I'm not sure how old I was when I had to start wearing eyeglasses, but I do remember that I wasn't the least bit happy about it. The last thing I needed was something else for the other kids to tease me about, and I knew they would ... I knew they would call me "4 Eyes" because that's the label they gave to most every kid who was cursed with the fate of poor vision. I say most every kid because there was a select group whose glasses seemed only to elevate their already golden status among their peers ... yep ... the cool kids became even cooler when they donned their spectacles while the rest of us suffered through the name-calling as best we could. I never understood that, you know, and I still don't, I suppose ... I don't get why it is that people who possess that mysterious "coolness factor" can wear butt-ugly clothes or shoes or jewelry or glasses or whatever else and suddenly those items are deemed as trend-setting rather than ugly just because they are cool. Since I wasn't one of the cool kids and got teased no matter what kind of glasses I wore, I was a happy camper when contact lenses came along ... until I got smacked in the eye and the resulting scar tissue on my cornea ended my contact lens-wearing days.
Choosing new frames for my glasses has never been something I've enjoyed doing ... it's one of those life events that never fails to cause me great angst. I maintain that switching to a new pair of glasses after you've worn the same ones for many years ranks right up there with having to find a new doctor or someone different to cut your hair. In fact, shopping for eyeglasses may well be even worse than shopping for clothes ... yep, that's how much I don't like it when I have to get new glasses. As I'm sure you've guessed by now, I had to visit the eye doctor a week or so ago and I just picked up my new glasses Tuesday evening. I won't tell you how many hours it took for me to finally settle on which new frames to purchase ... suffice it to say it took a flipping long time. I needed a larger field of vision this time around, so for the first time in decades ... seriously, decades ... I'm wearing glasses that are not rimless. They're black with a funky, swirly gray color on the inside, and they've certainly got the larger field of vision thing covered for sure. I'm still having a bit of trouble adjusting to them, but I think eventually I'll really like them.
I've always had a hard time accepting compliments, probably because I never think I deserve them. So yesterday, when my co-workers told me how much they liked my new glasses, my response was, "I don't know if I like them ... they're really different." Even when the younger folks I work with said, "I love your new glasses! Very hip and cool!" I would offer up the same reply ... "I don't know ... they're really different." Instead of graciously thanking them for their kind words and gestures as they attempted to make me feel more comfortable about my new glasses, I focused on how different the new glasses are from my previous ones ... until ... until one of my friends called me out ... she called me out on my misplaced focus in regard to my glasses with a most thought-provoking statement ... a statement that has caused me to think about a lot more than just my glasses when it comes to focus.
We were in the kitchen along with several other people ... several other people who were complimenting my new look. After hearing me say several times, "I don't know ... they're very different," my friend said, "Terrie, Terrie," and shook her head.
"What?" I asked, knowing my friend well enough to know that her "Terrie, Terrie," was quite probably the predecessor of one of her famously profound statements. She shook her head again, and again I asked, "What?"
"The more you focus on something, the bigger it gets," she said matter of factly. She knows me well enough to know that I don't always get the lesson the first time around, so she repeated her statement ... "The more you focus on something, Terrie, the bigger it gets." I've thought a lot about my friend's words since yesterday morning, and I've realized there's a mountain of truth in them ... a mountain of truth that has to do with way more important things than a pair of new glasses ... way more important things than a pair of glasses, friends ... way, way, way more important things.
"The more you focus on something, the bigger it gets." Think about it ... think a long while about it ... there's a big old gigantic mountain of truth in those words ... a big old gigantically humongous mountain of truth.
Thursday, January 30, 2014
Tuesday, January 28, 2014
The Burying of the Hatchets
One of my favorite television shows when I was a kid was The Lone Ranger. The show told the story of the lone surviving Texas Ranger who was nursed back to health by Tonto, a Native American who becomes The Lone Ranger's comrade and best friend as they ride throughout the west, doing good and catching bad guys. Those of us who grew up during the era of The Lone Ranger learned to speak Native American from Tonto ... or so we thought anyway. The truth is that "white man speak with forked tongue" and many other words and phrases had absolutely nothing to do with Native American language or speech and everything to do with the television writers who made them up. In all fairness to the writers, some of the words and sayings were legit ... like "burying the hatchet," for example. That particular expression did actually originate from American Indian tradition ... hatchets were buried by the chiefs of opposing tribes when they reached a peace agreement. Hence the meaning of the figuratively used phrase in today's world ... burying the hatchet means to settle your differences with an adversary, to put an end to fighting, to reach a peace agreement. I've never buried a real hatchet in the ground ... though I think it would be a super powerful symbolic experience ... but I've sure buried more than a few of those figurative ones over the years.
Before I continue, I need to restate something I've written previously ... I don't write about my marriage or my divorce, and tonight's post doesn't change my stance in regard to those two subjects. Enough said.
The first evening I was in Canada, Matt and Becca shared the news with me that they are expecting their second child. They had sent Matt's dad and other family members cards to tell them about the pregnancy, so when the phone rang that evening, I wasn't surprised to hear Matt say, "Hi, Dad," when he answered the phone. I wanted to give Matt and Becca their privacy as they chatted with Matt's dad, so I went downstairs to the guest room and began unpacking. About a half-hour later, Becca came to the top of the stairs and asked if I could come upstairs. It was as I stepped on the first step that I noticed Becca was holding the phone to her chest, and I remember thinking it was weird that she still had the phone in her hands. And within a split second, my daughter-in-law said, "He wants to talk to you."
"Who wants to talk to me?" I asked.
"Matt's dad ... he wants to talk to you, Terrie," Becca replied.
"Why in the world does he want to talk to me?" I questioned, my words laden with doubt and skepticism.
"I have no idea, but he wants to talk to you," she answered. "If you don't want to talk, I'll tell him you don't want to. It's okay if you don't want to talk to him."
"No ... I'll talk to him," I said as I climbed up the stairs to take the phone from Becca's outstretched hand, my heart beating so hard I thought for sure it was going to pound right out of my chest.
What followed that evening was without a doubt one of the most surreal experiences of my entire life. For 45 minutes, I sat on a couch in my son and daughter-in-law's living room in Canada and talked to my ex-husband on the phone. I'm not sharing the details of our conversation, but I will tell you there were heartfelt tears shed by both of us, and there were sincere apologies spoken by both of us. Hatchets were buried that night after many, many years of animosity ... hatchets were buried ... and it was good and it was right and it was long overdue.
Needless to say, I've thought a lot about that conversation ... about how unexpected it was ... about how many times I had tried to initiate such a conversation over the years ... about how I never anticipated that it would spark such deep emotion within me. There were many things my ex-husband said that evening that touched me, but none so much as what he said as our conversation drew to a close. He said I needed to hold my head high and be proud of who I am ... that I was a person of great worth and honor and integrity ... that I had done a wonderful job raising our children.
I know I've said it a gazillion times, but life really, really, really is short ... too, too short for anger or hatred or contempt or grudge-holding or judgment. My hope is that you'll look for the hatchets in your own life ... hatchets you've been using to beat the crap out of someone ... hatchets that you'll eventually come to find out are hurting you as much or more than they are the person you're swinging them at. My hope is that you'll search out your hatchets and bury them once and for all.
