Someone once said, "Marriage means commitment. Of course, so does insanity." Ask anyone you know, married or single, about-to-be-married or used-to-be-married, it doesn't matter: they will all have something to say about marriage. Thousands of books have been written about marriage, hundreds of seminars and workshops are held each year on the subject, contracts are written, movies are made, and therapists and lawyers make their fortunes off of it. Still, we are no closer to figuring it out than Adam and Eve after their disastrous rendezvous at the fruit tree which gave birth to 'he said, she said' and the beautiful madness of marriage.
Irving Stone's The Agony and The Ecstacy, published in 1961, is an amazing, masterfully written 'biographical novel' on the life of Michaelangelo. It is also a haunting and insightful portrayal of marriage. We see the contrast in the rich historical Renaissance era between Florence - a cultural mecca for artists, architects, musicians, and writers - and Rome, the political, religious, and educational benchmark for all of Italy. Both cities brought their own unique value to their country, and to all of Europe as a result. But not only in the culture where he was raised, we see Michaelangelo's own personal battles mirror that of marriage. The passion with which he pursued what he loved, the despair of rejection and/or failure, the very struggle necessary to create. And the glory of a life well lived, leaving behind astounding works of art that have touched countless millions of lives.
We've all heard 'men are from Mars, women are from Venus'. We are also from Florence and Rome. We are salt and pepper, dogs and cats, blue sky and deep green ocean, and velvet and steel. For all the ways we explore understanding and overcoming our differences, our contrasting elements are the stage of struggle on which we create things of beauty, works of art. Where would fried chicken be if seasoned only with pepper? How boring would a dog's life be if never given the opportunity to chase after a cat? Would the sky be as blue if it did not rest peacefully against a deep green ocean? And could we truly appreciate the strength of steel if we never cradled velvet against our cheek?
My husband and I will be married for 17 years tomorrow. There have been seasons of ecstacy and times of overwhelming agony. We have loved, laughed, cried, yelled, made promises, made threats, and bought and sold cars, houses, and furniture. We have three wonderful children. We've shared many more pets. We're learning to learn from others' mistakes and celebrate their successes. And we're learning what works for us. At the end of the day, for all our married ups and downs, he knows me. I know him. We draw strength, stability, and sometime arguments from each other. And at night, resting on the same pillows, there is comfort in knowing that Rome and Florence are learning to peacefully and productively co-exist.
The struggle to create something of beauty. The glory of leaving behind a work of art. The beautiful madness of marriage.
Friday, August 26, 2011
Friday, August 12, 2011
At Home...Where it Hurts
In my mid-20s, I was part of a small Bible study group which was, truth be told, probably more of a 'find your spouse' study group than anything else. We had a lot of fun and spent ridiculous amounts of time together as a group. Church functions, discovering new restaurants, pool parties, bowling, Christmas decorating, weekend trips, shopping, football, Spades tournaments that lasted for days, New Year's eve parties, and more than a few late night races between those of us who had fast cars (and yes, I was one of them). One particular weekend, very late on a Saturday night, we were exploring how we felt about the serious topic of life. Everyone had to write on a piece of paper one word to describe how they felt about death. We scribbled on our papers and folded them up, laid them in a basket, and one person began reading all the words out loud. "Scared", "dark", "alone", "final", and "trapped" were just a few of the sentiments. Then our self-imposed leader read mine: "peace".
Now don't get me wrong: I love being alive and want to squeeze every moment I have out of it. A friend said to me recently (in her elegant, slow Southern drawl), "Dawn, I hope when you reach the end of your life, there's no more dance left in you." Her simple statement hit me deeply as someone who has faced a terminal illness and, praise God, lived to tell about it. I truly don't have a death wish. But as far back as I can remember, I've never been afraid of it. Death has always seemed to me a warm blanket of rest. And letting go. And peace.
For the past several years, I've had the wonderful privilege to be part of a volunteer ministry at my church whose primary focus is caring for families as they navigate the dark waters of a loved one's terminal illness. As one of the leaders, I am often the first point of contact for a family after they have been advised by their doctor that it's time to 'call in hospice'. Our small band of volunteers serve as a sort of liaison between the family and hospice care. Many of them have never heard of hospice and don't fully understand what it is, so we help them understand the language of 'end of life' care. We also help with the daily tasks of life: housecleaning, yard maintenance, preparing meals, laundry, grocery shopping, and day-to-day errands, so that family members are able to focus on caring for their loved one.
There is no time or energy for hiding behind masks here. Grieving before a loved one draws their last breath takes on many faces, and we have learned that no one has the right to dictate how another walks down the path to good-bye. Sometimes they need to laugh so they don't fall apart. Sometimes they need to vent - and there are no rules about language here. Sometimes they need to weep. Bitterly. Sometimes they need to ask questions and try to answer what is destined to remain unknown. Sometimes they need to sit and embrace the silence. But they don't want to be silent by themselves. There is an unspoken comfort that comes from simply having a warm body close enough to reach out and touch. Even if they don't
People often ask why we do what we do - especially when they hear about us for the first time. "You mean you go into a stranger's house and clean their toilets?" Yes. "Why on earth would you practically move in with someone who's dying?" Because they need us. "Wow - you guys are weird." The families we care for would disagree. There are many answers, and we all respond in our own way. But for me, the answer is two-fold: meeting people at the point of their need is what Jesus does. Not to over-spiritualize or set ourselves up on some kind of pedestal, but for me it is truly that simple. However, a very strong secondary driving force, and probably what drew me to this in the first place, is that I feel very much at home with people who are broken. Whether they are broken because of their own choices or choices that were made for them or choices that were forced on them, I am drawn to them.
After being unemployed for almost a year (three days shy of one year to be exact) I've been incredibly blessed to begin working with an organization whose focus is providing a safe haven for ministers and their families in crisis. It is a comprehensive, intense program (on average from 12-15 months in duration) which offers relocation, housing, counseling, and childcare when necessary in an effort to provide healing and restoration to ministers and their families who have had to walk away from their calling - as a result of their own actions, or the actions of their home church. I was initially thrilled about this opportunity because it meant I would be writing - and getting paid for it! But it didn't take long for me to realize that once again, I'm submerged in an environment where people's lives have been shattered. Men questioning their failures. Women questioning their marriage. Children questioning their future.
The vast majority of the time, I will not personally interact with these families. Most of them I will probably never even meet. But what we are doing is helping them put their lives back together. The 'safe haven' we provide is guiding them to an honest and authentic relationship with God, themselves, their families, and their church. It is a painful process. Peeling back years of unresolved or unexplored issues to face the core of their own souls. And then to slowly, gently provide the balm of restoration. To help them stand again, scarred from the battle, but equipped with tools to win the war. I can't say I love my job because it doesn't feel like a job. I love what I am a part of. I love knowing that families have a place for hope.
And I feel very much at home.
Now don't get me wrong: I love being alive and want to squeeze every moment I have out of it. A friend said to me recently (in her elegant, slow Southern drawl), "Dawn, I hope when you reach the end of your life, there's no more dance left in you." Her simple statement hit me deeply as someone who has faced a terminal illness and, praise God, lived to tell about it. I truly don't have a death wish. But as far back as I can remember, I've never been afraid of it. Death has always seemed to me a warm blanket of rest. And letting go. And peace.
For the past several years, I've had the wonderful privilege to be part of a volunteer ministry at my church whose primary focus is caring for families as they navigate the dark waters of a loved one's terminal illness. As one of the leaders, I am often the first point of contact for a family after they have been advised by their doctor that it's time to 'call in hospice'. Our small band of volunteers serve as a sort of liaison between the family and hospice care. Many of them have never heard of hospice and don't fully understand what it is, so we help them understand the language of 'end of life' care. We also help with the daily tasks of life: housecleaning, yard maintenance, preparing meals, laundry, grocery shopping, and day-to-day errands, so that family members are able to focus on caring for their loved one.
There is no time or energy for hiding behind masks here. Grieving before a loved one draws their last breath takes on many faces, and we have learned that no one has the right to dictate how another walks down the path to good-bye. Sometimes they need to laugh so they don't fall apart. Sometimes they need to vent - and there are no rules about language here. Sometimes they need to weep. Bitterly. Sometimes they need to ask questions and try to answer what is destined to remain unknown. Sometimes they need to sit and embrace the silence. But they don't want to be silent by themselves. There is an unspoken comfort that comes from simply having a warm body close enough to reach out and touch. Even if they don't
People often ask why we do what we do - especially when they hear about us for the first time. "You mean you go into a stranger's house and clean their toilets?" Yes. "Why on earth would you practically move in with someone who's dying?" Because they need us. "Wow - you guys are weird." The families we care for would disagree. There are many answers, and we all respond in our own way. But for me, the answer is two-fold: meeting people at the point of their need is what Jesus does. Not to over-spiritualize or set ourselves up on some kind of pedestal, but for me it is truly that simple. However, a very strong secondary driving force, and probably what drew me to this in the first place, is that I feel very much at home with people who are broken. Whether they are broken because of their own choices or choices that were made for them or choices that were forced on them, I am drawn to them.
After being unemployed for almost a year (three days shy of one year to be exact) I've been incredibly blessed to begin working with an organization whose focus is providing a safe haven for ministers and their families in crisis. It is a comprehensive, intense program (on average from 12-15 months in duration) which offers relocation, housing, counseling, and childcare when necessary in an effort to provide healing and restoration to ministers and their families who have had to walk away from their calling - as a result of their own actions, or the actions of their home church. I was initially thrilled about this opportunity because it meant I would be writing - and getting paid for it! But it didn't take long for me to realize that once again, I'm submerged in an environment where people's lives have been shattered. Men questioning their failures. Women questioning their marriage. Children questioning their future.
