, the blustery wind cut through my sweatshirt like a knife. The clouds that covered the sky were gray, and the air was cold. It was when I whispered, "My heart hurts, God ... my heart hurts," that I began to think about the day of Daddy's heart surgery. And I remembered Daddy saying he needed to have a talk with his heart. And I thought about what I prayed that day. And I thought about having a talk with my own heart and what I would say.
Dear Heart,
I know you're hurting. A lot. And I know you've been hurting for a while. I know you feel like the pain will never end. But it will. You need to believe me. It will. You and I are in this together and I know the hurting will end one day. You've hurt before, and you kept beating. You've ached before, and you stayed strong. The Doctor's hands are steady. C.J. needs to know the real you. I know you're hurting. I know you will get better. I know you're tired. I know you will get rested. Keep beating. Stay strong. Live."
(I'm taking a break from writing for at least a couple of days, friends, and maybe a little longer. I need some time to think about some things and make some decisions. Take care of one another and be kind to each other. See you soon.)
Friday, November 1, 2013
I'd Rather Be a Cowgirl
On the shelf next to my desk at work is a rather unique ceramic picture frame with moose around the edges. The frame was a secret Santa gift from a co-worker the first Christmas after I came to work at SHS ... that was 11 years ago, so the fact that I still have the frame prominently displayed means that it must be pretty special to me. Not only do I still have the frame perched in a location where I see it every day that I'm at work, it still contains the same photo I placed in it when I received it. I've thought about replacing the photo with a newer, more up-to-date shot of me and my children, but the truth is that the family photo that's in the frame is one of my favorite pictures of me and my kiddos. We all have on cowboy hats, and Meghann and I have on overalls, and the backdrop is Adams Falls, a gorgeous waterfall in Rocky Mountain National Park. It's not the hats or the overalls or the gorgeous scenery that makes that particular photo so very special to me ... it's the smiles on the faces of my three children, smiles that reflect what a fun and happy time we had together that day.
Every day when I look at my moose frame on the shelf, I can't help but think about the shoes that Meghann was wearing that day ... shoes that she wore almost every day until she could no longer squeeze her feet into them. They were red ... red leather cowgirl boots that matched the red cowboy hat that sat atop her silky blonde hair. I don't remember what sparked Meg's boot phase, nor do I remember where the red boots came from ... but I do remember how much my little girl loved those boots. Just a couple of weeks ago, Meghann and Barrett were in town and stopped by my office to visit with me for a few minutes. For some reason, Meghann's attention was drawn to the old picture in my ceramic moose frame, and I smiled as she told her husband about her beloved red cowgirl boots. Though it was my grown-up, married daughter telling the story, that's not the Meghann I saw in my mind ... I saw a little girl ... I saw my little girl in her much-loved red cowgirl boots, red hat and overalls.
A lot of the gals in my office wear boots ... some wear dressy boots, some wear casual boots and some wear cowgirl boots. It's been many years since I've worn cowgirl boots, though I used to wear them all the time when I was young. Maybe it's part of the whole midlife crisis thing, but I've been having some really serious boot envy lately ... and I do mean really serious boot envy. The people who sit near me have had to endure my lamenting about wanting a pair of boots for several weeks now, so when one of them told me about a western store that would negotiate on their prices, I decided to go have a look over my lunch hour today. After trying on several pairs of boots and haggling with the sales guy on price, I left the store with a pair of cowgirl boots that are, in the words of my friends at work ... totally freaking awesome. And get this ... since the boots were the last pair they had in that particular style and they just so happened to be my size, I purchased them for less than half of the original price. I wore them for the rest of the afternoon at work, even though I looked kind of dumb in my jeans, Converse hoodie and cowgirl boots. But I didn't care, and neither did anyone else. There is one thing they do care about, though ... they care about me being happy, and if wearing my new cowgirl boots with a zip-up hoodie made me happy, that's all that mattered to them. There's a lesson there, you know ... a great big old lesson that I'm going to let you figure out on your own.
I really like my new boots ... you know ... Meghann used to sleep in hers sometimes ... and I am really tired and sleepy tonight ... hmmmm.