Hatchets were buried that night in Canada, friends, not only for me and my ex-husband, but for our children and our grandchildren as well. See that's the thing about those kinds of hatchets ... they cut a wide swath ... they cut a really wide swath. Hatchets were buried that cold, cold night in Canada ... hatchets were buried that night indeed ... and it was good and it was right and it was long overdue.
Monday, January 27, 2014
They Love God, Too
Though I have little to no musical talent or ability, I truly, truly love music. From the days when I would blast my turntable record player as loud as possible and jam out to the incredibly awesome tunes of The Partridge Family or Donny and Marie Osmond to tonight as I thumb through my iPod to find just the right music for this evening's writing time (I settled on an instrumental guitar selection of old hymns, by the way) ... I've always loved music. I've often thought that music can be likened to a treasured friend ... a friend who's always been with me ... a friend who's never left my side ... a friend who's soared with me over the mountaintops ... a friend who's refused to allow the depths of despair to consume me. Yep ... that's what music is to me ... a friend who's always there to inspire me, to soothe me, to challenge me, to move me, to speak to me, to carry me, to make me soar, to pick me up when I fall ... a treasured, trusted, time-tested friend.
One of the things I miss most in regard to church is the music ... I miss the upbeat worship music and the old hymns and the heartfelt special music selections; heck, sometimes I even miss the harmonies of a good old-fashioned Southern Baptist choir (belting out songs while fully adorned in their choir robes and sashes that were color-coordinated so as not to clash with the carpet and the curtains in the sanctuary, of course). I always looked forward to the music when I spoke at women's events for various churches ... so many different songs and styles and voices and instruments and venues and people. Hmmm ... different songs, different styles, different voices, different instruments, different venues, different people ... all united in praise and worship of the same God. From mega-dollar suburban sanctuaries to rundown inner city gathering places to rustic outdoor campgrounds ... different songs, different styles, different voices, different instruments, different venues, different people ... all united in praise and worship of the same God.
Last week, two friends whom I've known for many years invited me to attend a farewell concert for the minister at the church they attended when they first met. My friends are incredible singers, and when they told me they would be singing at Saturday evening's event, I immediately said I would love to go. I must admit that I was more than a little nervous when my friends arrived at my house to pick me up ... I'm always more than a little nervous in social settings these days ... but as we laughed and talked, my nervousness was replaced with the comfort that comes with being in the company of old and dear friends. The concert lasted a little over two hours, and tears filled my eyes time and time again as I sat in awe of the talent before me. Nope ... that's not entirely true ... yes, the talent of the singers was amazing, and yes, tears filled my eyes more than once, but what awed me most ... what inspired me most ... what touched me most was the tremendous faith of not only the singers on the stage before me, but of the folks seated in the pews all around me as well. Hands were lifted ... hallelujahs and amens were spoken ... different songs, different styles, different voices, different instruments, different venue, different people ... all united in praise and worship of the same God.
Now it's time for me to honor my statement in my previous post regarding writing about the things I feel compelled, moved or led to write about. As I think about it, perhaps it's more accurate to say it's time for me to write about the things I feel convicted to write about ... to write even at times like tonight when I'm shaking in my boots as I type. (Actually, I'm shaking in my Converse shoes ... my black and white Converse shoes, to be exact .) The concert last Saturday was at a church in downtown Kansas City ... a church that is primarily made up of people from the LGBT community. I know how many of you feel about "those kinds" of churches ... I know how many of you feel about "those kinds" of people ... trust me, I know very well how many of you feel. In fact, as I sat in the church Saturday night, my mind was flooded with the words many of you have written to me over the last year. But as I listened to the different songs, different styles, different voices, different instruments in a different venue surrounded by different people, one thought ... one all-encompassing and pervasive thought ... filled my mind and spilled over into my heart. "They love God, too ... they really and truly do ... these people here ... they love God, too."
If you know my story, you know how much I've struggled to accept who I am and you know how deeply connected that struggle is to my faith. If you know my story, you also know that I've encountered a bit of judgment and condemnation from some other folks of faith over the last year. But as I sat in that church last Saturday evening, I knew ... I knew that those people loved God. As I sat in that church surrounded by people who know what it is to be labeled the greatest of all sinners ... I knew ... I knew more than I've ever known anything in my whole life that no one ... no one ... no one ... not one person on the face of this earth has the right to judge any other person's relationship with God based on his or her sexuality (or anything else for that matter). Only God ... only God can judge a person's relationship with Him ... not me, not you, only God.
Last Saturday, I saw hands lifted ... I heard hallelujahs and amens spoken ... different songs, different styles, different voices, different instruments, different venue, different people ... all united in praise and worship of the same God. Amen, friends ... amen indeed.
One of the things I miss most in regard to church is the music ... I miss the upbeat worship music and the old hymns and the heartfelt special music selections; heck, sometimes I even miss the harmonies of a good old-fashioned Southern Baptist choir (belting out songs while fully adorned in their choir robes and sashes that were color-coordinated so as not to clash with the carpet and the curtains in the sanctuary, of course). I always looked forward to the music when I spoke at women's events for various churches ... so many different songs and styles and voices and instruments and venues and people. Hmmm ... different songs, different styles, different voices, different instruments, different venues, different people ... all united in praise and worship of the same God. From mega-dollar suburban sanctuaries to rundown inner city gathering places to rustic outdoor campgrounds ... different songs, different styles, different voices, different instruments, different venues, different people ... all united in praise and worship of the same God.
Last week, two friends whom I've known for many years invited me to attend a farewell concert for the minister at the church they attended when they first met. My friends are incredible singers, and when they told me they would be singing at Saturday evening's event, I immediately said I would love to go. I must admit that I was more than a little nervous when my friends arrived at my house to pick me up ... I'm always more than a little nervous in social settings these days ... but as we laughed and talked, my nervousness was replaced with the comfort that comes with being in the company of old and dear friends. The concert lasted a little over two hours, and tears filled my eyes time and time again as I sat in awe of the talent before me. Nope ... that's not entirely true ... yes, the talent of the singers was amazing, and yes, tears filled my eyes more than once, but what awed me most ... what inspired me most ... what touched me most was the tremendous faith of not only the singers on the stage before me, but of the folks seated in the pews all around me as well. Hands were lifted ... hallelujahs and amens were spoken ... different songs, different styles, different voices, different instruments, different venue, different people ... all united in praise and worship of the same God.
Now it's time for me to honor my statement in my previous post regarding writing about the things I feel compelled, moved or led to write about. As I think about it, perhaps it's more accurate to say it's time for me to write about the things I feel convicted to write about ... to write even at times like tonight when I'm shaking in my boots as I type. (Actually, I'm shaking in my Converse shoes ... my black and white Converse shoes, to be exact .) The concert last Saturday was at a church in downtown Kansas City ... a church that is primarily made up of people from the LGBT community. I know how many of you feel about "those kinds" of churches ... I know how many of you feel about "those kinds" of people ... trust me, I know very well how many of you feel. In fact, as I sat in the church Saturday night, my mind was flooded with the words many of you have written to me over the last year. But as I listened to the different songs, different styles, different voices, different instruments in a different venue surrounded by different people, one thought ... one all-encompassing and pervasive thought ... filled my mind and spilled over into my heart. "They love God, too ... they really and truly do ... these people here ... they love God, too."