The vast majority of the time, I will not personally interact with these families. Most of them I will probably never even meet. But what we are doing is helping them put their lives back together. The 'safe haven' we provide is guiding them to an honest and authentic relationship with God, themselves, their families, and their church. It is a painful process. Peeling back years of unresolved or unexplored issues to face the core of their own souls. And then to slowly, gently provide the balm of restoration. To help them stand again, scarred from the battle, but equipped with tools to win the war. I can't say I love my job because it doesn't feel like a job. I love what I am a part of. I love knowing that families have a place for hope.
And I feel very much at home.
Wednesday, July 6, 2011
Guilt, Innocence, and Choice
I must admit, I was absolutely convinced that after 33 days of trial and only 10 hours of deliberation, Casey Anthony's jury would hand down a guilty verdict. Yesterday afternoon, sitting in the waiting room of a doctor's office with my Mom (who fell and broke her shoulder over the weekend), I was absolutely stunned when a 'not guilty' was announced on the more serious Murder 1, Murder 2, and Negligent Homicide charges. Facebook posts went through the roof, Twitter was all aflutter, and every cable channel except Disney and Cartoon Network provided up-to-the-minute commentary. One newscaster offering her own particular flair for drama was practically salivating over the assumed guilty verdict just moments prior to the live announcement.
After hours and hours of research over the last two weeks about filicide - the deliberate murder of a child by a parent - I have learned that approximately 400 children under the age of 5 are killed in the United States every year. That's more than one child every single day! And the large majority of these precious little ones are killed by a biological parent - not another family member, foster or adoptive parent, daycare provider, or stranger/predator. Those we are born to trust the most are the very ones who have viciously, violently robbed these babies of life, liberty, and the simple joy of a frozen popsicle on a hot summer day. If you increase the age of children to 12, the numbers go up even more. In fact, the most life-threatening risk to a child under the age of 15 is their own parent.
Right about now, you're probably sitting at your computer or holding your iPod shaking your head, wondering what happens in the mind and heart of a parent to move them from the normal, everyday frustration of parenting to not only thinking about but actually carrying out the murder of their own flesh and blood. This can't even be stretched to 'mercy killing', where a parent might possibly argue that death was an act of kindness. No, not by any stretch. This is the cold-blooded, premeditated, planned and rehearsed killing of a defenseless human being. Now, if your blood pressure is rising and you're starting to squirm, keep reading.
In 2008, approximately 1.2 million abortions were performed in the United States. More than 50% of those abortions were performed on women between the ages of 21 and 25. Cold-blooded, premediated, planned and paid for killing of a defenseless human being. As much as we cry out for justice on behalf of little Caylee Anthony's murder, had her mother opted for an abortion anytime prior to the birth of her daughter on August 9, 2005 we would call it 'a woman's choice'. Caylee was murdered and callously tossed away in a garbage bag before she could celebrate her 3rd birthday with cupcakes, lemonade, and girlfriends. But over a million little Caylees die every year in legal abortion clinics throughout the US before they ever draw their first breath.
For all the outrage Casey Anthony's verdict has brought to the surface, it would do us well to recognize that until we as a people put inestimable value on human life - all human life - we will continue to reap what we have sown. Selfishness will prevail. And we will grieve the heart of God who knit us together in our mother's womb.
After hours and hours of research over the last two weeks about filicide - the deliberate murder of a child by a parent - I have learned that approximately 400 children under the age of 5 are killed in the United States every year. That's more than one child every single day! And the large majority of these precious little ones are killed by a biological parent - not another family member, foster or adoptive parent, daycare provider, or stranger/predator. Those we are born to trust the most are the very ones who have viciously, violently robbed these babies of life, liberty, and the simple joy of a frozen popsicle on a hot summer day. If you increase the age of children to 12, the numbers go up even more. In fact, the most life-threatening risk to a child under the age of 15 is their own parent.
Right about now, you're probably sitting at your computer or holding your iPod shaking your head, wondering what happens in the mind and heart of a parent to move them from the normal, everyday frustration of parenting to not only thinking about but actually carrying out the murder of their own flesh and blood. This can't even be stretched to 'mercy killing', where a parent might possibly argue that death was an act of kindness. No, not by any stretch. This is the cold-blooded, premeditated, planned and rehearsed killing of a defenseless human being. Now, if your blood pressure is rising and you're starting to squirm, keep reading.
In 2008, approximately 1.2 million abortions were performed in the United States. More than 50% of those abortions were performed on women between the ages of 21 and 25. Cold-blooded, premediated, planned and paid for killing of a defenseless human being. As much as we cry out for justice on behalf of little Caylee Anthony's murder, had her mother opted for an abortion anytime prior to the birth of her daughter on August 9, 2005 we would call it 'a woman's choice'. Caylee was murdered and callously tossed away in a garbage bag before she could celebrate her 3rd birthday with cupcakes, lemonade, and girlfriends. But over a million little Caylees die every year in legal abortion clinics throughout the US before they ever draw their first breath.
For all the outrage Casey Anthony's verdict has brought to the surface, it would do us well to recognize that until we as a people put inestimable value on human life - all human life - we will continue to reap what we have sown. Selfishness will prevail. And we will grieve the heart of God who knit us together in our mother's womb.
Wednesday, June 22, 2011
Eight Years in the Attic
I cleaned out our attic this week. It's only June - not even Summer yet according to the calendar - but the Atlanta area is already enduring temperatures way up in the 90s. My goal was to work in the mornings before the heat soared past unbearable. However, anyone who knows me knows that once I get started on a 'project', it's hard for me to stop. I'm like a freight train on crack.
So I climbed the stairs, took a few steps onto the plywood flooring and looked around. Wow. I think there must be something about insulation, duct-taped boxes, and intense heat that promotes reproduction. Where did all this stuff come from? I found suitcases, Christmas decorations, papers from previous school years, air filters, clothes, and toys. It seemed easy enough to begin editing. I started with broken toys (how did they end up in the attic and not the trash can?) I then moved on to parts and pieces of incomplete Christmas decorations (repeat previous question). Clothes that no one in my family will ever wear again, luggage long past its prime, and a collection of stuffed animals that would rival FAO Schwartz brought back great memories, despite the fact that I was beginning to look and feel like I was at boot camp in the desert.
Going through each box with just enough detail to make sure I wouldn't regret our Friday morning visit from the trash man, I was quickly filling the bags beside me. Then I found it. The box with Rachel's costume from her dance recital six years ago. It was an adorable bright yellow top and skirt that felt something like a cross between vinyl and plastic with black taffeta everywhere (literally). Her group danced to Rascall Flatt's Life is a Highway. I remember her practically floating down the stairs to show her Daddy after we had the whole outfit perfectly in place, complete with slicked back her hair and makeup. She was beaming and her Daddy was speechless.
Next, I came across a collection of sports cars that Alex collected when he was much younger. I remember the various Christmas and birthday celebrations when he received them and how he studied them, learned about the make and model, discovered all the parts that would open and close, and proudly displayed them in his room. His favorite by far was the truck his Granddaddy gave him, a replica of his own. Alex kept a very special place reserved just for that truck and it was very often the first one he showcased when anyone else admired his collection.
With the heat sweltering and my eyes stinging from sweat running down my face, I was about ready to call it a day. My stomach told me it was well past lunchtime but I decided to go through one more stack before descending into the comfort of the air conditioned hallway. I moved a small blue blanket that a family friend had made for Stephen's crib and opened the box underneath where I saw a stack of cards and some computer-printed sheets of paper.
And I started reading. "Dawn, we are praying for you and your family every day"; "Please know that Heaven is being bombarded with your name!"; "Our children pray for you and Baby Hood every morning before breakfast"; "So sorry to hear that you must undergo another surgery"; "Praying for you as you begin your chemotherapy treatments"; "Please let us know if we can do anything for you"; "You and Richard are a testimony of God's strength and grace"; "I love your short hair!"; "The Lord brings you to mind several times each day and I am asking Him to give you strength and courage"; "Thank you for your updates by email...it helps me pray specifically for everyone in your family"; "You look fabulous with a bald head!" More cards. More Scripture passages. More prayers. Countless emails and notes of encouragement.
I have no idea how long I sat on the floor of our attic reading those precious notes of encouragement, remembering like it was yesterday. But what really made my heart swell was the realization that nearly ten years later I remain close to almost everyone who sent those cards, notes, and letters. How it blessed me to realize that these friends and family have shared the good, the bad, the ugly, and the miracles of life with us!
I was drenched when I slowly, carefully, came down those rickety stairs and closed the 'trap door'. But my spirit felt uplifted. Encouraged. Strong.
Eight years in the attic. And still so very close to my heart.
So I climbed the stairs, took a few steps onto the plywood flooring and looked around. Wow. I think there must be something about insulation, duct-taped boxes, and intense heat that promotes reproduction. Where did all this stuff come from? I found suitcases, Christmas decorations, papers from previous school years, air filters, clothes, and toys. It seemed easy enough to begin editing. I started with broken toys (how did they end up in the attic and not the trash can?) I then moved on to parts and pieces of incomplete Christmas decorations (repeat previous question). Clothes that no one in my family will ever wear again, luggage long past its prime, and a collection of stuffed animals that would rival FAO Schwartz brought back great memories, despite the fact that I was beginning to look and feel like I was at boot camp in the desert.