Every day when I look at my moose frame on the shelf, I can't help but think about the shoes that Meghann was wearing that day ... shoes that she wore almost every day until she could no longer squeeze her feet into them. They were red ... red leather cowgirl boots that matched the red cowboy hat that sat atop her silky blonde hair. I don't remember what sparked Meg's boot phase, nor do I remember where the red boots came from ... but I do remember how much my little girl loved those boots. Just a couple of weeks ago, Meghann and Barrett were in town and stopped by my office to visit with me for a few minutes. For some reason, Meghann's attention was drawn to the old picture in my ceramic moose frame, and I smiled as she told her husband about her beloved red cowgirl boots. Though it was my grown-up, married daughter telling the story, that's not the Meghann I saw in my mind ... I saw a little girl ... I saw my little girl in her much-loved red cowgirl boots, red hat and overalls.
A lot of the gals in my office wear boots ... some wear dressy boots, some wear casual boots and some wear cowgirl boots. It's been many years since I've worn cowgirl boots, though I used to wear them all the time when I was young. Maybe it's part of the whole midlife crisis thing, but I've been having some really serious boot envy lately ... and I do mean really serious boot envy. The people who sit near me have had to endure my lamenting about wanting a pair of boots for several weeks now, so when one of them told me about a western store that would negotiate on their prices, I decided to go have a look over my lunch hour today. After trying on several pairs of boots and haggling with the sales guy on price, I left the store with a pair of cowgirl boots that are, in the words of my friends at work ... totally freaking awesome. And get this ... since the boots were the last pair they had in that particular style and they just so happened to be my size, I purchased them for less than half of the original price. I wore them for the rest of the afternoon at work, even though I looked kind of dumb in my jeans, Converse hoodie and cowgirl boots. But I didn't care, and neither did anyone else. There is one thing they do care about, though ... they care about me being happy, and if wearing my new cowgirl boots with a zip-up hoodie made me happy, that's all that mattered to them. There's a lesson there, you know ... a great big old lesson that I'm going to let you figure out on your own.
I really like my new boots ... you know ... Meghann used to sleep in hers sometimes ... and I am really tired and sleepy tonight ... hmmmm.
Wednesday, October 30, 2013
Mum's the Word
One of the most frequent whines I heard from my three children when they were young involved secrets. More specifically, one of them would tell another one of them something they didn't want the third one to know and the third one would invariably find out that the other two knew something he or she didn't and would come to me and whine in a high-pitched voice, "Mooooommmmmm ... they are telling secrets, and that's not faaaaiiirrrr! Make them tell me, Mom ... it's not fair for them to keep secrets!!!" And without fail, those words were accompanied by substantial amounts of tears coursing down their rosy little cheeks and some quite significant stomping of their small sneaker-clad feet. Sometimes I think back to the days of raising my kids as a single mom and I think it's a wonder that I'm not crazier than I am. Here's a shout-out to those of you who are single parents today ... don't give up, because I promise you that one day the payoff will be something far sweeter than you can possibly even begin to imagine.
Over the years in my career as an editor, I've read millions of words. And a great deal of those words involve confidential subject matter, both in regard to clients and the companies where I've been employed. My first real job as an editor was for an engineering firm, and I hadn't been there very long when I was asked to be the lead person on the team that was responsible for reading the plans for nuclear power plants that were being built around the world. I will never forget the words of my supervisor when I asked why she chose me for the position ... "Because you are the best editor I've ever encountered, and because you understand and respect the necessity of complete confidentiality concerning the documents you will be reading." She didn't realize it, but my supervisor taught me two incredible lessons that day ... how vitally important it is to choose to work with people of integrity, and that trust is a gift that should always be respected, protected and honored. I've thought of Mary several times this week when the leaders of our company gave me documents containing confidential information to edit. They give me those types of documents to read because they know without a doubt that they can trust me implicitly to never reveal anything within them. They also know I'm the best of the best when it comes to editing ... just sayin'.
While I learned many years ago how important trust and integrity are in the workplace, I believe that some of the greatest lessons I've ever learned about trust and integrity on a personal level have come over the last year of my life. Some of those lessons have been hard ones to learn ... lessons learned from people I once trusted so deeply who decided we could no longer be friends. Some of the lessons have been kinder and easier ... lessons taught to me by those who have demonstrated their unconditional love and trustworthy character to me time and time and time again. I've come to understand in a way I never have before that I want to be the kind of person others can trust. I've learned that there is a trust that is forged through the fire ... trust that is sparked in the darkest of times ... trust that is strong and lasting and worthy. But the greatest thing ... the very, very, very greatest thing I've learned about trust in the last year? That God is always and forever worthy of my trust ... no matter whether my joy overflows or my despair threatens to overtake me ... He will never ever leave me or forsake me ... never, never ever.