If you know my story, you know how much I've struggled to accept who I am and you know how deeply connected that struggle is to my faith. If you know my story, you also know that I've encountered a bit of judgment and condemnation from some other folks of faith over the last year. But as I sat in that church last Saturday evening, I knew ... I knew that those people loved God. As I sat in that church surrounded by people who know what it is to be labeled the greatest of all sinners ... I knew ... I knew more than I've ever known anything in my whole life that no one ... no one ... no one ... not one person on the face of this earth has the right to judge any other person's relationship with God based on his or her sexuality (or anything else for that matter). Only God ... only God can judge a person's relationship with Him ... not me, not you, only God.
Last Saturday, I saw hands lifted ... I heard hallelujahs and amens spoken ... different songs, different styles, different voices, different instruments, different venue, different people ... all united in praise and worship of the same God. Amen, friends ... amen indeed.
Sunday, January 26, 2014
When You Know You Know
There isn't a doubt in my mind that some of the most precious moments I've experienced as a parent thus far were the moments I didn't see coming ... the moments I didn't plan ... the moments that took me completely by surprise. Every single one of those moments with my three children are precious to me ... the moments that danced with laughter and happiness and excitement ... the moments that stood hauntingly still with hurt and pain and sadness ... each and every one of those moments with my three children will always hold a very special place deep within my heart. But the best ... the most precious ... the most amazingly wonderful moments? The moments of understanding ... of growth ... of learning ... of knowing who they are. Yep, the most precious moments of all for me as their mom were those moments when all of a sudden, something would click within my kiddos hearts and minds and they would get it ... when they would know they knew who they are ... when they would know they knew their purpose, their calling, their mission in life. And perhaps even better ... even more precious ... even more amazingly wonderful has been to see them fully accept and embrace that knowledge ... that knowing of who they are. Something tells me I could stand to learn from my children in that department ... you bet I could stand to learn a whole heck of a lot from them on that.
Many of you have messaged me about this line from my previous post Sooner or Later ... "Second, though I give you my word that I'm not selling out The Tree House, I do think I need to take a few days off from writing ... not long, just a few days, I promise ... to contemplate the future direction of my blog, the subjects of my posts and the best way to tackle those subjects as I write." As seems to be the norm for the comments I receive these days, there was a wide range of opinion as to the future of my blog. It's more than interesting to me that even among the "you are surely going to burn in hell" crowd who write to me on a weekly basis, the overwhelming consensus from those of you who have messaged me is that I should continue to write. Thank you for that encouragement, by the way ... there are times when I wrestle with whether or not I should keep writing, especially when my subject matter is controversial in nature. Having said that, I'd like to share the why for the title of this post and the story about my kids in my opening paragraph.
Writing requires a lot of time. It requires a lot of dedication. It requires a lot of discipline. It requires a lot of energy. It requires a lot of thought. It requires a lot of vulnerability. It requires a lot of ... well ... it requires a lot of a lot of things. But to those of us who are writers ... those of us who are writers know that not to write would require death ... the death of our minds, our souls, our spirits ... the death of who we are, of our purpose, our calling, our mission in life. I had no idea when I began penning this blog that it would have such far-reaching impact ... both in my own life and the lives of so many others. I've learned a ton since I first began The Tree House back in 2008 ... a great big old ton about a lot of you and a great big old ton about myself as well, both good and bad alike. I've learned a ton about life, too, especially when it comes to making my journey as real and honest and open and transparent as I possibly can.
Over the last couple of weeks, I've had a few big "when you know you know" moments of my own that have precipitated within me a time of deep contemplation and soul-searching about several areas of my life, including the way I write this blog. Here's what most of you don't know ... there are many things I feel moved to write about that I don't. And there's really only one reason why I don't ... I don't write about certain subjects because of fear ... I'm just plain old cotton-pickin' afraid to write about certain things. So ... consider this my disclaimer for all future posts ... not only am I not selling out The Tree House, I'm not selling out myself anymore either. I'm going to write what I feel compelled to write or moved to write or led to write or maybe, now and again, just what I want to write. I may change up the format and the layout, or I may not. Should you choose to continue reading along with me (and I hope you will!), I can promise you that some posts may cause you to laugh, some may cause you to ponder, some may cause you to question, some may cause you to cry, some may cause you to give, some may cause you to listen, some may cause you to change, and some may cause you to love. See ... here's the thing, friends ... when you know you know, you can't go back to not knowing you know. When you know you know ... well ... you just know you know.
Seems like there's only one way that's fittin' to close this post ... in true Beverly Hillbillies style ... "Y'all come back now, ya hear?"
Many of you have messaged me about this line from my previous post Sooner or Later ... "Second, though I give you my word that I'm not selling out The Tree House, I do think I need to take a few days off from writing ... not long, just a few days, I promise ... to contemplate the future direction of my blog, the subjects of my posts and the best way to tackle those subjects as I write." As seems to be the norm for the comments I receive these days, there was a wide range of opinion as to the future of my blog. It's more than interesting to me that even among the "you are surely going to burn in hell" crowd who write to me on a weekly basis, the overwhelming consensus from those of you who have messaged me is that I should continue to write. Thank you for that encouragement, by the way ... there are times when I wrestle with whether or not I should keep writing, especially when my subject matter is controversial in nature. Having said that, I'd like to share the why for the title of this post and the story about my kids in my opening paragraph.
Writing requires a lot of time. It requires a lot of dedication. It requires a lot of discipline. It requires a lot of energy. It requires a lot of thought. It requires a lot of vulnerability. It requires a lot of ... well ... it requires a lot of a lot of things. But to those of us who are writers ... those of us who are writers know that not to write would require death ... the death of our minds, our souls, our spirits ... the death of who we are, of our purpose, our calling, our mission in life. I had no idea when I began penning this blog that it would have such far-reaching impact ... both in my own life and the lives of so many others. I've learned a ton since I first began The Tree House back in 2008 ... a great big old ton about a lot of you and a great big old ton about myself as well, both good and bad alike. I've learned a ton about life, too, especially when it comes to making my journey as real and honest and open and transparent as I possibly can.
Over the last couple of weeks, I've had a few big "when you know you know" moments of my own that have precipitated within me a time of deep contemplation and soul-searching about several areas of my life, including the way I write this blog. Here's what most of you don't know ... there are many things I feel moved to write about that I don't. And there's really only one reason why I don't ... I don't write about certain subjects because of fear ... I'm just plain old cotton-pickin' afraid to write about certain things. So ... consider this my disclaimer for all future posts ... not only am I not selling out The Tree House, I'm not selling out myself anymore either. I'm going to write what I feel compelled to write or moved to write or led to write or maybe, now and again, just what I want to write. I may change up the format and the layout, or I may not. Should you choose to continue reading along with me (and I hope you will!), I can promise you that some posts may cause you to laugh, some may cause you to ponder, some may cause you to question, some may cause you to cry, some may cause you to give, some may cause you to listen, some may cause you to change, and some may cause you to love. See ... here's the thing, friends ... when you know you know, you can't go back to not knowing you know. When you know you know ... well ... you just know you know.
Seems like there's only one way that's fittin' to close this post ... in true Beverly Hillbillies style ... "Y'all come back now, ya hear?"