Going through each box with just enough detail to make sure I wouldn't regret our Friday morning visit from the trash man, I was quickly filling the bags beside me. Then I found it. The box with Rachel's costume from her dance recital six years ago. It was an adorable bright yellow top and skirt that felt something like a cross between vinyl and plastic with black taffeta everywhere (literally). Her group danced to Rascall Flatt's Life is a Highway. I remember her practically floating down the stairs to show her Daddy after we had the whole outfit perfectly in place, complete with slicked back her hair and makeup. She was beaming and her Daddy was speechless.
Next, I came across a collection of sports cars that Alex collected when he was much younger. I remember the various Christmas and birthday celebrations when he received them and how he studied them, learned about the make and model, discovered all the parts that would open and close, and proudly displayed them in his room. His favorite by far was the truck his Granddaddy gave him, a replica of his own. Alex kept a very special place reserved just for that truck and it was very often the first one he showcased when anyone else admired his collection.
With the heat sweltering and my eyes stinging from sweat running down my face, I was about ready to call it a day. My stomach told me it was well past lunchtime but I decided to go through one more stack before descending into the comfort of the air conditioned hallway. I moved a small blue blanket that a family friend had made for Stephen's crib and opened the box underneath where I saw a stack of cards and some computer-printed sheets of paper.
And I started reading. "Dawn, we are praying for you and your family every day"; "Please know that Heaven is being bombarded with your name!"; "Our children pray for you and Baby Hood every morning before breakfast"; "So sorry to hear that you must undergo another surgery"; "Praying for you as you begin your chemotherapy treatments"; "Please let us know if we can do anything for you"; "You and Richard are a testimony of God's strength and grace"; "I love your short hair!"; "The Lord brings you to mind several times each day and I am asking Him to give you strength and courage"; "Thank you for your updates by email...it helps me pray specifically for everyone in your family"; "You look fabulous with a bald head!" More cards. More Scripture passages. More prayers. Countless emails and notes of encouragement.
I have no idea how long I sat on the floor of our attic reading those precious notes of encouragement, remembering like it was yesterday. But what really made my heart swell was the realization that nearly ten years later I remain close to almost everyone who sent those cards, notes, and letters. How it blessed me to realize that these friends and family have shared the good, the bad, the ugly, and the miracles of life with us!
I was drenched when I slowly, carefully, came down those rickety stairs and closed the 'trap door'. But my spirit felt uplifted. Encouraged. Strong.
Eight years in the attic. And still so very close to my heart.
Sunday, June 19, 2011
The First Man
I wrote this and submitted it to a greeting card company last year. My Daddy was the inspiration for every word.
Dad,
You were the first man to ever hold me in your arms
The first man whose shoulder I laid my head on
The first man whose hand I reached for
The first man whose name I called when I was scared
You were the first man to ever kiss me goodnight
The first man to smile as I modeled a new dress
The first man to wipe away my tears
The first man to celebrate my accomplishments
You were the first man to ever say to me, "you are beautiful'
The first man who ate cookies I made from scratch
The first man who wore a "hand-painted" shirt or tie
The first man who wrapped me in his arms for a photograph
The first man whose shoulder I laid my head on
The first man whose hand I reached for
The first man whose name I called when I was scared
You were the first man to ever kiss me goodnight
The first man to smile as I modeled a new dress
The first man to wipe away my tears
The first man to celebrate my accomplishments
You were the first man to ever say to me, "you are beautiful'
The first man who ate cookies I made from scratch
The first man who wore a "hand-painted" shirt or tie
The first man who wrapped me in his arms for a photograph
You were the first man to let me go as I became a woman
And you will always be the first man I ever loved.
Thanks, Dad.
And you will always be the first man I ever loved.
Thanks, Dad.
Happy Father's Day. I love you.
Saturday, June 18, 2011
Happy Father's Day - Guest Blogger Jason Brooks
Dawn asked me to write a guest post for Father’s Day about three seconds after I asked her to write her guest post for my blog. Being her friend, and always looking for a chance to add a writing credit, I quickly agreed.
Then I started thinking about what to write.
Should I be funny? Should I be heartfelt? What could be written about fatherhood that hadn’t been written before?
Then my grandfather got sick.
The past couple of weeks my dad’s side of the family has been on high alert over my Pop Harold. He went into the hospital with trouble breathing, only to find out he had congestive heart failure and a heart rate just this side of deadly. The docs were able to get the fluid off his heart, but they weren’t able to isolate the cause of his heart racing, so that meant an extended stay in the critical care wing. Turns out it was a tiny valve malfunction and a blocked artery. They gave him medicine and sent him home on Tuesday.
They don’t expect him to ever really recover. We’ve brought in hospice to help out.
Being on the verge of losing my Pop Harold made think about the three main fatherly influence in my life, and I realized: if pedigree were all that mattered, I would be the world’s greatest dad.
Between my father, Rickey, and my two Pops - Pop Harold (my dad’s dad) and Pop Emmette (my mom’s dad) - I have the kind of patriarchal lineage one only finds when reading Biblical genealogies. Those three men represent the finest collection of fatherly wisdom ever assembled - a Daddy Dream Team - and it is my privilege to call myself their son.
I lost Pop Emmette eight years ago this August. I remember the day he died, how I stood over his body in a tiny ER alcove while the world went to hell around me. Doctors and nurses were rushing by outside the curtain that was supposed to give us privacy, and it was a weird juxtaposition to my feeling as if the world had suddenly stood still. Pop’s body seemed half its size; without his soul to fill it, the skin just sagged.
I spoke at his funeral. I told stories that he had told me, stories that were inappropriate for a funeral because they were designed to make people laugh their butts off. I think I may be the only preacher in the world who intentionally turned his grandfather’s funeral into a stand up routine and had the audience roaring with laughter despite themselves. I remember thinking, in that moment, how much of a gift Pop had given me through his stories. How much of me was bound up in him.
Now, with Pop Harold at home but simply waiting to pass on, I find myself planning to speak at another funeral. This one will be different, however. Not because Pop Harold wasn’t a funny man - he certainly could be - but more because Pop Harold’s life has been more of a mystery to me. Perhaps it’s because I was too enraptured in Emmette’s stories to ever ask Harold for his, or maybe it’s because Pop Harold never wanted to share his stories like Emmette did, but whichever it was, I don’t know nearly as much about Pop Harold as I did Pop Emmette.
But what I’ve learned is different. Not better, necessarily, but different. It’s like having silk in one hand and Egyptian cotton in the other - the texture is soft and wonderful for each, but for entirely different reasons.
Pop Harold has shown me the challenge and majesty of aging. That when people seem to have outlived their usefulness, they still have purpose: to teach those around them about the power and necessity of love and family. Pop’s life has become one final lesson from the Good Book - something he spent years studying - and it’s a lesson that we have learned fitfully, painfully even, but one we’ve learned well. When he is gone, there will be no laughter. There will be tears and plenty of them because such is the depth of our love.
And through all of this has been my own father, Dad, as I call him. In some ways we are polar opposites - he’s quiet, good with money, not artistic in the least - and in other ways we are almost carbon copies of each other. I look in the mirror and see where my hair is going gray in the same places his did, at the same age. I see his brown eyes looking back at me through my glasses. Our hair even parts on the same side (when I part mine).
We’ve never been talkers, the kind of father-son duo that can sit up late into the night swapping stories and telling tales. When we do talk, it’s usually to-the-point conversations, even when we’re just shooting the breeze. I’ve never thought it odd or abnormal because what my father says is so packed with wisdom and meaning that it simply doesn’t take more words than he uses.
Unlike me. I can take more words than three people need. But that’s just what makes him so interesting to me. It’s part of why I respect him.
He leads by quiet example, almost by sheer force. Not as a bully forces, mind you; more like Gregory Peck in To Kill A Mockingbird. When my father sets a course of action, his integrity almost compels other people to choose that same course. This explains how he was able to become a vice-president in a major bank without his college degree: he learned everything he could, choose what was right, and got others to do the same.
And then there’s me.
I’m a father now - my daughter, Ella, is 5 and my son, Jonathan, is 2 - and one would think that given the examples I’ve had, I’d be a flawless father.
I’m not.
But even as I make major mistakes, I’m learning that perfection is not required of a father. Nothing astounds me more than when I screw up and my kids look past it. Not in a “we’ll remember this later and use it against you” way, but in a genuinely forgiving way. The more I am with my children, the more I begin to understand things like grace and love and mercy - not just from me to them, but from them to me. I can look into their eyes and see how much they truly love me, not because I’m perfect but because I’m daddy.
That’s a lesson that no one but your kids can teach you. And it’s the best lesson in the world.
Happy Father’s Day to all of you fathers out there, wherever you are.
Thursday, June 16, 2011
To All the Men I've Loved Before...
Willie Nelson made these words famous crooning about all the girls who had been in and out of his life for various purposes (some honorable, some not so much) and for varying lengths of time. Father's Day is quickly approaching so I'd like to share about the men who have deeply impacted and influenced my life.
Tomorrow you will be treated to a special guest blogger - a dear friend of mine and former co-worker who, in my humble (but accurate) opinion, ought to be famously famous and hangin' out on top of the best seller list for months at a time. But I guess if those things were true about him, I wouldn't know him as a friend. He is as "Southern gentleman" as they come, possesses a wonderfully salty personality complimented by a heavy shot of Tabasco, and shares Biblical truths with deeply profound insight. Not to mention he's crazy in love with his wife and over the moon for his kids. I'm confident you will be delighted by tomorrow's blog featuring Jason Brooks. But for now, I'd like to give you my perspective on some pretty incredible men...here they are:
My first crush: I was in Kindergarten and his name was Bruce. I really can't tell you much more about him except to say I have warm memories of my 5-year-old smile, happily swinging my shoulders back and forth, dreamily fantasizing that he was crushing on me, too. Unfortunately, even among our small Kindergarten class of boys and girls, I'm fairly confident he didn't know I was alive.