There's an old saying ... you can't see the forest for the trees. Mum's the word ... trust me.
Over the years in my career as an editor, I've read millions of words. And a great deal of those words involve confidential subject matter, both in regard to clients and the companies where I've been employed. My first real job as an editor was for an engineering firm, and I hadn't been there very long when I was asked to be the lead person on the team that was responsible for reading the plans for nuclear power plants that were being built around the world. I will never forget the words of my supervisor when I asked why she chose me for the position ... "Because you are the best editor I've ever encountered, and because you understand and respect the necessity of complete confidentiality concerning the documents you will be reading." She didn't realize it, but my supervisor taught me two incredible lessons that day ... how vitally important it is to choose to work with people of integrity, and that trust is a gift that should always be respected, protected and honored. I've thought of Mary several times this week when the leaders of our company gave me documents containing confidential information to edit. They give me those types of documents to read because they know without a doubt that they can trust me implicitly to never reveal anything within them. They also know I'm the best of the best when it comes to editing ... just sayin'.
While I learned many years ago how important trust and integrity are in the workplace, I believe that some of the greatest lessons I've ever learned about trust and integrity on a personal level have come over the last year of my life. Some of those lessons have been hard ones to learn ... lessons learned from people I once trusted so deeply who decided we could no longer be friends. Some of the lessons have been kinder and easier ... lessons taught to me by those who have demonstrated their unconditional love and trustworthy character to me time and time and time again. I've come to understand in a way I never have before that I want to be the kind of person others can trust. I've learned that there is a trust that is forged through the fire ... trust that is sparked in the darkest of times ... trust that is strong and lasting and worthy. But the greatest thing ... the very, very, very greatest thing I've learned about trust in the last year? That God is always and forever worthy of my trust ... no matter whether my joy overflows or my despair threatens to overtake me ... He will never ever leave me or forsake me ... never, never ever.
There's an old saying ... you can't see the forest for the trees. Mum's the word ... trust me.
Monday, October 28, 2013
The F Word
For the hundreds of things my former supervisor taught me (or tried to teach me, as the case may be) over the almost 11 years that we worked together, there's one that I will forever remember ... "Perception is reality." While Donna's intended lesson for me in those three words was related to my job, there's a far deeper meaning and a far greater truth contained within them than just how I respond to the requirements of my position at work. Donna was correct in her statement that the way people perceive a person's abilities in the workplace setting often determines that person's reality in the office environment. For example, I am the person who lights the fire in the fireplace at the office every morning during the winter months ... I've been lighting the fire in the fireplace at the office for years now. Though I can't quite remember how I gained ownership of that particular task, it has become one of my favorite things to do. I absolutely love lighting the fire and keeping it burning throughout the day, and I'm good at it because my dad taught me the art of fire building when I was young. Remember, perception is reality ... keep reading.
Last week, the temperature was chilly enough to have a fire a couple of days ... I was beyond excited to get to the office on those days and get the fire going. Our company has grown a ton this year, and we have a lot of new employees who came on board during the summer months when there was no fire in the fireplace. They've never seen me build a fire or keep it stoked and roaring throughout the day. They've never watched me stack the wood in the cubby behind the fireplace or carefully arrange the wood on the metal grate each morning. They've never viewed the way I gently remove the ashes or clean the tools every couple of weeks. But ... but ... but ... they have heard that I am the keeper of the fire ... they have heard that I am the master fire builder ... they have heard that I am the queen of any and all things fireplace related. They perceive me to be the best fire builder, firewood tender and fireplace guru in all of SHS land ... the new folks don't know for sure that I am those things because they haven't experienced winter at our office yet. But they perceive those things to be true about me and therefore those things have become reality to them even though they had not witnessed my master fire building skills until last week. And the thing that is truly fascinating to me? Everyone in my office trusts that I will always have a warm fire burning for them on the cold days ... go ahead ... think about that one for a while, because I sure have.