Thursday, January 23, 2014
Sooner or Later
My mom used to say, "Sooner or later, it will all come out in the wash." Now while I may not have been the smartest kid in the neighborhood, I fully understood what Mom meant when those words were directed at me ... generally, it meant I had said or done something I shouldn't have said or done and was trying to lie my way out of the mess I had managed to create for myself. I knew full well that Mom was in no way talking about my grass-stained jeans or the ground-in dirt on my t-shirt when she talked about something sooner or later coming out in the wash ... no way, no how was she talking about laundry or the washing machine. Nope, when Mom would give me "the look" and utter those fateful words, I immediately began going through my own personal naughty list to try and determine just what Mom knew I had done that I thought she didn't know. And the really sucky thing about trying to figure out what Mom knew? Most of the time in my efforts to at least appear to be coming clean, I would inevitably confess to a different transgression than the one Mom actually knew about. That was simply awesome, you know ... getting punished for two things at once, double the punishment because I had fallen right into Mom's trap ... her "Sooner or later, it will all come out in the wash," big, fat, smarter-than-me trap.
Tonight's post isn't about coming clean ... no big confessions or life-altering events to tell you about ... and it's certainly not about laundry (I detest doing laundry, by the way). I've actually been rolling tonight's post around in my head since the beginning of the year, and tonight feels like the right time to finally put my thoughts into words. And for some reason that I haven't quite figured out, Mom's words from all those years ago seemed the only way to begin ... perhaps it's the "sooner or later" part ... perhaps it's the "it will all come out in the wash" part ... perhaps it's the fear those words still invoke within me ... perhaps it's the realization that the words Mom spoke all those years ago were about so much more than the petty sins of my youth ... or perhaps it's simply that sometimes thoughts get stuck in my somewhat crazy, often irrational brain and they just won't go away. Hmmm ... wait a sec ... this evening's post that's been swirling around in my mind and the connection to what Mom said ... ahhh ... now I get it.
Over the last couple of years, I've been contacted by other blogging entities that have tried to convince me to give up my blog and join their ranks. I've been approached by advertisers who would love for me to promote their product or service on my blog, and they would pay me to do so. I'm constantly bombarded with requests from other bloggers wanting me to link my blog with theirs and for me to link theirs with mine. And to all of those offers and requests, I've politely declined, and for the most part, the people and companies have been kind and respectful in return. But last night, I got an email that said, "You might as well face the facts, Terrie, sooner or later, you'll cave in like everyone else and decide that making money from your writing is what matters most. Sooner or later, you'll see that I'm offering you a way out." Funny ... I guess I didn't know I needed a way out ... a way out of what? A way out of writing because I have a calling to write that won't go away? A way out of penning words that at times are excruciatingly painful for me with the hope that they will help someone else who may be struggling, too? A way out of opening my heart and soul and allowing others to see my innermost thoughts and feelings? Oh my ... maybe he meant he was offering me a way out of the closet ... nah ... I opened that door already and trust me when I say that even if sometimes you really, really, really wish you could crawl back inside ... well ... let's just say it doesn't work that way.
So ... here's the thing ... what I've been thinking about since the beginning of the year. First, I'm not selling out my blog, and making money from my writing is far, far, far from what matters most to me ... what matters most to me are those of you who write in to share your own stories and tell me that my writing helps you ... or encourages you ... or makes you laugh ... or brings tears to your eyes ... or makes you say, "Me, too ... she's writing how I feel, which means I'm not alone." You ... you guys and gals ... you are what matters most to me when it comes to writing. Second, though I give you my word that I'm not selling out The Tree House, I do think I need to take a few days off from writing ... not long, just a few days, I promise ... to contemplate the future direction of my blog, the subjects of my posts and the best way to tackle those subjects as I write. It's time to see what comes out when I throw The Tree House into the wash, friends ... it's not sooner or later ... now is the time to see what comes out.
I'll be back soon, and until then, know that I'm sending you hugs and love for walking the journey with me. And while you're waiting for me to come back, do something kind for someone ... feed a homeless guy and give him a blanket ... get down on the floor and play with a little kid ... go outside and look at the stars ... be kind to one another in all the ways that matter most ... be kind, and I'll see you soon.
Tonight's post isn't about coming clean ... no big confessions or life-altering events to tell you about ... and it's certainly not about laundry (I detest doing laundry, by the way). I've actually been rolling tonight's post around in my head since the beginning of the year, and tonight feels like the right time to finally put my thoughts into words. And for some reason that I haven't quite figured out, Mom's words from all those years ago seemed the only way to begin ... perhaps it's the "sooner or later" part ... perhaps it's the "it will all come out in the wash" part ... perhaps it's the fear those words still invoke within me ... perhaps it's the realization that the words Mom spoke all those years ago were about so much more than the petty sins of my youth ... or perhaps it's simply that sometimes thoughts get stuck in my somewhat crazy, often irrational brain and they just won't go away. Hmmm ... wait a sec ... this evening's post that's been swirling around in my mind and the connection to what Mom said ... ahhh ... now I get it.
Over the last couple of years, I've been contacted by other blogging entities that have tried to convince me to give up my blog and join their ranks. I've been approached by advertisers who would love for me to promote their product or service on my blog, and they would pay me to do so. I'm constantly bombarded with requests from other bloggers wanting me to link my blog with theirs and for me to link theirs with mine. And to all of those offers and requests, I've politely declined, and for the most part, the people and companies have been kind and respectful in return. But last night, I got an email that said, "You might as well face the facts, Terrie, sooner or later, you'll cave in like everyone else and decide that making money from your writing is what matters most. Sooner or later, you'll see that I'm offering you a way out." Funny ... I guess I didn't know I needed a way out ... a way out of what? A way out of writing because I have a calling to write that won't go away? A way out of penning words that at times are excruciatingly painful for me with the hope that they will help someone else who may be struggling, too? A way out of opening my heart and soul and allowing others to see my innermost thoughts and feelings? Oh my ... maybe he meant he was offering me a way out of the closet ... nah ... I opened that door already and trust me when I say that even if sometimes you really, really, really wish you could crawl back inside ... well ... let's just say it doesn't work that way.
So ... here's the thing ... what I've been thinking about since the beginning of the year. First, I'm not selling out my blog, and making money from my writing is far, far, far from what matters most to me ... what matters most to me are those of you who write in to share your own stories and tell me that my writing helps you ... or encourages you ... or makes you laugh ... or brings tears to your eyes ... or makes you say, "Me, too ... she's writing how I feel, which means I'm not alone." You ... you guys and gals ... you are what matters most to me when it comes to writing. Second, though I give you my word that I'm not selling out The Tree House, I do think I need to take a few days off from writing ... not long, just a few days, I promise ... to contemplate the future direction of my blog, the subjects of my posts and the best way to tackle those subjects as I write. It's time to see what comes out when I throw The Tree House into the wash, friends ... it's not sooner or later ... now is the time to see what comes out.
I'll be back soon, and until then, know that I'm sending you hugs and love for walking the journey with me. And while you're waiting for me to come back, do something kind for someone ... feed a homeless guy and give him a blanket ... get down on the floor and play with a little kid ... go outside and look at the stars ... be kind to one another in all the ways that matter most ... be kind, and I'll see you soon.