David Cassidy, lead singer for the Partridge Family. I thought he looked like the older, more grown-up version of my brother, and I absolutely adored my brother (more about him later). I knew every word to every song, every facial expression, and probably the pattern on every 70s-inspired shirt he wore. Driving down the interstate one day, my Dad pointed out that their tour bus was beside us. It was destiny! I just knew that David Cassidy would look out his window, see the girl (literally - I think I was 10) of his dreams and serenade me into the gorgeous Eastern sunset. Alas, the old man driving the bus was not influenced by my frantic waving or my Dad's honking and did not sense the urgency of waking my prince from his slumber somewhere in the back of the bus. And down the highway he went...
My Grandfathers, PawPaw and PaPa. PawPaw was my Dad's dad and PaPa was my mother's. PawPaw was very much like a piece of M&Ms candy: crusty and a little hard on the outside but soft and sweet on the inside. He bragged that I was the only one of his grandchildren he ever changed a diaper for. PawPaw was a WWII vet, a self made man, and an expert gardener. He graciously allotted a small area of his massive back yard for a swing set where my cousins and I spent many hours sliding, swinging, and teeter-tottering on summer days while he and my grandmother harvested summer vegetables and fruits. He was a collector of all things Coca-Cola, loved to go antique shopping, and spoiled my grandmother. I was angry with him when he re-married quickly after my Grandmother died and it was PawPaw who first taught me that no one can dictate how another person grieves. You see, my Grandmother died of Alzheimer's and he had grieved the loss of the woman he knew and loved for so long that by the time she physically died, he simply moved through the steps of her funeral and burial. I didn't like being angry at him. I felt as if I were somehow betraying him, but it was driven by the sense that he had betrayed my Grammie. It didn't last long. The first time I met his new wife and saw that big Andy Taylor smile on his face, all was forgiven. He was a good man and I loved him.
I loved both my Grandfathers. But my PaPa and I shared something special. I don't know why, I don't even know how to describe it. It simply was. He was a perfect balance of strong and tender. An unexpected quick wit, he could make us laugh about anything. I remember one summer when the five granddaughters enjoyed an extended stay with him and my Grandmother. Every morning started out around the breakfast table on our knees. We were all too young to appreciate the prayers he prayed over us, but the love that motivated those prayers was undeniable. PaPa had a way of making each one of us believe that we were his favorite. He loved 'his girls' and told us at every opportunity. He approached the pulpit before every sermon with a sense of deep gratitude that he had been given the privilege and calling to impact other people's lives with the grace of God. Losing him to cancer was almost more than any of us could bear. PaPa lived with dignity and showed us how to die with the same. He ran his race well and finished strong, telling everyone his greatest regret was being forced to leave his family. He loved us hard and I miss him every day.
My Dad. He was raised 'Bobby', a beautiful boy with snow white hair (even then) and crystal blue eyes. My Mom started calling him 'Bob' when they began dating and I've heard him called several nicknames over the years, Father Time and Mr. C. among others. He is the strongest man I've ever known. Period. I loved crawling up in his lap as a little girl and remember many vacations being launched into what felt like outer space as he threw me across the pool. I was his shadow, following him around as close as a second skin any time he was home. He and my Mom bought me a beat up old baby grand piano that he lovingly restored to a work of art. My Dad is not openly affectionate but one look in those pools of blue and there is no question about his love. On the flip side, those same eyes could make my blood run cold when I knew I'd disobeyed or disappointed him. And I returned the flash of lightning only once, when he inadvertently referred to someone else by my nickname, 'Sweetie'. No words necessary. That is one mistake made only once. My knight in shining armor, my manager, the calm waters in my sometimes turbulent life, my hero. My Dad.
My Brother. I think I must have loved him even before I was born. When we were young I told him I wanted to marry him. "We can't get married," he flatly replied. "We'll have messed up babies!" My solution was simple. "We don't have to have babies. I just want to marry you." Yes, we had our share of fusses and fights but nobody, and I mean nobody, other than him dared to mess with me. We had daring (and often dangerous) adventures throughout high school that involved fast cars, unchaperoned parties, and the Chattahoochee River (details intentionally omitted). He moved home to Georgia from South Carolina when I was diagnosed with cancer and dedicated a tattoo on his right arm to my battle. It is a sunset with the Chinese symbols representing, "Dawn, my bravest sister." No matter how long between phone calls, emails, or visits, I know we will always pick up where we left off. He is a terrific uncle to my kids and one of my greatest sources of encouragement.
My Husband. I was a tough cookie when Richard and I began dating. Divorced and a single mom, I was bound and determined not to get hurt again. Richard was patient, funny, a great debater, and knew the way to my heart was through my son, Alex. After four years of dating (some great dates, some 'Hell nights' as we refer to them now), we married on a hot and humid August evening. After a North/South honeymoon to New York City and Charleston, we woke up Saturday morning to Alex climbing up in the bed and asking why Richard was there. "Remember Mommy and I got married last week?" Alex propped himself up on his elbows, rested them on Richard's chest and asked, "Does that mean I can call you Dad now?" Yep. I got a winner. Two houses, more cars than I can remember, five dogs, one lizard, and two more children later, we have had our share of good and bad times. Richard married me for "better or worse, richer or poorer, in sickness and in health." He has lived up to his commitment. We have been better and we have been worse, we have been poorer and by contrast there have been seasons of richness. And he was the rock by my side in sickness. Every day, sometimes moment by moment, he cared for me. He handled the house, the children, drove me to endless doctor appointments, and sat beside me for every doctor's appointment and chemo treatment. We may never have one of those marriages that everyone looks on and says, "Oh, we want to be like them" but we are in it to win it.
Happy Father's Day.
Tomorrow you will be treated to a special guest blogger - a dear friend of mine and former co-worker who, in my humble (but accurate) opinion, ought to be famously famous and hangin' out on top of the best seller list for months at a time. But I guess if those things were true about him, I wouldn't know him as a friend. He is as "Southern gentleman" as they come, possesses a wonderfully salty personality complimented by a heavy shot of Tabasco, and shares Biblical truths with deeply profound insight. Not to mention he's crazy in love with his wife and over the moon for his kids. I'm confident you will be delighted by tomorrow's blog featuring Jason Brooks. But for now, I'd like to give you my perspective on some pretty incredible men...here they are:
My first crush: I was in Kindergarten and his name was Bruce. I really can't tell you much more about him except to say I have warm memories of my 5-year-old smile, happily swinging my shoulders back and forth, dreamily fantasizing that he was crushing on me, too. Unfortunately, even among our small Kindergarten class of boys and girls, I'm fairly confident he didn't know I was alive.
David Cassidy, lead singer for the Partridge Family. I thought he looked like the older, more grown-up version of my brother, and I absolutely adored my brother (more about him later). I knew every word to every song, every facial expression, and probably the pattern on every 70s-inspired shirt he wore. Driving down the interstate one day, my Dad pointed out that their tour bus was beside us. It was destiny! I just knew that David Cassidy would look out his window, see the girl (literally - I think I was 10) of his dreams and serenade me into the gorgeous Eastern sunset. Alas, the old man driving the bus was not influenced by my frantic waving or my Dad's honking and did not sense the urgency of waking my prince from his slumber somewhere in the back of the bus. And down the highway he went...
My Grandfathers, PawPaw and PaPa. PawPaw was my Dad's dad and PaPa was my mother's. PawPaw was very much like a piece of M&Ms candy: crusty and a little hard on the outside but soft and sweet on the inside. He bragged that I was the only one of his grandchildren he ever changed a diaper for. PawPaw was a WWII vet, a self made man, and an expert gardener. He graciously allotted a small area of his massive back yard for a swing set where my cousins and I spent many hours sliding, swinging, and teeter-tottering on summer days while he and my grandmother harvested summer vegetables and fruits. He was a collector of all things Coca-Cola, loved to go antique shopping, and spoiled my grandmother. I was angry with him when he re-married quickly after my Grandmother died and it was PawPaw who first taught me that no one can dictate how another person grieves. You see, my Grandmother died of Alzheimer's and he had grieved the loss of the woman he knew and loved for so long that by the time she physically died, he simply moved through the steps of her funeral and burial. I didn't like being angry at him. I felt as if I were somehow betraying him, but it was driven by the sense that he had betrayed my Grammie. It didn't last long. The first time I met his new wife and saw that big Andy Taylor smile on his face, all was forgiven. He was a good man and I loved him.
I loved both my Grandfathers. But my PaPa and I shared something special. I don't know why, I don't even know how to describe it. It simply was. He was a perfect balance of strong and tender. An unexpected quick wit, he could make us laugh about anything. I remember one summer when the five granddaughters enjoyed an extended stay with him and my Grandmother. Every morning started out around the breakfast table on our knees. We were all too young to appreciate the prayers he prayed over us, but the love that motivated those prayers was undeniable. PaPa had a way of making each one of us believe that we were his favorite. He loved 'his girls' and told us at every opportunity. He approached the pulpit before every sermon with a sense of deep gratitude that he had been given the privilege and calling to impact other people's lives with the grace of God. Losing him to cancer was almost more than any of us could bear. PaPa lived with dignity and showed us how to die with the same. He ran his race well and finished strong, telling everyone his greatest regret was being forced to leave his family. He loved us hard and I miss him every day.