Perception is reality ... when you read the title of my post tonight, I'd be willing to bet that a large majority of you immediately perceived that my subject matter would be about some controversial topic. Perhaps it would be about the dangers of using four-letter words, especially "that" four-letter word. Perhaps it would be about the derogatory word addressing the young server's sexuality that was used in the note that was left for him in lieu of a tip. Perhaps it would be about a personal confession from me concerning ... heck, I don't know what I've got left to confess really, but I know some of you read my blog with the hope that I'm going to confess some other big life-altering secret. If you're honest, many of you instantly thought of one particular word when you read the title to my post tonight ... and the sad truth to me is that there are many of you who thought I would write about that particular f word because your perception of me has changed since I opened up and told the truth about my sexuality. I can argue until I'm blue in the face that I'm the same person with the same moral and ethical code and the same values I had last year or the year before that or the year before that ... but it doesn't matter because your perception of me has become your reality of me.
The f word? There are hundreds of them, you know ... f words like faithful or frugal or furry or forever or frightened or freedom or fair or fun or forgotten or frosting or fight or father or future or fast or feasible or frenetic or fit or fascinating or friend or favor or flashlight or failure or feather or fine ... or ... or ... or ... my list could go on and on and on and on. I have a favorite f word, by the way ... it's forgiveness. If perception is reality, then that is mine ... the most important gift God ever gave any of us is forgiveness ... His for us and ours for one another. The f word ... forgiveness ... think about it.
Last week, the temperature was chilly enough to have a fire a couple of days ... I was beyond excited to get to the office on those days and get the fire going. Our company has grown a ton this year, and we have a lot of new employees who came on board during the summer months when there was no fire in the fireplace. They've never seen me build a fire or keep it stoked and roaring throughout the day. They've never watched me stack the wood in the cubby behind the fireplace or carefully arrange the wood on the metal grate each morning. They've never viewed the way I gently remove the ashes or clean the tools every couple of weeks. But ... but ... but ... they have heard that I am the keeper of the fire ... they have heard that I am the master fire builder ... they have heard that I am the queen of any and all things fireplace related. They perceive me to be the best fire builder, firewood tender and fireplace guru in all of SHS land ... the new folks don't know for sure that I am those things because they haven't experienced winter at our office yet. But they perceive those things to be true about me and therefore those things have become reality to them even though they had not witnessed my master fire building skills until last week. And the thing that is truly fascinating to me? Everyone in my office trusts that I will always have a warm fire burning for them on the cold days ... go ahead ... think about that one for a while, because I sure have.
Perception is reality ... when you read the title of my post tonight, I'd be willing to bet that a large majority of you immediately perceived that my subject matter would be about some controversial topic. Perhaps it would be about the dangers of using four-letter words, especially "that" four-letter word. Perhaps it would be about the derogatory word addressing the young server's sexuality that was used in the note that was left for him in lieu of a tip. Perhaps it would be about a personal confession from me concerning ... heck, I don't know what I've got left to confess really, but I know some of you read my blog with the hope that I'm going to confess some other big life-altering secret. If you're honest, many of you instantly thought of one particular word when you read the title to my post tonight ... and the sad truth to me is that there are many of you who thought I would write about that particular f word because your perception of me has changed since I opened up and told the truth about my sexuality. I can argue until I'm blue in the face that I'm the same person with the same moral and ethical code and the same values I had last year or the year before that or the year before that ... but it doesn't matter because your perception of me has become your reality of me.
The f word? There are hundreds of them, you know ... f words like faithful or frugal or furry or forever or frightened or freedom or fair or fun or forgotten or frosting or fight or father or future or fast or feasible or frenetic or fit or fascinating or friend or favor or flashlight or failure or feather or fine ... or ... or ... or ... my list could go on and on and on and on. I have a favorite f word, by the way ... it's forgiveness. If perception is reality, then that is mine ... the most important gift God ever gave any of us is forgiveness ... His for us and ours for one another. The f word ... forgiveness ... think about it.