Wednesday, January 22, 2014
The Quote Post
People often ask me questions about writing ... how ideas come to me or who first instilled in me a passion for writing or how I learned the mechanics of grammar and syntax or why I didn't pursue a full-time career as a writer and on and on and on. Perhaps someday I'll write a blog that answers a bunch of those questions, but not tonight. I do, however, want to answer one of them ... who first instilled in me a passion for writing. While I would attribute my deep love for storytelling to my dad ... he was the best storyteller ever, by the way, I would most definitely attribute my passion for putting those stories into written format to my 8th-grade English teacher. Maybe some of my Red Bank buddies can help me out here ... I can picture her in my mind, but I can't remember her name. She was older, rather short with brownish little old lady-style hair and had a laugh that was what I would describe as more of a titter than a real laugh. In fact, that's one of the things I remember clearly about her ... she would place her dainty little hand over her mouth when the little titter laughter would escape her lips. Each week, she assigned us a creative writing task, and I distinctly recall the day when she asked me to stay after class to discuss a paper I had turned in. She told me I had a talent for writing and let me know she planned to enter a couple of my stories into a writing contest. I don't remember what the stories were ... I don't remember if I garnered any awards in the contest ... I do, however, remember her telling me I was a gifted writer and encouraging me to never stop writing. For those of you who are teachers, don't ever doubt that you can and do make a difference in the lives of the kids you teach.
The building that houses my office is a cool old building that has a bunch of large wooden beams that reach from the floor to similar beams across ceiling to serve as support posts. The wood on the posts is rough to the touch ... they kind of remind me of old, time-worn square fence posts, roughly 10 inches or so on each side. Since it's an advertising agency filled with tremendously creative people, some of the posts have become ... ummm ... decorated with various works of art, providing, of course, that you would term a taxidermied mongoose a work of art, I suppose. No really ... on a post upstairs in the Cat Pee Lounge (another story for another time, trust me) hangs a really lifelike taxidermied mongoose. And before you ask, Rikki the mongoose has been around SHS longer than I have, and I have no idea where he came from or what his story is (and I'm pretty sure I don't want to know). There are posts with feathers, posts with clocks, posts with drawings, posts with key rings ... and yes, seriously, a post with a really lifelike taxidermied mongoose named Rikki. But out of all the regal wooden posts in the building, the one that stands next to my desk is by far the best ... the coolest ... the most thought-provoking ... the most inspirational ... the most moving ... the most awesome, amazing, astounding wooden post in the entire office. And it was my idea ... you're welcome, co-workers.
I'm not sure when the idea first came to me ... the idea to write a quote on a square of brightly colored paper and push-pin it to the post ... but I am sure that it's one of the most incredibly brilliant ideas I've ever had. The pure genius of my idea wasn't in simply placing a quote that held meaning for me on the post ... the inarguable genius of my idea was to encourage my friends in the office to add their own quote-filled notes to the post as well. There are inspirational quotes, funny quotes, quotes from famous writers and poets, quotes from presidents, quotes from queens, quotes from films, quotes from people we've never met and quotes from some of us. My young friend Danny even put a note on the post quoting something I often say about the post ... "If I die, I want you guys to promise you'll cover this whole post with quotes." The cool thing is that I don't think I'm going to have to kick the bucket for the post to be filled with quote notes ... people add to it every week, and more often than not, they don't tell me when they are tacking their notes onto the wooden beam. I was thinking today as I read some of the quotes that the quote post is doing exactly what I dreamed it would do ... it's become a place of encouragement and fun and inspiration and laughter not just for me but for everyone else as well.
See here's the thing about the quote post, friends ... it's the same as every other post in the building if all you see is the material it's made of or the way it's put together or how it is attached to both the floor and the beam above it. The quote post didn't become special or different or valued until the day I saw it as something more than just an old wooden post that stands by my desk. With the push of the first pin to attach the first quote to the post, it became a towering reminder to me of the power of words ... of the importance of community ... of the need for encouragement ... of the driving desire to belong, to be a part of something bigger, to make a difference for another person.
Someone asked me last week if I have a favorite quote ... that's a tough one for me, because there are many quotes that carry deep meaning for me. But one of my all-time favorites is an exchange between Winnie the Pooh and his friend Piglet. Seems to me there's no better way to close this evening's post ... and yes, by the way, it's tacked securely on the quote post ... of course it is.
"Piglet sidled up to Pooh from behind. 'Pooh?' he whispered.
'Yes, Piglet?'
'Nothing,' said Piglet, taking Pooh's hand. 'I just wanted to be sure of you.'"
The building that houses my office is a cool old building that has a bunch of large wooden beams that reach from the floor to similar beams across ceiling to serve as support posts. The wood on the posts is rough to the touch ... they kind of remind me of old, time-worn square fence posts, roughly 10 inches or so on each side. Since it's an advertising agency filled with tremendously creative people, some of the posts have become ... ummm ... decorated with various works of art, providing, of course, that you would term a taxidermied mongoose a work of art, I suppose. No really ... on a post upstairs in the Cat Pee Lounge (another story for another time, trust me) hangs a really lifelike taxidermied mongoose. And before you ask, Rikki the mongoose has been around SHS longer than I have, and I have no idea where he came from or what his story is (and I'm pretty sure I don't want to know). There are posts with feathers, posts with clocks, posts with drawings, posts with key rings ... and yes, seriously, a post with a really lifelike taxidermied mongoose named Rikki. But out of all the regal wooden posts in the building, the one that stands next to my desk is by far the best ... the coolest ... the most thought-provoking ... the most inspirational ... the most moving ... the most awesome, amazing, astounding wooden post in the entire office. And it was my idea ... you're welcome, co-workers.
I'm not sure when the idea first came to me ... the idea to write a quote on a square of brightly colored paper and push-pin it to the post ... but I am sure that it's one of the most incredibly brilliant ideas I've ever had. The pure genius of my idea wasn't in simply placing a quote that held meaning for me on the post ... the inarguable genius of my idea was to encourage my friends in the office to add their own quote-filled notes to the post as well. There are inspirational quotes, funny quotes, quotes from famous writers and poets, quotes from presidents, quotes from queens, quotes from films, quotes from people we've never met and quotes from some of us. My young friend Danny even put a note on the post quoting something I often say about the post ... "If I die, I want you guys to promise you'll cover this whole post with quotes." The cool thing is that I don't think I'm going to have to kick the bucket for the post to be filled with quote notes ... people add to it every week, and more often than not, they don't tell me when they are tacking their notes onto the wooden beam. I was thinking today as I read some of the quotes that the quote post is doing exactly what I dreamed it would do ... it's become a place of encouragement and fun and inspiration and laughter not just for me but for everyone else as well.
See here's the thing about the quote post, friends ... it's the same as every other post in the building if all you see is the material it's made of or the way it's put together or how it is attached to both the floor and the beam above it. The quote post didn't become special or different or valued until the day I saw it as something more than just an old wooden post that stands by my desk. With the push of the first pin to attach the first quote to the post, it became a towering reminder to me of the power of words ... of the importance of community ... of the need for encouragement ... of the driving desire to belong, to be a part of something bigger, to make a difference for another person.
Someone asked me last week if I have a favorite quote ... that's a tough one for me, because there are many quotes that carry deep meaning for me. But one of my all-time favorites is an exchange between Winnie the Pooh and his friend Piglet. Seems to me there's no better way to close this evening's post ... and yes, by the way, it's tacked securely on the quote post ... of course it is.
"Piglet sidled up to Pooh from behind. 'Pooh?' he whispered.
'Yes, Piglet?'
'Nothing,' said Piglet, taking Pooh's hand. 'I just wanted to be sure of you.'"