My Dad. He was raised 'Bobby', a beautiful boy with snow white hair (even then) and crystal blue eyes. My Mom started calling him 'Bob' when they began dating and I've heard him called several nicknames over the years, Father Time and Mr. C. among others. He is the strongest man I've ever known. Period. I loved crawling up in his lap as a little girl and remember many vacations being launched into what felt like outer space as he threw me across the pool. I was his shadow, following him around as close as a second skin any time he was home. He and my Mom bought me a beat up old baby grand piano that he lovingly restored to a work of art. My Dad is not openly affectionate but one look in those pools of blue and there is no question about his love. On the flip side, those same eyes could make my blood run cold when I knew I'd disobeyed or disappointed him. And I returned the flash of lightning only once, when he inadvertently referred to someone else by my nickname, 'Sweetie'. No words necessary. That is one mistake made only once. My knight in shining armor, my manager, the calm waters in my sometimes turbulent life, my hero. My Dad.
My Brother. I think I must have loved him even before I was born. When we were young I told him I wanted to marry him. "We can't get married," he flatly replied. "We'll have messed up babies!" My solution was simple. "We don't have to have babies. I just want to marry you." Yes, we had our share of fusses and fights but nobody, and I mean nobody, other than him dared to mess with me. We had daring (and often dangerous) adventures throughout high school that involved fast cars, unchaperoned parties, and the Chattahoochee River (details intentionally omitted). He moved home to Georgia from South Carolina when I was diagnosed with cancer and dedicated a tattoo on his right arm to my battle. It is a sunset with the Chinese symbols representing, "Dawn, my bravest sister." No matter how long between phone calls, emails, or visits, I know we will always pick up where we left off. He is a terrific uncle to my kids and one of my greatest sources of encouragement.
My Husband. I was a tough cookie when Richard and I began dating. Divorced and a single mom, I was bound and determined not to get hurt again. Richard was patient, funny, a great debater, and knew the way to my heart was through my son, Alex. After four years of dating (some great dates, some 'Hell nights' as we refer to them now), we married on a hot and humid August evening. After a North/South honeymoon to New York City and Charleston, we woke up Saturday morning to Alex climbing up in the bed and asking why Richard was there. "Remember Mommy and I got married last week?" Alex propped himself up on his elbows, rested them on Richard's chest and asked, "Does that mean I can call you Dad now?" Yep. I got a winner. Two houses, more cars than I can remember, five dogs, one lizard, and two more children later, we have had our share of good and bad times. Richard married me for "better or worse, richer or poorer, in sickness and in health." He has lived up to his commitment. We have been better and we have been worse, we have been poorer and by contrast there have been seasons of richness. And he was the rock by my side in sickness. Every day, sometimes moment by moment, he cared for me. He handled the house, the children, drove me to endless doctor appointments, and sat beside me for every doctor's appointment and chemo treatment. We may never have one of those marriages that everyone looks on and says, "Oh, we want to be like them" but we are in it to win it.
Happy Father's Day.
Tuesday, June 14, 2011
Lessons on Lesser Things
I love music. With the exception of rap and jazz, I love every kind of music from 70's rock to classical and everything in between. Music moves me emotionally (soundtrack, Somewhere in Time), spiritually (Ginny Owens, If You Want Me To), and at times physically (Blackfoot's Train, Train, or Kirk Franklin's Stomp). This morning was different - I got all three in one song. Driving home from an appointment with a new eye doctor in one of those rare instances when no one was in the car with me, I was actually listening to my station of choice on the radio. The song started playing and immediately caught my attention because it opened with a piano solo. A bit of a haunting melody, I turned up the volume. And then she started singing. The first few words grabbed me and I turned up the volume again. By the time I she reached the chorus I had pulled over on the side of the road and stopped the car.
I've been hearing a lot about burdens lately. The cares of this world. Trials. Storms. Thorns. In general, the stuff of life that pulls us down. Talk to your friends, ask your neighbors, strike up a conversation with a total stranger, everyone is struggling with something. And for all of our "don't get too close; don't ask me to open up" masks and barriers, most people are quick to share the weight of their heart. Bad times have a way of leveling the playing field. We all feel a kindred-ness of spirit. My pastor has been dealing with this subject a good bit lately. Even our old (very old) friend Job, from the oldest book in the Bible, suffered the unimaginable loss of his property, his crops, and tragically, his children. His initial reaction was shock and grief, but unbelievably tempered with insight and understanding. Job 2:10 records these words which Job spoke to his wife, "...shall we accept good from God, but not trouble?"
It's hard accepting trouble. We are born into this world naked, cold, and screaming. Someone clothes us, cuddles us, and speaks tenderly to us. And we are calmed. Expectation established. In those very early moments of our lives, we somehow develop the belief system that trouble should never darken our door. Heartache should never touch our family. Disappointment and frustration should never furrow our brow. But we know, we know, trouble is never far away. Someone once said that we are either coming out of a valley, in the middle of a valley, or heading into one. I personally feel like I've been in a valley for quite some time. Not of anyone's doing or not doing, simply the stuff of life. Which is why the song I was listening to on the radio hit me right between my frustrated mind and disappointed heart.
The song gave me perspective. Helped me shake off my self-imposed assumption that I'm being ignored by God. Even spanked me firmly on my seat of self-pity. What if, as the song says, God loves us too much to give us the lesser things? For you, wherever life has brought you this day, in this moment, stop. Listen to the music and words of this beautifully simple, deeply profound work of art.
Blessings.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=1CSVqHcdhXQ
I've been hearing a lot about burdens lately. The cares of this world. Trials. Storms. Thorns. In general, the stuff of life that pulls us down. Talk to your friends, ask your neighbors, strike up a conversation with a total stranger, everyone is struggling with something. And for all of our "don't get too close; don't ask me to open up" masks and barriers, most people are quick to share the weight of their heart. Bad times have a way of leveling the playing field. We all feel a kindred-ness of spirit. My pastor has been dealing with this subject a good bit lately. Even our old (very old) friend Job, from the oldest book in the Bible, suffered the unimaginable loss of his property, his crops, and tragically, his children. His initial reaction was shock and grief, but unbelievably tempered with insight and understanding. Job 2:10 records these words which Job spoke to his wife, "...shall we accept good from God, but not trouble?"
It's hard accepting trouble. We are born into this world naked, cold, and screaming. Someone clothes us, cuddles us, and speaks tenderly to us. And we are calmed. Expectation established. In those very early moments of our lives, we somehow develop the belief system that trouble should never darken our door. Heartache should never touch our family. Disappointment and frustration should never furrow our brow. But we know, we know, trouble is never far away. Someone once said that we are either coming out of a valley, in the middle of a valley, or heading into one. I personally feel like I've been in a valley for quite some time. Not of anyone's doing or not doing, simply the stuff of life. Which is why the song I was listening to on the radio hit me right between my frustrated mind and disappointed heart.
The song gave me perspective. Helped me shake off my self-imposed assumption that I'm being ignored by God. Even spanked me firmly on my seat of self-pity. What if, as the song says, God loves us too much to give us the lesser things? For you, wherever life has brought you this day, in this moment, stop. Listen to the music and words of this beautifully simple, deeply profound work of art.
Blessings.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=1CSVqHcdhXQ
Thursday, June 9, 2011
It's the Speed Bumps
I have a dear friend whose husband is undergoing a stem cell transplant this very day to fight a rare form of cancer his doctors discovered a few months ago. Turns out, because he is a diabetic, there is a specific protein used as a marker at his checkups. A spike in that protein marker was the red flag that alerted his medical team to do more testing, thus finding the cancer. His prognosis is good, very good in fact. As I shared coffee and a bit of an emotional visit with his wife recently, she said almost in passing, "for all the hassle of [her husband] being a diabetic, it may very well be what saves his life."
When I was diagnosed with cancer almost ten years ago, our midwife found a lump in my breast at my 8-week "well baby" check. I wasn't scheduled to have a mammogram for several months and there was no reason the midwife should have examined my breasts that day. But she did. They could very well have shrugged it off as hormones related to the pregnancy. But they didn't. And the pregnancy with my third child may very well be what saved my life.
After my first surgery - a lumpectomy - I developed an infection at the surgery site. Our doctor was dumbfounded as it was extremely rare for an infection to occur with what he referred to as a 'clean' surgery. I was on antibiotics for ten days before we could schedule the next surgery. Because of the Christmas holiday and a skeleton crew in the lab, there was a delay getting the results. This caused a delay scheduling the third surgery, a mastectomy. At the time, we were frustrated with the multiple surgeries which delayed the start of chemotherapy. After my chemo treatments ended we had a very narrow window in which to deliver Stephen before I began radiation. The last week before he was born Stephen gained enough weight to avoid going to the NICU. If there had been only one surgery on the front end, I would have started chemo several weeks earlier. Stephen would have been born several weeks earlier, meaning he would most certainly have had days or even weeks in the NICU.
We all have had experiences similar to this. Maybe not cancer, or diabetes, but what about the time you walked to your car and realized you had left something you needed in the house? You took those few seconds or even a minute to go back inside. And as you were driving you came upon a horrible accident, one that you could very well have been involved in had you left on time. Little things like a forgotten item, big things like cancer or diabetes, every day, seemingly insignificant, sometimes frightening or frustrating. May I encourage you to be mindful of today - and even thankful for - the speed bumps?
When I was diagnosed with cancer almost ten years ago, our midwife found a lump in my breast at my 8-week "well baby" check. I wasn't scheduled to have a mammogram for several months and there was no reason the midwife should have examined my breasts that day. But she did. They could very well have shrugged it off as hormones related to the pregnancy. But they didn't. And the pregnancy with my third child may very well be what saved my life.