Saturday, October 26, 2013
The Perfect Catch
As is true in most small towns, the town I grew up in had a street that we always called "the main drag" ... we called it that because most of the important places in Red Bank, Tennessee, were located along that street ... Dayton Boulevard. Red Bank Baptist Church was on Dayton Boulevard ... Shoney's was on Dayton Boulevard ... the Dairy Delite ice cream joint was on Dayton Boulevard ... the Red Bank Hardware store was on Dayton Boulevard ... the Red Bank Drugstore was on Dayton Boulevard. All of the important places in Red Bank were located on Dayton Boulevard, including the high school I graduated from in 1977 ... wow, I am old, eh? I'm sure many of you think the high school you once attended or currently attend are special places, and I'm sure many of them are. But Red Bank High School was an extra, extra, extra special place ... the building was filled with character ... the kind of character that often comes with older buildings ... the kind of character that lived in every old metal locker, every piece of creaking wood, every dripping faucet, every rumbling metal radiator, every stone and every brick.
Earlier this year, Red Bank High School (which had actually become the middle school several years ago) was torn down. When I first read about the scheduled demolition of the old building, my eyes immediately filled with tears as quickly as my mind filled with memories. Memories of special teachers and extra special friends. Memories of simple things like coat racks and the smell of the biology lab. Memories of events like homecoming and sock hops and senior prom. Memories of my brother Jerry and basketball games, and of a beloved principal who suddenly passed away. Memories of wooden hallways and leaking windows, and of old metal lights and carvings in the desktops. Memories of blankets and the Red Bank Lions football games, and of hidden kisses under the bleachers. So many memories of times spent in that old building ... so very many sweet and tender memories indeed.
There's a high school close to where I live here in Kansas City, and behind the school is a long drive that runs along the edge of the football practice field. Sometimes I get bored with taking the same route time after time when Ollie and I head out for our evening walks, so occasionally we walk down the long drive and up another drive that cuts between the high school and the middle school. We've been walking that route quite a bit lately, in fact, and for the last couple of weekends, there has been a good-sized group of teenagers playing football on the practice field. It's a mixed group of guys and gals, and each time they are there when we pass, Ollie stops walking and stands next to the fence watching the young people as they play ... which means I stop walking and stand next to the fence and watch them play as well. The kids always wave at us and say, "Hi, wiener dog!" and they seem to be especially delighted to see us when Ollie is sporting one of his cute sweaters.
I've been restless all day today ... one of those days when I felt like if I had to stay in my house alone for one more minute, I would most definitely lose my mind. Thank goodness it way a beautiful day, so Ollie and I went for a couple of walks, with the second one being an hour or so before sunset. Ollie saw the kids playing before I did, and by the time we got close to the field my little wiener dog was practically dragging me along. He raced up to the fence and stood in his now regular spot, ears perked up and tail wagging like crazy. We had been watching for a few minutes when one of the young men ran over to the fence and said, "Want to play?" I shook my head and laughed and said, "Thanks, but I wouldn't be able to keep up with you young pups. You guys are pretty good, you know." The young man smiled and said, "Come on, just one play ... my girlfriend wants to hold your dog." I finally agreed, and walked onto the field with the young man and handed Ollie's leash to his girlfriend. All of the kids greeted me politely as the young man said, "This is Terrie ... she's on my team."
As I crouched over in the huddle with the young high school athletes and heard the youthful quarterback say that he was going to pass the ball to me, I said, "Oh, no, you don't want to do that ... I haven't caught a football in more years than I want to say ... don't throw the ball to me." The kids winked at me as he informed me that it would be the perfect play because the other team would never expect him to throw the ball to me ... I think that was the young man's polite way of saying the other team would never believe that he would do something so incredibly stupid as throwing the ball to an old gray-haired walk-on like me. I'll spare you the details of the play, but I will tell you this ... that kid threw a beautiful spiral pass, and I caught it ... yep, yep I did. The young quarterback made a perfect pass, and I made a perfect catch. With age does come some wisdom, and I knew not to press my luck on a second play so Ollie and I bid our goodbyes and began our walk toward home.
There was a rather unusual sculpture on the front of my old high school ... a brick rendition of a boy and girl student that was built into the building in 1955. (That's before I was born, by the way.) When the former students of Red Bank High School discovered the building was to be demolished, they raised funds to have the brick boy and girl dismantled brick by brick and rebuilt in a location where it could forever hold its place as a part of the history of both Red Bank High and the city itself. Brick by brick, the sculpture was taken apart and put back together ... brick by brick by brick by brick. They didn't have to do that, you know, they could have just let the statue be torn down with the rest of the building ... but they didn't. They cared enough to come together to do something about it. Those kids didn't have to ask me to play with them today, and all evening I've wondered why they did. Maybe the next time I see them, I'll ask them ... or maybe I'll just thank them ... maybe I'll thank them for being a part of helping me to reassemble the bricks that make me ... the bricks that make me, me.