Tuesday, January 21, 2014
Forever Young
When I was a kid, I thought teenagers were old. When I was a teenager, I thought college students were old. When I was a college student, I thought people in their 30s were old. When I was in my 30s, I thought people in their 40s were just beginning to hit their stride. When I was in my 40s, I thought people in their 50s were smart, successful and sporty. Now that I'm in my 50s, I think people older than me are ... well ... wise and beautiful and as youthful as they choose to be (think Converse shoes and suspenders ... just sayin') and just plain awesome in so many more ways than I could possibly even begin to list. My dad used to talk a lot about how old age wasn't defined by years as much as it was by a person's heart, and I remember giggling when he would say, "If you think you're an old fart, then an old fart you'll surely be." Oh, how I miss Daddy and his sense of humor, his words of deep wisdom, the twinkle in his eye and the sound of his spontaneous and infectious laughter. George Bernard Shaw wrote, "You don't stop laughing when you grow old, you grow old when you stop laughing." I like to think that perhaps Daddy and George have become buddies in heaven and have shared more than a laugh or two together ... I think their words are perhaps some of the truest I've ever known.
A friend of mine lost his father on Sunday, and my thoughts and prayers have been with him and his family ever since I heard the news of his father's passing. I never met my friend's dad in person, but I felt as if I knew him from reading the wonderful stories my friend would pen about him from time to time. When he wrote about his dad's sense of humor and his laughter, it would always cause me to smile ... I know personally what a tremendous gift it is to have a father who spent his life creating such a wonderful legacy of love for his family. I wept as I watched the wonderful tribute video about his father that my friend posted ... a video filled with years of love and laughter and a life well-lived. As I watched the clips of a family I've never met, I was struck again with the knowledge that the most important things in life aren't things at all.
It seems only fitting to close tonight's post with the words from the song my friend used in his father's tribute video ... an old song by Johnny Cash ... a song that's not defined by years but by the message from the heart contained within the words. Read them more than once ... do more than read them, friends ... live them every single day of your lives. My thoughts and prayers are with you and your family tonight, my friend ... thank you for sharing your heart and your sweet dad with me and so many others.
"Forever Young"
"May God's blessing keep you always,
May your wishes always come true,
May you always do for others
And let others do for you.
May you build a ladder to the stars
And climb on every rung,
May you stay forever young.
May you grow up to be righteous,
May you grow up to be true,
May you always know the truth
And see the lights surrounding you.
May you always be courageous,
Stand upright and be strong,
May you stay forever young,
Forever young, forever young,
May you stay forever young.
May your hands always be busy,
May your feet always be swift,
May you have a strong foundation
When the winds of changes shift.
May your heart always be joyful,
May your song always be sung,
May you stay forever young,
Forever young, forever young,
May you stay forever young."
A friend of mine lost his father on Sunday, and my thoughts and prayers have been with him and his family ever since I heard the news of his father's passing. I never met my friend's dad in person, but I felt as if I knew him from reading the wonderful stories my friend would pen about him from time to time. When he wrote about his dad's sense of humor and his laughter, it would always cause me to smile ... I know personally what a tremendous gift it is to have a father who spent his life creating such a wonderful legacy of love for his family. I wept as I watched the wonderful tribute video about his father that my friend posted ... a video filled with years of love and laughter and a life well-lived. As I watched the clips of a family I've never met, I was struck again with the knowledge that the most important things in life aren't things at all.
It seems only fitting to close tonight's post with the words from the song my friend used in his father's tribute video ... an old song by Johnny Cash ... a song that's not defined by years but by the message from the heart contained within the words. Read them more than once ... do more than read them, friends ... live them every single day of your lives. My thoughts and prayers are with you and your family tonight, my friend ... thank you for sharing your heart and your sweet dad with me and so many others.
"Forever Young"
"May God's blessing keep you always,
May your wishes always come true,
May you always do for others
And let others do for you.
May you build a ladder to the stars
And climb on every rung,
May you stay forever young.
May you grow up to be righteous,
May you grow up to be true,
May you always know the truth
And see the lights surrounding you.
May you always be courageous,
Stand upright and be strong,
May you stay forever young,
Forever young, forever young,
May you stay forever young.
May your hands always be busy,
May your feet always be swift,
May you have a strong foundation
When the winds of changes shift.
May your heart always be joyful,
May your song always be sung,
May you stay forever young,
Forever young, forever young,
May you stay forever young."
Sunday, January 19, 2014
From a Distance
The previous owner of my house installed a doggy door on the side wall of the garage so her dogs could go from the fenced-in back yard to the beds she had placed on the floor for them. I thought it was kind of weird to have a doggy door leading into the garage rather than the house, but my three children thought it was awesome. We had Ali back then, a large Dalmatian/Lab mix who liked to be outside when the weather was nice, but our previous house didn't have a fence so she was forced to spend most of her time inside. I remember the first night after we moved to my current house ... Ali was one happy dog as she ran and ran and ran in the fenced-in back yard. Matt used to be quite the builder when he was a teenager, and within the first week, he had built a large pen around the doggy door so that our big dog couldn't roam through the entire garage. We put a bed and water bowl in the pen for her, and old Ali loved it so much that many times when we would open the gate and try to coax her to come in the house, she would stretch out on her bed and refuse to move. Julie never really cared much for the doggy door and the pen, so when I had my house painted a couple of years after Ali passed away, I had the painter remove the little door and cover it with siding. Matt eventually disassembled the pen ... I'm pretty sure I wasn't the only one with a tear in my eye that day as memories of a sweet old big black and white dog pounded in our minds and tugged at our hearts.
I have another memory of the doggy door ... a memory of two other visitors who scared me half to death when I discovered they had been helping themselves each night for a couple of weeks to the large container of dog food I kept in the garage. Before I tell you about the fateful night when I met the two surprise guests, I need to back up and fill you in a bit about ... well ... here's what happened. Every morning for two weeks when I went out to feed Ali, the lid to the container that held the dog food was either under my car or tossed to the back of the garage. And ... there was dog food scattered everywhere. And ... there were what appeared to be scratch marks on both the lid and the container. And ... not once did I ever think about another animal coming in through the doggy door ... nope, not once ... I immediately thought it was my son Brad trying to play a joke on me. Every single day, I would chastise Brad for leaving the container open and scattering the dog food everywhere, sternly telling him that it would attract mice and mice would attract snakes and if I every found a snake in the garage, I would simply die right there on the spot. Despite Brad's constant insistence that he wasn't pulling one over on me, I remained solidly convinced that my practical joker son was responsible. I'm sure I still owe him another million or so apologies for that one ... sheesh ... what a terrible mom I was. It took me coming eyeball to eyeball with the real culprits to make me realize that Brad was indeed innocent in the great garage dog food heist.
It was a cold and rainy evening, and I had asked Brad and Meghann to bring Ali inside before they left for youth group, telling them I would feed her when I got home from work. Pulling into the garage, I glanced at the dog food container and was glad to see that it was tightly closed. After making sure the garage door closed, I headed inside, changed clothes and went back out to get food for Julie ... no, that's not right ... I opened the door from the kitchen to the garage, flipped on the light, saw two gigantic raccoons, backed up and screamed like a little girl as I slammed the door and locked it. Of course I locked the door ... everyone knows that renegade raccoons can open an unlocked door anytime they want ... gosh ... everyone knows that. Poor Ali didn't get dinner that night until Brad and Meghann came home because I was convinced the raccoons were perched on the hood of my car waiting to attack me should I open the door. Needless to say, the ring-tailed objects of my terror were long gone by the time my kiddos got home, but I was still careful to stand guard with baseball bat in hand while Brad made sure the doggy door was sufficiently secured so as to prevent the furry creatures from returning.