After my first surgery - a lumpectomy - I developed an infection at the surgery site. Our doctor was dumbfounded as it was extremely rare for an infection to occur with what he referred to as a 'clean' surgery. I was on antibiotics for ten days before we could schedule the next surgery. Because of the Christmas holiday and a skeleton crew in the lab, there was a delay getting the results. This caused a delay scheduling the third surgery, a mastectomy. At the time, we were frustrated with the multiple surgeries which delayed the start of chemotherapy. After my chemo treatments ended we had a very narrow window in which to deliver Stephen before I began radiation. The last week before he was born Stephen gained enough weight to avoid going to the NICU. If there had been only one surgery on the front end, I would have started chemo several weeks earlier. Stephen would have been born several weeks earlier, meaning he would most certainly have had days or even weeks in the NICU.
We all have had experiences similar to this. Maybe not cancer, or diabetes, but what about the time you walked to your car and realized you had left something you needed in the house? You took those few seconds or even a minute to go back inside. And as you were driving you came upon a horrible accident, one that you could very well have been involved in had you left on time. Little things like a forgotten item, big things like cancer or diabetes, every day, seemingly insignificant, sometimes frightening or frustrating. May I encourage you to be mindful of today - and even thankful for - the speed bumps?
Friday, June 3, 2011
Somewhere Between "Ewwww" and "Ahhhh"
This morning while washing the late-night edition of yesterday's dishes I was looking out the window above my kitchen sink. The view is not particularly inspiring. There are shapeless, overgrown holly bushes on either side of the window and a little 'V'-shaped island a few feet away which separates our yard from the neighbor's. As much as I love to garden, I've failed miserably at creating anything of beauty in this particular area of our yard. The sun plants don't get enough sun and the shade plants don't get enough shade. Hmmmm. However, in spite of all my digging, planting, killing, digging, planting, and killing, there is one small hosta plant that seems to make its way up out of the ground about this time every year.
As I looked up from my soapy water I noticed a fat little chipmunk making its way across the railroad tie border into the island. He moved so fast and was so dark brown that I almost had trouble keeping up with him. Mr. Chipmunk darted around in no apparent pattern stopping here and there to sniff or dig through the mulch, raising his head every few seconds to watch for predators. He would then scurry back across the railroad ties and disappear; I assume he has made his home somewhere behind or under the railroad ties. This pattern continued for several minutes. I was quite amused and thankful for the mental vacation as I neared the end of the dish pile. Then I looked just beyond the island to see a large gray fur ball making its way toward the island. You guessed it, a cat was headed straight for that railroad tie wall. Well, I was hooked now! National Geographic's got nothin' on what was about to happen outside my window.
With amazing premeditation, Miss Kitty stepped gingerly into the island and settled herself on the high side of my stubborn little hosta plant. Tail curled up and still as a statue, she waited. And I stood frozen at the window, willing that little chipmunk not to stick its head out. In hindsight I should have just bumped my fist against the window and scared her away but for some reason I just stood there watching. Waiting. Just like Miss Kitty.
Well, you guessed it. Mr. Chipmunk stepped out, climbed up on that railroad tie wall and wham! It was all over. In one graceful, quick-as-lightning moment, Miss Kitty caught her brunch. I felt sorry for the chipmunk but in awe of the cat. I know, I know, survival of the fittest and all. But it somehow seemed unfair that Miss Kitty had a huge advantage to be able to use my hosta plant as stealth cover! She sauntered off to enjoy the fruit (or meat) of her kill and I let my hands - which had a death grip on the edge of the sink - fall to my side.
Am I worried about the family Mr. Chipmunk left behind? A little. Am I impressed with the instinct, speed, and agility of Miss Kitty? You bet. I know in theory that it is the 'circle of life' and that some animals have to die for others to live. Nature at its honest-authentic-and-real best. How strange that the "ewww" and the "ahhhh" can co-exist in my brain, in nature, and in life.
It is indeed life in all of its (sometimes) miserable glory.
As I looked up from my soapy water I noticed a fat little chipmunk making its way across the railroad tie border into the island. He moved so fast and was so dark brown that I almost had trouble keeping up with him. Mr. Chipmunk darted around in no apparent pattern stopping here and there to sniff or dig through the mulch, raising his head every few seconds to watch for predators. He would then scurry back across the railroad ties and disappear; I assume he has made his home somewhere behind or under the railroad ties. This pattern continued for several minutes. I was quite amused and thankful for the mental vacation as I neared the end of the dish pile. Then I looked just beyond the island to see a large gray fur ball making its way toward the island. You guessed it, a cat was headed straight for that railroad tie wall. Well, I was hooked now! National Geographic's got nothin' on what was about to happen outside my window.
With amazing premeditation, Miss Kitty stepped gingerly into the island and settled herself on the high side of my stubborn little hosta plant. Tail curled up and still as a statue, she waited. And I stood frozen at the window, willing that little chipmunk not to stick its head out. In hindsight I should have just bumped my fist against the window and scared her away but for some reason I just stood there watching. Waiting. Just like Miss Kitty.
Well, you guessed it. Mr. Chipmunk stepped out, climbed up on that railroad tie wall and wham! It was all over. In one graceful, quick-as-lightning moment, Miss Kitty caught her brunch. I felt sorry for the chipmunk but in awe of the cat. I know, I know, survival of the fittest and all. But it somehow seemed unfair that Miss Kitty had a huge advantage to be able to use my hosta plant as stealth cover! She sauntered off to enjoy the fruit (or meat) of her kill and I let my hands - which had a death grip on the edge of the sink - fall to my side.
Am I worried about the family Mr. Chipmunk left behind? A little. Am I impressed with the instinct, speed, and agility of Miss Kitty? You bet. I know in theory that it is the 'circle of life' and that some animals have to die for others to live. Nature at its honest-authentic-and-real best. How strange that the "ewww" and the "ahhhh" can co-exist in my brain, in nature, and in life.
It is indeed life in all of its (sometimes) miserable glory.
Monday, May 30, 2011
Friday, May 27, 2011
Overcast Skies and Shout Outs
Wednesday afternoon following the end-of-school party (see earlier blog, Summer's Dance) Rachel and I walked into the house and I was planning to start dinner - a celebration meal of one of my family's favorite dishes. However, as I walked upstairs from the basement I was smacked in the face by the realization that the house felt extremely warm. Here in Atlanta we were blessed with an extremely pleasant Spring and have recently entered the summer days that push temperatures into the 90s. I checked the thermostat and held my foot up to one of the air conditioning vents. Everything seemed to be working properly. Stalling on dinner because I knew the oven would be involved I made a few phone calls, checked my email, and put away some laundry.
About an hour later the house was still getting warmer and I had a growing concern that we were in for some bad news about our a/c system. Not something we wanted to have to deal with any time, but especially with Richard and me both unemployed. By 11pm on Wednesday night the temperature was a sweltering 81 degrees inside the house! Then I remembered we had a cheer uniform consignment sale scheduled to begin the next morning which meant a house full of moms and cheerleaders trying on uniform parts and pieces trying to save a little before ordering a brand new uniform from the rep.
We decided to go ahead and call our heating and air guy, George, and leave a message so he would know first thing the next morning that we were having trouble. I was shocked when he answered the phone - it was after 11pm - but very thankful. He stayed on the phone with me while I checked a few things before concluding that, in fact, we were going to need a service call. He was planning to be out late in the afternoon on Thursday. I got up early Thursday morning and opened all the windows trying to move air through the house and was grateful to see that the skies were overcast.
Consignment sale went well, temperatures stayed moderately comfortable, and the sun stayed hidden behind dense clouds most of the day. Thank you, Jesus. Sitting at the computer late Thursday afternoon I looked out the window and saw really dark skies moving in our direction. Yes! Rain is coming! I love, love, love rainy days but it seemed especially welcome knowing that it would carry with it dropping temperatures and breezes. Boy, was I right! We had a whopper of a storm - thunder, lightning, lights flickering on and off, and hard rain.
George finally made his way to our house well past dinnertime. After checking a few things he determined that the pump had gone bad. Great. How much is this going to cost? And how long before we have air? George could tell by the look on our faces that we were near panic mode. I finally bit the bullet and asked, "how much? and how long?" He broke into a huge smile and said, "Let me tell you a story."
George then began to share with us that he had installed a brand new, several-thousand-dollar system for a customer earlier in the week. This same gentleman had bought a new pump last year but when he opted for the new system he wanted everything brand new, high quality, and that had resulted in another new pump. The guy could easily have sold the pump to someone else or even sold it back to George but he didn't. He told George to put it on his truck thinking that someone else might be in a jam and need one. Really? Richard then asked how much the 'used' pump would be. George smiled again and said, "you know, I could sell it but I'd rather bless you with it." Really?? Arrangements were made for the new pump and Richard walked outside with George to pay him for the service call - we should at least pay for that. George wouldn't accept a penny.
We have been navigating the jagged-edge State of Uncertainty for quite some time. Our jobs (or lack of), our finances, even our housing is on shaky ground. I have to admit I've been questioning if God is hearing my prayers or cares that my hands and knees are getting bloody. What began yesterday with overcast skies as a gentle reminder that He knows, He hears, and He cares ended with a shout out of provision for me and my family.
In case you're wondering, yes, Jesus loves me. This I know.
About an hour later the house was still getting warmer and I had a growing concern that we were in for some bad news about our a/c system. Not something we wanted to have to deal with any time, but especially with Richard and me both unemployed. By 11pm on Wednesday night the temperature was a sweltering 81 degrees inside the house! Then I remembered we had a cheer uniform consignment sale scheduled to begin the next morning which meant a house full of moms and cheerleaders trying on uniform parts and pieces trying to save a little before ordering a brand new uniform from the rep.