Earlier this year, Red Bank High School (which had actually become the middle school several years ago) was torn down. When I first read about the scheduled demolition of the old building, my eyes immediately filled with tears as quickly as my mind filled with memories. Memories of special teachers and extra special friends. Memories of simple things like coat racks and the smell of the biology lab. Memories of events like homecoming and sock hops and senior prom. Memories of my brother Jerry and basketball games, and of a beloved principal who suddenly passed away. Memories of wooden hallways and leaking windows, and of old metal lights and carvings in the desktops. Memories of blankets and the Red Bank Lions football games, and of hidden kisses under the bleachers. So many memories of times spent in that old building ... so very many sweet and tender memories indeed.
There's a high school close to where I live here in Kansas City, and behind the school is a long drive that runs along the edge of the football practice field. Sometimes I get bored with taking the same route time after time when Ollie and I head out for our evening walks, so occasionally we walk down the long drive and up another drive that cuts between the high school and the middle school. We've been walking that route quite a bit lately, in fact, and for the last couple of weekends, there has been a good-sized group of teenagers playing football on the practice field. It's a mixed group of guys and gals, and each time they are there when we pass, Ollie stops walking and stands next to the fence watching the young people as they play ... which means I stop walking and stand next to the fence and watch them play as well. The kids always wave at us and say, "Hi, wiener dog!" and they seem to be especially delighted to see us when Ollie is sporting one of his cute sweaters.
I've been restless all day today ... one of those days when I felt like if I had to stay in my house alone for one more minute, I would most definitely lose my mind. Thank goodness it way a beautiful day, so Ollie and I went for a couple of walks, with the second one being an hour or so before sunset. Ollie saw the kids playing before I did, and by the time we got close to the field my little wiener dog was practically dragging me along. He raced up to the fence and stood in his now regular spot, ears perked up and tail wagging like crazy. We had been watching for a few minutes when one of the young men ran over to the fence and said, "Want to play?" I shook my head and laughed and said, "Thanks, but I wouldn't be able to keep up with you young pups. You guys are pretty good, you know." The young man smiled and said, "Come on, just one play ... my girlfriend wants to hold your dog." I finally agreed, and walked onto the field with the young man and handed Ollie's leash to his girlfriend. All of the kids greeted me politely as the young man said, "This is Terrie ... she's on my team."
As I crouched over in the huddle with the young high school athletes and heard the youthful quarterback say that he was going to pass the ball to me, I said, "Oh, no, you don't want to do that ... I haven't caught a football in more years than I want to say ... don't throw the ball to me." The kids winked at me as he informed me that it would be the perfect play because the other team would never expect him to throw the ball to me ... I think that was the young man's polite way of saying the other team would never believe that he would do something so incredibly stupid as throwing the ball to an old gray-haired walk-on like me. I'll spare you the details of the play, but I will tell you this ... that kid threw a beautiful spiral pass, and I caught it ... yep, yep I did. The young quarterback made a perfect pass, and I made a perfect catch. With age does come some wisdom, and I knew not to press my luck on a second play so Ollie and I bid our goodbyes and began our walk toward home.
There was a rather unusual sculpture on the front of my old high school ... a brick rendition of a boy and girl student that was built into the building in 1955. (That's before I was born, by the way.) When the former students of Red Bank High School discovered the building was to be demolished, they raised funds to have the brick boy and girl dismantled brick by brick and rebuilt in a location where it could forever hold its place as a part of the history of both Red Bank High and the city itself. Brick by brick, the sculpture was taken apart and put back together ... brick by brick by brick by brick. They didn't have to do that, you know, they could have just let the statue be torn down with the rest of the building ... but they didn't. They cared enough to come together to do something about it. Those kids didn't have to ask me to play with them today, and all evening I've wondered why they did. Maybe the next time I see them, I'll ask them ... or maybe I'll just thank them ... maybe I'll thank them for being a part of helping me to reassemble the bricks that make me ... the bricks that make me, me.
Friday, October 25, 2013
Want a Tip?