A couple of nights ago when I took Ollie out to potty before we turned in for the night, the minute we stepped outside, the fur on his back stood straight up and he began to growl in a way I've never heard him growl before. Trying to see through the darkness to determine what was frightening my normally fearless wiener dog, I jumped as I saw what was walking along the top rail of the fence near the back of my yard ... yep, you guessed it ... an enormous raccoon ... the granddaddy of all raccoons, that's how big he was. I scooped Ollie into my arms and slammed the door and locked it ... of course I locked it ... and I spent the next hour or so peeking through the blinds in the kitchen to make sure the beast had gone on its way. I've been thinking a lot about my most recent raccoon encounter, and I realized today that there's something I'm meant to learn from the late-night meeting. See, here's the thing ... though I was careful to pick Ollie up and get back inside, I wasn't nearly as terrified as I was the night the raccoons were inside my garage. I wasn't so afraid of the raccoon on the fence because he wasn't in a part of my house ... he wasn't close to me ... he was too far away to hurt me. I wasn't so afraid of the raccoon on the fence because I was seeing him from a distance ... I was seeing him from a distance so I wasn't so afraid.
One of my favorite singers of all time is Bette Midler, and one of her songs has been stuck in my head ever since it dawned on me this afternoon ... the lesson ... the truth ... and I'm going to close with some of the lyrics from the song. Think about it, friends ... it's pretty easy not to be afraid of a raccoon on a faraway fence ... but one in your own garage? That's a whole different story, isn't it? A raccoon in your own garage is a whole different story indeed.
"From a distance
You look like my friend
Even though we are at war
From a distance
I just cannot comprehend
What all this fighting is for
From a distance
There is harmony
And it echoes through the land
And it's the hope of hopes
It's the love of loves
It's the heart of every man
I have another memory of the doggy door ... a memory of two other visitors who scared me half to death when I discovered they had been helping themselves each night for a couple of weeks to the large container of dog food I kept in the garage. Before I tell you about the fateful night when I met the two surprise guests, I need to back up and fill you in a bit about ... well ... here's what happened. Every morning for two weeks when I went out to feed Ali, the lid to the container that held the dog food was either under my car or tossed to the back of the garage. And ... there was dog food scattered everywhere. And ... there were what appeared to be scratch marks on both the lid and the container. And ... not once did I ever think about another animal coming in through the doggy door ... nope, not once ... I immediately thought it was my son Brad trying to play a joke on me. Every single day, I would chastise Brad for leaving the container open and scattering the dog food everywhere, sternly telling him that it would attract mice and mice would attract snakes and if I every found a snake in the garage, I would simply die right there on the spot. Despite Brad's constant insistence that he wasn't pulling one over on me, I remained solidly convinced that my practical joker son was responsible. I'm sure I still owe him another million or so apologies for that one ... sheesh ... what a terrible mom I was. It took me coming eyeball to eyeball with the real culprits to make me realize that Brad was indeed innocent in the great garage dog food heist.
It was a cold and rainy evening, and I had asked Brad and Meghann to bring Ali inside before they left for youth group, telling them I would feed her when I got home from work. Pulling into the garage, I glanced at the dog food container and was glad to see that it was tightly closed. After making sure the garage door closed, I headed inside, changed clothes and went back out to get food for Julie ... no, that's not right ... I opened the door from the kitchen to the garage, flipped on the light, saw two gigantic raccoons, backed up and screamed like a little girl as I slammed the door and locked it. Of course I locked the door ... everyone knows that renegade raccoons can open an unlocked door anytime they want ... gosh ... everyone knows that. Poor Ali didn't get dinner that night until Brad and Meghann came home because I was convinced the raccoons were perched on the hood of my car waiting to attack me should I open the door. Needless to say, the ring-tailed objects of my terror were long gone by the time my kiddos got home, but I was still careful to stand guard with baseball bat in hand while Brad made sure the doggy door was sufficiently secured so as to prevent the furry creatures from returning.
A couple of nights ago when I took Ollie out to potty before we turned in for the night, the minute we stepped outside, the fur on his back stood straight up and he began to growl in a way I've never heard him growl before. Trying to see through the darkness to determine what was frightening my normally fearless wiener dog, I jumped as I saw what was walking along the top rail of the fence near the back of my yard ... yep, you guessed it ... an enormous raccoon ... the granddaddy of all raccoons, that's how big he was. I scooped Ollie into my arms and slammed the door and locked it ... of course I locked it ... and I spent the next hour or so peeking through the blinds in the kitchen to make sure the beast had gone on its way. I've been thinking a lot about my most recent raccoon encounter, and I realized today that there's something I'm meant to learn from the late-night meeting. See, here's the thing ... though I was careful to pick Ollie up and get back inside, I wasn't nearly as terrified as I was the night the raccoons were inside my garage. I wasn't so afraid of the raccoon on the fence because he wasn't in a part of my house ... he wasn't close to me ... he was too far away to hurt me. I wasn't so afraid of the raccoon on the fence because I was seeing him from a distance ... I was seeing him from a distance so I wasn't so afraid.
One of my favorite singers of all time is Bette Midler, and one of her songs has been stuck in my head ever since it dawned on me this afternoon ... the lesson ... the truth ... and I'm going to close with some of the lyrics from the song. Think about it, friends ... it's pretty easy not to be afraid of a raccoon on a faraway fence ... but one in your own garage? That's a whole different story, isn't it? A raccoon in your own garage is a whole different story indeed.
"From a distance
You look like my friend
Even though we are at war
From a distance
I just cannot comprehend
What all this fighting is for
From a distance
There is harmony
And it echoes through the land
And it's the hope of hopes
It's the love of loves
It's the heart of every man
God is watching us
God is watching us
God is watching us
From a distance"
Saturday, January 18, 2014
She Changed Me
Sometimes I wonder how many people I've met over the course of my 54 years of life ... so many people ... so many wonderful and amazing people ... far too many to count. Lest you think I'm looking at all those folks through rose-colored glasses, please allow me to readily acknowledge that not all the people I've met ... well, suffice it to say that I've met a few not so wonderful and amazing people down through the years. But, for the most part, I'm blessed to know and to have known some truly remarkable people ... as I type those words, I'm reminded anew that the things that have made my life rich and full and sweet aren't things at all. I read a quote the other day that said, "A life lived without the formation of relationships with others isn't a life lived, but merely an existence sustained." There's a great big old ton of truth to be gleaned from those words ... a great big old flipping ton of truth.
As I'm sure is true for most people, I was closer to some folks more so than others ... it's natural that a person develop deeper friendships or relationships with certain people while forming more casual ones with others. I can also say that there are some people who have had a greater impact on my life than others ... and again, I think it's safe to say that's probably true for most folks. But then ... then there are those people who belong in a category all to themselves ... the "people who changed me forever" category. People like my children and my extended family and my closest friends ... people who changed me forever by teaching me in ways I never dreamed possible what unconditional love is ... people who changed me forever by showing me what it really means to sacrifice while expecting nothing in return ... people who changed me forever by modeling compassion, loyalty, determination, strength, commitment and forgiveness in their truest and deepest forms ... people who changed me forever by shining so very brightly in the darkest of nights.