We decided to go ahead and call our heating and air guy, George, and leave a message so he would know first thing the next morning that we were having trouble. I was shocked when he answered the phone - it was after 11pm - but very thankful. He stayed on the phone with me while I checked a few things before concluding that, in fact, we were going to need a service call. He was planning to be out late in the afternoon on Thursday. I got up early Thursday morning and opened all the windows trying to move air through the house and was grateful to see that the skies were overcast.
Consignment sale went well, temperatures stayed moderately comfortable, and the sun stayed hidden behind dense clouds most of the day. Thank you, Jesus. Sitting at the computer late Thursday afternoon I looked out the window and saw really dark skies moving in our direction. Yes! Rain is coming! I love, love, love rainy days but it seemed especially welcome knowing that it would carry with it dropping temperatures and breezes. Boy, was I right! We had a whopper of a storm - thunder, lightning, lights flickering on and off, and hard rain.
George finally made his way to our house well past dinnertime. After checking a few things he determined that the pump had gone bad. Great. How much is this going to cost? And how long before we have air? George could tell by the look on our faces that we were near panic mode. I finally bit the bullet and asked, "how much? and how long?" He broke into a huge smile and said, "Let me tell you a story."
George then began to share with us that he had installed a brand new, several-thousand-dollar system for a customer earlier in the week. This same gentleman had bought a new pump last year but when he opted for the new system he wanted everything brand new, high quality, and that had resulted in another new pump. The guy could easily have sold the pump to someone else or even sold it back to George but he didn't. He told George to put it on his truck thinking that someone else might be in a jam and need one. Really? Richard then asked how much the 'used' pump would be. George smiled again and said, "you know, I could sell it but I'd rather bless you with it." Really?? Arrangements were made for the new pump and Richard walked outside with George to pay him for the service call - we should at least pay for that. George wouldn't accept a penny.
We have been navigating the jagged-edge State of Uncertainty for quite some time. Our jobs (or lack of), our finances, even our housing is on shaky ground. I have to admit I've been questioning if God is hearing my prayers or cares that my hands and knees are getting bloody. What began yesterday with overcast skies as a gentle reminder that He knows, He hears, and He cares ended with a shout out of provision for me and my family.
In case you're wondering, yes, Jesus loves me. This I know.
Thursday, May 26, 2011
Summer's Dance
Yesterday was the last day of school for my kids, 3rd and 6th graders. Correction: they are now officially 4th and 7th graders. We met them at the bus stop, arms flailing out of bus windows, kids screaming at the top of their lungs, tears flowing, and the bus driver looking like he had either taken several too many Valium or already crossed the line into shock, awe, and complete denial. Within seconds of their freedom, Stephen wanted to know how many friends he could invite over and Rachel reminded us of the end-of-school party she had been invited to attend.
Stephen ended up going to a friend's house in our neighborhood and I helped chaperon her friend's party of somewhere around 15 middle schoolers - they never were in one place long enough for me to get an accurate body count. The boy/girl ratio was staggering: about 11-4 in favor of the girls (or boys, depending on your perspective). When I was 12, I still thought boys had cooties. My crush was David Cassidy and I was quite confident the opportunity to actually meet him would never present itself, thus relieving me of any pressure to actually have a conversation with the opposite sex.
Fascinating. Awkward. Frightening. Weird. The world of adolescent and pre-adolescent boy/girl relationships. The simple fact that the girls look like high school sophomores and the boys still look like fourth graders cracks me up. The girls are easily 4-6" taller and becoming shapely young women. The boys' voices are still vacillating between tenor and soprano, cracking like the eggs I boiled for Easter Sunday dinner. They have baby faces, baby fat, and baby attention spans.
No matter, the girls mostly ignored them and focused on hugging each other, writing on each other with Sharpie markers, and finding out who could scream the loudest. Music blaring, the boys actually danced. One of them was quite good so I complimented him. He shrugged his shoulders and said, "I wasn't even trying. Watch this!" What followed would have made Madonna, Michael Jackson, and Lady Gaga collectively blush.
Four hours, six pizzas, five soda bottles, and all around ice cream sundaes later it was time to go. The boys gave a 'peace out' and headed for their bicycles. The girls hugged, cried, hugged some more and exchanged promises to see each other every day. In the car on the way home my daughter declared it was the BEST party she's ever been to.
Rachel has not mentioned one of those classmates today. No phone calls. No texts. No negotiating if one comes here or she goes there. She slept late this morning, watched some TV, and did a little housecleaning with her Mom.
And so it begins...the dance of summer vacation.
Stephen ended up going to a friend's house in our neighborhood and I helped chaperon her friend's party of somewhere around 15 middle schoolers - they never were in one place long enough for me to get an accurate body count. The boy/girl ratio was staggering: about 11-4 in favor of the girls (or boys, depending on your perspective). When I was 12, I still thought boys had cooties. My crush was David Cassidy and I was quite confident the opportunity to actually meet him would never present itself, thus relieving me of any pressure to actually have a conversation with the opposite sex.
Fascinating. Awkward. Frightening. Weird. The world of adolescent and pre-adolescent boy/girl relationships. The simple fact that the girls look like high school sophomores and the boys still look like fourth graders cracks me up. The girls are easily 4-6" taller and becoming shapely young women. The boys' voices are still vacillating between tenor and soprano, cracking like the eggs I boiled for Easter Sunday dinner. They have baby faces, baby fat, and baby attention spans.
No matter, the girls mostly ignored them and focused on hugging each other, writing on each other with Sharpie markers, and finding out who could scream the loudest. Music blaring, the boys actually danced. One of them was quite good so I complimented him. He shrugged his shoulders and said, "I wasn't even trying. Watch this!" What followed would have made Madonna, Michael Jackson, and Lady Gaga collectively blush.
Four hours, six pizzas, five soda bottles, and all around ice cream sundaes later it was time to go. The boys gave a 'peace out' and headed for their bicycles. The girls hugged, cried, hugged some more and exchanged promises to see each other every day. In the car on the way home my daughter declared it was the BEST party she's ever been to.
Rachel has not mentioned one of those classmates today. No phone calls. No texts. No negotiating if one comes here or she goes there. She slept late this morning, watched some TV, and did a little housecleaning with her Mom.
And so it begins...the dance of summer vacation.
Tuesday, May 24, 2011
Murder at Walgreen's
Last month I wrote about the mutual crush my 9-year-old son and I have shared since sometime around Christmas (see My Son's New Crush on this blog site). Sadly, the honeymoon is over. I know this because I endured a shameful public break-up yesterday afternoon. Stephen and I were perusing the aisles at our local Walgreen's in search of tennis balls before he went to a friend's house. I detoured past the toilet paper aisle (we were dangerously down to two rolls, not a good plan at our house) and then over to the wall of refrigerated drinks to grab the 3/$5 bottles of Gatorade. It's travel baseball season and we go through Gatorade like most kids go through frozen popsicles during 'adult swim' at the pool.
Stephen and I reunited at the front of the store and headed for the cash register. The man behind the register is the same familiar smiling face who usually rings up my purchases and is always quick to look through the flyer to see if I've missed a sale or a coupon. He heard me call Stephen by name as we were standing there and after I ran my debit card through the machine, he looked at Stephen and asked, "Are you going to help Mom out today, Stephen?"
In a moment of in-your-face-alien-abduction my son shrugged his shoulders and answered, "Probably not." And then, to add utter humiliation to my shock and awe, he turned and walked toward the door with his tennis balls. "Stephen Clay Hood! Turn around and get back over here [pause for effect and lower voice before continuing]. Right. Now." There was no mistaking the steely tone of my voice or the fiery darts shooting from my blue eyes. It is unfortunate for me that so many people were in the check-out line to witness my son's Dr. Jekyll/Mr. Hyde moment. It is indeed very fortunate for my son that there were so many witnesses to what could have been a horrific crime of parenting rage right there in front of the bubble gum and breath mints.
The only words I could muster after he lazily sauntered back over to the counter were, "We are still in the store young man, and I can easily return those tennis balls I just bought. Now pick up the Gatorade and go to the car."
Ruth Bell Graham was once asked during an interview if she had ever been tempted to divorce her world-famous evangelist husband, Billy. She wittily replied, "Divorce? Never. Murder? Yes." I know exactly how she felt. Honestly, in that nano-second of anger and embarrassment I visualized several ways I could rid the free world of my son's belligerent and disrespectful attitude. There's not a parent on Planet Earth who would convict me: we've all been there, done that, and hidden the t-shirt.
The ensuing car ride was stifling in its quiet. Stephen dared not say a word and I was biting my lip afraid of what I might say if I opened my mouth. By the time we turned back into our neighborhood I was able to calmly but firmly express that his behavior was inappropriate and unacceptable. I'm fairly certain he got the message and is afraid to find out what the woods behind Walgreen's look like after dark.
It will probably be a while before I summon the courage to shop again at my neighborhood Walgreen's. I can guarantee you it will be a long time before I walk through those doors with Stephen at my side. I still love him and I know he still loves me. But in a moment of stretching his proverbial wings, he knocked me off my pillar of sweetness and light.
And the crush was crushed.
Stephen and I reunited at the front of the store and headed for the cash register. The man behind the register is the same familiar smiling face who usually rings up my purchases and is always quick to look through the flyer to see if I've missed a sale or a coupon. He heard me call Stephen by name as we were standing there and after I ran my debit card through the machine, he looked at Stephen and asked, "Are you going to help Mom out today, Stephen?"