Back in February, I wrote a post titled "Enough Already" ... remember that one? I was ticked off the night I penned the words for that entry ... I was royally ticked off, in fact, and I decided that enough was enough and I could no longer remain silent about certain things. In that post, I wrote the following words:
"See here's the thing I've had enough of ... the thing I've definitely had enough of is judgment. I don't want to be judgmental ever again, and I think I've come a heck of a long way in regard to loving and accepting other people for exactly who they are. And I've had enough of being judged ... I've told the people who've talked to me one on one that I don't need anyone else to hate me ... I've hated myself enough for everyone on the planet. The real truth, the only truth that really matters, is that only God can judge me or anyone else because only He is truly righteous. If I haven't learned anything over the last months of my life, I've learned this ... the whole judging thing hurts everyone involved. Whether or not I realize it at the time I'm doing it, I'm hurting myself when I judge others. And I know firsthand what it feels like to be judged ... it flipping, stinking hurts. Judgment leaves wounds that are deep and painful ... judgment leaves wounds that in turn cause giant scars to form, scars that are ever-present reminders of just how painful judgment is, whether you're handing it out or taking it in, judgment hurts."
And in a previous post in January titled "For Gary's Sake," I wrote these words:
"Young Gary has asked me many questions over the last three days, as have many of you. And as I said earlier this week, I have many questions of my own to which I'm not sure I will ever know the answers. I'm going to try tonight, however, to answer a few that have been posed to me repeatedly this week. But after that ... well, after that, I'm going to get back to writing about the things that matter most to me. Though I was incredibly humbled by the kind words of my friend in her guest blog, one thing she said is true ... 'Not one of these things alone defines her, but a combination of all of her attributes makes Terrie who she is.' I know that it's at the top of the list now for some of you, but my sexuality isn't what defines me or makes me who I am. After I answer some of your questions tonight concerning that one small part of me, I'm going to get back to writing about the people and things that matter most to me. I'm going to get back to writing about God and His unconditional, unfailing love ... about the journey of life we all share ... about lessons in the big and little things we encounter along the way ... about the funny and the goofy and the sad and the serious."
I've mentioned in numerous posts that I don't want my blog to become a platform for controversial issues, and I try to be very careful not to write about "those" issues ... issues that I'm often asked to write about and that I choose not to. I think, however, that I may need to change my stance a bit on that ... on my blog being a platform, that is. I think maybe it should be a platform for love ... unconditional love for one another ... the same kind of love that God has for each and every one of us. Yep, that's right ... God loves every single one of us ... UNCONDITIONALLY. If I have a platform ... a voice that is called to deliver a message through the words of the posts in this blog ... that's what I want it to be. We need to stop the madness of judging one another and just love each other the way God loves us ... the way He commands us to love each other ... the same way He loves us.
There's been a big story out of Kansas City that has spread like wildfire since yesterday, and I received an email today with the link to the story. But the email didn't just contain the link about the young server at Carraba's, it also contained a very hurtful personal message to me as well (from someone I don't know, I might add, but who said she has heard me speak at several Christian women's events in the past). Some of you would like nothing better than for me to copy and paste the content of the email into this post for all the world to read, but I won't. You know why I won't? Because it would be wrong for me to do so. You know why it would be wrong? Because that would quite possibly cause many of you to judge the woman, and that, in my opinion, would be me willfully sinning by placing the ammunition into your judging guns and cocking the trigger for you.
I don't have to try to imagine how humiliated the young server at Carrabba's was by the note left by a "Christian" couple explaining that they were not leaving him a tip because of his sexuality ... I don't have to try to imagine it because I know firsthand what that type of humiliation feels like. I know what it's like to be judged because of my appearance ... the clothes I wear, the cut of my hair, the trim of my nails, the way I walk ... and I know what it's like to be judged because of who I am. You know what else I know? I know that it's wrong ... what that couple did to that young man is just plain wrong. And even more than what they did to him is wrong, what they did to all of us who call ourselves Christians is far, far worse. Not all Christians hate ... not all Christians judge ... not all Christians exclude ... not all Christians condemn ... not all Christians treat a person with so much disrespect and unkindness. There are a lot of Christians who love ... a lot of Christians who are accepting ... a lot of Christians who fight against injustice of all forms ... a lot of Christians who fully understand the meaning of the word UNCONDITIONALLY.
Want a tip? Love. That's it. Just love.