My young friend Lents is one of those people ... one of the inner circle, changed me forever people. Looking back, I'm not quite sure how we became such good friends, but I'm eternally thankful that we did. I'm old enough to be her mom, but I think that only serves to make us better friends ... every now and then, I can dig deep and come up with a couple of words of life experience wisdom for her, and she often teaches me what's cool and hip (like Spotify and Instagram and leaving your shirt untucked when you wear a sweater over it) and what's not (like wearing my sunglasses on a cord around my neck while I'm at work ... that's nerdy, not cool, by the way ... or printing Mapquest directions to find where I'm going instead of using the Google maps app on my phone). While my coolness factor has increased a gazillion-fold because of Lents, it's her heart of compassion and acceptance and love for others that has changed me forever. It's her way of somehow knowing when I'm having a rough day and making the time to seek me out, give me a hug and remind me I'm loved that has changed me forever. It's her strong and courageous never give up attitude that has changed me forever. It's seeing her love for her family and her husband and her gigantic dog that has changed me forever. Yep ... she's one of those people alright ... one of the inner circle, changed me forever people.
Yesterday was my young friend's last day of work at SHS, and just the thought of not seeing her each day brings tears to my eyes and a sinking feeling to my heart. I am really going to miss her ... I'm going to miss her so very much. I'm proud of her for stepping out and embracing a new adventure ... there's not a doubt in my mind that she will be a huge success in everything she does. So ... this one's for you, Lentsy ... I love you, kiddo, and I wish you only the very best that life has to offer. Knowing you has made me a far better person ... you've changed me forever by being my friend.
As I'm sure is true for most people, I was closer to some folks more so than others ... it's natural that a person develop deeper friendships or relationships with certain people while forming more casual ones with others. I can also say that there are some people who have had a greater impact on my life than others ... and again, I think it's safe to say that's probably true for most folks. But then ... then there are those people who belong in a category all to themselves ... the "people who changed me forever" category. People like my children and my extended family and my closest friends ... people who changed me forever by teaching me in ways I never dreamed possible what unconditional love is ... people who changed me forever by showing me what it really means to sacrifice while expecting nothing in return ... people who changed me forever by modeling compassion, loyalty, determination, strength, commitment and forgiveness in their truest and deepest forms ... people who changed me forever by shining so very brightly in the darkest of nights.
My young friend Lents is one of those people ... one of the inner circle, changed me forever people. Looking back, I'm not quite sure how we became such good friends, but I'm eternally thankful that we did. I'm old enough to be her mom, but I think that only serves to make us better friends ... every now and then, I can dig deep and come up with a couple of words of life experience wisdom for her, and she often teaches me what's cool and hip (like Spotify and Instagram and leaving your shirt untucked when you wear a sweater over it) and what's not (like wearing my sunglasses on a cord around my neck while I'm at work ... that's nerdy, not cool, by the way ... or printing Mapquest directions to find where I'm going instead of using the Google maps app on my phone). While my coolness factor has increased a gazillion-fold because of Lents, it's her heart of compassion and acceptance and love for others that has changed me forever. It's her way of somehow knowing when I'm having a rough day and making the time to seek me out, give me a hug and remind me I'm loved that has changed me forever. It's her strong and courageous never give up attitude that has changed me forever. It's seeing her love for her family and her husband and her gigantic dog that has changed me forever. Yep ... she's one of those people alright ... one of the inner circle, changed me forever people.
Yesterday was my young friend's last day of work at SHS, and just the thought of not seeing her each day brings tears to my eyes and a sinking feeling to my heart. I am really going to miss her ... I'm going to miss her so very much. I'm proud of her for stepping out and embracing a new adventure ... there's not a doubt in my mind that she will be a huge success in everything she does. So ... this one's for you, Lentsy ... I love you, kiddo, and I wish you only the very best that life has to offer. Knowing you has made me a far better person ... you've changed me forever by being my friend.
Thursday, January 16, 2014
The Bump
If I tried to list all the cute things my granddaughter did while I was visiting her in Canada a few weeks ago, I'm pretty sure I'd be writing for the rest of my life ... trust me, that kid is just stinking adorable no matter what she does. There were so many things she said and did that made me laugh out loud as I gathered her into my arms for a hug, and then there were things she did that tested my physical endurance and strength and put me through my paces in a big way. I learned quickly that one of her favorite things to do was to climb on her dad's legs and bounce. Matt and Becca would sing her a little song about riding on a bumpy road, and Matt would bounce his little girl until his legs couldn't handle any more bouncing. And every time he stopped, C.J. would say, "More bumpy road, peas, Dada ... more bumpy road." I know that it sounds like it would be easy to sit on the floor and bounce a little kid up and down while she held onto your legs ... ummm ... not so easy at all. But I love my granddaughter and she loves to bounce while someone sings The Bumpy Road to her, so I sang and bounced until my legs trembled. And then C.J. would say, "More bumpy road, peas, Ghee ... more bumpy road," and I would sing and bounce some more ... of course I would ... sheesh ... of course I sang and bounced as long as she wanted me to sing and bounce, no matter how badly my legs trembled.
A couple of weeks ago, I noticed a small bump on my left index finger at the joint just below my fingernail. I didn't think much about it, assuming I had probably smacked my finger somehow. But then the bump got bigger and became tender to the touch. When it began to throb and wake me up at night, I decided perhaps it was time to have my doctor take a look at it. Given my past history with infections that seem to crop up in weird places on my body, she wrote me a prescription for an antibiotic and told me if that didn't take care of the bump, she would send me to a hand surgeon. You guys know I've got one or two tiny little irrational fears ... well, you can now add having some surgeon slice open my finger to scrape my bone and remove the lump as having now catapulted to the top of the irrational fears list. And since the bump hasn't improved at all since I began taking the antibiotic on Monday and seems to be getting a bit larger, I happen to think that my aforementioned irrational surgeon fear is not irrational at all ... nope, not even a little bit irrational in my thinking. Granted, I've got another 10 days on the antibiotic, but still ... NOT an irrational fear at all.
Maybe it's because my finger has been exceptionally achy today or maybe it's because my brain goes in crazy directions sometimes, but I've been thinking all day about the bumps we encounter as we journey through life. Sometimes the bumps are small and we can drive over them with ease, while at other times they loom so largely before us that they cause us to stop right in the middle of the road. I did some research on the phrase "a bump in the road," and it quickly became obvious that one definition recurs over and over again ... a definition I've never given much thought to, but one that carries within it deep, deep meaning. The phrase "a bump in the road" is defined as "a hindrance in some quest or extended task." It's not the word "hindrance" that gives me reason for contemplation, it's the words "quest or extended task" that cause me to think I need to change my interpretation of what coming upon bumps in the road of life really means. Go ahead and think about that for a while ... it certainly merits some serious thought.
Here's the thing ... to C.J., the bumpy road was fun and exciting even when it got a little scary. No matter how bumpy the ride became, she reveled in every single moment of it and asked for more and more and more. Not only did she make the most of her bumpy ride, she helped me make the most of it, too. Yes, my legs grew tired and my muscles ached with every new bump, but making sweet and lasting memories with my granddaughter made every bump worth it ... so very, very, very worth it. Maybe that's the lesson ... maybe that's what I'm supposed to learn ... I have to go through the pain before I can get past the bumps in the road, and I have to hurt before I can heal. And sometimes ... sometimes ... sometimes you have to trust the journey, friends ... sometimes you just have to trust the journey ... bumps and all.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)