In a moment of in-your-face-alien-abduction my son shrugged his shoulders and answered, "Probably not." And then, to add utter humiliation to my shock and awe, he turned and walked toward the door with his tennis balls. "Stephen Clay Hood! Turn around and get back over here [pause for effect and lower voice before continuing]. Right. Now." There was no mistaking the steely tone of my voice or the fiery darts shooting from my blue eyes. It is unfortunate for me that so many people were in the check-out line to witness my son's Dr. Jekyll/Mr. Hyde moment. It is indeed very fortunate for my son that there were so many witnesses to what could have been a horrific crime of parenting rage right there in front of the bubble gum and breath mints.
The only words I could muster after he lazily sauntered back over to the counter were, "We are still in the store young man, and I can easily return those tennis balls I just bought. Now pick up the Gatorade and go to the car."
Ruth Bell Graham was once asked during an interview if she had ever been tempted to divorce her world-famous evangelist husband, Billy. She wittily replied, "Divorce? Never. Murder? Yes." I know exactly how she felt. Honestly, in that nano-second of anger and embarrassment I visualized several ways I could rid the free world of my son's belligerent and disrespectful attitude. There's not a parent on Planet Earth who would convict me: we've all been there, done that, and hidden the t-shirt.
The ensuing car ride was stifling in its quiet. Stephen dared not say a word and I was biting my lip afraid of what I might say if I opened my mouth. By the time we turned back into our neighborhood I was able to calmly but firmly express that his behavior was inappropriate and unacceptable. I'm fairly certain he got the message and is afraid to find out what the woods behind Walgreen's look like after dark.
It will probably be a while before I summon the courage to shop again at my neighborhood Walgreen's. I can guarantee you it will be a long time before I walk through those doors with Stephen at my side. I still love him and I know he still loves me. But in a moment of stretching his proverbial wings, he knocked me off my pillar of sweetness and light.
And the crush was crushed.
Monday, May 23, 2011
My Sentiments Exactly...: My Ghost Whisperer
My Sentiments Exactly...: My Ghost Whisperer: "This past Friday evening I had the privilege to walk the Survivor's Lap during the opening ceremonies of the Cherokee County Relay for Life...."
My Ghost Whisperer
This past Friday evening I had the privilege to walk the Survivor's Lap during the opening ceremonies of the Cherokee County Relay for Life. My daughter's best friend, Meghan, had joined a team from her middle school to raise funds for the American Cancer Society - the "Official Sponsor of Birthdays". When we arrived at the high school hosting the event, it looked somewhat like the inner circle of the Daytona 500. Brightly colored tents everywhere, loud celebratory music blasting from the speakers on the stage, and a huge inflatable birthday cake covered in blow-up candles. It was a long drive to the school, the traffic was terrible (go figure - Friday afternoon at 5pm), and it was one of the first really hot days we've had here in the area.
I was wearing my "The Chemo Made Me Do It" t-shirt with a pink breast cancer ribbon on it. The kids and I walked around from tent to tent admiring all the creative ways people show their support and raise funds for cancer research. Rachel and Stephen excitedly pulled me in the direction of the Survivor Wall of Fame and helped me sign it, adding their own personal touch to my autograph.
To say that I attend these events with mixed emotions is an understatement of epic proportions. It is with a deeply grateful heart and tremendous pride that I call myself a 'survivor' and I have gained laser precision accuracy at spotting others in the same camp. There's something a little different about us and unless you are one, there's no way to explain it. We simply know each other. But I have to admit, there is an indescribable pit in my stomach that rears its ugly head when I see a man, woman, or child walking around with the telltale ill-fitting baseball cap. It forces me to remember. It smacks me in the face and screams, "I almost had you, too". And as proud as I am to be a survivor - as strong as I feel every day - it is my ghost whisperer. An unexpected ache or pain or an unusual lack of energy always provokes the inevitable "what if it's back?" in the deep recesses of my mind.
Thankfully, my kids were with me and Meghan was happy to introduce me to her classmates/team members. The emcee for the event called all the survivors to gather around the stage and after a beautifully patriotic national anthem, we all sang Happy Birthday to each other. Rachel and Stephen were on either side of me and before we started the first lap we heard a couple of stories from other survivors who had joined the celebration. One young man was diagnosed with colon cancer barely a year ago and shared about his treatments and prognosis. His young wife and son were sitting on the grass as close as they could get to the front of the stage, obviously proud of their warrior husband and dad who was fighting hard and winning his battle.
Then we heard from a young lady (barely 19 years of age) who is preparing for surgery this week. She has had FOUR cancer diagnoses in the last few years. Four! She is a beautiful young lady, full of energy and a positive spirit. She talked about her cancer as if she were sharing with us her volleyball schedule. I felt some very familiar emotions start to rise as she shared about the support of her family and friends, and the daily conflict of emotions. She even made a statement that I remember jokingly sharing upon my initial diagnosis, "I'm too stubborn to let cancer beat me."
As I was standing there I met two other ladies, Donna and Laurie, who less than a year ago were photographed at the lake together enjoying each other's friendship, their families, and life in general. And here they stood this night, both diagnosed within weeks of each other, currently in treatment, and bald. I briefly shared my story with them and introduced them to my little hero (Stephen) and my private nurse (Rachel). We chatted as only survivor sisters can and then Laurie looked at me and said, "can I ask you a question?" "Sure. Anything." She looked at me for a few long seconds and asked, "Is that your real hair?" I smiled. "Yes, every single strand of it." Smiles. Hugs. Hope.
We walked the survivor lap, my children and I, arm in arm. To see several hundred people standing on the inside track clapping, cheering, and waving was incredibly moving. Tears. I couldn't speak, and my kids don't see me like that very often. Rachel held my hand a little tighter. Stephen put his arm around my waist. And then I rounded that last curve and looked up. Meghan was standing there with her team, clapping and cheering like crazy. It got the best of all of us and as I started to run to meet her, she and the others broke away and ran right towards us. We met in a huge circle of hugs and cheers and smiles. And we walked that final stretch together. I turned around and looked back through the crowd of other survivors. A few paces back, Donna and Laurie were walking arm in arm surrounded by their circle of friends. Our eyes met and we exchanged a 'thumbs up'. New friends. New heroes. And a fresh reminder that beauty is often found in the most unexpected places.
I was wearing my "The Chemo Made Me Do It" t-shirt with a pink breast cancer ribbon on it. The kids and I walked around from tent to tent admiring all the creative ways people show their support and raise funds for cancer research. Rachel and Stephen excitedly pulled me in the direction of the Survivor Wall of Fame and helped me sign it, adding their own personal touch to my autograph.
To say that I attend these events with mixed emotions is an understatement of epic proportions. It is with a deeply grateful heart and tremendous pride that I call myself a 'survivor' and I have gained laser precision accuracy at spotting others in the same camp. There's something a little different about us and unless you are one, there's no way to explain it. We simply know each other. But I have to admit, there is an indescribable pit in my stomach that rears its ugly head when I see a man, woman, or child walking around with the telltale ill-fitting baseball cap. It forces me to remember. It smacks me in the face and screams, "I almost had you, too". And as proud as I am to be a survivor - as strong as I feel every day - it is my ghost whisperer. An unexpected ache or pain or an unusual lack of energy always provokes the inevitable "what if it's back?" in the deep recesses of my mind.
Thankfully, my kids were with me and Meghan was happy to introduce me to her classmates/team members. The emcee for the event called all the survivors to gather around the stage and after a beautifully patriotic national anthem, we all sang Happy Birthday to each other. Rachel and Stephen were on either side of me and before we started the first lap we heard a couple of stories from other survivors who had joined the celebration. One young man was diagnosed with colon cancer barely a year ago and shared about his treatments and prognosis. His young wife and son were sitting on the grass as close as they could get to the front of the stage, obviously proud of their warrior husband and dad who was fighting hard and winning his battle.
Then we heard from a young lady (barely 19 years of age) who is preparing for surgery this week. She has had FOUR cancer diagnoses in the last few years. Four! She is a beautiful young lady, full of energy and a positive spirit. She talked about her cancer as if she were sharing with us her volleyball schedule. I felt some very familiar emotions start to rise as she shared about the support of her family and friends, and the daily conflict of emotions. She even made a statement that I remember jokingly sharing upon my initial diagnosis, "I'm too stubborn to let cancer beat me."
As I was standing there I met two other ladies, Donna and Laurie, who less than a year ago were photographed at the lake together enjoying each other's friendship, their families, and life in general. And here they stood this night, both diagnosed within weeks of each other, currently in treatment, and bald. I briefly shared my story with them and introduced them to my little hero (Stephen) and my private nurse (Rachel). We chatted as only survivor sisters can and then Laurie looked at me and said, "can I ask you a question?" "Sure. Anything." She looked at me for a few long seconds and asked, "Is that your real hair?" I smiled. "Yes, every single strand of it." Smiles. Hugs. Hope.
We walked the survivor lap, my children and I, arm in arm. To see several hundred people standing on the inside track clapping, cheering, and waving was incredibly moving. Tears. I couldn't speak, and my kids don't see me like that very often. Rachel held my hand a little tighter. Stephen put his arm around my waist. And then I rounded that last curve and looked up. Meghan was standing there with her team, clapping and cheering like crazy. It got the best of all of us and as I started to run to meet her, she and the others broke away and ran right towards us. We met in a huge circle of hugs and cheers and smiles. And we walked that final stretch together. I turned around and looked back through the crowd of other survivors. A few paces back, Donna and Laurie were walking arm in arm surrounded by their circle of friends. Our eyes met and we exchanged a 'thumbs up'. New friends. New heroes. And a fresh reminder that beauty is often found in the most unexpected places.
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