"Above all, love each other deeply, because love covers over a multitude of sins." 1 Peter 4:8
"See here's the thing I've had enough of ... the thing I've definitely had enough of is judgment. I don't want to be judgmental ever again, and I think I've come a heck of a long way in regard to loving and accepting other people for exactly who they are. And I've had enough of being judged ... I've told the people who've talked to me one on one that I don't need anyone else to hate me ... I've hated myself enough for everyone on the planet. The real truth, the only truth that really matters, is that only God can judge me or anyone else because only He is truly righteous. If I haven't learned anything over the last months of my life, I've learned this ... the whole judging thing hurts everyone involved. Whether or not I realize it at the time I'm doing it, I'm hurting myself when I judge others. And I know firsthand what it feels like to be judged ... it flipping, stinking hurts. Judgment leaves wounds that are deep and painful ... judgment leaves wounds that in turn cause giant scars to form, scars that are ever-present reminders of just how painful judgment is, whether you're handing it out or taking it in, judgment hurts."
And in a previous post in January titled "For Gary's Sake," I wrote these words:
"Young Gary has asked me many questions over the last three days, as have many of you. And as I said earlier this week, I have many questions of my own to which I'm not sure I will ever know the answers. I'm going to try tonight, however, to answer a few that have been posed to me repeatedly this week. But after that ... well, after that, I'm going to get back to writing about the things that matter most to me. Though I was incredibly humbled by the kind words of my friend in her guest blog, one thing she said is true ... 'Not one of these things alone defines her, but a combination of all of her attributes makes Terrie who she is.' I know that it's at the top of the list now for some of you, but my sexuality isn't what defines me or makes me who I am. After I answer some of your questions tonight concerning that one small part of me, I'm going to get back to writing about the people and things that matter most to me. I'm going to get back to writing about God and His unconditional, unfailing love ... about the journey of life we all share ... about lessons in the big and little things we encounter along the way ... about the funny and the goofy and the sad and the serious."
I've mentioned in numerous posts that I don't want my blog to become a platform for controversial issues, and I try to be very careful not to write about "those" issues ... issues that I'm often asked to write about and that I choose not to. I think, however, that I may need to change my stance a bit on that ... on my blog being a platform, that is. I think maybe it should be a platform for love ... unconditional love for one another ... the same kind of love that God has for each and every one of us. Yep, that's right ... God loves every single one of us ... UNCONDITIONALLY. If I have a platform ... a voice that is called to deliver a message through the words of the posts in this blog ... that's what I want it to be. We need to stop the madness of judging one another and just love each other the way God loves us ... the way He commands us to love each other ... the same way He loves us.
There's been a big story out of Kansas City that has spread like wildfire since yesterday, and I received an email today with the link to the story. But the email didn't just contain the link about the young server at Carraba's, it also contained a very hurtful personal message to me as well (from someone I don't know, I might add, but who said she has heard me speak at several Christian women's events in the past). Some of you would like nothing better than for me to copy and paste the content of the email into this post for all the world to read, but I won't. You know why I won't? Because it would be wrong for me to do so. You know why it would be wrong? Because that would quite possibly cause many of you to judge the woman, and that, in my opinion, would be me willfully sinning by placing the ammunition into your judging guns and cocking the trigger for you.
I don't have to try to imagine how humiliated the young server at Carrabba's was by the note left by a "Christian" couple explaining that they were not leaving him a tip because of his sexuality ... I don't have to try to imagine it because I know firsthand what that type of humiliation feels like. I know what it's like to be judged because of my appearance ... the clothes I wear, the cut of my hair, the trim of my nails, the way I walk ... and I know what it's like to be judged because of who I am. You know what else I know? I know that it's wrong ... what that couple did to that young man is just plain wrong. And even more than what they did to him is wrong, what they did to all of us who call ourselves Christians is far, far worse. Not all Christians hate ... not all Christians judge ... not all Christians exclude ... not all Christians condemn ... not all Christians treat a person with so much disrespect and unkindness. There are a lot of Christians who love ... a lot of Christians who are accepting ... a lot of Christians who fight against injustice of all forms ... a lot of Christians who fully understand the meaning of the word UNCONDITIONALLY.
Want a tip? Love. That's it. Just love.
"Above all, love each other deeply, because love covers over a multitude of sins." 1 Peter 4:8
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)